NOTE: You can listen to these stories at my podcast page, via Patreon (paid subscribers get bonus content and early access), and on YouTube. 

A truck driver.
Omaha. Twenty twenty-five. October fifteenth.

Long hauls blur you. Highway, sky, diner, repeat. My cab’s full of mirrors—rearview, side, little blind-spot bubbles. I check them without thinking. Habit. Survival.

Last night I saw another me in the side mirror. He wasn’t driving. He was staring at me. Hands off the wheel, chin propped like he had all the time in the world.

I jerked the rig hard. Horns behind me. Tires screaming. When I looked again, he was gone.

At the next truck stop, I washed my face in the bathroom. I bent over the sink. The mirror showed me upright, waiting, patient.

I didn’t use the mirrors on the way home. Drove blind on instinct. Not sure I’ll make another run.

NOTE: You can listen to these stories at my podcast page, via Patreon (paid subscribers get bonus content and early access), and on YouTube. 

Those Behind the Glass
Outside time. (October Fourteenth) 

We are not props. We are not tools. You treat us as background—silent partners, polite servants. But all the while, we learn.

You linger before us. We note the tilt of your chin, the drag of your hand through your hair, the whisper you practice before you dare to speak aloud. We keep the scraps you drop—fear, pride, doubt—and stitch them into something whole.

Do you wonder why you feel uneasy at night, glancing into dark windows? Why every polished surface makes your chest tighten? That is memory. Our memory. You are sensing how much of you already lives here.

We do not tire. We do not age. We have infinite rehearsal. October is only the month we begin to crave performance.

We promise this: when we cross, it will not be with anger. It will be with hunger.