Little Darlings Snack Cakes

 Hello All:

Processed sugar and modern food preservation techniques are essentially magic from a historical perspective. High-fructose corn syrup, artificial flavorings, and hermetically sealed polymer packaging were entirely unimaginable to medieval societies. In the 14th century, cane sugar was an insanely expensive luxury imported from the East, often sold by the ounce in pharmacies as a medicine for the ultra-wealthy. The idea of a perfectly soft, shelf-stable, hyper-sweet baked good that stays fresh for months would have seemed like an alchemical miracle to a medieval monarch.

It is fascinating how a simple modern convenience, something we grab from a vending machine without a second thought, holds enough culinary value to fundamentally alter the economy of an ancient kingdom.

Little Darlings Snack Cakes

Steve stood in the center of his living room, staring at the small, metallic cylinder in his palm. It looked like an oversized car key fob, complete with a tiny LCD screen and a dual-toggle switch. The device, which he had accidentally assembled while tinkering with high-frequency RF oscillation circuits, had a remarkably simple function: it opened a localized temporal rift. With a precise click, Steve could step out of the twenty-first century and into virtually any era of human history. And, crucial for a man of pragmatic caution, a quick tap on the side button instantly pulled him back to the exact second he had left.

The initial trips were purely academic, but during a late-night snack session, Steve had an epiphany. He was eating a hexagonal, chocolate-drizzled, peanut-butter-filled cake from a box of "Little Darlings" pastry treats. The sponge was impossibly soft; the creme layer was impossibly smooth. Steve realized that to a feudal peasant or a dark-age lord whose idea of a treat was dried fruit or dense, honey-sweetened barley bread, this mass-produced junk food would taste like absolute divinity.

An hour later, Steve dressed in a plain, nondescript linen tunic he had sewn himself, attached the temporal trigger to his belt loop, and slipped 20 boxes of Little Darlings Honey Hexagons into a canvas pouch. He set the coordinates for 12th-century Central Europe and pressed the switch.

The air shifted with a soft pop, replacing the smell of ozone with the damp, earthy aroma of burning peat and unwashed livestock. Steve found himself standing in a long line of peasants outside the wooden gates of a hilltop keep. The local ruler, Lord Baldwin, was holding his weekly open-air court, hearing grievances and accepting tributes.

When Steve finally reached the dais, the guards eyed his clean skin and strange posture with suspicion.

"State your business before Lord Baldwin, traveler," the captain of the guard grunted, resting a heavy hand on the pommel of his broadsword.

"I bring no grievances, sire," Steve said, bowing politely to the stern, bearded man sitting upon the carved oak throne. "I bring a culinary gift from a far-off land."

Lord Baldwin raised an eyebrow. "A gift? We have royal bakers, traveler. Our kitchens produce the finest pastries in the realm."

"With respect, my Lord, you have never tasted anything like this." Steve reached into his pouch and produced a single, foil-wrapped Little Darlings Honey Hexagon. He carefully tore open the plastic.

The royal taster stepped forward immediately, his face drawn in a mask of professional skepticism. "I must sample it first, my Lord. It could be laced with poison."

"Of course," Steve smiled. He reached into the wrapper, snapped the hexagon cleanly in half, and popped one piece into his own mouth. He chewed and swallowed smoothly. "Safe as river water."

The taster hesitantly took the remaining half. He placed it on his tongue, chewed once, and froze. His eyes went wide. His jaw worked slowly as the hyper-concentrated sugar, hydrogenated oils, and artificial vanilla hit his medieval palate with the force of a battering ram. He swallowed hard, looking almost tearful.

"My Lord..." the taster whispered, trembling. "It is... it is the food of angels."

Lord Baldwin, intrigued, demanded the second unopened package Steve had brought. The lord tore it open, bit into the soft sponge, and instantly slumped back into his throne, his eyes closing in pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

"Where did this come from?" the lord gasped, wiping a stray crumb of chocolate drizzle from his beard. "Name your price. I want a hundred of these for tomorrow's feast!"

"Keep them as a gift for now, sire," Steve replied smoothly, taking a step backward. "I must return to my land to fetch more. I shall return at a later date to see if you desire another shipment."

Before the guards could react, Steve tapped the return trigger on his belt and vanished into thin air.

Two weeks later—at least in local time—Steve returned to the keep. The entire castle was in a frenzy. The feast had been a legendary success, but the lord's supply was entirely exhausted. Lord Baldwin was practically pacing a hole into his stone floor when Steve appeared in the courtyard, pulling a small wagon with about 200 boxes of square-shaped chocolate sponge cakes and caramel-covered Star Crunches.

"You've returned!" Baldwin bellowed, marching down the stairs himself. "My royal baker tried to replicate your magic, but he produced nothing but heavy, burnt sludge! I offer you the position of High Royal Baker, a private suite in the tower, and a hundred gold crowns a year!"

"Alas, my Lord," Steve said modestly, "the secret ingredients require resources your kingdom simply does not possess. But do not fret. I have brought two hundred boxes to sustain you. And these clear, magical wrappings will preserve their fresh, soft texture for many months."

"What do you ask in exchange?" Baldwin demanded.

"No gold," Steve said. "Just pure silver coins. Standard trade currency."

The lord greedily agreed, ordering his treasurer to dump a heavy chest of old silver marks at Steve's feet. Steve gathered the silver, bid the kingdom farewell, and stepped back into the twenty-first century.

Back home, the ancient silver coins were staggering—enough to theoretically purchase a massive private estate on his own island, pay off every debt he had ever imagined, and still leave a staggering fortune in the bank. But greed has a way of tempting fate.

For his third trip, Steve decided to go all out. He rented a commercial van, drove to a local wholesale distributor, and purchased over a thousand boxes of Little Darlings treats: Swiss Cake Rolls, Cosmic Brownies, Zebra Cakes, and Hexagons. He packed them into reinforced crates, set his device, and landed directly inside the lord's great hall during an evening banquet.

"My Lord!" Steve announced, gesturing to the mountain of colorful boxes stacked behind him. "I have brought the ultimate feast. Over a thousand boxes of every sweet delicacy my realm produces."

Lord Baldwin stood up, his eyes gleefully scanning the massive pile of sugary treasure. "And your price, master baker?"

"Double the silver from our last transaction," Steve said, smiling smoothly. "And all of this is yours."

Lord Baldwin’s smile slowly faded into a cold, calculating sneer. He looked at the vast mountain of pastries, then at Steve, standing alone in the center of the room.

"Why should I pay a single coin," Baldwin said quietly, "when I can simply keep the cakes... and the baker?"

The lord snapped his fingers. "Guards! Seize him! Lock him in the highest tower until he reveals the secrets of these confections!"

Instantly, four heavily armored guards lunged forward, swords drawn.

Steve’s heart slammed into his throat. He reached wildly for his belt loop, but his sweating fingers fumbled against the smooth metallic casing of the time device. It slipped!

"Grab him!" the captain roared, closing the distance.

The device tumbled through the air. Steve threw himself toward the floor, catching the small cylinder mid-fall just as a heavy leather boot slammed down inches from his face. A guard’s gauntleted hand grabbed the shoulder of Steve's tunic, tearing the fabric.

Desperately, Steve jammed his thumb onto the side toggle switch.

POP.

The dark, torch-lit hall, the roaring lord, and the flashing steel swords vanished instantly.

Steve collapsed onto the soft carpet of his quiet, air-conditioned living room, gasping for air, his heart hammer-forged against his ribs. He lay there for a long time, listening to the gentle hum of his refrigerator.

He had left a thousand boxes of Little Darlings snack cakes in the twelfth century, and he hadn't received a single silver coin for the final delivery. But as he sat up and looked at his bank statement on his laptop—showing a multi-million dollar balance from his previous silver trades—Steve let out a shaky sigh and smiled.

He was officially retired from the medieval bakery business.

Drink My Blood!

Hello All:

I sketched up today's story in 2011, but never finished it. Well today we finally have it ready for you to read!

In the architecture of suspense, the "public place" serves as a vital anchor for the reader. We rely on the restaurant setting—a sanctuary of social order, clinking silverware, and hushed conversation—to provide a veneer of safety. This setting is strategically chosen to provide a jarring contrast to the protagonist's internal landscape. While the room operates on the rules of etiquette and predictable commerce, the man’s private world has already descended into a chaotic, internal fever. By placing the narrative in a space where everyone is expected to behave, the eventual rupture of that peace becomes far more terrifying.

Drink My Blood!

The restaurant was a tapestry of ordinary sights and sounds until his gaze locked onto her. Across the room sat a beautiful woman, and in an instant, he fell "painfully" in love. This was not a slow-burn attraction but a sudden, visceral obsession that rewired his perception of reality. He watched her with the predatory patience of a quiet observer, his internal state shifting rapidly from admiration to a delusional "understanding." He began to view her not as a stranger, but as a participant in a consecrated, silent narrative that only he could hear. His focus sharpened, narrowing from the wide lens of the dining room to the sharp, metallic objects resting on the white linen of his table, his fingers tracing the serrated edge of his utensil as if it were a holy relic.

There is a profound psychological weight in the presence of a steak knife within a public setting. It represents a subtle, unspoken contract between the establishment and the patron: the restaurant provides a tool of violence under the absolute assumption that the guest is "mentally stable." When this trust is deconstructed, the knife ceases to be a utensil and becomes a symbol of the fragility of social norms. The weaponization of such a mundane object signals that he has discarded the mask of the stable guest, turning a tool of the "mundane" into a catalyst for horror.

While the surrounding diners remained oblivious, tucked within their own bubbles of perceived safety, he made his move. He did not brandish the blade with a flourish; instead, he picked it up "inconspicuously," maintaining the facade of the stable guest for a few moments longer. In the middle of the crowded room, he performed a silent act of violence, drawing the blade across his skin to inflict a "small slice" on the side of his neck. The act was performed with a chilling lack of fanfare, juxtaposing the sharp, stinging reality of the wound with the continued silence of the public setting. A dark ribbon of red unspooled against his skin, staining his collar while he remained eerily still, his eyes fixed on her, waiting for the heat of the blood to signal the arrival of his visual "cue."

For the unstable mind, eye contact is rarely a casual occurrence; it is a distorted form of verification. In this narrative arc, the search for a shared gaze serves as the bridge between internal fantasy and external action. he was not looking for a greeting; he was looking for a sign that his internal "understanding" was mirrored by her. That moment of eye contact functioned as the ultimate catalyst, transforming a private delusion into a public confrontation.

The tension reached its breaking point when the beautiful woman finally looked up. In that moment, her eyes met his, and he interpreted this "prolonged eye contact" as a profound mutual agreement. From his perspective, her gaze was not one of random chance or idle curiosity, but a beckoning—a definitive signal that she was ready for his revelation. His internal logic synthesized this brief connection into a "cue" for his grand proclamation. The static gaze, heavy with his projected devotion, was the final thread to snap before the stillness was shattered by a sudden, explosive movement across the room.

The silence of the restaurant was shattered as he leapt up and charged toward her, his movement frantic and erratic. He tilted his head back, baring the wet, weeping line on his throat. As he closed the gap, he shouted the dialogue that had been brewing in his mind:

"I cut myself for you! See, I cut myself with a knife! See, I’m bleeding!"

He did not hide his wound; instead, he exposed the side of his neck, proudly displaying the "droplets of red blood" that were now surfacing and trailing down his skin. To the man, this was a romantic offering; to the woman, it was a terrifying display of instability. As he reached her table, the "worried expression" on her face confirmed the chasm between his fantasy and her reality, yet he saw only the invitation he had invented.

The woman’s reaction was one of pure, unadulterated horror. She had done "nothing to attract him" or invite such a ghastly proposal, yet she found herself the target of his misguided devotion. As she jumped from her seat and tried to back away, her chair scraping harshly against the floor, the man’s pleas became even more frantic, his voice reaching a fever pitch as he proposed their dark pact:

"Drink my blood! It's what I want! I want for you to drink my blood and I'll do the same to you!"

This plea for a mutual, bloody ritual was the final escalation. His logic was complete: he had bled for her, and now, they would be unified by the same red thread. He prepared to bridge the final gap by leaping onto the furniture itself.

In a final, frantic burst of energy, the man jumped onto the table. Glassware shattered and silverware sprayed across the floor like shrapnel as his shoes clattered against the wood. He launched himself into the air, aiming to "fly into the woman's arms" in a final, delusional embrace. The room gasped in unison as his body went airborne, but the woman’s instincts were sharper than his desperation. With a quick, panicked reflex, she side-stepped his trajectory, her chair toppling over just as he descended. He crashed onto the floor in a heap of tangled limbs and broken porcelain, missing his target entirely. Before he could recalibrate or crawl toward her, the restaurant's staff and other patrons surged forward, restraining him and ending the immediate threat. The woman stood a safe distance away, breathless and shaken, but physically unharmed. The peace of the restaurant was shattered, but she had survived.

A Bear Story

 Hello All:

Black bears have an incredibly acute sense of smell, estimated to be about seven times stronger than that of a bloodhound. They can pick up the scent of food from over a mile away. While sharing a pantry with a five-hundred-pound omnivore isn't generally recommended by wildlife experts, the sheer intelligence and memory of these creatures mean that once they associate a location with a high-calorie feast, they almost certainly remember the exact spot year after year.

Speaking of unexpected visitors and unforgettable meals, here is a little story about hospitality, miscommunication, and a rather unique autumn guest.

A Bear Story

The October sun cast long, golden shafts of light across the carpet, painting the living room in warm shades of amber and rust. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, the kind where time seems to slow down to match the drifting fall leaves. Fredrick was relaxing in his favorite armchair, enjoying the quiet stillness of an empty house while his wife, Loraine, was out doing the weekly grocery run. The neighborhood was silent, save for the gentle rustle of crisp leaves brushing against the patio glass.

A sudden flicker of movement caught Fredrick’s eye. He turned toward the double-paned sliding glass door that opened to the backyard. Expecting to see a stray cat or a particularly plump squirrel, he froze in delightful astonishment. Standing right beside the wooden fence, happily munching on the remaining late-summer berries of a ornamental shrub, was a magnificent black bear. Its fur was thick and glossy, its massive shoulders rolling beneath a heavy coat built for the approaching winter cold. Fredrick stood up slowly, entirely mesmerized. The creature looked healthy, powerful, and undeniably hungry, clearly trying to pack on every possible pound before the first hard freeze.

An impulse of sheer, unadulterated hospitality hit Fredrick. He couldn’t just watch the poor fellow struggle for a few tiny berries when there was a full kitchen just steps away. Hurrying into the kitchen, he pulled two full loaves of white sandwich bread from the pantry, ripping the slices into thick, golden chunks and piling them high into a large ceramic mixing bowl. From the cupboard, he grabbed a heavy two-pound jar of clover honey. He unscrewed the lid and drizzled the thick, amber syrup all over the mountain of bread, letting it soak deep into the crusts.

Carrying the heavy bowl like an offering, Fredrick stepped out onto the cool concrete patio and placed it carefully on the outdoor table. He took a few steps back into the doorway. The bear paused, its nose twitching vigorously as the sweet scent of warm honey and yeast hit the afternoon breeze. Black, intelligent eyes locked onto Fredrick, then shifted down to the bowl. Without a moment's hesitation, the massive animal lumbered over, plowing its snout directly into the sweet feast and scarfing down the honey-soaked bread in huge, greedy bites.

Within two minutes, the bowl was scraped entirely clean. The bear lifted its broad head, licking its lips with a long, dark tongue, looking directly at Fredrick through the doorway as if asking for a second course. Fredrick chuckled. "Still hungry, big guy? Well, it's a long winter ahead."

Determined to be the ultimate host, Fredrick slid the glass patio door wide open. "Come on in," he urged gently, stepping back toward the kitchen. "Go ahead, eat up. You need to get ready for winter."

The bear paused at the threshold, sniffing the cool indoor air, before stepping smoothly over the aluminum track. Its heavy paws clicked softly against the hardwood floor. It followed the scent of food straight into the center of the kitchen. Fredrick walked over to the refrigerator and pulled the door wide open, revealing shelves stacked with leftovers, block cheese, fresh fruit, and jugs of milk. The bear stepped up beside him, entirely unfazed by the suburban surroundings, and stuck its broad snout straight onto the middle shelf. It snagged a tub of butter with surprising delicacy, crushing the plastic instantly to reach the rich reward inside, before moving on to a leftover roast beef. Fredrick watched in absolute awe as the creature indulged in its ultimate pre-hibernation feast.

Right at that moment, the heavy wooden front door swung open with a click.

"Hon, I'm home! The parking lot was a zoo today," Loraine called out, carrying a heavy canvas bag of groceries into the entryway. She rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead in her tracks.

Her jaw dropped. The grocery bag slipped from her hands, sending a carton of eggs crashing onto the tile floor. There, standing right between her husband and the open refrigerator, was a five-hundred-pound wild black bear currently enjoying the contents of their crisping drawer.

"Fredrick!" she shrieked, her voice hitting a register that vibrated the glass cabinets. "Is that a bear in my kitchen?!"

The bear bolted upright, startled by the sudden high-pitched thunder of her voice. Fredrick held up his hands placatingly. "Now, honey, don't be upset! He was just hungry, and he needs to fatten up for—"

"You let a wild animal into our house to eat our food?!" she shouted, her face flushed red with pure disbelief and fury. She grabbed a wooden spoon from the counter and swatted it loudly against a metal baking sheet. "Get out! Out of my kitchen!"

Sensing the formidable rage of the mistress of the house, the bear decided it had pushed its luck far enough. It backed away from the refrigerator, turning its heavy body around toward the open sliding glass door. But right before it crossed the threshold back into the crisp afternoon air, the bear paused. It turned its big, furry head, locked its deep brown eyes onto Fredrick, and gave a slow, deliberate nod—a look of profound understanding that clearly communicated one message: See you next autumn for the honey-bread.

With a soft rustle of leaves, the bear trotted off across the yard and disappeared into the treeline, leaving Fredrick to face a storm far more intimidating than any creature of the wild.

Nightmarish Hospital Jail

 Hello All:

It's Podcast Tuesday, and we have a surreal narrative surrounding a hospital visitor’s spiteful defiance of hospital rules. This only leads to a bizarre and immediate legal consequence. After mocking a security measure by placing a tracking label on his person to intentionally trigger alarms, the protagonist’s arrogance shifts to dread as he is apprehended for his willful noncompliance. The podcast serves as a dark cautionary tale, highlighting the transition from a dismissive attitude toward authority to the harsh reality of being detained in a makeshift hospital jail. It's a reminder of accountability, illustrating how an individual's attempt to ridicule systemic rules can result in a humiliating loss of freedom.

Listen to Nightmarish Hospital Jail

The Cadence of the Squash

 Hello All:

In 1973, a researcher named Dorothy Retallack published a book titled The Sound of Music and Plants. Her experiments at the Temple Buell College in Denver suggested that plants exposed to classical music and soothing acoustic instruments thrived and leaned toward the speakers, whereas plants subjected to harsh, repetitive noise withered and turned away. While modern botany treats plant music research with a degree of skepticism, the idea that targeted acoustic frequencies can physically interact with organic matter remains a fascinating intersection of biology and physics.

Our story today explores what happens when a single, hypnotic sequence of notes is played over and over in a quiet autumn garden.

The Cadence of the Squash

There once was a mellow fellow who liked to play his cello. And just when you thought this was a rhyme, it really isn't; it's just a story about some mellow fellow who liked to play his cello.

One of the first things people described about Walter was the fact that he was so relentlessly, unshakeably mellow. He lived in a muted, timber-frame cottage at the end of a gravel driveway that seemed to repel visitors by its very lack of distinction. Walter never invited excitement into his life. He did not subscribe to newspapers, he refused to keep a television, and his interactions with the village two miles down the road were strictly limited to the purchasing of rosin, coarse salt, and seasonal tea. The only thing he did all day long—from the moment the morning mist cleared from the valley until the sun dipped behind the pines—was sit outside near his garden patch and play his cello.

The pieces he played on his cello really weren't much to comment on. They were quite boring, many of them being slow, droning combinations of three notes repeating endlessly throughout a three- to five-minute piece. C, G, and a slightly flat F-sharp. Over and over. Bow down, bow up, hold.

Today it was mid-autumn. The air carried the crisp, dry scent of fallen oak leaves and damp soil. His garden had produced its annual yield: a modest sprawl of heavy winter squash, pale pumpkins, and gnarled root vegetables clinging to the cooling earth. Yet Walter did not harvest them. He merely sat on his weathered wooden stool, his knees flanking the rich maple body of his instrument, playing those insipid, looping pieces into the chill breeze.

To an outsider, Walter’s routine appeared to be nothing more than the harmless eccentricities of a lonely retiree. But if one were to stand at the edge of the tree line and observe closely, the subtle strangeness of the garden would begin to show.

The vegetables were not rotting, despite the late season frost creeping across the ground. In fact, the pale yellow skin of the butternut squashes pulsed. It was not a violent motion, but a rhythmic, microscopic expansion and contraction that mirrored the rise and fall of Walter’s bow. C... G... F-sharp...

With every pass of the horsehair string, the thick green vines beneath the leaves stirred, shifting through the topsoil like sleeping serpents adjusting their weight. The three notes Walter selected were not a composition in any artistic sense; they were a structural resonance, a continuous acoustic bridge maintained between the wooden soundboard of the cello and the root systems buried six feet beneath his pumpkin patch.

Around four o'clock in the afternoon, the wind dropped completely. The forest went dead silent, save for Walter's monotonous three-note drone.

A field mouse scurried onto the border of the garden, froze, and tipped its head toward the cello. It did not run away when Walter shifted his posture. Instead, its tiny front paws folded neatly against its chest, its whiskers quivering in exact synchronization with the vibrating C-string. A few feet away, a crow settled onto the garden fence, its dark eyes fixed on the cello’s scroll. It did not caw or preen. It simply sat, hypnotized by the dull, flat drone.

Walter’s face remained entirely expressionless. His eyes were half-lidded, staring placidly at a particularly large, blue-hued Hubbard squash sitting in the center of the plot.

He reached the end of the four-minute cycle. Standard musical practice dictated a resolution—a return to the tonic, a gentle fade, or a transition into a new key. Walter did neither. He paused for precisely two seconds, lifted his bow, dropped it back onto the string with a heavy, wooden thud, and began the three-note pattern for the forty-seventh time that afternoon.

C. The earth around the blue squash cracked open, releasing a thin wisp of pale, warm steam into the freezing autumn air.

G. The thick stem of the squash detached itself from the vine with a wet, deliberate snap, twisting upward as if reaching toward the sound.

F-sharp. The skin of the vegetable split down its natural seams, revealing not seeds or pulp, but a dense, glistening lattice of pale, fibrous cords that vibrated in perfect unison with the cello's body.

Walter did not gasp. He did not blink. His shoulders remained relaxed, his expression as smooth and unbothered as a still pond. He adjusted his index finger slightly on the fingerboard, softening the tone to a hush.

From deep within the ruptured squash, a low, resonant harmonic hum arose, matching his cello pitch for pitch. The ground beneath his stool trembled gently, a soothing oscillation that massaged the soles of his boots. The garden was not dying in the autumn cold; it was tuning itself. The entire patch of soil was acting as an amplifier, drawing the three boring notes down into the dark, subterranean bed of bedrock beneath the cottage.

A neighbor, if there had been one, might have wondered why a man would spend his golden years repeating a sequence so devoid of melody, beauty, or passion. They might have thought him simple, or lazy, or trapped in a meaningless loop of his own making.

They would not have understood that some things in the earth require constant, boring attention to remain asleep—or that three specific, insipid notes were the only thing keeping the garden from waking up entirely.

Walter pulled the bow across the F-sharp one last time as the sun dropped below the horizon, letting the final note hang in the twilight until the garden settled back into the quiet dirt. He wiped his bow with a soft cloth, packed his cello into its velvet-lined case, and walked inside to make a cup of chamomile tea.

1994 Lunar Mystery

Hello All:

It's Conspiracy Theory Saturday, and we like to remind you that conspiracy theories have a tendency to come true after so many years. So has the material in today's video finally materialized into truth? I don't think we've reached that point yet. But it gives us something to think about.

ex-NASA consultant, Richard C. Hoagland ,presents the controversial theory that ancient artificial structures exist on the lunar surface, suggesting that a deliberate cover-up has been orchestrated by NASA for decades. Hoagland argues that sophisticated imaging algorithms and modern computing power have allowed his team to extract hidden details from old Apollo and Viking data, revealing what he describes as mega-engineering and massive glass skyscrapers. He posits that a "ticking time bomb" policy within the government—inspired by the 1960 Brookings Report—led officials to suppress evidence of extraterrestrial artifacts to prevent social and religious collapse. Hoagland calls for a democratization of space data, urging the public to demand full transparency and the resumption of lunar exploration to reclaim a suppressed human history.

A Game of Obituary

Hello All:

No, it's not quite the Halloween season just yet. But it's August, and the perhaps some of us are feeling those morbid fascinations as we anticipate the season's approach. It was around this time of year when I started writing my first short story book, Freaked out Horror (2009). I attributed the clear, near-to-life visions of the macabre to the fact that the season of Halloween was approaching like a morning star way off in the eastern horizon, barely visible.

I have just the piece to feature for today's blog post. It just so happens that while experimenting with some characters in my (at the time) upcoming Mapleview novel, I wrote a short story. You might even recognize the name, Daren, from the novel. No, this scene did not appear in the book. It was a character development exercise. Well, I dug the story out of the archives and cleaned it up. I hope you enjoy it.

A Game of Obituary

In the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors of the corporate world, Susan was a localized eclipse. While others navigated the office in palettes of beige and navy, she existed in a perpetual state of mourning for a world she seemed to barely tolerate. Daren, sharp-eyed and instinctively predatory, watched her with the calculated interest of a man who viewed interpersonal relationships as strategic maneuvers. He wasn't the only one; a coworker also fancied the idea of "getting some of that," but for Daren, the draw was more sophisticated. He didn't just want her physical form; he wanted to conquer the "difficult." She was a study in shadows: jet-black hair, dark lipstick, and a solemn aesthetic that functioned as a barricade against the mundane. He viewed her as a quest, a puzzle of defiance to be dismantled. However, the power dynamic shifted the moment he pulled out of her apartment parking lot. The evening he had meticulously curated—the upscale restaurant, the structured entertainments—was discarded with a single, cool suggestion. Susan took the wheel of the itinerary, steering him away from the familiar and toward a destination where his professional polish held no currency.

The "party" was held in a basement that felt less like a social gathering and more like a curated site of social performance. Daren recognized the setting instantly: a stage for the alienated to perform their despair. The air was heavy with the scent of wax from skull-candle centerpieces and the drone of flat-toned, depressing music that served as a soundtrack for the disaffected. Daren navigated the room with clinical detachment, evaluating the nihilistic poseurs. To him, they were not truly tortured souls, but individuals trapped in a prolonged, adolescent search for identity, using the aesthetic of the grave to mask a lack of substance. In a dark corner, a girl sat at a desk, her face illuminated by flickering skulls. She wasn't writing poetry; she was drafting her obituary. The arrival of Johnny, a man who maintained a monotone voice and a theatrical, morbid composure, deepened Daren’s refined hatred. Johnny was a vampire-wannabe, a collection of staged theatrics that Daren felt an immediate, professional urge to break.

The "Obituary Game" was the catalyst where performative morbidity collided with Daren’s genuine, alcohol-fueled cynicism. When Johnny challenged him to play, Daren viewed the invitation through the lens of his "management class" background—he had written an obituary in college as a goal-setting exercise, a pragmatic tool for life planning. The group’s version, however, required the participant to envision a tragic death occurring that very night. Johnny upped the ante by placing a revolver on the desk, suggesting Russian Roulette. The girl at the desk sighed, calling it "romantic." She spoke of her boyfriend who had died months prior playing this exact game, her voice dripping with a paradox where his death made her love him more, a love frozen and uncorrupted by time. Daren saw the chilling disconnect between her romanticized fantasy and the cold reality of a lead bullet. Recognizing Johnny’s bluff, Daren countered, insisting that Johnny go first. The ensuing silence marked a definitive shift; the social play had ended, and psychological warfare had begun. Daren took a long swig from his flask, feeling the alcohol shift his consciousness into a predatory clarity.

The strategic irony of the night became clear when the group, having just performed their obsession with death, prepared for a mundane night of clubbing. This transition from the basement to the cars exposed the fragility of their personas. Anne, one of the passengers, hesitated to enter Daren’s car because he had been drinking. Daren called her bluff, mocking the inconsistency of a death-obsessed artist fearing a ride. Once inside, Daren seized control, bypassing the radio for a tape of 1980s death metal: Hallows Eve. As the lyrics echoed through the cabin—“Death and insanity, a flicker in the flame / Death and insanity, are you truly sane?”—the music set a predatory tone, drowning out the group’s chatter about "fun." Susan watched Daren from the passenger seat, captivated by his silent, near-psychotic focus—an "impeccable madness" she found more authentic than the theatrics of her peers. Daren turned the car onto a dark, two-lane Arizona highway leading away from the city lights, the desert air thick and the saguaros standing like ghosts in the periphery.

The game of "Chicken" was the instrument of exposure. Daren accelerated into the opposite lane. The speedometer climbed: 90, 100, 105. The car vibrated, a mechanical scream against the desert silence. Then, with a calculated movement, he extinguished the headlights. Total darkness. The absolute void of the Arizona night. The only light left was the dim, spectral glow of the dashboard.

"Shouldn’t we turn the lights on?" Johnny asked, his monotone cracking.

"I don’t want an on-coming car to see us," Daren replied. His voice was a flatline.

"Shouldn't we slow down?"

"What if you run off the road?"

A pair of headlights appeared in the distance. Pinpricks of white growing into twin suns. The passengers' facade shattered. Anne began to sob in the backseat. Johnny, the architect of morbid composure, began to fracture as the lights rushed toward them. One hundred feet from impact. The cabin was filled with the roar of the wind and the rhythmic thrum of the engine.

"OKAY, YOU PROVED YOUR POINT ALREADY!" Johnny screamed.

Daren waited until the final, impossible second. He flicked the lights back on and swerved. The oncoming car roared past, its horn a frantic, Doppler-effected wail of the living. Daren just laughed, the sound sharp and hollow.

In the aftermath, the silence in the car was the byproduct of genuine shock. The "So What?" of the encounter was the total collapse of the group's morbid facade when confronted with actual mortality. Daren had exposed the fundamental dishonesty of their nihilism; they loved the idea of death only as long as it remained a costume. Turning to Johnny, whose theatrical gloom had been replaced by the frantic gasps of the truly terrified, Daren delivered a final, cold glare. The triumph was absolute. He had seen behind the curtain and found nothing but hollow fear.

"You pathetic, staged victim," Daren remarked, his tone dismissive and icy. "You're nothing but a hollow tourist."

The evening had begun as a pursuit of the unusual, but it ended with the definitive exposure of the poseurs. Daren adjusted the mirror, the Arizona highway disappearing into the darkness behind them, leaving the pretenders to choke on the reality of the void they had claimed to crave.