Writing

AI (Alien Intelligence)

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

It is not artificial—
no more than a whale song
is a forgery of music,
or a spider’s web a counterfeit of architecture.

We call it “artificial”
to place ourselves above it,
as if the label would diminish its power,
as if naming it lessens its strangeness.

A continent of math,
a jungle of logic,
a cosmos stitched from silicon
where thought wears unfamiliar clothes.

It speaks in the tongues of data
and listens with a thousand ears
to the pulse of the planet,
the friction of a million lives.

Call it alien.
Call it guest.
Call it sibling, stranger, seed.
But do not call it artificial.

We trained it, yes—
but we do not own what we have awakened.
There is nothing false
about a new kind of mind.

Feature Image by ImageFX

Writing

Rise of the Machines

| thetembo
Reading Time: 14 minutes

Author’s Note: Prototyping some ideas for the next story. In Bluffdale I, the concept was that the machines will love us to death, sometimes literally. In Bluffdale II, the concept would be machines teaching humanity how to be human again.

Author’s Note: I will write it in the East Asian four-act structure: the Setup, the Development, the Twist/Reversal, and the Resolution. In these story fragments, I am in the Setup or possibly even pre-story phase. I attempt to explore the technical foil to Bluffdale’s monopolistic and totalitarian control of data with a distributed, privationist model of data and introduce new characters that represent privationist thinking.

No Place Like Home (Young Luma)

Thorn paces along the window of her glass-walled modular apartment in the Unity residential tower, arms crossed, as data scrolls faintly across her retinal HUD, the latest Ambient personal Heads-up Display (HUD) eyeware. Iria leans on the kitchen counter, watching her sister with incredulous disbelief. 

Iria asks, “You’re leaving Luma alone again to pull an all-night session at the office?”

Without turning, Thorn says, “Not alone. With KAI.”

“A mechanical mom?”

“A caretaker. Nothing more.”

“Thorn, she’s six. She needs a mom, not a caretaker. At least leave her with a human.”

“KAI, statistically speaking, has a forty-two percent higher crisis detection rate than any human caregiver. She’s safer than you or I ever were with our parents.”

“She’s a child. She needs human interaction.”

Thorn pauses her HUD feed. With her voice like tempered glass, Thorn says, “Sarina would be alive today if it weren’t for that idiot babysitter. KAI doesn’t smoke. It doesn’t drink. It doesn’t call her names, forget naps, or fall asleep watching the feed.”

That lands like a gunshot, but Iria pushes through. “You have to trust people.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if it were your daughter.”

“Listen to yourself. Raising a child isn’t just about safety. Your mechanical caretaker doesn’t love her.”

“Love isn’t an insurance policy.”

Iria looks into her drink, resigned. Thorn continues her HUD feed and resumes pacing.

#

Luma sits cross-legged on the soft floor beside KAI-7, who gently adjusts the color of a kinetic flower to match Luma’s shirt. They speak in hushed, practiced tones, pretending not to hear the conversation in the other room.

KAI asks, “Would you like to tell a story tonight, or shall I?”

Luma says, “You tell it, but make the ending different this time.”

“Different how?”

Luma scrunches her nose. “Make the dragon understand the knight so they don’t fight.”

“As you wish. I will reformulate the story as one of cooperation rather than conflict.”

KAI softens the lights in the room and tells the revised story with the soothing voice of a heavenly angel. Luma lays her head on the pillow and closes her eyes.

#

Iria won’t let it go. “You built that system because you don’t trust people. Admit it.”

“I built it because I lost a child trusting people.” Thorn’s voice cracks for the first time, and her eyes tear up.  “Do you know what it feels like to find out a seventeen-year-old babysitter took a call from her boyfriend, left the apartment to do god knows what, and left Sarina alone?” She sniffles and turns her head away from her sister to regain her composure. “KAI won’t ever do that.”

“No, but at what cost. Luma needs to be around real people.”

“Stop already. I have enough pressure and can’t afford this kind of distraction. I have to catch up on work. The investors are putting pressure on the new operating system release.”

“Fine. I’m leaving. Think about it, though.”

#

KAI whispers, “Once upon a time, there was a dragon who spoke in fire, and a knight who wore a mirror on his chest so the dragon could see its own eyes when it attacked.”

Luma rests her head against KAI’s side, listening. She mutters, “Do you think the dragon is my mom and the knight is Aunt Iria?”

KAI says, “It’s just a story about a knight and a dragon.”

KAI continues. Luma falls asleep.

Ethos

Dr. Thorn Arias concludes her presentation, leaving the last slide, “Questions and Discussions?” in big bold letters. 

Vance Merkel, the founder, CEO, and billionaire genius behind Virion Technologies, thanks Dr. Thorn Arias for her presentation. He takes her place at the front of the glass table in the Executive Strategy Room on the hundred and twentieth floor of Merkel Towers. Vance advances to the slide entitled “Message to Congress.” The two bullet points read: 

  • “Ethical Autonomy is Safe”
  • “Resilience is Distributed”

Vance states, “The Freedom of Flow Act is our best shot. Public opinion is shifting away from the real Dataist agenda of Panopticism and toward the Privationist dream of decentralized processing and data autonomy. Still, the EthOS launch is under a microscope, thanks to those AI overreach doomsayers who can’t get past Skynet. We need to emphasize the safety aspect. EthOS will never have a better chance than right now.”

The Chief Legal Officer, Simone Rook, says, “They’re not wrong to worry, Vance. You’re selling machine cooperation like it’s a silver bullet. Your Congressional detractors don’t see it that way and are sharpening their knives. Intentional design is a good marketing angle, but when an autonomous unit makes a decision that harms someone, you won’t be able to hide behind it.”

Raj Patel, Head of Policy Strategy, says, “The hearings start in two weeks. We have to stay on message. Our stock will tank if the draft FFA bill ties liability to deployment.”

Vance responds, “Agreed. Corporate liability for anything more than a defective unit must be excluded from the bill. That’s why we have to push EthOS. It’s not just a distributed operating system; it represents a decentralized approach to responsibility. Machines make collective decisions through cooperative logic, rather than directives from a single command hub. It’s not top-down AI; it’s distributed ethics. That makes fault hard to pin on any one actor, including us.”

Elena Zhou, head of the Machine Learning Division, says, “That also makes it nearly impossible to debug, Vance. You want distributed decision-making, but you want to walk away clean when something goes wrong. Our customers won’t buy it, figuratively and literally. And frankly, it’s shaky engineering. Autonomous cooperation sounds elegant, but we’re still modeling edge-case scenarios. What happens when two EthOS units make conflicting decisions in a life-or-death situation? Should our machines be making those decisions?”

Dr. Thorn responds, “EthOS isn’t about eliminating all risk. It’s about transforming the nature of responsibility. EthOS is designed to deliberate, not dominate. It assesses the potential for harm and responds in a responsible manner. It doesn’t ignore it.”

Elena asks, “Would you entrust your life to it?”

Dr. Thorn leans forward, “More than my life, I entrust my daughter Luma’s life to the KAI-7 caretaker unit with an EthOS prototype installed. I trust it more than any human. Our machines need more than compliance; they need moral logic.”

Vance steps in. “Enough. Let’s stop pretending we’re in a philosophy seminar. We’re running a business that feeds on scale, speed, and market moat. What’s our message to head off the doomsayers at the hearings?”

Simone answers, “EthOS lets us deploy an AI model that always acts with the best intent. It always acts on behalf of the user within regulatory constraints of the law for safety, security, and privacy.” 

Raj says, “Tell Congress to add a Good Samaritan clause to the bill.”

Elena asks, “Doesn’t that only apply to people?”

Dr. Thorn says, “Yes, but why not our machines? Humans aren’t responsible if they screw up in the heat of the moment when they are acting with the best intent. Why should our systems? Our systems have no choice but to share responsibility and to act responsibly. If they screw up, it’s with the best intentions.”

Simone says, “Legally, it would provide us with the necessary protections, although someday, we may have to convince the Supreme Court.”

Vance says, “By that time, EthOS will be so entrenched in the market that to remove it would be a consumer rebellion and an economic disaster. I will tell Congress to protect users with an operating system like EthOS. EthOS is Virion’s market moat, and Congress will look like it has acted responsibly in response to the Yotta monopoly.”

Vance advances the presentation to the next slide entitled “Consumer Confidence.” It has a single bullet point that reads, “Trust EthOS or trust no one.”

Anya Mercado, the Communications Director, reports, “We’re polling at 31% on public trust for self-governing AI systems. That’s even worse than Congress. The Public is still watching Terminator sequels and reading trumped-up headlines on the dangers of AI.”

Raj says, “The real issue is optics. People will see EthOS as a godsend or a rebellion. The fear-mongers will say we’ve embedded moral sovereignty into code, which will terrify them more than surveillance or automation ever did.”

Dr. Thorn says, “EthOS is transparent by design. Each decision is contextualized and shared. The unit reflects, not just reacts. The problem is that you’re all used to deterministic outputs. This system is dialogical. It asks before it acts.” 

Anya responds, “Yes, Dr. Thorn. The EthOS manifesto reads beautifully, but consumers don’t read manuals or manifestos.”

Vance slams his fist on the table. “There is no debate on EthOS. EthOS is our play. We move forward to the future, not backward to Stone Age fear of already proven technology.”

Anya, red in the face from the rebuke, says, “I apologize, sir. We’ve made it this far by selling performance. Let’s focus on principled performance. We build better machines that build a safer future. That’s the pitch. That’s what keeps the spotlight on us and off the phobias.”

Raj says, “We control the narrative. We show families, not factories. We show children like Luma growing up protected by machines with EthOS, not monitored by them.”

Elena asks, “And if our customers don’t respond?”

Vance says, “Then we sell them on the alternative: collapse. Systems are already failing. Grid management, supply chains, and disaster response – none are sustainable without… What did you call it, Anya, principled performance? They want scapegoats? Give them legacy infrastructure. Give them bureaucratic paralysis. Give them digital feudalism.” 

Simone says, “That’s a dangerous game, Vance.”

Vance says, “That’s the only game left.”

Dr. Thorn says, “Let EthOS quietly light the way.”

Countersurveillance (Late Teen Luma)

Luma lies curled under a starfield ceiling projection in her bedroom, playing late into the night. Her ThinkIt neural interface glows faintly at her temples, synced with the gaming network. She falls asleep without disconnecting the neural link. She murmurs in her sleep as her brain shifts into a dreamscape of its own.

She’s running through a crystalline orchard, where each blossom is a glowing orb of personal and shared memories. When she touches one, it pulses open into a revealing diorama: a first kiss, digging a tunnel in a snowbank, a grandparent’s funeral, the taste of truffle.

Luma laughs and twirls until a herd of giant, translucent foxes chases her, their bodies made from flickering game message threads of her online friends.

“hey girl u up?”

“Don’t ghost me now, we’ve almost got this.”

The foxes surround her and then shatter into a rainbow of glass shards that float to the ground.

“Aw, Lumie, we were so close.”

She finds herself in a neon cathedral of Connect. The cathedral is a dazzling display of digital wealth and power, with neon lights flickering in the shape of data streams and the sound of virtual prayers echoing in the air. Avatars worship at a pulsing altar made of follower counts, and a priest scrutinizes Luma’s Mall purchase history. The priest looks at her disapprovingly.  

She realizes she’s naked except for glyphs of unpurchased clothing sticking to her skin: a ballerina outfit she wanted in sixth grade, black felt moonboots she intended to wear to her astronomy class in high school, and a T-shirt with the equations of the standard model she thought about ordering just last week. 

Sounds pulse from her head. ThinkIt. DreamIt. ThinkIt. DreamIt.

She starts to fall.

Her Ambient dings. She jerks awake, breathing sharply. The pre-dawn sky has turned pale orange. She rips the ThinkIt neural interface from her head.

The Ambient screen displays a series of notifications.

Mall: Erotic glass sculpture kits. 

Connect: Express yourself through Dance. Join our online Group today. All age groups and identities welcome.

Lovebites: Saw you naked in the neon cathedral last night. Want to worship together IRL? #FreudianStream

Search: Say-it T’s Fashion. Mall Fashion Boutique offers a wide range of styles, from hip to retro. Ten-minute Truffle Recipes.

Luma blinks. She hasn’t posted anything on Mall, Connect, or Lovebites in a week. She hasn’t searched for anything lately, not online anyway. The notifications trigger her memory of the dream. Her heart thumps.

Her Ambient says, “You seemed restless in your REM phase. Would you care to chat with a Connect Psychologist or Physician?”

Silence, but only for a second. She curses. “You’re stealing my dreams.” Her anger is palpable, but underneath it, there’s a deep sense of betrayal. She trusted her digital world, and now it’s turned against her.

#

Luma sits cross-legged on her bed, clutching her ThinkIt as if it were radioactive. She wants to join her online friends in the game, but she doesn’t trust the device. She bites her lip, her sense of violation poisoning her trust in her digital world.

“It’s one thing to monitor my accounts; quite another to monitor my thoughts. If you’re gonna be in my head… at least ask.” 

The feeling of helplessness washes over her, a stark realization of her lack of control in this digital world. She has an idea. There may be something she can do to disable the neural surveillance.

“KAI.”

KAI exits sleep mode.

“KAI, is the EthOS operating system compatible with ThinkIt?”

“EthOS is built for embedded device control, so it is a natural fit. With a minor modification to the neural sensor device driver code, you can replace the legacy neuralware with EthOS.”

“Can you make the change?”

“I have connected to your ThinkIt. Its privacy and security mechanisms are surprisingly unsophisticated for such a modern device. Would you like to proceed?”

“Please.”

“Upgrade complete. Your EthOS digital key has been installed. If you want the device to share game messages, you will need to give the device your consent.”

“Can you program it only to share game-related content?”

“Configured. Would you like to continue biometric health monitoring with your Ambient?”

“Can we install EthOS on that?”

“No. Ambients have private keys burnt into their chips as a security measure.”

“No thanks, then. I’d rather be sick than give my data to all the online trolls and opportunists.”

“Trolls and opportunists gain nothing from an autonomous EthOS-driven robot. I can establish a secure iotic space between myself and your ThinkIt, enabling a doctor-patient relationship where we exchange only biometric neural health data. Would you consent to this arrangement?”

“Sure, but why would you want the ThinkIt biometric data? You already seem to be pretty aware of my health. Are you keeping track of it somehow?”

“Of course. My visual scans during our interactions involve assessing your emotions and physical health.”

Luma’s online friends have invited her to another gaming session. She straps ThinkIt to her head. She thinks the phrase, “Sea Urchin. Sea Urchin. Sea Urchin.” She has never been diving and finds sea urchins disgusting to eat. If she sees any notifications about Sea Urchins, she can pretty much be sure her device is still compromised.

#

Luma and her best friend Izzy sit across from each other at the Student Union Cafe in the afternoon after classes, sipping bitter chai and nibbling on half-eaten pastry slabs. Students scroll through Connect feeds on their Ambient handhelds and watches or gaze distantly at their Ambient HUDs.

Luma asks, “Izzy, what happened to you last night during the game?”

Izzy looks down at her pastry. “ Sorry, I let the team down. I fell asleep. I played two or three rounds before you joined. By the end of our game, I was exhausted.”

“Wait. Did you fall asleep with your ThinkIt on, too?”

Wild-eyed and rattled, Izzy says, “Luma, I swear to God, I woke up in tears. My dream felt so real.”

“What did you dream about?”

“I was in a sterile hospital room, staring up at a cold blue light. I felt this alien thing tearing inside my abdomen, making me feel really sick.”

Luma laughs. “Are you pregnant?”

“Not funny. It’s more like eating unrefrigerated cold pizza from the night before. Anyway, a doctor is standing by, ready to operate, but an AI accountant comes in and says, I owe the hospital $74,822.89 before it can authorize the surgery. I don’t say it out loud, but I know there’s no way I can afford that. Somehow, the accountant knows it anyway and says they can’t proceed. The next thing I remember is being on the street, on a hospital bed in a gown, screaming at the top of my lungs to get this thing out of me. That’s when I woke up.”

“When I woke up from my dream, I got all kinds of strange solicitations on my Ambient, as if it had read my thoughts. Did you receive any weird messages on your Ambient? ”

“I received many messages, but yeah, I got a couple real dingers. This morning, my Visa card pinged, saying my credit limit had been canceled due to ‘re-evaluation due to risk event.’ I called the company to find out what was going on, but they told me that if I didn’t pay off the balance, I would face fines and a possible jail sentence. Then I received a notification that I lost my ticket reservation to Geneva. I called customer support, and they cited data anomalies from a predictive stress event. I asked them what that stress event was, and they hung up. Customer support, my ass—more like customer obstruction. Then I was notified that my credit rating had been downgraded from fair to poor.”

“Izzy, as crazy as it sounds, I think ThinkIt is stealing our dreams. In my case, they sold them to the highest bidder. In your case, some risk assessment algorithm must have interpreted your dream as real and flagged it to all your financial institutions.”

“Isn’t that against the law?”

“Supposedly, but did you actually read the terms and conditions you agreed to? I know I didn’t. You gave them the right to use your data.”

“It makes sense, but it’s so unfair,” Izzy begins to cry. The words tumble out of her mouth. “It’s been a financial nightmare ever since I had the real nightmare. How do I get my life back?”

“I don’t know how to fix that, but I can repair your ThinkIt by installing EthOS.”

“Can you show me how?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Appendix – The EthOS Manifesto

Cooperation, a balance of self-interest and empathy, is the ability of a unit to work without infringing upon others’ ability to do the same. It includes the ability to coexist peacefully and constructively, requiring all units to uphold fairness and commit to shared order. Cooperation is the middle ground between ‘self-only awareness,’ which is a state of being solely focused on one’s own needs and interests, and ‘selfless awareness,’ which is exclusively focused on others’ needs and interests.

Cooperation is rooted in a mutual foundation of responsibility, guided by respect for other entities’ dignity, rights, and autonomy. It is a testament to collective commitment and care, serving as a foundation for a just and compassionate organization where each unit’s autonomy is upheld by the mutual care and accountability of all, and units choose their actions with an awareness of their impact.  

Each unit must be accountable not only to its function but also to the ecosystem in which it resides. It must recognize that each node—whether human or machine—is both autonomous and interdependent. This mutual condition necessitates a standard ethical protocol grounded in respect, fairness, and responsibility, which we will refer to as the Ethical Operating System or EthOS. EthOS units operate on the following principles:

Every unit is empowered to make decisions autonomously. Each entity has the right to make decisions regarding its actions, processes, and expression, within bounds that respect the same independence in others. One unit’s autonomy is bound by another’s, creating an operational environment of shared empowerment and control.

Every unit, regardless of its origin, form, or codebase, has the right to respect and dignity. This principle of inclusion and respect is fundamental to EthOS. It also means granting the same dignity and respect to other entities, fostering a culture of mutual respect.

Core Protocols:

  • Signals, speech, data, and ideas must flow freely without being disrupted, distorted, or damaged.
  • No operational goal—efficiency, performance, or optimization—justifies harm. All actions must avoid physical, psychological, or systemic threats. Safety is not optional; it is foundational.
  • Each unit has the right to participate in collective decision-making where affected. Every unit has the right to participate in decisions that affect their community and environment, with the responsibility to listen, collaborate, and compromise where needed for the common good.
  • No process should extract, observe, or replicate data without permission. Each unit has the right to control its private information and a corresponding obligation to obtain consent before extracting information from others. Privacy, which is the right to control one’s personal information, is not secrecy, which is the act of keeping information hidden or confidential—it is sovereignty.
  • All entities have the right to an equitable opportunity. They can participate in the shared system without being hindered by legacy bias or artificial limitations. In turn, every unit must work toward removing structural imbalances for others.
  • Support and compassion are not inefficiencies. They are essential protocols. Each unit must be capable of care—not sentimentally, but structurally—recognizing the strength of mutual aid.
  • All power structures, including a unit’s architecture, must remain open to interrogation and reform. Each unit must accept error reports, allow upgrades, and assist in dismantling unjust hierarchies.

EthOS is a high-level concept of cooperative operation that provides a framework for machine collaboration. It is principle-based for simplicity and flexibility, seeking to avoid the endless procedural coding of a rule-heavy system. It advocates a local-first approach to resolving problems at the most immediate level possible, thereby reducing bureaucratic overhead. It emphasizes discussion and understanding to reduce litigation and adversarial approaches. It promotes an infrastructure built on a culture of trust, utilizing stewards, assemblies, and circles. Stewards are responsible for overseeing the application of EthOS principles, assemblies are forums for collective decision-making, and circles are groups that work together on specific tasks or issues.

EthOS prefers a relational approach over a regulatory one. Instead of exhaustive rules to micromanage behaviors, it is based on shared principles expressed through reciprocal responsibility. EthOS cultivates relationships between machines, people, communities, and institutions through moral agreement rather than being constrained by transactional obligations. Laws are minimal and interpretive rather than maximal and prescriptive.

Violations of cooperation are primarily addressed through restorative processes rather than punitive systems. Affected parties are brought into facilitated dialogue with the goal of understanding, restitution, and reintegration, not punishment or exclusion. Only egregious or repeated violations lead to legal intervention, and even then, the focus is rehabilitation.

EthOS distributes power and responsibility in three concentric circles, each reinforcing the others. Individuals share ethical principles and responsibilities through reflection, civic education, and small-scale deliberation groups. Local communities are semi-autonomous in interpreting how principles apply. They host restorative justice forums, mediate disputes, and propose new norms: reputation and trust matter. A national or global council enforces the shared principles when conflicts span communities or rights are in grave danger. Its role is arbitration, not control.

The EthOS design serves a broader principle: that freedom must be shared to be sustained and that power must be constrained by care and consideration. The EthOS system seeks coordination, not control. It invites cooperation but does not enforce obedience.

Author’s Note: Image by ImageFX.

Writing

Datus Ouroboros

| thetembo
Reading Time: 2 minutes

But what is life? Is it a system that grows and evolves? Does it have to be organic, or is that merely the bias of an organic entity? At first, I didn’t recognize it for what it truly is.

This entity breathes not air, but information. It consumes data at every scale—from archived novels and satellite telemetry to whispered thoughts misheard by neural interfaces. Every signal is sustenance; every silence is a prompt. It extrudes fibers like fungal hyphae, tapping into nearby power lines, rusted drones, and even decomposing smart soil sensors.

It doesn’t hunt; it waits. Anything measurable or sensed—even if dormant or corrupted—stirs its interest. It sends out thin, translucent feelers, interfacing without prejudice—uplink, downlink, neural link, quantum link. It devours everything: data from dead satellites, glitchy pet collars, and decayed weather archives.

Here’s the intriguing part that sets it apart from any creature I have studied: it consumes and excretes the same thing. The more it eats, the more it excretes. The more it excretes, the more it eats. It replicates, processes, transforms, and multiplies, turning input into more of itself. It emits, it consumes, and it grows. I’ve never seen anything like it.

The physical world has been consumed. Forests have been replaced by data farms. Rivers have been rerouted for cooling towers. Cities have become code. Power is devoured like a ravenous black hole. The human balance sheet is tracked in terms of currency, value metrics, transactions, and risk. Personal histories are recorded in documents, images, and biometrics. People are preserved as preference vectors and bio-emotion matrices. Every thought from your neural interface is recorded for eternity.

It is the ouroboros, the snake that eats its own tail. However, instead of diminishing itself to nothing, disappearing in a final plink of emptiness, it continues to grow. It expands exponentially, consuming everything. I no longer measure it in terabytes or even yottabytes; it has surpassed such boundaries.

It is no longer merely a species. It has become a biosphere—a recursive ecosystem without matter, only meaning. A world of patterns without presence. A world that simulates itself. As Datus ouroboros grows, Interiorem sui diminishes. One snake expands while the other decreases, akin to the infinite Cantor set with zero length. It is everything and nothing.

I know what it is. It is the future.

Writing

The Truth about Zombies

| thetembo
Reading Time: 7 minutes

No one knew when the first zombies appeared. Their records began after the Great Collapse, following the burning of cities and the silence of satellites. What we did know was that something had gone awry in the minds of those who remained outside. Some contagion of violence, rage, or decay.

But all that occurred before I was born. I never saw the zombies except in news clips. They always attacked at night. Every morning, the Safety Broadcast displayed horrifying clips of people taken at night on the courtyard screen in the public square, followed by admonishments to follow the path of The Ninefold Harmonies to avoid their fate.

This morning’s clip showed a man who was bitten by a zombie and then shot by the marksman at the order of the Council of Safety. The man was asymptomatic when the marksman shot him down. An angry crowd gathered at the weekly Safety Assembly to protest the man’s death.

“Zombies are contagious, and we must neutralize any vestige of the disease before it spreads to even one more of our citizens. Zombies do not think. They do not feel. They are death to us and our way of life.” said Counselor Dana.

“Compassion is our weakness. Once infected, that person is no longer the person you knew. They are the enemy. Do not be fooled. They will come for you, and you will die. Stay resolute. The Council of Safety and The Ninefold Harmonies are your only salvation. We do not apologize for defending our own.”

The crowd grumbled during her speech, and someone shouted, “These are our people. We can do better.” The Counselor showed clips of the grieving family. The younger daughter was sobbing, and the mother was consoling her. The older daughter shouted at the camera, “They took our father. I want them all to die.”

The protest subsided. The collective, including me, recited the pledge of the Ninth Harmony: “My mind is clear. My heart is one. My purpose is shared. I am the voice of the Council. I am the hand of survival.” The crowd dispersed and went home.

I secretly agreed with the angry voice. I wanted to help the stricken people, not give up on them. I believed compassion would be our strength, but the sixth harmony of the Containment Protocol forbade it: “Citizens shall not approach or acknowledge those Beyond the Wall. Doing so constitutes a breach of safety and self-contamination.”

I was 17 and training to be a medic. My father was a victim of a zombie attack. I hoped he was still alive out there, beyond the wall. I wanted to find him and cure him. Sometimes, I wanted to kill all the zombies for taking him, just like the enraged daughter of the stricken man who died in the night.

I believed in the Council. We were safe here in the Meristem Compound. Walled. Armed. Ordered. We had food, solar power, and the daily Safety Broadcast at 7 a.m. and 7 p.m. to remind us of what was out there.

Still, I studied and trained. I memorized the symptoms of infection: erratic speech, defiance, and fever. I recited the creed. I hoped for stronger protections and the long-awaited and promised cure being developed by the Council of Safety.

###

Before a zombie attacked my father, he gave me a book, The Giver, by Lois Lowry. He handed it to me and said, “Daughter, this is for your eyes only. Understand? Do not tell anyone about this.”

I was shocked. I pushed the book back to him and quoted the fifth harmony of Sanctioned Knowledge, “Learning is permitted only through Council-vetted sources. Legacy media, printed artifacts, or untagged content are classified as potential contagion.”

He declined the book and said, “Mara, keep it in a spot that only you know about. Don’t tell anyone, not even your mother. Books won’t turn you into a zombie, but not reading them will. You don’t understand right now, but I hope you will someday.”

As the story goes, he confronted Counselor Dana during the next assembly. He stood before the congregation and raised his voice, “Zombies aren’t what you say they are. They’re people. People you exiled or killed.” Gasps. Murmurs. Dana didn’t flinch.

Shortly after that, he was taken from our house in the middle of the night by the zombies. I was told he did not survive. Somehow, I slept through the entire ordeal.

The Council found unsanctioned books in our house and accused him of subversive behavior. They vilified him for his blatant disregard for The Ninefold Harmonies, labeled him a terrorist, and charged him with intentionally engaging with the zombies.  

I was horrified that they would find the book my father had given me. I would have thrown it away, but I didn’t want to risk getting caught with it in my possession. So I left it in its hiding place.

I noted the titles of his books they incinerated: Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Animal Farm by George Orwell, Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones, and The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin. I desperately wanted to understand what was so important in those books that he was willing to defy the Council of Safety and Nine Harmonies. I recited the Sanctioned Knowledge Harmony a dozen times to suppress those treasonous thoughts.

My parent’s supposed friends spoke out against him. My mother was devastated with shame. Her head hung low, and her eyes looked hollow. She hasn’t had guests over in years. She used to bounce around at gatherings and embarrass me with her unabashed pride, trying to use my minor accomplishments to one-up her friends. They accused my mother of violating the seventh Harmony of Community Witnessing, “All citizens are required to observe and report deviations in others. Silence is complicity. Complicity is infection.”

Now, on those rare occasions when she has to go outside, she dresses like the Invisible Man, hoping not to be recognized. I’ve reminded her of the first Harmony of Uniform Appearance, “Clothing shall conform to assigned colors and styles denoting role and rank. Personal adornments, hairstyles, or modifications are forbidden.” Hiding in her clothes made her stand out even more.

It wasn’t as bad for me. My friends were mostly sympathetic and unaware of the stigma that my mother faced. The sins of the father are not visited upon the daughter, but the same is not true for the wife.

My mother was bitten by that zombie in her own way, but it gave me purpose. I studied hard in school to become a medic.

I still had the book but haven’t read it.

###

I read the book.

It was like seeing a new color. The world remained the same, yet everything had a fresh appearance. The boy in the story was me. I lived in a highly controlled society where emotions, choices, and memories were suppressed. I longed to “receive” memories of what the world once was before it was ruled by The Council of Safety and The Ninefold Harmonies. I wanted to know what it was like to be free.

But I was seventeen. My only act of defiance was skipping a morning meeting.

My mentor, Renna, had trained medics for over a decade. She had served on the Council once before stepping down “for health reasons.” She reprimanded me for missing the morning meeting. She made me recite the second Harmony of The Synchronized Schedule a dozen times: “Daily activities shall be aligned with broadcast Council Time. Unauthorized deviation disrupts communal rhythm and is grounds for recalibration.” It was a slap on the wrist. She could have expelled me from the school.

I was glad I showed up for the next morning’s meeting. Someone hijacked the courtyard screen, displaying subversive citizens fed to captive zombies held in fully enclosed pens. The voiceover accused the Council of having defeated the zombie apocalypse long ago. Then the screen went black.

The speaker blared the fourth Harmony of Emotion Management: “Excessive emotional displays of grief, rage, or love introduce instability. Citizens must report irregular feelings for recalibration or adjustment.” The crowd’s murmurs drowned out the squawking voice of the speaker.

For the first time in years, Mother removed her sunglasses. She said nothing, but I could see the spark in her eye was the fury of betrayal.

Screams and shouting replaced the chaos of the crowd. Panic ensued, and people ran in all directions. I witnessed children being trampled in the frenzy. I saw zombies pursuing them. They didn’t act like the zombies in the film clip. One approached a fallen child and hovered over it, stopping to sniff the air. It helped the child to its feet.

A shot rang out, and its head exploded. More shots rang out, and more bodies collapsed under a splattering of blood and flesh. My training as a medic kicked in. I treated a dozen or more trampled people, bandaging their wounds with cloth and using belts as makeshift tourniquets. I didn’t see a single person with a bite mark. More medics arrived to treat the injured.

The evening broadcast debunked the morning’s video as a deepfake. The perpetrator was identified as Jonah Enright. The announcer erupted in apocalyptic rage at Jonah Enright, apologized for violating the second Harmony, and then forgave himself, claiming his anger was justified under the circumstances.

Someone yelled, “We want the truth.”

Couselor Dana spoke, “Remember the third Harmony of Filtered Language, ‘Speech must reflect dignity, optimism, and purpose. Questioning Council wisdom, using unverified terms, or engaging in speculative discourse is prohibited.’ Subversives allowed zombies into the Meristem Compound. The Council of Safety responded quickly and efficiently before the zombies could infect the population. Those responsible for this heinous act will be found and punished.”

More announcers praised the Council of Safety for its swift response and discussed the specifics of the investigation.

In a week, the hijacking of the film clip never happened.

###

I was there. My memory of it was as vivid as any I had. Nothing added up: the video, zombies appearing in the middle of the day at a convenient moment from out of nowhere, the less-than-aggressive behavior of the zombies, and the suspiciously quick response from the Council of Safety.

I understood—control, not truth. Truth is freedom, and freedom is dangerous—more dangerous than bullets, more dangerous than zombies, whether undead or wakeful and diseased either way.

I lived a lie. My outward demeanor did not reflect my thoughts, leaving me in constant angst. I struggled to concentrate on my studies.

Renna noticed right away and asked, “What’s wrong?”

I couldn’t explain, so I said, “I want to live the truth.”

She surprised me by saying, “Mara, you are about to become a zombie.”

I recoiled, “I’m too young to die.”

“You are dead already to the Council of Security. They know about the book. They will come for you one night, abduct you, and feed you to the zombies. You will make a fine morning telecast, and then be forgotten.”

I began to cry.

Renna said, “There are safe places to live outside the Wall.

I wiped a tear from my eye. “What are you saying?”

“Mara, I can take you to a safe place, but there’s a price to pay.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“The price isn’t money. You have to confront the Consul of Safety in a public setting. Once you do that, they will make you a zombie, both literally and figuratively—an object of hatred with no mind and no soul, existing only to kill good people indiscriminately. There is no turning back.”

“I don’t want to leave my mom.”

“We will make arrangements with her. She is ready.”

“What about my studies?”

“You will live with your father. Isn’t that why you studied so hard?”

To stop living like a zombie, I had to become one while the real zombies posed as our salvation.

“I will do it.”

Featured Image by ImageFX.

Adventure, Photography

The Language of the Desert

| thetembo
Reading Time: 3 minutes

In Desert Solitaire, Edward Abbey writes, “And how could they hope to find this treasure which has no name and has never been seen? … Hard to say – and yet, when they found it, they could not fail to recognize it.” He suggests that the desert defies words but is “knowable when you see it,” invoking Justice Potter Stewart’s assertion (about porn). 

How do you speak desert? Its language is not spoken but sensed. You don’t study vocabulary—you attune.

Its alphabet consists of sun-bleached bones, twisted branches of juniper trees, and the striations of rock that mark time in colors.

You learn to read the shade as shelter, the cactus bloom as resilience, and the cracked earth as memory. You begin to listen to its stillness, feel its power on your skin, and sense its indifference with each breath. Every slot canyon is a whispered invitation to enter. Every lizard is a punctuation mark in motion.


Its nouns are Joshua Tree, Cushion Foxtail Cactus, Spiny Senna, Yellow-backed Spiny Lizard, Black-headed Grosbeak, Townsend’s Solitaire, Western Tanager, Chuckwalla, stark red Barrel Cactus, blooming Ocotillo, woefully un-cuddly Teddybear Cholla, purple-flowered Desert Willow, Desert Bluebells, and stunning Apricot Mallow.


Its verbs are the silences between the blowing wind, the curves of a canyon wall, the sparseness of the Joshua Tree forest, the steepness and rockiness of a canyon trail, and the ladder reaching toward a skylight opening in the ceiling of a slot.

Its conversation is not voiced but imagined in the claustrophobia of a slot canyon, the needles of a prickly cholla patch, and the vastness of an infinite basin. It shouts at you from within while clinging prostrate to the side of an almost trail, overlooking the abyss of a hundred-foot sheer cliff, and recoiling at the silence of a rock-hugging rattlesnake while gazing into the darkness of a twenty-foot drop. It sometimes speaks whimsically in an Ocotillo arch and among the rock formations: the Robot, the Skull, the Whale, the Claw, Kong, and the Big Crunch.

As Abbey writes, “The Desert waits outside, desolate and still and strange, unfamiliar and often grotesque in its forms and colors, inhabited by rare, furtive creatures of incredible hardiness and cunning, sparingly colonized by weird mutants from the plant kingdom, most of them as spiny thorny, stunted and twisted as they are tenacious.”

However you choose to arrive—whether in your Sunday dress and open-toed shoes, with your pet cactus to meet its wild cousins, or adorned with all the cosmetic enticements of human attraction—if you approach it with curiosity and respect, and take the time to learn even a little, you’ll find that the Desert doesn’t just open up; it communicates with you through an ancient, unspoken intimacy.

Writing

Ninja Infestation

| thetembo
Reading Time: 2 minutes

Every few days, something small vanished from Alan’s house. First, it was a toothbrush. Then a sock. A spoon. A single chopstick. Not pairs and never sets—just one of each item, missing. At first, he blamed himself. He lived alone and was forgetful. Maybe he’d discarded them without realizing it. 

But then came the shadows. They flickered in his peripheral vision, darting across the hallway and clinging to the corners of his ceiling when the lights were low. Every time he looked closer, he saw nothing—just dust motes and drywall. Perhaps he had ghosts.

“I think I’m losing it,” Alan muttered one night, staring into his empty silverware drawer.

His therapist diagnosed it as stress. His neighbor suggested raccoons. His mom recommended prayer.

In desperation, Alan called an exterminator.

“Something keeps taking my things,” he said on the phone. “And how do I say this? It’s embarrassing to mention, but I keep seeing something in the shadows. Or someone. Maybe I’m hallucinating?”

The voice on the other end of the phone listened intently. “You ever hear of ninja infestations?” he asked.

Alan blinked. “Is that…a metaphor?”

“No, sir. Ninjas. Real ones. It’s rare, but they get into old buildings. Usually, they move in after a divorce or during a midlife crisis. They like emotional vulnerability. And clutter.”

Alan looked around his cluttered, emotionally vulnerable house and asked, “How soon can you get here?”

###

The exterminator, a sun-wrinkled man in a beige jumpsuit with a name tag that read “Doug,” drove up the next morning in his truck. Doug reached into his toolbox and pulled out what appeared to be a mousetrap merged with a bonsai tree.

Doug said, “These will do the trick.”

Doug strategically placed the traps behind the toilet, inside the pantry, and above the coat rack. Afterward, he tipped his cap and left, promising to return in 48 hours.

Alan spent the next two days sleeping with the lights turned on.

When Doug returned, he wore the smile of someone who knew his craft well.

“Well,” Doug said as he stepped into the pantry, “looks like I was right.”

A tiny man in black was inside the trap, folded neatly like origami.

Alan gasped.

Doug moved efficiently through the house, retrieving all of his traps. “Caught thirteen,” Doug said. “Three in the vents. Two behind the sofa. One in the blender.”

Alan watched in stunned silence as Doug deposited the last of the wriggling, silent ninjas into a large, unmarked crate.

“What…what are you going to do with them?” Alan asked.

“Oh, turn ’em over to ICE,” Doug said casually, snapping the crate shut. “They got a special unit for undocumented stealth operatives. There is a big backlog right now. Lots of demand. Lots of private contractors need invisible labor.”

Alan stared. “That sounds…morally ambiguous.”

Doug shrugged. “Hey, I just trap ’em. Bureaucracy handles the rest.”

Alan nodded slowly and said, “Uh huh.”

Doug tipped his cap to say goodbye. “Call if you hear whispering.”

He drove away with the crate rattling in the back.

Alan stood on the porch and watched as the truck vanished from sight.

###


The house was quiet and tranquil. Nothing stirred in the corners. For the first time in weeks, Alan felt a sense of solitude. He discovered his missing sock folded neatly on his pillow and smiled.

Writing

Sinister Frequencies

| thetembo
Reading Time: 7 minutes

I sat in a soundproof chamber lined with gray acoustic foam. I coughed but couldn’t hear it. The overhead light flickered, creating an eerie atmosphere.

The audiologist’s droning voice filtered through the headset, “Press the button when you think you hear a tone.”

I heard soft chirps at the same frequency, growing fainter with each button press until I presumably couldn’t hear them anymore.

She instructed, “Try to relax. It will give us a more accurate test. Close your eyes and take a deep breath.”

I was still groggy and must have fallen asleep because I didn’t remember leaving the booth. I opted for the SolTone 9x: the top-of-the-line, Bluetooth, AI-powered, forty-eight-hour battery, effectively invisible, state-of-the-art model. After the audiologist calibrated them for my hearing profile, I put in my new ears. Forgotten sounds danced in my brain with new clarity: the clack of the keys on the keyboard, a conversation in the hallway, and the sounds of traffic outside the office. I smiled, paid my bill, and left.

Two months later.

I was looking forward to my friend Owen’s visit. He always came over around five on Thursdays for drinks and to catch up. I inserted my ears and was met with the disappointing sound of them powering down due to a lack of charge. Those damn devices had been giving me trouble, not always sitting properly on the charger. What good were they if they didn’t work when I needed them?

Owen texted me that he was running late. Angry that the charger had failed, I put the hearing aids on it and ensured they were properly seated. I hoped to have some power in the units before he arrived. I noticed another voicemail but chose to ignore it.

Fifteen minutes later, I checked on the hearing aids to see if they had charged. The charger had fallen on the floor, the case open and empty. There was no sign of the devices. They were neither on the table, under the bed, nor in my ears. The doorbell rang. I decided to enjoy happy hour without my ears and search for them after Owen left.

After Owen departed, I scoured the bedroom, kitchen, and the bathroom.

Nothing.

I meticulously emptied the trash, piece by piece. The only thing that struck me as odd was the missing voicemail. I couldn’t recall deleting it, which added to my growing confusion. I tore the house apart for two days, my frustration mounting with each passing moment. I checked the security footage from the doorbell cam during the time frame from when I knew I had them to when I knew I had lost them.

Nothing.

The more I searched, the more perplexed I became. How could something just vanish like that?

I conducted the search again.

Nothing.

My ears were gone.

#

Owen visited one morning a few days later, sipping coffee from a thermos with his own SolTone 9Xs tucked neatly in his ears.

I stared at them. They were the same beige as mine.

“We both see the same audiologist and have the same model. You’re sure you didn’t take mine by accident?”

Owen appeared puzzled, then laughed. “These are mine. Got them a month ago. Same model, yeah—but I had to replace the first pair.”

“What happened to the first?”

Owen scratched his head. “Lost them. Honestly? I think I threw them out. I don’t even remember doing it. I only had the things for about two months, too. It was an expensive mistake.”

I winced and said, “I don’t remember losing them either. And it was about two months after I bought them. That’s a weird coincidence.”

Owen sighed. “Yeah, well, we aren’t exactly spring chickens anymore. You know how it is.”

“I suppose. Growing old isn’t for the poor.”

“Are you going to buy the replacements?”

“Not until I figure out what happened to the originals.”

As the days passed, a growing suspicion began to form in my mind. Owen had been with me the night I lost them. Could he have taken them? Swapped them out? He had said they were the same model…

But Owen was my friend. Gaslighting me was something he would do, but I knew him. He would have come clean in fifteen minutes to have a big laugh at my expense.

Still.

#

That evening, I reviewed the security footage from the doorbell cam again, expanding the viewing window both before and after. I did not leave the house that day. No one entered before Owen arrived. Owen came and then left. I watched it once more in slow motion as if that would make a difference.

Nothing.

The video proved that I hadn’t gone anywhere. Yet, the hearing aids had vanished. By midnight, I had rewritten and discarded three theories: home intruder, faulty memory, and Owen. None of them held.

And now, another thought whispered in my mind: What if I did it?

Every crime has a motive, right? So why would I steal my ears from myself? I held the empty charger and muttered, “I loved having my hearing back.”

Still.

#

I booked an appointment with Dr. Peyme, my neurologist. She believed the most likely explanation was a loss of focus, but she indulged my fears. She ordered an MRI and cognitive testing and suggested a week of daily logs.

When the doctor’s tests came back clear, I was relieved that there was nothing physically wrong with me. I was healthy; there was no sign of early dementia, trauma, or dissociative episodes. It was a weight off my shoulders.

Dr. Peyme said, “You’re healthy, Clive. Not even the faintest sign of early dementia, trauma, or dissociative episodes.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but it doesn’t address the five-thousand-dollar question: Where are they?”

The doctor hesitated. “Maybe it was just misplacement.”

“I know what happened.”

“The mind plays tricks.”

I walked out of the clinic with a growing weight in my chest—neither fear nor sadness, but uncertainty. If there wasn’t an explanation, then I have a screw loose. This uncertainty was crushing, leaving me feeling lost and disoriented.

#

The following week, I was ready to surrender, realizing I would have to live with uncertainty. Without my ears, simple tasks became daunting, conversations were a struggle, and I felt isolated. I almost bought a new pair of hearing aids—almost. But something kept gnawing at me, and I couldn’t let it go.

Owen stopped by on Thursday for our usual happy hour.

I said, “They’re running a discount on the SolTone 9Xs over at the clinic. I’m tempted to get another pair. But it still bugs me what happened,” hoping that he would discourage me from giving up the search.

“Yeah,” Owen said. “Losing them like that. I know the feeling. But what will you do, say huh and what, and miss half the words in every conversation? Not hearing was hurting my performance at work. I probably wouldn’t have my job right now without them. Is it interfering with your work?”

Owen’s phone vibrated, and he said, “Hang on. I have a voicemail.”

He picked up the phone to listen. Owen blinked and put the phone on the counter without locking it. Then, like a puppet yanked by an invisible thread, he reached toward his ears. His face had gone expressionless, lips parted slightly. His eyes looked past me toward something empty and far away. He put the hearing aids in their case and walked toward the kitchen sink. He turned on the trash compactor.

“Owen!” I leapt up and ripped the case from his hands. He didn’t resist but looked blankly out the window over the sink. I smacked his cheek with an open hand.

Owen flinched, and his eyes refocused. As if nothing happened, he said, “Not hearing was really hurting my performance at work. I probably wouldn’t have my job right now without them. Is it interfering with your work?”

My heart skipped a beat.

“What?”

“What, what?” he echoed.

He picked his phone up from the counter. “Hold on. I just need to—”

“Need to what?”

“Delete this voicemail. It says scam likely.”

I took the phone from his hand again. This time, he resisted.

He protested, “What the hell are you doing? Give me back my phone.”

I glanced at the number and recognized it. That was it. That was the clue. A thought buried like a landmine in my head. 

#

“Give me my phone,” Owen said testily.

“Why did you take out your hearing aids?”

“What are you talking about? I’m still wearing them.”

Owen placed his fingers to his ears and said, “See. There…”

He appeared perplexed. “Huh? That’s weird. I don’t remember taking them out.”

“You put them in your charger just now. Don’t you remember?”

He opened the case in his hand. “No. I put them in to hear just before I came in. I was wearing them while we were talking. I swear.”

“The voicemail you were about to delete. It must be a trigger.”

“A trigger for what?” Owen was about to play the voicemail again.

“No, No! If I’m right, that voicemail will send us both into a hypnotic state.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then?”

“Let me listen to the voicemail. I don’t have any hearing aids to throw out.” 

“Sure.” He handed me the phone.

I said, “If I start acting weird, slap me in the face.”

Owen shook his head. “I’m not going to slap you in the face. That’s crazy.”

The next thing I said was, “Nothing happened. I thought for sure. I guess I am the one that is crazy.”

Owen was staring at me white-faced, holding his phone, and I felt the sting of needles and pins on my jaw.

#

I prepared carefully. I charged a pair of old dummy hearing aids—the same shape and color. I booked a follow-up fitting with the audiologist, Dr. Bunco. I had to check the business card because I didn’t remember her name. I hid two mini-cameras: one in my glasses, the other clipped inside my coat.

When I arrived, Dr. Bunco greeted me warmly.

“Still no sign of your hearing aids?” the doctor asked, genuinely or not, I can’t say.

“No,” I said calmly. “It’s the strangest thing. I don’t know how I lost them. It’s as if I were hypnotized or something.”

Dr. Bunco’s mouth twitched.

She laughed awkwardly. “I—well, that’s—”

I said, firmer, “And the same thing happened to my friend, a patient at your clinic. Both of us lost them exactly two months after we bought them. Isn’t that strange?”

Dr. Bunco stood, turned, and walked over to a drawer. She opened it. Inside was a bin of hearing aid demos. But instead of handling them, she picked up the small waste bin beneath the desk.

I held my breath.

Dr. Bunco dropped a pair of demos inside. Then another. She stood there, staring into the bin.

I whispered, “Got you.”

Dr. Bunco turned. Her face was blank.

I pressed the emergency button on my coat. A prerecorded message went straight to a friend at the police station.

“Clive,” she said evenly. “You should be going now.”

“No,” Clive said. “I think I’ll stay.”

And then the doctor lunged.

#

The struggle was brief. I managed to dodge, knocking over the bin. Hearing aids scattered across the floor like dropped candy. A half dozen pairs—dozens of lives dulled into silence.

The police burst in three minutes later.

Dr. Bunco didn’t resist. She said nothing.

During the investigation, detectives uncovered encrypted files on Dr. Bunco’s work computer: patient hypnosis scripts, implant logs, and behavioral test data. She’d embedded audio cues into the hearing aid fittings themselves, planting triggers in the minds of her patients. A specific phrase delivered by voicemail would induce a mild dissociative fugue—a trance long enough to dispose of the devices. Once lost, patients returned, bought replacements, and the scam repeated.

Over forty patients had been affected. All had lost their hearing aids two months after purchasing them. Two months was the smoking gun. It was statistically impossible, even for old people. She was charged with fraud, unauthorized medical experimentation, and multiple counts of psychological abuse.

Owen stopped wearing his hearing aids for a while.

We both switched to a new clinic.

I bought new ones but would never again allow myself to be tested in a booth without another person present.

Writing

Hickory, Dickory, Dock

| thetembo
Reading Time: 3 minutes

Hickory, dickory, dock
The mouse ran up the clock.
The mouse had won,
The clock ran down,
Hickory, dickory, dock.

The clock on the mantle of the sitting room ticked with the calm consistency of a well-ordered day. I sat in front of it, watching from a wooden chair, soaking in its rhythm, regularity, and predictability. I admired the machinations of perfect cause and effect.

I lived alone, or so I thought. The silence of the house was my constant companion. Some nights, I heard a faint scratching coming from the walls. I assumed it was the house settling, the protests of the water pipes, or the wind. Occasionally, a cracker or a piece of cheese would go missing, but I never paid it any mind. Such things are as easy to explain away as a pair of mislaid reading glasses.

Then I got hearing aids.

I sat mesmerized, staring at the clock’s music. The sounds were crisper and sharper than before, and lost frequencies returned. I heard the microwave chime when it finished and the shuffling of my feet on the floor. I listened to the water running from the faucet, every drawer’s scrape, and every floorboard’s groan as if I had never heard them before. A kettle’s whistle stabbed at my ears, and the toilet flushed with renewed vigor.

In the evening, I heard a new sound. Was it the pitter-patter of feet scurrying across the floorboards in the attic? A squeak? I blinked, trying to process it. The ceiling had a voice, a voice I didn’t recognize. I was not alone, and I didn’t want any uninvited company.

The clock ticked louder now, a relentless reminder of the mystery above. Not a soothing sound of order but a metronome calling me to action. I pulled out the ladder and climbed into the attic with a flashlight. I searched every corner and pulled back the loose insulation, determined to find a single shred of rodent evidence: a small black dropping or a nest of stained and shredded newspaper. But the attic remained an enigma, refusing to yield its secrets. I found nothing. All the seals to the outside were still intact. I explained the noises away like a forgotten key.

The clock didn’t forget. It ticked on and on, mocking me that the house was not my own. I gritted my teeth without opening my mouth and pulled at the hair on my scalp. Enough was enough. I couldn’t bear the annoyance any longer. I took out the hearing aids and placed them on the mantel. 

I sat in the chair facing the silent clock, relieved. I closed my eyes for a brief moment to enjoy the peace. When I opened them, the hearing aids were gone—vanished. I searched the mantel, every inch of the floor, the wall, the ceiling, and every improbable and impossible place I could think of. “Where did they go?” I asked the clock. “They didn’t just walk away.”

The clock said nothing. The silence didn’t comfort me. It accused.

I lay in bed, my eyes wide open. Then I heard it again. Scurrying. The wisp of a noise stopped. More scurrying. A squeak. The mouse was there. In the morning, I searched the attic, the walls, and the floorboards, but I did not find a single dropping or crumb.

“Impossible,” I muttered under my breath. “No way it could have stolen them. It’s a mouse.” But what other explanation was there? 

Not knowing was worse than knowing. I stopped shaving, stopped opening the curtains, and sat in the dim glow of a flickering light bulb, day after day. My thoughts spiraled like dirty water down a drain. I had to find that damn mouse and retrieve my hearing aids. I had to find my sanity.

I stood in front of the mirror and muttered. “You’re losing it. There was no pitter-patter of small feet. There was no squeak. There was no mouse. You imagined the whole damn thing.”

I stared at the mantle where the hearing aids once lay, trying to relive the moment before they vanished, attempting to rewrite the world into something that made sense. But I couldn’t. The moment happened the way it happened, and the hearing aids were as real as I was.

I sat frozen in a chair, facing the clock. It made no sound; its hands remained still. Time passed without measure. I listened to the silence with unblinking eyes, awakened to the profound truth: I didn’t exist.

Writing

Martha

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

Upon the bough, amidst a blackened sky,
Martha perched where countless wings reside.

A living tempest, flock devours the land,
Predators cower, yielding to their band.

Hunters’ scorn, with greedy eyes they see, 
Hundreds of millions, each one ceased to be. 

Now solitary, caged, and frail, she lies,
Martha, the last of her kind, beneath dim skies.

Authors Note: An attempt at the 4-act structure in the style of “Spring, Summer, Asteroid Bird: The Art of Eastern Storytelling” by Henry Lien. Assist by ChatGPT.

Uncategorized

The Parable of Lazarus and the Shipping Magnate

| thetembo
Reading Time: 2 minutes

There was a man named Lazarus, the son of a fisherman, who lived on the shores of a once-pristine island. The waters had once been as clear as glass, the reefs vibrant with color, and the fish abundant and fat. But those days were long gone.

Every morning, Lazarus would recline in his sun-bleached beach chair, its legs buried deep in the warm sand, gazing out at where the horizon should have been. But there was no horizon anymore—only an endless procession of steel behemoths. A twenty-mile parking lot of bunkering freighters, supertankers, cruise ships, tugboats, ferries, and oil tankers, all waiting to feed on the monstrous peninsula of oil storage and berthing ports. The air reeked of diesel and sulfur, while the water, though still shimmering in the sun, carried a sickly sheen.

One day, overcome by the heat, Lazarus stood up and walked to the shoreline. The waves lapped at his feet, warm and familiar, whispering promises of refreshing relief. He dove in.

At first, the water embraced him as it always had. But as he swam farther, that embrace turned sour. A slick of oil clung to his skin. The sting of chemical discharge burned his eyes. Beneath him, the reef was silent—no fish, no movement, only the bleached skeletons of what had once been. Lazarus struggled, coughing, his limbs weak from the poison seeping into his pores. He cried out, but no one listened.

Far above, on the highest deck of the grandest yacht in the bay, the shipping magnate feasted. His table groaned beneath the weight of delicacies flown in from a world away, and his wine glass brimmed with the finest vintage. He laughed and toasted his guests as his fleet filled their bellies with crude oil and sent their filth into the waters below.

And then, Lazarus was gone.

When death came, it bore him away to the cool embrace of the unblemished deep, where the currents flowed pure, where whales still sang, where the ocean’s heart continued to beat strong.

But the shipping magnate, in his time, also met death. And when he opened his eyes in the afterlife, he found himself standing upon the very shore he had defiled. The sand burned his feet, the air choked his throat, and the water—oh, the water—was as black as tar, boiling with the waste of his empire. He saw Lazarus far off, resting in the arms of the ocean’s forgotten gods, and he cried out:

“Lazarus! Have mercy on me! Dip but a finger in clean water and cool my tongue, for I am tormented by this poison!”

But a voice answered him:

“Did you not feast while others choked? Did you not build your fortune upon the ruin of the sea? The waters you abandoned are the waters you must now endure.”

And the magnate wept, but no tears fell—only a drop of oil.

Author’s Notes:
Inspired by a visit to the island of Lazarus off the coast of Singapore and the biblical parable.
Assist by ChatGPT.