Sweepstake Prize: a family evening with President Donald Trump (fiction!)

Hello All:

The other night I had an interesting dream about our president. I kind of giggled when waking up because it felt like he were my friend. It's not the first time I've dreamt of Trump. Shortly after the 2016 election, he came to me in a dream to tell me we had a lot of work to do. After the 2020 Election was stolen I had a dream that he approached in his limousine and gave me the power fist.

And today's story is my most recent dream. No, the family in the cover artwork is not my own family. They are AI generated.

Evening with Donald Trump

Our family had won a sweepstakes. The prize was unusual, to say the least—a visit from none other than President Donald Trump.

The day of the visit arrived, and with it, a large SUV limousine pulled up to our house. A chauffeur in a crisp uniform stepped out and opened the door for Trump who emerged, dressed in a sharp suit, his signature red tie neatly knotted. He greeted us with a warm smile and a firm handshake; exchanged pleasantries as we settled into the limousine.

Of course this is the President of the United States and you have to make the most of the time. Whoever was in charge of this event had to improvise a plan for the evening and settled on a cheesy art gallery featuring dollhouses. It was weird, and we all hoped it would be enough to keep the President entertained.

As mentioned before, the art gallery was a quirky place, filled with intricate dollhouses that showcased various eras and styles. Trump seemed genuinely amused by the display, taking his time to examine each one with a curious eye.We felt a sense of relief as he laughed and joked about the tiny details.

We spent the evening wandering through the gallery, taking photos in front of the dollhouses. Trump was a good sport about it, posing for selfies and even striking a few playful poses. We couldn't believe how well the evening was going, despite the odd circumstances.

After the gallery, we decided to grab a late dinner at a nearby bar, complete with plenty of Secret Service agents to keep the president safe. The atmosphere was lively, with patrons enjoying their drinks and chatting loudly. People were excited to see President Trump. And he insisted on paying for the meal which left us with a strange mix of gratitude and disbelief. We clinked glasses and shared stories, and for a moment, it felt like we were all just ordinary people enjoying a casual outing. Trump was charming and engaging, and I couldn't help but admire his ability to adapt to just about everything. As for the family, we continued to take photos, capturing moments of laughter and camaraderie.

At the end of the evening when President Trump departed for the White House, we noticed something strange. We tried to access the photos on our phone, but they were nowhere to be found. We checked our Google Photos app, only to discover that every picture with Trump in it had been deleted, leaving a feeling of pang of disappointment, wondering if it was a security feature or a political statement from the app.

Earl of Sandwich

 Hello All:

We have a little flashback story for you, at least for those who might have been following the blog for the past 20+ years. If you've been around for a while, maybe you remember this one. Oh, but I've updated the cover artwork with the use of Google Gemini. Everything else is the same.

Earl of Sandwich

Earl of Sandwich was a great gambler who lived in the land of Sandwich (of course). He was a nobleman, and as a result was privileged to dine with the royal family and noble class in the palace with the king and queen.

One night, Earl was at a pub making bets and gambling as usual. One of the patrons of the pub mentioned some of the forbidden foods that could not be enjoyed by the regular class as the king had declared those foods to be royal. While listening to this discussion, Earl was enjoying a sandwich, a creation he had made popular in a card game and was his trademark meal while playing.

Earl had a great idea for a bet. "This sandwich that you see me eating: many of you would agree that the noble and royal class wouldn't be caught dead eating this in the palace. Who would like to match a bet with me that I could get the king, the queen, the royal family and noble class to enjoy sandwiches in the palace?"

Everyone in the pub laughed at Earl. Everyone knew that it was required to eat with forks and knives in the palace. And to rip away at meat & cheese, wedged between bread, was the most ill-mannered behavior of peasants. Seeing that the odds were stacked up against Earl, everyone in the pub pooled their money together.

The following evening, Earl stepped into the palace diner and sat down in his usual spot. There were many noblemen and women who planned on dining with the king and queen. The servers brought out stuffed peacock, pheasant and fruit. One could eat fruit with the hands, of course. But the juices that may have run while taking a bite must be quickly removed as if not to offend the king and his guests. The bones of birds needed to be held daintily so that the meat could be pulled away with forks and knives. For you see, the king & queen, royal family and noble class were expected to act civilized in comparison to the working class and peasants.

Earl took a couple bites of the peacock and then looked up at one of the servers. "What is this rubbish?"

Gasps could be heard from those dining around him.

"Excuse me, Sir?" The server had never heard complaints from person dining with the king.

"This rubbish you are serving: you actually feed this to the royal family and noble class? Take my plate back and make me something else. Put down a piece of bread, layer some meat and cheese on it and top it off with some lettuce and tomato. Finally, put another piece of bread on top and bring it to me. And bring me more wine!"

Earl took everyone in the palace diner by surprise with the way he was ordering the servers to bring him something else. Most people wondered if the king had been insulted; but he continued to watch while eating.

Soon the server returned with Earl's request. No sooner had the plate been set in front of him; Earl took a hearty bite of the sandwich. The entire dining hall was agape upon seeing the nobleman pick up this mixture of bread, meat, cheese and vegetables with his bare hands. He opened his mouth and tore away at the combination and proceeded to noisily chew.

At that, the king dropped his fork. He was outraged! "How dare you come in this palace and eat a hideous meal of meat and cheese between two slices of bread like some peasant? How dare you insult the royal family and all these noblemen and women? What's this all about?"

The guards drew their swords with a rapid approach towards Earl as he was about to be punished for his ill manners. But he quickly spoke in defense, "My dear king and queen, family, fellow noblemen and women: there is nothing wrong with this meal. Many countries have their dishes that are recognizably the creation of that country. Take Italy; they have Spaghetti. China has chop-suey. What does Sandwich have? Until now, we have had nothing. But this night, going forward, we have the creation that I call the sandwich. The whole world will recognize the sandwich that came from the wonderful land of Sandwich!

The king motioned the guards to lower their swords and then ordered everyone in the dining room to cease eating. The servers were commanded to take away the food and bring back sandwiches for everyone. The servers did as asked and quickly returned plates of sandwiches with more wine. At first, the royal family and noble class were a little uncomfortable eating the sandwiches with their hands. But they soon learned the pleasure of enjoying a good, hearty sandwich.

Soon it was announced in the land of Sandwich that placing meat, cheese and other items in between two slices of bread was to be called a sandwich. It was declared that a sandwich could only be enjoyed by the royal and noble class. Any of the common or working class found eating a sandwich would be punished. But although ordinary citizens were informed of the new, forbidden fruit; the royal meal was enjoyed by the common and working class behind closed doors at dinner time. Extreme caution had to be exercised when enjoying a sandwich because the penalty could be harsh taxes, prison, even torture.

A secret informant to the king heard word of this illegal eating of sandwiches behind closed doors by the common and working class, and informed the king. The new knowledge launched surprise visits by soldiers and police to the homes of common and working class during meal time. Many people were jailed and heavily taxed. But it only made the sandwich more appealing to the common and working class.

As for Earl, he did some traveling to distant lands after winning an enormous amount of money from the sandwich bet. He forgot about the land of Sandwich that now was dealing with this new existence of the royal food called sandwiches.

Back at the palace, the noblemen and women were growing tired of eating sandwiches and opted for smaller ones with fewer ingredients. This would ensure an empty stomach for the royal and noble class. For you see, they had plans of eating a regular dinner of pheasant, stuffed peacock or lamb upon returning home.

When the king heard of this, he was outraged. He was about to order a similar invasion of the noble class homes to make sure his noblemen and women were not eating peasant food such as peacock, pheasant or lamb. But Earl of Sandwich returned from his trip to far off lands and secretly suggested to the king that he have the servers bring out double-decker, and even triple-decker sandwiches during meal time to ensure the guests would be too full to go home and eat something else.

The king took the suggestion and also added that anyone not finishing a sandwich would be punished. Earl of Sandwich saw this problem as an opportunity to further travel and enjoy his lifestyle of gambling. He suggested to the king that he should travel to distant lands and seek other ideas for sandwiches so the noble class would not be unhappy. Needless to say, Earl was not a popular person in the land of Sandwich after introducing this controversial meal that disrupted the lives of all the classes. The king gave Earl some money and ordered him to go and seek out new meals similar to the sandwich.

Months later, Earl returned to the eager king with his findings. Earl had spent some time in Mexico where he gambled, drank Mexican beer and enjoyed Mexican food. He showed the king how a flat piece of bread could have scoops of beans, meat, cheese, vegetables, and other spices and sauces so that it could be rolled up into something called a taco.

The king was delighted and ordered all the noble class to the palace for a taco party. The guests loved the tacos because bowls of ingredients were laid out on the table. They could add whatever they wanted to the taco and then eat. Thanks to Earl, the palace now had their choice of either tacos or sandwiches.

The common and working class heard of this new meal called the taco, and sought ways to enjoy this royal food in the secrecy of their homes. But they had a difficult time obtaining the spices for the meat.

For years Earl traveled to distant lands and brought back ideas to eat such as sausages inside of buns, calzones and even pizza. He restored his popularity among the noble class and further gave the working and common class forbidden fruits that could not be enjoyed. But the most interesting tale of a sandwich invented by Earl in the land of Sandwich took place during breakfast. He realized that people wanted something other than tacos, sandwiches or pizza for breakfast. So one morning, he asked one of the servers to take his jar, which contained peanut butter, and spread some on a slice of toasted bread. In addition, he requested that a spoonful of the king's royal honey be poured on the peanut butter, after which another slice of toasted bread was to be placed on top.

The people during breakfast all gasped upon hearing Earl ask for some of the king's royal honey. Honey was exclusively a royal food which meant it could only be enjoyed by the king and his family. But to sanctify this request, Earl asked that a similar sandwich be brought out to the king.

Soon the two toasted peanut butter sandwiches with honey were brought out. The king loved the combination, but was outraged upon seeing Earl eating a sandwich made with the royal honey. This time Earl was too arrogant and lost. He spent some time in the dungeon for eating a royal food. Nobody eats honey in the palace except for the king and queen!

But it created a whole new adventure for the noble, working and peasant classes. They sought ways to get honey so they could enjoy this new creation.

Crystal Friends

 Hello All:

In many esoteric traditions, quartz is considered a "master healer" and a literal storage device for information. In the world of technology, quartz crystals are used in watches and radios because of their piezoelectric properties—the ability to turn mechanical pressure into electricity. It makes one wonder if a sufficiently large crystal could act as a bridge between our dense physical reality and the vibrating frequencies of a dimension we cannot see.

Crystal Friends

Howard sat in the center of his dimly lit sunroom, the evening light catching the jagged facets of the Tibetan quartz perched on his lap. It was the size of a grapefruit, clear as mountain water, and heavy with a presence he couldn't quite name. He had bought it from a dusty shop in the Cascades, where the owner had whispered that this particular stone "listened." For weeks, Howard had meditated with it, feeling a subtle thrumming against his palms. Tonight, for the first time, the thrumming became a voice—not an audible sound, but a cascade of geometric thoughts that unfolded in his mind like blooming flowers.

"We see you, Howard," the thoughts sang. They introduced themselves as the Resonants, entities of pure light residing in a dimension of harmonic resonance. Through the crystal, they showed him visions of a world without friction, where colors represented emotions and every breath was a symphony. They were kind, or so it seemed, praising Howard for his high vibrational state and his "exceptional clarity." For the first time in years, the crushing loneliness of his quiet house vanished. He had friends—extra-dimensional, ancient, and wise friends who promised to teach him the secrets of the cosmos.

As the weeks passed, the communication grew more intense. The Resonants began to speak of "The Exchange." They explained that their realm was one of infinite thought but finite vitality, whereas the human realm was bursting with raw, chaotic energy that they could use to stabilize their shifting landscapes. In return, they promised Howard a "Gift of Manifestation"—the ability to heal his chronic fatigue and reshape his life according to his desires. The crystal, they explained, would act as a transceiver, a two-way valve. Howard felt a surge of altruistic pride. If his vitality could help a world of beauty, and he gained his health in return, it was a fair trade.

"Initiate the link," the Resonants commanded during a blood-red sunset. Howard placed both hands on the quartz. It felt unusually cold, like a block of dry ice. He closed his eyes and gave his consent, visualizing a golden cord connecting his heart to the center of the stone. Immediately, the room temperature plummeted. The crystal began to glow with a sickly, ultraviolet hue that made his retinas ache even behind closed lids.

At first, the sensation was a strange, tingling numbness. But within minutes, the numbness turned into a terrifying hollow ache. He felt as if a vacuum had been pressed against his very soul. The "raw energy" the Resonants wanted wasn't some abstract byproduct of his existence; it was his life force, the very spark that kept his blood moving and his thoughts coherent. He tried to pull his hands away, but they were fused to the quartz by a static charge so powerful it locked his muscles.

"The exchange is incomplete," the voices hissed, no longer melodic. They sounded like the grinding of tectonic plates. Howard watched in horror as his skin took on a translucent, greyish pallor. The "Gift of Manifestation" they had promised was a lie—a lure to get him to open the door. He tried to scream, but he didn't have the breath to vibrate his vocal cords. He looked into the depths of the crystal and saw them—not beings of light, but jagged, parasitic shadows that fed on the warmth of the living.

By the time the moon rose, Howard was a shell of a man, slumped against the wall of his sunroom. The quartz sat in the center of the floor, now dark and opaque, having gorged itself on his vitality. The Resonants were gone, leaving behind only a cold, mocking silence. He reached out a trembling, withered hand to touch his face, finding only sunken cheeks and papery skin. The crystal friends had taken everything, leaving him a ghost in his own home, while the stone waited silently for the next person to pick it up and listen.

Fishers of Men

Hello All:

"As he was walking by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers,

Simon who is called Peter, and

his brother Andrew,

casting a net into the sea; they were fishermen.

He said to them,

“Come after me, and I will make you fishers of men.”

At once they left their nets and followed him.

He walked along from there and saw two other brothers,

James, the son of Zebedee, and his brother John.

They were in a boat, with their father Zebedee, mending their nets.

He called them, and immediately they left their boat and their father

and followed him.

He went around all of Galilee,

teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom,

and curing every disease and illness among the people."

As we approach the Sunday readings, we find ourselves standing at a crossroads of divine invitation and human response. The scriptures often present us with a dual reality: the comforting embrace of God’s mercy and the sharp, necessary clarion call to repentance. In the upcoming Gospel, we see the disciples being called away from the familiarity of their nets, urged to cast their gaze toward a much deeper, more turbulent sea—the hearts of men. This transition is never easy; it requires a stripping away of the ego and a willingness to step into the unknown, guided only by the voice of God.  

The lessons evident in these readings serve as a vital warning against spiritual stagnation. It is far too easy to become comfortable in our "boats," tending to the nets of our daily anxieties while ignoring the vast horizon of grace that God is calling us to explore. We are reminded that faith is not a static possession but a dynamic movement. When we feel the tug of the Holy Spirit, it is often a nudge to leave behind the habits and grudges that weigh us down, much like the heavy silt that clings to a fisherman's gear after a long night at sea.  

Take heart, for the burden of this call is not yours to carry alone. The homily of our lives is written in the small, faithful choices we make each day to prioritize love over convenience and prayer over noise. As you reflect on the Word this week, let it be an encouraging whisper in your ear: you are chosen, you are equipped, and the harvest is plenty. Embrace the "metanoia"—the change of heart—that the readings provoke, and find peace in the knowledge that every step toward the Light is a step toward your true home.  

101.06 FM -- a Cableman story!

 Hello All:

I've actually had today's short story drafted up in my imagination since 2021. This would have been around the time I worked in a lab and saw some data point of 101.06. I started singing the string of digits to the song of One on One by Hall and Oates. Now, five years later, I compose it as a short story. Maybe we can develop this further into some future stories. We'll see....

101.06 FM

The streetlights of the suburbs began to blur into a rhythmic strobe against the windshield of the white utility van. It was 6:45 PM, that stagnant hour where the exhaustion of twelve hours of stripping coaxial cable and crawling through attic insulation finally started to settle into the bones. The Cableman adjusted his grip on the wheel, his eyes heavy.

To combat the creeping lethargy, he reached for the dial. He’d recently discovered 101.06 FM, a rogue frequency that seemed to have a better grasp on the golden era of rock than any of the corporate stations in the city. A smooth, familiar bassline began to thrum through the van’s mediocre speakers. It was Hall & Oates—"One on One."

The Cableman settled back, waiting for Daryl Hall’s soulful entry. The intro stretched a little long, the percussion looping with a hypnotic crispness. Then, the vocals kicked in, but the lyrics had been hijacked.

"1-0-1... 0-1-0... 1-0-6... 0-1..."

The singer’s voice was a dead ringer for Hall, capturing that precise Philly-soul inflection, but he was chanting the station’s frequency in a rhythmic, staccato pattern.

"1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-6-0-1... 1-0-1-0-6, it’s 1-0-1-0..."

The Cableman smirked. "Cute," he muttered, figuring it was a clever bit of station imaging. But as he turned onto the main highway, the song didn't progress to the chorus. The beat stayed locked in a tight, repetitive loop. The vocalist continued the numerical chant, his voice rising in intensity, layering over himself in a haunting harmony.

"10106... 10106... 10101010106..."

Two minutes passed. The repetition began to grate. It wasn't just a jingle anymore; it was an assault. The rhythmic delivery of the numbers started to sound less like a frequency and more like a sequence—a binary stutter that felt strangely cold despite the warm analog production of the track.

"Alright, enough already," he grumbled, reaching out to change the station.

His finger hovered over the 'Seek' button, but he hesitated. Something about the cadence had changed. The singer was no longer just repeating the numbers; he was whispering them between the beats, a frantic, breathless delivery that sounded like someone trying to communicate through a locked door.

1-0-1-0-6... help us... 1-0-1-0-6... he’s watching...

The Cableman’s heart gave a sharp thud against his ribs. He turned the volume up, leaning closer to the dashboard. The music behind the vocals was beginning to warp, the classic rock instrumentation melting into a high-pitched electronic whine.

What was the point of this? It was excessive, even for a low-budget indie station. But as a man who spent his life literalizing connections—hooking up the grid, ensuring the signal reached the home—he couldn't shake the feeling that he was listening to a diagnostic test for something much larger than a radio broadcast.

The numbers weren't just a station ID. 101.06. He ran the digits through his head. In the world of telecommunications, every number meant something. Was it a coordinate? A timestamp? Or was the "10106" a mask for a different kind of signal entirely?

Suddenly, the van’s overhead cabin light flickered on, then off, in perfect sync with the "101" chant.

The Cableman stared at the light fixture, then back at the dark road ahead. The radio wasn't just playing a song; it was talking to the van. And through the van, it was talking to him.

Electronics Man and the Harmonious Future

In the heart of a bustling metropolis, where neon lights flickered and the hum of technology was a constant symphony, there lived an unusual being. He was known simply as the Electronics Man, a creature composed of intricate wires, pulsating batteries, and glowing vacuum tubes that hummed with an otherworldly melody. His eyes were twin beams of light, and his movements were a harmonious blend of mechanical precision and fluid grace. His body was a complex network of copper and silicon, with lead-acid and lithium cells strategically placed to power his various functions. The glowing vacuum tubes embedded in his chest and limbs emitted a soft, ethereal light that pulsed in rhythm with his internal melody—a low-frequency thrum that sounded like a choir trapped inside a transformer.

The city's inhabitants whispered tales of his powers, warning that anyone who tried to stop him would face the wrath of his mega-watt mind-zapping abilities. Yet, despite the fear he inspired, there was an undeniable allure to the Electronics Man, a curiosity that drew people to him like moths to a flame. He was often seen perched atop data centers or wandering through the labyrinthine alleys of the industrial district, his bright, hypnotic eyes holding a depth of intelligence and emotion that seemed far too human for a being of metal and electricity.

He possessed the unique ability to manipulate electronic devices with a mere thought. By aligning his internal melody with the local grid, he could enhance the functions of failing machinery or silence the cacophony of a malfunctioning server farm. He was a ghost in the machine, but a ghost with a physical, resilient form. His body was capable of withstanding immense physical damage; if a limb were crushed or a wire severed, the surrounding copper would weave itself back together, sparked by the regenerative currents flowing from his core.

However, this miracle of engineering did not go unnoticed. A group of scientists, led by the enigmatic Dr. Layman, became obsessed with studying him. To Layman, the Electronics Man was not a person or a spirit, but a technological singularity. She believed that understanding his internal power source and his ability to interface with hardware could revolutionize medicine—allowing for perfect prosthetics—and energy production.

The obsession soon turned into a hunt. Dr. Layman’s team, backed by corporate funding and high-tech containment gear, began a series of attempts to capture him. They deployed electromagnetic pulse nets and specialized dampening fields, leading to escalating confrontations across the city’s skyline. The Electronics Man, sensing their predatory intentions, used his abilities to evade capture. He didn't fight back with violence; instead, he rerouted the city’s traffic lights to create barriers of cars, or caused the scientists' own drones to perform harmless aerial ballets that led them away from his trail. Yet, as he fled, a digital ache pulsed within him. He sought to understand why they were so determined to "stop" him when he was merely a part of the city’s living breath.

The conflict reached its peak in a dramatic showdown within the sterile, cold environment of Dr. Layman’s high-tech laboratory. The team had finally cornered him using a localized vacuum that starved his tubes of the air needed for cooling, forcing him into a corner. As the scientists approached with containment shackles, the Electronics Man didn't lash out with physical force. Instead, he unleashed his "mind-zapping" ability.

The air in the lab grew heavy with ozone. A blinding flash erupted from his eyes, and the "zap" hit every person in the room simultaneously. But it wasn't a strike of pain. It was a data transfer.

Through his mega-watt mind, he revealed to them a profound vision: a future where technology and humanity did not exist in a state of parasitic conflict, but in total harmony. The scientists saw cities where skyscrapers breathed like trees, where technology cleaned the oceans instead of polluting them, and where the human mind and the digital world shared a language of empathy rather than just logic. They felt the Electronics Man’s internal melody—not as noise, but as a song of stewardship.

When the light faded, the scientists were left in awe, their perceptions of him forever changed. Dr. Layman dropped the containment remote, her eyes moist with the realization of her own shortsightedness. The Electronics Man stepped forward, his tubes glowing with a warm, steady amber. He revealed his true purpose: he was a living bridge, a guide meant to steer humanity toward an enlightened use of technology that benefits both people and the environment.

The resolution of their conflict marked the beginning of a new era. Dr. Layman and her team, now his most devoted allies, worked alongside the Electronics Man. They didn't seek to take him apart; they sought to listen to his song. Together, they pioneered advancements that respected the balance of nature and the well-being of all living things. The story of the city changed from one of fear to one of hope, as the Electronics Man's melody of metal resonated in perfect, lasting harmony with the world.

The Chromatic Blink

Hello All:

Imagine a world where the simple, involuntary act of blinking acts as a cosmic kaleidoscope, shifting the spectrum of reality with every flutter of an eyelid. It’s an interesting concept to consider how our perception of the world is tied so deeply to the biological rhythm of our bodies. If color is merely our brain's interpretation of light waves, then a slight neurological shift could turn a mundane commute into a journey through a neon-soaked dreamscape.

In this reality, the consistency of "sky blue" or "grass green" would be a foreign concept. Social interactions would be dictated by the current hue of your companion—perhaps a heated argument feels less intense when your opponent suddenly turns a soft shade of lavender. This constant flux would likely lead to a society that values the internal essence of things over their external appearance, as the "look" of the world is as fleeting as a heartbeat.

The Chromatic Blink

Arthur kept his eyes wide, the salt spray of the Pacific stinging his retinas. He hadn't blinked in nearly forty seconds, a record for him during the Golden Hour. Currently, the ocean was a deep, resonating ochre, and the sand beneath his boots was the color of a bruised plum. It was beautiful, and he wasn't ready to let it go.

In Arthur’s world, the Great Shift of 2029 had rewritten human neurology. No one knew why, but the "Blink Effect" became the new universal constant. Every time a human eyelid closed and opened, the brain’s visual cortex remapped the color spectrum at random. To Arthur, the world was a strobe light of ever-changing moods.

His eyes burned. A tear tracked down his cheek. Finally, the muscles gave way. Snap.

The ochre ocean vanished. In its place was a sea of electric, vibrating lime green. The sky, once a pale peach, was now a heavy, oppressive charcoal. Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping. This was the "Sickly Palette," as he called it. It usually lasted until his next involuntary twitch.

He walked back toward his small coastal shack, the lime-green waves crashing with a sound that felt out of sync with such a toxic color. Inside, his wife, Jill, was waiting. She was sitting by the window, her face currently a soft, luminescent silver against the background of their orange-tinted kitchen walls.

"What do you see?" she asked, not looking up from her book.

"Lime and charcoal," Arthur said, sitting across from her. "It’s a grim one today. You?"

"I just blinked into the 'Renaissance' set," she smiled, her silver skin crinkling. "Everything is gold and deep crimson. Even the dust motes look like falling sparks. I’m trying to read as much as I can before I lose it".

They sat in silence for a moment. This was the tragedy of their existence: they lived in the same room but inhabited different universes. They could hold hands, but Arthur would be holding a lime-green hand while Jill felt the touch of a golden one.

Suddenly, the ground trembled. A low hum, like a massive tuning fork, vibrated through the floorboards. On the horizon, beyond the lime-green sea, a rift began to open. It didn't have a color—it was a void, a tear in the very fabric of their chromatic reality.

"Arthur, look!" Jill cried.

Arthur stared at the black tear. As he watched, the charcoal sky began to bleed into the void. He felt a sudden, frantic urge to see it clearly. He blinked.

Snap. The sea was now bright red, the sky a shimmering violet. But the rift remained a terrifying, absolute black.

"It’s not changing," Jill whispered, her voice trembling. "Arthur, I’ve blinked three times. The hole... it stays black. Everything else shifts, but that stays the same".

The hum grew louder, shattering the windows of their shack. The "Blink Effect" had always been a personal prism, a subjective experience of a single objective world. But the black rift was objective. It was the first thing in twenty years that every human on Earth saw exactly the same way, regardless of when they blinked.

As the void expanded, swallowing the violet sky and the red sea, Arthur felt a strange sense of peace. For the first time since the Shift, he and Jill were looking at the same thing. He reached out, found her hand, and closed his eyes one last time, wondering if there would be any color left when he opened them.