Zachary Roush's Blog
August 11, 2025
Thanks to Alien: Romulus, there's Never Been a Better Time to be an Alien Fan
If you’re an Alien fan, there hasn’t been a better time to enjoy the universe than now. Also, if you’re anything like me, Alien: Romulus ignited a new fire in you for anything Alien. After seeing the film in 4DX (the seats shoot WATER at you), I got into a real Alien kick. I played Alien Isolation and Dark Descent for the first time. I watched Alien & Aliens with my family. I also re-watched Romulus.
Here’s where we’re at with new Alien content:
- Alien: Earth, the first Alien TV show [verify] will be released next week!
- According to Collider and Fede Alvarez, an Alien: Romulus sequel will start filming later this year.
- According to IGN, a sequel to Alien: Isolation is in development.
In my mind, Romulus was the crux to all of these new developments. But why? Does it merit the love it’s received? And what can we hope for moving forward?
Romulus was a Course Correction for the Alien Universe
When we look at Alien, there are conventions that must be followed.
- The main character must be female.
- There must be a new xenomorph form or species introduced.
- there must be the threat of a synthetic character’s betrayal.
- Shit’s gotta explode.
- The film’s gotta be scary.
Romulus ticks all these boxes with its own wonderful twists. Prior films miss the mark in various ways. And unlike these prior films, the world and atmosphere in Romulus looks like it belongs in the Alien Universe. Everything has an industrial, worn appearance. The characters must interact with the world in tactile ways, and everything responds with “hardwired” sounds and noises. The original Alien stood out for these reasons; unlike other science fiction films where the future delivered a sanitary life of ease, the world became harder, sparser, and more dangerous.
How long has it been since a film in the Alien universe delivered an experience liken to the original? Not since Resurrection. The Alien versus predator films, and the prequels Prometheus and Covenant, provided a much more polished and stereotypically sci-fi universe. Holograms, remote-controlled everything; shiny suits and clean interiors; all that made the Alien universe unique and interesting was set aside. These films also do away with many horror conventions that significantly destroy any sense of dread, terror, and excitement.
How did this happen? For one, these films show the monsters (xenomorph, and otherwise) too much, and in bright light all time. That ain’t scary. This lacking dread is a very shocking phenomenon considering that Prometheus and Covenant were directed by Sir Ridley Scott. On paper, these films delivered an “Alien” experience, but don’t serve the wider universe in meaningful ways. And, as stated, they don’t look like they even exist in the same universe (judging by the technology and set design). I don’t know the “why” behind these decisions, but I know that they didn’t deliver the best possible Alien experience. Whether it’s a lone woman fighting for survival or a team of cocky commandos realizing how deep the shit is they’re sunk in, I expect to escape to a hard-wired, dingy, industrialized sci-fi experience, where the human world is as off-putting as the actual horror elements.
Romulus delivered on all of these elements.
The video games Alien: Isolation and Aliens: Dark Descent were established perfectly in the universe and created fun, terrifying experiences. Though I’ve yet to delve into the full realm of Alien books, I quite enjoyed Alien: Phalanx. And there’s even more out there to enjoy while we, the loyal Xeno-geeks, wait for new entries.
What’s your favorite entry in the Alien universe?
Do you disagree with any of the points I made? Let me know!
May 9, 2025
Realms Reviews: Absolution by Jeff Vandermeer
I’m Zach, the writer of Realms.
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How Realms Reviews WorksWelcome to Realms Reviews! These are super short reviews on the best in sci-fi and fantasy. I’ll tell you my thoughts on books, film, and video games in SFF and whether it’s worth your time or not.
My rating system goes like this, from best to worst: Z, S, A, B, C, D.
Z means whatever I reviewed is the absolute best of its kind and will leave you wishing you had more.
S is for media that is excellent, but not quite earth shattering.
A is for very good. Something that is worth your time.
B is good. Just good.
C is best summed up as “Meh” - it will make no difference in your life and is probably worth skipping.
D is a definite no. Skip it. Avoid it.
Absolution by Jeff Vandermeer
I am a longtime fan of Vandermeer’s work. He wrote one of my favorite novels of all time, Finch. I have a relationship and perspective on his work that makes reading his new material interesting; it becomes a comparative experience, in a way.
Compared to his other novels, I found Absolution to be a bit of a tough read. On a spectrum from a James Patterson novel (easiest to read) to Fyodor Dostoevsky (hardest), it leans certainly more Dostoevsky. Or Virginia Woolf (one of Vandermeer’s inspirations). When I think about what literature, and more specifically, what science fiction can be as a storytelling technology, Absolution fits the bill. It’s abstract, weird, beautiful, cohesive, and compelling all at once.
I’m a bit of a soft reader, looking for books that match what I want and need and can give it to me quickly (I’m a Millennial, sue me.) For someone like me, reading Absolution was a chore, especially in Part I and III of the book. The middle part is much more “traditional” in terms of storytelling. The others tell their story via character-driven stream of consciousness, where events play out purely through the character’s perception. This is where Vandermeer’s mastery of the weird truly stands out. I felt, as I read, like I was emotionally fused with the character, like I could become them if I studied this work long enough.
Vandermeer’s novels and tropes wear their themes on their sleeves: secret agents, ecosystem deformities, mysteries within mysteries, characters versus fate, deep love. All of these elements exist in Absolution and are satisfying to interact with. But there was something missing for me. I must acknowledge that, as a longtime fan, I am both blessed and cursed by my fandom. Hummingbird Salamander had, for me, a stronger answer as to why the main character’s journey mattered to me as a reader. In Borne, the overall message of the novel (which I would say is this: human nature will consume everything unless we stop ourselves) was more clear. Finch wielded both of these elements: a personally powerful story and a satisfying, deeper message.
But these are just personal preferences, not objective statements. Absolution is not like these novels at all. It’s more of a hellish train ride in three different modes of storytelling. The ending is satisfying, and so is the journey. Perhaps it’s better to say Absolution is enjoyable, but not fun. It stretched my mind’s imagination.
Of course I’m compelled to compare Absolution to Vandermeer’s other novels, but I must also view it on its own. It is ambitious, maybe not his most ambitious, in terms of breaking his own patterns of writing theme-wise, but certainly in how this story is written. It’s one that must be finished to be truly appreciated. I can’t wait to read this again, or to dive in to my favorite sections, once my soul processes all the wild events that occurred.
My rating for Absolution is A: Amazing! Worth the read, but not everyone’s cup of tea.
Here’re some of my favorite quotes:
“Could you lose your mind to an unanswerable question, or just your soul?”
“He masticated words like if he didn’t they would come out the other end uncomfortably whole.”
“What was a person, sometimes, but a wandering fire. But put the flames out, and what was left?”
“Oh how miraculous and how deranged, the way the seagulls melted and re-formed, dropped out of the sky and into the sea like eggs cracked open into yolks, splooshing into the water.”
“Old Jim did not like the idea of the cameras mingling with the substrata, with the detritus at the bottom of the estuary. To be pulled apart over time, to molecule by molecule become part of the Forgotten Coast. Even if that was the fate of every living thing.”
What did you think of Absolution? Would you read it?
Books referenced:
May 2, 2025
Eyvallach at the End of the World
Photo by NASA Hubble Space Telescope on UnsplashWelcome to Realms. My name’s Zach, the writer and host of this publication. Realms is your home for everything sci-fi and fantasy: short stories, reviews, essays, and more. Subscribe to get these stories right in your inbox. Become a paid subscriber to access the podcast in addition to the written story; then Realms will do the reading for you.
Today, we have my friend reading. He did such a good job with Brood, that I had to have him read again. Cam is a voice actor and writer living in Los Angeles. If you like his voice, I promise you’ll love his incredible attitude and creativity. He’s open to work and would love to hear from you on LinkedIn.
Without further ado, here’s this month’s story, a fantasy called Eyvallach at the End of the World (ain’t that a mouthful).
Name pronunciation:
Eyvallach: Ey-val-lock
Tunde: Toon-day
Bryste: Brist-uh
Abitha: A-bee-thuh
Luzifar: Loo-zee-far
Eyvallach at the End of the World
Photo by NASA Hubble Space Telescope on UnsplashWelcome to Realms. My name’s Zach, the writer and host of this publication. Realms is your home for everything sci-fi and fantasy: short stories, reviews, essays, and more. Subscribe to get these stories right in your inbox. Become a paid subscriber to access the podcast in addition to the written story; then Realms will do the reading for you.
Today, we have my friend Cam Daxon reading. He did such a good job with Brood, that I had to have him read again. Cam is a voice actor and writer living in Los Angeles. If you like his voice, I promise you’ll love his incredible attitude and creativity. He’s open to work and would love to hear from you on LinkedIn.
Without further ado, here’s this month’s story, a fantasy called Eyvallach at the End of the World (ain’t that a mouthful).
Name pronunciation:
Eyvallach: Ey-val-lock
Tunde: Toon-day
Bryste: Brist-uh
Abitha: A-bee-thuh
Luzifar: Loo-zee-far
The heroes gathered themselves like thunderheads, their armor covered in the gristle of the undead, their chests heaving from the effort of battle, hands tired from carrying their weapons and casting spells. They advanced into the circle from an enclosed stair, the wind gusting about them. The tower’s crown was a henge of power, a sacred place where a powerful sorcerer might conjure the strongest of forces to bend the universe to their will. Eyvallach, the heir to the dragonborn, the horned devil of the North, stood at the center of the henge, staff in his right hand raised high, a cosmic light spiraling out from the crystal set into the gnarled end. Eyvallach’s mouth moved, an incantation emanating from deep inside his soul. His intonations shook the tower violently, making the heroes stumble. Tunde, Abitha, and Bryste, the last of their troupe to survive, shared a look, wasting precious seconds.
“Is he close?” Abitha asked.
Bryste, the witch they called the Guardian of Ages, whispered a spell, making her maze of facial tattoos glow silver. Her curls blew wildly in the wind, sending Tunde’s heart fluttering; even now, at the end of all things, he was madly in love with her. Lightning struck Eyvallach’s staff, blinding Tunde for a moment. When his vision cleared, Bryste was on her knees, face contorted with misery.
Abitha, the assassin, tried to pick up her friend. She shook her. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s over,” Bryste muttered, repeated, growing louder until it was a shout, a scream, a terrible cry.
Tunde, the bravest of all knights-errant, stood and hefted his mace. He faced Eyvallach. Runes in his weapon’s handle glowed a violent red. “It can’t be over.”
“It is,” replied Eyvallach. The mage’s voice was clear and loud. How could that be? The incantation was no longer being spoken. The wind had ceased. The henge was surrounded by a pocket of impossible silence.
“Behold, the end,” Eyvallach said, dropping his staff and raising both arms high like he would embrace the broken moon.
“You haven’t won. You—” Tunde’s words died as an emerald-vermillion brilliance exploded towards the sky, streaming upward. It was the final sign that, indeed, Eyvallach had won. There was no reversing the spell now. Tunde, too, fell on his knees as though he’d been stabbed in the gut.
Eyvallach didn’t gloat or maniacally laugh or use this moment to destroy these heroes who had dogged him, scarred him, and ruined many a plan. He stood there and soaked in his victory. There was rest in his heart that he hadn’t felt since he was a child before his village was savagely destroyed and he swore to himself that he would pursue the ultimate revenge.
He closed his eyes and said, “It’s been a long road.”
“For all of us,” Bryste added, her clear tenor echoing off the stone pillars in the henge. “Are you sure you understand what you’ve done?” Her voice broke.
“I’ve fixed everything,” Eyvallach said, walking over to stand by Tunde, who was shaking with fury. He crouched down and offered a clawed hand. “We need not be enemies anymore.”
Tunde glowered, slapped the hand away. One corner of Eyvallach’s mouth quirked up. “Tunde, you are still pure of heart after all this. I have always felt a mixture of hatred and appreciation for that.”
“I should kill you.” But he only looked away.
Abitha left Bryste on the ground. She rubbed her shaved head and blew air out her lips like they were dealing with a broken cart axle and not the end of all things. “How long do we have?”
Eyvallach rubbed the tip of a curled horn like he always did when deep in thought. “A few hours.” They could already see the whorl, like a small spiral galaxy, developing over the planet.
Abitha pursed her full lips. “Let’s then enjoy them. Bryste, open a portal to the Ten-Sum Lagoons.”
The witch wiped tears, nodding. She stood, shakily. Tunde ran to her, his mace abandoned, and helped her stand. She muttered a spell, the tattoos glowing, and a circular portal opened up, unveiling a landscape that shocked the senses: the smell of brine and warm air, the sound of seagulls and clack-crabs and crashing waves, the shimmer of a perfect ocean.
Bryste and Tunde walked through, arm in arm, their tears littering the stone floor of the henge.
“Come,” Abitha said, holding her hand toward Eyvallach. Around them, the wind moaned as its strength returned. The light intensified, falling around them as the energy of Eyvallach’s spell surged through the tower and into the sky and beyond. He met Abitha’s gaze and felt fear. Not of death, though this was likely, but of being forgiven. Or even worse, being understood.
“I would walk and speak with you,” she said, beckoning.
With strange and great courage, Eyvallach took his enemy’s hand and walked into paradise.
The Ten-Sum Lagoons were an idyllic archipelago in the Suffering Sea—named so not only for the incredibly dangerous waters surrounding them, but also because one could almost forget their suffering at these islands. The locals welcomed travelers and gave them a taste of their life. One only needed a roof, a hammock, and a fishing line to live well there. Eyvallach, warm in his many layers, shed his cloak and wool-lined tunic until he stood only in his breeches. So did the other heroes, becoming more like poor beggars than the most dangerous and skilled individuals of their age. They milled about near a beach, awkwardly avoiding each other’s gaze. Bryste and Tunde soon went away, whispering to each other.
Eyvallach used a spell to listen in:
Tunde: We can still kill him.
Bryste: That doesn’t matter anymore.
It matters to me.
Please, let’s take a breath. Get a drink?
“Let them be.” Abitha took Eyvallach’s hand again and led him in the opposite direction. The jungle on their right was lush, blessed with birdsong and bright flowers. An oasis of life, in stark contrast to the harsh tundra where Eyvallach’s tower stood.
“I’ve never been to a warm place like this,” he said.
Abitha sighed. “I always thought I would come here when it was over.”
“And here you are.”
She briefly smiled. “Here I am.” Her dark skin was taut over her bones, her cheeks gaunt, as though etched with worry and hunger. The journey to Eyvallach’s tower had been hard—and now all she had suffered was for naught. “A drink?”
A hut drew near. The grass roof lay flat in the still air, and the pair picked up the sound of wooden cups clattering and liquid being shaken and poured. Vacationers from the world over were enjoying themselves; they stayed at a large beachside lodge nearby. Eyvallach noted the reclining chairs, the rope swings over the water, and the fishing boats anchored nearby. He wondered how things might have been if he’d grown up here.
I’d still be me, angry at everything, but with a tan.
Abitha purchased their drinks with an unnecessary amount of gold coins—to the bar-back’s surprise—and they made their way to the waterfront, where worn, sun-kissed chairs sat with their legs in the water.
“To you. To victory,” she said, raising her wooden cup, a small bowl, to her nemesis.
“To you and your valiant effort.” They finished their drinks in one go.
“What does it do, your spell?”
“Bryste didn’t tell you?”
“I want to hear it out of your mouth.” Her amber eyes danced from his to the sea. “In hindsight, there was much I assumed about your intentions. Destroying the world for destruction’s sake.”
“I’m not such a cynic, no.” Eyvallach took a breath, enjoying the fresh air and the sun on his lithe form. His curled horns prickled, as though they had been dunked in freezing water and then into a hot pool. His pale skin drank in the sun recklessly and would soon burn. How long had he lingered in the dark domains of the earth? How long had he labored in his tower to this end?
“The spell,” he said, finally, “draws all souls from this world. And by soul, I mean life that is self-aware, intelligent.”
Abitha frowned. “What for?”
Eyvallach raised a brow. “My home was destroyed by King Begool’s father, Vegool the Great. His knights cut my parents to pieces in front of me. He did so for his political machinations. That’s how it all started. I promised myself I would kill him, and then he died all on his own. But my desire for revenge never wavered, and so I turned to fixing the source of the thing that robbed me of my childhood: the human heart.”
“So killing us all does that…how?”
“I tried other methods, first. Many others. You’d have to ask Bryste, but, I guess, there isn’t time. In the end, though,” Eyvallach sighed, “the easiest thing was just to get rid of everyone. Then life, in general, can restart. Maybe, in many eons, a new intelligence will rise up. Otherwise, this will be a wild, peaceful world.”
“Wow. As a permanent fixer of human hearts myself, I’m impressed. I’ve killed many. But not everyone.” Her strange wonder filled the moment. They watched a wave approach their feet, raising the water level. With it came a round leather ball.
“Hey!” someone called out; the assassin and the mage turned to look. A total hunk of an ork waved at them, his broad shoulders shining in the sun. “Toss the pelo!”
Abitha stood. “Only if we can play!”
“No,” Eyvallach said.
“Sure!” replied the Ork, broad smile beaming at them, almost brighter than the sun.
Abitha pulled Eyvallach up, muttering, “You owe me a bit of fun, don’t you think?”
The ork’s skin was a deep green, tanned from a life enjoyed beneath the sun. He introduced his friends, a human, an elf, and another ork. Eyvallach joined the handsome ork’s team, already anxious about the game. Of course, he’d played tup-tap. Everyone did. But it only reminded him of his early years, of home, of learning the game from his mothers.
Abitha, on the opposing team, served the ball with a kick over a high string. Eyvallach’s team returned the soft leather pelo quickly, tupping it with any of their body parts as a pass, and tapping it over the line with a strike. Back and forth they went, the number of successful tup-taps racking up points, tallied by a magic counter. There were a total of three rounds, the winner being declared by having the most number of tup-taps for time. Abitha’s team was down for the first round, and when the magic counter went off, they all took a break. Eyvallach downed water and tried to get his heart rate under control. For so long, he’d used magic for everything, from levitating to cooking to making himself able to walk through walls. He clenched his sharp teeth and endeavored to play as hard as Abitha did, no matter how his muscles screamed at him.
Eyvallach and his team made the strategy to be smart and reserved. As they walked back to the court, they watched Abitha’s team. They were in a huddle, whispering, their voices growing louder, the chant led by Abitha herself.
“...and glory. Blood and glory. BLOOD and GLORY! BLOOOD AAAND GLORYYY!”
Eyvallach and his team didn’t feel so confident after that.
The final round was upon them and the score was close. Fifty blinks of the clock remained. All players were sweating, covered in sand from head to toe, even in the nether regions. Eyvallach was confused. The tone had changed. Abitha glared at him, snarled when she tapped the pelo over, and muttered things he probably didn’t want to hear when he got points. Why had it gone this way? Eyvallach knew.
Abitha was still trying to win. He smiled, wiped the sweat from his face.
“What’s so funny?” Abitha said.
“I’m just enjoying the game,” he lied.
It all came down to the wire. Eyvallach tupped it to the Ork, who leaped and made as if to strike. But it was a fake-out. Their third player, a human, leaped a second after, tapping the pelo with speed and accuracy, sending it flying toward the right corner, and straight toward the sand.
But before it could bounce, an Ork’s foot slid underneath—and Eyvallach swore only magic could have made her move so fast—bouncing the pelo back toward the string.
Abitha was waiting. She pounced, smashing the pelo right at Eyvallach.
Stars. A burning in his nose. The sky.
Abitha, standing over him, crouching down, hissing at him: “I wish you had done us a favor and just ended your miserable life.”
Eyvallach licked his lip and tasted blood. He wasn’t angry at all. He didn’t even need to gloat.
He said, “You play a marvelous game. Want to go another round?”
“No. I’ve beaten you.” Abitha reached for her thigh and pulled out a gilded knife, its hilt hollow and filled with a dark liquid. She’d had it strapped to her the whole time. The blade was the length of her little finger but was deadly enough to bring down the great krakens in the depths or the war-bats from the East.
It sunk into the sand by Eyvallach’s face.
He groaned and said, “Blood and glory.”
Eyvallach got another drink and walked the other way up the beach, feeling unsettled. The bright sun and balmy weather grew oppressive. He cast a spell of comfort, easing the symptoms of the incessant light. He wondered if he had grown too accustomed to candlelit interiors and moldy stone walls. His walking took him up a rise, steep enough to make him huff with effort, his body not yet recovered from the game of tup-tap. When he did get to the top, he found a rocky overlook, adorned with a stone bench. He was not alone.
Tunde and Bryste were there, leaning on each other. Eyvallach cleared his throat.
“It’s you. You kept it?”
Eyvallach followed Tunde’s eye-line to the scar beneath his navel. Even five years on, the wound had sickly purple veins around it. A venom blade of Arturian make, Eyvallach recalled, had nearly spilled his guts and made him so ill that, for a while, many thought him dead.
Eyvallach rubbed the scar with his claws. “An important memento: to never trust a knight-errant.” Tunde smirked at that. “I wish to speak with Bryste.” The smirk evaporated. He rubbed his shaved head, also littered with scars. Eyvallach recalled giving him one in particular, across Tunde’s scalp. The spell was dancing knives, one of Eyvallach’s favorites. As good at carving up enemies as it was for roasted sickle-boar.
“We will speak,” Bryste said. “And all will be well.” She put her hand on Tunde’s arm. “But if you want to throw him off the cliff, I won’t stop you.”
“I’ll think about it,” the knight replied, walking away. He stopped abruptly, turned back, and kissed Bryste passionately. Eyvallach rolled his eyes.
Bryste and Eyvallach sat together, as they once had in an eternal garden, back when they were both students of the dragonborn mage, Luzifar. They watched the world with practiced eyes. Orange-crested pelicans swooped low over the waters and raced. A single dolphin made an appearance in the distance. Carpets of stinking kelp rolled with the waves, their green darkness obscuring the life that flitted beneath them.
“We used to only manage a few seconds of silence, remember? Then, Master would start the timer over.”
“A month it took us to manage even five minutes of silence,” Eyvallach said. He eyed Tunde, who was holding a squat toward the ocean. “A brute,” he grunted.
“Not just.”
Eyvallach eyed her sidelong, taking in the lines crawling across her neck and cheeks. “The Source has marked you further.”
“I was willing to be completely marked if it meant stopping you. And no, I didn’t tell Tunde what the Source required of me. ” She refused to meet him eye to eye. He hated that.
“Will you tell me?”
“It hardly matters now,” she said, looking upward. “Your handiwork is becoming evident.” Up in the sky, the galactic whorl was growing in darkness and size, its tendrils curling, reaching out like a vile cephalopod. It would, in time, encircle the world, inhale countless souls, and disperse their energy among the stars.
“I remember a time when this wasn’t the answer. When you were searching for answers.”
She looked at him then, even put a hand to his cheek. Eyvallach drank in her face, which had been so young, and now was scarred, lightly wrinkled, marked by the maze of tattoos from the Source. Her septum was pierced by a ring of pure amber, a gift he had given her when they could do little more than lift pebbles with the wind. It had cost him much.
“I have wondered if this was Luzifar’s influence that made you choose this path.” She traced her fingers down the curled horns. “I also wish I could have witnessed the grafting. What was it like?”
“I would not undergo it again.” His hand covered hers. “I chose this. And the grafting.” Eyvallach rubbed the base of his horns where Luzifar himself had placed them, granting Eyvallach the power of the dragons. It had also made him angrier, more greedy, and prone to manic behavior. “Truly, it simply made me more…myself.”
She pulled away. “I know there’s nothing I can do to make you believe what I used to see in you,” she replied, her face marked with tears again. “And there wouldn’t be any point to it, anyway.”
She interlocked her fingers with his. He squeezed her hand, taking care not to let his claws cut her. His chest hurt. Love, that damn thing, had refused to die.
A shout of joy reached them from behind. An elf and his child raced up the hill, laughing. Eyvallach watched the child, a girl with strikingly dark hair and a smattering of freckles. The tips of her pointed ears poked out from her wet hair. They were both dripping from swimming in the ocean. She got away from her parent, racing ahead, straight toward the cliff.
“Wait!” her father shouted, holding out an arm. She was giggling too hard to hear the panic. She didn’t slow. But within a second—thanks to magic, Eyvallach assumed—her father was there, scooping her up into his arms. She shrieked with joy even as his expression was dire. Eyvallach’s heart fluttered with panic, his lips poised to utter his own spell that would save her.
But why? She was dead anyway.
The elf took his little girl to the edge, showing her the danger, telling her that, sometimes, she needed to keep her eyes open and not just her heart. She went wide-eyed, then buried her head in his neck. Noticing Eyvallach and Bryste, he nodded to them, then found another bench nearby and sat, the girl sniffling, saying something only he could hear. He replied, “All is well. Come, now, let’s enjoy the view.” The father conjured, out of thin air, cups of water and a plate of fruit.
Bryste said, “Do you feel nothing for that child?”
Eyvallach was feeling many things. But he didn’t try to name his emotions. He looked back toward the sea. “I only feel for the suffering she’ll experience.”
“Would have,” Bryste corrected. “I remember that argument of yours. ‘I didn’t get to choose life, so why should I embrace it?’”
“Indeed.”
“You’ve finally found a way to make the world experience the emptiness inside of you,” she replied hollowly, which was worse than if she had spat the words out or cursed him or used magic to tear him asunder.
He bristled. “You felt it too, as I recall. But I guess that’s the difference between us. You never stopped looking for a salve, a cure. I realized there was no cure but death.”
“I did find one. I will survive even your emptiness.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked up at the whorl again. “I wish you’d given me the chance—” she trailed off.
“Chance for what?”
“To…see if we couldn’t find the cure together. Now, I’ll be alone.”
Eyvallach stood, his fury stoked. “As if love is the thing of tales and legends?! As if it’s a fountain we may drink from and forget our cares.” The elves, and Tunde, looked on. “I tried everything, Bryste. All there is is oblivion.”
“No,” she said, standing. “Oblivion is one of many things to experience. I’ll show you, if you let me.” Yet again, one of his enemies offered a hand.
Eyvallach stood resolute. He couldn’t turn his back on himself, now, could he? Give it all up to gain…what exactly? What was she offering? Tunde drew near, his presence like a growling wolf.
Bryste dropped it and stood, saying softly, “Join us, to see what comfort oblivion can bring. If you can find it in your heart.”
Eyvallach watched them go down the hill and back to the huts. The elves followed soon after, the child waving to the wizard. As the sun set, more people gathered around the hut. Eyvallach caught the scent of roasting fish, the melody of live music, and the shouts of joyous folk. They were dancing, he knew. Yet, he remained.
Above, the whorl continued to swallow the sky. Within its embrace was pure nothingness. Soon, Eyvallach would exhale and his soul would depart with the air. So would all souls.
As the sea, now midnight’s blue, crashed on the cliffs below, as the people partied like it might be their last chance at feeling alive—it was—, as the greatest wizard who ever lived considered his life and actions and their repercussions, he wondered if he had missed something all along.
And despaired knowing he wasn’t brave enough to face it.
Thank you for reading Eyvallach at the End of the World.
Some questions for you:
Tell me, what do you think Bryste meant about finding a cure?
Have you experienced oblivion like Eyvallach has? What’s your cure?
If you’d like to see more stories in this universe, what kind of stories would you like to see?
Subscribe to get the next story or review right in your inbox. Become a paid subscriber to enjoy the audio and podcast version as well.
Until next time, Realmwalkers, I’m Zach and you’re listening to Realms.
April 25, 2025
Realms, where are you?
creepy dead lobster is pretty sci-fiLet’s take a walk down 2024 lane. I’m so happy that year is over, but there quite a few things I’m proud of…
I published my YA fantasy novel, Kursed Kreatures.
I finished the Narrative Department’s Masterclass in Interactive writing and wrote dialogue and more for interactive fiction games The Film and The Ouroboros Express.
I collaborated on the Blackwater Files, which is an inter-connected universe of [REDACTED] about [REDACTED].
I wrote many stories, but these were your favorite: Brood, The Sunborn’s Sorrow.
And started writing reviews, including one for Severance (Season 2 is forthcoming), and also my favorite sci-fi podcast series, Celeritas.
Last, but certainly not least, and I collaborated on a series of letters about the future of writing. It was so fun to interact this way and create these miniature essays with someone. Here’s Letter One.
Furthermore, I think this was an incredible year for sci-fi and fantasy fans. Here’s a few things I have yet to review, but are DEFINITELY worth your time:
And now, for the Realms updates. Is this still a thing?Of course! I have been busy with a new job, applying to grad schools, and working on new, non-fiction stuff at my other publication, .
I am keen to get back to other worlds, however! This month, I hope to have a short story for you.
And in the coming months, a fan-fiction in one of my favorite universes…Alien!
But with these stories come new changes to the publication…
Free subscribers, you’ll still get:Short stories (no audio / podcast)
Reviews for books, TV, film, video games, and more that I think is worth your time
Paid subscribers get:Short stories with podcast/audio version
Reviews
Deep-dive essays into SFF topics
But why?Nothing crazy here. I’d just love to get paid for my hard work. It’s that simple.
What’s the cost?Subscriptions cost $5 a month, or $50 for a whole year. 80+% goes directly to me! The rest, to Stripe and Substack. If you buy more than one subscription (in what’s called a group subscription), you’ll get a discount.
There’s also a “True Realmwalker” tier that’s just for bragging rights.
If you’re not sure you want to subscribe, or you’re new here, there should be the option for a free trial.
PROVE IT’S WORTH IT YOU HACK!You’re right. Here’s some of my most popular work:
My Commitment to YouMy dearest Realmwalkers, there are over 250 of you. Some of you are family and friends and other internet-borne supporters, and for you I am so grateful. I am a creative working hard on all these words and it feels like I’m seen and heard. And that’s more than enough for me.
With the launch of paid subscriptions, I expect the commitment between us to be stronger. I will do my best to provide value to you through the written word, helping you escape to new worlds every month.
I will reserve November-December for time off, as this helps me recharge my batteries and spend quality time with the people I love (hence $50/year and not 60).
I want to thank Eric Goebelbecker for being the first paid subscriber, before any of this was a thing. And he did so with no extra benefit to him!
I hope you all enjoy the work moving forward.
Let me know your thoughts!
Until next time, Realmwalkers…
November 8, 2024
On the Future of Writing, Letter 5 with Reina Cruz
This is part 5 in a series of letters between reinancruz and me, Zach Roush.
Realms is a sci-fi and fantasy newsletter and podcast taking you to new realms every month! I’ll be sharing my letters here on Realms while Reina will share hers on her Substack Indie Fiction Digest.
Here’s a bit about Reina: Reina Cruz is a writer and middle school teacher from California. She is the writer of the Daughter of Isis series and Marredbury. You can follow her on substack and on her website.
We’re talking about the “future of writing”, which also touches on other things like the future of creativity, how creatives stay creative, and how we do or not keep creating in the face of many obstacles, like AI and visual media.
Subscribe today to catch the whole series! We’ll add links here as we publish more letters.
Thank you for your deeply soulful and, may I say, powerful letter. Our previous correspondences were heady, so it was refreshing that you brought our conversation back to the heart of things. It got my wheels turning. I’m typically not one to land on any “final” judgment about a topic of discussion, preferring to keep my mind open. In this case, I’ll make an exception. I don’t think there is an easy way to future-proof our careers as writers. It’s rote to say that we’re all “making it up as we go”, but we really are, aren’t we? As creatives, we’re called by our vocation to follow our strange logic that combines what our heart wants and what our muses tell us alongside what truths we wish to share.
I’ll admit, too, that I’ve been fairly cynical about being a writer lately. There’s a lot of doomsday and enshitification out there, but that doesn’t mean it has to enter my interior life. As one of my favorite philosophers says, “If you don’t want to be a battery [for doomsday, etc], then unplug.”
I do have things to say about our day and age, though. In my head, I call this time we live in “The Disposable Age,” where our content is as valuable as plastic to consumers and publishers and even, sometimes, we creatives. And this connects to your question on educating consumers (nice Uno reverse, by the way!):
What do you think needs to be done to inform consumers and support the current culture of publishing in a positive way? Do you think we can overcome enshitification?
We need to change how we do things as writers. In the face of this overwhelmingly disposable culture, we need to create work that is indispensable and valuable. I’ll use a common piece of writing advice to build my case:
Write as if your audience were in the fifth grade.
This approach, commonly applied to marketing writing, has seeped into all writing. And this is problematic. The whole world is being raised on dumbed-down, digestible content which can be good for communicating information, I’d say, but is not good for the art of writing. If one can simplify a highly technical aspect of how WiFi works so that more people can grasp the topic, then that’s a great use of the above rule. However, for writing a complex novel like The Grapes of Wrath, this rule does not work. Take the aspect of dialect in this novel, for example, where idioms, double-meanings, and context create enriching scenes.
I think we need, as writers, to be clear and effective at communicating our truth and invite readers to engage more deeply with our creations. This means elevating the work over any writing “rules” or expectations that the world tries to put on us. If a work of writing requires us to write in proper British English from the 17th century, then our task is to make it interesting and clear to our readers. If our characters speak another language entirely, then the challenge is to make them understandable.
I think I’m discovering, as I write this, that the only writing rule that guides me is clarity. I ask myself, Can anyone who understands English read my work and at the very least get the gist? Or does reading my work feel like a punishment? I want the truths I need to share to be a joy to consume - and in my personal practice, I try to make my work joyful for everyone. Not that I dumb a piece of writing down, but that I eliminate issues with flow, grammar, and descriptions. Not that I make all my meanings and metaphors obvious, but that I don’t obscure what I’m trying to say. Readers, more than other consumers, give us so much of their time and energy, and so it should be worthwhile to them. There’s a few helpful questions I ask myself to give clarity to my work:
Is this something I would read?
Is this something I can easily poke logic holes in?
Is this something I can be proud of as time goes on?
And don’t get me wrong, I don’t strive for perfection. I often get to a point, after two or three revisions, where I just can’t see what to improve anymore. And if I’m not meeting with my writer’s group anytime soon, I clean up whatever I’m writing with some copywriting software, and then send it out into the world.
It’s funny, reading this back, I realize that most of what I’m writing is about me and not the “consumer.” And that seems right. This crazy thing we do that we devote our hearts and minds to is not really about our audience. It’s about us in every way: our truth, our ideas, our words, our loves, and our hates. The more we make our writing about us, in clarity and truth, and less about the other (consumers, other writers, corporations, dreams, etc), the more free we are to make the best art possible.
To quote Ursula K. Le Guin from The Language of the Night: Essays on Writing, Science Fiction, and Fantasy: “...when ‘art is taken seriously by its creators or consumers, that total permissiveness disappears, and the possibility of the truly revolutionary reappears.’”
Meaning, that if we strive to elevate what we do to the highest level, beyond creating something for consumers (although we kind of always have to keep some sort of audience in mind), then our writing at least has a chance to be something more than disposable words on a flat surface; not valuable by any measure of society, which, as an external acknowledgment of our skills will only last for so long, but rather as something we value internally. In the end, it’s not our writing we have to future-proof, it’s ourselves. We need to protect our writing life from being infected by counterfeit experiences (getting rich quickly, hitting the lottery with a bestseller, writing like the “popular” writers, dumbing our work down) and making sure we are internally seeking the highest form of our abilities and pursuing what we’re called to write about.
This quote from Gabriel Garcia Marquez comes to mind, from his memoir, Living to Tell the Tale:
“Before that, my life was always agitated by a tangle of tricks, feints, and illusions intended to outwit the countless lures that tried to turn me into anything but a writer.”
I think what Marquez is getting at is the delicate dance we must do as writers: to accept how the world is but not let it distract us with its counterfeits. Many are tempted away from using their imagination and talents for creative pursuits and instead suffocate them in the pursuit of “happiness.” This is counterfeit because this “happiness” will never scratch that deep itch inside, the one calling us to tell our truth.
The world is always changing, from leaders to consumer tastes, from AI tools to publication platforms, and all of these things and so many people out there are trying to tell us how to be and how to do what we do; the most important thing—as creatives and writers—is to look inward and rely on our muse-instinct-grit to guide us while at the same time acknowledging the true state of the world. We must protect this hybrid acceptance and denial of reality, our strange sort of innocence so that we can create and evolve no matter what happens. Even if AI takes over everything, or in the worst-case scenario, the lights go out, the world will still need us to tell our stories.
To bring it home, here’s what I’m trying to say:
We (creatives and writers) need to meet our audiences where they’re at without dumbing our work down and also invite them into deeper truth and understanding.
We need to know ourselves and know the world.
We need to protect ourselves from the world’s influence—it’s fucking noisy out here.
Is there anything you’d add to this list? Where do you think you’ve landed with our discussions?
Looking forward to your next letter!
- Zach
The next letter will be the last in our series! And then we’re going to do a live video call to wrap up our discussion. It will also be the first time we meet in (virtual) person.
If you like this letter, share it!
And if you like what I’ve had to say, or are looking for ways to escape this world for a better one through short stories, subscribe for free today!
Also, though it’s only if you want to support my work, I offer a paid subscription. There aren’t any benefits to this quite yet besides helping me have a little extra cheddah, I will be working toward offering something more to paid subscribers.
I’m offering 10 percent off for the lifetime of your support to me! Subscribe now to get that deal and enjoy the benefits when I start doling out exclusive stuff!
Until next time, Realm Walkers.
Thank you for reading
October 4, 2024
Brood - Complete
Hello and welcome to Realms! My name is Zach Roush, the writer and reader of Realms. Realms is a sci-fi and fantasy podcast and newsletter that hits your inbox once a month - subscribe to get it conveniently delivered to your phone or computer or spaceship. Then, you can escape to new realms wherever you are - on a walk, on the bus, etc.
Today’s story is Brood, parts 1-3, all in one for your convenience. I am not the narrator for this story - that’s my buddy Cam’s job this time around. Cam Daxon is a writer and Creative living in Los Angeles, and he’d love to work with you if you need someone.
Without further ado, here’s
BroodThe humid dawn welcomed Alphonse into her arms with a gasping, clutching desire. He sneered at it: the heavy morning smelling of something sour and old and unforgiving. He went for a cigarette, found his pocket empty, and remembered that he was trying to quit. He popped a mint into his mouth instead.
Al was on his way to Jackson, Mississippi but planned on enjoying his time in Louisville. There was good bourbon to be had and, by God, he would get it from the source. Perhaps there’d be a lady friend or two involved—he just figured out how this dating app worked. He stood there thinking about this little vacation he was on. A week off in so many years wasn’t much to ask for, but his boss had busted his balls for it, asking Al to take a shorter vacation.
“I need to get another job. Can’t go back to that,” Al said to himself as he stood there. A cool breeze broke the fierce snarl of humidity and he took that as a sign. The vacation had gone well already. He’d seen his Mom in Indianapolis, his cousins—who were more like brothers—up by Lake Michigan, and both visits had enriched him. He’d avoided the ex, though he’d been tempted to drop her a line. He didn’t want her to think less of him but after six years of hell… Well, he still felt guilty for downloading that dating app. It was time to get out there again, at the behest of his friends.
He muttered, “Doesn’t have to be serious. Something easy. Light. Fun.” He grimaced and reached for another cigarette. “Damn it all…” Another mint, then.
At that, he decided to drive a while to see if there was much going on in these parts. The motel was hidden away off Highway 64 in some forest that reminded Al of the dense Amazon jungle he’d only seen on TV. Where some thick British voice explained things in a way that put him to sleep. Like the one on the TV, this forest was thick and primordial, lying in wait for its eventual return to glory. Humankind had only dimmed its empire. Long had it grown and died, nurturing life in its boughs and soil, creating a cycle of life that had yet to be broken. The motel manager, Hanu, the only worker around as far as Al could tell, stopped him on the way out.
“Where you off to?” Hanu asked, scratching at a growing bald patch on his head.
“Anywhere with people. You know a spot?”
“Yeah, the local bar. Ain’t much special about it, but it’s cozy. Got like a thousand whiskeys on the menu, if you’re into that. Don’t drink much myself.”
“That’s right up my alley. I’ll head there.” Al pulled out his phone, hoping Hanu didn’t judge this early morning visit to a bar. “What’s it called?”
“Won’t be on your phone there. Only can find it by feel.”
“Feel?” He looked at the man, perplexed. “You joking?”
Hanu smiled. “Of course. Just head five minutes down this main road here, then you’ll see a sign to a gravel road. Called The Pharaoh.”
“Huh. Sounds interesting.”
“Just 5 minutes and take a left,” Al mocked, his voice rumbling with discontent. It had been almost an hour since he'd followed the instructions. The gravel road seemed to have no end. He’d seen the sign, of course, but had yet to see any sign of the bar itself. All around him was sheer darkness despite the rising day; the lights of his Chevy struggled to dissipate. It was noisy, too. Noisier than walking through his uncle’s chicken farm. Al cranked down his window to unveil the raucous, near-painful ringing of insects. Cicadas. But not the mindless droning Al was used to. There was a rhythm. It produced a high ringing song, growing and piercing, and then a sudden drop. It was so precise and surrounding, it sounded artificial.
He looked out into that deep, wooded place, and wondered if he’d ever heard something so loud and disconcerting. His eyes wandered off the road, to his cup. The water rippled from the sound and—
“Oh, shit!”
His tires came to a screeching halt on the gravel road, the truck skidding sideways a little. He’d almost driven right off into the woods.
“Goddamn bugs.”
He navigated the bend with a huff and shortly pulled into the parking lot. The bar’s neon sign shone through the windshield. If you looked in from the outside, you’d see its red letters flashing across Al’s broad forehead: The Pharaoh. His wasn’t the only vehicle there, but there weren’t many to speak of. Not fancy cars, either. They must have been locals or travelers like him.
As he walked up, he noticed them: the thick, crawling carpet of insects advancing up every available surface. Large as his big thumbs, their nymph eyes concealed within a fragile exoskeleton, the cicadas were preparing for the final stage of life by shedding that thin skin. So many nymphs were still breaking through the earth in places, boiling out from the ground. Al inspected a nearby tree, its roots bubbling with new life.
“Yuck,” Al said.
He went to the doors and opened them, and was shocked by the volume inside. The meat of it, the tantalizing flavor of human recreation whacked him in the face. There wasn’t anywhere to sit at all. Standing room only, and the band setting up hadn’t even begun to play. The bar was built right. It had concealed all the frivolity and joy and unscrupulous behavior within. Quite possibly, Al guessed, in an effort to keep that cicada madness out.
“What in the hell?” Al said, astonished, excited. He loved to be where things were happening. And here he was, at The Pharaoh, the place loud and wild like it was Friday night on St. Patrick’s Day and not a Tuesday morning in June.
He squeezed into the bar, hailed the bartender. “Double bourbon, on the rocks.”
“Which one? We only got seventeen hundred of them in stock.”
Al grinned. “Your choice. Nothing too fancy, though.”
The bartender ducked down to grab a bottle. She poured an amber liquid into a square glass over a square cube of ice. Looked a little too fancy at first, but…
“This is The Pharaoh’s ‘house wine’.” The bartender winked.
Al sniffed. Sipped. Malt and fire, brown sugar and desire. Exactly what he was looking for.
“Yup. That’ll do. So, why’s this place called The Pharaoh?”
“Named after the cicadas. The ones outside right now. Rising from the earth and all. S’cuse me.”
She fluttered off to serve the new flocks of thirsty folk. Al pursed his lips, sipped again at his bourbon.
He grinned, smacked his lips. “Pace yourself, Al. It ain’t water.”
The show had yet to begin, and not feeling particularly brave to start up a conversation, he flicked open his phone. Started looking at potential lady-friends to meet up with. Swipe right. Swipe right. Oh, definitely left. Yikes.
One of the right swipes matched almost immediately. He got a message.
From, Cleo: So, not to be weird. But I’m here at The Pharaoh. I’m waving at ya.
“Wow. First time’s the charm.”
Al’s brows flew up. He looked around the room, sweeping back and forth. The large bar with double-height ceilings probably held three hundred people. He couldn’t find Cleo, probably because he had a hard time picking out details in a crowd. Wait, was it that woman, waving? Didn’t quite match the picture. Al waved. The woman shook her head at him, then someone else joined her. Al felt his face flush. Somebody could point right at something and he’d never find it. Something his ex used to joke about all the—
Enough of her. Where was this woman?
“Al!”
Her voice rang out above the din. There she was, a curly-haired woman at a table. She had a seat open, gestured to it. Al’s stomach dropped and a cold sweat broke out. This was new territory. Meeting a stranger through his phone without even chatting first, no time to perfect the pick-up lines or flirt. But her smile was inviting. Thoughts raced through his mind as he smiled back, mechanically, and walked toward her.
Don’t spill my drink, don’t trip, don’t look like a goofy-ass fool, shit what are my priorities, what do I talk about, who am I, do I have BigMac particles in my teeth, did even I brush my teeth, will she hate that I still smoke sometimes, oh God, I’m here I’m sitting down.
“Alphonse, but you can call me Al,” he said, shaking her hand.
“Cleo. Not short for Cleopatra, though.” She laughed at her joke. “Pretty miraculous, us matching here and now?”
“Are you kidding me? This whole bar is a miracle. A party like this on a Tuesday morning? All those goddamn bugs outside?”
“That’s what it’s all for.”
“What’s that?”
“Those bugs out there been in the ground for 19 years. Waiting. For this very moment.” “Shit,” he said like it was two words, “you kidding me?”
“No sir,” Cleo replied and smiled. She was missing a tooth on her lower jaw. It shocked and endeared her to Al all the more. He took a longer gander. Freckles. Nice skin. Brown eyes. Not a radical, almost manufactured beauty, as some women he saw on that app were. Her eyes were earnest, searching. Or was Al imagining it? Something struck Al the same way a preacher’s words might have struck him as a child. Something momentous and wonderful and massive was occurring around him and he just happened to walk in. An accidental interloper at the birth of a star.
Was it love at first sight?
Maybe she was just Al’s kind of beautiful. And he’d caught her at a beautiful moment.
They clinked glasses. She was drinking bourbon, too.
“To auspicious moments,” Al declared, then lost Cleo’s words in the music that started playing.
What followed seemed miraculous to Al. Music that pounded and roared in the best sort of way, the band playing mostly things he loved and from many genres of rock; songs from Pink Floyd, Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, and even the Front Bottoms.
The bourbon went down easy; jamming to those tunes, a beautiful woman at his side, all the tides and troubles of his life locked away beyond the doors. When the band finished their set, Cleo and Al headed to the bar and went for something more top-shelf. The shots were over forty dollars.
She said, “You already bought the first three rounds, I’ll get this one.”
“But…this is a date, isn’t it? I should…”
“No need for that. This is a special day to be celebrated,” she clinked her glass against his, “and hopefully not forgotten.”
The bar had settled into a rumbling quiet, half the patrons gone with the band, and the rest a mix of locals and interlopers who preferred to keep to themselves. Al set his cup down on the counter and felt something squirming underneath.
“The hell?”
He pulled his hand back like he touched a hot stove. He wasn’t burned. Just terrified at the texture and wriggle of the cicada on his skin.
Cleo laughed. “Oh, they get in every once in a while. Leave their skins everywhere. It’s normal.”
“It’s kinda creepy. You don’t mind it?”
“Never.” She picked up the Nymph delicately like it was a precious gem. “They’re part of the cycle of this old place. This bar is just a bump on a log here.”
“Won’t disagree with that.” They tapped glasses again, but Al looked this time before setting it down.
“Where’re you staying?” Cleo asked.
Al gulped. “Motel down the way. Was a bitch to find this place, but I reckon it won’t be so rough gettin’ back.”
“Well, we could go there or my place. It’s just down the road half an hour. It’s quite beautiful.”
Al tried to casually down the rest of his expensive bourbon. It burned on the way down, burned away a little bit of fear and anticipation. He hadn’t been with a woman, naked or otherwise, in some time. He was lonely. He hoped she was, too, in her own way.
“Your place sounds fine if it’s okay with you.”
At Cleo’s instruction, they took his truck deeper into the forest, deeper than Al thought it should go when he looked at a map of the area. He tried checking his phone to see where they were, but there wasn’t service anymore. Cleo was being lovely, singing along with the country music he’d put on. What were the odds she knew this song? He got the CD from a band from his hometown. And she didn’t seem to be the Indie music type.
Too good to be true, he thought. Nothing new to him. He always felt lucky when a woman spent time with him. So rare, these days, to find a girl he got along with. Wasn’t for any reason he could think of. He wasn’t an extremist, like his brother Dixon, or a recluse, like his cousin Trudy. The last song, Youth Fading Fast ended with its mournful note, not unlike the one the cicadas were singing.
Cleo said, “I’m surprised you know the Sweaty Cowboys!”
Al chuckled. “I’m more than surprised. I’m dumbfounded! That band’s from my hometown. Nobody knows them.”
“I know a lot of music. This way deep in the forest, we don’t get internet or nothing. Radio comes through clearly, and I even get all the smaller stations. Why do you love ‘em?”
Al was abashed. “Well, I suppose it reminds me of home. I’m on the road a lot for work--I represent a chemical cleanup company at all the industry conventions. Anyway, at this old diner in my town, they only play this band’s songs. We’re just proud of them, you know? So, when I hear them, I feel like I’m sitting down on a cracking vinyl cushion and I’m sipping slightly stale coffee from a beige mug. There’s bacon fat crackling, a plate of pancakes sliding, and old men chatting in the corner about how the world’s going to hell. Typical American diner stuff. But it’s home.”
“That’s great. I love that.” Cleo looked out the window. “I like them because they’re so honest. So true. Like that last song: Windows down, wind ripping, heart breakin’; watching you disappear, the one I love and can’t ever leave behind.”
“Yeah. It hurts good, don’t it?” The CD had finished and Al didn’t feel like his drunk heart could take another listen. Too sad, in some ways. Songs of death and taxes, lost loves and long roads. He said, “So, we’ve been driving for a while. Where is this house of yours?”
“Right here.”
“Oh…”
The stalwart legions of trees broke away all at once. A glade bloomed before them, open to the sun like the whole thing was a flower. Al had to stop the truck to take it in; it was stunning. Long grasses stretched a few acres all ‘round, the glade shaped like a wide lima bean. At one “end” of the bean, there was a two-story white country house complete with a wraparound porch, the paint flaking on some of the planks. It stood on a bit of a rise.
“This is beautiful.”
Cleo smiled, the light catching her eyes. She was radiant. Al’s heart pounded. For what it’s worth, hers did too. Not quite for the same reason. “Roll down your window.”
Al did, though he knew the cicada’s song would drive him mad. Then it didn’t.
This glade was silent. Al looked at Cleo like lightning had struck his truck.
She shrugged, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “It’s a bit of magic.”
“Shit, I’d say so. It’s dead quiet here.”
“Yeah, I love it. C’mon. Let’s get on to the house.”
“You got it .” Al paused, seeing that Cleo hadn’t turned away. “What?”
She was looking at him closely, peering almost. She put a hand on his leg. “You’re real sweet. Real honest.”
“I try to be…” he said as confidently as he could. What could he say? She made it easy to be that way? Like he didn’t have to pretend to be so macho or like he had everything together or that of late he stayed up and stared at the motel ceiling, wondering if he should go on or not. It wasn’t the time to have that conversation. It was a different time. Their heads were close. Her lips, not far. Those eyes, drawing him in, like they went on forever into her mind and on and on and deeper. Time to kiss her, right?
Don’t rush things, Al thought. He’d done that before. Shit, with a girl like Cleo, how many others had done the same? Bourbon, music, her smile, enchanted him.
Ain’t nobody perfect, Al warned himself.
He grinned and pulled away, dying a little as he did, hoping he hadn’t ruined something by being too careful.
They toured the house. It was old. The house wasn’t even on a concrete foundation. Al got the feeling that they were doing a bit of a dance. Giddy love and bourbon were making them skittish. As Cleo showed Al the parlor, a room oddly filled with leaves and dirt, Al did a double-take. There wasn’t a floor, not at all, just a hollow maybe six feet down.
“What’s going on here?”
Cleo explained quickly, “Renovating. Thinking about putting in concrete floors. I hate how the wood creaks in the winter winds. Sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Scares me half to death.”
“That’s a modern look, for sure. Would concrete look good with the rest?” He didn’t know what to say. He wondered aloud if a little more alcohol might improve his nascent timidity.
She smiled, but not half as big as before. “I’ll make us some drinks. Meet ya on the porch.” It was like she read his mind. He smiled and allowed none of the relief he felt to show on his face. Outside, he reached for his smokes. He found none, of course.
“Shit.” Gum, then. He chewed through the flavor in two licks. “She’s acting differently. What the hell did I do wrong?”
Cleo stepped out and Al nodded at her stiffly. All the smoothness was gone. Where did it go? Where had it evaporated to? The suave cowboy he’d been at the bar had hung up his hat and put up his boots and now-
“Mint Julep Lemonade. Personal recipe. Learned it awhile back.”
“Thank you, Cleo.” They stood there, quietly sipping their drinks. “Mind if we sit?”
“Yeah, here, around the corner’s the best view.”
Two rocking chairs waited for a couple of love-drunk people if they could be found. Al settled in, happy to avoid Cleo’s eyes. He took a sip and smacked his lips. Tart drink. Heavy on the bourbon. “How long have you held this land?”
“Oh, generations,” Cleo answered wistfully. “Longer’n America, certainly.”
“How so?”
“My blood’s always been here, in one form or another. The world around always changes, but this glade remains itself. As do I. As do we all, I guess.”
Al sipped and nodded. Nodded and sipped. The quiet persisted over the grasses, waving in the wind and looking like simmering oil, or shimmering metal. Reminded him of timelessness, somehow.
Al cleared his throat. “Listen, about, you know, almost kissing.” He couldn’t look her in the eye. “I’m not that forward. Not my style.” She watched him. It urged him onward, and he sort of let it all out. “I get scared, you know? Most men would jump off a cliff to even talk to someone like you. But me? I’d let them jump. I’m just not that type of guy. I don’t need to jump to, you know, the physical stuff.”
She didn’t answer, persisting only in her watchfulness. The wind tossed her hair lightly.
“ I…Shit. I messed it all up. I shoulda kissed you. I—”
“Stop, Al.” He clapped his jaw shut, sipped his drink. A breeze came through, stirring the humid air. Cleo let the wind speak to her, even tilting her ear to it. She sighed. “It’s strange. To not be expected to just get on with it, I guess. Threw me off. Most men I bring just get it over quick. But your fear…your caution. It’s respect. I ‘preciate it. It saved you, to be sure.”
“Saved me?” From sheer embarrassment? From ruining what this was?
Cleo put her glass down, got up from her chair, and offered a hand. “Let’s try that kiss. You have my permission. ”
Al was shocked. Was this…? No. Enough wondering. Enough questioning. He briefly considered slapping, pinching, and biting himself. He settled for downing the drink. It burned. It burned and fired him up and…
He coughed and said, “Just to be clear, the kiss…and?”
“Yes, and.”
Their eyes locked. They’d found it again, that delicious magnetism. They pulled it taught, pulled themselves toward each other until they met body to body, lips to lips. Equal force enough that Al bit his lip. He flinched away and laughed. Cleo laughed too.
Al demurred. “A bit….”
“Fast?” Cleo said.
“Yeah. But, again?”
Their eyes locked. They’d found it again, that delicious magnetism. They pulled it taught, pulled themselves toward each other until they met body to body, face to face. Equal force enough that Al bit his lip. He flinched away and laughed. Cleo laughed too.
Al demurred. “A bit….”
“Fast?” Cleo said.
“Yeah. But, again?”
They kissed more gently, like caressing the petals of a tulip. Al wrapped his arms around her and they leaned against the porch wall, the heat rising in that simmering afternoon. They were hot as the air, hotter. The buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, rising and falling. Was that song in his head or outside of him?
An urgency called desire pounced.
They made a stumbled entry into Cleo’s home; a shirt dropping here, jeans there, two pairs of boots. Al hadn’t felt like this before. Not for some time. A pause, a panic. Al, going back for the wallet, making sure he had… Shit. Maybe I should ask…
He looked at her halfway up the stairs, mostly naked. His heart pounded.
He said, “Any…you know, ‘no-nos’ or?”
She laughed. “Get up here!”
He smiled. She smiled. Bare feet raced up creaking stairs, lovers giving chase. Their footsteps soften on a long hallway rug. When had Al last felt so safe in his own skin?
They reached a doorway at the end of the hall. They smiled and went through.
The cicadas were calling through the glade, their vibrations reaching through the air, touching everything, delving deeper and deeper, even into the frames of that old house down to its bones. Something was awakened. Something was released. Two beings were awakened and freed and changed by the touch of skin, that oldest of remedies oft-replaced for cheaper things.
Something had changed indeed.
Darkness. An aching head. A dry tongue.
“Ah…shit.” Al sat up. “Cleo?”
Not in the bed. Not in the room.
“My head…” It was ringing. Buzzing. “Those goddamn bugs… Don’t they only sing during the day?”
“Yes,” Cleo said. Her voice sounded clear but oddly distant.
“Cleo? Where are ya?”
Silence. Except for the cicadas. He sat up and put his feet on the floor. A leathery material met his soles. A leather rug? Weird. Hadn’t noticed that, but Al hadn’t been particularly focused on decor before.
“Light…” he groaned. He found a lamp on the bedside table. Didn’t work, but he found water. He drank. It was stale and dusty, for some reason, but his throat was salved. His head cleared a little, restoring higher cognition. “How long did I sleep?”
“Long enough.”
“Cleo, are you playing hide and seek?” He rubbed crusts out of his eyes and looked at his feet.
Cleo’s face was there between his feet.
“Jesus!” He almost jumped out of his own skin. He was on top of the bed, staring at the thing. “Cleo? What the hell is this?” Nothing. “Cleo!?”
He jumped over it and went to the window, pulled away the dusty curtains to look at the thing on the ground. It looked like Cleo, to be sure, but on second glance, more like an empty sack made in her likeness.
The more he looked at that naked, deflated skin bag the more queasy he got. Was this part of some fetish? Some sex thing Al hadn’t signed up for?
“I’m getting kinda weirded out here….”
“I’m waiting.”
“But where are you? Your body’s…here?”
Al was ready to jet. He hadn’t meant this to be a one-night stand, but if this got any weirder…
He said, “I’m not a judgmental person. I met plenty of people into--uh--unique things. It’s just not my thing.” He racked his brain. “Maybe we can have some coffee and talk about this?”
No response. The cicadas sang at a higher pitch for a moment before dropping off. The cup on the table shook so hard from the sound it fell before Al could catch it. Water dumped over the Cleo-thing, dripping and pooling like it would on skin.
Al looked away and decided he should find his pants and get the hell out of dodge.
“Levi’s are downstairs, I reckon.” He didn’t relish the thought of leaving the semblance of safety he had in the room, but there wasn’t any way in hell he could stay up here.
Old wood creaked. Groaned. Every step. The house wasn’t the same as before. The walls! Had they been so moldy, so decrepit? Had the furniture been so eaten and musty? Another bedroom. Had that been there before?
He cracked it open. A copy, almost, of the one he’d left. Another bed. Another set of strewn-about clothes. Another sack of skin, and…Bones. Bones on the bed. Cast in the forge of the falling sun.
How much time before dark?
“I gotta get out…I gotta leave,” Al uttered and slammed the door. Where were the stairs? How had he gotten so turned around? Had he been roofied? Drugged? Or just too drunk to function? Ah, right, they’d gone to the bedroom at the end of the hall. Stairs were to his left, then. He walked slowly in the half darkness until he reached them. He took the stairs slowly, trying to peer around the bend. Found his jeans on the bottom step. Keys and wallet still in there. Nothing missing, except his underwear. He looked around for Cleo, or, rather for what had potentially used her skin..
Nothing. Nobody. Sunset on pale walls. Chair rail scuffed and decrepit. Soil and dirt and what looked like half-eaten roots everywhere. This wasn’t the same house. Couldn’t be!
Al rasped, “Where the hell am I?”
“Come to me.”
“Where the hell are you, Cleo?”
“The parlor.”
He crept forward, down the narrow hall, finding drippings of something organic and moist on the walls and floor, leading to the parlor. Across from it, the way to the kitchen. Perpendicular to both rooms, a screen door that led to freedom. The cicada song was sharp as glass in his ears.
He ran. Threw open the screen door. Stomped down the stairs and dashed out into the grass, his jeans barely hanging on—his mom always told him his skinny ass wouldn’t hold up pants without a belt—when he remembered his truck was on the other side of the house. He screeched to a halt.
“Shit!”
“Al. Come to me.”
He answered, “How the hell are you speaking? You’re body’s on the floor! Is that not you?!”
“Come. To. Me.”
The world flipped. Al’s stomach turned with his body. His body was flipping. The glade, the fiery sky, the rotting ranch house, all spinning. And then he was back inside the house, the parlor specifically, thrown onto a dirt floor. The vertigo struck him from toes to top, making him retch violently. Bourbon. Lemonade. More bourbon. French fries?
He remarked, “Don’t remember those.”
“Alphonse.”
He wiped his mouth, knowing that this was something weird and wrong. “I was outside. Now I’m inside, ” he said without looking up. “You’re not Cleo.”
“Look at me.”
He sighed. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. Whatever powers were at work here, they wouldn’t let him go.
“All right. I’m not running”
His head led his eyes. Before him was the end of something, a tail or some such. A segment, rather. Bristling with sharp hairs, long as his fingers. Another segment attached to it, and another, and another. All of them pulsing, wriggling with hidden spasms, thick as the two-hundred-year-old oak tree outside his childhood home. He kept raising his head.
More segments. A dripping fluid. A leg—two legs, no, six! More than there should be for any creature this size—but did Al know of any creatures this size that weren’t mammals? They didn’t exist. Shouldn’t. Now he saw broader segments covered by transparent, folded structures. Wings!
And at the head of it all, this beast, this thing that trailed from the ground and up the wall and clung to the high ceiling, were jaws and mandibles and four sets of human eyes. The call of cicadas rang louder and louder, like a scream the size of a world. Al laughed, at first. The shock was too much.
“Al,” it intoned without a mouth, without teeth or tongue. “I told you that you had saved yourself.”
He laughed some more. “You sound like Cleo.”
“I am. And I am not.”
“Who--what in the hell am I looking at?”
“I was here long before the age of humans.”
“So, you’re a…a…cicada?”
“Correct.”
“Okay, well—”
“You do not need to understand more than what you see.” The thing with Cleo’s voice detached from the ceiling. He stood as still-human eyes—Cleo’s eyes—leveled with his. He was ready to run, to bolt and throw caution to the wind. It betrayed his every instinct to stand there. Then, that segmented abdomen slithered around him. No way out. Those great mandibles clacked against each other—tock, tock—like an old grandfather clock counting down. Its body hissed as it inhaled and exhaled, bestowing upon the human a perfume that reeked of ancient undergrowth and fresh spring all at once, of things that died only to be reborn, and yet others Al had no name for and never would.
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Al’s eyes bore into Cleo’s. The woman he met that morning. A lifetime ago.
Al was trapped with this thing. No way out. His brain chugged through the bourbon strain, trying to put the pieces together. What was it that happened to real cicadas? They crawled out of the earth. They molted. They mated. And then laid eggs to begin the cycle again.
Which stage was Al part of?
“The bones,” Al said. He paled. “Look, I wasn’t ever interested in just…”
“Al, I know you. I know you through footsteps and vibrations. I know you through light you cannot see and sounds you cannot hear.” It broke eye contact. “I cannot bring myself to complete the cycle. You are genuine. Many a human I have engaged who wanted nothing more than to…conquer.”
“Well…shit.” He laughed once. “Call me lucky…”
“No. You are good. You are good and you may go. But quickly! Quickly…Alphonseeeeeeeee.” A rumbling ensued inside the cicada’s body. Those eyes, those deep brown pools, blinked, were replaced by completely white eyes bloodshot through. They were turning red. Her segmented body opened up a way through.
Al leaped through the window, glass crashing and piercing him as he rolled. He yelped and shouted like a dog, got his feet under him, and made for his truck.
The sun was going down, the shadows long and reaching and menacing
The truck wouldn’t start.
“Oh, come on. Please.” A false start. A shudder from the engine. The house behind him was shivering, shaking, groaning. Wood was flying off the sides, shingles sliding down and pattering the earth. A great groan overtook the scintillating whir of the cicadas and became a new call, a new song that heralded a great change.
“Oaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhsssssss.”
The hiss at the end told Al all he needed to know. Cleo was gone, given over to the undying cycle of the glade.
The truck wouldn’t start.
“Aw, hell.” He popped it into neutral. The rise that the house sat on let him get the truck rolling. He pushed it. His ass hung half-out, his cheeks bared to the rising moon.
The engine turned over just as the entire house exploded behind him.
“God almighty!” He raced against the last of the light, dying as he would die: slowly and limned in red. His truck shook and rumbled, and not from the engine.
Dirt clods and bundles of grass burst toward his truck in a wake of destruction, its epicenter a hulking, leaping mass; red-eyed, mandibles opening wider in a grin of hunger. Its wings were fluttering out, pushing it on with increasing speed.
He looked forward. Where was the road? Where? There! He steered toward the thin gap that marked his escape route.
He screamed, “Come on! Come on!”
Al flicked on his headlights, illuminating the way out of the glade. The only way. A maw of life before, one of death behind. Those red eyes were so bright now he could see the glow on his dash. He pissed himself.
“Make it stop,” he begged, his heart pounding hard enough to hear over that stupid, horrible, insane cicada song. “Goddamn, that noise!”
A slavering set of chitinous jaws. A song that rippled across his skin. A woman, a beautiful woman who was true to him even when she changed…had she even been real?
His eyes flicked to the mirror. And then he was through.
He didn’t pump the brakes like he should have. He nicked the corner of his truck on trunks and bushes, skidded out sideways, and smashed the vehicle into an old tree. He smashed his head against the glass, making his head spin. Dizzy, delirious, he looked back. A curtain of twilight had embraced that old place, from the boughs above to the roots below. A tunnel out to the glade was still apparent, though it was fading fast. A great, steaming, horrible mass lingered. As the sun died, two sets of red eyes floated, it seemed, attached to that mass.
Al breathed. He waited. His mind cleared. The eyes returned his patience in kind. Al, in an act that would dumbfound him forever, got out of the car.
He stood there, shirtless, bleeding from a temple, swaying slightly from the dizziness. He wanted to look this timeless, hungry beast in its eyes and respect it for what it gave him: a chance, even though he was but a blink in its eternity. Even though he was just meat and a source of genetic material.
An age. A lifetime. An eon passed.
The eyes moved on, dragging their body with it, singing that song that Al would never forget, never shake. The ruler of this ancient place would lay its eggs and die and be reborn, as it has done since it ruled this forest. In some time, another mate would be needed.
Al felt the weight of his survival like a barbell dropped on his chest. He sat in the dirt. He coughed. He laughed. He blubbered. His face spewed snot and tears. He couldn’t believe it. He’d met, did the nasty with, and escaped something beyond his comprehension.
Al’s crying turned into laughter. Cackling. A broken staccato of choked, impossible humor.
“She…swiped right on me. That thing!”
He laughed and laughed, only stopping when his body started shivering. Night’s coolness had descended, breaking the heavy heat of the day. Al stood, his gaze unwavering from the glade. He got in his truck, the door creaking closed, breaking the near-stillness around him. Crickets chirped. An owl hooted, then left its branch in a silent swoop. Night was all around. Al listened to it all, expecting to hear a roar, a thunderous chase. But nothing. Here he was, a human who had survived a thing he could tell no one, and yet…And yet…
He wondered what it would have been like, to be eaten alive. A strange thought.
Putting the truck in gear was no trouble. Driving it straight wasn’t either, despite crashing into a tree. The trouble was driving away at all. He kept looking into that rearview mirror, hoping to see those red eyes. He’d felt so alive and more in tune with instinct than anything else. Returning to normal life, hell, returning to the motel didn’t seem as real as that monster, or Cleo, for that matter.
How could he go back to that life, now?
He applied the brake and pulled his truck to a stop and turned around in his seat. His tired eyes bored into that wooded corridor with an empty ache, a forbidden sort of longing emerging from deep inside him. His shaking hand went to the key in the ignition. The truck’s lights went out.
Thank you for reading Brood! Please share to grow this publication:
September 27, 2024
Brood Part III
Hello and welcome to Realms! My name is Zach Roush, the writer and reader of Realms. Realms is a FREE monthly sci-fi and fantasy newsletter that takes you to new worlds once a month. Subscribe today so you get the next story right in your inbox!
Today I have the final episode of Brood - the conclusion you didn’t see coming (unless you did!).
As with Part I and Part II, our wonderful narrator is Cam Daxon, a friend and colleague who is talented in everything creative. Reach out to him on LinkedIn for any opportunities.
Without further ado, Here’s Brood Part III…
He crept forward, down the narrow hall, finding drippings of something organic and moist on the walls and floor, leading to the parlor. Across from it, the way to the kitchen. Perpendicular to both rooms, a screen door that led to freedom. The cicada song was sharp as glass in his ears.
He ran. Threw open the screen door. Stomped down the stairs and dashed out into the grass, his jeans barely hanging on—his mom always told him his skinny ass wouldn’t hold up pants without a belt—when he remembered his truck was on the other side of the house. He screeched to a halt.
“Shit!”
“Al. Come to me.”
He answered, “How the hell are you speaking? You’re body’s on the floor! Is that not you?!”
“Come. To. Me.”
The world flipped. Al’s stomach turned with his body. His body was flipping. The glade, the fiery sky, the rotting ranch house, all spinning. And then he was back inside the house, the parlor specifically, thrown onto a dirt floor. The vertigo struck him from toes to top, making him retch violently. Bourbon. Lemonade. More bourbon. French fries?
He remarked, “Don’t remember those.”
“Alphonse.”
He wiped his mouth, knowing that this was something weird and wrong. “I was outside. Now I’m inside, ” he said without looking up. “You’re not Cleo.”
“Look at me.”
He sighed. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. Whatever powers were at work here, they wouldn’t let him go.
“All right. I’m not running”
His head led his eyes. Before him was the end of something, a tail or some such. A segment, rather. Bristling with sharp hairs, long as his fingers. Another segment attached to it, and another, and another. All of them pulsing, wriggling with hidden spasms, thick as the two-hundred-year-old oak tree outside his childhood home. He kept raising his head.
More segments. A dripping fluid. A leg—two legs, no, six! More than there should be for any creature this size—but did Al know of any creatures this size that weren’t mammals? They didn’t exist. Shouldn’t. Now he saw broader segments covered by transparent, folded structures. Wings!
And at the head of it all, this beast, this thing that trailed from the ground and up the wall and clung to the high ceiling, were jaws and mandibles and four sets of human eyes. The call of cicadas rang louder and louder, like a scream the size of a world. Al laughed, at first. The shock was too much.
“Al,” it intoned without a mouth, without teeth or tongue. “I told you that you had saved yourself.”
He laughed some more. “You sound like Cleo.”
“I am. And I am not.”
“Who--what in the hell am I looking at?”
“I was here long before the age of humans.”
“So, you’re a…a…cicada?”
“Correct.”
“Okay, well—”
“You do not need to understand more than what you see.” The thing with Cleo’s voice detached from the ceiling. He stood as still-human eyes—Cleo’s eyes—leveled with his. He was ready to run, to bolt and throw caution to the wind. It betrayed his every instinct to stand there. Then, that segmented abdomen slithered around him. No way out. Those great mandibles clacked against each other—tock, tock—like an old grandfather clock counting down. Its body hissed as it inhaled and exhaled, bestowing upon the human a perfume that reeked of ancient undergrowth and fresh spring all at once, of things that died only to be reborn, and yet others Al had no name for and never would.
Al’s eyes bore into Cleo’s. The woman he met that morning. A lifetime ago.
Al was trapped with this thing. No way out. His brain chugged through the bourbon strain, trying to put the pieces together. What was it that happened to real cicadas? They crawled out of the earth. They molted. They mated. And then laid eggs to begin the cycle again.
Which stage was Al part of?
“The bones,” Al said. He paled. “Look, I wasn’t ever interested in just…”
“Al, I know you. I know you through footsteps and vibrations. I know you through light you cannot see and sounds you cannot hear.” It broke eye contact. “I cannot bring myself to complete the cycle. You are genuine. Many a human I have engaged who wanted nothing more than to…conquer.”
“Well…shit.” He laughed once. “Call me lucky…”
“No. You are good. You are good and you may go. But quickly! Quickly…Alphonseeeeeeeee.” A rumbling ensued inside the cicada’s body. Those eyes, those deep brown pools, blinked, were replaced by completely white eyes bloodshot through. They were turning red. Her segmented body opened up a way through.
Al leaped through the window, glass crashing and piercing him as he rolled. He yelped and shouted like a dog, got his feet under him, and made for his truck.
The sun was going down, the shadows long and reaching and menacing
The truck wouldn’t start.
“Oh, come on. Please.” A false start. A shudder from the engine. The house behind him was shivering, shaking, groaning. Wood was flying off the sides, shingles sliding down and pattering the earth. A great groan overtook the scintillating whir of the cicadas and became a new call, a new song that heralded a great change.
“Oaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhsssssss.”
The hiss at the end told Al all he needed to know. Cleo was gone, given over to the undying cycle of the glade.
The truck wouldn’t start.
“Aw, hell.” He popped it into neutral. The rise that the house sat on let him get the truck rolling. He pushed it. His ass hung half-out, his cheeks bared to the rising moon.
The engine turned over just as the entire house exploded behind him.
“God almighty!” He raced against the last of the light, dying as he would die: slowly and limned in red. His truck shook and rumbled, and not from the engine.
Dirt clods and bundles of grass burst toward his truck in a wake of destruction, its epicenter a hulking, leaping mass; red-eyed, mandibles opening wider in a grin of hunger. Its wings were fluttering out, pushing it on with increasing speed.
He looked forward. Where was the road? Where? There! He steered toward the thin gap that marked his escape route.
He screamed, “Come on! Come on!”
Al flicked on his headlights, illuminating the way out of the glade. The only way. A maw of life before, one of death behind. Those red eyes were so bright now he could see the glow on his dash. He pissed himself.
“Make it stop,” he begged, his heart pounding hard enough to hear over that stupid, horrible, insane cicada song. “Goddamn, that noise!”
A slavering set of chitinous jaws. A song that rippled across his skin. A woman, a beautiful woman who was true to him even when she changed…had she even been real?
His eyes flicked to the mirror. And then he was through.
He didn’t pump the brakes like he should have. He nicked the corner of his truck on trunks and bushes, skidded out sideways, and smashed the vehicle into an old tree. He smashed his head against the glass, making his head spin. Dizzy, delirious, he looked back. A curtain of twilight had embraced that old place, from the boughs above to the roots below. A tunnel out to the glade was still apparent, though it was fading fast. A great, steaming, horrible mass lingered. As the sun died, two sets of red eyes floated, it seemed, attached to that mass.
Al breathed. He waited. His mind cleared. The eyes returned his patience in kind. Al, in an act that would dumbfound him forever, got out of the car.
He stood there, shirtless, bleeding from a temple, swaying slightly from the dizziness. He wanted to look this timeless, hungry beast in its eyes and respect it for what it gave him: a chance, even though he was but a blink in its eternity. Even though he was just meat and a source of genetic material.
An age. A lifetime. An eon passed.
The eyes moved on, dragging their body with it, singing that song that Al would never forget, never shake. The ruler of this ancient place would lay its eggs and die and be reborn, as it has done since it ruled this forest. In some time, another mate would be needed.
Al felt the weight of his survival like a barbell dropped on his chest. He sat in the dirt. He coughed. He laughed. He blubbered. His face spewed snot and tears. He couldn’t believe it. He’d met, did the nasty with, and escaped something beyond his comprehension.
Al’s crying turned into laughter. Cackling. A broken staccato of choked, impossible humor.
“She…swiped right on me. That thing!”
He laughed and laughed, only stopping when his body started shivering. Night’s coolness had descended, breaking the heavy heat of the day. Al stood, his gaze unwavering from the glade. He got in his truck, the door creaking closed, breaking the near-stillness around him. Crickets chirped. An owl hooted, then left its branch in a silent swoop. Night was all around. Al listened to it all, expecting to hear a roar, a thunderous chase. But nothing. Here he was, a human who had survived a thing he could tell no one, and yet…And yet…
He wondered what it would have been like, to be eaten alive. A strange thought.
Putting the truck in gear was no trouble. Driving it straight wasn’t either, despite crashing into a tree. The trouble was driving away at all. He kept looking into that rearview mirror, hoping to see those red eyes. He’d felt so alive and more in tune with instinct than anything else. Returning to normal life, hell, returning to the motel didn’t seem as real as that monster, or Cleo, for that matter.
How could he go back to that life, now?
He applied the brake and pulled his truck to a stop and turned around in his seat. His tired eyes bored into that wooded corridor with an empty ache, a forbidden sort of longing emerging from deep inside him. His shaking hand went to the key in the ignition. The truck’s lights went out.
Thank you for reading Brood!Here’s the cicada itself that inspired this story - give its haunting call a listen!
This year, a HUGE brood of cicada emerged: https://cicadas.uconn.edu/
The Pharaoh cicada, also known as Magicicada septendecim, makes this terrifying sound that was in my head as Cleo chased Al: https://listeninginnature.blogspot.com/2016/06/the-pharaoh-of-cicadas.html#:~:text=People%20describe%20the%20song%20as,volume%20level%20at%20the%20end.
Some quick questions for you:
What did you think of this story?
Did you see the ending coming?
What kind of monster do you think Cleo is?
Next week I’ll compile the whole story into a single episode, then you can listen to it all at once or share with someone you know would love it.
I hope you’re well and that you’ll keep your eyes peeled for next month’s story.
Until next time Realm Walkers, I’m Zach and your reading Realms.
September 9, 2024
On the Future of Writing, Letter Three
This is part 1 in a series of letters between reinancruz and me, Zach Roush.
Realms is a sci-fi and fantasy newsletter and podcast taking you to new realms every month! I’ll be sharing my letters here on Realms while Reina will share hers on her Substack Indie Fiction Digest.
Here’s a bit about Reina: Reina Cruz is a writer and middle school teacher from California. She is the writer of the Daughter of Isis series and Marredbury. You can follow her on substack and on her website.
We’re talking about the “future of writing”, which also touches on other things like the future of creativity, how creatives stay creative, and how we do or not keep creating in the face of many obstacles, like AI and visual media.
Subscribe today to catch the whole series! We’ll add links here as we publish more letters.
Letter One: What Writers Need to do to Keep Writing Forever
Letter Two: What Will Readers be Reading?
Thank you for your insights and questions! You are very knowledgeable about the publishing industry for sure! And I loved learning about the 1000 fans concept. I can see how it’s a foundational philosophy for Substack and emergent publishing networks; a sort of idealistic twist on capitalism where “we can all lift each other up” and “there’s room for everyone.” I have hope that this philosophy can transform how publishing and consumption operate, as Substack is proof that things can change. I’ll get to your questions from your last letter in a roundabout way. Here they are, for clarity:
“Could the future of reading be interactive? Where does video game storytelling come in here? I have close to no experience with gaming storytelling. I would love to hear your thoughts on that.”
I have a story for you to illustrate my thoughts. This past week my family and I went to a VR escape room at Noobs VR. It was very cool. Our escape room was “Time Travel Paradox”; we had to solve puzzles by manipulating time. There was a narrative slapped on top of the escape room - and yes, it did feel more like a coat of paint than a story - where we had to stop an evil scientist from stealing a time machine. The evil scientist, whose name we all forgot and resulting in us screaming “stop, Dr. Huffenschmirtz!”, had no backstory or dialogue. He served to justify how we went back in time and also how the puzzles played out.
The thing is, with interactive narratives, the story doesn’t matter so much as how fun it is to play. The silly, thin narrative for “Time Travel Paradox” was more than enough to engage us in the interactive experience. I’m working on a game right now, developing the story and such, and there’s so much we don’t know because we don’t have a proof-of-concept for the gameplay itself. There’s a lot of trepidation as a result - we can’t commit to brass tacks until we know players will have fun. Interactive writing, whether it’s a choose-your-own adventure type experience, or a full-on video game, depends so much more on gameplay and interface than anything else. This means the writing has to be of the highest quality, to serve the player’s fantasy at all costs. And there’s not just one type of player out there, either. Everyone wants something different from their game of choice, which means designers and writers have to make room for all kinds of players. It’s a fun creative challenge - which actually ties in to other things I want to respond to from your letter.
One issue I have with the 1000 fans theory is simply how consumptive our media is today. It’s tough to compete with all the other things drawing on people’s attention spans. To highlight gaming, for example, there’s millions of free-to-play games out there, especially on Itch - an indie publishing site. In general, we have so much media at our fingertips - a vast, unending, growing ocean of it - and reading is so energy-intensive (compared to almost every other online media) that our work as writers tends to be at the bottom of the totem pole. Calling back to my first letter: We have to love the craft so much because if we don’t, we’ll always be caught in rejection. And, if you’ll let me be cynical for a moment, that ocean of media clawing for our audience’s attention is trending toward pure consumptive quality. There’s a term out there called “enshitification”, coined by Cory Doctorow, that describes how and why the internet and our entertainment are losing their quality. This article is my favorite on the subject. I bring this up to highlight what we, as slow, methodical creators who can’t simply ramp up our production and marketing processes to inhuman levels, are fighting against. Truly, it is a fight! It might seem bold to say, as there are still so many readers and writers, but the written word has become counter culture because of how pervasive consumptive media has become, i.e., TikToks, X’s (tweets?), you name it. This game I’m working on, similarly, can’t just be done because I want it to be.
The second issue I have deals with equity. As highlighted in your linked article, not everyone will be able to shell out even $5 a month for all of their favorite creators. Furthermore, the 1000 fans theory assumes that both creator and consumer have the means to both create and consume at-will, voluntarily. Even though our economy is designed to eternally grow, this doesn’t mean that creativity and the means to create grow in tandem with it. That’s the harsh reality that really eats away at my optimism. Substack is a wonderful democratizer, probably my favorite tool out there, but it’s its own ocean and we’re all competing for space here. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not a shark-eat-shark competition, as these letters attest, we writers are good at competing together in a weird sort of friendly harmony that lifts my spirits. Haruki Murakami in his book of essays, Novelist as a Vocation (an amazing read!), puts it like this:
“In short, the world of the novelist is like a professional wrestling ring that welcomes anyone who feels like taking a crack at it. The gap between the ropes is big enough to pass through, and a step is provided to make your entrance easier. The ring is spacious. No security men block your way, and the referee doesn’t bark at you to leave. The wrestlers who are already there–the established novelists, in other words–are at the very least resigned to your presence: “No worries–come on up and take your best shot” is their attitude. The ring is–how shall I put this?–an airy, easy, accommodating, altogether laid-back environment.
While entering the ring may be easy, however, remaining there for long is hard.”
As you said, rejection is part of the writer’s experience. Loving the craft is one solid way of dealing with it, and as you said, having practical goals is another. A third component I’d like to add is this: keep your eyes on your words. A little intentional blindness will go a long way to protect us from comparison, which is the thief of joy, and also that unique form of paralysis when gazing into the ocean of shitty content that’s everywhere. We’re not competing with the ocean - we’re competing with ourselves to write just one more word and find one more reader.
To sum it up, we have a lot to juggle with as creators, and concerning the future of writing, our relationship with our audience is paramount. We have a responsibility to them and ourselves to nurture the kind of world where, somehow, the 1000 fans theory can become a reality. So, with competition, enshitification, and equity in mind, how do you think we can craft a better world for creators? How can we be better consumers and help others be more mindful of their consumption? How do we affect this current culture positively? It goes without saying that reading, as opposed to other entertainment sources, is actually good for us. But we obviously can’t go screaming this at people and then shove our writing in their faces. I don’t want these to be the answers to my question: “be authentic to your audience” and “keep up the good work.” I want to find something new that feels true.
Looking forward to your thoughts!
Best, Zach
Do you have any thoughts, dear reader?
What do you think of our media landscape today?
Are you a creator, too? Share your story, fears, or responses!
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Here’s my latest story, for your reading and listening pleasure:
August 23, 2024
Brood Part II
Hello and welcome to Realms, a sci-fi and fantasy newsletter and podcast. I’m Zach Roush, the creator of Realms.
Today’s story, Brood, is part two of three, and instead of enjoying my narration (if you’re listening, that is) you will be hearing the lovely voice of my friend, Cameron Daxon. Cameron is a writer, editor and occasional creative producer who lives in Los Angeles. He can be reached via LinkedIn for freelance opportunities in writing, voice acting, and more!
As always, this podcast is in text and podcast format. To get these stories in your inbox, subscribe for free.
If you missed Brood Part I, read it here:
At Cleo’s instruction, they took his truck deeper into the forest, deeper than Al thought it should go when he looked at a map of the area. He tried checking his phone to see where they were, but there wasn’t service anymore. Cleo was being lovely, singing along with the country music he’d put on. What were the odds she knew this song? He got the CD from a band from his hometown. And she didn’t seem to be the Indie music type.
Too good to be true, he thought. Nothing new to him. He always felt lucky when a woman spent time with him. So rare, these days, to find a girl he got along with. Wasn’t for any reason he could think of. He wasn’t an extremist, like his brother Dixon, or a recluse, like his cousin Trudy. The last song, Youth Fading Fast ended with its mournful note, not unlike the one the cicadas were singing.
Cleo said, “I’m surprised you know the Sweaty Cowboys!”
Al chuckled. “I’m more than surprised. I’m dumbfounded! That band’s from my hometown. Nobody knows them.”
“I know a lot of music. This way deep in the forest, we don’t get internet or nothing. Radio comes through clearly, and I even get all the smaller stations. Why do you love ‘em?”
Al was abashed. “Well, I suppose it reminds me of home. I’m on the road a lot for work--I represent a chemical cleanup company at all the industry conventions. Anyway, at this old diner in my town, they only play this band’s songs. We’re just proud of them, you know? So, when I hear them, I feel like I’m sitting down on a cracking vinyl cushion and I’m sipping slightly stale coffee from a beige mug. There’s bacon fat crackling, a plate of pancakes sliding, and old men chatting in the corner about how the world’s going to hell. Typical American diner stuff. But it’s home.”
“That’s great. I love that.” Cleo looked out the window. “I like them because they’re so honest. So true. Like that last song: Windows down, wind ripping, heart breakin’; watching you disappear, the one I love and can’t ever leave behind.”
“Yeah. It hurts good, don’t it?” The CD had finished and Al didn’t feel like his drunk heart could take another listen. Too sad, in some ways. Songs of death and taxes, lost loves and long roads. He said, “So, we’ve been driving for a while. Where is this house of yours?”
“Right here.”
“Oh…”
The stalwart legions of trees broke away all at once. A glade bloomed before them, open to the sun like the whole thing was a flower. Al had to stop the truck to take it in; it was stunning. Long grasses stretched a few acres all ‘round, the glade shaped like a wide lima bean. At one “end” of the bean, there was a two-story white country house complete with a wraparound porch, the paint flaking on some of the planks. It stood on a bit of a rise.
“This is beautiful.”
Cleo smiled, the light catching her eyes. She was radiant. Al’s heart pounded. For what it’s worth, hers did too. Not quite for the same reason. “Roll down your window.”
Al did, though he knew the cicada’s song would drive him mad. Then it didn’t.
This glade was silent. Al looked at Cleo like lightning had struck his truck.
She shrugged, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “It’s a bit of magic.”
“Shit, I’d say so. It’s dead quiet here.”
“Yeah, I love it. C’mon. Let’s get on to the house.”
“You got it .” Al paused, seeing that Cleo hadn’t turned away. “What?”
She was looking at him closely, peering almost. She put a hand on his leg. “You’re real sweet. Real honest.”
“I try to be…” he said as confidently as he could. What could he say? She made it easy to be that way? Like he didn’t have to pretend to be so macho or like he had everything together or that of late he stayed up and stared at the motel ceiling, wondering if he should go on or not. It wasn’t the time to have that conversation. It was a different time. Their heads were close. Her lips, not far. Those eyes, drawing him in, like they went on forever into her mind and on and on and deeper. Time to kiss her, right?
Don’t rush things, Al thought. He’d done that before. Shit, with a girl like Cleo, how many others had done the same? Bourbon, music, her smile, enchanted him.
Ain’t nobody perfect, Al warned himself.
He grinned and pulled away, dying a little as he did, hoping he hadn’t ruined something by being too careful.
They toured the house. It was old. The house wasn’t even on a concrete foundation. Al got the feeling that they were doing a bit of a dance. Giddy love and bourbon were making them skittish. As Cleo showed Al the parlor, a room oddly filled with leaves and dirt, Al did a double-take. There wasn’t a floor, not at all, just a hollow maybe six feet down.
“What’s going on here?”
Cleo explained quickly, “Renovating. Thinking about putting in concrete floors. I hate how the wood creaks in the winter winds. Sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Scares me half to death.”
“That’s a modern look, for sure. Would concrete look good with the rest?” He didn’t know what to say. He wondered aloud if a little more alcohol might improve his nascent timidity.
She smiled, but not half as big as before. “I’ll make us some drinks. Meet ya on the porch.” It was like she read his mind. He smiled and allowed none of the relief he felt to show on his face. Outside, he reached for his smokes. He found none, of course.
“Shit.” Gum, then. He chewed through the flavor in two licks. “She’s acting differently. What the hell did I do wrong?”
Cleo stepped out and Al nodded at her stiffly. All the smoothness was gone. Where did it go? Where had it evaporated to? The suave cowboy he’d been at the bar had hung up his hat and put up his boots and now-
“Mint Julep Lemonade. Personal recipe. Learned it awhile back.”
“Thank you, Cleo.” They stood there, quietly sipping their drinks. “Mind if we sit?”
“Yeah, here, around the corner’s the best view.”
Two rocking chairs waited for a couple of love-drunk people if they could be found. Al settled in, happy to avoid Cleo’s eyes. He took a sip and smacked his lips. Tart drink. Heavy on the bourbon. “How long have you held this land?”
“Oh, generations,” Cleo answered wistfully. “Longer’n America, certainly.”
“How so?”
“My blood’s always been here, in one form or another. The world around always changes, but this glade remains itself. As do I. As do we all, I guess.”
Al sipped and nodded. Nodded and sipped. The quiet persisted over the grasses, waving in the wind and looking like simmering oil, or shimmering metal. Reminded him of timelessness, somehow.
Al cleared his throat. “Listen, about, you know, almost kissing.” He couldn’t look her in the eye. “I’m not that forward. Not my style.” She watched him. It urged him onward, and he sort of let it all out. “I get scared, you know? Most men would jump off a cliff to even talk to someone like you. But me? I’d let them jump. I’m just not that type of guy. I don’t need to jump to, you know, the physical stuff.”
She didn’t answer, persisting only in her watchfulness. The wind tossed her hair lightly.
“ I…Shit. I messed it all up. I shoulda kissed you. I—”
“Stop, Al.” He clapped his jaw shut, sipped his drink. A breeze came through, stirring the humid air. Cleo let the wind speak to her, even tilting her ear to it. She sighed. “It’s strange. To not be expected to just get on with it, I guess. Threw me off. Most men I bring just get it over quick. But your fear…your caution. It’s respect. I ‘preciate it. It saved you, to be sure.”
“Saved me?” From sheer embarrassment? From ruining what this was?
Cleo put her glass down, got up from her chair, and offered a hand. “Let’s try that kiss. You have my permission. ”
Al was shocked. Was this…? No. Enough wondering. Enough questioning. He briefly considered slapping, pinching, and biting himself. He settled for downing the drink. It burned. It burned and fired him up and…
He coughed and said, “Just to be clear, the kiss…and?”
“Yes, and.”
Their eyes locked. They’d found it again, that delicious magnetism. They pulled it taught, pulled themselves toward each other until they met body to body, lips to lips. Equal force enough that Al bit his lip. He flinched away and laughed. Cleo laughed too.
Al demurred. “A bit….”
“Fast?” Cleo said.
“Yeah. But, again?”
Their eyes locked. They’d found it again, that delicious magnetism. They pulled it taught, pulled themselves toward each other until they met body to body, face to face. Equal force enough that Al bit his lip. He flinched away and laughed. Cleo laughed too.
Al demurred. “A bit….”
“Fast?” Cleo said.
“Yeah. But, again?”
They kissed more gently, like caressing the petals of a tulip. Al wrapped his arms around her and they leaned against the porch wall, the heat rising in that simmering afternoon. They were hot as the air, hotter. The buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, rising and falling. Was that song in his head or outside of him?
An urgency called desire pounced.
They made a stumbled entry into Cleo’s home; a shirt dropping here, jeans there, two pairs of boots. Al hadn’t felt like this before. Not for some time. A pause, a panic. Al, going back for the wallet, making sure he had… Shit. Maybe I should ask…
He looked at her halfway up the stairs, mostly naked. His heart pounded.
He said, “Any…you know, ‘no-nos’ or?”
She laughed. “Get up here!”
He smiled. She smiled. Bare feet raced up creaking stairs, lovers giving chase. Their footsteps soften on a long hallway rug. When had Al last felt so safe in his own skin?
They reached a doorway at the end of the hall. They smiled and went through.
The cicadas were calling through the glade, their vibrations reaching through the air, touching everything, delving deeper and deeper, even into the frames of that old house down to its bones. Something was awakened. Something was released. Two beings were awakened and freed and changed by the touch of skin, that oldest of remedies oft-replaced for cheaper things.
Something had changed indeed.
Darkness. An aching head. A dry tongue.
“Ah…shit.” Al sat up. “Cleo?”
Not in the bed. Not in the room.
“My head…” It was ringing. Buzzing. “Those goddamn bugs… Don’t they only sing during the day?”
“Yes,” Cleo said. Her voice sounded clear but oddly distant.
“Cleo? Where are ya?”
Silence. Except for the cicadas. He sat up and put his feet on the floor. A leathery material met his soles. A leather rug? Weird. Hadn’t noticed that, but Al hadn’t been particularly focused on decor before.
“Light…” he groaned. He found a lamp on the bedside table. Didn’t work, but he found water. He drank. It was stale and dusty, for some reason, but his throat was salved. His head cleared a little, restoring higher cognition. “How long did I sleep?”
“Long enough.”
“Cleo, are you playing hide and seek?” He rubbed crusts out of his eyes and looked at his feet.
Cleo’s face was there between his feet.
“Jesus!” He almost jumped out of his own skin. He was on top of the bed, staring at the thing. “Cleo? What the hell is this?” Nothing. “Cleo!?”
He jumped over it and went to the window, pulled away the dusty curtains to look at the thing on the ground. It looked like Cleo, to be sure, but on second glance, more like an empty sack made in her likeness.
The more he looked at that naked, deflated skin bag the more queasy he got. Was this part of some fetish? Some sex thing Al hadn’t signed up for?
“I’m getting kinda weirded out here….”
“I’m waiting.”
“But where are you? Your body’s…here?”
Al was ready to jet. He hadn’t meant this to be a one-night stand, but if this got any weirder…
He said, “I’m not a judgmental person. I met plenty of people into--uh--unique things. It’s just not my thing.” He racked his brain. “Maybe we can have some coffee and talk about this?”
No response. The cicadas sang at a higher pitch for a moment before dropping off. The cup on the table shook so hard from the sound it fell before Al could catch it. Water dumped over the Cleo-thing, dripping and pooling like it would on skin.
Al looked away and decided he should find his pants and get the hell out of dodge.
“Levi’s are downstairs, I reckon.” He didn’t relish the thought of leaving the semblance of safety he had in the room, but there wasn’t any way in hell he could stay up here.
Old wood creaked. Groaned. Every step. The house wasn’t the same as before. The walls! Had they been so moldy, so decrepit? Had the furniture been so eaten and musty? Another bedroom. Had that been there before?
He cracked it open. A copy, almost, of the one he’d left. Another bed. Another set of strewn-about clothes. Another sack of skin, and…Bones. Bones on the bed. Cast in the forge of the falling sun.
How much time before dark?
“I gotta get out…I gotta leave,” Al uttered and slammed the door. Where were the stairs? How had he gotten so turned around? Had he been roofied? Drugged? Or just too drunk to function? Ah, right, they’d gone to the bedroom at the end of the hall. Stairs were to his left, then. He walked slowly in the half darkness until he reached them. He took the stairs slowly, trying to peer around the bend. Found his jeans on the bottom step. Keys and wallet still in there. Nothing missing, except his underwear. He looked around for Cleo, or, rather for what had potentially used her skin..
Nothing. Nobody. Sunset on pale walls. Chair rail scuffed and decrepit. Soil and dirt and what looked like half-eaten roots everywhere. This wasn’t the same house. Couldn’t be!
Al rasped, “Where the hell am I?”
“Come to me.”
“Where the hell are you, Cleo?”
“The parlor.”
Thank you for reading Brood Part II: The Glade!
Do you have any inkling of what or who Cleo is?
Do you think Al’s found true love?
What did you do when you experienced love that was “too good to be true”?
Catch the final episode next month! You won’t believe what happens next. Subscribe to get it in your inbox!
Until next time, Realm Walkers.
-Zach
