My Abundant Life, Prologue: How It Could Have Been

Once upon a time, I had an unbearable nightmare about a life I lived where I was born into a family broken by grief and religion, where I had an older brother I never met who was born into suffering and only lived for a week.

My mother – the one ray of light that shined truly bright in this grim reality – was able to find within herself the strength and grace to process this loss, and as she began to recover, she put her whole being into loving not only her three children who lived but also as many other children as she could, helping those who were disadvantaged by special educational needs to have the same opportunities in life as all the rest.

But my father was a broken man, damaged beyond either his ability or his willingness to repair. Unable to let go, he instead took solace in religion – but rather than embracing and embodying the message of love and hope that it offered, it only served to enhance his sense of loss and grievance when he found that his wife and later his children did not share his faith and fervour for his newfound beliefs. Refusing to accept this, he attempted to use his religion as a cudgel to beat his family into submitting to the will of God as he saw it, causing nothing but rifts and resentment as he battered us with his twisted notions of what being a faithful Christian is all about, ultimately all but breaking the whole family apart.

And all through this push and pull between my parents, with my father trying to take away my choices and my mother fighting to give me the right to choose, I was there in the middle, the eldest yet not the firstborn, believing this must all be my fault somehow.

As I grew old enough to begin to question and indeed wilfully defy my father, his disapproval of me became very clear and I experienced my first taste of rejection, of not being accepted for who I am. And even though my mother loved and accepted me unconditionally and I never doubted that for one second, her boundless love was not enough to cushion or counterbalance the pain of feeling that although I knew on some level that my father loved me, I didn’t really feel it. What I felt, rather, was that I wasn’t really the son he wanted, that I was a disappointment and often an embarrassment to him, that I was guilty of making far too many mistakes and failing far too often and having far too many flaws. He expected me to be just like him, and when he found that I wasn’t, he saw me as somehow defective; he never really cared to get to know who I truly am or embrace the many ways in which I am so different from him. This rejection wounded me profoundly, causing a terrible deep pain within me that I carried through adolescence and into adulthood. I carry it with me still, despite truly wanting to just set it down and consign it to the grim bowels of my far less than perfect history. I just don’t know how.

To further compound matters, I found this pattern repeating at school, where my intelligence and love of reading and enjoyment of maths and science worked against me, and I was ripped apart by verbally abusive classmates, as well as being occasionally beaten. This carried on all through my childhood, and worsened in my teenage years. I was haunted by the humiliation of every gym class, my physical inferiority compared to almost all of the other boys overwhelmingly clear, my lack of confidence and hand-to-eye coordination, the fact that I had to wear glasses with lenses so thick they made milk bottles jealous (which would either be knocked off my face or I could take them off and then not be able to see anyone or anything at all), even the birthmark on my knee… those kids didn’t miss a trick when it came to taunting and humiliating me, and my gym teachers were basically just more schoolboy bullies who had physically matured but had never left school and never lost their taste for bullying.

That bullying became full-on torment after my blinkered, arrogant, critical, disapproving father – who I now clashed with greatly through the peak of my adolescence as I was more and more able to see and understand and challenge his flaws and weaknesses and hypocrisy and judgemental attitude – pushed me down completely the wrong path, away from the creative writing that my mother had always encouraged and into an electrical engineering apprenticeship that was, of course, just like the one he had done when he was my age. On some level I still wanted, I suppose, to try to please him and at last get the approval that I so fervently craved. I didn’t have any better ideas about what to do with my life (my father’s lack of belief in the merit and worth of creative pursuits of any kind – and, by extension, in me and my ability to succeed at whatever I put my mind to – had made clear that pursuing writing was not a viable option), so I allowed myself to be shoved into four years of hell, of being relentlessly bullied by my classmates during the first couple of years of college and being pushed around and abused by colleagues and managers alike in the workplace. I’m sure I brought some of it on myself due to all the insecurity and anger and sadness and frustration that was spilling out of me, but a lot of it was just cruel people seeing an easy target and taking me down to make themselves feel better about their own pathetic lives.

And even when I was able to escape from the torment of that horrendous company and its awful, small-minded, vicious, mediocre people, it wasn’t an escape at all, as I fled to university and continued along that wrong path, doing a degree that seemed like it would lead to a lucrative career (computing) even though I really didn’t want to do it and was still trying to make the best of a really awful situation.

I did what was expected of me when I met a woman and fell in love; we got married, even as I was still completely oblivious about my deepest romantic and sexual desires, locked away in a totally forbidden box that must never be opened lest I end up burning in the Hellfire of damnation for all eternity, as I had been successfully indoctrinated by my fanatical religious bigot of a father despite my loving and kind mother’s best efforts, while both of my parents had made sure – for their own different reasons – to raise me in the most secure bubble possible, one that kept me sheltered from as much world knowledge as possible, everything from drugs and alcohol to sex and sexuality.

And still I carried on down that path, lurching from one job I hated to the next slightly better paying job that I hated even more, feeling like I was shackled to my desk in each anonymous, pointless office, my soul being chipped away and irrevocably destroyed one little piece at a time as each day passed meaninglessly by, suffering setbacks and rejections and failures despite putting my heart and soul into every friendship, every business opportunity, every attempt I made to get out of this trap and free myself from the misery of the interminable mediocrity that my life choices – guided at every step by the completely wrong-headed advice of my at least partially well-intentioned but utterly misguided father – had led to, this prison from which I could not seem to escape and in which my wife was my only solace, even though she herself could not satisfy certain desires that could no longer be locked away and had begun to break free of that box, despite all the chains and locks and warning signs wrapped around it.

Of course this was all going to end in tears. Unquestionably a full mental breakdown and severe depression was inevitable. Looking back, it’s miraculous that I held on for as long as I did. I went down fighting until my last breath – but because I fought with everything I had, when I went down, I went down hard.

I had to stop working because I could no longer walk into the office – even drive halfway there – without collapsing into a sobbing heap. All of the debt I had accumulated from my terrible mismanagement of money (combined with the huge drain of both myself and my wife having recently attended university) meant that my wife and I had to move in with my parents, welcomed with unrestrained condemnation by a father who informed me that, despite my financial sins, I could still have the privilege of living under his roof again, as long as it didn’t cost him anything. My wife bailed out a few months later, plotting behind my back to start a new life in a distant country rather than ever telling me she was unhappy and giving me any kind of chance to save our marriage. And then a decade and a half just went by in a blur of misery, suffering, failed attempts to reboot myself and my life, more loss, more failure, more rejection… it all blurred together into unending torment. I didn’t need to be afraid of going to Hell any more. I was already here.

But then I awoke from that horrible nightmare, and realised that none of it had ever happened! That instead, miraculously, I had had the perfect life, the most wonderful upbringing that anyone could ever wish for, a childhood that was truly wealthy in every sense of the word. So draw nearer, dear reader, and let me tell you how it all really began…

Chapter One Coming Soon…

Part Nine: Installation 04

I jerked awake and immediately lurched upright, still groggy and not quite able to focus on the blurry gloom around me. I ran my fingers across my face to check for swelling, but there was no mark and no pain – no evidence at all in fact that I had just been punched and kicked in the face by a supernaturally strong teenage vampire slayer. As my vision cleared I instantly recognised my surroundings; I had been here so many times before, and my feelings about this place were probably best described as a love-hate relationship.

I was sitting in the middle of a vast, metallic corridor that arced gently to the right as it stretched out into the distance far ahead of me. The smooth contours of its perfectly engineered grey walls were periodically tinged with brownish and blueish light and sparsely adorned with mysterious geometric markings. Sleek control panels were displayed uniformly along the sides of the corridor, their purpose impossible for my primitive mind to discern, their bright blue displays glowing in the dimness. Large metallic blocks were set periodically down the centre of the corridor, thin strips of rectangular LEDs flashing in sequence up and down their edges near each corner, and I could see the first of a series of openings into much smaller corridors located a little further along to my right. Opposite this was a pair of large, rectangular apertures that might appear upon first inspection to serve as some sort of ventilation system, but I knew better than that – they were in fact designed as a means of navigating this immense, labyrinthine structure. The ceiling was set high above me, its massive panels outlined with more strips of glowing blue light. I chuckled to myself that in this, of all places, lay the Wisdom of the Ages I sought – in The Library, the seventh gruelling level of the first Halo videogame.

This level of Halo is arguably the most polarising, berated by some reviewers and players as being repetitive, tiresome and relentless. The level is unique in that throughout it you are bombarded by wave after wave of hive-minded alien zombies and infectious spore creatures collectively known as the Flood – an apt description of the way they forgo any kind of tactics and simply attempt to drown you through the sheer volume of their numbers – while you gradually battle your way through seemingly endless corridors and breach vast security doors in an attempt to gain possession of a key artefact known as the Index. Personally, I find it to be a highly enjoyable level, if a little claustrophobic at times and frustratingly hard to survive on the Legendary difficulty setting during those moments when you are hemmed in on both sides and Flood forms armed with everything from shotguns to rocket launchers are pouring out of multiple shafts.

So far there was no sign of the Flood – I was relieved to see – but that didn’t mean that they weren’t lurking nearby. And meanwhile there wasn’t a single weapon lying around – not even a meagre pistol (I don’t keep it loaded, son). I had barely gotten my bearings when my stomach lurched at the approach of a familiar yet chilling sound; the tuneful humming of a metallic-tinged voice, and the quiet whir of an advanced propulsion system: the Monitor had found me.

I turned to see the familiar glow of the droid, which could best be described as a futuristic diver’s helmet made of advanced grey alloy but with its top, rear and sides cut out. There was a glowing blue ‘eye’ in its centre, located on the front face of its outer, helmet-like framework, clearly visible beneath the protective transparent blue energy barriers that covered the otherwise exposed openings on its sides, top and rear. The droid drew seamlessly to a halt right in front of me, hovering as it talked, its single blue ‘eye’ flashing in synchronisation with its words, perfectly pronounced in a cheerful tone.

“Greetings Reclaimer, I am 343 Guilty Spark, the Monitor of Installation 04.”

“Greetings,” I replied, cautiously.

“You have been gone for a long time. By my calculations it has been approximately 5 years, 7 months, 17 days and 6 hours since you were last here. I was getting lonely without you.”

“Well,” I said, “the important thing is that I’m back now.”

“Indeed,” agreed the Monitor. “Shall we proceed?”

“Proceed?” I asked.

“With retrieving the Index, of course.”

“For what purpose?”

“Why to access the Wisdom of the Ages, naturally.”

“So… you don’t expect me to activate the installation, then?”

“Absolutely not!” the droid spluttered, his tone momentarily indignant before returning to calmness. “All that would do is kill you. And then I would be alone again.”

“Indeed,” I agreed. “So there hasn’t been a breach in containment?”

“The samples that were kept in this installation after the last catastrophic outbreak are fully contained – unless there is something you know that I do not.”

I breathed a sigh of relief – I must have arrived ahead of the conglomerate of alien races known as the Covenant who would soon cause the fateful breach that sets the Flood scourge loose across Installation 04 and beyond.

“No, no,” I reassured him hastily, “the samples are still contained. Let’s go and retrieve the Index so I can access the Wisdom of the Ages.”

“Very well. Please follow me and stay close. I would not want you to get lost.”

The Monitor turned and floated away at some speed, and I set off at a brisk pace to keep up with him.

“So, Reclaimer,” said the Monitor, apparently in an attempt to make polite conversation, “have you been successful in your endeavours?”

“My endeavours?” I asked.

“Yes, whatever mission has kept you away from this installation for so long.”

I considered how to answer, in the end deciding that in the endeavours of endlessly suffering in torturous depression and lying down and waiting to die, I had been succeeding magnificently – at least until of late.

“I achieved great success with my last mission, but now it’s completed and a new one has begun.”

“How wonderful,” said the Monitor. “And this mission requires you to access the data repository known as the Wisdom of the Ages, which only the Index can unlock?”

“Exactly,” I confirmed.

The Monitor stopped suddenly and turned to me; if it wasn’t just a machine I could have sworn that its glowing blue eye was slightly narrowed in suspicion.

“And yet, up until 3 minutes and 27 seconds ago there was no record of any such data repository, or indeed of the Index having any purpose other than activating this installation. Do you not find that curious, Reclaimer?”

Some quick thinking was required, given that I knew how rapidly this seemingly harmless little droid and its endless supply of Sentinels could turn homicidal.

“I apologise, Guilty Spark,” I began. “The nature of my new mission required that the repository and its access device be kept secret – even from you. Just in case of a security breach.”

“A security breach?” the droid spluttered, sounding distinctly insulted. “In the 100,000 or so years since I have been responsible for monitoring this installation, do you know how many datastream incursions have occurred?”

“Zero?” I guessed.

“You are correct. All databases and Flood containment facilities have been fully preserved throughout every physical incursion of this installation, as specified in standard security protocols.”

“I would expect nothing less,” I replied. “Nevertheless, after so many millennia, doesn’t at least the possibility exist of some sort of unknown alien hacking technology being developed that could result in a data breach?”

Like Cortana, who you are soon to find out is not an AI to be messed with. That part I didn’t dare say out loud. The Monitor appeared to be contemplating my hypothesis. After a pause that seemed unusually lengthy for an artificial intelligence, he replied.

“I suppose it is conceivable. But this is highly irregular, Reclaimer, and I will thank you to keep me informed of any such future additions to my archives.”

“I promise it’ll never happen again,” I said. “Now, may we proceed?”

“Of course,” he replied, his voice suddenly interminably cheery once again. “This way.”

We followed along the corridor for a while, arcing very gradually around to the right, until we reached a towering metallic door.

“How curious,” said the Monitor, “the security doors have sealed automatically. I will go access the override to open them.”

He whizzed into one of the open shafts, humming again in that unsettlingly amiable manner. I hoped fervently that he would stay that way, because after over 100 millennia spent almost entirely alone he was clearly more than a few terabytes short of a memory bank. A loud clanking and grinding sound echoed around the massive chamber as hidden gears whirred and the two layers of doors glided seamlessly apart, an aperture opening in the centre as the nearest door was pulled into the left side of the frame and the one set behind it into the right side.

“Oh, I am a genius,” the little droid muttered as he emerged from the shaft, presumably congratulating himself for the grand feat of opening the doors.

Beyond was a broad corridor that wove its way through this section of the Library via a series of right and left turns punctuated by longer straight stretches. As I proceeded along it, the panels on the wall looked far more real than in the videogame. They were akin to large windows except coated in a glowing blue liquid that shifted and shimmered in impossible ways, creating patterns and shapes as though somehow sentient, casting an eerie blue glow along the dimly lit dark grey walls. Ornate geometric patterns adorned some of the floor panels as I turned the corner, and complex alien symbols glowed in green, orange and blue, set upon different sections of the sloping walls, into which massive angled pillars were set. Seeing this place so completely devoid of life was both eerie and a relief, given the trouble that the cyborg protagonist star of the Halo videogame franchise known as Master Chief – and by extension, myself, as the one controlling him – would always have with blasting through the hordes of horrifically mutated humans and aliens that usually infested this place.

“Reclaimer,” said the Monitor, “may I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead,” I replied, “I’m an open database.”

The Monitor laughed loudly at my bad joke. “What a humorous play on words, Reclaimer, I do find your responses so refreshing!”

“Happy to entertain,” I replied. “Now, please enter your search string.”

“What data is it that you seek within the Wisdom of the Ages?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” I said.

“I was wondering if perhaps I could assist you in your inquiry, but without even the semblance of a set of search parameters, interrogating such a vast database for anything even remotely relevant will be completely impossible.”

“I see,” I replied. “Well, I’m seeking the answer to a conundrum. I’m here and yet I’m not here, and what’s happening isn’t actually happening, and yet it really is happening both in this unreality and in actual reality, where I simultaneously sit in complete physical safety and terrible existential danger.”

“Reclaimer, you are making about as much sense as the database you wish to access, which I have been scanning since it became visible to my neural network. As hard as it is to interrogate, you can’t imagine how exciting it is to finally have a record of some of our lost time. There is data on every aspect of human history, although it is woefully incomplete. The bulk of the records are located in a data set labelled ‘Pop Culture’. Can you explain to me what that is?”

I sighed. “Pop culture, you say? Is there much in the way of philosophy, science, ancient teachings, literature?”

“I am sad to report that all of your specified data sets are almost entirely devoid of entries, Reclaimer. The vast majority of the available data are classified as ‘Pop Culture’, a category with which I am unfamiliar.”

“Well, the ‘pop’ is short for ‘popular’,” I explained, “and it refers primarily to the media of human civilisation of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, centred around movies, television, videogames, music, celebrity life, viral videos, social media and so on. It does also encompass classical literature, music and art, but to a lesser extent.”

“Fascinating,” replied the Monitor. “That explains why so many of these historical records are contradictory and fantastical beyond rationality. I can see now that they are primarily fictional works whose most prominent and popular creations informed the cultural conversation of any given snapshot in your era of human history.”

“You’re a quick learner,” I said.

“Reclaimer, I am not sure how much ‘wisdom’ you are likely to find in this dataset. In fact, I suspect that referring to it as the ‘Wisdom of the Ages’ is nothing short of a misnomer.”

“You could be right,” I said sheepishly.

“What will be the consequence if you are unable to locate the data you are seeking?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I think it could be terminal, one way or another.”

“Oh my,” exclaimed the Monitor, suddenly sounding eerily reminiscent of a certain golden droid who complains and frets as efficiently as he translates languages. “Reclaimer, I have a bad feeling about this.”

Somewhere nearby, I could have sworn I heard a tin can on wheels bleeping and blooping apprehensively.

We lapsed into silence as we continued. As fascinating as this trip down RAM lane was to me personally, I began to ruminate on its larger purpose. Was it an enjoyable addition to the story unfolding around me, or more akin to the level in Halo itself, which many have argued detracts from the gameplay? The Library has been described as a misplaced and tiresome inclusion whose nod to the bygone era of Doom-like shooters is self-indulgent and cannot justify the small amount of storytelling that unfolds as the Monitor mutters to himself and talks cryptically to his newfound ally. Was this chapter moving the plot forward sufficiently and priming the reader enough for what comes next, or was it just a self-indulgent diversion that had no real business even being brought into existence, let alone being included in this increasingly erratic metafiction experiment?

It also occurred to me that I was now exploring my own unconscious mind, which in turn was already in Flashtime. So if I was already moving so fast as to create the illusion of time standing still to be in Flashtime, and now time was standing still in Flashtime so I could have this sci-fi themed vision quest, exactly how fast must my brain be working at this point? Afraid that any further contemplation of the metaphysics would surely result in smoke blasting out of my ears, I put the notion aside and focused back on the corridor’s winding route, navigating my way around yet another ramp that sloped down into the network of tunnels set beneath this part of the facility.

I followed the Monitor past huge ornate outcrops of metal that could be structural or simply decorative in nature. When we reached the next portal, he accessed it without delay and I was pleased to see a wider, more open corridor revealed, this one orange-tinged. I recognised it as the one that led to the Index Chamber. I followed the singing droid along the corridor’s curvature until I rounded a corner and finally set my eyes upon the chamber, towering up into the gloom. A sprawling platform hovered unnaturally ahead of me, with over a dozen metallic blocks set in a circle around an inner set of eight tall oblongs, standing like a futuristic (yet technically far more ancient) Stonehenge. They surrounded a vast blue beam of energy that was emanating from below and flowing up into the distance as far as my eyes could see. I walked across a metallic bridge and stepped onto the platform, which immediately began to descend.

“The energy barrier surrounding the Index will deactivate when we reach the ground floor,” the Monitor informed me, as he had done countless times before.

The platform continued to steadily descend, symbols and patterns glowing on the oblongs and blocks surrounding the beam, and when it touched down on the platform at the bottom of the chamber and rumbled to a halt, the energy beam dissipated to reveal what looked like a large, glowing green spear tip pointing downwards, suspended in yet another blue energy field and surrounded by a metallic casing. The segments of the casing rotated and shifted in sequence and then locked into place, causing a sleek metallic device reminiscent of a corkscrew to pop out of the top, its glowing green core encased in grey.

As I pulled it out of the casing the entire chamber darkened, something that did not happen in the game. This was new.

Guilty Spark shone in the darkness. “I have come as far as I may, Reclaimer. The Wisdom of the Ages is for you and you alone. If I believed in luck, I would wish you a galaxy of it. Now if you will excuse me, there is a plasma conduit breach in Section 5524 that I must attend to. Until we meet again, Reclaimer.”

The glow of the Monitor faded as he whizzed into the gloom, and I examined the pulsing green Index and wondered what to do next. I glanced around the chamber and in the distance, across a bridge, I saw a large open area in front of a towering wall, dimly lit by a green receptacle that was similar to the one from which I had retrieved the Index. Suddenly afraid of what might be lurking in the gloom, I shivered and hurried across the bridge, quickly reaching the receptacle. I raised up the Index and then slotted it in with a single, swift motion, hoping beyond hope that – finally – the answers I sought would be revealed.

<— Part Eight
Part Ten is Coming Soon!

What the Actual Fuck, America?

What the fuck, America? What… the actual… fuck? Even if Biden scrapes a win and Trump is dumped like he should be, it shouldn’t be this close. It shouldn’t be anywhere near this close, not after everything Trump has said and done.

How can you want four more years of this man?

The man told you coronavirus was no big deal because he survived it, and it only took a helicopter ride to the world-class hospital where his horde of doctors treated him with an experimental drug cocktail that funnily enough didn’t include hydroxychloroquine or UV light or even some form of injecting disinfectant into the body, like a cleaning. Apparently, Lysol doesn’t knock it out in a minute after all.

The man who “likes this stuff and really gets it” because his “super genius uncle” went to MIT yet has shunned a world-renowned epidemiologist for having better likeability ratings than him and is now taking advice from a radiologist who thinks that “herd mentality” is the best policy for ending the pandemic.

The obese man with the neck fat bulging over his collar and the stupidly long tie and the fake orange tan and the Propecia combover and the lifts in his shoes who refuses to wear a face mask because he thinks it’ll make him look less macho.

The man who pledged to drain the swamp but instead just mated the corporate swamp with the political swamp and birthed a whole new brood of hideous swamp monster babies.

The man who pledged to build a wall with a crocodile- and snake-infested moat and force those criminals and rapists in Mexico to pay for it so they couldn’t swarm across the border and infest America, who has described the 1619 project as “poison” and “child abuse”, who told four congresswomen of colour to go back to the “broken and crime-infested places” they came from, who thinks Nazis marching with tiki torches are very fine people, who thinks telling the Proud Boys to stand back and stand by is condemning white supremacy, who calls Black Lives Matter a symbol of hate and thinks those kneeling sonofabitch NFL players should be fired for their peaceful protests, who attempted to ban an entire religion from entering the country, who calls covid the China virus and kung-flu, who referred to Elizabeth Warren as Pocahontas while “honouring” WWII veteran Native American codetalkers in front of a portrait of Andrew Jackson, who wants immigrants from Norway not the shithole countries in Africa… yet claims to be the least racist person you have ever met.

The man who tore thousands of children screaming from the arms of their parents and put them in for-profit child prisons, locked up in conditions we wouldn’t inflict on dogs at the pound, left hungry and thirsty and dirty and weeping and wailing and shivering with cold, some of them getting so sick that they died and others who got raped and molested by staff and guards probably wishing they were dead.

The man who promised he wouldn’t have time to play any golf yet to date has spent 281 of his 1384 days in office at his golf courses and another 97 days at other Trump properties, taking it to a grand total of 27% of his presidency on holiday.

The man who doesn’t get up until late into the morning and spends hours every day watching coverage about himself on every news channel and then rage tweeting about it like an insane old codger yelling at a cloud.

The man who attempted to smear his political rival for his son’s appearance of impropriety while his own daughter and son-in-law are actually working in the administration, in positions for which their only qualification is nepotistic, and have raked in hundreds of millions of dollars and over a dozen trademarks from China including for… wait for it… voting machines.

The man who sold out the Kurds and left them to be hunted down and massacred, either to stop Erdogan releasing proof that Jared Kushner helped Mohammed Bin Salman cover up his involvement in the murder of journalist Jamal Khahoggi or because he has financial debts to Turkey that he needed help with.

The man who kowtows to his Russian handler Vladimir Putin at every meeting, who believes an ex-KGB pathological liar and psychopath over his own intelligence agencies, who he colluded with to steal the 2016 election and got away with it by firing the FBI director and then obstructing the special investigator.

The man who “fell in love” with mass-murdering dictator Kim Kong Un of North Korea because he sent him “beautiful letters”.

The man who is a credibly accused serial rapist of both women and minors and whose involvement in paedophilia at Epstein’s mansion has conveniently gone away since Epstein was “suicided” in prison at a time when the cameras weren’t working and the guards just happened to fall asleep.

The man who has fired over half a dozen inspectors general across multiple governmental departments, completely emboldened after being wrongfully acquitted by an utterly corrupt and morally bankrupt senate in the face of overwhelming evidence of his withholding government-appropriated taxpayer funds for military aid for an ally under invasion and occupation to force him to announce bogus investigations into his political rivals, a move which completely coincidentally greatly benefits Russia.

The law and order president who had peaceful protestors gassed and assaulted so he could hold a bible upside down in front of a church, who has pardoned war criminals and tax cheats and insider traders and Roger Stone, who had his attorney-general go on the real witch hunt of trying to prosecute those who started the investigations into him, who had the charges against confessed criminal Michael Flynn dropped, who threatens judges and jury members and defendants in every court case that in any way affects him, who has turned the White House into a cash cow that he’s milking for every last cent, who gave himself and his rich cronies a huge tax cut that was especially beneficial to every one of his remaining businesses.

The great dealmaker and billionaire businessman who inherited over $300 million from his father and made a lifetime career of grifting investors and bankrupting companies and tying up all those who he stole money from in endless litigation, and who is going to extreme lengths to hide the tax returns which show just how destitute he is and which countries he is most indebted to.

The man who called a young Black pregnant gold star widow a liar to cover up for the fact that most of her husband’s corpse was still lost somewhere in Niger and incited his rabid cultists to make death threats against her, who berated and denigrated war hero John McCain both while he was dying of brain cancer and long after he had died, who berated war hero Robert Mueller while sitting in a Normandy WWII cemetery during the D-Day commemorations, who said that the soldiers who suffered traumatic brain injuries during the Iranian attack provoked by his assassination of a top Iranian general just had “headaches”, who has cynically used soldiers and the military as political props more times than anyone can count, the man who has lost all of his “generals” from the cabinet and denigrated their characters and berated their performance… yet no one respects the military more than he does.

The man who threw paper towels at devastated Puerto Ricans before leaving thousands of them to die from neglect and then called the death count fake and blamed it on the “nasty” San Juan mayor.

The self-described very stable genius who thinks windmills cause cancer and doesn’t understand the difference between climate and weather and thinks people are flushing toilets fifteen times and can’t pronounce words such as Yosemite or Thailand or Namibia.

The man who has zero empathy for anyone except other credibly accused sex offenders, such as prolific serial rapist Brett Kavanaugh who he awarded with a lifetime appointed to the Supreme Court. 

The thin-skinned, inconceivably insecure, attention-seeking man-baby who is constantly crying and whining and tweeting about how he’s always the victim and everyone is saying mean things about him and all the lying news media are out to get him while directing hateful bigoted attacks at his perceived enemies every single day and making up juvenile nicknames that would have third graders rolling their eyes.

The pathological liar who has told so many lies every day since entering office that he has seriously eroded the whole fabric of reality for tens of millions of his cult base of braindead worshippers, who relentlessly projects onto his opponents every crime and corrupt act he has committed, is committing or is planning to commit by accusing others of what he is very obviously guilty of doing or being himself.

The unhinged narcissist who is driven so entirely by his ego that he has no thought for anyone or anything else, even his own welfare and well-being, moving through life one transaction at a time and doing or saying in the moment whatever he thinks will make him the winner and everyone else the loser.

The lecherous creep who sexualises and lusts after his own daughters while showing nothing but contempt and disdain for the sons that he doesn’t want to molest and sees only as rivals and sources of weakness and embarrassment.

This is who you want, when offered the alternative of a moral, decent, compassionate public servant who has dedicated his entire life to working to make America a better place for everyone while caring for his family through unimaginable tragedy and showing deep empathy for and interest in every single person he meets, who goes to great lengths to reach out to his political opponents and get things done for the American people, who is preaching love and equality and unity instead of division and bigotry and hatred? Joe Biden isn’t perfect, and you may not like all of his policies – but given the choice between a good man and the abomination I just spent the last God knows how many paragraphs describing, you want the abomination?

How fucked up do you have to be to choose that?

And in the answer to this question could lie my salvation – because for the past three and a half years I have been so angry. Angry about the constant lying. The rank hypocrisy and gross double standards. The evil done to so many innocent people and particularly to little children. The hate. The bigotry in all of its forms, racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, Islamophobia, transphobia. The science denial. The smearing and name-calling and denigration and crudeness and rank stupidity and astonishing ignorance. The damage done to human rights and equality and the current world order and the alliances in the West that keep demagogues and dictators like Kim Jong Un and Putin and Xi at bay. The indifference of the majority of people that allows all of this to continue unchecked and unrestrained, because as long they’re okay, most people are content to turn a blind eye and carry on with their own little lives.

I have raged against those ignorant, stupid, hateful Trumpite cultists, and the borderline sociopathy of all those people who seem normal and decent yet point blank refuse to even take an interest in the rise of hatred and evil in America that is mirroring what happened in 1930s Germany, the self-important arrogance of the so-called progressives on the left who somehow think that because the voters didn’t choose Bernie Sanders as the candidate they’re better off with Trump than Biden, that the regression of Trumpism – the return to the 1950s or earlier that MAGA is really all about – is somehow going to get them closer to their Green New Deal and healthcare as a human right. What a fucking joke all these clowns are, they’re all as bad as each other.

But my rage hasn’t done any good. It hasn’t done me any good and it hasn’t done anyone else any good. It hasn’t changed anything, and it never will. You can’t hate and yell people into agreement with you. No, my rage only had one purpose, and that was to vent the endless pool of unbearable emotions I had swirling around inside of me, the anguish and the self-loathing. I have been in a very dark place for a very long time, so I actually know what it’s like to be really fucked up.

If we stop for a moment and ask, what causes bigotry? In my view, it comes down to a combination of ignorance and hatred. These are learned behaviours. No child is born in ignorance, they are born in innocence and an absolutely pure and insatiable curiosity to make sense of absolutely everything they can see, hear, touch, taste and smell. And no child is born with hatred in their heart, only love. We do it to them, as individuals and as a society. We ruin them. We pass down toxic beliefs based in tropes and stereotypes and myths and lies, instead of teaching them to seek out empirical, verifiable facts and encouraging rational, logical thinking. We damage them and hurt them until the sadness and the anger and the hate begin to take shape inside their broken little hearts, if not in childhood then in adolescence or beyond. That hatred is a hatred for the self, directed outwards at a target – and that target is picked by whatever false beliefs based in ignorance most resonate with the indivdual.

We learn to be ignorant and we learn to hate. And if we can learn it then we can unlearn it.

As someone who has suffered with extreme self-loathing for much of my life, it’s pain that I can empathise with. So perhaps there’s a way that I can use my empathy to let go of anger and judgement, and learn to love those with hate in their hearts, and understand that they’re just people in a lot of pain who are directing that pain outwards because they don’t know any other way to deal with it. And if I can do that, maybe there’s some small chance that I might be able to get through to some of these people, and help them to heal. I believe this is the only way to break the endless cycle of violence and hatred and bigotry; don’t change minds, change hearts.

There’s an African American named Daryl Davis who I saw an interview with last year and he’s a truly incredible and inspiring man. I urge you to look him up. He’s spent the last three decades making friends with KKK members – and he doesn’t just pretend to befriend them in an attempt to get them to renounce the KKK, he really does offer genuine friendship and become their friend, for as many months as it takes. And he has gotten over 200 Klan members to give him their robes.

Now, if a Black man can reach out with love and friendship to hundreds of KKK members, then surely I can find within myself just a fraction of that grace and do the same thing for a bigot… even one who supports Trump.

Part Eight: You Really Couldn’t Have Brought a Gourd?

Now was a very bad time to realise that I wasn’t actually as good under pressure as I’d always thought I was. The four nightmarish products of my psyche strained and struggled in front of me, and I felt panic rising up inside me once again, my courage ebbing with Spidey’s webbing. Then I suddenly realised – the spotlight! That must be the key, right? I whirled around to head towards it and yelled with shock to find someone standing right behind me. The petite, blonde bombshell had her hair back in a ponytail that was draped over a long, brown coat. In fact she was all in brown, a brown polo-neck sweater and brown pants underneath.

“Jumpy much?” she asked.

“Buffy!” I exclaimed. “Thank God you’re here, a Slayer is exactly what I need!”

She eyed the enraged shadow creatures, straining and wriggling underneath the webbing. “Yeah, it does look like you’re having some major demon drama. But I’m not feeling very killy right now – I don’t think I can help you like that.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To tell you it’s not the spotlight.”

“What?”

“The spotlight,” she repeated. “The spotlight isn’t the key.”

I sighed. “Dammit! Then what is? What is this? What’s going on? How can I bring this nightmare to an end?”

“You know,” said Buffy, “after my mom died I wasn’t feeling so hot, but Glory wasn’t about to let up because she was like, well, a god and everything, so I couldn’t really afford to take a timeout. And that’s when Giles took me…”

“… on a vision quest!” I exclaimed. “I knew that outfit looked familiar!”

“Yeah, a quick bit of hokey pokey and I was plugged straight into the source, the ancient wisdom of the slayers. Well, more like the primitive wisdom. I wasn’t super grateful at the time, but looking back now, it did help me get my slay on again and figure out how to defeat the biggest big bad we’d ever faced.”

“The wisdom of the ages,” I whispered. “That’s it! Connect to the source, tap into ancient wisdom! The answers I seek will be there for sure!”

“Yeah, either that or some native chick in the desert. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

“Right.” I said. “So, have you got the gourd? I’m ready. Gourd me up! Come on. Let’s gourd.”

“Is that a Xander reference?” she asked with a grin.

I grinned back in reply.

“That was pretty funny. But sorry, no. No gourd.”

“Do we need Giles then?” I asked.

“No time for rituals,” she said, nodding back at the monstrous forms straining behind us. “They’re almost free.”

“Then how are we going to connect me to the ancient…”

I honestly didn’t see the punch coming – God, she’s so fast! – but her fist cracked me right in the temple and I crumpled to the ground. Multiple Buffies stood over me as the world spun around.

“Huh, you can take a punch better than I’d have guessed to look at you. We don’t need a gourd, we just need to knock you out of yours. Oh, and by the way, if anyone tells you that death is your gift, you might want to ask about their returns policy.”

The last thing I remembered seeing before Buffy knocked me completely out of my gourd was her fashionable yet practical footwear whistling at unnatural speed towards my face.

<— Part Seven
Part Nine —>

Part Seven: Playtime’s Over Already?

I couldn’t believe that this twisted, pitiful creature was somehow another version of myself. He looked so sickly and frail, emaciated almost. Those sunken eyes were glazed over, and yet they weren’t completely empty; in fact, as I looked closer I could see a whole host of emotions swirling around in them, every one of them toxic. He began talking, his voice low, his gaze set upon me and his eyes now filled with only one thing: desperation.

“You think he’s got it bad,” he said, his left eye twitching repeatedly as he motioned towards the decapitated clown, his body still feeling around on the ground and now moving in totally the wrong direction from his irate head. “No, he’s got it easy, got it easy, easy.”

It seemed as though the inpatient, as I had now named him, had a verbal tic as well as a facial one.

“He’s having fun, he likes it, or at least, he tells himself he likes it, yes, lies, lies, lies to himself, and he believes it too, maybe not always, maybe not deep down, maybe not when the makeup is off, in the darkness of the dressing room, in the despair, despair, but he believes it enough to live, live, live with it. But not me, no no no, not me. They say I’m the crazy one but I’m the only sane one here, because I… see… reality.”

I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing; the sight of this ghastly spectre of my former self, or the fact that what it was saying was actually starting to make sense.

“No one likes being laughed at, no no no, but at least when you’re being laughed at they see you. They can see you, can see you, see you… see? You’re in the spotlight. You might not like what it shows, but it’s shining, shining, shining bright. What can be worse than that, you may ask, than being laughed at? Well, what if no one even saw you at all? What if you were invisible? What if you poured out your heart and your soul, and got back… nothing? Nothing. Nothing. What then, what then? What do you do? What do you do? What do you do? A laugh is something, it’s not a nice thing, but it’s not a nothing either, not a nothing nothing nothing like me. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote some more, but no one came.”

“No one?” I asked. “Surely someone came?”

“Oh yes, someone, some… one… or two… maybe three, for me… there were views but no comments, no likes. Well, a comment here, a like there. But I wrote and wrote and wrote, and nothing happened. Not really. A tiny something, but next to nothing, and over time it was as good as nothing, and as good as nothing, is not good, no good. I posted a dozen times, a dozen more, I reached fifty, then a hundred, then a hundred more, then a hundred more, and still so few views, the comments less and less, the likes were no more, a distant beautiful memory of underwhelming mediocrity, how I longed, longed, longed for that time to return, when I would just get even one like, one comment. But I just kept writing. If you write it they will read, I told myself, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over…”

Had he finally snapped completely?

“… and over and over and over again, again, again, again, again, again. A thousand posts. Can you imagine? One thousand. And still nothing. Why didn’t I stop? Why couldn’t I see the truth? I’m no writer. No one cares. I don’t have the talent. I don’t have the ideas. I don’t have what it takes, instead it just took, took, took until there was nothing left inside me but the despair, the loathing, the hideous truth of my utter inadequacy. And that’s when I took all the pills, and that’s when they came and took me away. And now I’m here, gone from telling tales to being one, the cautionary tale, and my being is telling it better than I ever could with my words. Perhaps in my failure I am my greatest success after all.”

I was repulsed by this creature, this Smeagol, eaten away by the One Blog that it had held onto for far too long. But this was pure fiction, no one could end up in a state like this from having a failed blog – could they? No, of course not, this was far too extreme to be in any way based in reality – right? There aren’t any failed artists in the asylums, are there? I mean, sure, the occasional missing ear and bout of depression is par for the course, but this… this was insane, in every possible sense of the word.

Having become momentarily lost in my thoughts I refocused on the inpatient to find that he was now lost in his, sniggering to himself about some twisted inside joke, trapped inside his broken mind. And that was when I heard yet another voice in the distance.

“… you tell that prick that if he doesn’t get it done in the next hour, he and his whole fucking team are gone, and they’ll never work in this industry again. You got that? And the same goes double for you, I’ve got my next PA lined up and ready to replace you with the snap of my fingers. Are we clear?”

I stared around to locate the source of the voice and saw an exceptionally well groomed man in an extremely expensive suit striding purposefully towards me. He was yet another version of me, but somehow better looking. Was it the golden tan? The immaculate hairstyle? The way he carried himself? Was he actually taller than me? Lifts in his shoes, maybe?

“Alright I’m here,” he snapped as he approached me, “and time is a premium, I don’t have all day, so let’s get this done and done fast. I’m supposed to be out on the yacht today, surrounded by beautiful, tanned, oiled-up bodies, and they get paid whether I’m there or not. But instead, I’m in this… this…” he glanced around at his surroundings “… this fucking circus. An actual literal circus. What the fuck is this?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I replied with a shrug.

This slick version of me eyed with with obvious disgust. “God, are you me somehow? Wow, you look awful. Jesus, look at your teeth, they’re so fucked. What, you couldn’t get them straightened out and whitened? And look at this podge.” He poked at my belly and I smacked his hand away indignantly. “Isn’t there even one strongman around here who could lend you a couple of fucking dumbbells? You really are mediocrity personified aren’t you? My God, how could I ever have come from you?”

“You’ve got this the wrong way round,” I said. “I’m the only real me, you’re just some fictional version.”

“I’m the fictional one?” He laughed right in face. “Hah! I don’t think so. I could never be that mediocre, not even before I became a world-famous writer.”

“You’re world famous?” I asked.

“Two million followers and counting,” he bragged, an arrogant smirk spreading across his tanned face. His teeth really did look amazing, to be fair. Straight, smooth, dazzling. “Ten novels sold, movie and TV franchises, my own self-improvement channel, countless fans hanging on my every word. Is that famous enough for you? I’m set for life, pal, more money than I even know what to do with. But what I did with it today was to hire a bunch of beautiful people less than half my age to have an orgy with on one of my yachts, and instead I’m stuck here with you, the basket case over there, this asshole and that fucking clown.”

“How did you do it?” I asked. “How did you get so good at writing?”

He stared at me incredulously. “I don’t write, you fucking dipshit, I gave that up a long time ago. You know why? Because I suck at it, and I always will. I market. That’s what I do. I created a brand and I’ve got a whole team of writers who do all the creative shit for me. They write, I sell.”

“Sell out, more like,” I said. “What’s the point of being a world-famous writer if you’re not actually writing anything?”

“Hello,” he said, knocking on my head like it was a front door. “Are you in there, McFly? Did you not hear the part about the yacht orgy?”

This time I whacked his hand away, the anger rising inside me. I was about to let loose on what I was quickly realising to be the biggest asshole of all four of these freaks when I heard Lady Gaga’s Money Honey begin to play. Without a word, the man in the suit held up a finger right in front of my face as a warning to be silent as he pulled a gold-plated, diamond-studded Galaxy Note 20 from his inside jacket pocket and answered it.

“Yes?” he snapped. “What? … What do you mean they’re not going to get it up to 50,000 likes? … What the fuck do they think I’m paying them for? … I don’t give a fuck if the server’s up, down, left, right, on fire, out the window, through the floor… don’t give me fucking excuses, give me results! Get me those likes by 6 p.m. today or I’ll have the whole team fired and financially ruined by 6 p.m. tomorrow. And you can be damn sure no downed server’s going to stop me following through on my promises. Are we clear?” He hung up the phone and looked at me with something between a sneer and a grin on his face. “Now that’s how you get results.”

“You’re paying for likes?” I asked in astonishment.

“Of course,” he snorted. “How else are you going to get real people to like your shit? You don’t have to post anything good, you just have to get enough likes for people to believe that it must be good, or it wouldn’t have all those likes, so then they like it too because they’re a bunch of mindless morons. I told you this already, it’s just selling. It’s all an illusion. There’s nothing real. No new ideas. No talent. Just selling. And I’m fucking great at it. And that’s why I should be out on that yacht right now getting spit roasted. I earned it. You understand? Is the lesson over? Have you got it yet, McFly? Can I stop wasting my time with you weirdoes and losers and get back to my fucking amazing life?”

I’d honestly thought it couldn’t get any worse. Each time I’d thought that. And each time I’d been wrong. The referee was so awful, but then that clown was disturbing on a whole new level. And the inpatient, my God, what a wreck he was. But somehow this super rich, entitled uber-asshole, this sanctimonious, narcissistic stuffed suit who was utterly devoid of conscience, morality, empathy, love… he was the worst of them all. Could it be that the worst possible version of myself was the one who actually makes it as a writer? Well, he hadn’t made it as a writer, had he? He’d just faked it and kept on faking it even after he made it.

My deliberations were interrupted as the clown, who had unfortunately finally managed to find and reattach his head, approached us. The inpatient, who had been pacing nearby and muttering to himself, seemed to snap back to reality and was now pattering over to see what was going on as well.

The guy in the suit, who I was now mentally referring to as the executive, was the first to speak. “Keep that clown away from me, and that psycho in the straitjacket.”

“Ooooh,” said the clown feigning hurt feelings, “now is that any way to treat your counterpart?”

“There is no way on God’s Earth or any other planet that you’re any kind of counterpart of mine,” snarled the executive, very quickly becoming angry.

“What’s going on, on, on?” asked the inpatient. He looked at the executive, the referee, and the clown in turn. “Have we met before? You all look kind of familiar, familial, family.”

The referee raised his yellow card and blew his whistle. “There’s no chance I’m in any way related to any of you, I’m just here to help this well-intentioned sap here realise that he needs to give up his blog before he turns into this guy or this guy.” He pointed to the clown and the inpatient in succession.

The inpatient lurched forward, shoving his face right up to the referee’s and taking a long deep sniff. The referee shuddered and shoved the inpatient back. “Get the fuck away from me, you freak!”

“You smell like family,” said the inpatient.

“Hooo hoooo hooooo, we’re the same you and I,” said the clown, pointing to the executive.

“You listen to me, clown,” said the executive, his voice low with seething rage, “there is nothing – and when I say nothing I mean nothing – that we have in common. Now take it back before I make you swallow that stupid fucking bow tie and use your fake nose as a suppository.”

“Hey pal, no violence on the pitch,” said the referee loudly. “Any more threats and I’ll show you the red card, sunshine.”

“I’m not your pal,” snarled the executive, “and as for your card, you show it to me and I’ll take it and shove it where the sun don’t shine, you hear me?”

The clown began cackling and the inpatient was becoming more and more agitated as the referee and the executive continued to argue. I took a few steps back, retreating from the chaos and commotion. That was when I noticed a ghostly figure, in the distance, a translucent apparition, like a projection in the air, mouthing the same words over and over. I instantly recognised the frail-looking, bearded man dressed in brown and white robes: it was Alec Guinness as Obi-Wan Kenobi from the original Star Wars trilogy, repeating that most famous line like he was on a loop:

“Use the force, Luke.”

What the hell did that mean? I was no Jedi, and certainly not a Skywalker. He kept on repeating it though.

“Use the force, Luke. Use the force, Luke.”

I began to walk towards him, to see if I could get something more useful out of him, and as I got nearer I realised that I had just been seeing what I’d expected him to be saying, when in actuality he was saying something else. As the increasingly heated argument faded behind me and I came within earshot of him, I could hear the words he was really speaking.

“View the source, look. View the source, look.”

View the source? What was he trying to tell me? The source of what? It was at that exact moment that my eyes widened with realisation and a chill flashed down my spine. Turning to look back towards the freakish foursome, I squinted and focused on their feet. Now outside of the spotlight my eyes were gradually adjusting to the gloom, and I began to perceive the narrowest wisps of dark smoke snaking away from where they were standing. The wisps became clearer in the spotlight, and I realised that these people weren’t really alternative versions of me at all! They were the same shadowy, malevolent force that I had seen upon first entering the arena, taking on identities drawn straight from the darkest recesses of my own psyche. The shadows had never receded – they had taken form, and now they were trying to take hold of me!

In that moment of revelation, all four of my counterparts instantly stopped arguing and snapped their heads around to stare at me. They started marching towards me, slowly distorting with each step they took, holding onto their identities but twisting into warped parodies of their former selves, which in turn had been parodies of me. The clown’s costume darkened and his makeup took on a far more sinister appearance as his grin grew impossibly wide to reveal two rows of razor-sharp teeth. The executive began to bulge and grow, his muscles blowing up to bodybuilder proportions and his suit growing with them rather than being shredded by the transformation, his shoulders becoming almost as wide as his body was long, his chest and arms inflating as his legs thickened so greatly that he could no longer walk without his massive thighs rubbing together. The inpatient hunched over and devolved into a twitching, slavering creature that was far more Gollum than Smeagol. And the referee grew taller and taller, shadows passing over his face in an impossible way, his body warping like a hall of mirrors refection as he towered above the rest, his whistle now the size of my head and steadily growing.

I recoiled and started to back away, my gaze transfixed as the true horror of these forms began to manifest – but they were gaining on me and I felt as though I was wading through treacle. I glanced down at my feet and the ground looked as solid as ever, yet now I was in a nightmare, barely able to move as my tormentors approached with gleeful menace.

I was about to raise my hands and close my eyes to brace for oblivion when jets of white, stringy material blasted past my face, and suddenly the four fiends were brought to a halt. Spider-Man swung overhead from a strand of web that stretched up into the darkness and presumably was anchored to the roof of the tent, and he carried on shooting webbing at the creatures until they were almost entirely encased. They howled and snarled with rage until Spider-Man quickly shot four blobs at their mouths. Their cries now muffled and barely audible, he swung back around and planted himself right next to me, landing with his classic gymnast pose.

“Looks like I got here just in time,” he said. I could tell from the voice and the costume that this was Andrew Garfield’s Spider-Man, one of my favourite iterations. The contours of his lithe muscles were accentuated and streamlined by his tight-fitting red and blue bodysuit, the crisscrossed pattern of webbing and the blankness of the white eyes on his mouthless mask far more mesmerising in person.

“But… how?” I exclaimed. “How can you be here?”

“The Flash sent me. He thought you might need a bit more assistance, and as usual it looks like he was right.”

“But The Flash is…” I stuttered, “… and you’re… I mean… you can’t both be in the same universe!”

“Says who?” he asked. “Come on, we all know it’s what every comic book geek secretly wants, even though most of them’ll never admit it. Think how amazing that would be – the ultimate crossover, DC and Marvel collide! I mean, it’d be even more amazing than… well, me!”

I laughed. “Okay, so they’re trapped. What now?”

“I honestly have no idea, but my webbing isn’t going to hold them forever and I’m running low, I’ve barely got enough to swing out of here. The Flash stopped time for you and he sent me in to buy you a little extra, so whatever you’re going to do with it, now’s the moment to really make it count. Good luck, buddy!”

And with that he had fired another web and launched himself up into the darkness. I turned back to look at the four twisted shadow creatures; they were showing no sign of tiring, and the webbing was beginning to stretch and tear. Whatever I was going to do to stop them, I had to do it fast.

<— Part Six
Part Eight —>

Part Six: Foul Play, aka Round 1 – Fight!

Another whistle blast pierced the air as the referee rushed angrily towards me, the spotlight continuing to follow him as though guided by an unseen hand, and from his pocket he pulled out a yellow card. He stopped right in front of me, the light now blazing down on us both, holding the card only inches from my face. He blew his whistle so loud and long that it left my ears ringing. I tried in vain to shake the pain out of my head as I observed the man standing before me. Now that we were face to face, I could see that he wasn’t just like me – he was me. A petty, angry, anal version of me. Okay, fine. A pettier, angrier, somehow even more anal version of me. Happy now?

“Who the fuck are you?” I asked, surprised by my own bluntness.

“Who the fuck am I?” he asked, speaking with a distinct regional accent that I strongly dislike. “Who the fuck am I? I think the question we all need to be asking here is who the fuck are you? I mean, seriously. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m me,” I replied, offering the most provacative non-answer I could think of.

“Yeah, you’re you alright, that’s for sure. Look at you. Strutting around, all full of yourself. Thinking you’re God’s gift because you started your pitiful little blog and said a few things that you reckon show how ‘profound’ and ‘deep’ and ‘worldy-wise’ you are. Eh? But you and me, we know better now, don’t we?”

I remained stoic but on the inside I was reeling from his blows, and as I hesitated for a moment, drawing breath to offer what I knew would be a killer comeback just as soon as I’d thought of it, he continued.

“You know, I was willing to let it go at first – let you carry on thinking you’re all that. I mean, it’s not like anyone was reading this tripe or paying attention to you, right? And then the thing on the raft with the flare gun, I’ll give you credit where credit’s due, because I’m nothing if not a fair arbiter. That was pretty nice. I almost thought you had something there.”

“Thanks?” I more asked than stated. I should not have let my guard down, even slightly.

“But then you hit a creative dead end, and did you find a clever way of circumnavigating it, like washing ashore a desert island or getting taken aboard the cruise ship? No, there was nothing smart like that, was there? Instead, the flare gun blocks out the sun and suddenly you’re at the circus. Completely random, totally unrelated, no way to see it coming. And you knew it was garbage, that’s why it’s so short. You barely wrote a couple of paragraphs before you abandoned that post. I truly thought you were going to abandon it for good. ‘There’s a cliffhanger that never needs to be resolved if ever I saw one’, I thought to myself. But no – you had to keep flogging that horse carcass, didn’t you? And what did you do? Eh? Did you come up with something insightful? Did you come up with something original? You couldn’t have directed the visitors around the fairground while you sorted out the tent? Or improvised a show? No, instead, you rip off someone else’s creation and start talking sci-fi and time travel and comic books and all that juvenile bollocks, with absolutely no warning or context. And for what? So the cheesy, wholesome superhero can tell you you’re a real-life hero for having the ‘courage’ to publish a few poorly conceived posts that barely half a dozen people who know you have read out of pity? Oh yeah, you’re really out there changing the world and no mistake!”

I felt the anger rising inside me. There was no truth to anything this asshole was saying to me – right? – and yet somehow he was really getting to me. How dare he speak to me like this and trash me and my writing in a way that’s completely off the mark and devoid of any actual meaningful criticism? It was just insulting, and totally disconnected from reality. I mean, sure, I’m not saying the story is perfect or anything. And yeah, maybe it is all a bit random, the way it keeps changing. But come on, he really wasn’t being fair at all. Was he?

“I’m showing you the yellow card for your own good,” he continued. “Just give it up now and we can all pretend this never happened. A little failed experiment that everyone has already forgotten ever started. Unless… I mean, you haven’t been inundated with people begging for the next part, have you?”

“Actually, I’ll have you know that ianmcnamara92 posted a comment saying ‘Wow, you know how to end on a cliff hanger making people want more. This is amazing and can’t wait for the next bit.’ So suck it!” Okay, I admit, my insult game needed some work. I hoped he wouldn’t notice, but I knew it was a long shot.

The referee gasped and clutched his chest, putting on a mock thespian accent. “Sir, you have mortally wounded me with your wit and intellect. However shall I recover from or think up a retort worthy of being told to ‘suck it’?” He rolled his eyes at me before continuing in his normal accent. “So your one fan wants more, so what? Has anyone even noticed that it’s been over a week since you last posted? Are they knocking down your door to get the next part?”

“Well as a matter of fact, just the other day Veronica Ortiz said, and I quote, ‘I love the fantasy and that you have to read between the lines to guess what is happening based on the first post. what is going to happen! I must read on!'”

“And yet meanwhile,” the referee replied, “you posted links to Parts Five and Six on Facebook over three days ago, and you’re yet to get a single like.”

“How could you possibly know that?!” I exclaimed. “We’re in Part Six right now!”

“The perils of editing… if you’d had confidence in your writing instead of coming back to try to improve it, I wouldn’t be able to know what happens after you publish it, would I? But you know it’s a pile of shit, and that’s why you keep reading through it. You can pick every last piece of sweetcorn out, but it’ll still be a big, steaming…”

“That’s enough!” I yelled. “I don’t have to stand here and take this from you. I still don’t even know who you are or why you’re here!”

The referee shook his head slowly, his expression one of condescending pity. “I’m your friend. Don’t you see that? I’m trying to help you because you’re out of your depth. You’re in a state of denial. Deluded almost beyond reach. No one cares whether you ever finish this or not. Just pull the plug and let this thing, whatever it is, release its death rattle, and turn your focus to doing something that might actually go somewhere, before you end up a complete laughing stock. I’m saying this for your own good, you know. Trust me, you don’t want to end up like this clown.”

I was about to ask “what clown?” when out of the corner of my eye I realised there was suddenly a second person standing right next to me. I bellowed with shock in a manly fashion – or was it more of a girly scream? Am I becoming an unreliable narrator? – to see a man in a clown outfit standing right next to me. It wasn’t a clown outfit in the classic Stephen King sense, but let’s face it, all clowns are creepy as fuck. I mean, seriously, what is up with that? What twisted psyche created this bizarre tradition of ours? And why do we perpetuate it?

The clown burst out laughing. “Hoh hoh hoooo, that’s right, you don’t want to end up like me!” His movements and hand gestures were exaggerated, and he spoke with a goofy voice that frequently rose and fell in pitch. “I’m the biggest joke in this place,” the clown continued. “I don’t even have to do anything funny, and they still laugh. Watch!”

The clown turned to the empty stands and took a deep mock bow, and raucous laughter echoed all around the arena. He whipped back around to face me again, only to pretend to lose his balance, spinning his arms around faster and faster as he teetered backwards and fell onto his behind to the parping sound of an old bike horn, accompanied by drums and cymbals that had no apparent source. The non-audience roared with laughter again, much louder this time. The clown leapt back onto his feet, and cheers and claps now echoed around the arena, followed by more laughter as the clown fluffed up his wacky green hair and straightened his oversized bow tie – which was both spotted and stripy, of course.

The clown put the back of his hand to his face, and muttered to me out of the side of his mouth: “You know they’re laughing at me, not with me, right?”

Now that he was speaking in a normal tone, and being so close to his face, both his voice and his jawline were horrifyingly familiar. This clown was me too. As he saw the look of recognition pass across my face, his eyes glinted with real malice and his mouth stretched into a huge, sickening smile.

“Ooh hoo hoo, the jig is up! You see me for who I am! The butt of everyone’s jokes! The failed artist who puts on a smile” – he gestured with his hands to emphasise his hideous grin – “because he has to turn his terrible frown” – and now he was pouting with devastatingly sad eyes as he made a crying gesture, fake rubbing his eyes with his fingers – “upside down.” The grin returned as he burst into maniacal laughter, the audience roaring again too.

“And when you clown around too long, it gets even worse, you know. You go from a clown to being…” He bent down to touch his feet and then moved his hands up his legs and body as he stood back up, his clown costume becoming that of a court jester, complete with bells dangling from the twisted prongs of his hood. “… a total fool!”

“Dance for the king!” he proclaimed, as he began to prance ridiculously around the arena, accompanied by more bellows of laughter.

“Perform for the king!” he cried, suddenly pulling flaming torches out of nowhere and juggling them with surprising proficiency until one flew too high and came down behind him, setting his backside on fire. He ran around shrieking to roars of laughter before planting his flaming behind into a big wooden bucket of water that I swear had not been there a moment ago.

“Die for the king!” he suddenly yelled, and within one blink of my eyes he was locked into a guillotine, and the blade came down, chopping his head clean off. Blood sprayed out of his neck stump as his head rolled right over to me, his eyes staring up lifelessly. I was stunned for a moment, until his face burst into life again and he began guffawing awfully, and the audience clapped and cheered and cackled as his body, still spraying blood from its stump, took a bow, and then bent down and began feeling around for its missing head.

“I’m over here!” yelled the clown, feigning anger. “This way, you moron, this way! I know you don’t have ears, but try to listen anyway!”

The roaring of the audience was at a crescendo, and as I thought it might overwhelm me completely, I felt a rushing sensation in my ears and it began to fade away, as though it had become muffled, as I felt an even more unsettling presence nearby. I turned and saw, to my horror, another version of myself, this one gaunt and pale, his head shaved, his eyes sunken with huge black circles under them, his upper body secured tightly in a straitjacket.

“You really should give it up you know,” he whispered, looking around furtively. “There are worse fates than playing the fool.”

<— Part Five
Part Seven —>

Part Five: Time for the Obligatory End of Level Boss Battle

The red and white of the now fully-formed big top loomed over me as as I strode towards it, seeming to grow taller and more warped with every step. When I finally reached the entrance, it towered above me like some ancient (stripy) fortress. Holding onto every last shred of the courage that Barry had stirred within me, I walked through the threshold and quickly found myself in an impossibly vast space, the gritted ground of the circus floor stretching out into the gloom, encircled by rows of empty benches. The roof of the tent was not visible, only darkness lay overhead.

As I strained my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit arena before me, it seemed as though some of the shadows around the periphery were moving. I squinted in frustration, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The shadows continued to fluctuate, and then began drawing together in a wholly unnatural and frankly very creepy way. Shapes, perhaps even figures, were forming before me in the darkness, but who or what they were I simply could not see. Feeling panic rising within me, I looked furtively around for some source of light, and quickly – to my great relief – saw a huge directable spotlight, set a little to the right of the entrance. I rushed over to it and threw the switch up, and it blazed into life. The dazzling light was almost too much for my eyes, which were just becoming accustomed to the dimness, but I quickly found levers on the back of the spotlight stand and figured out how to direct its beam. I shone it directly at the place where the shadows had been forming, but there was nothing to be seen.

Leaving the light in place, I reluctantly ventured over to the very spot where I could have sworn I had seen someone, or something, lurking – but there was no sign of life or movement. As I stepped out of the beam to begin walking back to the spotlight, from the corner of my eye across the other side of the arena, I sensed movement in the darkness and again could make out distant shadowy figures. I quickly rushed back to the spotlight and wrenched it around to shine on the location, but to no avail; the source of the shadows had gone. Exasperated, I saw now that shadows were forming back in the original spot I had seen them. It seemed that I and the darkness were at an impasse, and if I was to progress any further, one of us would have to give way.

As I reached to pull the switch down and plunge myself back into the gloom, in the hope that whatever lurked out there would show itself fully, I noticed that the switch had not two positions but three. The top one was labelled “Light” and the middle “Off”, but the third – bizarrely – was labelled “Dark”. Dark? But that is what you get with the absence of light, i.e. the “Off” position. It didn’t make any sense, but I figured it was worth a try. I pulled the switch down to the central position and then down again. What I saw next was almost beyond description.

The beam of light had become a beam of darkness, the blackest most complete and total darkness I had ever seen, far beyond the simple absence of light. The darkness was so absolute, so all-consuming, that I felt I might be sucked into it just by looking at it; this was the opposite of being blinded by brilliant light, somehow, it swallowed up everything it touched, and I felt that it wanted to consume me too. In the area where the shadows had been before, the figures were now visible in the total blackness, and although I was registering that they were only a darkish grey in colour, they glowed almost angelically against this intense super dark beam.

The figures had looked humanoid to begin with, but they were growing larger, twisting into outsized, freakishly proportioned creatures, something so primal and absolutely the opposite of human that the word “inhuman” seemed completely inadequate to describe. I watched in horrified fascination as the shapes became more solid, and what had been mere shadow, now like light within the impossible blackness, became three-dimensional. And as my brain was finally able to begin to make sense of the vision before me, I realised that I was looking at…

A piercing whistle blasted through the arena, so loud that I could swear my skull was actually rattling. Without warning or interaction on my part the spotlight switched back up into the “Light” position, the shadows evaporating as the spotlight swung itself to the centre of the arena. Standing there was a man who looked somehow familiar. He looked a lot like me, but with slicked-back hair and ridiculously upright posture. He was dressed in a black shirt with white highlights and black shorts. He had a scowl on his face and his hands were on his hips, and there in his mouth – presumably the source of that awful sound – was a whistle. He was unmistakable in his distinctiveness as he began to stride towards me, moving as though he had a stick shoved up his ass, waggling his finger and blowing on that infernal whistle again. This was going to be interesting.

<— Part Four
Part Six —>

Part Four: Enter Flashtime

I felt trapped, panicked, defeated. Standing beneath a vast cardboard cutout of a circus tent that from the front seemed completely real, and dressed as the ringmaster, I was watching a small group of people walk closer and closer to the main entrance – with more cars pulling up by the second – and I had literally nothing to show them. They were rolling up, rolling up, and I was about to let them down down down. Why the hell did I try to get their attention before I even had a real tent? What was I thinking?!

Having absolutely no idea what I was going to do or say, and with a sinking sensation in my stomach as though the ground was going to open up and swallow me at any moment (fingers crossed), I trudged dejectedly out of the fake entrance to my fake tent to face the fairground music that continued merrily mocking me with its cheerful organ ditties.

I stopped underneath the gateway of the main entrance, and the crowd of patrons – perhaps two dozen or so by now – halted, looking at me, excitedly, expectantly. I took a deep breath, in… then out… then in again. The people began to gaze with puzzlement, wondering, I suppose, if something was wrong or if this was all part of the show. I had no choice but to admit my deception and face their accusing glares of anger and disappointment. If only I had more time, I was sure I could fix this, figure out the solution… but there was no time left. I opened my mouth to begin my confession, when I felt a reassuring grip on my shoulder, and at that exact moment the increasingly impatient-looking group in front of me fell motionless; the music had ceased, and the figures and cars in the distance were frozen. Time was actually standing still! I turned to see whose hand was on my shoulder.

“Flash!”

Lithe and athletic in his sleek red outfit, a yellow bolt of lightning emblazoned upon his chest, grinning from beneath his tight-fitting hood, he was the most welcome sight. It was even my favourite version – Grant Gustin, adorned in his Season Four costume.

“But… what are you doing here?” I asked.

“I’m here for you, of course.” He flashed that disarming smile again. I couldn’t help but return it.

“You brought me into Flashtime,” I half asked, half stated.

“Yep. Time hasn’t stopped, we’re just moving much, much faster than everything else.”

“How much faster?”

“Is that really why you brought me here? For a lesson on Speedforce metaphysics?”

“No, definitely not. Hang on, you’re saying I brought you here?”

“Sure,” he replied. “After all, this is your reality. Right?”

I began to consider the situation. This was no mere dream, and yet somehow the logic of it up until now had kind of washed past me as I had become so deeply immersed in the experience. At first I had been sitting in front of my PC, feverishly typing my first blog post and letting a whole bunch of stuff just pour out. Then I had found myself raft-bound on a digital ocean, firing a flare gun that had ended up blotting out the entire sun. Next there was the circus, and now here I was in Flashtime with my favourite incarnation of the fastest superhero in the multiverse. Having finally stopped to really think for a moment, I wasn’t having what could be described as a normal day.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I suppose it is.”

The Flash took his hand off my shoulder and I gasped: “No wait!”

I looked anxiously around but everything still appeared to be in stasis.

“How is that possible?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, sorry, you didn’t get to that part yet. In the future I learn how to set people vibrating at the right frequency to keep them in Flashtime without maintaining physical contact.”

“Wow,” I said. “How long will it last?”

“Long enough, I’m guessing!” he replied with a knowing smile. “Come on, why don’t we explore the fairground a little?”

I nodded in agreement, and we began to weave our way through the brightly lit attractions: candy floss vendors and air rifle target shoots, bumper cars and scream-inducing rides, tarot card readings and find your fortune booths, all at this moment empty and motionless. The effect was surreal, and would have been eerie if not for Flash walking along next to me, chatting away.

“So, why me?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Why pick me?”

“Well, I needed more time I guess, and you can stop time, so…”

“Technically I can’t,” he reminded me.

“But the effect is the same.”

“I’ll give you that,” he conceded. “But there are plenty of others you could have called on.”

“Like who?”

“Well, if we’re talking about needing more time, I’d have thought the Legends on the Waverider would be the more obvious choice.”

“True,” I agreed.

“And Supergirl and Superman have both been known to reverse the flow of time.”

“Yes, but kind of a big ask to get me out of a jam.”

“Perhaps. But what about Hiro Nakamura or Peter Petrelli?”

“I guess.”

“Doctor Manhattan?”

“Too far detached from humanity.”

“Doc Brown, then.”

“Hmmm, a bit too human!”

“He got the job done though, right?”

I chuckled. “Yeah, I guess he did.”

“Not to mention Doctor Who, you Brits seem to go nuts for him. And then there’s…”

“Okay, okay, I get it, I had plenty of options!”

“Then what’s so special about me?” he asked.

That’s when I realised. “I think… I think it’s not you I needed, I think it’s…”

“Barry Allen?”

I turned to look at him and he had already removed his hood.

“Yeah. It’s you, Barry,” I said. “I picked you.”

“I know. I just needed to make sure that you know too.”

“I didn’t just need to hit the pause button… I need guidance. And there’s no hero I can think of who’s a more inspiring leader, a more caring friend, a more compassionate person than you.”

His face wrinkled into a cheeky smile. “Oh knock it off. You don’t have to say all of that. I mean, it’s nice to hear it and I can’t help but agree with it… but you don’t have to say it.”

We both laughed.

“Come on over here a minute, let’s sit.”

Barry hopped up onto a nearby carousel, and sat sideways on a dragon. I took a seat on the unicorn alongside it, so we were face to face.

“I get it,” he said.

“You do?”

“When I first became The Flash, my whole world was thrown into complete disarray. It was so exhilarating, and wonderful, but also terrifying… the weight of all those lives hanging in the balance, and I’m the only one who can save them from the metahuman threat. It’s a lot of responsibility.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

“Can’t you? I mean, sure, I fight metavillains and save the world from time to time because that’s what superheroes do… but it’s regular heroes, the ones without powers, the ones who have no special ability for overcoming all the adversity they face… they’re the ones who make the world what it is. The visionaries. The engineers. The artists. The scientists. The doctors and nurses. All the countless workers who keep the wheels of society turning. So many unsung heroes.”

“Yes, but still it’s nothing like what you do. I mean, I’m not responsible for saving lives.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asked.

Now I was really confused.

“Saving people isn’t about just keeping them alive,” Barry continued. “It’s about their quality of life. It isn’t enough just to exist. People deserve to thrive. They deserve to be happy. They deserve to find meaning, find a calling, fulfil their potential. But it isn’t easy to do that, most people never manage it. They just end up where they end up and they never really question it, or even if they do question it, they can’t see a way out, they don’t want to take any risks. So they stay where they are and make the best of it. And who’s going to help them? Not me, I have a different calling. But…”

I hesitated for a few moments. “You mean me?”

“Why not? You have a voice. You have ideas. Do you have the potential to reach people? To touch them? To guide them to make changes in their lives? To inspire them to believe in themselves? To help them realise that the biggest risk of all in life is never actually taking big risks?”

“I don’t know. Do I?”

“I can’t answer that,” he said. “But I can tell you one thing.”

“What?”

“We’re never going to find out sat here. You have to face it.”

“Face what?”

“It,” he said, gesturing with a nod.

I looked behind me and realised that we had almost completed a full circuit of the fairground, circling back around to the big top, which was now fully formed, no longer a cutout.

“What is it?” I asked, feeling anxiety rising from the pit of my stomach and beginning to squeeze my chest.

“I don’t know,” said Barry, hopping down from the dragon. “And there’s only one way to find out… right?”

(Very faintly, out in the distant darkness, I could swear I heard someone who sounded just like Harry Hill yelling “Fiiiiiiiggggghhhhhhhtttttt!”)

“I guess,” I said with a sigh. I jumped down from the unicorn and we walked back around to the front of the big top. The entrance was shrouded in shadow, dark and foreboding, and as I looked deeper and deeper into the blackness, the tightness of the anxiety gave way to a sense of dread that seeped through me like thick fog, oozing into every molecule of my being. The dread began to morph into terror, and the urge to turn and flee was overwhelming. Paralysed and on the verge of breaking free so I could sprint away from all of this madness as fast as I could, Barry placed his hand on my shoulder again.

“You got this.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

He looked at me, and his eyes twinkled as he said the words I’ll never forget: “Because I know a hero when I see one.”

Warmth instantly flooded my body, the terror melting away. A sense of resolve arose within me, buoyed by his words.

But I still had questions. “So you’re sure Flashtime will last long enough to deal with whatever’s in there?”

“I’m pretty sure. Just don’t stand still for too long.”

“And how do I get out when I’m done?”

“Just close your eyes, tap your heels together three times and think of Smallville,” he said with a wink and one last grin.

Then he turned and was gone, and without another moment of hesitation, I strode towards the big top, and whatever lay waiting within.

<— Part Three
Part Five —>

Part Three: Come One, Come All, Just Don’t Come Today!

What did I just do?! As I watched the fizzling red ball shoot up into the clear blue sky, glancing nervously over at the distant cruise liner and hoping alternately with increasing frequency that someone and no one would see it, something incredible began to happen. The flare kept rising and expanding in an impossible way, until it had blocked out the sun altogether, casting an eerie red glow across an ocean suddenly stricken with unnatural calmness. As the daylight faded around this smouldering crimson giant, reminiscent perhaps of what our sun will look like in another five billion years, give or take a few tens of thousands of millennia, it began to intensify, burning into bright orange, then yellow, and finally into a flash so brilliant that it completely blinded me.

Only a few moments had passed, and yet as my sight began to return I now found myself standing beneath a starlit night sky, a crescent moon already nearing its apex. My eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom and I saw an empty field stretched out before me, softly lit by a strange, warm glow. Music began to play behind me, starting from a single, almost static note then whirring up to its proper tempo like a music box wound into operation. A cheerful organ tune piped out, instantly reminiscent of the funfair, and as the aromas of popcorn and candy floss wafted carefree into my nostrils, I turned to see the red and white stripes of a big top towering over me, a rainbow of fairy lights twinkling and dancing with playful glee. Still very disoriented, I reached suddenly upwards to find a top hat on my head, and as I glanced down I saw that I was adorned in the starchy white shirt, immaculate red waistcoat and sleek black trousers of a circus ringmaster.

Gaping for a moment at the scene unfolded before me, I was distracted by a new source of light and sound; I turned back around to see the headlights of a car pulling into the field and drawing closer, coming to a halt in front of the low wooden fencing that delineated the boundary of the parking area. Patrons! But hold on, I’ve only just got here… I have no idea what’s inside the tent! Are we ready to put on the show? What is the show even about?

Whipping around and dashing through the main entrance and into the big top, I screeched to a halt when I came once more upon an empty field stretching out ahead of me, turning back in horror to see that somehow this gigantic, authentic, and very three-dimensional tent was a mere cardboard cut out, an enormous prop held up by wooden beams set diagonally into the dirt. There was no show! And yet people were coming! I could hear more cars arriving, people exiting them, animated chatter getting closer and closer.

The rising panic was now peaking within me and attempting to hold me paralysed in its grasp, but I slipped through its clasping fingers – stopping only to catch my hat as it toppled from my head – and rushed back towards the entrance. The people were coming, and somehow I had to make this façade real in the next few moments. I prepared to focus every last shred of will that I had, because if there is one thing I know about the performing arts, it is this:

The show must go on.

<— Part Two
Part Four —>

Part Two: Cast Adrift

Only a moment ago I was hunched over my keyboard, eyelids heavy, yet now I find myself cast adrift onto a virtual expanse of ones and zeros as countless as the stars in a thousand galaxies. What now? My raft seems unsteady as its rise and fall antagonises the scrapes and splinters of my shins, as though it might come apart at any moment and release me into the unending oblivion of the digital depths below. And yet, perhaps I’m actually in better shape than I thought. I mean, as first posts go, that last one wasn’t half bad… you know, for something I spontaneously pulled out of my brain (and heart, and soul) as I hastily threw this blog together because I had no other choice. More of an actual workout than a mere exercise – actually moving some weights around and grunting and straining, not the boredom ad infinitum of steady state treadmill cardio. Is this raft that unstable? As I look closer, the logs seem sturdier, the vines secure. Maybe, just maybe, I might get out of this in one piece.

This does not change the fact, however, that in the blogosphere I am but an anonymous spec among countless others, just one pinprick dimly twinkling in the night sky’s sea: how can I possibly shine brighter than any of the others, and draw the gaze of observers? More importantly, do I really want to shine brighter? Do I really need that attention? Do I actually have any desire at all for people to read my words and judge what I have to say – and therefore, by extension, judge me? You know, now that I think about it, I’m actually feeling pretty good about where I am. This raft is sturdy and secure, not perfect by any means, but now that I stop to really take a look around, it’s certainly large enough to spread out on and have a kip. And you know, these logs aren’t too bad once you get used to them. The seas are calm right now, and the sun is warming but by no means scorching. Yes indeed, the more I think about it, the more I could get used to this. Kick back, relax, and enjoy the steady rhythm of the raft’s undulations. I can express myself and find my voice just fine like this. Right? Right?

Oh yeah, I forgot… I’m just talking to myself out here. Is there even any point asking questions when I know I’m not going to get an answer? Was that a rhetorical question, or are we now straying into the meta-rhetorical? You know what, it doesn’t even matter. The important thing is, as much as this whole experience was anxiety-inducing to say the least to begin with, I find myself feeling more and more comfortable by the second. Why put myself under unnecessary stress? I don’t need this drama in my life, not when I already have my psyche to contend with! Yep, I’ve decided, this is perfect and I’m staying right where I am. Where it’s safe. Relatively speaking, of course.

Hey, check it out! A seagull. Well, not a seagull as there’s no such thing, they’re just commonly known as seagulls because they tend to be found along the coast. A gull. Soaring effortlessly on whatever breeze is up there. Man, wouldn’t that be nice. Aloft on the breeze, wings outstretched, surveying the expanse of the ocean like I was the lord of all creation. It’s coming closer, it’ll be overhead soon. It probably doesn’t know what to make of me… but I guess as long as it doesn’t think I’m a fish, it’s all good! I think I’m just going to lie back and imagine being this gull. What a life that would be.

Hang on, something else has caught my eye now. There’s something red floating on the water. Quite far away still, I can barely make it out… a case of some sort, perhaps? It’s the first thing I’ve seen that isn’t part of nature – well, I mean, everything is part of nature given that humans are part of nature and so everything we make is part of nature too, but let’s not stray too far into philosophical territory when there’s a mysterious object to investigate. I think if I lie down and use my hands to… yep, that’s working, this raft is definitely moving closer. I can see it more clearly now, it’s definitely some sort of rectangular container, but its topside is glinting in the sun, it looks like it might be made of glass. Very curious. Won’t be long now before it’s in my reach.

Okay, so I’m just alongside it, let’s pull it out of the water and see what we’ve got. It’s a wooden red case with a glass front and there’s a little hammer clipped to the side. There’s a flare gun inside, and a message emblazoned on the front in big red letters.

Son of a bitch. Seriously, I can’t even have five minutes of the easy life? Now I have to make choices that have, like, consequences and shit? Ah, you know what, I can fire this flare gun and it won’t make any difference. This ocean is so vast, no one will even see it. Except… the waters are definitely getting choppier right now, but the wind isn’t picking up. What’s going on?

Whoa, that is the most gigantic ship I’ve ever seen! Its wake is rocking my raft even though it’s still really far away, and I can just make out the name of this vast vessel… the MZS Facebook. Hmmm, well I know what the “M” and “Z” stand for, what about the “S”? I’m going to go with sociopath. But let’s not get sidetracked. The point is, there’s a massive ship over there, full of strangers and a few people I know as well. Some are my closest friends, others are people I’m just getting to know, more still are people I used to know but have lost contact with over the years. If I fire this flare gun, any of them could see it. In fact, it’s almost certain that some of them will.

Wait, hang on, what am I doing? Why did I just smash the glass? I’m not even that comfortable! And yet the flare gun is in my hand. So what are we saying here? I can’t have even one whole day deluding myself that writing one post on one anonymous blog I just created that no one will ever see unless I promote it constitutes putting myself out there? Is that what we’re saying? Not even one day? Well, I guess I have spent enough days… weeks… months… years deluding myself about a whole host of things. No time to waste, it seems. Not even one day. It was time to pull the trigger long before the gun was in my hand.

Ready.

Fire.

Aim.

<— Part One
Part Three —>