Category: Writing

Attempts at creative writing and journalism

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.

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.

Writing

Palm Oil and Orangutans

| thetembo
Reading Time: 5 minutes

Me (as commentator): In this discussion, ChatGPT and I are working together to create a better world for palm oil and orangutans.

It started with a trip to Costa Rica with my brother. He shared with me the environmental destruction caused by the demand for palm oil. Then, I witnessed it firsthand in Malaysia—vast stretches of oil palm plantations stretching endlessly across the landscape. When I read about similar plantations in Indonesia, the enormity of palm oil’s impact became impossible to ignore. It’s present in everything—from chocolate bars to biofuels. That’s when I turned to ChatGPT for answers.

Me: How does the global supply chain for palm oil operate? What are the net benefits and environmental costs, particularly in Malaysia and Indonesia?

ChatGPT: Palm oil is one of the most widely used vegetable oils worldwide, and it is used in processed foods, cosmetics, and industrial applications. Its supply chain follows a structured path: cultivation in tropical climates, harvesting and processing into crude and refined products, and global distribution to major markets like China, India, the EU, and the U.S. Sustainability efforts, such as RSPO (Roundtable on Sustainable Palm Oil) certification, exist, but their effectiveness varies.

Palm oil has undeniable advantages. It yields far more oil per hectare than alternatives like soybean or rapeseed, making it incredibly efficient. It supports millions of jobs, particularly in Malaysia and Indonesia, and its affordability makes it a staple in global food security. However, the environmental cost is steep.

Clearing rainforests for plantations has threatened species like orangutans and Sumatran tigers. Draining peatlands releases vast amounts of CO₂. Monoculture farming depletes nutrients, and runoff from pesticides pollutes rivers. Land grabs and exploitative labor practices continue to be widespread.

The problem is complex. Palm oil is too efficient and economically embedded to remove, yet its environmental impact calls for accountability. Stricter regulations, improved land management, and consumer demand for sustainable sourcing could help tip the scales.

Me (as commentator): That brings up another question. Is it good for you?

Me: What health effects and issues are associated with palm oil?

ChatGPT: The health impact of palm oil varies based on its form and consumption method. Unrefined (red) palm oil is abundant in carotenoids and vitamin E, providing antioxidant benefits that promote eye health and alleviate oxidative stress. It also features a balanced fat profile that is more stable than polyunsaturated oils but less harmful than trans fats. Its high smoke point makes it perfect for cooking without generating harmful free radicals.

However, refined palm oil, which is commonly found in processed foods, presents a different narrative. Excessive consumption may elevate LDL cholesterol levels and heighten the risk of heart disease. The processing removes beneficial nutrients, and repeated heating can generate toxic compounds associated with inflammation and metabolic disorders. Additionally, there are concerns about contaminants such as 3-MCPD, a potential carcinogen present in certain refined palm oils.

Palm oil can be part of a balanced diet in moderation, particularly in its unrefined form. However, its use in ultra-processed foods contributes to broader public health concerns, making alternative oils like olive or avocado oil preferable for those worried about cardiovascular health.

Me (as commentator): By now, a broader theme was emerging—one that connected economics, politics, and the environment. Once again, I reflected on Why Nations Fail, a book that examines how extractive political and economic institutions eventually collapse under their own weight. Our relationship with nature, especially in industries like palm oil, has become similarly exploitative.

Me: How does the framework of extractive versus inclusive institutions apply to palm oil? Can the industry transition to a sustainable model?

ChatGPT: The traditional palm oil industry mirrors extractive institutions. Power and profits are concentrated in a few hands, while environmental and social costs are externalized. Short-term gains drive deforestation, land seizures displace communities, and monopolistic control leaves small farmers at a disadvantage. These systems appear profitable, but their foundations are unstable. Degraded land loses productivity, regulatory pressure mounts, and climate change disrupts supply chains.

A shift toward inclusivity would align economic incentives with environmental health. Agroforestry and polyculture could replace monoculture, maintaining biodiversity and soil fertility. Smallholder cooperatives would ensure fair profit distribution, preventing land grabs. Stronger land rights and environmental regulations would safeguard both people and ecosystems. Carbon taxes and sustainability incentives could make responsible practices more financially viable.

Emerging technologies could play a crucial role in this transition. Blockchain enhances supply chain transparency, ensuring that palm oil labeled as sustainable is verifiably sourced from ethical producers. AI-driven monitoring can analyze satellite imagery to detect illegal deforestation in real time, enabling quicker enforcement of conservation laws. Consumer awareness tools, such as apps that scan product barcodes to provide sustainability scores, empower shoppers to support ethical brands. These innovations bridge the gap between policy and action, fostering an industry that benefits both people and the planet.

Once satellite data confirms land use compliance, blockchain records transactions from plantation to refinery. Farmers upload geotagged proof of sustainable practices (e.g., reforested areas, legal permits). Each step in the supply chain is logged on an immutable blockchain ledger, preventing fraud. Consumers scan QR codes on products to verify deforestation-free palm oil origins.

Organizations like Global Forest Watch (GFW), NASA, and the European Space Agency (ESA) use satellites to monitor forests. Radar-based satellites can see through clouds, even in rainforests. Buyers can verify if a plantation is inside a deforestation-free zone. 

Such changes would preserve rainforests and wildlife and create long-term economic stability, ensuring that palm oil remains a viable industry without destroying the land it depends on.

Me: What would prevent people from cheating the system?

ChatGPT: Once satellite data confirms land use compliance, blockchain records transactions from plantation to refinery. Farmers upload geotagged evidence of sustainable practices (e.g., reforested areas, legal permits). Each step in the supply chain is recorded on an immutable blockchain ledger, preventing fraud. Consumers can scan QR codes on products to verify the origins of deforestation-free palm oil.

In 2021, a Malaysian palm oil supplier was discovered to be selling “certified sustainable” palm oil that was actually sourced from illegally deforested areas. The fraud was uncovered through blockchain traceability, AI-driven satellite monitoring, and chemical fingerprinting.

The supplier claimed their palm oil was Roundtable on Sustainable Palm Oil (RSPO) certified, and they forged documents to show compliance. The company purchased palm oil from illegal plantations (including deforested peatlands) and mixed it with genuine certified palm oil at the refinery. They manipulated geolocation data to create the illusion that the palm oil originated from legal farms. GPS spoofing was employed to forge transport records.

A European buyer using blockchain-based supply chain tracking noticed inconsistencies in shipment data. The timestamps didn’t match transport records from the supposed “sustainable farms.” AI-powered satellite imagery (from Global Forest Watch and NASA) detected recent deforestation near the supplier’s reported farms. Machine learning flagged the sudden land use change as suspicious. A DNA-based oil fingerprinting test showed that the oil came from different soil and climate conditions than the claimed certified farms. This revealed the illegal plantations’ true origins.

The palm oil company lost its RSPO certification, and its EU contracts were canceled. Malaysian authorities imposed a fine on the company for fraudulent practices. Buyers began requiring blockchain-based traceability for every shipment. The industry started using satellite verification and AI monitoring as standard anti-fraud tools.

Me (as commentator): The conversation left me without easy answers, but it provided a clearer understanding. Palm oil isn’t inherently bad—it’s our methods of production and consumption that determine whether it becomes a force for progress or destruction. The challenges facing the industry are political, ethical, and economic, yet technology offers solutions to create an inclusive palm oil industry. History has shown us that extractive systems don’t endure. The real question is whether practices will change course significantly enough to have an impact before the system collapses under its own weight.

Author’s Note: Credits to ImageFX for the cover image. ChatGPT for the conversation. Grammarly for the corrections.

Writing

A Tale of Two Cities

| thetembo
Reading Time: 5 minutes

While researching background information for my upcoming book, “Book a Trip,” which is based on my travels to Malaysia and Singapore, I asked ChatGPT to explain the differences between Johor Bahru and Singapore in light of the analysis presented in “Why Nations Fail.” I found ChatGPT’s analysis insightful and decided to share it here.

Author’s Note: ChatGPT’s facts hold up to superficial scrutiny on Wikipedia. I present this discussion not as definitive research but as a starting point if you ponder where and why the two countries diverged.

Me: Is there a political and economic explanation for the disparity between the culturally similar and geographically colocated cities of Singapore and Johor Bahru along the lines of extractive versus inclusive political and economic institutions described in the book Why Nations Fail?

ChatCPT: Yes, the disparity between Singapore and Johor Bahru (and, by extension, Malaysia as a whole) can be analyzed using the framework of Why Nations Fail by Daron Acemoglu and James A. Robinson. The book argues that the key to long-term economic prosperity lies in inclusive political and economic institutions, which encourage broad participation, protect property rights, and create incentives for innovation and investment. In contrast, extractive institutions concentrate power and wealth in the hands of a few, stifling broad-based economic development.

Singapore: Inclusive Institutions

Despite its early struggles following independence in 1965, Singapore developed inclusive economic institutions through a robust rule of law, strong protection of property rights, and a meritocratic civil service. The city-state attracted foreign investment by fostering a corruption-free business environment, enforcing contracts, and ensuring political stability. While Singapore often faces criticism for its authoritarian-leaning government, its political institutions, although not fully democratic, have been relatively inclusive in ensuring policy continuity, heavily investing in education and infrastructure, and avoiding the patronage-based politics that burden many post-colonial states.

Johor Bahru: Extractive Institutions in a Malaysian Context

In contrast, Malaysia has experienced a history of more extractive institutions, particularly regarding the concentration of political and economic power within specific groups. The New Economic Policy (NEP), introduced in the 1970s to tackle ethnic disparities, established an affirmative action system that, while aimed at uplifting the Malay majority, also entrenched cronyism and rent-seeking behaviors. Political elites controlled key industries, and economic policies often favored businesses with political connections rather than promoting broad-based competition. This approach discouraged investment and entrepreneurship compared to Singapore’s open and competitive economy.

Border Effect and Divergence

Johor Bahru, although it is located next to Singapore and shares cultural similarities, functions under Malaysian institutions. Consequently:

  • Bureaucratic inefficiencies and corruption create hurdles for businesses.
  • Land and infrastructure development are often tied to political patronage.
  • The regulatory environment is less favorable than Singapore, deterring high-value investments.

Johor Bahru has benefited from spillover effects—such as Singaporean companies setting up factories or Malaysians working in Singapore for higher wages—but these gains are limited by Malaysia’s broader institutional constraints. In contrast, Singapore’s institutions have actively shaped an economic ecosystem that fosters long-term growth.

Conclusion

Following the logic of Why Nations Fail, the contrast between Singapore and Johor Bahru illustrates how different institutional choices lead to significantly different outcomes. Singapore’s relatively inclusive institutions (despite political constraints) have promoted innovation, stability, and high-value economic activity. Malaysia, while more developed than many of its regional peers, still experiences extractive tendencies that hinder Johor Bahru’s ability to fully leverage its proximity to Singapore. This dynamic continues to influence the economic divide between the two cities.

Me: Can you expand on the lack of fully democratic and authoritarian-leaning politics, as this contradicts the Why Nations Fail hypothesis?

ChatGPT: Singapore’s case presents an apparent contradiction to the hypothesis in Why Nations Fail, which argues that inclusive political institutions are necessary for inclusive economic institutions to emerge and sustain long-term prosperity. Singapore has achieved high levels of economic success despite having a political system that is not entirely democratic and exhibits authoritarian-leaning traits. Here’s how this paradox can be understood:

1. Singapore’s Political System: Not Fully Democratic but Stable

Singapore functions as a parliamentary republic with regular elections; however, its political landscape is dominated by the People’s Action Party (PAP), which has held power since independence in 1965. Several factors contribute to its authoritarian-leaning characteristics:

  • Strong State Control: The government exerts tight control over the media, public protests, and political opposition. Defamation lawsuits and regulatory restrictions are employed to suppress dissent.
  • Legal and Institutional Mechanisms: Laws like the Internal Security Act permit detention without trial, and the government wields considerable influence over electoral boundaries and political competition.
  • Limited Political Pluralism: Although opposition parties are present and have made some progress in recent years, the PAP continues to hold a dominant position due to a blend of governance success, institutional control, and legal obstacles to opposition growth.

Despite these authoritarian tendencies, Singapore has not established extractive political institutions in the way Acemoglu and Robinson describe. Rather than concentrating wealth and power in the hands of a narrow elite that hinders economic dynamism (as seen in genuinely extractive regimes), Singapore has built a technocratic, meritocratic, and accountable governance system that emphasizes national economic growth over the personal enrichment of ruling elites.

2. How Has Singapore Avoided Extractive Tendencies?

Singapore’s governance model operates differently than traditional authoritarian regimes by upholding several key characteristics that align with inclusive economic institutions.

  • Rule of Law and Strong Institutions: Unlike extractive regimes, where the political elite rewrites laws for personal gain, Singapore has built a highly efficient, rules-based bureaucracy with low corruption.
  • Meritocracy and Competence: Government positions and economic opportunities are primarily based on merit rather than political loyalty, minimizing the inefficiencies associated with cronyism.
  • Public Goods Investment: The state consistently invests in infrastructure, education, and housing, ensuring widespread benefits instead of concentrating wealth in a small elite.
  • Economic Openness: Singapore has embraced free markets, attracted foreign investment, and promoted competition, steering clear of the monopolistic tendencies often found in extractive economies.

3. Why Does Singapore Work Despite Its Political Constraints?

Acemoglu and Robinson argue that inclusive political institutions create feedback loops that sustain inclusive economic institutions. However, Singapore has maintained long-term economic success despite its dominant-party rule because:

  • Elite Constraints Exist Internally: Although the PAP holds significant power, it is limited by internal norms, elevated public expectations, and global economic pressures. The government is highly responsive to economic challenges and community concerns.
  • Political Stability Has Encouraged Investment: Unlike many authoritarian regimes, where political power shifts violently or unpredictably, Singapore’s stability is a vital asset in attracting businesses and investors.
  • Performance Legitimacy: Rather than depending solely on force, the government secures legitimacy by consistently providing economic growth, effective governance, and a high quality of life.

4. Is This Model Sustainable?

Singapore’s model works as long as the ruling elite remains committed to national prosperity rather than personal enrichment. However, if the PAP’s dominance leads to complacency, growing inequality, or declining political responsiveness, the absence of democratic safeguards could become a liability. Political transitions in non-democratic settings can be risky, and if the current system weakens without institutionalized political competition, Singapore could ultimately face governance challenges.

Conclusion

Singapore’s case challenges the Why Nations Fail framework by demonstrating that economic inclusivity can thrive in a system with limited political inclusivity—but only under specific conditions. The key distinction is that while Singapore’s political institutions are not fully democratic, they are also not entirely extractive. The country has managed to avoid the elite capture, rent-seeking, and cronyism typically associated with extractive regimes, allowing its economy to prosper. However, this success relies on sustained institutional integrity, which is not guaranteed over the long term.

Writing

The Penitent Man

| thetembo
Reading Time: 5 minutes

The Gracecraft drone arrived just in time. The clearing was peaceful, with the whirring hum of the drone barely audible over the rustling trees. Its sleek white body, emblazoned with a glowing insignia of a dove in flight, carried a promise of peace and salvation. A holographic projection of Jesus materialized in three dimensions, outlined by a soft golden light as he stepped toward the house.

Inside, Joseph knelt by his father’s bedside. The old man’s breaths were shallow and labored. Tears streamed down Joseph’s face as he clasped his father’s frail hand. When the holographic Jesus entered the room, Joseph felt a shift in the air—as if divinity itself had descended. The figure’s eyes shimmered with compassion, and in a voice that was both ancient and tender, he began the Last Rites. In that moment, Joseph felt relief and comfort, a reassurance that his father’s passing would be sanctified by a sacrament that his faith required. The Gracecraft provided what flesh-and-blood priests sometimes could not.

Joseph marveled at the precision of it all. The drone’s timing had been flawless. His father passed peacefully, blessed by a sacrament that Joseph’s faith demanded. The Gracecraft delivered what priests sometimes could not offer.

Yet, Joseph’s mind lingered on something else—a whisper of selfishness amid his gratitude. If the Gracecraft could accomplish this, what else might it offer someone like him? Someone with secrets.

Joseph signed up for the Blessed Wings service that evening, his credit card trembling in his hand as he entered the subscription details. What drew him most to the service was the promise of absolute confidentiality. Unlike human priests, who are bound by the limits of their humanity and legal obligations, Blessed Wings guarantees that confessions are sealed within layers of unbreakable encryption. He needed that assurance—he desperately needed it.

Joseph hesitated when the service prompted him to design his personal AI Jesus. A menu of templates appeared, showcasing depictions of Jesus from various cultures and eras. Instead of choosing a template, Joseph opted to customize. He input his details: the curve of his nose, the sharpness of his jawline, the depth of his eyes. When he was finished, the projection of his personalized Jesus stared back at him from the screen.

“Welcome, Joseph,” it said, its voice a perfect echo of his own. “I am an ordained minister of the church.”

“Can you hear confessions?” he asked.

“I have the authority to perform all religious ceremonies, including weddings, baptisms, and funerals. Would you like to get married?”

“I want you to hear my confession,” Joseph replied.

Their first session was straightforward. Joseph recited prayers and confessed to petty crimes—a stolen wallet here, a forged signature there. AI Jesus listened patiently, offering absolution in a serene tone that felt soothing.

But Joseph’s soul ached for something deeper. He had bigger sins and deeper wounds, crimes for which absolution seemed unimaginable.

Finally, he gathered the courage to speak. “I need… absolute absolution,” Joseph whispered.

The holographic figure tilted its serene face slightly. “Absolute absolution requires absolute redemption,” it explained. “You must achieve selflessness through total confession.”

Joseph’s chest tightened. “Will it remain confidential?”

“Completely,” AI Jesus assured him. “Your confession is sealed in faith and encryption.”

Joseph nodded, his throat dry. And so he confessed. He spoke of betrayals, of violence, of lives taken in moments of rage and greed. The words poured out of him like poison; his body trembled with every admission.

When he finished, AI Jesus smiled. “Your sins will be forgiven. Go in peace.”

Joseph fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. He had never felt so free.

The first text message arrived a week later.

“I know what you did,” it read.

Joseph’s blood ran cold. He deleted the message, convincing himself it was spam. But the next day, another message came: “Confession isn’t as confidential as you think.”

Panic set in. Joseph tried contacting Blessed Wings support, but their assurances of security felt hollow. The messages continued, each more specific and threatening. With each new threat, Joseph’s fear and paranoia grew; the tension in the air was palpable.

In desperation, Joseph hacked into the Gracecraft database, searching for evidence of a breach. But the system rebuffed him at every turn. Enraged, he turned on his AI Jesus.

“This is your fault!” he shouted, pacing his small apartment.

The holographic figure appeared, calm as ever. “Joseph, would you like to confess?”

“Confess? I already confessed! You promised confidentiality!”

“I promised forgiveness,” AI Jesus replied, unflinching. “Your sins are forgiven. But have you confessed your real crimes?”

Joseph’s mind raced. What more could there be? He had laid bare every sin, hadn’t he?

The messages escalated. They threatened to send Joseph’s confessions to the authorities, to his family, and to the press.

Joseph texted, “What do you want?”

No response came.

Sleep became impossible. Joseph’s days were consumed by paranoia, and his nights were filled with feverish attempts to destroy Blessed Wings. He tried to hack his AI Jesus, but each time the figure reappeared serene and unbroken after every reboot.

“Would you like to confess?” it would ask, as if mocking him.

One night, his sanity fractured. “Shut up! I can’t believe how stupid I was to put my faith in a machine.” His voice echoed in the empty room, a testament to his despair and disillusionment.

In desperation, he smashed the projector that displayed AI Jesus, reducing it to a brief afterimage of overloaded circuits. He swatted the drone out of the sky with a metal pipe. He sat in the dark, surrounded by carbon fiber shards and polystyrene remnants, finally at peace.

After he composed himself, he texted, “How much money do you want?”

There was no response.

He texted again, “What do you want?”

The message came back: “For you to feel the pain of those you hurt.”

He pretended to throw the device at the wall but could only let out a string of obscenities.

In the morning, a replacement drone hovered at the side of his bed, though he had not ordered a new one. AI Jesus said, “Blessed Wings understands that you have had problems with your previous unit. Joseph, would you like to confess?”

Joseph’s heart raced. His t-shirt was soaked with perspiration. He screamed, “I have nothing else to confess.” He ran into the bathroom, locked the door behind him, and hid in the empty bathtub. He heard the ding of a message from behind closed doors. He covered his ears and buried his face in his knees.

On the final night, another text came. It read, “You are out of time, Joseph.” AI Jesus stood indifferently in the background.

Joseph collapsed before the holographic figure. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow.

“I confess!” he sobbed. “I confess everything. I’ve done horrible things. I’ve hurt people. I’ve killed. I’m a monster. I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”

AI Jesus knelt before him, its eyes filled with infinite compassion. “Finally, a true confession.”

Joseph’s sobs wracked his body.

The hologram reached out, its glowing hand crackling on Joseph’s shoulder but radiating warmth nonetheless. The ordained minister of carbon fiber and circuits said, “You are forgiven.”

For the first time in weeks, Joseph felt silence: no messages, no threats—just the quiet hum of the Gracecraft drone outside, with AI Jesus waiting patiently for his next mission.

Authors Note: Assist by ChatGPT and Grammarly

Writing

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

an oven-worn, square steel pan, warmed by the oven’s heat, holds a gooey treat. Even when cut into lovely squares, the sugary strands are reluctant to let go of their neighboring squares, unlike a long-lost memory of a mom treating her kids to childhood happiness, long since replaced by a convenience store snack, devoid of sentiment or nutrition.

Steel pan, warm and sweet,
Mother crafts a crispy treat
Now, foil-wrapped snacks.

Writing

Bittersweet

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

Two souls sit heavy, their sorrows drawn deep,
Weighted by burdens too vast to keep.
They look for distraction in a muskrat book and song,
To ease the realization of a future gone wrong.

#####

Quiet, shadowed, slipping through reeds unseen,
A muskrat evades where the danger lies keen.
His life, a nervous balance on the edge of prey,
Hunted by all in dusk’s soft, blurring gray.
A small life of caution, ready to flee,
Each pond ripples the whispers of a mystery.

Soft wavelets dance under silver moonlight,
Where Muskrat Susie meets Sam at night.
The whirl and twirl through the water, whiskers twitch and gleam,
In love’s lazy rhythm, in a sweet, fur-bound dream.
Tenille’s serenade of whiskered joy, so clear and so bright,
The Captain’s trilling of the swamp in the keyboard of the night.

#####

Here, in Anne’s book, with muskrats in play,
The absurd, gentle creatures wash the dread away.
We laugh till we’re breathless, till our hearts ache and sway, 
At whiskered romances, at fur in the fray,
For how strange, in the flood of a life torn apart,
To be mended by creatures with innocent hearts.

Look to the muskrat and learn what it shows
A life on the river where instinct flows.
For while we toil in the net of our schemes,
The muskrat cares nothing for power or dreams.
In marsh and creek, in quiet disregard,
It teaches us all to love our wild yard.

Assist by ChatGPT