Jon Ureña's Blog, page 25
December 20, 2023
On writing: Developing the premise #6
You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on developing the conflict of your story at the premise stage. If your hero wants something, some other force must stand in the way. Your characters’ true selves get revealed when tested.
-How is conflict built into the premise?
-How readily recognizable is that conflict? The more immediately apparent, the sharper your premise will be. If people could hear the premise line and think, “I can see where that’s going,” or “I can see why that’s a big problem,” then you know you have a winning premise.
-How does the hero have an external foe to banish?
-Who (not what) is actively holding back my protagonist?
-How does the conceptual context force the hero to take action against an external antagonistic force rather than simply existing as a situation within the story world?
-How does the central conflict inherent in your premise create the greatest opposition possible, with the highest consequences?
-What big thing has to happen before underlying conflict can be talked out?
-My character can change, but before that she must go through what?
-Can you make the conflict both compelling and ironic?
-What are, specifically, the villains doing? Why? Because we need to care about it, be frightened or disgusted by it. We need to know specifically what are they doing, and why the protagonist cares about it.
-How does the opposition continually do something specific to become the protagonist’s foe, his nemesis?
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on developing the conflict of your story at the premise stage. If your hero wants something, some other force must stand in the way. Your characters’ true selves get revealed when tested.
-How is conflict built into the premise?
-How readily recognizable is that conflict? The more immediately apparent, the sharper your premise will be. If people could hear the premise line and think, “I can see where that’s going,” or “I can see why that’s a big problem,” then you know you have a winning premise.
-How does the hero have an external foe to banish?
-Who (not what) is actively holding back my protagonist?
-How does the conceptual context force the hero to take action against an external antagonistic force rather than simply existing as a situation within the story world?
-How does the central conflict inherent in your premise create the greatest opposition possible, with the highest consequences?
-What big thing has to happen before underlying conflict can be talked out?
-My character can change, but before that she must go through what?
-Can you make the conflict both compelling and ironic?
-What are, specifically, the villains doing? Why? Because we need to care about it, be frightened or disgusted by it. We need to know specifically what are they doing, and why the protagonist cares about it.
-How does the opposition continually do something specific to become the protagonist’s foe, his nemesis?
December 19, 2023
On writing: Developing the premise #5
You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on developing the main character involved in your premise, which will usually be the protagonist.
-Can you find a character you love implied in the story idea? If not, your story may be toast, and you need to move on to another idea.
-What character would be the best in the idea? Can you make him the hero?
-Is there one character whom the audience will choose to be their hero?
-Identify what the focal character wants to attain or avoid.
-What character’s serious problem and how does he try to get out of the predicament rides the plot?
-Can you make your hero active and resourceful?
-How do you make sure your hero has compelling contradictions?
-How is he someone who wants to unravel the story? That’s all a hero is: the character who has to solve this problem. You audience wants the entire story to come out, but they can’t do it themselves. Instead, they have to trust your hero to get to the bottom of it for them. If the hero doesn’t care, what is the audience supposed to do?
-If you are writing about rookies, you need to ask yourself why the audience should trust them to be the heroes instead of their boss. Is there a value to their newness that makes them more interesting heroes?
-Could you make your hero unhappy with the status quo?
-Are you sure the character isn’t flat and lacks a fresh edge?
-Would the protagonist be so strong as to be conceptual in nature (such as Batman, Holden Caulfield, etc.).
-There is a glimpse at how and why we will find this character or arena interesting (that is, conceptual). If she isn’t all that interesting, then your premise is already suspect.
-How is the hero compelling? How could he be by nature someone we root for, and like (not necessity, but it can help). How would he be associated with a quest with a specific goal, something that has stakes?
-The hero’s motivations are critical to making a story work. Why does he want to do what he wants to do? And why will we care?
-Try to give your hero an ironic backstory, an ironic contrast between their exterior and interior, and a great flaw that’s the ironic flip side of a great strength.
-How would this story force the character to show his true self?
-How is this story about a character who changes in a significant way?
-Can you make the character face his demons, learn important truths, cause readers to ponder deeper issues and themes?
-In what ways is your kicker tied in with your protagonist’s core need? Greatest fear? Deepest desire? How does his/her goal embody the concept?
-What does your hero need or want in this story? What is his or her “story journey”?
-How is the story about overcoming the protagonist’s flaw/misbelief?
-How do you make sure that you won’t write about your hero’s life, but about your hero’s problem? Don’t open your story with your hero waking up. Your story is not about your hero’s day. It’s about his problem.
-How do you make sure that your hero affects the events and the events affect the hero?
-See how this would apply: when the story begins, heroes shouldn’t know what they need to win. That’s the point. they have to go on this journey to figure it out.
-How is he trying to improve his life, not just return to zero?
-Does this challenge represent the hero’s greatest hope and/or greatest fear and/or ironic answer to the hero’s question?
-In the end, is the hero the only one who can solve the problem?
-How is your character’s overall plot goal a dilemma that will require the entire story to solve?
-How does he either succeed or fail?
-How does the premise give something to do to the hero?
-How is the premise the personalized antidote to his lie/flaw?
-Is the arc you’ve identified your strongest possible option?
-Does your story present a unique central relationship? For example, could you take two familiar characters and give them a believable but never-seen-before relationship? Could you take two very different types of characters and force them to rely on each other in an unique way?
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on developing the main character involved in your premise, which will usually be the protagonist.
-Can you find a character you love implied in the story idea? If not, your story may be toast, and you need to move on to another idea.
-What character would be the best in the idea? Can you make him the hero?
-Is there one character whom the audience will choose to be their hero?
-Identify what the focal character wants to attain or avoid.
-What character’s serious problem and how does he try to get out of the predicament rides the plot?
-Can you make your hero active and resourceful?
-How do you make sure your hero has compelling contradictions?
-How is he someone who wants to unravel the story? That’s all a hero is: the character who has to solve this problem. You audience wants the entire story to come out, but they can’t do it themselves. Instead, they have to trust your hero to get to the bottom of it for them. If the hero doesn’t care, what is the audience supposed to do?
-If you are writing about rookies, you need to ask yourself why the audience should trust them to be the heroes instead of their boss. Is there a value to their newness that makes them more interesting heroes?
-Could you make your hero unhappy with the status quo?
-Are you sure the character isn’t flat and lacks a fresh edge?
-Would the protagonist be so strong as to be conceptual in nature (such as Batman, Holden Caulfield, etc.).
-There is a glimpse at how and why we will find this character or arena interesting (that is, conceptual). If she isn’t all that interesting, then your premise is already suspect.
-How is the hero compelling? How could he be by nature someone we root for, and like (not necessity, but it can help). How would he be associated with a quest with a specific goal, something that has stakes?
-The hero’s motivations are critical to making a story work. Why does he want to do what he wants to do? And why will we care?
-Try to give your hero an ironic backstory, an ironic contrast between their exterior and interior, and a great flaw that’s the ironic flip side of a great strength.
-How would this story force the character to show his true self?
-How is this story about a character who changes in a significant way?
-Can you make the character face his demons, learn important truths, cause readers to ponder deeper issues and themes?
-In what ways is your kicker tied in with your protagonist’s core need? Greatest fear? Deepest desire? How does his/her goal embody the concept?
-What does your hero need or want in this story? What is his or her “story journey”?
-How is the story about overcoming the protagonist’s flaw/misbelief?
-How do you make sure that you won’t write about your hero’s life, but about your hero’s problem? Don’t open your story with your hero waking up. Your story is not about your hero’s day. It’s about his problem.
-How do you make sure that your hero affects the events and the events affect the hero?
-See how this would apply: when the story begins, heroes shouldn’t know what they need to win. That’s the point. they have to go on this journey to figure it out.
-How is he trying to improve his life, not just return to zero?
-Does this challenge represent the hero’s greatest hope and/or greatest fear and/or ironic answer to the hero’s question?
-In the end, is the hero the only one who can solve the problem?
-How is your character’s overall plot goal a dilemma that will require the entire story to solve?
-How does he either succeed or fail?
-How does the premise give something to do to the hero?
-How is the premise the personalized antidote to his lie/flaw?
-Is the arc you’ve identified your strongest possible option?
-Does your story present a unique central relationship? For example, could you take two familiar characters and give them a believable but never-seen-before relationship? Could you take two very different types of characters and force them to rely on each other in an unique way?
On writing: Developing the premise #4
You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following few notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on determining the designing principle of your story, and how it fits into the enduring myths of humanity.
-The designing principle of a story is abstract, the deeper process going on in the tale, told in an original way. It’s the synthesizing idea, the “stopping cause” of the story, what internally makes the story a single unit and different from all other stories.
-Find the designing principle, the one controlling idea, by teasing it out of the one line premise you have before you. Induce the form of the story from the premise: boil down all the events to one sentence, describing how and why a change has ocurred from the state at the beginning of the story to the state at the end. Ex., for The Firm: justice prevails when an everyman victim is more clever than the criminals.
-The designing principle is often about taking a value that we rely on a day to day, challenging its solidity and then paying it off with its conformation or its vulnerability.
-Regarding your tale’s mythical influence: Do the protagonists have to leave their home, metaphorically or not, to confront the source of a problem, then bring a solution back home? How is there a journey there and journey back?
-Does your story involve a journey “into the woods” to find the dark, but life-giving secret within?
-The overarching structure of most myths: “Home” is threatened, the protagonist suffers from some kind of flaw or problem, the protagonist goes on a journey to find a cure or the key to the problem, exactly halfway through they find a cure or key, on the journey back they’re forced to face up to the consequences of taking it, they face some kind of literal or metaphorical death. They’re reborn as a new person, in full possession of the cure; in the process “home” is saved.
-Monomyth: “A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.”
-The story is the journey the main characters go on to sort out the problem presented. On the way they may learn something new about themselves; they’ll certainly be faced with a series of obstacles they have to overcome; there will likely be a moment near the end where all hope seems lost, and this will almost certainly be followed by a last-minute resurrection of hope, a final battle against the odds, and victory snatched from the jaws of defeat.
-A great story is about a problem, not an ideology. The ideology is subtext. It’s about a person, your hero, who has something to win or lose in squaring off with his problem and his issues. An external antagonist (bad guy) who stands in his way. A journey to take as the battle builds, ebbs and flows, and allows the hero to grow into his heroic role and begin to act in a manner that solves the problem.
For far more on what was gleaned from worldwide myths in an effort to determine what stories endure, I highly recommend Joseph Campbell’s The Hero With a Thousand Faces, as well as the work done by Christopher Vogler to adapt it into practice for modern audiences, mostly in his book The Writer’s Journey.
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following few notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on determining the designing principle of your story, and how it fits into the enduring myths of humanity.
-The designing principle of a story is abstract, the deeper process going on in the tale, told in an original way. It’s the synthesizing idea, the “stopping cause” of the story, what internally makes the story a single unit and different from all other stories.
-Find the designing principle, the one controlling idea, by teasing it out of the one line premise you have before you. Induce the form of the story from the premise: boil down all the events to one sentence, describing how and why a change has ocurred from the state at the beginning of the story to the state at the end. Ex., for The Firm: justice prevails when an everyman victim is more clever than the criminals.
-The designing principle is often about taking a value that we rely on a day to day, challenging its solidity and then paying it off with its conformation or its vulnerability.
-Regarding your tale’s mythical influence: Do the protagonists have to leave their home, metaphorically or not, to confront the source of a problem, then bring a solution back home? How is there a journey there and journey back?
-Does your story involve a journey “into the woods” to find the dark, but life-giving secret within?
-The overarching structure of most myths: “Home” is threatened, the protagonist suffers from some kind of flaw or problem, the protagonist goes on a journey to find a cure or the key to the problem, exactly halfway through they find a cure or key, on the journey back they’re forced to face up to the consequences of taking it, they face some kind of literal or metaphorical death. They’re reborn as a new person, in full possession of the cure; in the process “home” is saved.
-Monomyth: “A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.”
-The story is the journey the main characters go on to sort out the problem presented. On the way they may learn something new about themselves; they’ll certainly be faced with a series of obstacles they have to overcome; there will likely be a moment near the end where all hope seems lost, and this will almost certainly be followed by a last-minute resurrection of hope, a final battle against the odds, and victory snatched from the jaws of defeat.
-A great story is about a problem, not an ideology. The ideology is subtext. It’s about a person, your hero, who has something to win or lose in squaring off with his problem and his issues. An external antagonist (bad guy) who stands in his way. A journey to take as the battle builds, ebbs and flows, and allows the hero to grow into his heroic role and begin to act in a manner that solves the problem.
For far more on what was gleaned from worldwide myths in an effort to determine what stories endure, I highly recommend Joseph Campbell’s The Hero With a Thousand Faces, as well as the work done by Christopher Vogler to adapt it into practice for modern audiences, mostly in his book The Writer’s Journey.
We're Fucked, Pt. 123 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
When I step off the Benta Berri bus at the entrance of the business park, the sidewalk gets crowded with commuters, from recent graduates, their backpacks emblazoned with the logo of their programming company, to gray-haired technicians holding laptop briefcases. The morning chill nips at my exposed skin. I inhale the fresh, crisp scent of fall air, but passing cars taint it with the acrid bite of exhaust fumes.
Golden haloes light my way as I head towards the bare trees, their branches etching stark patterns against the office buildings, or blending like blackened veins with the darkness of this November morning. If nobody had invented electric lighting, maybe we would still wake up with the sun; in dark and cold autumn mornings, we would spend that much longer in the warmth of our beds and our loved ones' arms.
Past the restaurant with a curved glass façade, its outdoor café terrace now deserted, I venture through the pathway that weaves between human-erected structures. The scattered, rust-colored leaves that crunch underfoot release the musty scent of decay. Like most mornings, the pervasive stillness reminds me that this zone isn't meant for living: it's where people come to die five to six days a week.
I turn the corner of our office building, that resembles a three-story-high shoebox. As I walk along the multicolored row of waste bins, a sight that has become familiar greets me: an assembly of bunny-sized alien slugs crowd the sidewalk in front of the entrance, spilling onto the parking lot. In the beginning they appeared as shadowy blurs; now, their black and dark-blue tints shimmer through the oozy, mucus-coated skin. Protruding feelers sway like anemone atop their undulating bodies, while underneath, six legs move in tandem among drips of tarry slime.
As a car maneuvers into a parking spot, it runs over several alien slugs, but instead of bursting in a splatter of guts, they yield through the tires like ghosts. However, can they interact with our native critters, slurping them up and, after digestion, excreting the leftover shells and bones? How long will it take for these creatures, maybe from an alternate Earth, to synchronize with our dimension and become visible to sane people? Will that happen before the universe teeters past a tipping point, causing space-time to fold upon itself like an accordion? Wait, isn't the number of alien slugs dwindling?
A bright-blue shape swoops down and snatches one of the slugs, leaving a trail of slimy droplets. The shape, a beast, swerves upwards with wide wings covered in bioluminescent fur. Its four legs end in kukri-like claws.
The beast perches on the edge of the flat roof. Jutting out of its head, silhouetted against the predawn sky, two pointed appendages resemble horns. A pair of round eyes radiate an electric-blue glow as they stare down at me. The beast glides away, disappearing beyond the roof's edge.
"Well then," I say, and head inside.
***
I step into the climate-controlled air of our office, to take in once again the sight of these white walls, cabinets, and desk, along with that gray carpet; they give the impression that the colors have been sucked out. The fluorescent lights overhead bathe everything in a clinical glare. Like every morning, Jordi has beaten me here: he's seated with his back straight, fingers tapping away on his keyboard. In this monochrome landscape, I'll avoid dwelling on his red hair, or anyone's copper mane.
After I take off my cardigan and hang it on the coat rack, I trudge to my chair and slump down into it with a sigh.
"Good morning," Jordi says.
Although a glance or a nod would have sufficed, I waste saliva greeting him back. As my computer boots up, I realize that Jordi has turned his freckled, clean-shaven face towards me. He's wearing a crisp white shirt with a point collar and the sleeves rolled up. Either his garment is made of wrinkle-resistant fabric, or he irons them meticulously. I picture the inside of this kid's wardrobe: a row of identical shirts and pants.
"You seem refreshed," he says.
"You mean I look less disheveled than usual?"
"If you want to put it that way. Did you have a fun weekend?"
I'm tempted to reply, "why do you care?", but after years of controlling myself around human beings, I'll put on the mask of politeness to conceal my depravity.
"You know, I've had a lovely weekend. We visited Mount Igueldo."
"Oh, the amusement park. I haven't gone since I was a kid. Sounds like a great date."
Jordi remains unaware that I abducted a girl from the Ice Age, so he must be picturing a couple of grown women taking a stroll on the elevated grounds of an amusement park, holding hands and eating cotton candy. It does sound like a great date.
"I used to waste my weekends recovering from the exhaustion of the previous week, and preparing myself for the next wave of stress to crash upon me."
"That's a bleak way to live, but you've clearly changed since you started dating Jacqueline."
I have, haven't I? My perception of reality has shifted: no longer am I alone in a barren void ruled by an insatiable worm, but instead, I'm tethered to two other beings who possess a universe within them. That's why I wake up, brush my teeth, shower, put on clean clothes, eat breakfast, and come to this hellhole before dawn without regret.
"I miss listening to her stories," Jordi continues. "During lunch break, I mean."
A twinge of jealousy flickers through me.
"I bet. She's mine, though."
Jordi chuckles.
"Of course. She isn't sick, right? She must be rethinking a few things."
Crap. If this kid has figured it out, our boss must be aching to stir trouble.
"I'd say she's come to realize that she's meant for something more than this job."
Jordi shrugs, and raises a corner of his mouth in a boyish smile. His allure, devoid of the hard edges and muscle bulk of a macho, may inspire contempt in men, but has the charm and kindness of a cinnamon roll.
"This is it, then. Please pass on my regards, and take care of her. I'm sure you're aware that she's more sensitive than she appears."
I'm about to give our insolent intern an earful about mommy's private qualities; this kid doesn't know Jacqueline's warmth, the weight of her breasts when she squeezes me tight, or the tickle of her pubic hairs against my face as I bury my tongue in her depths. However, I spot a headline on Jordi's screen, belonging to the front page of the Diario Vasco: "Two More Vanish Amidst Growing Concern." A cold ripple of unease trickles down my spine. I recall Jacqueline's somber tone as she informed me of these disappearances during a car ride. Left to my own devices, I would have remained oblivious: I shun the news to protect my sanity, and I didn't socialize with anybody outside of work. On the day of my first date with Jacqueline, didn't I pass by a demonstration and a counter-demonstration concerning these vanishings? Drenched in a downpour, those protesters' shouts were muffled by the drumming of rain while I huddled under my umbrella.
I picture a woman in her late twenties, her hair hastily tied back in a ponytail. She's burdened with shopping bags that display the Carrefour logo. As she strides across a parking lot, she steps through an invisible portal to another realm. Her foot meets the crunch of ancient ice, or the slime of those alien slugs' dimension, or the cracked clay of an endless desert. Maybe she has emerged in a world of ash and cinders, where the earth has been scorched black by a blast wave and the skeletons of buildings jut out like rotten teeth. Panic would seize this woman, clouding any realization that walking backwards could return her home. How many have fallen prey to these space-time traps while I fuck around without finding the reality-collapsing machine?
Jordi follows my gaze, then turns his head back to me.
"Leire, you've gone pale. Do these disappearances worry you that much?"
When I open my mouth to speak, my lower lip twitches. I force out the words through the knot in my throat.
"Maybe... I'm responsible."
Jordi snaps his head back. His freckled features have twisted into bemused disbelief. As he straightens his spine, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"What makes you say that, Leire? How can you be responsible?"
An accusation rings in my ears, echoing and swelling into a scream. I may be a kidnapper of prehistoric children, but I have never been a killer; yet, I have contributed to the ruin of those souls.
"N-nevermind. Forget it."
"Ah, you must be worried about it happening to you, right? What this headline, and many others, neglect to mention is these people were criminals. Later in the article, it reluctantly informs that the first of these men was a serial rapist who had been released, while the other was a drug trafficker. The way the media talks about them, you'd think they're describing model citizens, even though most of them weren't citizens to begin with. If only the media cared so much about the well-being of their victims!"
"S-so there's like... a pattern?"
"Sounds like it. I don't know, maybe they deserved to vanish. You're a decent person, senpai."
"Am I?"
"Of course! You're just trying to get by in these tough times. Now, you're even learning how to receive love."
"Oh, I'm receiving lots of love every night. Some mornings too."
"That's great to hear. Leire, these disappearances aren't your fault, not even in a metaphorical sense. But I shouldn't be surprised that you thought so: you've always seemed like someone who carries the world on their shoulders."
"Funny that, Jacqueline told me something similar."
Jordi offers me a sympathetic smile.
"Well, there you go."
I lower my head. Maybe this burden will sink me, and I'll make a dramatic exit out of a fifth-floor window while Arachne clacks her chitinous claws with glee, her body lounging on a cosmic pile of bones.
"I guess it's a lot to think about," Jordi adds cautiously. "Let's keep our minds on the here and now, though. We need to get through these tasks."
My computer is waiting for me to type in the password, so I take the opportunity to disengage from this conversation. The keys clack in the awkward silence as I fill in the password box. Program icons pop up on the taskbar, and the desktop clutters up with files and folders over the wallpaper du jour: a tropical beach at sunset, complete with two palm trees that cast elongated shadows on the sand. Windows ten is mocking me, I can hear it: "You could have spent the day in such a paradise, smearing coconut oil on Jacqueline's fleshy mounds, but instead you're trapped here, doomed to waste eight more hours of your limited life obeying your boss' whims."
As if summoned, Ramsés barges in. The muscle fibers at the back of my neck tighten. Although I want to ignore his presence, I'd rather avoid another complaint about "lack of respect," so I glance toward our boss. Same middle-aged man with combed-back, thinning hair and touches of gray at the temples, as well as a trimmed moustache. He reeks of cigarette smoke.
Why does he insist on tucking his shirts over that paunch? Does he want me to imagine it squashing against my lower back as he pounds me from behind?
"Morning everyone," Ramsés booms.
Jordi greets him back confidently; I mumble. Our boss ensconces himself in his office, separated from ours by a wall of frosted glass.
I load up Visual Studio Code. Its dark-themed editor window shows rows and rows of code, color-coded and structured with consistent indentation, for a shopping cart's Python backend.
Today I will raid the coffee machine until I start vibrating. Another mundane morning of programming website widgets, wasting precious hours that will never be regained, and risking permanent brain damage from a caffeine overdose. Ah, Jacqueline, why are you so far away? I want to hear your velvety voice whispering in my ear, your laughter rippling like a summer brook. But I don't have time to fantasize about my French shapeshifting girlfriend, that plump ass of hers, the toned thighs that she loves to wrap around my head, those pillowy breasts that she thrusts in my face as she rides me.
No, I must focus on my job, despite the shitshow that lurks outside. Hasn't it always been like that, though? I was born into a world teetering on the edge of obliteration; that bunnyman bastard only fast-tracked the debacle.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Ain't No Rest for the Wicked" by Cage the Elephant.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and five videos. Check them out.
I had to find three new voices to produce this chapter's audio version. Check it out.
---
When I step off the Benta Berri bus at the entrance of the business park, the sidewalk gets crowded with commuters, from recent graduates, their backpacks emblazoned with the logo of their programming company, to gray-haired technicians holding laptop briefcases. The morning chill nips at my exposed skin. I inhale the fresh, crisp scent of fall air, but passing cars taint it with the acrid bite of exhaust fumes.
Golden haloes light my way as I head towards the bare trees, their branches etching stark patterns against the office buildings, or blending like blackened veins with the darkness of this November morning. If nobody had invented electric lighting, maybe we would still wake up with the sun; in dark and cold autumn mornings, we would spend that much longer in the warmth of our beds and our loved ones' arms.
Past the restaurant with a curved glass façade, its outdoor café terrace now deserted, I venture through the pathway that weaves between human-erected structures. The scattered, rust-colored leaves that crunch underfoot release the musty scent of decay. Like most mornings, the pervasive stillness reminds me that this zone isn't meant for living: it's where people come to die five to six days a week.
I turn the corner of our office building, that resembles a three-story-high shoebox. As I walk along the multicolored row of waste bins, a sight that has become familiar greets me: an assembly of bunny-sized alien slugs crowd the sidewalk in front of the entrance, spilling onto the parking lot. In the beginning they appeared as shadowy blurs; now, their black and dark-blue tints shimmer through the oozy, mucus-coated skin. Protruding feelers sway like anemone atop their undulating bodies, while underneath, six legs move in tandem among drips of tarry slime.
As a car maneuvers into a parking spot, it runs over several alien slugs, but instead of bursting in a splatter of guts, they yield through the tires like ghosts. However, can they interact with our native critters, slurping them up and, after digestion, excreting the leftover shells and bones? How long will it take for these creatures, maybe from an alternate Earth, to synchronize with our dimension and become visible to sane people? Will that happen before the universe teeters past a tipping point, causing space-time to fold upon itself like an accordion? Wait, isn't the number of alien slugs dwindling?
A bright-blue shape swoops down and snatches one of the slugs, leaving a trail of slimy droplets. The shape, a beast, swerves upwards with wide wings covered in bioluminescent fur. Its four legs end in kukri-like claws.
The beast perches on the edge of the flat roof. Jutting out of its head, silhouetted against the predawn sky, two pointed appendages resemble horns. A pair of round eyes radiate an electric-blue glow as they stare down at me. The beast glides away, disappearing beyond the roof's edge.
"Well then," I say, and head inside.
***
I step into the climate-controlled air of our office, to take in once again the sight of these white walls, cabinets, and desk, along with that gray carpet; they give the impression that the colors have been sucked out. The fluorescent lights overhead bathe everything in a clinical glare. Like every morning, Jordi has beaten me here: he's seated with his back straight, fingers tapping away on his keyboard. In this monochrome landscape, I'll avoid dwelling on his red hair, or anyone's copper mane.
After I take off my cardigan and hang it on the coat rack, I trudge to my chair and slump down into it with a sigh.
"Good morning," Jordi says.
Although a glance or a nod would have sufficed, I waste saliva greeting him back. As my computer boots up, I realize that Jordi has turned his freckled, clean-shaven face towards me. He's wearing a crisp white shirt with a point collar and the sleeves rolled up. Either his garment is made of wrinkle-resistant fabric, or he irons them meticulously. I picture the inside of this kid's wardrobe: a row of identical shirts and pants.
"You seem refreshed," he says.
"You mean I look less disheveled than usual?"
"If you want to put it that way. Did you have a fun weekend?"
I'm tempted to reply, "why do you care?", but after years of controlling myself around human beings, I'll put on the mask of politeness to conceal my depravity.
"You know, I've had a lovely weekend. We visited Mount Igueldo."
"Oh, the amusement park. I haven't gone since I was a kid. Sounds like a great date."
Jordi remains unaware that I abducted a girl from the Ice Age, so he must be picturing a couple of grown women taking a stroll on the elevated grounds of an amusement park, holding hands and eating cotton candy. It does sound like a great date.
"I used to waste my weekends recovering from the exhaustion of the previous week, and preparing myself for the next wave of stress to crash upon me."
"That's a bleak way to live, but you've clearly changed since you started dating Jacqueline."
I have, haven't I? My perception of reality has shifted: no longer am I alone in a barren void ruled by an insatiable worm, but instead, I'm tethered to two other beings who possess a universe within them. That's why I wake up, brush my teeth, shower, put on clean clothes, eat breakfast, and come to this hellhole before dawn without regret.
"I miss listening to her stories," Jordi continues. "During lunch break, I mean."
A twinge of jealousy flickers through me.
"I bet. She's mine, though."
Jordi chuckles.
"Of course. She isn't sick, right? She must be rethinking a few things."
Crap. If this kid has figured it out, our boss must be aching to stir trouble.
"I'd say she's come to realize that she's meant for something more than this job."
Jordi shrugs, and raises a corner of his mouth in a boyish smile. His allure, devoid of the hard edges and muscle bulk of a macho, may inspire contempt in men, but has the charm and kindness of a cinnamon roll.
"This is it, then. Please pass on my regards, and take care of her. I'm sure you're aware that she's more sensitive than she appears."
I'm about to give our insolent intern an earful about mommy's private qualities; this kid doesn't know Jacqueline's warmth, the weight of her breasts when she squeezes me tight, or the tickle of her pubic hairs against my face as I bury my tongue in her depths. However, I spot a headline on Jordi's screen, belonging to the front page of the Diario Vasco: "Two More Vanish Amidst Growing Concern." A cold ripple of unease trickles down my spine. I recall Jacqueline's somber tone as she informed me of these disappearances during a car ride. Left to my own devices, I would have remained oblivious: I shun the news to protect my sanity, and I didn't socialize with anybody outside of work. On the day of my first date with Jacqueline, didn't I pass by a demonstration and a counter-demonstration concerning these vanishings? Drenched in a downpour, those protesters' shouts were muffled by the drumming of rain while I huddled under my umbrella.
I picture a woman in her late twenties, her hair hastily tied back in a ponytail. She's burdened with shopping bags that display the Carrefour logo. As she strides across a parking lot, she steps through an invisible portal to another realm. Her foot meets the crunch of ancient ice, or the slime of those alien slugs' dimension, or the cracked clay of an endless desert. Maybe she has emerged in a world of ash and cinders, where the earth has been scorched black by a blast wave and the skeletons of buildings jut out like rotten teeth. Panic would seize this woman, clouding any realization that walking backwards could return her home. How many have fallen prey to these space-time traps while I fuck around without finding the reality-collapsing machine?
Jordi follows my gaze, then turns his head back to me.
"Leire, you've gone pale. Do these disappearances worry you that much?"
When I open my mouth to speak, my lower lip twitches. I force out the words through the knot in my throat.
"Maybe... I'm responsible."
Jordi snaps his head back. His freckled features have twisted into bemused disbelief. As he straightens his spine, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"What makes you say that, Leire? How can you be responsible?"
An accusation rings in my ears, echoing and swelling into a scream. I may be a kidnapper of prehistoric children, but I have never been a killer; yet, I have contributed to the ruin of those souls.
"N-nevermind. Forget it."
"Ah, you must be worried about it happening to you, right? What this headline, and many others, neglect to mention is these people were criminals. Later in the article, it reluctantly informs that the first of these men was a serial rapist who had been released, while the other was a drug trafficker. The way the media talks about them, you'd think they're describing model citizens, even though most of them weren't citizens to begin with. If only the media cared so much about the well-being of their victims!"
"S-so there's like... a pattern?"
"Sounds like it. I don't know, maybe they deserved to vanish. You're a decent person, senpai."
"Am I?"
"Of course! You're just trying to get by in these tough times. Now, you're even learning how to receive love."
"Oh, I'm receiving lots of love every night. Some mornings too."
"That's great to hear. Leire, these disappearances aren't your fault, not even in a metaphorical sense. But I shouldn't be surprised that you thought so: you've always seemed like someone who carries the world on their shoulders."
"Funny that, Jacqueline told me something similar."
Jordi offers me a sympathetic smile.
"Well, there you go."
I lower my head. Maybe this burden will sink me, and I'll make a dramatic exit out of a fifth-floor window while Arachne clacks her chitinous claws with glee, her body lounging on a cosmic pile of bones.
"I guess it's a lot to think about," Jordi adds cautiously. "Let's keep our minds on the here and now, though. We need to get through these tasks."
My computer is waiting for me to type in the password, so I take the opportunity to disengage from this conversation. The keys clack in the awkward silence as I fill in the password box. Program icons pop up on the taskbar, and the desktop clutters up with files and folders over the wallpaper du jour: a tropical beach at sunset, complete with two palm trees that cast elongated shadows on the sand. Windows ten is mocking me, I can hear it: "You could have spent the day in such a paradise, smearing coconut oil on Jacqueline's fleshy mounds, but instead you're trapped here, doomed to waste eight more hours of your limited life obeying your boss' whims."
As if summoned, Ramsés barges in. The muscle fibers at the back of my neck tighten. Although I want to ignore his presence, I'd rather avoid another complaint about "lack of respect," so I glance toward our boss. Same middle-aged man with combed-back, thinning hair and touches of gray at the temples, as well as a trimmed moustache. He reeks of cigarette smoke.
Why does he insist on tucking his shirts over that paunch? Does he want me to imagine it squashing against my lower back as he pounds me from behind?
"Morning everyone," Ramsés booms.
Jordi greets him back confidently; I mumble. Our boss ensconces himself in his office, separated from ours by a wall of frosted glass.
I load up Visual Studio Code. Its dark-themed editor window shows rows and rows of code, color-coded and structured with consistent indentation, for a shopping cart's Python backend.
Today I will raid the coffee machine until I start vibrating. Another mundane morning of programming website widgets, wasting precious hours that will never be regained, and risking permanent brain damage from a caffeine overdose. Ah, Jacqueline, why are you so far away? I want to hear your velvety voice whispering in my ear, your laughter rippling like a summer brook. But I don't have time to fantasize about my French shapeshifting girlfriend, that plump ass of hers, the toned thighs that she loves to wrap around my head, those pillowy breasts that she thrusts in my face as she rides me.
No, I must focus on my job, despite the shitshow that lurks outside. Hasn't it always been like that, though? I was born into a world teetering on the edge of obliteration; that bunnyman bastard only fast-tracked the debacle.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Ain't No Rest for the Wicked" by Cage the Elephant.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and five videos. Check them out.
I had to find three new voices to produce this chapter's audio version. Check it out.
December 16, 2023
Reread: Saltiness, by Minoru Furuya
I’ve read through this series a third time since I reviewed it in this post. I’ve checked out most of Furuya’s stuff, such as Boku to Issho , Wanitokagegisu , Himizu , and Ciguatera , among which Ciguatera may be objectively his best, but Saltiness speaks to me to an extent that has made it my second favorite manga series after Asano’s Oyasumi Punpun.
Saltiness is the story of, for me, a clearly autistic dude who lives in one of those isolated Japanese towns with his younger sister, who is a teacher. We don’t know it yet, but they went through hell growing up: their mother abandoned them, and our generally deranged protagonist had to steal and loot in order to provide for his helpless little sister. As a result, even about twenty years later, he’s terrified of anything bad happening to her, and her happiness is his one goal in life, to the extent that once she manages to set up her life in a way that doesn’t require him anymore, he plans to arrange an accident in the woods to die and let her continue without needing to worry about him.
[Check out the rest of this entry on my personal page, where it looks better]
December 12, 2023
Ended up in the hospital (as a patient), Pt. 3
This entry will mostly be depressing, so if you’re one of those people who prefer to pretend that life is different than what it actually is, you may want to skip this one.
Last night I went to bed a nine, hoping to fall asleep soon and wake up at five to start writing the next chapter of my ongoing novel. Unfortunately, my poor cat had died half a day earlier, so I spent about two hours grieving some more. Although it doesn’t surprise me anymore, I felt like a worthless creature because I can barely remember three or four moments of an entire life with that cat. I have often wondered if my brain is damaged when it comes to whatever process stores memories, because on a day-to-day basis, I feel like I’m floating in the present with only the flimsiest connection to my past and the living beings in it. Why love someone, if when the relationship comes crashing down, not only will you have forgotten almost everything about that person, but in her place you will only find pain? I look back at my thirty-eight years of living, and it feels like I’ve blazed through it without making more than a couple of memories that I would consider worth it, and one of them is visiting an amusement park a few months ago. Maybe that gives you an idea of what level I’m at.
Rolling around in bed, crying for a loved creature that I would never hold nor see again, the usual objections about me continuing to live took the opportunity to assail me: why do I still stick around when I’m miserable most of the time, when my body tortures me, when I have never felt comfortable among human beings, when none of my efforts will ever amount to anything? Like in previous times, my brain forced me to answer why I refuse to die, which, it likes to remind me, I should have done a long time ago. At this point, the only reason I would “regret” dying is that I wouldn’t finish this current novel of mine; nothing else adds meaning to my otherwise meaningless existence. Then again, if one doesn’t exist, no meaning is needed. As for everything else, other than passing entertainment, I can hardly care less.
While I tried my best to fall asleep, I gave my body permission to cease operations in my sleep. I can’t count the amount of times that I’ve wished for that to happen over the years. That’s how I’ve always wanted to go, and that’s how my cat went as well, or at least I hope so, because I wasn’t there to witness it.
Instead of dying, I woke up spontaneously at the witching hour (meaning 3 A.M., although definitions vary). I doubted that I would fall asleep again, so I planned to sit at my desk and use the time until six in the morning to freewrite some paragraphs of my next scene. However, as I shuffled to the bathroom to pee, I found myself in that state that promises that if you don’t squeeze more sleep out of the night, you will suffer for the rest of the day, so I went back to bed. Once the alarm finally hit at five, I felt like utter shit, but I dragged myself to my desk and pulled off three paragraphs of fiction, which would allow me to feel fulfilled for the upcoming many hours of sacrificing my time, energy, mental health, and physical health for another day of meaningless drudgery.
[Check out the rest of this entry on my personal page]
Last night I went to bed a nine, hoping to fall asleep soon and wake up at five to start writing the next chapter of my ongoing novel. Unfortunately, my poor cat had died half a day earlier, so I spent about two hours grieving some more. Although it doesn’t surprise me anymore, I felt like a worthless creature because I can barely remember three or four moments of an entire life with that cat. I have often wondered if my brain is damaged when it comes to whatever process stores memories, because on a day-to-day basis, I feel like I’m floating in the present with only the flimsiest connection to my past and the living beings in it. Why love someone, if when the relationship comes crashing down, not only will you have forgotten almost everything about that person, but in her place you will only find pain? I look back at my thirty-eight years of living, and it feels like I’ve blazed through it without making more than a couple of memories that I would consider worth it, and one of them is visiting an amusement park a few months ago. Maybe that gives you an idea of what level I’m at.
Rolling around in bed, crying for a loved creature that I would never hold nor see again, the usual objections about me continuing to live took the opportunity to assail me: why do I still stick around when I’m miserable most of the time, when my body tortures me, when I have never felt comfortable among human beings, when none of my efforts will ever amount to anything? Like in previous times, my brain forced me to answer why I refuse to die, which, it likes to remind me, I should have done a long time ago. At this point, the only reason I would “regret” dying is that I wouldn’t finish this current novel of mine; nothing else adds meaning to my otherwise meaningless existence. Then again, if one doesn’t exist, no meaning is needed. As for everything else, other than passing entertainment, I can hardly care less.
While I tried my best to fall asleep, I gave my body permission to cease operations in my sleep. I can’t count the amount of times that I’ve wished for that to happen over the years. That’s how I’ve always wanted to go, and that’s how my cat went as well, or at least I hope so, because I wasn’t there to witness it.
Instead of dying, I woke up spontaneously at the witching hour (meaning 3 A.M., although definitions vary). I doubted that I would fall asleep again, so I planned to sit at my desk and use the time until six in the morning to freewrite some paragraphs of my next scene. However, as I shuffled to the bathroom to pee, I found myself in that state that promises that if you don’t squeeze more sleep out of the night, you will suffer for the rest of the day, so I went back to bed. Once the alarm finally hit at five, I felt like utter shit, but I dragged myself to my desk and pulled off three paragraphs of fiction, which would allow me to feel fulfilled for the upcoming many hours of sacrificing my time, energy, mental health, and physical health for another day of meaningless drudgery.
[Check out the rest of this entry on my personal page]
December 11, 2023
Life update (12/11/2023)
In the most recent entry of this “diary,” I wrote that my eldest cat had gone senile suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped. For three days she did little else than wander around in a daze, get stuck in corners as if she were a robot with broken programming, pee herself, and fall face-first from chair or sofa-tall surfaces. Although something has broken permanently in her brain, because she has forgotten some basics about life such as not peeing herself, and likely no longer recognizes me nor her daughter (which may have been a blessing in disguise), she will get to live for a while longer.
Today I returned from work to find that cat’s daughter, sole surviving child, dead. She had been wasting away for weeks if not more. The vet couldn’t find anything wrong with her other than being super old. It seems that her heart stopped beating while she was sleeping.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page]
Today I returned from work to find that cat’s daughter, sole surviving child, dead. She had been wasting away for weeks if not more. The vet couldn’t find anything wrong with her other than being super old. It seems that her heart stopped beating while she was sleeping.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page]
December 9, 2023
We're Fucked, Pt. 122 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
Before I enter the kitchen, the bitter scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts into my nose, mixed with the aroma of browning batter sizzling in a frying pan. Jacqueline, clad in her burgundy silk robe with wide and flowy sleeves, stands at the stove, cooking a batch of pancakes. The high-gloss cabinetry under the counter reflects her pair of toned legs, that end in pink slippers. Seated at the table, past the fruit bowl centerpiece that adds a splash of organic color, Nairu has hidden her face in a dinosaur picture book, ignoring the glass of milk set in front of her.
Jacqueline welcomes me with one of her disarming smiles.
"There you are, darling." She slides a spatula beneath the frying pancake and skillfully flips it onto the pile on a plate. After withdrawing the spatula, she points it in the direction of the coffee maker at the end of the counter. "Your morning boost awaits."
As I start to move, Nairu lets out an anxious cry universally understood as, "Wait, let me do it." She puts down her book, hops off the chair, and hurries to grab the coffee mug from the dip tray. When she turns, her grinning face, framed by messy chestnut hair, greets me. Her amber eyes hold a depth of stories untold, the memory of a world that only she remembers. She's wearing pajamas striped in mustard yellow and cream, patterned with cartoon pigs, bears, and whales amid five-pointed stars.
"That's a smile of pride," Jacqueline says. "Just by watching me, she figured out that she had to pick a fresh capsule from the dispenser, put it in, wait for the machine's ready light, then push the button to brew. Isn't it amazing? I might be biased, thinking of our lovely girl as a genius, but you may have come upon a prodigy of her time."
I could comment that humans have been anatomically modern for hundreds of thousands of years, capable of formulating the same thoughts and learning the same skills. And I'm no different: I follow Jacqueline's instructions, hardly understanding what magic transmogrifies those capsules into the dark, bitter, caffeinated nectar that I can't live without. Yet, even if Nairu had handed me a pebble instead of this coffee mug that warms my palms, I'd be moved too, longing to wrap our girl in a tight hug until I risked smothering her.
"Thank you, Nairu," I say in a choked voice, "for wanting to improve my day."
"Alright, pancakes done," Jacqueline announces. "Sit down, mes chéries."
When mommy lifts the towering plate, Nairu's eyes widen, and she scurries back to her seat. I turn toward mine across from our Paleolithic child, but I'm drawn to the sight of the stainless-steel refrigerator, whose door displays a collection of drawings attached with magnets. The pictures, rendered in crayon, depict bears, mammoths, ground sloths, a triceratops, pines, pastries, a stop sign, a bus, the Mount Igueldo tower, Jacqueline and me holding hands. At the rate we're accruing drawings, we will need to rent a storage unit.
As I lower myself into the chair, my sore body complains. I don't know how my hip remains intact with the poundings I receive. The culprit, Jacqueline, has set down the stack of golden-brown pancakes, their edges darker and crisp. I lift the mug to my lips and take a gulp. A lazy fire spreads in my stomach, chasing away the chill of the early morning, the creep of age. Coffee and freshly-cooked pancakes: a classic breakfast that every human from the Paleolithic through history can enjoy.
Jacqueline spears the top two pancakes with a fork and slides them onto Nairu's plate. Mommy picks up the syrup and chocolate bottles.
"What do you want to top the pancakes with, mon bébé?" She holds up the plastic bottles, exaggerating her gestures to bridge the language gap. "Syrup, or chocolate?"
A giggle bubbles up from Nairu's throat before she jabs her finger at the latter bottle.
"Chocolate!"
I serve myself a couple of pancakes, then reach for the syrup bottle while Jacqueline keeps busy browning Nairu's treat further. As I pour the viscous amber, it settles in glossy, deflating puddles on top of the first golden disk, and trickles down the sides to pool on the plate.
I slice through the pancake, the fork gliding effortlessly, and scoop up a fluffy, syrup-drenched piece. I take a bite. My mouth floods with the caramel-like flavor of syrup, blended with those of vanilla and nutmeg.
Outside, bird chirping announces the imminent birth of a new day, that for those avian fiends will be comprised of confusion, mating rituals, and a frantic search for food to feed themselves and their helpless hatchlings. In our kitchen, I hear the clatter of cutlery on plates, vocalizations like "mm-hmmm," and gentle glugs. At times a dog's bark, or the rumble of a car's engine, filters through the balcony door to remind me that we aren't alone.
Dollops of chocolate have landed on Nairu's pajama shirt in blots and streaks. Her lips, chin, and nose are smeared with the sticky substance, while her cheeks bulge as if she has stuffed herself after starving for days. Suddenly, her eyes clamp shut, and violent convulsions seize her small frame. Out of her mouth shoots a rainbow-hued gush that splatters onto the table, the stack of pancakes, the fruit bowl, my own breakfast. Solid forms, the size of action figures, have surged with the flood and bounced off the table, the plates, the fruits, or the spongy pancakes: woolly mammoths, mastodons, stag-moose, ground sloths, giant beavers, saber-toothed cats, short-face bears. Some of the miniature beasts lie injured or dead; others stagger to their feet, waddle around in a daze, or shake their shaggy, sodden pelts, flinging rainbow-colored droplets everywhere.
Hunched over, I prop my elbows on either side of my plate, and rub my temples in circles to dispel the vision. My heartbeat has accelerated, my stomach churns ominously. Jacqueline, seated along the long side of the table, reaches over to enfold my right hand in her own.
"Are you alright, mon amour?"
I straighten up and lower my hands. My gaze falls upon an ivory nightgown framed by the V-neck of her burgundy robe, and adorned with lace trimmings in a floral pattern. The silky fabric, that must glide over her skin like a lover's fingers, clings to mommy's tantalizing cleavage.
"I had one of my moments," I say, "but I feel fine already."
Nairu, engrossed in her dinosaur picture book, pushes a piece of pancake into her mouth. Her striped pajamas remain unspoiled.
Jacqueline caresses the neckline of my cardigan, tracing the stitching.
"I must say, you're looking quite chic today."
"Yeah? Says someone who could wear a potato sack and still enchant. Anyway, I can't rely on hoodies forever. I would have preferred to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the words, 'Let's kill our boss,' but alas, I haven't dared to order such a customized garment."
Jacqueline knits her eyebrows in worry.
"Let's focus on staying out of trouble, shall we? You've been carrying more tension lately when it comes to work. Is... our boss putting extra pressure on you?"
I take a deep breath as I run my fingers through my hair. I'm no closer to figuring out what machine I'm supposed to destroy before it rips the universe apart, but I won't ruin the sanctity of this family by bringing the apocalypse into our dynamics: I must shoulder the responsibility alone.
"No, I'd say he's burdening me with the usual amount of pointless programming tasks."
"But you can offload some of them on Jordi, can't you? How are you two getting along these days?"
I get a flash of that intern of ours, with his ever-neat red hair and glasses, always dressed in a self-imposed uniform of crisp white shirts and tailored black trousers. His youthful, freckled skin, along with that habit of referring to me as his senior, makes me feel as if I should start collecting a pension and oiling my knees, or whatever the hell old people do. But I'd rather not spend my spare time dwelling on Jordi any more than I would on the office furniture.
"Now that I'm getting acquainted with that ravishing Irish form of yours, the epitome of redheads, every other redhead should have spontaneously combusted in shame."
Although Jacqueline laughs, my body stiffens and my eyes widen in panic as I glance at Nairu, who's unaware of Jacqueline's shapeshifting. Our antediluvian wonder is taking a long draught of milk. When she puts the glass down, she licks away her milk mustache while her gaze darts back and forth between her mommies.
Jacqueline props her chin on the heel of her palm.
"One of these days we'll need to be careful with our words around Nairu, but I'm afraid that day is a long way off." She straightens up and lets out a squeak of delight. "You're so cute, mon petit ange!"
Jacqueline scoots over to cup Nairu's face and smooch her, prompting a fit of giggling from the girl.
In this morning of pancakes and mammals surging from a mouth, a comet-like flare is forming within me.
"Anyway, Jordi is decent enough. I'd prefer if he didn't exist, but I think that of most people. It's always been a struggle to care about anything, to feel connected to anyone, even myself. These days, though, whenever I'm chained to my computer at work, I find myself thinking about you and Nairu, hoping you're enjoying yourselves. That makes the world keep spinning even when it's crumbling apart."
Jacqueline's smile fades into a thoughtful expression. She scoots toward me and reaches for my hand, but my cellphone vibrates in the pocket of my trousers and starts playing Chopin's Nocturne, the second alarm of the morning. Time to make it through another day in this harsh, unforgiving universe without going insane.
Once I silence the alarm, I gulp down the remainder of my coffee, then put the mug in the dishwasher. Nairu calls out "Eide," the name she baptized me with, drawing attention to her picture book. A double-page illustration depicts a herd of diplodocus, their long necks swaying as they cross a stream. She pokes and babbles at one of the flesh-and-bone catenaries that end in a head with a slender snout, a narrow jaw, and lateral eyes.
"Yes," I say. "Can you believe that millions of years ago, some creatures were even more astonishing than your Ice Age marvels? You know, my first memory was of waking up after a surgery. During the hospital stay, my mother bought me a plastic triceratops. It seemed magical. I wonder what happened to it..."
Nairu's cheeks dimple in a pure smile. Her amber eyes are alive with a spirit that never dims.
I ruffle her chestnut locks tenderly.
"Goodbye, ma fille."
Nairu waves back at me as Jacqueline, her hands on my shoulders, steers me toward the front door.
From now on, until that one day when the end comes, how many times will our family sit around a table to share a meal? Once Nairu masters the language, how will she take to learning board games? The three of us, in competitive or cooperative formats, will run a zoo, colonize Mars, evolve our ancient civilizations, build our post-apocalyptic nations, fight against eldritch horrors. As cyberpunk runners, blazing through corporate servers while evading countermeasures, we'll finally defeat Shadowcluster.
"I never heard of that memory before," Jacqueline says warmly.
"Well," I push through my constricted throat, my voice a raspy whisper, "I don't like to remember things."
I open the front door. Jacqueline cups my face and wraps my mouth in a chocolatey, syrupy kiss. When she pulls back, her cobalt-blues shine through the ivory-white blur of her features.
"Remember that, Leire. We'll be here when you come back."
The door closes with a thud behind me. Alone in the gloom of the landing, I start descending the stairs, but my legs feel unsteady enough that I grab hold of the cold handrail. My heavy footfalls echo in the stairwell, mingling with a muffled conversation coming from some apartment.
As I turn a corner, a liquid drips on my right hand. I stop and glance up; no ceiling leaks, none that I can see in the dim light. Warm streams are coursing down my cheeks. One trickles over the curve of my upper lip and slides into my mouth. It tastes salty.
I'm neither depressed nor miserable. So why am I weeping?
---
Author's note: today's songs are "A.M. 180" by Grandaddy, "Good Ol' Boredom" by Built to Spill, and "はるなつあきふゆ" ("Spring Summer Autumn Winter") by Ichiko Aoba.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and four videos. Check them out.
Are you too lazy to read, and would prefer to listen to this chapter instead? Then check out the audiochapter.
---
Before I enter the kitchen, the bitter scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts into my nose, mixed with the aroma of browning batter sizzling in a frying pan. Jacqueline, clad in her burgundy silk robe with wide and flowy sleeves, stands at the stove, cooking a batch of pancakes. The high-gloss cabinetry under the counter reflects her pair of toned legs, that end in pink slippers. Seated at the table, past the fruit bowl centerpiece that adds a splash of organic color, Nairu has hidden her face in a dinosaur picture book, ignoring the glass of milk set in front of her.
Jacqueline welcomes me with one of her disarming smiles.
"There you are, darling." She slides a spatula beneath the frying pancake and skillfully flips it onto the pile on a plate. After withdrawing the spatula, she points it in the direction of the coffee maker at the end of the counter. "Your morning boost awaits."
As I start to move, Nairu lets out an anxious cry universally understood as, "Wait, let me do it." She puts down her book, hops off the chair, and hurries to grab the coffee mug from the dip tray. When she turns, her grinning face, framed by messy chestnut hair, greets me. Her amber eyes hold a depth of stories untold, the memory of a world that only she remembers. She's wearing pajamas striped in mustard yellow and cream, patterned with cartoon pigs, bears, and whales amid five-pointed stars.
"That's a smile of pride," Jacqueline says. "Just by watching me, she figured out that she had to pick a fresh capsule from the dispenser, put it in, wait for the machine's ready light, then push the button to brew. Isn't it amazing? I might be biased, thinking of our lovely girl as a genius, but you may have come upon a prodigy of her time."
I could comment that humans have been anatomically modern for hundreds of thousands of years, capable of formulating the same thoughts and learning the same skills. And I'm no different: I follow Jacqueline's instructions, hardly understanding what magic transmogrifies those capsules into the dark, bitter, caffeinated nectar that I can't live without. Yet, even if Nairu had handed me a pebble instead of this coffee mug that warms my palms, I'd be moved too, longing to wrap our girl in a tight hug until I risked smothering her.
"Thank you, Nairu," I say in a choked voice, "for wanting to improve my day."
"Alright, pancakes done," Jacqueline announces. "Sit down, mes chéries."
When mommy lifts the towering plate, Nairu's eyes widen, and she scurries back to her seat. I turn toward mine across from our Paleolithic child, but I'm drawn to the sight of the stainless-steel refrigerator, whose door displays a collection of drawings attached with magnets. The pictures, rendered in crayon, depict bears, mammoths, ground sloths, a triceratops, pines, pastries, a stop sign, a bus, the Mount Igueldo tower, Jacqueline and me holding hands. At the rate we're accruing drawings, we will need to rent a storage unit.
As I lower myself into the chair, my sore body complains. I don't know how my hip remains intact with the poundings I receive. The culprit, Jacqueline, has set down the stack of golden-brown pancakes, their edges darker and crisp. I lift the mug to my lips and take a gulp. A lazy fire spreads in my stomach, chasing away the chill of the early morning, the creep of age. Coffee and freshly-cooked pancakes: a classic breakfast that every human from the Paleolithic through history can enjoy.
Jacqueline spears the top two pancakes with a fork and slides them onto Nairu's plate. Mommy picks up the syrup and chocolate bottles.
"What do you want to top the pancakes with, mon bébé?" She holds up the plastic bottles, exaggerating her gestures to bridge the language gap. "Syrup, or chocolate?"
A giggle bubbles up from Nairu's throat before she jabs her finger at the latter bottle.
"Chocolate!"
I serve myself a couple of pancakes, then reach for the syrup bottle while Jacqueline keeps busy browning Nairu's treat further. As I pour the viscous amber, it settles in glossy, deflating puddles on top of the first golden disk, and trickles down the sides to pool on the plate.
I slice through the pancake, the fork gliding effortlessly, and scoop up a fluffy, syrup-drenched piece. I take a bite. My mouth floods with the caramel-like flavor of syrup, blended with those of vanilla and nutmeg.
Outside, bird chirping announces the imminent birth of a new day, that for those avian fiends will be comprised of confusion, mating rituals, and a frantic search for food to feed themselves and their helpless hatchlings. In our kitchen, I hear the clatter of cutlery on plates, vocalizations like "mm-hmmm," and gentle glugs. At times a dog's bark, or the rumble of a car's engine, filters through the balcony door to remind me that we aren't alone.
Dollops of chocolate have landed on Nairu's pajama shirt in blots and streaks. Her lips, chin, and nose are smeared with the sticky substance, while her cheeks bulge as if she has stuffed herself after starving for days. Suddenly, her eyes clamp shut, and violent convulsions seize her small frame. Out of her mouth shoots a rainbow-hued gush that splatters onto the table, the stack of pancakes, the fruit bowl, my own breakfast. Solid forms, the size of action figures, have surged with the flood and bounced off the table, the plates, the fruits, or the spongy pancakes: woolly mammoths, mastodons, stag-moose, ground sloths, giant beavers, saber-toothed cats, short-face bears. Some of the miniature beasts lie injured or dead; others stagger to their feet, waddle around in a daze, or shake their shaggy, sodden pelts, flinging rainbow-colored droplets everywhere.
Hunched over, I prop my elbows on either side of my plate, and rub my temples in circles to dispel the vision. My heartbeat has accelerated, my stomach churns ominously. Jacqueline, seated along the long side of the table, reaches over to enfold my right hand in her own.
"Are you alright, mon amour?"
I straighten up and lower my hands. My gaze falls upon an ivory nightgown framed by the V-neck of her burgundy robe, and adorned with lace trimmings in a floral pattern. The silky fabric, that must glide over her skin like a lover's fingers, clings to mommy's tantalizing cleavage.
"I had one of my moments," I say, "but I feel fine already."
Nairu, engrossed in her dinosaur picture book, pushes a piece of pancake into her mouth. Her striped pajamas remain unspoiled.
Jacqueline caresses the neckline of my cardigan, tracing the stitching.
"I must say, you're looking quite chic today."
"Yeah? Says someone who could wear a potato sack and still enchant. Anyway, I can't rely on hoodies forever. I would have preferred to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the words, 'Let's kill our boss,' but alas, I haven't dared to order such a customized garment."
Jacqueline knits her eyebrows in worry.
"Let's focus on staying out of trouble, shall we? You've been carrying more tension lately when it comes to work. Is... our boss putting extra pressure on you?"
I take a deep breath as I run my fingers through my hair. I'm no closer to figuring out what machine I'm supposed to destroy before it rips the universe apart, but I won't ruin the sanctity of this family by bringing the apocalypse into our dynamics: I must shoulder the responsibility alone.
"No, I'd say he's burdening me with the usual amount of pointless programming tasks."
"But you can offload some of them on Jordi, can't you? How are you two getting along these days?"
I get a flash of that intern of ours, with his ever-neat red hair and glasses, always dressed in a self-imposed uniform of crisp white shirts and tailored black trousers. His youthful, freckled skin, along with that habit of referring to me as his senior, makes me feel as if I should start collecting a pension and oiling my knees, or whatever the hell old people do. But I'd rather not spend my spare time dwelling on Jordi any more than I would on the office furniture.
"Now that I'm getting acquainted with that ravishing Irish form of yours, the epitome of redheads, every other redhead should have spontaneously combusted in shame."
Although Jacqueline laughs, my body stiffens and my eyes widen in panic as I glance at Nairu, who's unaware of Jacqueline's shapeshifting. Our antediluvian wonder is taking a long draught of milk. When she puts the glass down, she licks away her milk mustache while her gaze darts back and forth between her mommies.
Jacqueline props her chin on the heel of her palm.
"One of these days we'll need to be careful with our words around Nairu, but I'm afraid that day is a long way off." She straightens up and lets out a squeak of delight. "You're so cute, mon petit ange!"
Jacqueline scoots over to cup Nairu's face and smooch her, prompting a fit of giggling from the girl.
In this morning of pancakes and mammals surging from a mouth, a comet-like flare is forming within me.
"Anyway, Jordi is decent enough. I'd prefer if he didn't exist, but I think that of most people. It's always been a struggle to care about anything, to feel connected to anyone, even myself. These days, though, whenever I'm chained to my computer at work, I find myself thinking about you and Nairu, hoping you're enjoying yourselves. That makes the world keep spinning even when it's crumbling apart."
Jacqueline's smile fades into a thoughtful expression. She scoots toward me and reaches for my hand, but my cellphone vibrates in the pocket of my trousers and starts playing Chopin's Nocturne, the second alarm of the morning. Time to make it through another day in this harsh, unforgiving universe without going insane.
Once I silence the alarm, I gulp down the remainder of my coffee, then put the mug in the dishwasher. Nairu calls out "Eide," the name she baptized me with, drawing attention to her picture book. A double-page illustration depicts a herd of diplodocus, their long necks swaying as they cross a stream. She pokes and babbles at one of the flesh-and-bone catenaries that end in a head with a slender snout, a narrow jaw, and lateral eyes.
"Yes," I say. "Can you believe that millions of years ago, some creatures were even more astonishing than your Ice Age marvels? You know, my first memory was of waking up after a surgery. During the hospital stay, my mother bought me a plastic triceratops. It seemed magical. I wonder what happened to it..."
Nairu's cheeks dimple in a pure smile. Her amber eyes are alive with a spirit that never dims.
I ruffle her chestnut locks tenderly.
"Goodbye, ma fille."
Nairu waves back at me as Jacqueline, her hands on my shoulders, steers me toward the front door.
From now on, until that one day when the end comes, how many times will our family sit around a table to share a meal? Once Nairu masters the language, how will she take to learning board games? The three of us, in competitive or cooperative formats, will run a zoo, colonize Mars, evolve our ancient civilizations, build our post-apocalyptic nations, fight against eldritch horrors. As cyberpunk runners, blazing through corporate servers while evading countermeasures, we'll finally defeat Shadowcluster.
"I never heard of that memory before," Jacqueline says warmly.
"Well," I push through my constricted throat, my voice a raspy whisper, "I don't like to remember things."
I open the front door. Jacqueline cups my face and wraps my mouth in a chocolatey, syrupy kiss. When she pulls back, her cobalt-blues shine through the ivory-white blur of her features.
"Remember that, Leire. We'll be here when you come back."
The door closes with a thud behind me. Alone in the gloom of the landing, I start descending the stairs, but my legs feel unsteady enough that I grab hold of the cold handrail. My heavy footfalls echo in the stairwell, mingling with a muffled conversation coming from some apartment.
As I turn a corner, a liquid drips on my right hand. I stop and glance up; no ceiling leaks, none that I can see in the dim light. Warm streams are coursing down my cheeks. One trickles over the curve of my upper lip and slides into my mouth. It tastes salty.
I'm neither depressed nor miserable. So why am I weeping?
---
Author's note: today's songs are "A.M. 180" by Grandaddy, "Good Ol' Boredom" by Built to Spill, and "はるなつあきふゆ" ("Spring Summer Autumn Winter") by Ichiko Aoba.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and four videos. Check them out.
Are you too lazy to read, and would prefer to listen to this chapter instead? Then check out the audiochapter.
December 2, 2023
We're Fucked, Pt. 121 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
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The amber-and-gold glow of dawn bathes a bearded man clad in animal furs. He's standing barefoot on grass that glistens with dew, his rugged figure framed by the maw of a cave. The man's face bears the marks of the sun and wind, and his thick beard is matted with traces of last night's campfire. Around his neck hangs a necklace of teeth and bones.
As the man squints against the rising sun, he raises a steaming cup of coffee to his lips and takes a sip of the bitter brew. When he lowers his gaze, a jolt of surprise shakes him, causing his hands to jerk and the coffee to splash over the rim of his cup. His eyes widen, his mouth falls agape, the tendons in his neck stiffen. A shaggy, hulking ground sloth slams against the man, thrusting him backwards into the cave. The steaming cup sails in an arc through the air, trailing streaks and droplets of coffee that gleam orange in the sunrise.
The warm weight of a body is draped over me like a heated blanket. Two hard nubs are poking my upper back as a petite bosom presses against me, and more conspicuously, a pulsating shaft is pumping inside the slippery channel of my vagina.
I stir. Although my eyelids peel open, either I have gone blind or the rolling shutters have sealed the bedroom in blackness.
Soft lips nuzzle the crook of my neck in kisses that coax ticklish shudders through my spine. I feel the rise and fall of her chest, along with the beating of her heart.
"Good morning, ma chérie," says a light and airy voice, high as the upper notes on a musical scale.
My breath hitches in my throat, my muscles tense up. I'm trapped in this person's grip: she has wrapped an arm under my breasts, and with her other arm, she has caught me in a headlock. Who the fuck is fucking me?!
As my panic escalates, my mind paints a picture on the canvas of darkness: vibrant, wavy copper hair cascading down; a constellation of freckles dusted over porcelain skin; coral-pink, well-hydrated lips like velvety rose petals. I relax, then lean back into Jacqueline's embrace just as one of her hands glides down to caress my abdomen.
"And what a beautiful morning it is," she purrs.
"D-did you fall asleep with your dick on?" I utter in a voice raspy with sleep.
My ear fills with soft giggles, the tinkling of tiny bells.
"More like passed out, after I drained myself deep inside you. No wonder I slept so soundly. Today I have woken up snuggled up to ma moitié, my erection nestled between her ass cheeks, and I figured that I could help her start the day off right."
She's rocking her pelvis, prodding the length of her penis inside me with a friction that brings forth a wash of slippery juices.
"Ah, ça c'est bon..." she murmurs, her voice quivering with the rhythm of her thrusts.
"Wh-whenever you grow that dick of yours, you turn into a wild beast."
"Don't you love to wake up to the feeling of mommy's cock plowing your insides?"
"Of course I do. I purely pointed out a fact."
"You're right, though. I become a wild animal driven by the need to hold you tight and fill you up with cum. And that, mon bébé, is what I intend to do."
As her throbbing hardness grinds inside my velvet chamber in an undulating motion, rubbing against every fold and groove, pleasure rolls up from my loins in delicious waves. A hand fondles my right breast, kneading its plump flesh. Her fingertips trace the pebbled surface of my areola, and when she pinches the nipple, a bolt of ecstasy lances through me. Her hot tongue travels upwards along my neck, leaving a trail of fire. Her lips close over my earlobe, which she nibbles in electric prickles.
Sighs and whimpers keep escaping from my throat. I reach for the back of her head and intertwine my fingers with her silky locks.
Jacqueline's hand slithers down from my breast, along the concave plain of my abdomen. Folding my right leg, I plant my heel on her thigh to offer better access. Her hand reaches the patch of curls above my slit and begins to rub circles on my turgid clit. Meanwhile, her pulsing shaft withdraws with squelches, sluicing my arousal out and spattering it onto my inner thighs, only to plunge deep again. The furnace-like heat inside me is coiling tightly. Her swollen glans nudges my cervix, making my toes curl. The muscles of my pussy clamp around her in rhythmic spasms as if trying to suck her deeper.
I attempt to muffle my whimpering moans with the pillow, but Jacqueline's other hand, still securing a headlock, coaxes my face towards hers. Our lips lock, and her tongue slides against mine in a velvety dance. I can't help but moan into her mouth. Once she pulls away with a wet smack, she speaks breathlessly.
"Oh, I wish I could stare into your puppy eyes now, mon trésor, at that face distorted by lust-glazed adoration. I can't wait to see your belly swell and your breasts engorge with milk to feed our child."
Our child? We can't have a child of our own. It's not driven by the fear of miscarriage or labor fatality alone, serious as those risks may be: the spare bedroom where Jacqueline filmed some of her camming sessions has become Nairu's room. Would we compel our Paleolithic artist to endure a screaming baby and piles of soiled diapers just so Jacqueline and I could experience the luxury of a biological offspring? What about our second child's individuality, forced to share a bedroom growing up? Well, we could move into a bigger home, like a castle; my wealthy shapeshifter could afford it, and if necessary, I'd pester my interdimensional stalkers into paying for the renovation fees. But a baby produced from our combined genes would be ruined by a legacy of sexual deviancy. Even worse, he or she may inherit my anxiety, my intrusive thoughts, my obsessive tendencies, my self-loathing, my depression, my compulsive masturbation. That kid would be doomed to a lifetime of misery. And what if I become the sort of mother who locks herself in the bathroom with a bottle of scotch? It should be illegal to give birth in a world that is falling apart, a world from which I've looked forward to removing myself.
One lucky spermatozoon belonging to my French-speaking, child-adoring, shapeshifting secretary, as well as on-and-off cam girl, would pierce my egg, implanting the embryonic progenitor of an uncharted genus within my womb, a cradle that might call forth an entity hitherto unknown: perhaps an ice-breathing chimera from a prehistoric environment so distant that its memory was erased from the earth. This fetus would drain life-giving nutrients and oxygen from my body, transforming my blood into sludge and my heart into a stone like my mother did to my father, like she did to me since I emerged from her vagina squirming and screaming in indignation. Such a parasite wouldn't wait for post-partum psychosis to prolong my agony; given the chance, it would slit open my midsection and crawl out of my guts like a creature of legend: winged, multi-legged, clawed, and with a maw of serrated teeth sharp enough to tear through the fabric of reality.
Oh, who am I kidding. Last Friday at the office, I had trouble concentrating on my code because I kept picturing the sweat glistening on mommy's ivory-white skin, the smooth ridges of her toned thighs, the jiggle of her breasts, the roundness of her ass in my hands, and my nose bleeding again from the exertion of sucking her cock. My fingers itched with the desire to type dirty messages into her DMs and send photos of my wet cunt. I long to be ravaged into submission in the missionary position, in cowgirl, on all fours. I'm a slut-lady who serves mommy's mammoth member, and I can't wait for her to commandeer me as a container to concoct cum-sticky creamsicles.
Jacqueline is panting, her breathing, ragged and moist, tickling the shell of my ear. Her arms are wrapped tightly around me, pressing me closer. Her heart pounds against my back. Her cockhead batters the back of my vagina as her fingertips strum my engorged clit with growing urgency, milking waves of tingly sparks out of my nerves. I'm drooling into the pillow, pinned against the mattress, caught in a vice of bliss. I clasp my arms around hers and hold on tight. Mommy will splatter her gluey seed into me soon, maybe while twitching on top of me and whispering enticing filth.
"You've been loving the daily doses of mommy milk," Jacqueline whispers, "haven't you, mon ange?"
I turn my head enough to unmuffle myself.
"More than you know."
"Then beg me to breed you."
"P-please, mommy, make me your broodmare. Fill me up with your fertile spunk until I explode."
Her breath catches in her throat.
"My love," she pants, "you make it difficult to control myself. Don't worry, mommy is about to give you a bellyful of babies."
The bed creaks and groans while Jacqueline's hips hammer at my ass with violent fervor, in meaty, echoing slaps. The pressure within me builds and builds, swelling to a fever pitch. I'm writhing, mewling. When the dam bursts and a flood of pleasure rushes through me, a sprinkle of stars flashes against the blackness. I quake from head to toe, overcome by the euphoric tsunami, but I still feel the veins of Jacqueline's cock throbbing against my clutching walls as its length twitches. With her face buried in the crook of my neck, she lets out a long, shaky sigh, and the spasms of her climax seize her in waves. Hot gushes of her cream must be splashing deep inside me in ropey spurts.
When our orgasms ebb away, our breaths have synchronized, and our skins are melding into one lascivious, dewy whole. A peace shimmers inside me like the sunlit surface of a still lake.
Jacqueline's fingertips draw swirls on my lower abdomen with a delicate, feathery touch. Her shrunken shaft remains lodged within me.
"Do you think I'm greedy, mon coeur?" she asks, her voice honeyed with contentment. "You've given me such a sweet child to love and nurture, but I want another one made of us both."
"That's fine. Just don't leave me to fend off for myself in the streets."
"How could I ever abandon my darling? You're stuck with me, whether you like it or not." Jacqueline caresses with her warm palm the stretch of skin between my bellybutton and pubes, as if rubbing a pregnant belly. "What do you think it's going to be? A boy or a girl?"
"That's assuming that the kid can't turn into one or the other at will."
"Oh dear. If so, she better figure it out only after she turns eighteen. What a complicated childhood would await our little person otherwise."
"We might also end up with a genderless blob, like sentient pudding."
Jacqueline giggles, her breath hot against my neck.
"Seriously though," I say, "I do hope it's a girl. I wouldn't know how to handle a boy."
"Oh, I know it already, Leire. It's a girl."
"Well, if it isn't, let's not try to turn him into one. My parents screwed me up enough; I wouldn't want to do the same to another being."
Babies, with their squishy cheeks and button noses, with their flailing limbs and drooling mouths, fling sticky mash on people when they aren't pissing and shitting themselves, but they don't intend to be rude; they just want for someone to wipe their bottom and put a nipple to their lips. The worst thing in the world, besides having your teeth torn out by rabid dogs, is forcing your child to confront the alienating forces of society alone. Fret not: Jacqueline and I will stand alongside him or her, safeguarding our spawn against the raiders and cannibals of the wastes.
Piano notes of bell-like clarity, cascading like crystal droplets, light up the darkness with an ethereal touch. However, that glow comes from my cellphone's screen, resting on the nightstand beside Jacqueline. One of these days I'll change my alarm melody; it's unfair to associate Chopin's Nocturnes with the mundane dread of having to wake up for work.
"Merde..." Jacqueline grumbles. "Time to get up, mon lapin."
She twists her right arm out from under the covers, and turns enough to reach over. The melody cuts off; she must have swiped across the touchscreen. Paired with a faint electronic sound, blackness descends on us again.
I could try to convince myself that I imagined the alarm going off, that I can look forward to hours in the warmth of Jacqueline's embrace.
"Let's pretend for a while that everyone other than you, Nairu and I have died."
Jacqueline presses a kiss on my temple.
"Believe me, I'd rather you stay in bed all day with a pillow tucked under your hips, letting gravity do its work."
I sigh.
"I guess I have to play along with the farce of normal life, one pointless website gadget at a time."
Jacqueline disentangles herself gently, withdrawing her left arm from under me. She unplugs my vagina with a moist slurp. In a rustle of bedclothes, the weight of her body lifts from the mattress. Her warmth won't linger long.
I roll over toward Jacqueline, then grope around for the switch of the nightstand lamp. When it clicks on, its light brushes across the wood-grained surface of the furniture, revealing its dark-espresso finish.
As I blink my bleary eyes against the brightness, I get a glimpse of a fiery copper mane mussed by sleep and sex, of sienna-colored freckles scattered over the milky porcelain of a lithe figure, that of a swimmer who may have emerged from a river, or the sea. Instantly she shifts into the taller, hourglass shape of Jacqueline-but-French. I want to bite into that plump derrière.
Her arms sweep upwards in a fluid motion to reach overhead, and the muscles in her arms and arched back tense as she stretches. A groan of comfort escapes her mouth.
Jacqueline gazes down at me over her shoulder, her cobalt-blues alight, her lips parted in an amorous smile.
"Go take a shower, ma lumière. I'll wake up our little one, then prepare us three a hearty breakfast."
---
Author's note: today's songs are "VCR" by The xx, "Bodys" by Car Seat Headrest (also this fantastic live version), and "Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2" by Chopin.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of two hundred and one videos. Check them out.
Would you prefer to listen to this delightful chapter in audio form? Check it out.
This chapter kicks off the second-to-last sequence, titled "The Great Pretender."
---
The amber-and-gold glow of dawn bathes a bearded man clad in animal furs. He's standing barefoot on grass that glistens with dew, his rugged figure framed by the maw of a cave. The man's face bears the marks of the sun and wind, and his thick beard is matted with traces of last night's campfire. Around his neck hangs a necklace of teeth and bones.
As the man squints against the rising sun, he raises a steaming cup of coffee to his lips and takes a sip of the bitter brew. When he lowers his gaze, a jolt of surprise shakes him, causing his hands to jerk and the coffee to splash over the rim of his cup. His eyes widen, his mouth falls agape, the tendons in his neck stiffen. A shaggy, hulking ground sloth slams against the man, thrusting him backwards into the cave. The steaming cup sails in an arc through the air, trailing streaks and droplets of coffee that gleam orange in the sunrise.
The warm weight of a body is draped over me like a heated blanket. Two hard nubs are poking my upper back as a petite bosom presses against me, and more conspicuously, a pulsating shaft is pumping inside the slippery channel of my vagina.
I stir. Although my eyelids peel open, either I have gone blind or the rolling shutters have sealed the bedroom in blackness.
Soft lips nuzzle the crook of my neck in kisses that coax ticklish shudders through my spine. I feel the rise and fall of her chest, along with the beating of her heart.
"Good morning, ma chérie," says a light and airy voice, high as the upper notes on a musical scale.
My breath hitches in my throat, my muscles tense up. I'm trapped in this person's grip: she has wrapped an arm under my breasts, and with her other arm, she has caught me in a headlock. Who the fuck is fucking me?!
As my panic escalates, my mind paints a picture on the canvas of darkness: vibrant, wavy copper hair cascading down; a constellation of freckles dusted over porcelain skin; coral-pink, well-hydrated lips like velvety rose petals. I relax, then lean back into Jacqueline's embrace just as one of her hands glides down to caress my abdomen.
"And what a beautiful morning it is," she purrs.
"D-did you fall asleep with your dick on?" I utter in a voice raspy with sleep.
My ear fills with soft giggles, the tinkling of tiny bells.
"More like passed out, after I drained myself deep inside you. No wonder I slept so soundly. Today I have woken up snuggled up to ma moitié, my erection nestled between her ass cheeks, and I figured that I could help her start the day off right."
She's rocking her pelvis, prodding the length of her penis inside me with a friction that brings forth a wash of slippery juices.
"Ah, ça c'est bon..." she murmurs, her voice quivering with the rhythm of her thrusts.
"Wh-whenever you grow that dick of yours, you turn into a wild beast."
"Don't you love to wake up to the feeling of mommy's cock plowing your insides?"
"Of course I do. I purely pointed out a fact."
"You're right, though. I become a wild animal driven by the need to hold you tight and fill you up with cum. And that, mon bébé, is what I intend to do."
As her throbbing hardness grinds inside my velvet chamber in an undulating motion, rubbing against every fold and groove, pleasure rolls up from my loins in delicious waves. A hand fondles my right breast, kneading its plump flesh. Her fingertips trace the pebbled surface of my areola, and when she pinches the nipple, a bolt of ecstasy lances through me. Her hot tongue travels upwards along my neck, leaving a trail of fire. Her lips close over my earlobe, which she nibbles in electric prickles.
Sighs and whimpers keep escaping from my throat. I reach for the back of her head and intertwine my fingers with her silky locks.
Jacqueline's hand slithers down from my breast, along the concave plain of my abdomen. Folding my right leg, I plant my heel on her thigh to offer better access. Her hand reaches the patch of curls above my slit and begins to rub circles on my turgid clit. Meanwhile, her pulsing shaft withdraws with squelches, sluicing my arousal out and spattering it onto my inner thighs, only to plunge deep again. The furnace-like heat inside me is coiling tightly. Her swollen glans nudges my cervix, making my toes curl. The muscles of my pussy clamp around her in rhythmic spasms as if trying to suck her deeper.
I attempt to muffle my whimpering moans with the pillow, but Jacqueline's other hand, still securing a headlock, coaxes my face towards hers. Our lips lock, and her tongue slides against mine in a velvety dance. I can't help but moan into her mouth. Once she pulls away with a wet smack, she speaks breathlessly.
"Oh, I wish I could stare into your puppy eyes now, mon trésor, at that face distorted by lust-glazed adoration. I can't wait to see your belly swell and your breasts engorge with milk to feed our child."
Our child? We can't have a child of our own. It's not driven by the fear of miscarriage or labor fatality alone, serious as those risks may be: the spare bedroom where Jacqueline filmed some of her camming sessions has become Nairu's room. Would we compel our Paleolithic artist to endure a screaming baby and piles of soiled diapers just so Jacqueline and I could experience the luxury of a biological offspring? What about our second child's individuality, forced to share a bedroom growing up? Well, we could move into a bigger home, like a castle; my wealthy shapeshifter could afford it, and if necessary, I'd pester my interdimensional stalkers into paying for the renovation fees. But a baby produced from our combined genes would be ruined by a legacy of sexual deviancy. Even worse, he or she may inherit my anxiety, my intrusive thoughts, my obsessive tendencies, my self-loathing, my depression, my compulsive masturbation. That kid would be doomed to a lifetime of misery. And what if I become the sort of mother who locks herself in the bathroom with a bottle of scotch? It should be illegal to give birth in a world that is falling apart, a world from which I've looked forward to removing myself.
One lucky spermatozoon belonging to my French-speaking, child-adoring, shapeshifting secretary, as well as on-and-off cam girl, would pierce my egg, implanting the embryonic progenitor of an uncharted genus within my womb, a cradle that might call forth an entity hitherto unknown: perhaps an ice-breathing chimera from a prehistoric environment so distant that its memory was erased from the earth. This fetus would drain life-giving nutrients and oxygen from my body, transforming my blood into sludge and my heart into a stone like my mother did to my father, like she did to me since I emerged from her vagina squirming and screaming in indignation. Such a parasite wouldn't wait for post-partum psychosis to prolong my agony; given the chance, it would slit open my midsection and crawl out of my guts like a creature of legend: winged, multi-legged, clawed, and with a maw of serrated teeth sharp enough to tear through the fabric of reality.
Oh, who am I kidding. Last Friday at the office, I had trouble concentrating on my code because I kept picturing the sweat glistening on mommy's ivory-white skin, the smooth ridges of her toned thighs, the jiggle of her breasts, the roundness of her ass in my hands, and my nose bleeding again from the exertion of sucking her cock. My fingers itched with the desire to type dirty messages into her DMs and send photos of my wet cunt. I long to be ravaged into submission in the missionary position, in cowgirl, on all fours. I'm a slut-lady who serves mommy's mammoth member, and I can't wait for her to commandeer me as a container to concoct cum-sticky creamsicles.
Jacqueline is panting, her breathing, ragged and moist, tickling the shell of my ear. Her arms are wrapped tightly around me, pressing me closer. Her heart pounds against my back. Her cockhead batters the back of my vagina as her fingertips strum my engorged clit with growing urgency, milking waves of tingly sparks out of my nerves. I'm drooling into the pillow, pinned against the mattress, caught in a vice of bliss. I clasp my arms around hers and hold on tight. Mommy will splatter her gluey seed into me soon, maybe while twitching on top of me and whispering enticing filth.
"You've been loving the daily doses of mommy milk," Jacqueline whispers, "haven't you, mon ange?"
I turn my head enough to unmuffle myself.
"More than you know."
"Then beg me to breed you."
"P-please, mommy, make me your broodmare. Fill me up with your fertile spunk until I explode."
Her breath catches in her throat.
"My love," she pants, "you make it difficult to control myself. Don't worry, mommy is about to give you a bellyful of babies."
The bed creaks and groans while Jacqueline's hips hammer at my ass with violent fervor, in meaty, echoing slaps. The pressure within me builds and builds, swelling to a fever pitch. I'm writhing, mewling. When the dam bursts and a flood of pleasure rushes through me, a sprinkle of stars flashes against the blackness. I quake from head to toe, overcome by the euphoric tsunami, but I still feel the veins of Jacqueline's cock throbbing against my clutching walls as its length twitches. With her face buried in the crook of my neck, she lets out a long, shaky sigh, and the spasms of her climax seize her in waves. Hot gushes of her cream must be splashing deep inside me in ropey spurts.
When our orgasms ebb away, our breaths have synchronized, and our skins are melding into one lascivious, dewy whole. A peace shimmers inside me like the sunlit surface of a still lake.
Jacqueline's fingertips draw swirls on my lower abdomen with a delicate, feathery touch. Her shrunken shaft remains lodged within me.
"Do you think I'm greedy, mon coeur?" she asks, her voice honeyed with contentment. "You've given me such a sweet child to love and nurture, but I want another one made of us both."
"That's fine. Just don't leave me to fend off for myself in the streets."
"How could I ever abandon my darling? You're stuck with me, whether you like it or not." Jacqueline caresses with her warm palm the stretch of skin between my bellybutton and pubes, as if rubbing a pregnant belly. "What do you think it's going to be? A boy or a girl?"
"That's assuming that the kid can't turn into one or the other at will."
"Oh dear. If so, she better figure it out only after she turns eighteen. What a complicated childhood would await our little person otherwise."
"We might also end up with a genderless blob, like sentient pudding."
Jacqueline giggles, her breath hot against my neck.
"Seriously though," I say, "I do hope it's a girl. I wouldn't know how to handle a boy."
"Oh, I know it already, Leire. It's a girl."
"Well, if it isn't, let's not try to turn him into one. My parents screwed me up enough; I wouldn't want to do the same to another being."
Babies, with their squishy cheeks and button noses, with their flailing limbs and drooling mouths, fling sticky mash on people when they aren't pissing and shitting themselves, but they don't intend to be rude; they just want for someone to wipe their bottom and put a nipple to their lips. The worst thing in the world, besides having your teeth torn out by rabid dogs, is forcing your child to confront the alienating forces of society alone. Fret not: Jacqueline and I will stand alongside him or her, safeguarding our spawn against the raiders and cannibals of the wastes.
Piano notes of bell-like clarity, cascading like crystal droplets, light up the darkness with an ethereal touch. However, that glow comes from my cellphone's screen, resting on the nightstand beside Jacqueline. One of these days I'll change my alarm melody; it's unfair to associate Chopin's Nocturnes with the mundane dread of having to wake up for work.
"Merde..." Jacqueline grumbles. "Time to get up, mon lapin."
She twists her right arm out from under the covers, and turns enough to reach over. The melody cuts off; she must have swiped across the touchscreen. Paired with a faint electronic sound, blackness descends on us again.
I could try to convince myself that I imagined the alarm going off, that I can look forward to hours in the warmth of Jacqueline's embrace.
"Let's pretend for a while that everyone other than you, Nairu and I have died."
Jacqueline presses a kiss on my temple.
"Believe me, I'd rather you stay in bed all day with a pillow tucked under your hips, letting gravity do its work."
I sigh.
"I guess I have to play along with the farce of normal life, one pointless website gadget at a time."
Jacqueline disentangles herself gently, withdrawing her left arm from under me. She unplugs my vagina with a moist slurp. In a rustle of bedclothes, the weight of her body lifts from the mattress. Her warmth won't linger long.
I roll over toward Jacqueline, then grope around for the switch of the nightstand lamp. When it clicks on, its light brushes across the wood-grained surface of the furniture, revealing its dark-espresso finish.
As I blink my bleary eyes against the brightness, I get a glimpse of a fiery copper mane mussed by sleep and sex, of sienna-colored freckles scattered over the milky porcelain of a lithe figure, that of a swimmer who may have emerged from a river, or the sea. Instantly she shifts into the taller, hourglass shape of Jacqueline-but-French. I want to bite into that plump derrière.
Her arms sweep upwards in a fluid motion to reach overhead, and the muscles in her arms and arched back tense as she stretches. A groan of comfort escapes her mouth.
Jacqueline gazes down at me over her shoulder, her cobalt-blues alight, her lips parted in an amorous smile.
"Go take a shower, ma lumière. I'll wake up our little one, then prepare us three a hearty breakfast."
---
Author's note: today's songs are "VCR" by The xx, "Bodys" by Car Seat Headrest (also this fantastic live version), and "Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2" by Chopin.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of two hundred and one videos. Check them out.
Would you prefer to listen to this delightful chapter in audio form? Check it out.
This chapter kicks off the second-to-last sequence, titled "The Great Pretender."
December 1, 2023
Life update (01/12/2023)
This morning I woke up spontaneously at three in the morning because my balls hurt. At this point I’m quite sure I’ve got an inguinal hernia, and trying last night to push the protruding fold of intestine back into my body wasn’t that good of an idea. I’m supposed to visit my general practitioner about this on the 13th. I was already awake, so instead of going back to bed, I sat at my desk and worked on my novel until six in the morning.
After a tiresome day at work, I returned home to find out that my elderly cat, about seventeen years old, had jumped out of the balcony. Although she’s on her last leg and at times I’ve feared that a simple scare would end her, she managed to survive wandering around the neighborhood for hours. One neighbor recognized the cat, so I have her back. However, since a couple of days ago, it’s like a switch has flipped in this cat’s brain, and suddenly all she does, apart from sleep, is either roam around the place as if she’s looking for someone, or stare slowly at her immediately surroundings as if in a daze. When you put her down on a surface, she lies there in the same position, as awkward or uncomfortable as it may be. She doesn’t purr anymore either; I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t recognize me. Maybe she had a stroke or something. Three weeks ago she went through her first scary illness, some sort of pneumonia. She wheezed constantly for about five days, but she had seemed to recover fully from it. Her current behavior came out of nowhere.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
After a tiresome day at work, I returned home to find out that my elderly cat, about seventeen years old, had jumped out of the balcony. Although she’s on her last leg and at times I’ve feared that a simple scare would end her, she managed to survive wandering around the neighborhood for hours. One neighbor recognized the cat, so I have her back. However, since a couple of days ago, it’s like a switch has flipped in this cat’s brain, and suddenly all she does, apart from sleep, is either roam around the place as if she’s looking for someone, or stare slowly at her immediately surroundings as if in a daze. When you put her down on a surface, she lies there in the same position, as awkward or uncomfortable as it may be. She doesn’t purr anymore either; I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t recognize me. Maybe she had a stroke or something. Three weeks ago she went through her first scary illness, some sort of pneumonia. She wheezed constantly for about five days, but she had seemed to recover fully from it. Her current behavior came out of nowhere.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
