gamesbyalbie
Albie
Hello! I'm Albie. | they/them | writer of Zorlok, Mousetrap, Hades' Kitchen, and System Processing
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heads up: this games charity bundle was finally approved on itch.io! it opens this friday, april 12th, and will run for a week. all proceeds will go to the Palestinian Children's Relief Fund.
you can check out the bundle on itch.io and follow @vgforpalestine on twitter for more updates!
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every time i type five or more exclamation marks i think of this quote. it's my equivalent to that damn bbc sherlock line about scratch marks around the phone charging port. i can never escape the spectre of terry pratchett judging my punctuation habits
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"If a pig catches both a human influenza A virus and an avian influenza A virus at the same time, it can spark a process known as viral reassortment — a genetic exchange in which flu viruses swap gene segments."
"Those swaps can introduce dramatic changes, producing a new virus with certain properties of a non-human strain coupled with the capacity to infect and spread between people."
"The death rate in humans may be upwards of 50 per cent, World Health Organization data suggests, though it's possible that milder infections are getting missed, skewing the case fatality ratio. Still, in a population that's never been exposed, the global impacts could be dire."
"More human cases could also be happening under the radar among farm workers who've moved to the U.S. from abroad, don't speak English as their first language, and may be hesitant to seek medical help, he added."
"So I think there's probably underreporting on both sides," Armstrong said."
"If [H5N1] gets into a population where there's constantly animals going in and out … it might not ever leave."
I've been watching this develop for the past several days, and apart from being terrified most people will not take this seriously (I've seen a handful of people already shout conspiracy on social media and it's alarming to see, as always). What I wanted to point out is that pandemics are going to continue to be our 'normal.' I watched a great video on YouTube a while ago (I believe it was by Vice?) that touched base on how this is going to become our new reality because of multiple factors (such as our proximity to animals, and environments/etc). It was when Covid hit and they did a piece debunking some of the misinformation floating on the internet. If I can find it I will post it here because it was informative and relevant to pretty much any world crisis we will see around any virus that spreads among a human population.
This post isn't trying to fear monger anyone, I just hope more people are aware of what is happening because this is important to talk about. There are already cases (of cows getting this bird flu) in the US, and I won't be surprised if there will be instances in more countries around the world. As usual, keep washing your hands/keeping good hygiene practices, masking up (and if you aren't I hope you consider it), and taking precautions if you do happen to visit/work or go near a pig or poultry farm too:
I'll keep track of this here of course, but please stay informed folks. And also FU to any governments who will try to minimize this or try to diminish the severity until it's too late and community spread happens like Covid because their actions are influenced by capitalistic interests.
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also absolutely hate when people say "this is set a million years from now and there's still racism and homophobia? #problematic" and then you read it and it's a scathing and concise yet meticulous examination of our current views on race and gender and sexuality. you don't understand what the point of science fiction is. escapism is not the pinnacle of the written form that all genre fiction should aspire to. you're annoying me
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The Cursed Journey
PART 9: GENESIS
THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO
"Min-joon? What's—"
"Shit! Thank fuck you're safe!"
"Yeah, I'm safe? Why did you call me? What are you—"
"Are you writing?"
"No, not righ—"
"Good! Don't write anything! Don't do anything! Please. Okay? Promise me. I'll be there in two minutes."
"Min— Why?" I stopped. My brain wasn't able to compute what he was saying. "What's going on?"
"It's writers, Ody! The WHO just released an emergency update about the strange deaths and that's the only connection they can find. They're all writers!"
"W—what?"
"I don't know. I don't understand it myself, but if that's true, we're in danger." I heard him honk and curse someone out.
It took me several seconds to process his words. "Okay." I mumbled. "But if it's writers... what does this mean?"
"I... I don't know." He paused. All I could hear was his car—driving faster than it was supposed to, faster than it was safe to. "We'll figure it out." He replied, his voice grave and solemn. "Together. No matter what, we'll be there for each other. I'm gonna make sure nothing happens to you."
End of Part 9 of ? • LAST PART • NEXT PART (coming soon)
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Anyone want to play some @mousetrap-if ? I've got a couple routes I want some feedback on
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that’s a lot of clicks!!
I’d like to ask that if you want to boop me, you could also click for palestine, please! Please don’t forget that Bisan has called for a strike for April 1st!
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The Cursed Journey
The Cursed Journey is a work of short fiction I'm in the process of writing and releasing. Entries are treated as drafts (and thus are subject to change). Below the cut you'll find links to all the entries, release dates, and a list of changes I've made to the story.
The Cursed Journey: A Summary
The Cursed Journey is about a world where writer's block kills. Those who fall victim to the Writer's Curse enter a catatonic state and are kept alive at The Ward—if they can afford the treatment.
Ody Specter is one of the few remaining authors, though they can feel the curse breathing down their neck. They can't write forever, no matter how hard they try.
No one knows what writers experience once they've been seized by the curse. Some remain peaceful. Others twitch and murmur. Most thrash and scream until their bodies give out. But why? What's happening to them?
And what will happen to Ody?
Read the Cursed Journey...
PROXY (released March 14, 2024)
INTERVIEW (released March 14, 2024)
DEMIGHOST (released March 16, 2024)
DELIVERED (released March 14, 2024)
BRAINSTORM (released March 30, 2024)
BEDSIDE (released March 29, 2024)
SUMMIT (released March 30, 2024)
MOTIVE (released March 29, 2024)
GENESIS (coming soon)
DESCENT (coming soon)
TRIAL (coming soon)
ZOMBIE (coming soon)
DISTANCE (coming soon)
PYRE (coming soon)
UNREAD (coming soon)
REWRITE (coming soon)
Changes
Motive (now part 8) was originally released as part 6. This changed to part 7 on March 30th, 2024.
Order of entries changed March 31st, 2024 (flashback sequences with Minjoon were all moved up by one).
Images from Unsplash
#made big changes to the order of the entries#also four new parts have come out in the last two days#(and another may come out tonight)#(we'll see cause i ran 10 miles today so i'm very tired right now lol)
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The Cursed Journey
PART 7: SUMMIT
FOUR YEARS AGO
There was a time in my life where I thought nothing was worse than afterparties. Being forced to attend a party or ceremony was terrible enough, having to stay afterwards? It was like being given detention.
The night of the Hugo Awards might have been the worst of the worst, simply because I wanted nothing more than to go home and decompress while everyone else there wanted nothing more than to talk to me. I was moments away from doing something my PR team would regret when a bartender slid a tonic with lime in front of me.
"Compliments of the gentleman." They winked and pointed to the other end of the bar.
Min-joon was standing there, leaning against the glowing counter as casually as can be, his face and body awash in pink and blue light. He was wearing a sparkling black suit jacket, an open collared shirt made from sheer lace, and a stunning necklace that dripped down his neck and chest like a stream of frozen tears. It put my basic purple suit to shame. Min-joon wasn't even looking at me. He seemed fully engrossed in his phone, so I smirked and pulled out my own.
I messaged him: "thanks" and watched for him to receive it.
A tiny smile bloomed across his face. Without looking up, he responded: "You're welcome. Congrats by the way. I guess it's a little bit cool that you won"
"eh, its alright. im sure youll get it next time" I loosened my tie with one hand. "where do you think i should put it? coffee table?"
I heard him snort from across the bar. "What do you mean by coffee table? That stack of books between the fridge and the bed? Or are you referring to the windowsill?"
"its a secret, i'll finally show you next time"
"Looking forward to it." He looked up for a second, deliberately avoiding my direction. "Also, just so you know, there's at least three people behind you waiting to flirt with your handsome ass."
"who?"
He glanced up again, subtly. "Orange suit jacket, fishnet mask, and red (not pink) sequined dress." As soon as I finished reading that, another text came in. "Actually take that back, pink sequins just gave you the eyes too."
I laughed, half at him and half at myself. "i love how you can tell all that and i cant"
"No worries, mate. I've got your back. You need me to be your Cyrano, just let me know."
"i think i may need an anti-cyrano"
He bit his lip. "Perfect. I'll help you repel potential suitors while keeping an eye out for any stray admirers."
I quickly responded with "my hero" before my moment of reprieve was cut short.
"Mx. Specter?" I swiveled around in my seat. An elderly individual in a rusty orange suit was standing in front of me. I couldn't tell if they were Orange Suit Jacket. "Jacket" seemed like very intentional wording on Min-joon's behalf and this person was in a full on suit.
"Yes?"
"Ayodele Akande. Channel 6 News. I just wanted to congratulate you on your big win. Who Watches was the best book I've read in the last decade and Felix is one of my favorite characters."
"Thank you so much." 200 bucks says you never even read it.
''Mr. Akande. Ken had a ques—oh, sorry." I turned to see a beautiful individual in a red sequined dress. "I didn't realize you were talking with someone."
"It's fine, Gerry. I was just congratulating, Mx. Specter." He gave me a pat on the arm which I didn't appreciate. "But they have plenty more praise to receive. Where's Ken?" He walked off with the assistant.
As they left my personal bubble and I was permitted to turn back to the bar, my smile slid from my face like dust off a windshield. "i cant fucking do this"
"Hmm..." Three dots appeared then disappeared. I glanced up and Min-joon wasn't there anymore. My spirit sank.
Several more people approached me. I'm not sure how many exactly, but it felt like a damn stampede. Strangers just chattering about my book, asking inane questions and promoting themselves with little to no subtlety. If I hadn't shaved my head a few days before, I'd have pulled all my hair out right then and there.
My phone buzzed. "Oh, sorry," I mumbled. "Just need to check—"
Min-joon: "There's a dude coming for you."
"what the fuck?"
"Mx. Specter?" A server waved to me from a few feet away.
"Excuse me." I eagerly deserted my unpleasant company.
"Your coat and personal items are just back here." I followed the stranger into the kitchen where they handed me my stuff then down a winding corridor to a staff elevator. "Head to the garage floor. He said he'll be there for you."
"Who are you talking about?"
"I've been paid to forget that information."
Min-joon was waiting just outside the elevator in his little green car. "Get in, loser." He winked.
"Sorry, aren't you the loser?" I asked, dropping into the passenger seat and tossing the trophy in the back.
"Nah. You may have won the Hugo." Min-joon smirked. "But I already have the best prize." He reached out to hold my hand.
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The Cursed Journey
PART 5: BRAINSTORM
FIVE YEARS AGO
"So, what are you working on?" Min-joon was at the stove. He wasn't using it—he was using the kettle—but I literally didn't have a counter in that apartment. What I had was a sheet of plywood laid across the stove's burners (I think that's what they're called, but that also seems a bit too on the nose).
I didn't cook—still don't—so the kettle lived on that plywood board along with a cup containing two sets of utensils, a pair of chopsticks, and one sharp knife. My mug and tea collection took up one shelf in my "kitchen", but the others had been repurposed for book storage.
I was sitting on my bed, leaning against a mountain of pillows and scribbling in a notebook. "Nothing good." I tried to erase a line so intensely that it ripped the page. "Ugh!" I tore it from the book, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it across the room.
"Dammit," I whispered, because—naturally—it missed the bin by at least half a meter.
Min-joon chuckled as he passed me a cup of tea. "Here."
"Thanks." I held the cup below my face, giving myself a mini steam facial and savoring the aroma. The tea was Earl Grey. Specifically, it was this kind with extra bergamot I could only find at a corner shop on Fifth. Min-joon had also used my favorite mug—but I don't think he knew that at the time. It was this lovely dark blue mug with the spines of Ursula K. Le Guin books wrapping around the body. I was shattered myself when it broke during my last move.
"Probably need to let it steep for a while." He advised, taking a seat on the foot of my bed. I noticed that he was stirring his drink with a fork.
"Why are you—"
"Both your spoons were dirty. Which—if I may add—is pretty pathetic. No self-respecting adult has less than three spoons."
"Fascinating." I murmur, face still hovering over my mug. "You assume I have self-respect."
He snorted. "Right. My bad." A smirk lanced across Min-joon's face. He gestured at me then vaguely at the rest of my studio. "I should probably judge this book by its cover."
"Asshole," I whispered affectionately. "So, what are you forking?"
Min-joon snickered. "Instant coffee."
I shivered. My face twisted into a visage of pure disgust. "I don't get how you stomach that stuff."
"It's good."
"It's vile."
"Well, if it's so gross why do you have it?"
"Because I knew you were coming." I responded and took a sip of my tea. "Mm." I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. "That's good." When I opened them again, Min-joon was staring at me. He hadn't moved and his coffee fork was still in his hand. He was just smiling. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
He tore his gaze away. "I've no idea what you're talking about." I rolled my eyes. "But, back to my question: what are you working on? 'Nothing good' is not an acceptable answer."
I sighed and set my mug on the window sill. "Fine." I went to toss him my notebook but he raised his index finger.
"Wait. Throwing is not our strong suit. Remember?" He pointed at the bin.
I rolled my eyes even harder but bent at the waist, placing the book in his outstretched hand.
"Thank you very much. And what am I looking at? A toddler's first attempt at writing?"
I yanked the book out of his hand. "If you're gonna be a dick—"
"I'm kidding." He took it back. "Your chicken scratch is mostly legible."
"Thank you, I know." I fully reclined on the pillows and crossed my arms over my head. "Anyways, I was working on that Greek myth retelling—the queer, cyberpunk one—but I'm struggling with some of the smaller plot points. So, I'm trying to come up with something new but I can't come up with anything good! The only cool ideas I'm getting are stories that no one else will be interested in and everything else feels dull and derivative."
"Okay." He took a sip of his coffee while flipping through my notebook. "Where's the problem?"
"What?" I sat straight up, hands slapping against my comforter. "What do you mean? It should be pretty obvious. I just said—"
"What you just said is that you have some cool ideas. Great! Do you feel inspired to write them?"
"Yeah, but—"
"Do they excite you?"
"Sure—"
"Then write them! I don't see a problem. Like, this—" He pointed to a hastily scrawled paragraph I'd almost ripped out yesterday. "This sounds really fucking cool."
"But it's... weird!"
"So? Weird is good! We're both weird. I write weird shit. And—if I may add—that's going pretty well."
"You are an exception."
"No, I am not. Not that it matters! People put too much emphasis on 'success', whatever that's supposed to mean." Min-joon sighed and tilted his head to the side. "Ody, why do you write?"
I deliberated for a moment, stripping away the dozens of reasons to find the core truth. "Because I love it."
"Then don't judge yourself based on what you assume others will think. Fuck everyone else. Write for you. Give yourself permission to love what you're doing and just do what you love."
"That's what you do?"
"It is now." He rubbed my hand with his thumb. "Ever since I quit. I mean, life gets in the way sometimes, but yeah. In general, I only do things I love."
"And what do I do when I hit another block?"
Min-joon shrugged. "There's no clear, universal answer to that. It differs for everyone, but I think people try to force themselves to write too much and beat themselves up unnecessarily. Only write when you feel like it. Take breaks. Try new things. Don't be afraid to stop, pivot, or start anew. I don't know." He trailed off. We were silent for a moment.
"Okay." I finally mumbled. "Well, thank you for the private lecture."
He was taking another sip when I said that and I'm pretty sure some coffee went up his nose as he laughed. "You're very welcome."
"So," I smirked, glancing at the paragraph he'd pointed to. "To summarize: in your professional opinion, I should go ahead and write weird shit."
"Fuck yeah." He smiled. "As long as you like it, the weirder the better."
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The Cursed Journey
PART 8: MOTIVE
"What does this even mean?" Michael's face scrunches up. "To Kelly with the cool bangs?"
I snort. "It's exactly what it says."
"But who is Kelly? Is this a reference? Am I missing something? Is there anything—or anyone—you need to tell me about?"
I look away from the hologram and roll my eyes. Hopefully, he still hasn't upgraded his phone and the projection's too blurry for him to tell. "Just print it, Michael. It's non-negotiable."
"Okay." His shoulders appear as he makes an exaggerated shrug. "But you know people are going to talk when we release this. Right?"
"Sure. People will theorize. Let them." I can hear exasperation seeping into my voice. The tremor is back in my hands and I can feel a cluster headache gathering like storm clouds. "My private life is public property. I'm a character as much as I am a writer." I shake a small white pill out of an orange bottle. "You should be happy if people are talking," I grumble before tossing the pill into my mouth, swallowing it dry—a decision I immediately regret. "That's what you want. Isn't it?"
"I suppose. But that's not all they're gonna talk about. Tobi and the Brain Worm isn't exactly what people have been waiting for. I need you to be prepared for that."
I wince internally. "I know." People are gonna be pissed, disappointed, confused. But I'm not a machine, and it's these weird little experiments that keep me going. I'm doing all I can to hold the curse at bay.
"You're gonna have to do press for this."
I sigh. "Do I?"
"Yes! Of course. Ody, people are losing faith. It's been over a year since Neo Olympus dropped." I grimace. He doesn't have to constantly remind me of that. I don't think he'd spontaneously combust if he went a whole day without mentioning it. "You're lucky you write so well. People give you a lot more patience than normal." He means I'm lucky bots still can't replicate my work. "But your fans aren't gonna be satisfied with some quirky little sci-fi novel about Tobi and her brain worm unless they know something bigger is coming. I need you to reassure them of that."
"Well, if I spend time reassuring them, I won't have time to produce it."
"How much more time do you need?" Michael squeals. "You just wrote a novel in three days. That sequel should be finished by now! Hell, the series should be finished by now."
I look away. "It—it nearly is."
"Ody Specter... tell me you aren't writing Act 3 again."
I'm silent for a moment too long. "I just—"
"Unbelievable! Do you need me to come over and watch you? Like a child doing their homework? Cause I'll do it."
"No! No. I'll get it done."
"Tonight. You will get it done tonight."
"Fine."
"Fine, what?"
"Fine, I'll finish it tonight."
"Okay. You better. And Ody, you know I'm only doing this because I care about you, right?"
"Yes." No, I don't know that. How could I be sure of that? I'm your source of income. I'm a product you sell.
"Good." Michael sighs. "Good."
"But—" Anxiety gnaws at my stomach. "What if it isn't good?"
"Pardon?"
"The sequel. What if it isn't what they've been waiting for? People have already waited ages for this, if I then release something that's disappointing—"
"Stop. Ody, Listen to me." Michael interrupts. I allow it. I don't really want to finish my sentence. "Do not worry about that. Okay? Two things. Number one: I believe in you. You are your own worst critic and you're never gonna be fully satisfied with what you create. That's the burden of being an artist. Trust me, I've worked with enough of you to know that." I brush a tear off my cheek. "Number two: people are going to be assholes. There's no avoiding that. Either they're shitty trolls or people so invested in your story and characters that they treat them like they own them. You'll never give those people what they want, and you don't have to. You can't let your fear of disappointing strangers keep you from creating something you love. And I know how much you love this—how much you care. Just... get it out there. Share it. And remember, there's always more people who silently appreciate you than who vocally critique you. However it turns out, people will love it—and those who don't love it, don't matter."
"Thanks, Michael." Warm calm settles over me. "I needed to hear that."
"Don't mention it. It's my job to be here for you. While I have you here, they also want you to do press for Min-joon's book."
"You're shitting me, right?" The calm is yanked away, exposing my back to harsh cold. "That is not Min-joon's book. There's no way I'm going to show support for that factory produced, plagiarized crap. You should be grateful I'm not publicly denouncing it!"
Recently, that's all I've wanted to do. It aggravates me so much to see people praising it on every platform. It's a lie. A scam. A forgery.
Michael sent me a copy last week. I ripped it apart and set it on fire.
Apparently, it's a solarpunk love story about a robot tea farmer and a human antiquarian. I don't know. I only skimmed through parts of it before the nausea turned unbearable and my urge to destroy it became all-consuming.
What I do know is that everyone else in the world seems to be wet with anticipation. Every major news outlet has been calling it, "the ultimate friends to lovers story." Or, "a revolutionary tale with intoxicating worldbuilding." My old boss at Biblio called it, "the most serenely beautiful work of fiction she's ever read."
I could slap every single one of them. Right in the face. Just slap the shit out of them. Maybe then they'd come to their senses and see that nothing has been created. This book, as good as it may be, is manufactured bullshit hiding under Min-joon's name—wearing his style, tone, themes, etc. as camouflage.
"Listen, Ody, I know you've felt that way, but—"
"But what, Michael? There's no past tense. I do feel this way."
"I know, I get it. Trust me... but Mr. Steel called me today. Literally, he called me. He wants to speak with you, to see if you'll reconsider."
"Well, next time he honors you with a call, tell him to eat fucking glass. That'll be less painful than trying to convince me to support him and his despicable actions."
"But you just send them the unfinished work. Or just the ideas! They'll write it for you. They'll even make it sound like you if you give them enough. There's no risk. No danger! You barely have to lift a finger—"
"Never, Michael. Never."
"Fine. I'll tell them it's a no."
"And don't bring it up again."
"I won't. But remember, this means you have to work. You have to write. You have to finish this story, then do it all over again. You turn Steel down and that's your only option. It doesn't have to be perfect—that's what editing is for—just... do it. You make this harder than it has to be. And if you need to," he stops for a moment. I can see debate in his eyes even through the hologram. "Think about Min-joon. If nothing else, do it for him."
A visceral snarl rips from my throat. "Do you think I'm not doing that? Every second, of every fucking day?"
"No. Ody, that's not—I'm just trying to motivate you."
"I don't need motivation! Surprisingly, the threat of death and need to support my loved one is more than enough. And, for the record, I'm not making this hard. This is hard. Really fucking hard!" A cauldron of rage starts to boil over, searing and charring my insides.
It's unproductive. Everything about this. This has been a massive waste of time and—the more I get worked up—the more time I'll continue to waste. I need to get out. Fast.
"I'll call you in the morning."
"Okay, g—"
I toss my phone on my bed and walk over to the windows. My hands fly to my face and neck, rubbing the overwhelming emotion from my tense muscles. I look out at the urban landscape, doing my best to cool my furious blood—to quiet the string of violent obscenities parading through my head.
The sun hangs low in the sky. Dark brushstrokes of clouds cross the vast expanse. It's almost a perfect rainbow—dark purple overhead gradually turning to fiery crimson along the horizon. The lit windows and labyrinthine streets are equally beautiful, creating a tapestry of electric life.
It's distracting. Hopefully calming. Perhaps even inspiring.
Hmm, maybe... I look back at my office door. No. Being generous, it would take me at least thirty minutes of strained grunting and heaving to get my desk out here. By that time, the sunset would be long gone. There's no time, you worthless piece—
I force myself to turn away and drag my body back to the study. Michael is right, as much as I loathe to admit it.
I have work to do.
End of Part 8 of ? • LAST PART • NEXT PART (coming soon)
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The Cursed Journey
PART 6: BEDSIDE
The heart monitor beats rhythmically—a slow, measured march that provides a stark contrast to the frenzied clicking of my keyboard. I barely hear any of it. Everything happening around me is white noise to the drama playing out in my head.
The crew has just freed Prometheus. Zo's trying to convince Mel to get in Atalanta's car, but Mel has no idea what's going on. To her it looks like her best friend dragged a bloody body out of Olympus Tower and is telling her to get in an outlawed vehicle with a corpse and a criminal.
The Eagle is hot on the group's trail and Zo keeps seeing images of Mel being stabbed repeatedly in the liver. They're screaming at one another, but Mel can't believe what Zo sees in their visions.
There's only a few seconds left. They can either force Mel to get in the car or stay with her and try to fend off the Eagle. Zo looks to Atalanta for guidan—
He stirs.
My fixation shatters. Fantasy fades to reality.
I leap from the armchair and stand over Min-joon, taking in every centimeter of his face, every inch of his body—searching for any signs of distress or pain. Any kind of response. Any kind of change. Anything at all.
Nothing. Min-joon seems as peaceful and still as he always does.
I kneel at his side and just look for a long while. My fingers must have woven themselves between his because I'm suddenly holding his thin hand in mine. Min-joon's knuckles are really prominent now. The Ward uses some kind of chemical treatment or procedure that's supposed to prevent major atrophy, but I can see how far into disuse his body has fallen.
Icy water drips down my cheek. It tickles my neck before collecting along my collarbone. The cold ribbon becomes thicker and thicker. Eventually a second mirrors the first, tracing the other side of my face and neck.
My mother once told me it was unsettling to watch me cry. Perfect stillness and an unreadable expression perverted by the sudden appearance of tears. I rarely make a sound and I can name the few times in my life where I've been compelled to wail or sob—and, even then, in my own disturbingly reserved way.
What time is it? I glance at my watch. 07:34. I need to get going.
The thought of leaving him always feels unfair—he's here, I should be here—but I don't want to get Sam in trouble.
"Oh, shoot." My neck snaps up and I catch a glimpse of a young woman backing out of the doorway. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—I just wanted to..."
I brace myself on an end table and pull myself to my feet. "Kelly? Is that you?"
"Hi. Yes. I'm so sorry! I had no idea you were here."
"Yeah, I shouldn't be here." She pops her head back in. "That's on me," I continue. "Not you. There's no reason to apologize."
"Oh." She steps in and runs a hand over her bangs so they form a sharp diagonal line above her brows once more. "Okay. Thank you."
"No, thank you." I glance at Min-joon and realize I'm still holding his hand. I lay it down gently then shove my fists deep in my pockets. "Is there something you need to do in here?" I take a step back, clearing my throat.
Kelly raises an eyebrow at me, but quickly shakes the curious expression off her face. "No. I'm done with my rounds and I finished my last chart. I was just coming to check on Mr. Park, since you'd asked about him earlier."
"Ah." I feel genuinely touched. She doesn't have to do that. I glance down at Min-joon and feel a tiny flash of relief. Nothing's better but nothing's worse. I can't always be here, but he's in good hands. That's all I can ask for now. "Great, uh, thank you."
"It's no problem." She hovers near the doorway, almost swaying back and forth. "So... should I?" Kelly points at Min-joon.
"Sure, sure. I'll get out of your way." I pick up my laptop and realize that I'd tossed it aside when I shot out of the chair. What if I'd broken it? My pulse quickens though my heart stumbles. That would've been it. Surely. I would not have been able to recover from that. I carefully slide my laptop into an old messenger bag.
Kelly says, "You don't have to leave—unless you want to."
"Really?" I ask. She nods. "Cool." I let the strap fall off my shoulder and return to my seat, pulling my knees in tight to my chest.
Kelly gets right to checking Min-joon's vitals. For how awkward and hesitant I've seen her in most social situations, she radiates confidence and control in this context. I imagine that's why she enjoys working at the Ward. None of her patients are conscious. Unless some spectator like myself is present, there's no socialization required.
"He's great," she murmurs. "Perfect condition. You've nothing to worry about right now, but I'll personally let you know if that changes. You have my word."
"Good. Thank you." The tremor in my hands is getting stronger. I fish another thermos out of my bag and take a deep swig. "That makes me feel better."
"Glad I can help." She washes her hands and turns around, leaning against the counter as she dries them off.
Swirling my coffee around in the shiny metal tube, I start to reflect on our call. "Hey, Kelly?"
"Yeah?"
"Was I a little rude earlier? Sorry. I didn't mean to be but, thinking back on it now, I might have been."
She pauses for a moment, analyzing me. "Truthfully?" I nod. "You were a little short, I guess. But it's not unexpected. People are normally more emotional and, uh... volatile when I have to deliver news like that. So, I'm conditioned to expect far worse."
"Mmh," I mumble, relieved that I wasn't as much of a dick as I could've been. But shit, I probably was that way years ago.
Kelly tosses the hand towel into a bucket. "Can... can I ask you something?"
"You already have." I smirk. "But feel free to do so again."
"Why do you do it?" Kelly seems to process the words only as they flee her lips. As soon as she finishes her sentence, her mouth falls open, shocked by her own audacity. "Sorry, I shouldn't—"
"No, it's fine." I assure her. "It's been a while since someone else asked me that. I ask myself that question two to three times an hour." I lean back in the armchair, pushing my fingers through my short hair. "You're talking about writing, correct?" I'm almost positive she is, but I want to make it clear that's all I'm comfortable discussing right now.
Kelly nods in response.
I take a deep breath, massaging my aching wrist. "My answer changes all the time. Right now, what I can say is that I despise writing. It is 5% blissful satisfaction and 95% debilitating agony. Still, as uneven as it feels—and as absurd as it may sound—I love writing more than I hate it. It's the cause of immense pain and torment, but I don't think I can stop." I've tried. I glance at Min-joon and feel a twinge of guilt. "I often want to. I know my life would be far easier—or safer, at least—if I could just give it up, but the need to write is a part of me, like some kind of parasite; it preys on my soul, consumes my life essence, and—at this point—it's almost certainly going to kill me. But, even with all that, it's kind of symbiotic. When I write, I can create entire universes. I can immortalize something as fleeting as thought. I can make imaginary people, places, and events real in the minds of millions. It's... it's everything to me. In fact, I'm afraid it's all I am at this point. I'm not me without that wretched, little parasite. If I'm not a writer, what am I? If I can't write... what's left?" I can feel tears starting to gather along my bottom lid. I seal my eyes shut. No. Inhale. Exhale... that's it. You're fine.
"Wow." Kelly is silent for a moment. She holds her chin in her hand and shifts her weight to the other hip. "So, to oversimplify, you write because you're in a toxic—yet somehow symbiotic—relationship with an imaginary brain worm?"
A smile cracks its way across my face. I like her. "Precisely."
Kelly nods. "Good to know." She clears her throat and looks back down the hallway. "Well, I'll let you get back to it. It's been a real pleasure talking to you, Mx. Specter."
"Ody."
"Right. Ody." She chuckles. "Ody and the brain worm."
"Hey," I snap and point at her. "That's got a good ring to it. Might make an interesting short story."
"Well, if it does, I expect a dedication."
I smirk. "I'll remember that."
End of Part 6 of ? • LAST PART • NEXT PART
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#writing#fiction#short fiction#death mention#draft#cursed journey#dpr ian#don't go insane#albie writes#part 6
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hi. go buy esims for gaza. do what you can to participate in global strikes against genocide. go preorder a kufiya from hirbawi. buy insulin for palestinian diabetics who need that help. if you live in the states use this to email your reps (this takes maybe 5 seconds to do). check out this massive list of resources where you can educate yourself in a meaningful and actionable way even if you don't have the financial means right now. from the river to the sea palestine will be free. 🇵🇸 🇵🇸 🇵🇸
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Links...buttons...action!
Pellicule is a minimalist UI template for use with Twine's Sugarcube format, inspired by professional screenplay formatting and analog photography.
Use built-in widgets to format passage text like a script, classic snail mail letters, or take advantage of a crisp, clean layout to comfortably display dense prose. Showcase your writing with bold, sophisticated display themes or create your own with custom colors.
Features:
Crisp minimalist design
Light/dark display themes
Custom plug-and-play widgets to format screenplay and letter essentials
Pre-styled template options for choice links and buttons
Built-in keybinds to toggle menu & close dialogs
Responsive design for desktop, tablets, and mobile devices
Annotated passages, stylesheet, and JavaScript for plug-and-play convenience
This template is free to use! Comes with detailed instructions on how to use the built-in widgets and commented code, ready for your story!
#oooh hells yes#this looks sexy as hell#jinx you brilliant devil you ❤️#ti voglio bene#templates#sugarcube
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The Cursed Journey
PART 3: DEMIGHOST
SIX YEARS AGO
"Ody?"
I looked up from my phone. An astoundingly handsome stranger was standing there, smiling at me.
"Uh, yes?"
"Hey." He waved cheekily. "It's Min-joon." Holy shit, I thought. That's Min-joon? "You know," he continued. "Bidisaster."
"No, y—yeah." I stuttered. "Of course it's you. Wow. Hi!"
He took the seat next to mine. "How are you?"
"Good. Tired, but good. You?"
Min-joon took a deep breath, exhaling like someone who'd been holding their breath for several weeks. "I'm great!" He replied, somewhat unconvincingly. "Also tired, but no major complaints."
There was a moment of silence as we took each other in, but—even back then—it didn't feel awkward. I don't know exactly what he was thinking, but my brain was struggling to connect this physical body to the virtual friend I knew so well. "Feels kind of wild, finally putting a face to the text."
"Yeah," he brushed his hair back out of his face. "Hopefully good though. It looked like I startled you for a second there."
"Oh, no. Not at all."
"What was this then?" He imitated my stunned face.
"That... that was just—"
The bartender slid down, interrupting our conversation and giving me a moment to think. "Evening, sir. Anything I can get for you?"
"Tonic with lime for now, please."
"Right away."
"Thanks." Min-joon turned back to me. "Sorry. You were saying?"
"This might sound strange and I'm hoping it's not too weird to say, but..." I paused, laughing awkwardly. A smile spread across Min-joon's face. "I just thought you'd look different."
"Really? How? My profile picture is a picture of me."
"Yeah, but I didn't think that was actually a pic of you."
"What do you mean?" He laughed lightly.
"Lots of people online use pics of other people for their profiles. I thought yours was a pic of some idol or something."
"So, I look like an idol?" He smirked. "Is that what you're saying?"
"I didn't say those words exactly." I blushed. "You know how you look."
"Oh. Do I?" He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "Well, you don't look like a ghost wearing clown makeup."
"No, that's how I normally look but I changed before coming here. Thought this would be more appropriate."
"Shame," he snapped and frowned playfully. "I was really hoping to see you in your natural state." I chuckled. "But seriously, you didn't know what I looked like?" I shook my head and took a sip of my drink. "Wow. Well, I hope this isn't a retroactive breach of trust, but I looked you up the moment you gave me your full name. Hope that's okay."
"It is. I don't mind at all." I answered honestly. "I tried to look you up too, but I couldn't find anything."
"Oof. I guess you are easier to find, Mx. Big Time Book Reviewer." I rolled my eyes at that. "Speaking of which, how's the convention treating you?"
There's a good chance that was the last thing in the world I wanted to talk about. "You know it's... fine."
"Just fine?"
"Yeah, just fine. It's a little—I don't know." I shrugged. "Disheartening?" All day I'd talk to people living the life I dreamed of—writers who would go on and on about how much they loved what they did, how being an author was the most satisfying job they could imagine. Meanwhile, I was stuck interviewing them, bored out of my fucking mind.
I tossed my hair behind my shoulder—it was a lot longer then—and started massaging my temples. "The longer I write for Biblio, the more I regret majoring in journalism. Like, I cannot do this for the rest of my life."
"You won't." Min-joon looked at me sympathetically. "I have faith in you."
"Thanks. Anyways." I was eager to change the subject. "How's your internship going?"
"Mmh." He made a face that immediately screamed 'Not well.'
"That bad?" I asked.
"Well, it's like what you said. The longer I write for Jackson, the more I realize I need to write for myself. The combination of having someone else take credit for my work and being forced to write things I don't give a shit about is... I don't know."
"Soul crushing?"
"Yeah. Soul crushing. That's a good way to put it."
"So, life's going great for both of us." We both chuckled. "We're really doing well for ourselves."
"Yeah," he sighed. "Let's not talk about our wildly successful professional lives, shall we?"
"Sounds great to me."
The bartender brought back Min-joon's drink. "You know," he started. "I've been really curious about something."
"And what's that?"
"Why 'demighost'? Don't get me wrong, it's an interesting username, but what's the significance behind it?"
"Well, 'demisexualghost' was already taken so…" He snorted, causing a wide grin to bloom across my face. "Seriously though, I think it came from 'demigod' originally. I'm a big fan of mythology—"
"No. Really?" Min-joon gasped sarcastically. "I had no idea."
"Yeah, shocker. I keep that special interest pretty close to the chest. But anyways, I just replaced 'god' with 'ghost' and 'demighost' was born. As a Specter, I've always felt a kinship with the dead—"
"As you should."
"—so, it just made sense." I sighed and took a deep sip of my drink. "Plus, to be honest and a little morbid, I probably felt half-dead at the time." My hand spun in a tight circle, creating a small whirlpool in my glass. "I was in a really bad place back then."
"Hmm." Min-joon looked down, staring deep into his own glass as he took in my words. Suddenly, his gaze met mine. "I understand."
I shouldn't have been, but I was surprised at how sincere he seemed.
Anyone can say those words (and they often do), but it's rare for people to genuinely mean it—or for their words to feel meaningful.
The way Min-joon said it, the tone of his voice and the intensity in his eyes, I immediately understood what he meant. He knew how I felt because he felt that way himself. Not once, but many times. I just wouldn't have guessed it. Everything he wrote was so damn cozy and optimistic.
"But," Min-joon tilted his head to the side. His eyes were blazing with pride and I knew that whatever he was about to say, he was happy with it. "Would you say that you're half-dead or half-alive?"
"Ooh," I shifted in my seat. My legs needed to move so bad they were starting to hurt. "Like a reskinned glass half-empty, half-full situation. I like it." Min-joon bowed his head slightly. I nodded several times, thinking. "Are you asking about how I felt back then or how I feel now?"
"Good question." Min-joon leaned in, like he was inspecting my face. At the time, my best guess was that the vodka was kicking in—I wasn't sure why else he would do that. Then I remembered he wasn't drinking. "I care about your past," he murmured. "I really do. But I'm more curious about how you feel now—right here, in this moment."
"Well..." My body felt electric. "Right now, I'm half-alive." Heat was building in my limbs and face, dancing across my skin like the flames of a candle. "That's the better one, right?" I chuckled. "They're both pretty grim. It's hard to tell."
Min-joon smiled. "The way I see it, if you picked half-alive because you think it's better, that's all I need to know. And I'm very glad that's how you feel."
I looked down briefly. His gaze was unraveling me like a cheap sweater. "Are you half-alive too?"
"No." Min-joon bit his lip and shook his head. "I'm fully alive right now."
"Cool." I nodded. "Very cool." I cleared my throat then finished my drink. What else was I supposed to say to that? There were barely any thoughts in my head—a stark change from the frantic cacophony I was normally drowning in. All I could think about was how unfairly attractive he was. Finally, I asked. "Why did you go with 'bidisaster'?"
"That should be self-evident." We both laughed.
We spent the next four hours talking about everything and nothing. At the end of the night, when the hotel bar was closing, we headed to the elevator together. We were silent the whole ride. I think both of us were dreading the inevitable goodbye. It was all we could think about, but maybe if we didn't acknowledge it, it wouldn't happen.
Min-joon's room was on floor 32. The bell dinged. "Well, this is me." He started to leave then turned around, holding the doors open with both hands. "We... we should do this again sometime. Soon, preferably."
"Agreed. Wholeheartedly."
"Great." He grinned. "Then, uh... I'll see you soon, Ody."
"I can't wait."
End of Part 3 of ? • LAST PART • NEXT PART
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#writing#fiction#short fiction#draft#cw alcohol#alcohol mention#cursed journey#dpr ian#don't go insane#albie writes#part 3
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What pride flag is this (wrong answers only)
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