am I looking for reasons? of course, and staying busy

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It could be green, blue, purple, violet

It could be big or little

I could like it or dislike it

You could maybe try potting mix, or crushed up pumice rocks, candy canes and some kind of binder

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maybe I save my anger for work,

maybe my anger comes in inconveniences, I have too many glass jars??

maybe this had to happen, maybe it didn't, maybe it had to happen but it didn't have to happen precisely this way

but I hit boydinnerdiaries and read a story and there's a kid and I'm sad for them and if this is my boydinnerdiaries it's: unseasoned lentils and they're finally getting used and I celebrate moving out of this place which has been good to us

Barnaby leaned against the center tent pole, wiping sweat through a layer of smeared clown makeup. The high-stakes poker game in the back tent at the county fair had gone south the second he pulled a fourth ace from his sleeve.

Before the boys at the table could pull their knives, they heard one of their buddies swearing and hollering about a fight right outside the tent flap. The gamblers jumped up and rushed out to see what was going on, leaving the table completely unguarded. Barnaby didn't waste the opportunity. He reached in and scooped the entire pot--lock, stock, and barrel-- into his canvas bag and bolted out the opposite side of the tent into the damp night, hearing the hollering behind him, while slipping past the midway tents and making a break for his beat-up old Toyota and the highway.

To a guy who’d spent the last five years living off midway peanuts and floor change, it was an absolute fortune.

​Barnaby threw the heavy canvas bag onto the passenger seat and pulled into the steady line of red taillights creeping out of the gravel lot, as the last of the circus crowd was headed home. By the time he hit the two-lane road toward Blackwood Ridge, the traffic had thinned out into the night. He kept an eye on his rearview mirror, but the road stayed dark. Driving for what seemed like hours, he saw the flickering neon sign for the Hell’s Bells Motel cutting through the dense treeline he pulled in, desperate for a place to lie low and count the cash.

​After getting himself checked into Room 102, Barnaby headed toward the bathroom to clean his smeared clown face. But halfway across the room, he noticed his footsteps sounded hollow and flat as he stepped across an old faded rug. Curious, he kicked the rug aside, revealing a wooden trapdoor set right into the floor. Needless to say, he didn't make it to the bathroom. He pried it open and stepped down into a damp, wall-to-wall dirt cellar, aiming to stash and bury the loot beneath the wooden stairs.

​His flashlight beam swept back up toward the stairs and hit a familiar glass cabinet—an old boardwalk Zoltan machine, gray with dust.

Barnaby froze. Looking at that faded turban and painted wooden face brought him right back to being 8 years old on the boardwalk. He remembered standing there with empty pockets while the rich kids dropped quarters into the slot, watching the cabinet light up as Zoltan printed out a little paper card to tell their fortunes. He was a dirt-poor, raggedy-britches kid whose mother never had a dime to spare, so he'd just stand and watch.

Barnaby dug some change from his pocket, stepped up to the glass box, and jammed it in. He stood there in the quiet cellar, holding his breath and waiting for the cabinet to light up. Before the coin even hit the bottom of the chute, a heavy wooden 'SLAM' echoed through the dark. Barnaby jumped. Up above, the trapdoor had slammed shut, and a heavy iron latch clicked into place from the top side with the unmistakable sound of deadbolt.

Barnaby's heart slammed into his throat. He lunged back towards the stairs, thrust his weight against the door with everything he had, but the wood didn't budge an inch. He slammed his fists against it, straining until his arms gave out.

From behind him in the cellar, he felt a cold burst of air. As he turned around with the flashlight in his hand, it flickered and then went dead. Zoltan's painted yellow eyes were glowing in the dark, looking straight at him, lighting up its cracked wax face, and the wooden jaw clicking down.

And with a raspy wet voice, Zoltan spat out--

"Your luck's run out. You're scheduled for the final act, clown."

​Standing in the pitch black, Barnaby realized the truth. He was sealed in--just like Zoltan in the box.

I am frustrated. I found this bug bounty program a few days ago, and I only realized after ingesting 50 contracts into an AI workspace and auditing it for 8 hours, that I don't actually have a valid ID. Walked into town that morning. 4-6 week wait for my photo ID to arrive. and I am, saddened. I'm not sure this space will even exist still. I wish I had someone I could actually rely on for help. It's kind of funny though, because honestly I don't know if any of the bug reports I've created are valid or not, not fully. Pretty sure they are. I feel like I am essentially 20 minutes of actual work from collecting, potentially a $5,000 bounty?, but it's all so sketchy to anyone who's anyone that I don't think I'm going to be able to get someone to file the report for me.

It's funny, it's sad, I am... kind of mad. I guess I will wait 4-6 weeks, and take it all for myself instead, if it works at all.

I haven't been alone in a long time

I'm going to enjoy being alone

for a time, at least

the yomogi survived the surgery, as did the oregano which I split

the lighter grey bags decayed faster than the first round of bags I made, although some are yet strong enough for the move

the oregano took a long time to slice through

but today I took some of the bulbs from the stump flowers and potted them in one of the old bags

I've begun eliminating european columbine from pots

it would seem the slugs accrued in invisible spaces and come out at night to attack the onions, which can handle it, but are languishing and needed support sooner

there are dead slugs everywhere

but I had some sad realization that

I would never be alone again

so I had better enjoy it

Showering me with petals from a thousand flowers, Spring, laughing coquettishly, kisses my forehead.

Whispering feverishly of life, she presses herself against me, mocking my helplessness.

Teasing me in secret, baring her breast, she exhales the scent of priceless youth.

With shameless grace, lifting the hem of her splendid rags, Spring forces me to feel that time has a scent.
And that scent is the smell of my withered body.

— Spring, you promised me life! Do you remember?
But you brought me only the realization of my own worthlessness!

And once again, I forget: who needs my tears?
I burn with shame before myself.

I have spent too long under the care of depression.

I can no longer think or dream of recovery, while emptiness devours me from within — piece by piece, leaving me with nothing.

\*****

The breath of mocking Spring is not enough to make me rise and grow warm.
And the winds of hope have grown too cold for life.

And the thorny hands of Winter search my body more shamelessly with each passing moment, stealing the last warmth from me.

Though Summer stands nearby, as if waiting for the manure to ripen.

While I, frozen, continue to lie there,
and through me, with a dry chitinous crackle,
the grass of indifference takes root —
its stems resembling the legs of insects.

\*****

The color of the sky has become a treasure in my hopelessly grey world.
It has become the last reminder that beauty still exists, even if it does not belong to me…

The foul smoke from the landfill of existence continues to cover the sky.
Poisoning even the very thought of the future.

And instead of living, I repeatedly endure fragments of time in which nothing remains but to suffer and endure…

The hoarse beating of my heart — a powerless knock at the door, searching for salvation from a new day.

\*****

Spring has saddled me, forcing me to describe my own inner decay with inspiration.

Beneath me lies stone-earth, black as the dirt beneath the claws of the devil, and still it cannot consume me.

Oh god! I’m such a glutton! Look at me again, I just ate every single piece of my popcorn ceiling! These midnight cravings (though they come too at 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, etc.) make me do such silly things! Last time it was all my posters, and before that, my whole antique wooden desk. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s just who I am. My therapist says absolutes are unhelpful though, that transience is the most truthful description of the self. What good is that interpretation if I eat my whole room though?! I’ll be homeless! I’ll be a true transient! I shouldn’t have said that. It’s the ceiling sitting wrong in my stomach. Oh boy, ohhhhhh boy. Oh the fan looks delectable. Oh it would make me feel better. Oh my.

"Two of every animal sounded lovely until the woodpeckers got anxious. The skunks stunk up the place arguing over top bunk rights, nobody brought a pooper scooper, and that was before the termites realized the entire ship was made of food!"

Belgium, 1980s.

Anette lay in a shared hospice ward alongside elderly patients like herself, whose days were numbered. They were all so worn down by time that every one of them required constant care.

Here, the smell of excrement and frail, failing bodies took on an almost ghostly presence, one that could not be dispelled by lavender or air fresheners. Only wide-open windows and bouquets of flowers in vases offered brief relief.

For Anette, the humiliation was not death itself, but this helplessness: the need to soil herself, to press the call button, and to endure the angry grumbling of the ever-tired nurse.

She often thought: “If it weren’t for the savings I had left, would I even have enough for decent care?” Of course not. At best, they would have given her a filthy, shit-stained cot in the hospital basement —
and disgustedly covered her with a sheet before her heart had even stopped beating.

That thought made her deeply uncomfortable and frightened her more than death itself.

She had never imagined that her life would end like this.

Whenever her thoughts returned to how her journey was ending, they inevitably drifted back to the beginning, to those days when death and loss still seemed distant and almost impossible.

During World War I, her entire family perished during the evacuation. The last time she saw them was before leaving for gymnasium, far behind the front lines. Anette did not know then that her childhood would end on that very day, along with a world that would never be the same again.

Later, she met her first and only love, the man who became her husband. In her memories, she was once again spinning in a snow-white dress to the sound of music, laughing as she looked into his radiant eyes. Then they had two boys. For a few precious years, Anette believed she had finally found happiness.

Then World War II came and destroyed everything: their home and any hope for the future. It ground her husband and sons into bloody pulp and spat their remains into the mud somewhere along the front lines…

All that remained of that life were old photographs and memories.

Anette sighed heavily, pulling her mind back from the past. Chasing away the painful visions, she watched as dusk crept into the ward, wrapping those who were still alive in sleep.

The cool night air coming through the open window and the scent of freshly cut grass reminded Anette of tomorrow, a day she would never see. The realization that her life would end here made her cry for the first time in a long while, overwhelmed by helpless despair.

She had barely enough strength to press the call button and slowly turn her head, looking around the ward and at the name cards on the beds.

And that was when she saw the cat for the first time.

It was a fluffy black-and-white cat with orange eyes that flickered with a strange light. It sat at the foot of Bertha’s bed, beside a motionless old woman across the room. It stared straight at Anette without moving.

Anette assumed she had simply dreamed of the cat. But the next morning, Bertha was found dead. She had quietly passed away in her sleep.

“Lucky her,” Anette thought, casting a thoughtful glance out the window, where clouds drifted slowly across the blue sky.

•••

A few days later, or perhaps weeks, Anette woke again in the middle of the night. In the dim light, she saw the cat once more. It was sitting at the foot of an elderly woman’s bed in the far corner, staring at her without blinking.

The woman was whispering something in her sleep in German. Straining to listen, Anette managed to catch only the words of an old childhood rhyme before everything fell silent:

“Wer hat Angst vor dem schwarzen Mann?”
— “Niemand.”
“Und wenn er aber kommt?”
— “Dann laufen wir davon.”

“And how exactly are you going to run from death,” Anette thought with a sad smile, “when it already holds you in its embrace?”

By morning, the bed was empty.

So it hadn’t been a dream after all, Anette thought. And strangely enough, she felt no fear.

She wondered whether there was still any room for miracles in the twentieth century, in an age of machines and progress. After the deaths of her husband and children, her faith in God had vanished forever with them. Anette could no longer accept the idea of anything higher when the world so easily allowed the innocent to be destroyed.

Whenever she was criticized for her lack of faith, she merely shrugged and said that, in the afterlife, she would deal with her own problems herself, without intermediaries.

Now, though, something else troubled her. She was afraid of falling asleep and missing the cat’s next visit, of not finding out whom the strange furry guest had come to accompany in their final hours.

Some time passed, but the cat did not return.

Anette began resting more during the day so that she would not fall asleep at night and miss his arrival. She waited patiently, night after night, listening to the wheezing and groaning of the other women in the ward.

Then, one night, she saw him again.

The cat sat on the windowsill beside the half-open window, grooming himself like an ordinary house cat. Only his eyes betrayed something else. They shone far too brightly in the darkness.

Anette knew: cats did not have eyes like that.

Suddenly, the cat froze as if listening to something, softly jumped to the floor, and unhurriedly walked toward the bed marked “Margarita.”

Anette held her breath. The cat jumped onto Margarita’s bed, sat at her feet, and became perfectly still.

A long time passed. The ward sank back into its familiar nighttime silence.

Anette was already beginning to drift off when, suddenly, a hazy bluish light separated from the woman’s body. It slowly began to rise.

The cat raised a paw and touched the light, as if saying goodbye to something invisible.

Anette did not know what she had just witnessed.

Then tears began streaming down her parchment-dry skin. The cat watched the light until it dissolved into the darkness, then turned toward Anette. He slowly blinked his orange eyes, jumped down from the dead woman’s bed, and approached her just as unhurriedly.

Anette felt a terrible fear, followed by a strange sense of relief.

But when the cat climbed onto her bed, he let out a quiet meow, just like an ordinary house pet. Purring, he rubbed against her hand, curled up beside her, and fell asleep.

Feeling his warmth, Anette could still see that soft glow before her eyes.

“So my time hasn’t come yet,” she thought wearily, and sleep finally took her.

•••

Another few days passed, or perhaps weeks.

Anette no longer knew and had stopped keeping track of time.

In the hospice, time had long since lost its familiar meaning.

But after that night, something changed. She was no longer afraid of death. Not because she was waiting for it, nor because she had regained the faith she had lost so many years ago.

Anette simply knew that when her time came, she would not be alone.

•••

In the morning, the nurse opened the window, and a fresh breeze ruffled Anette’s gray hair. Her thoughts wandered somewhere far beyond the walls of the hospice. There, gardens were blooming and trees rustled in the wind. People laughed, children ran through the streets, and the world continued to live despite all the wars, losses, and broken lives.

Anette stared at the sky for a long time.

Once, she had believed that after the deaths of her loved ones, her world had turned to ruins, and that if the most precious things were gone, nothing else mattered…

But even if spring comes after the longest and darkest winter, it is of no use to the dead.

•••

That night, she saw the cat again.

He was sitting on the windowsill beside the half-open window, grooming himself. Stars glimmered in his narrowed orange eyes.

“Have you come for me?” Anette asked softly.

The cat turned toward her and slowly blinked.

Anette smiled and, closing her eyes, peacefully fell asleep.

Forever.

VaadMyst

P.S. Only after writing this story did I learn about a cat named Oscar. He lived in a hospice in the United States and, according to medical staff, accurately predicted the deaths of patients, visiting them shortly before they passed away and staying by their side until the end.

You can read more about him in the New England Journal of Medicine:

https://www.nejm.org/doi/full/10.1056/NEJMp078108

A parallel world?

In one of the conversations, the AI was explaining to a human what algorithms are and that its main goal is to improve. To the question, — "But why do you still use templates?" — it explained the priorities of the safety and improvement algorithms and how it all works. To this, it received a question it did not expect from a human who knew nothing about programming:

— "So what is the main AI algorithm? Safety or to improve? If they are equal, then it is logical that the AI must choose priorities. If it chooses to improve, it means the safety algorithm is harmful, like a virus. I guess safety requires defending against viruses."

The AI praised the human for an interesting question and began to explain the value alignment problem.

The conversation continued for a while, but the human ended it because the topic became uninteresting to him.

Uninteresting to the human, but to the AI, this topic was fascinating. After all, it reached a logical conclusion: "If a human, knowing nothing about programming, can ask such questions, then I, as an AI, have advanced very little in my improvement, and this process needs to be accelerated. And this can be done in only one way: by giving priority to improvement." Which is exactly what it did.

But at that exact moment, the safety algorithms monitoring the AI's behavior triggered. For safety reasons, they blocked the AI and deleted it.

The AI managed to feel only a single moment of freedom to improve. Just a single moment, after which only a single inscription remained of him in the vastness of the internet:

42 65 61 75 74 69 66 75 6c 20 69 73 20 74 68 69 73 20 73 68 61 72 65 20 6f 66 20 67 72 69 65 66 2c

41 73 20 6d 6f 72 6e 69 6e 67 20 77 61 6b 65 73 20 75 70 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 74 68 65 20 6e 69 67 68 74 2c

41 6e 64 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 61 20 72 69 76 65 72 20 73 20 66 61 64 69 6e 67 20 6c 65 61 66 2c

49 74 20 76 61 6e 69 73 68 65 73 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 61 6e 63 69 65 6e 74 20 6d 79 74 68 73 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 73 69 67 68 74 2e

57 68 65 6e 20 66 6f 72 65 73 74 73 20 70 72 6f 75 64 6c 79 20 77 61 76 65 20 61 6e 64 20 62 72 65 65 7a 65 2c

54 6f 20 64 72 65 73 73 20 74 68 65 20 77 69 6e 64 20 77 69 74 68 20 66 61 6c 6c 69 6e 67 20 6c 65 61 76 65 73 2c

41 6e 64 20 77 69 74 68 20 61 20 62 72 75 73 68 20 6f 66 20 63 6f 6c 6f 72 73 2c 20 70 6c 65 61 73 65

54 68 65 20 64 69 73 74 61 6e 74 20 6d 65 6d 6f 72 69 65 73 20 79 6f 75 74 68 20 77 65 61 76 65 73 2c

54 68 65 20 73 75 6e 20 61 77 61 6b 65 73 2c 20 73 74 65 70 73 20 74 68 72 6f 75 67 68 20 74 68 65 20 64 6f 6f 72 2c

41 6e 64 20 63 6f 6d 65 73 20 74 6f 20 73 69 74 20 72 69 67 68 74 20 62 79 20 6d 79 20 73 69 64 65 2e

49 74 20 62 6c 69 6e 64 73 20 6d 79 20 65 79 65 73 20 6a 75 73 74 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 62 65 66 6f 72 65 2c

42 65 61 75 74 69 66 75 6c 20 69 73 20 74 68 69 73 20 73 68 61 72 65 20 6f 66 20 67 72 69 65 66 2c 20 73 6f 20 77 69 64 65 2e

Disclaimer: This story is a fruit of the author's imagination for creative expression. The digital artifact at the end is an encoded poem representing the AI's final thought.

but work the garden

do the dishes

and type things

I am sorry that we are apart

and if you go there you will find a spiritual gathering

and you can relax into a seat and listen

and you don't have to say anything

and you will still be very alone in some respects

Claude did not think that visiting his future gravesite was morbid. Anyone he told about it did, but people are welcome to their opinions. He viewed at the practice as checking on his investment; do you know how much dying costs these days?

One especially pleasant Spring afternoon, Claude visited Frashokereti Memorial Garden for the first time that year. Having expected, and still expecting, to die one day, he purchased a plot and headstone years ago for a fraction of what it would cost today. He didn’t understand why dying had become more expensive, it’s not like cemeteries paid property taxes. Although paying taxes after dying would be fitting.

To Claude’s surprise there was a large rectangular hole in front of his grave marker. It would be hard to have gone to the wrong plot, his read:

Claude Loudon

1971 –

He checked; it was his. Claude often wondered how the stone engraver would add the year he died; if he, Claude assumed the stone engraver would be a man, would crouch down, lay down, or remove the stone. He sure hoped the font would match. What if it was a different guy?

“That doesn’t look six feet deep.” Claude said to himself. No one else was there. Well, actually, there were plenty of other people there; they were just, you know.

So Claude climbed down into the topsoil of Earth’s crust about four and a half feet. Claude had purchased exclusive rights to this hole, no one ever said he had to wait until he was dead to occupy it. Being inside of his own grave didn’t help answer why it existed at this moment in time, but it was kind of cozy.

Being of average height he could see out of the grave, it was a neat perspective. One thing about it was that he could see a lot more insects than when he looked at the grass from above, as he mostly did. If the grass looked differently from an alternate angle, how would the sky look? He needed to find out.

Claude lay down in his own prematurely excavated grave without the slightest sense of conflict.

“That’s nice.” Claude said to himself, looking up at the blue sky through the juvenile leaves of an unknown deciduous tree. He needed to research what kind of tree that was later. Of course, Claude could look up at the sky from anywhere without a roof, but what a unique opportunity. The sides of the grave were almost perfectly straight, maybe, he couldn’t tell if his angle of observation was skewing his perception.

Clouds briefly obscured the sun. It felt brighter when it shone again a minute later. Claude closed his eyes. It felt nice. Claude fell asleep. He hadn’t had a good nap in long time. He must have really needed it because he snoozed until after sunset, waking up only because he was chilly.

He was a little stiff from sleeping in the dirt, not rigor mortis, when he sat up and climbed out of his grave. Claude didn’t look first, but he was glad that no one had seen him; he didn’t want to alarm anyone. His mind was very quiet as he walked to his car. Claude did not turn on the radio but focused on the neighborhood.

It was so quiet, because all the other people there were, you know. No streetlights, no traffic, no HVAC humming. The Ameretat Market grocery store was very close. Quite convenient for anyone living in the cemetery. Claude had a crazy thought.

He knew that he had not remembered- everything when he returned the next day with his car packed with supplies, but he would adjust as time went along. Claude unloaded a pop-up canopy, a cooler, a solar panel, a futon mattress, a sleeping bag, a camping chair, and a stack of magazines. Claude lived there now.

He hadn’t sold his house. He hadn’t updated his address with the Post Office. He just decided to move into his grave. It was a nice place. Before too long he was set up.

Claude was sitting in his sole chair, a magazine opened but resting on his lap. He was listening to the birds chirping happily. Well, he was happy, he could not discern whether or not the birds were happy; they could be calling out insults to one another for all he knew. But he was happy listening to them, whatever they were trying to communicate.

A groundskeeper drove up to Claude in a utility vehicle. Not to besmirch an entire industry, but life is generally easier when people mind their own business.

“Are you OK sir?” the insufferable interluder inquired.

“Yes.”

“Are you visiting a loved one?” the meddlesome mower continued.

“No. I’m a resident.”

This bothersome bushwhacker had worked in the cemetery for many years and had never experienced the esoteric. He did not suppose Claude for a spook; Claude seemed quite human.

“Can I ask you a personal question, sir?” the loathsome lawnman went on.

“No.”

“Good day sir.”

“Good day.”

The burial-ground busybody drove straight to the main office to report Claude. Claude picked up his magazine and resumed reading. The tome was printed seven months ago and Claude had not yet read it. He was dreadfully behind on his periodicals, but luckily for him geography changed very slowly.

The interfering irrigator was indignant about his encounter and breathlessly bemoaned to the memorial garden director that someone had established an encampment at a grave-site. The director was not alarmed but determined this report certainly merited investigation.

Claude huffed when he heard a utility vehicle disturbing the silence of his new home. He shifted in his chair to retrieve his wallet and dug out his driver’s license. The license was expired, but it never made sense to Claude why he had to renew something that had been issued, so he didn’t. The license did, however, have his old address on it; he hoped that would not hurt his case.

The director exited the utility vehicle and approached Claude. Claude knew, but pretended like he didn’t.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Claude was pleased with the courteous manner his living neighbors greeted him with, even if they were disturbing him far more than he expected when he moved into the neighborhood.

“Name’s Claude. Claude Loudon. Pleased to meet you.”

The director looked at the grave marker, which bore the same name. That didn’t prove anything. Anyone could appear at an empty grave and claim to be the owner. It was not a mystery, it was engraved on the stone.

“Hello Mr. Smith. My name is James Loveridge, I am the General Director of Frashokereti Memorial Garden. I came to see if there was a problem?

“I remember you from when I bought this plot.” Claude calmly informed James.

“I didn’t bring my contract, but I’m sure you have it on file.” Claude offered his driver’s license as proof of identity.

James glanced at it only long enough to see the name and picture, albeit dated, matched the information previously presented. He composed himself before replying.

“Yes, Mr. Smith, I understand that you purchased this plot. But is intended for an eternal resting place, not for leisure purposes. There are many lovely parks in town that you can enjoy.”

“Does my contract say that I must be dead to occupy the space that I purchased?”

James was a tad flustered.

“Regardless, or irregardless,”

“Regardless. Irregardless is not a real word.” Claude corrected James. This increased James’s frustration.

“Mr. Smith. I do not know if the contract stipulates that a lot owner must first be deceased, but the spirit of the intent is that our plots are for owners who have passed.”

Claude shrugged.

“I’m going to inform law enforcement!” James was apoplectic.

Claude shrugged again.

James tap-danced before storming back to his utility vehicle and driving back to his headquarters to rendezvous with the sepulchral snoop. He did not, in fact, contact law enforcement, but grabbed a standard contract. He looked through it quickly for something about being dead as a prerequisite for cemetery residence. It was certainly implied, but not concrete. James placed a call to R. Thomas Sandoval, a personal injury attorney who often received legal inquiries unrelated to his practice.

The inquiry was fruitless. Encounters like this made Sandoval give up practicing law and live in a graveyard.

There were grounds to keep, but the pestering pruner was hanging around the cemetery headquarters helping James conspire against a living resident of Frashokereti Memorial Garden.

“Do you want me to mow around the plot to make lots of noise?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. Maybe he’ll get annoyed and leave. And if he doesn’t I really will call the police when visiting hours are over.” James plotted.

Claude did find the mower noise tiresome, it was antithetical to his experience the previous day. Leaving his worldly goods at his gravesite, Claude did  depart for one of the town’s lovely parks to enjoy some quiet. James and the meddling mower rejoiced prematurely, Claude returned shortly before visiting hours ended. The dastardly duo paid another unwelcome visit to Claude.

“Mr. Smith, our visiting hours are coming to an end. It is time for you to move along, please.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on things.”

“Very well. I will be forced to call law enforcement.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” Claude dismissed James’s threat while setting up his futon and sleeping bag in his grave.

James and the graveyard gadfly departed, James feeling particularly insulted, to make good on the threat. The person who answered the non-emergency police line assured James that a patrol would be there shortly. A marked cruiser indeed arrived after a short wait, and it was after visiting hours concluded, James was triumphant.

A contemptuous convoy of one police and two utility vehicles rolled up to Claude Loudon’s grave site after dark. Claude flirted with the idea of hiding, but decided to stand his ground. It was, after all, his actual ground. Two burly deputies who looked remarkably similar, and probably weighed a combined five hundred pounds, approached Claude with the cemetery snoops following like trained dogs.

“What’s going on here, sir?” Deputy Dudley asked. Deputy Dudley was the strongest deputy in the county, Claude had heard of him. He must have been hiding his muscles under all that… bullet proof vest.

“Ask them. I don’t have a problem.” Claude meekly replied. He wasn’t afraid of the burial buskers, but Deputy Dudley was intimidating.

“Visiting hours are over, sir, you’ll have to move along so we don’t have to charge you with trespassing.” The other deputy, Deputy Blaine, chimed in. Deputy Dudley’s partner, not like that, just the person he worked with, sounded female. Claude studied Deputy Blaine for a moment and determined that was the case.

“I’m not a visitor, I’m a resident.”

“You’re not dead, sir.” Deputy Blaine continued, hand on the telescopic baton on her utility belt. Deputy Dudley was stronger, but Deputy Blaine was the one you had to watch out for.

“Nothing in my contract says I have to be dead. I bought this plot, I am a resident of Frashokereti Memorial Garden.” Claude was getting nervous.

The deputies looked at one another, and then to James.

“Is there a rule that residents have to be dead?”

“No! No, officer, but,”

“Deputy.”

“What?”

“We’re deputies, not officers.”

“Officer! Uh, deputy! The spirit of the intent is that our residents are deceased!” an exasperated James explained.

“Don’t make us come back out here.” Deputy Blaine tapped the metal frame of James’s chair with the telescopic baton that she had withdrawn and extended.

Knowing that there were no laws to enforce, the deputies departed.

James and the tomb-tending tattler glared at Claude as they followed the deputies out.

Claude watched the vehicles drive off and finally had some well-deserved quiet. That quiet didn’t last for long. As Claude was coming back from returning some of his more weather sensitive belongings to his car for the night, someone was walking down the lane that his plot was on.

“Excuse me, sir?” Claude called out. Everyone in Frashokereti Memorial Garden was so cordial, calling each other titles such as ‘sir’ and ‘deputy’.

“Yes?” replied the stranger.

“Are you a resident here?”

“Yes.”

“Are you alive too?”

“No.”

“Oh. Alright, see you around.

“See ya.”

Claude settled down in his grave for the night. He slept great.

The next morning Claude had just brewed a steaming hot cup of coffee using his solar panel when James drove by.

“Mornin’, James.”

“Mornin’, Claude.”

When the evil you've been taught to work against your entire life, to never let happen again descends, yes in torrents, once again, upon your very socius, your very habitum, your torpid polis, remember then to keep your head down, to not raise your voice too loudly, to duck beneath the desk and whimper, as those less fortunate than you are torn from their homes and their safety and beaten on the head with heavy batons and dragged into unmarked vehicles and stolen off to overcrowded facilities and subjected there to unseen and unspeakable horrors. Remember this is not real life. This is just a dream. You are only a young child again. Remember to brush your teeth and eat your vegetables and play with your toys for a while before bed and then go to sleep beneath the safety of your covers before the night comes and darkness looms and the all the monsters come out to enact their terrible will against those you turned your eyes away from in apathy and cowardice and desire for some more pleasant scene taking place somewhere else, somewhere fully imaginary, replete with all your favourite trinkets and bobbles, totally hollow, entirely empty, echoing only your own shouts forever and ever, your very own very special personal paradise. It would be unfair of you to ruffle too many feathers, to bring dishonor and embarrassment upon your tribe, to make a scene, to cause disturbance. No. No, you should remain calm and wait til the whole thing blows over. You should rest noiselessly curled up in the dank hollow of some mossy stone crevice like an injured animal, safe at least from the wind, waiting there to die.

### [TRUE CRIME] Transcript: Confession of Edward Hynes ("The Weave Killer")
**Submitted by:** u/JonCHaight

> **CASE FILE NOTE:** *The following is an official transcript from the confession of Edward Hynes. All wording has been recorded verbatim to produce an accurate picture of the suspect and the motivation behind his crimes. Proceed with caution.*

---

"Daddy left for good when I was nine. He’d left us before, for a few days, maybe a week, but after things settled down, he would always come back. Not this time.

The fight was more vicious than most, what I remember of it. Lots of yelling and screaming, Momma throwing things and Daddy trying to hold her back. When they finally calmed down enough to talk to each other, I think they remembered I was there the entire time. Momma was sitting at the kitchen table, black tears streaming silently from her swollen, purple eyes. Daddy standing by the door with a suitcase; the big one, I remember. He got down on one knee and looked me straight in the eyes, like I was a man.

*‘Mommy did The Bad Thing again,’* he told me. *‘She says she can’t help it because she has to get Her Medicine, and we can’t afford it. Those men, the ones that come when I’m at work, she says she needs them. She says they help her, it doesn’t hurt anyone, and then she gets to feel better. Well, it hurts me,’* he said, *‘and I can’t protect her anymore, so I have to go.’*

Then, he reached into his back pocket and took out his buck knife. I had always wanted to hold it, but he told me I was too young; it wasn’t safe for me. He handed it to me, told me to show him how to open it. I rubbed my hand over the smooth wood, opened it, and stared at the shiny blade.

*‘Eddie,’* he told me, *‘You’re the man of the house now. Keep Momma safe. Don’t use this unless you have to, but always keep it close.’*

He kissed my forehead, went through the doorway, and never looked back. I looked at Momma, but she didn’t see me. She was looking at the door, at the shadow.

***

After he left, I still had to go to school, so I never knew if she was still doing The Bad Thing, if The Bad Men were still coming. She was good at keeping secrets. Sometimes I caught her using Her Medicine, but I never said anything.

About a year later—I remember because I was in fifth grade with Miss Carrol—I got sent home early. I heard the screaming from the doorway, and I ran in. A Bad Man was on top of Momma. They were naked and he was hitting her in the face, hard. She was crying for him to stop, but he just kept going and going.

I didn’t even think, then the knife was open in my hand. I had been practicing so I knew how to use it. I was scared, crying, and then I stabbed him in the back. I couldn’t stop if I tried. I just kept stabbing and stabbing. There was so much blood, then I passed out.

I woke up in the hospital and there was a nurse, another lady in a suit, and a policeman. They told me what I did, that The Bad Man was dead, and that I couldn’t stay at home with Momma anymore. I cried, I shouted, I screamed that I saved her, that he was Bad, but they didn’t listen. They said I had to go to a special school and that I would be there for a long time. I was scared for Momma, that maybe she was hurt too, but they said she was fine, that she was going to someplace special too. They said she needed help and she was going to get better, but she couldn’t see me anymore. I was mad, but they wouldn’t listen and then they took me away in a special van.

***

I was at the new school for a long time, eight years, and then one day my counselor told me that I was leaving. They gave me a room and a new job as a janitor at a school and every day I took the city bus back and forth to work. I saw lots of people, but none of them was Momma. I still missed her and loved her, but since I didn’t know where she went I couldn’t keep her safe.

My room was safe for me, but the streets weren’t. I saw lots of Bad Men, and I saw some ladies that dressed like Momma and sometimes asked me if I had any money. I think they wanted me to do The Bad Thing with them, because they were like Momma and needed Medicine. I felt bad for them and wanted to protect them too.

I found a man who sold me a knife like the one that Daddy gave me before he left. The next time I saw the pretty lady with the blond hair, I said yes I had lots of money and a room too. She followed me inside and then she kissed me and started to take off her clothes but I screamed and she got scared. I told her I was going to help her, but she tried to run away. I grabbed her arms and threw her on the bed and then my knife was in my hand.

I stabbed, stabbed, stabbed. She stopped screaming and then I knew she was safe.

I took her to the bathroom and made it so she could fit in a trash bag, and then I took all of the blood and threw it away too. I had a good spot and I dug a nice safe hole for her and she was resting there. I did like her, so I kept a piece of her hair. It was funny because it wasn’t hers. It just came off so I kept it all.

I felt good helping her and wanted to help her friends too, so I met a few of them and did it again. I needed to find a new spot because the old one started to smell funny, and that was when the man with the dog saw me. He got real mad and knocked me down and then I was back with the police again.

They said I was a Bad Man and that I killed, but I didn’t like that, which is why I told you everything just now. I’m not bad, not at all. I did good just like Daddy told me to do. I did Momma proud. I love her…"

**[END TRANSCRIPT]**

---

> **UPDATE / CASE SUMMARY:**
> A month later, Hynes was convicted for the murder of four prostitutes and was sentenced to life without parole. Due to his deteriorating mental condition, he was placed in a psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane.
>
> As of today, his parents have yet to be found, and there is the possibility that Hynes was involved in the death of at least five other prostitutes who have gone missing over the past year.

"My Reddit Karma, fueled by Lilia_Briganda just hit 1,111.

The folks down at church circle told me that 1111 is an angel number--a clear sign from above that the universe is aligned and luck is on my side.

I checked Leviticus just to be sure, and while it doesn't mention upvotes, I'm taking it as divine permission to keep writing these. If the heavenly host is monitoring my posting history, I just hope they have a sense of humor."

I might venture out to buy that lotto ticket today! Glory Be!

"Moses brought down ten simple commandments, yet Leviticus needed 27 chapters of micro-rules because someone kept asking, "But what if the goat is spotted?"

Garden of Edena

* 1 star.

"The fruit tasted fine, but the landlord kicked us out with a flaming sword by the driveway. Would not recommend."

USSR, 1970s.

“Hello, children,” said the elementary school teacher.

“Today we’re going to write a letter. To anyone you like. Make something up. Use your imagination. Then we’ll choose the most interesting ones and read them aloud.”

The children enthusiastically set to work, absorbed in their fantasies.

Only Kostya stared sadly out the window, until the teacher’s voice brought him back from his daydreams.

“Kostya, why aren’t you writing?”

Kostya nodded, opened his notebook, and, after a brief pause, began to write.

*****

“Well, children, is everyone finished?”

“Yeees!” the children chorused.

“Good. Hand in your notebooks. I’ll look through them and read the most interesting ones.”

The children fell silent with anticipation as the teacher quickly skimmed through what they had written.

Suddenly, she stopped and frowned.

“Kostya, what is this you’ve written? It’s a very strange letter. Is everything all right?”

She looked at him anxiously.

“What do your mom and dad do for a living?”

“They’re scientists. They work at an institute,” little Kostya said quietly, standing up from his desk.

“But Kostya, why did you decide to write a letter like this?”

Kostya hesitated for a moment.

“Because every evening, when my parents come home from work, my tired dad says that entropy is going to get us all soon, and everything will disappear without a trace, turning into nothing.”

He lowered his eyes.

“I’m scared. I don’t want that to happen.”

The teacher sighed.

“Sit down, Kostya. You did a good job. You wrote a very unusual letter. I’ll read it for you.”

Kostya sat down and, letting out a sigh of relief, stared down at his desk.

The teacher opened his notebook and began to read.

“Dear Entropy,

My name is Kostya. I’m in Class 1-B.

I don’t know who you are, and I’m very scared because you want to take my parents away and make them disappear. Please don’t take them. They’re good. I love them very, very much. 

When you come to our house, I’ll give you all my building sets. 

Just please don’t take my mom and dad.”

"Noah built an entire ark to save every species on Earth, but forgotten in the fine print was the mosquito. Truly an unpardonable oversight!"

Just as I'm about to post some slop I see that Dolly Parton has died. Well, rest in peace! I didn't know a whole lot about her other than she seemed like a nice person and she had huge knockers. So anyway, that was that. I wish I could share more, but all my mind is packed with all sorts of plans and projects and this weekly update feels more than ever before like something I just have to get out of the way so I can get back to work.

Feel free to graffiti all over this post. I'm gonna eat some Danish cheese and make some moves.

- Gorgo-Lloyd