Gale Pyke's Blog

TikTok - Make Your Day

Have you heard the phrase “You don’t value something until it is gone?”

Roughly, a couple of years ago, I was doing what every sensible young adult would be doing on a school night — having a beer while scrolling through TikTok. It’s amazing how our mind and body feel comfort with the simplest things, like scrolling endlessly in search for a good laugh. What is it with the endless videos of reactions to funny filters, fake street interviews, and awkward situations at the gym? A mere gambling addiction, disguised as ten-second posts, promising you that the next one — the next video to come — is going to be a winner.

Yet, there I was, perusing through a sea of amateur dancers and explanations from the Johnny Depp and Amber Heard’s case, when I came across a song. Purple light, body close-up, and a singer that looked like Billy Hardgrove from Stranger Things. It sounded like another pop hit, with a bit of spice, but I wasn’t in the mood for it — I mean if it wasn’t Wallows, then what was the point? — So, I disregarded it and forgot completely about what would eventually would be come to be known as “that song from TikTok.”

[…]

I think a lot about the concept of the unreliable narrator — someone who decides to tell a story but who can never be trusted because him or her is misleading you. How is it possible that two people can actually recount the same event, the same relationship, the same smile, and still tell it differently? And after a couple of depressions, I have learned not to fully trust my memory, for we remember what we need to live peacefully and survive. So, you can imagine the madness that my brain unraveled when many, many months later I started humming “that song from Tiktok.” Just rhythm and one single word.

[…] the sheets.

Every single day, there it was, in the back of my mind, hiding between my thoughts and dancing among my dreams. It didn't matter what I did or where I was, that song came along with me, like a parasite taking over my sanity. How could I keep mumbling something I just scrolled past it? Nevertheless, I did the same thing that I had done with my teenage photos: hide it and pray it remained out of reach.

But nothing remains hidden for long, and so, I started doubting everything.
That I heard it on TikTok, that I had seen the video, or that I would eventually push it out of my memory. Without any explanation, I would begin humming it during business meetings and weekly reviews at work. It was just a matter of time before it truly began affecting what was important: my writing.

So, I made a promise to a specific greek god (a non-shirtless one if you want to try and guess) and told her that if she helped me find that video, I would close my TikTok account.

Not the polite kind, [...] in the sheets.

For months, I would take 5 minutes of my day (work hours, of course) and research the song through every browser and social media possible. Even my personalized AI was tired of me asking the same question over and over. Funny thing, one of the biggest teaching that the TV series Lost left is that the best way to find something is to stop looking for it. Yet, since I am a stubborn bastard, instead of spending 5 minutes I began spending 15.

Until, in the most random conversation about teenage drama, my sister said the missing piece. “She’s not the polite kind, but we get along.” Suddenly, all my attention was lost, and I no longer cared if Javier had stolen the ring in which he was going to propose. The song came first.

google dot com // enter //

Not the polite kind the one in the sheets lyrics // enter //

There it was.
The video in the same way I remembered it.
Was I in love with the song? Hardly.
Was I impressed by the lyrical tattoos in the singers arm? Very.
Yet, the best part? Was telling to “fuck myself” (believe me, I have tried and it wasn’t a pretty sight) to that senseless idea of being a unreliable narrator.

She likes the word please,
But not the polite kind, the one in the sheets.
Oh, she’s a tease!

What was the point of the story?
Well, Susan, maybe it doesn’t have a point. Maybe I just wanted to tell someone about my senseless achievement. Maybe I just wanted to explain to all why am I closing my TikTok account.

Or maybe,
It helped me to come to the most important realization of my life. Which one do you ask? Yes, of course I’ll tell you Susan. But I will make it fun for you, so I will make you get to the answer using the right question. Tell me,

If I am this insane and determined, how the hell am I not going to achieve my fucking dreams?[image error]

I Found The Song was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Image acquired through Pinterest

I keep going back to those days.
I keep remembering those spring times where I was full of youth and filled with prejudices. You know, those days when I used to be an asshole.

I am not talking about betrayals, lost friendships, or broken hearts — those usually emerge with their own sense of poetic justice and no small amount of memorable irony. In it’s own unique way, love has its personal agenda, but great fucking hell, I would love to meet what sort of nefarious cosmic force has allowed puberty to manifest itself so wickedly.

What happened to all those middle-grade and high-school teachers who had to swallow all of our bullshit as we made fun of them for being single in their mid 30s? For still living with their parents and not being able to afford their own house? For uploading pictures with their cats on Facebook? For using shorts while jogging and not being able to lose weight?

What is it with mid-life crisis that makes you think of the most random things while standing in front of the cashier in the supermarket as you check your bank account and see if you can afford 0.0% ABV beers?

Which, due to the healthier nature, are more expensive than their riskier 5.5% cousins. Fuck, society does not make sense, does it?

The door opens, and some strange creatures that look nothing like me on the outside but identically to me on the inside, await. We all come in different attires, for different occasions, and with different expectations. But no one arrives with empty hands or voided of stories. Above all, we all arrived unarmed. A room where we don’t need to hide that we don’t excel testosterone — that we haven’t figured shit out, we just act like we do.

A band of rebels.
A band of rebels that are on a diet, drink healthy, and have an early bedtime.

Yet, the same way you don’t need fun to enjoy a cocktail or two, you don’t need to be intoxicated for the senseless to make sense. And just like that, a medical condition becomes a meeting requirement. Growing old requieres enough maturity to understand that your daily goals are the punishment you receive in your youth.

Going to bed early.
Eating healthy.
Staying inside for two weeks.
Buying new clothes.
Getting spanked.

Sadly, I blurted that out loud, and they all reacted with deep laughs and defeated looks. Yes, yes, I know I need more years in therapy. Yes, yes, I know I need to grow up, but isn’t that why we are here, to stay inside Lost Woods and hide from adulthood?
And hell, am I lying?

But the night goes on, always bathed in laugher, always surrounded by sadness.

“I haven’t shared this with anyone else.”
We all use this opening line, almost as if we are introducing ourselves to some sort of anonymous meeting. But the irony isn’t lost on us, for even though we all know this is a support group, we won’t label it that way — either it is too personal or not personal enough.

Spotify playlists.
Unrequited feelings.
Repressed memories.
Unknown dining spots.
Delusions of greatness.

We all have our own secrets that we won’t whisper out loud in fear that all those corporate zombies label us as a pestilence — a virus that seeks to put happiness, health, purpose, and love above work.

There is a certain seductiveness that comes along with telling our secrets over wine on a Saturday afternoon. Yet, not as intimate as sharing one’s dreams over non-alcoholic beers on a Monday night.

The alarm goes off, and we all share a glance. Our time is up. In order to survive the emptiness of another workday we all need a little boost — just enough mental steroids to give a shit of all those unresolved matters that need to be done, and neatly wrapped, by the end of the week. So, with unrehearsed promptitude and synchronized apathy, we all exhale and take out our pill organizer. A large-white pill, a small-pink one, a round-flat one, they all come in different shapes and packages — almost as if their purpose is to seduce each and every one of us into a needless habit to endure modernity.

If there is ever a time to compare sizes, or the easiness in which one swallows, is when taken a precise amount of milligrams that quiets all those irregular voices that diminish the poetry inside our heads.

0.5mg and the world can make sense again.
The voices go back to their cages and we can play by the company’s rules once more. At least, until the medication starts to fail and the thoughts resume their daily torture.

I keep going back to those days.
Back then, when the sun was enjoyable and the nights came peacefully.
Back then, when the eyes weren’t led by sexuality and the senses were free to explore the world.
Back then, when I didn’t know I was making fun of my own future.

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0.0% + 0.5mg was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Pintura hecha por Ilaria Ratti, encontrada en X.com

Para ti, que aún no eres tú,

Se acerca otro final — otro diciembre que inicio muy tarde y terminará muy pronto.

Amo esta temporada, ¿tú no?
Nunca se cumplen nuestras expectativas del vision board, cada año hay menos personas a quien presumirles nuestros atuendos festivos y las luces navideñas ya no esconden tan fácilmente nuestra edad en las fotografías. Pero es de los pocos momentos donde logramos sentir la magia brotando en la punta de nuestros dedos. Aunque muchos deciden ir a buscar esa magia entre mares y montañas, yo aprendí hace mucho a encontrarla en el caos de la ciudad — en bares, parques, museos, conciertos y cafeterías. He adquirido este pequeño hábito de sentarme a ver el cielo estrellado mientras escucho melodías románticas junto a una copa de vino, pensando que tal vez tú haces lo mismo desde el otro lado de nuestro irónico destino. Debido a esto, he creado una playlist que creo que te encantará. Aunque el común denominador es poner las cosas en modo aleatorio (una filosofía que yo comparto), trata de seguir el orden de las canciones. Créeme, no lo lamentarás. Después de todo, hay algo muy mágico en ese tipo de orden que no es el propio, así como pasar de un acorde F a un Dm, antes de cerrar con un C y un Bb.

Así es, sé tocar guitarra.
No, no soy muy bueno y soy peor aún cantando, pero he aprendido que la vida es muy corta para no disfrutar lo que amamos y callarnos lo que sentimos. Así que me he propuesto que me aprenderé una canción nueva cada mes. ¿Quién sabe? Quizás para cuando me encuentres ya tenga un set completo y puedas acompañarme a hacer el ridículo en un lugar donde nadie nos conozca y nadie crea que puede hacerlo mejor.

Uy…
Lo siento, he divagado mucho. Un defecto en mi personalidad y en mis narraciones. Supongo que cuando conozcas a mis padres lo entenderás. ¿Qué puedo decirte de ese dúo que no sea que los vas a amar más a ellos que a mí? Son excelentes personas y aún mejores profesionales. Espero que los encuentres con el vigor que mantienen al día de ahora — una madre que aún baila y un padre que aún sueña.

Dime,
¿Cómo te vestiste esta navidad?
¿Ya tienes tu outfit para la celebración de año nuevo?

Mi celebración de navidad siempre es muy sencilla y con poco brillo, pero hemos creado esta tradición familiar de despedir cada año con una gran velada. Mi primo trae su mejor cerveza y yo lo acompaño con mi coctelería. Mis tías pasan días preparando la comida, las primas nos llenan de sorpresas y mis hermanas saben como amenizar a los invitados. Las conversaciones pueden ser repetitivas, pero la música es muy variada y el ambiente rebalsa de alegría. Había perdido ese deseo de verme bien para recibir esos nuevos comienzos y ha sido hasta este año que he redescubierto lo que un buen outfit puede hacer para tus ánimos y aquellos que te rodean. Me siento contento de ya no combinar pantalones negros formales con camisetas color azul marino o tratar de encajar con la vestimenta tradicional.

¿Te imaginas tener esa foto junto al árbol de navidad justo antes del beso de media noche? Nunca he sido mucho de clichés o trends populares, pero hay algo sobre el amor que te invita a hacer el ridículo porque la otra persona te da la suficiente confianza de sacar tus lados más vulnerables.

Sé que la vida es aquella sucesión de instantes inesperados, pero que fabuloso sería tener la habilidad de Alice y entrar a un restaurante, sentarme en la mesa correcta y decirte me has tenido esperando por mucho tiempo. Sí, así es, leí los libros de Twilight. No me avergüenza admitirlo, pero antes de que me juzgues, en mi defensa, tenía 15 y era un niño idealista que esperaba poder conocer al amor de su vida en su juventud. Sé que la saga recibe mucho odio y críticas, pero así como todas las mujeres sueñan con ser Bella, todos los hombres pasamos por nuestra etapa de ser como Jacob. Que por cierto, ¿Quieres un dato curioso mío? Mi capítulo favorito de la saga es “Why Didn’t I Just Walk Away? Oh Right, Because I Am An Idiot!”. Si hay algo que amé de la historia de Twilight, fueron los capítulos de Jacob en Amanecer. Sin embargo, a pesar de usar esa referencia muy seguido en mis redes sociales, mi capítulo favorito de todos los tiempos es “Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows, Chapter 4: The Seven Potters”.

¿Viste como salté de un tema a otro? Si, lastimosamente tiendo a hacer eso muy seguido...Espero que no te moleste y nunca te canses de ello.

La vida se ha tardado en juntarnos y aunque parezca una crueldad que aún no hayamos compartido ese momento debajo de nuestra sombrilla amarilla, te adelantaré un par de detalles para que no sientas que te tocará conocer a un extraño.

Me gustan los climas fríos y caminar bajo la lluvia. No solo crecí oyendo La Oreja de Van Gogh y la Quinta Estación sino que viví brevemente en NYC. Por supuesto que he romantizado el color gris y sus emociones.No tengo un libro favorito, pero “I Am Pilgrim” me ayudó mucho a madurar mi selección literaria. Por otro lado, “Thunderhead” es el único libro que he sentido celos de no haberlo escrito yo. Pinche Neal Shusterman.Mi día favorito es el martes. En mi pasado, era el único día donde podía salir a conocer la ciudad y escribir. Debido a ello, se volvió aquella pausa en la semana que hacía que mi día a día tuviera sentido. Me encanta romper la rutina y tomar vino por las noches.Mi videojuego favorito por siempre será Baten Kaitos. Sí, lamento no tener uno más sencillo como Zelda o Pokemon, pero hay algo inigualable en la historia de Kalas y Sagi que han llenado mi imaginación de fantasía y tramas inesperados. Aunque debo admitir que Clair Obscure: Expedition 33 intentó derrocarlo y casi lo logra.Lastimosamente, ronco y muy fuerte. No tengo una solución a corto plazo para ello, pero me han dicho que tiene solución. Lamento si te mantengo despierta por las madrugadas, pero la cantidad de sueño rezagado me permite dormirme en segundos en cualquier circunstancia. No me odies.Mi serie favorita es Dr. Who y vamos a verla juntos. Lo siento, eso no es negociable. Si yo he crecido viajando a través del tiempo y el espacio no te me puedes quedar esperando en la tierra. Visitaremos los bares, castillos, cafes, laboratorios y mundos que desees, pero el viaje en la cajita azul no te lo quitarás.

Se me acaba la tinta y no he podido decir todo lo que tenía en mente.

¡Las historias que voy a contarte!
Recuérdame que te mencione aquella vez que mis amigos se quedaron atrapados en el baúl del carro. O las dos ocasiones donde me quedé solo con una rata. Uh, y necesitas escuchar la historia verdadera de mi primer concierto. No creo que López se enoje si te chismeo sobre la carrera en la Jerusalén. Bueno, estoy seguro que mis amigos te contarán sobre mi primera borrachera en el Club Tecleño. Pero sobre todo, no se te olvide preguntarme sobre el funeral de mi abuela. Tengo una historia fabulosa de ello.

En fin, sé que debes seguir en la etapa en la cual la vida te ha puesto por ahora. Lamento abrumarte y ponerte presión, pero espero que si algún día lees esto, se te haga tan familiar como verte al espejo. Solo me queda desearte una feliz navidad y un próspero año nuevo, querida.

Prométeme que no tardarás mucho porque yo sigo aquí esperándote.
Ah, y mantente lejos de las apps de citas, porque no me encontrarás ahí.

A ti, antes de ti.
G. Pyke.-

Ps. Te recomiendo que aparezcas pronto, antes de que me encuentres sin piel con tinta, ya que la vida se me hace corta y tu ausencia la compenso con tatuajes que prometen tu llegada.

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Carta Para Mi Futura Esposa was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I know is supposed to be X now, but “tweets” still have a nice ring to it.

He couldn’t withstand her smile.

Do you miss the taste of red wine against your chin?
Writing is so much easier when poetry willingly laughs every two minutes in between popular country-pop songs and overpriced desserts. They say life always gives you enough experiences to talk about, but I’ve learned that heart-stopping moments come scarcely in this lifetime. How many of those have we wasted with the wrong crowd? Would you be surprised to learned that I often go back to that night, just so I can use your laugh as inspirational fuel? Oh, the verses I’ve written using your name as bibliographic reference. After all, there’s not much that can be compared to your own reflection in the rearview mirror.

She had that devilish smirk once again.

Tell me, do you still find the traffic amusing?
Every now and then, are you inclined to turn your radio on and tell yourself that it is mere luck when our song comes first during the morning shift? Or are you impressed that I’ve managed to timed it just right so my out-of-tune voice is your first thought on a Tuesday morning?

I can tolerate all those empty daybreaks, but nighttime mutilates my serenity. All those waiting hours where I miss seeing your name in my screen — when I miss feeling your breath over my face — in the expectation that my poor taste in literature can seduce your sophisticated music palate.

Do you keep numbing your thoughts with alcohol or has your fear of the darkness receded? Aren’t you afraid that if you stop your sinful ways you might find yourself surrounded by nothing but my voice as I recite all these poems I keep writing, hoping they will kiss you goodnight? Well, at least this way you’ll get to hear all those things I wrote down that you never stayed long enough to read.

She had a set of perfect teeth with even more perfect lips.

Of course I understand. How couldn’t I?
Happiness seems to elude me, so who am I to blame you from running away all those years? It must be relieving not to be tormented by your past and your present — to look so far ahead into the future that you light up at the unknown and embrace the horizon. So, go and see the world. Don’t think twice before buying that plane ticket, taking that first kiss, or getting that tattoo. Make us both a favor and choose impulsively, for I will remain faithful, until you decide to replace my memory of you.

Just be careful not to erase my lingering echoes. If you keep smiling in your stories, people might think that all of my poems are nothing but lies.

A couple of angelic eyes that could only be rivaled by her grin.

Maturity is knowing that all good tales come to an end, but peace of mind is understanding that our story is one I will write incessantly. So, you might find yourself never-letting go of your new life, while someday you’ll hear that I found a living by never letting go. Well, isn’t madness just a side-effect of devotion? Wasn’t love supposed to win at the end? Shit, there is so much to say and so little daily ink. But I guess it all comes down to the knowledge that even if I might not be good enough for you, I don’t have interested in no one else.

In the long list of culprits responsible for breaking hearts and devastating romantic dreams, that set of gleaming-brown stars that gaze upon life as a vibrant poem, and those pink rims that bring color to your delicate face from one ear to the other, are suspects number one and two.

Who knows, maybe tonight I will have the courage to get out of bed, go to that restaurant by 2nd street, steal their bluest and corniest piece of decoration, and do the rain dance until it is pouring down in the middle of dry season.

And so,
Maybe you won’t find my name across your phone so unexpected.
Maybe I won’t be afraid to say “Hey, I didn’t mean to call you this late, but would you sing me to sleep?”
Maybe we might find that there is a sequel to all these inconclusive tales, to all the broken hearts, to all the unexpected glances.
Maybe I finally find the appropriate words to express all those compliments I told everyone about you, except you.

[image error]

Tweets I Never Sent.- was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Image Obtained From Google Images

Hoy, un lunes soleado de Diciembre, me encontré con un par de horas libres en mi calendario — un espacio vacío entre esa cena que he decidido llamar “dieta para poder verme bien en navidad” y el aquel recordatorio que puse en Febrero el cual me avisa que debería estar durmiendo 8 horas diarias. Por supuesto que podría ir a ocultar las ojeras que ya se encuentran tatuadas en mi avejentado rostro, pero lamentablemente, hay muchos objetivos de vida y aún más maneras de procrastinarlos. Después de todo, hay algo intangible sobre las noches de invierno que nos invita buscar aquella comedia romántica que nos haga llorar mientras soñamos con un amor como el de Noah Calhoun, Leo Collins o William Borgens. ¿Irónico, no? Como buscamos la soledad para acompañarla de promesas y sueños que dependen de la reciprocidad de alguien más.

Así, sin más, fue como descubrí que sólo me tomó un par de segundos libres y un par de pensamientos mal puestos para que mi mente traiga tu sonrisa de regreso al escenario principal. Un infinidad de recuerdos, guardados en melodías sin sonido y en miradas perdidas. Los libros que podría escribir si tuviera el talento de plasmar la magia de los momentos efímeros (mousetrap, am I right?).

No entiendo, si yo compré la entrada a este concierto,
¿Por qué me encuentro viendo a todos aquellos artistas que carecen del espectáculo que todo público sueña con compartir en sus historias de Instagram al siguiente día?
¿Cómo le explico a mis amigos y familiares que me negaron la entrada al show por el cuál me encontraba tan emocionado?

Me tomó diez segundos considerar qué película debería ver, ya que sin duda elegiré aquella que prolongue tu presencia en mis fantasías. En mis alucinaciones tengo tiempo para hacer las cosas correctamente, para quitar palabras que dije sin pensar y para no dejar que lo terrenal se meta en aquello que no pertenece a lo ordinario. Qué desprotegida estarías si pudiera solo meterme a un armario, cerrar los puños y regresar un par de horas atrás a esos segundos donde todo estaba bien.

Sin embargo, ver películas románticas en la tercera década causa una expectativa diferente. Ya no sostengo la respiración con el primer beso, ni me pongo nervioso cuando los protagonistas tienen su primera pelea. No espero con ansías esa gran declaración de amor ni me ilusiono con la llegada de ese amor perdido. Después de todo, el amor se encuentra escondido en cada uno de esos momentos colaterales que derivan de la ilusión y de la esperanza. Ese momento donde el padre y su hijo se encuentran caminando a la orilla de la playa, esos segundos donde el protagonista sale por la ventana del carro a ver las luces de la ciudad, esa reunión donde estas discutiendo con tus amigos quién se merece el último brownie, o ese instante cuando las luces del bar disminuyen y sólo puedes ver su silueta moviéndose alocadamente.

La vida se nos pasa esperando ese primer beso y se nos olvida apreciar esa suma de cosas perfectas que hacen que ese beso tenga sentido. ¿Qué sentido tiene el romance si no soñamos con un arreglo hecho de zanahorias y no de flores?

Que fácil es olvidarnos de la verdadera belleza que nos rodea — esa belleza que solo llegas a apreciar con la edad y la sabiduría:

La risa descontrolada de un familiar.
Una tarde de viernes libre de tráfico.
La textura de la cerámica caliente en tus manos.
Un cielo estrellado, enmarcado por luces navideñas.
Ese reconocimiento laboral que hemos esperado por meses.
Aquel abrazo que aún te llena de valentía.
La compra de ese viaje que has soñado por años.
Los segundos que le toman a dos extraños entrelazar sus dedos.
Esa sensación de la grama debajo de tus pies.
El olor de galletas recién hechas.
O encontrar esa canción perfecta que nos inspire a escribir un blog sobre romance un lunes de Diciembre.

Y si por algún milagro te encuentras despierta una madrugada leyendo esto, entre la última copa de vino y la primera taza de café, espero poder sacarte una sonrisa mientras piensas en esa persona que tanto amas. Pero, sobre todo, en todos esos momentos perfectos que adornan nuestra vida diariamente.

Espero encontrarme entre aquellos relatos que narres con alegría e ilusión. No somos más que instantes — momentos llenos de tanta luz, que aún si nuestras historias no lleguen juntas al final, no podemos evitar brillar con intensidad.

¿Qué vida más llena de amor, no crees?

Cancion: Car — Royel Otis

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Mensaje en una botella.- was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Image Created with AI.

A few things will turn your blood cold amidst the darkness of the night.

The yells of the nightmares that emerge from the forest? Scary.
The clattering of soft-paced steps that announced the presence of an unknown entity inside your house? Frightening.
Hearing the throat-ripping screams of your sister and little brother pleading for help, while they ran across the night, covered in sweat and blood? Terrifying.

Whoever has defiled my bloodline’s dwellings would likely come for me now. All the demons in the world, and I have to face the worst of them all: family in need.

I can hear the howls of that foul beast crying for pain and blood, accompanied by the raging chaos that has lit the entrance of the woods. The shadows betray me, and among the specters of the night, I fail to recognize the silhouette of my sister dragging my little brother. When fear takes over your common sense, hope restores your sanity, suggesting that you may find a friendly face in the darkness. Yet, life, in all its infinite reservoir of uncalled irony, teaches you not to expect it. So, following the instincts embedded in every fiber of my body, I close the door and bolt the passage into my home.

Yet, the night howls back, and it tests my faith.
Loud banging and broken screams reach my entrance. I can hear my brother begging and my sister praying, but I have been tricked and enticed by similar devices before. So, I can’t be too careful now — the wolf is craving flesh, and I am the last one in the food chain. Whether I am ready or not, the hellhound hungers, and mine is the final lighthouse across this sea of blood and fire.

And what do we know about demons other than they are drawn to the light?

Steady my hand and allow me no miss, The words escape my mouth as I grab the fourth and youngest sibling I have: a corroded yet trustworthy two-barreled shotgun, the one with the word chinny edged on the comb — a joke directed at my brother since he was never able to pronounce the word chimney correctly. Now, that dumb joke written on a piece of metal is the only companion I have. Humor and death, mankind’s most intimate and loyal friends, I think as I aimed the shotgun toward the entry.

No room for doubt or error.
I take one deep breath, and, fighting my own sanity, I open the door.

Do you trust the reasoning of your mind to be able to arrange chaos into awareness, or do you allow your instincts to take over your pulse and act at once?

Click.
Turns out, I am one of the latter ones.
I pressed the trigger right in front of my brother’s face, and he would’ve faded away from the terror if he had any of it left on his body. My overwhelming anxiety saved his life, for during the commotion, I forgot to reload chinny. Yet, my relief was quickly replaced with dismay when I saw their wounds: He was covered in blood, and she was severely burnt — He was missing his left hand, and she was missing her right eye.

“Where is he?!” My brother mumbles. His body might’ve survived two encounters against the wolf, but his mind wouldn’t survive a third. “Is he inside? I can hear him howling everywhere! Everywhere, he is everywhere! Do you also hear him, brother? He has smelled us, and we brought him here! He is watching us!”

He presses his ear against the solidified clay, for my lodgings parades no windows, no ventilation, and no view. I knew the importance of having a fortress when you live near the woods. After all, what good use is a home if it invites all those things you wish to keep outside? However, even through the brick walls, I can hear him howling and thrashing. The wolf has arrived — our blood has led him here.

“You have brought me more food!” The killer sounds thrilled about having chased my brothers around our homes, and I can tell right away he isn’t here to kill us. He wants to inhale our suffering, taste our desperation, and defile our bodies. “You will melt under my teeth and my desire! You will be inside of me! Inside my body, I will fill my flesh with your cries and tears! You and I belong, piggies. Squeal, for I will huff away your skin until we are all as one!”

I direct chinny’s open mouth to the door after I’ve made sure she is well fed and ready to shine. The wolf’s knife starts carving the wood in my front entrance, and chinny follows the sound — never faltering to find where the next note will be. Yet, his howling becomes more violent, and my own brick walls are enhancing the requiem to our deathbeds.

I am almost tempted to pull the trigger and tear apart the killer’s head, but if I miss him…
No. I cannot lose my temper for the wailing cries of my younger brother and the disguised sobs of my sister are there to remind me that there is a way out of this. I can see now that the forest will demand my payment, but in exchange, it will allow us to live through this night.

“You will be mine, piggies,” He mutters with palpable hunger and sadism. “Fight and cry, for it only makes my lust grow! If not today, then tomorrow, or the day after that one, for I will fill you up and then eat your bones clean! You will rejoice in fulfilling my hunger and my thirst! I will huff and puff until your house is no longer where it should be. Until it comes crumbling down and you beg me to be inside of me.”

And then silence — nothing but silence.
My brother finally exhales, and he smiles at my sister, but if I’ve learned something throughout my life, it is that harmony is often loud and chaotic while sadism is voiceless and straightforward. The worst is yet to come, for the wolf isn’t here to bathe his knife in blood, but his own beliefs in sin — wickedness demands a restrained atmosphere before allowing the desecration it craves.

But the only way to know what lies in our fate is for one of us to open the door and invite the unknown inside. Who is most suited to carry out such a task, but the owner of the residence?

“Take one of the oil lamps, and light one of the wooden sticks in the chimney so I can — ” But there is no need for me to finish my sentence, since we all hit our foreheads with the obvious realization: The beast is going to crawl through the only air tunnel my home has.

With a trembling hand and a vast amount of anxiety, I see how my sister quickly pours water into a pot and ignites the oven, but not before she cuts a rag from her clothes and cleans the wound on her eye. She does not bow or hide her face, for she knows that it is her trophy for surviving a demon like this one — she will carry her souvenir proudly until the end.

A loud gnarl breaks the atmosphere as the wolf begins laughing and cackling once he has reached the top of the chimney.

“Now, scream for me!” He barks with a menacing attitude. “We will be one forever!”

I dart toward the chimney and throw the oil lamp over the wooden bed, so the smoke will choke out the beast that descends through the throat of my home. Yet, my plan fails, and among the heat, the killer emerges from the flames with a sharp blade, slashing my left thigh until the bone is visible. Blood bathes the floor, and as he rubs his face against the warm liquid that leaves my body at an alarming rate, I begin screaming away my pain.

“Shh now, little piggy,” He mutters as he comes closer to my face and buries the knife deep inside my other thigh. “No need for desperation. Your purpose is almost done.”

Tears come out of my face. But I am the oldest one, and I am supposed to keep my brother and sister safe. So, with whatever strength I have left in me, I lift chinny and press the trigger.

Is faith meant to fulfill one’s prayers, or is it meant to bolster the need for more praying?

The recoil hits my shoulder, and I miss his face.
I miss him entirely.
But my sister doesn’t.

She throws the boiling water straight at his face, melting the wolf mask against his face. We both howl, for the water burns my body too, but I am already in pain, and my own body has numbed itself against further torture. With shaky hands, I offer my payment to the forest and press the trigger once more, puncturing his chest and pushing him back into the raging flames of the chimney.

“You will all burn with me,” The wolf forces a smile as his mask continues to melt over his skin. “Join me and melt your flesh against mine.”

“No,” I pull the blade from my leg as my brother helps me get back up. My sister stands next to me, and the three of us watch as the beast howls and thrashes to little avail. “No...”

We might be survivors, yet outlasting our demons doesn’t mean we get to recover our sanity. Nobody comes out of hell craving for a piece of heaven — they all want the rest to fall into the flames.

“Come,” The demon whispers one last time.

“I am afraid not,” I add. Then, with a wicked smile, I look back at the knife and start salivating.“What were you saying about eating our bones clean?”

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Season 3, The Wolf’s Shriek was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Image Created with AI

No good deeds, she thought, as she watched him move closer. She caught a glimpse of a rotten smell coming out of his coat.

“It seems that you could use a friend,” He hunched his whole body as he moved closer to her. The stranger’s movements were dense and crude as if he was dancing to the sound of those creaking old boots of his. “And, curious enough, I am a friend.”

But in this cell, there were no friends. There were no good souls, and there were no good tales. Her father had sold her to the king, with lies and promises of greatness, triumphs, and wealth. She was a good seamstress, but even her own talent couldn’t spin gold out of straw, as her father had claimed. But men’s greed has no boundaries — in a world ruled by men’s lies, women’s truth has no power.

“Have you come here to laugh at my misfortune, friend?” She pronounced the last word with disdain. After all, she didn’t need another friend. What she needed was a miracle.

“I have come here to influence you into accepting a covenant,” He said with a deep and resonant sound. His movements were even more disturbing than his body. “For I can turn all of those riotous acclamations into notorious accomplishments. And I will demand a negligible belonging in return.”

“Yeah? Well, let’s hear it.” She replied, still not convinced but intrigued.

“Your son.” He cackled, moving inhumanely as he pronounced those retched words.

“My son?” She laughed. “Sorry friend, but I am all out of kids. I belong to no man.”

“Oh, but you will,” He smiled — a smile that will forever haunt my dreams. “For the king will ask thy hand in marriage when he unearths the talent you possess. When the time comes, he will ask for several sons to protect the lineage. And I will demand no more than one of those, for all my wives haven’t been able to bear a child, and I wish too to protect my heritage. For as long as a king sits on the throne, one of my own must carry on with our tradition.”

“And what is your tradition, friend?” She inquired. But the creepy resounding man merely took a step forward.

“Do we have a deal?” He stretched his hand.

Against her better judgment, she shook his hand and touched his skin, feeling his furrowed skin pierce her tenderness. The roughness in his hands caused her nausea, forcing the heartbroken prisoner to retch violently as she shook clean her hand on her see-through dress.

“You didn’t throw up,” He cackled with a gutteral sound that generated goosebumps in her legs. “I take pleasure in such a quality.”

“How is this going to work?” She asked, as she cleaned her mouth and ignored his commentary.

“I will acquire the gold strands,” He smirked as he walked to the entrance and began breaking his body, so he would be able to fit through the iron bars. “In the meantime, it would deem wise of you to disappear all the straw.”

“How?” She asked. In spite of what the populace gossiped on rainy days about the castle and it’s riches, there were no candles inside of her room, and the windows were too high up for her to reach and throw it away.

“A problem worthy of your solution, future princess, for I have my own deal to fulfill.” The darkness swallowed him whole.

And so, knowing there was no other way to get rid of the evidence of her treachery, the prisoner started eating the straws — mouthful after mouthful. With every swallow, she suffered from asphyxiation as she forced the hay down her trachea once her mouth was voided of all saliva. She started using her fingers to push the pasture down while holding the need to throw it back and release herself from this suffering. Yet, her desire to shame the king and her father was greater than her physical unconformity.

She used her tears to soften the harsh nature of the golden fodder until her body was dehydrated. Then, she began squeezing her hands together, so the wounds on her palms would bleed over the undesired food until they became numb and useless. Enduring the need to spew the contents of her stomach, she used the nail of her index finger to cut the upper side of her mouth and allow the blood to lubricate her throat, so she could swallow the remaining straws.

With fierce determination, she ate all of it. And it wasn’t until the last piece of golden hay had disappeared from the stone floor, that she heard the horrible sound that had given her hope entering the room— the reassembly of broken bones.

“I brought a set of golden strands,” The uneven voice muttered. However, even before he could lift his right hand and show his present under the moonlight, the demoralized prisoner noticed the golden glean behind him.

"How did you…" But there was no need for her to ask. The man wasn't holding strands made out of gold, but a golden wig — almost as golden as the sunlight on every winter's morning. She was almost tempted to accuse him of stupidity for she was certain no person would ever fall for such deception. But the men of the kingdom were oblivious to reason, and there were no golden-haired ladies in the vecinity, only dark-haired women. “Where did you acquired that?”

“It took many moons for it to lose the horrid putrid smell, but alas,” He smiled once more, as his face contorted in a way she didn’t know was possible. “Take it, future princess, for the moon is leaving us, and the sun is almost rising to gaze upon your fate.”

Image Generated with AI

And so, when the King came, and his entire court awaited for the unknown countrywoman to be hanged, they were all left speechless by the miracle performed inside her cell. The golden strands were observed and felt, yet no one spoke their doubts — whether by fear, ignorance, or pride, the gleaming hair was revered as a sign of the girl’s divine power. So, she was asked to perform her deed for two more nights, and once the moon had reached its highest position, the curious and hideous man would crawl inside the cell and offer the girl more golden manes to deceive the entire kingdom.

The test was passed, and since those in higher power cannot conceive a world in which they do not own that which is valuable, the girl was forced to marry the King, giving him a son after their first year of marriage.

No good deeds, the girl often repeated to herself, for she knew that just as he had once crawled inside the cell of the highest tower when she was a prisoner, the crooked man would eventually come to reclaim his prize. Now and then, she could catch a glimpse of him at night, staring at her through the darkness of the night. Everywhere she would go, she could feel a pair of eyes that couldn’t leave her alone. She knew he owed him, and the day of compensation came one lonely night of spring. The queen entered her royal chambers and found him standing in front of the prince’s crib.

“A son of yours was promised to me,” He made that gutteral sound that haunted her dreams. “Yet, I’ve grown fond of the benevolence you have inflicted on the King. The kingdom has thrived, and so, they are less scared of what lies inside the forest. They are less scared of my home. My actions are no longer spoken, my face is not longer pursued, and my voice is no longer silenced. If I want a son, I merely need to lure the sons of the kingdom away from their homes.”

“So, what do you wish?” She replied hastily, deciding not to waste his impulse of good faith. “Is there anything you lack? Is there anything you can’t get?”

“A name,” He smiled, showing all of his rotten teeth.

“How can I give you a name?” She bewildered. “What makes you think I am the most qualified for it?”

“You have known me for the longest time.” He replied. “How would you describe me? What are my most terrifying features?”

“Aside from the eyes that follow me even in my dreams?” The Queen walked around the room, being afraid that if she came near him, she would remember that horrid smell that used to fill the cell. “The way you seem to remain still, watching into the void and being able to not move a muscle, as you keep emanating rumbling noises and shedding off your dead skin.”

“My skin, yes,” The man smiled. “I always get the skin wrong.”

“I guess, Rumble-still-skin,” The Queen suggested, deciding to ignore his latest commentary. However, the man was already heading out of the window.

“Close, dearie, very close,” He cackled. “But I can work with that.”

The kingdom continued to enjoy its prosperity, and the prince grew to become a man. Yet, it wasn’t long before the words of a demon started circulating in town. Words of a demon that haunted peasants and stole brides and sons from their houses. And the Queen heard those rumors and heard the name the young kids gave to this demon: Rumplestiltskin, for they couldn’t pronounce it correctly.

And he forever watches, from the dark and the shadows that surround us: A set of eyes that smiles as he watches us sleep.

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Season 3, Rumpelstiltskin was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Season 3, The Candy HouseImage generated by author using AI

“They all come,” The house would whisper into the darkness.

With nothing more than a candlelight, shining brightly in its interior, the old structure enticed foreigners to seek shelter from the terrors that lived inside the forest. But the house didn’t allow passage so easily, for the flesh lacked its taste if it wasn’t covered with sweat and desperation. Which is why, the front door needed to be locked — there wasn’t real despair until these souls started profaning the anatomy of the building. And what could be a better trap than the illusion of a safe shelter in the middle of the unknown?

“Humans are so predictable,” The house would often mutter when its roof creaked under the weight of the rain.

But these two kids…
Well, they had been resilient to the agony of their misfortune. The house had watched them refuse their fate for too many moons, and It had almost given up on them when the male flesh started tearing the wood and glass with its own teeth — eating them as if they were nothing more than bread or…

“Candy,” It creaked. “The Candy House, yes.”

And so, with every bite and with every swallow that the female and male flesh took, the old lodge started to squeak and screech, excited with pleasure as the shards of glass ripped apart their intestines. It chirred with intoxication as the wood expanded inside their trachea, slowly asphyxiating them. It crepitated with desire as blood drooled down their entire bodies, bathing them in jelly and making them tasty — making them ready to be cooked. Yet, before The Candy House could savor their recently fed treats, the male flesh lunged on top of his dear sister and started biting her shoulder off.

A profound scream tore through the wood, the rain, and the wind.

After all, that wasn’t the deal — it wasn’t what was supposed to happen this way. The house needed, it craved, to feel them inside. It always demanded the first bite, and now they had taken that pleasure away. So, while It watched the two well-fed survivors bite their blood-soaked flesh off, The Candy House began calling them, whispering their names as it creaked under the pressure of the ravenous wind. Almost answering the house’s bawl, it was the female flesh that grabbed the male one and threw him through the window, piercing his torso and legs with broken shards of dark glass.

Oh, how the old structure yelled and relished itself by the moist texture of the blood over its wooden floor. “More,” He whispered into the woods. “I have fed you. Now, you have to feed me.”

The sister climbed over the window sill, and tearing a large shard on her way inside, she began cutting small pieces of skin from her brother’s leg. The screams engulfed the forest’s atmosphere, which only aroused The Candy House into demanding more sacrifice — more flavor. So, taking advantage of the rage and the madness, the old lodge allowed a gust of wind to enter the dry interior and knock the only source of light into the floor.

In a crow's cry, the candle became an inferno, and the cabin’s creaks merged themselves with the blazing light that came from within.

“You’ll cook real nice!” The Candy House screamed! “I’ll leave you like a pie!”

The male flesh tried to get away, as he screamed “Leave me alone, Witch!” over and over, but it was futile. His sister pushed him with enough force that he fell once more and collided with the chimney's hole. The old lodge immediately allowed some of the rafts to fall from the ceiling and trapping him inside while the fire began scorching his skin.

The agony was nothing more than a melody.
The burning flesh was the crisp exterior.
The open wounds were the soft stuffing.
The boiling blood was the gravy on top of the pie.

And it didn’t matter.
It didn’t matter that the female flesh burned both her hands trying to get him out. It didn’t matter that they crawled themselves out of the burning building. It didn’t matter that, on a last attempt at sanity, they ran back into the forest, trying to get away from the house. Because It had already eaten. And now it could go back to what It was always meant to be. Now, travelers would be relieved to find the old lodge standing in the middle of the clearing because both, the pilgrims and the house, would find what they needed.

They would find shelter. It would find a feast.[image error]

Season 3, The Candy House was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Photo found on Pinterest

All stories are as good as their villain.
Ruthlessness and brutality will always be crowd favorites. Arrogance is overused, selfishness is a given, yet psychopathic tendencies are often misrepresented. Manipulation is complicated to get right, and patience can generate a passive development. Religious and racial profiling are such endearing concepts for vile and nefarious characters, yet due to our human history, we writers avoid those sensitive topics since they tend to hit a little too close to home. However, in the end, villainous core traits are composed of three strong drivers: ambition, notoriety, and misguided morality.

I remember reading a YouTube comment a while back, which for most might’ve been just another random user criticizing for no apparent reason other than to spread hate. Yet, for me, it established a before and after of how I looked at characters in general.

Stop giving tragic backstories and redeeming arcs to all the villains. Why can’t evil stay evil? Not all of them need to be justified.

It will always amaze me how our generation fuels the need to eradicate all traces of sinful and wicked acts by telling themselves that every monster can be proven human if you look deep enough into their past. I see all those unbelievers walk between blood and sadism with their eyes closed, claiming the world is fine. Because if we can’t see it, then it doesn’t affect us — if we don’t see it, if we are oblivious to all of those scary things that surround us, we won’t suffer them.

Oh, how would Ben Linus, Joffrey, Moriarty, Azula, The Master, J.K. Simmon, and Hannibal eat all of them before the daily forecast.

However, I’ve discovered that not all heartfelt aspirations are off-base.
We all have the capacity to break and be broken. Isn’t that how God wanted us in the first place? With the greatness of plotting the cruelest deeds, the determination to overcome the strongest obstacles, and the aspiration to achieve unbelievable victories. After all, darkness must always be defeated — in the end, all great stories are nothing more than pure derivatives of the clash between heaven and hell, angels and demons, good vs evil. What is more opposite of ambition, notoriety, and misguided morality than selfishness, humility, and integrity?

Readers and Crunchyroll viewers often complain about the outcome of those great stories, where a perfectly crafted villain is defeated by some weird, shy, unknown student who is not old enough to order alcohol. And I often thought that it was to grant those unique, geeky introverts, who feel that they don’t fit in anywhere, a chance to dream of greatness. Yet, it is not until you reach a critical moment in your life: a battle against depression, money shortage, public humiliation, uncurable sickness, and so on, that you find true strength to go on. And that strength is not found inside of you but in the people around you. That willingness to rise once more, and keep placing one foot in front of the other, is not born by itself. It is nurtured by those who care about us.

And so, just as evil must be alone, good must be accompanied.
In the end, I guess the joke is on me since suffering and foulness can be defeated by the Power of Friendship.

Picture found on Pinterest“I have found that it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folks that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love.”

— John Ronald Reuel Tolkien.

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P.O.F. was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Photo by Denis Trushtin

Don’t you get the sense that you would be a coward?

“These new generations,” Our parents say, looking at the rise in demand for psychologists, spiritual guides, and social media managers. They see us as weak — a bunch of fragile and unreliable adolescents who never knew how to grow up. The same words (a couple more) that millennials use to describe those in the advanced stages of delusions of greatness, or as they would call themselves: delulu. Hell, can you even picture your grandparents using that slang, and so many others, in the middle of WWII?

In a world where depression and anxiety are more common than owning a house, we are willing to spend millions in the hope that our favorite character returns to the MCU. In a world where feeling burned out at the age of 25 is a lifestyle, we are willing to spend three hours scrolling through videos of random strangers doing debatable social-accepted pranks. In a world where being ghosted after a first date can start a worldwide social movement, we are willing to block all those accounts who dare to spoil us the HOTD ending.

I can’t go on.
You said my head’s too heavy.
I need that song.
Those trusty chords could pull me through.

I still remember the smell of powder in the afternoon. All those guns loaded and reloaded, not doubting their tribute to the memories of great deeds. Scarring and embroidered badges as a legacy while all I have to brag about is the amount of likes my latest Instagram post just got. There’s an embedded force that makes you think about life when it is faced with the harshness of death. We forced ourselves upon this world, but they had the world forced upon them. They did, so we had the privilege of choosing whether we wanted to do or not. The game is rigged I am afraid, and the masses need to win the first few rounds before the few can collect all their profits.

Not surprisingly at all, yes, I would disappoint Godric, for I believe a void rests upon that inside of me that calls for strength, endurance, and bravery. I often look at my forearms and recall that I am a survivor of Modern Times, but not of Harsh Times. Truth is a fickle little b*tch, ain’t it? The only thing that seems to enjoy hiding itself among lies and noise. And, for the low price of a month's worth of meals in third-world countries, we can afford some good earphones that keep that sucker out of our heads and away from our conscience. Inexactitude and propaganda is a well-studied art, and nowadays, anything is a masterpiece if it's masked under the hashtag “social & political criticism”.

The meteor is well under way. We simply have chosen not to deal with it.
We are still stuck in step one: Denail.

Yes, we are the weak generation.
And sadly, we do have some hard times ahead of us.
The world didn’t fail us, because we failed it. Science is accelerating our growth, but socially, we are stuck in the Modern Age. Which, has already happened, only it was called The Middle Ages back then. Kind reader, do you recall what happened during that time? Spoiler: you will not like it.

Turns out, our predecessors may have a point. Whether we like it or not, we are the weak generation.

But, hey, as long as we’re getting the right Superman cast, who cares, right?

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And Early On was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.