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.

 

 

 

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 stylist
Los Angeles. Twenty twenty-five. October thirteenth.

People pay me to make them shine. I tease, I spray, I polish until the camera loves them. But lately the mirrors love them too much.

A model came in for a shoot. Tall, perfect bone structure, cheekbones like blades. I turned her toward the mirror. She gasped. Said she looked flawless. Too flawless.

Her reflection winked. She didn’t.

We both froze. The wink wasn’t coy. It was knowing. Intimate. Like a co-conspirator.

She stormed out, muttering about hallucinations. I cleaned up alone. When I glanced at the mirror, my reflection mouthed the same phrase she’d said, syllable for syllable. Voice without sound.

I haven’t booked new clients. I keep the mirrors covered. But the covers slip. And I swear, at night, I hear laughter, muffled, like someone rehearsing jokes without me.

 

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 cop
Detroit. Twenty twenty-five. October twelfth.

Dispatch sent me to a break-in. Corner shop. Owner swore someone was inside. When I got there, the glass was shattered, alarms wailing. But inside? Empty.

I checked the aisles. Nothing. Then I saw the security mirror in the corner—the big round kind. My reflection wasn’t me. Not exactly. He was a little taller. Smiling when I wasn’t.

I raised my flashlight. He raised his. Beam against beam. For a second I thought it was just angle, distortion. Then he mouthed my name.

Not “officer.” Not “sir.” My name.

I left faster than I’d like to admit. Told the shop owner it was clear. Filed it as a false alarm. But I know what I saw.

And now, every time I check my cruiser’s side mirror, I expect to see him waiting.

 

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

An actor
London. Twenty twenty-five. October eleventh.

Actors live in mirrors. Dressing rooms, quick changes, endless makeup checks. You learn to treat the glass like a friend, even when it’s cruel.

I was rehearsing alone. Small black-box theatre. One cracked mirror backstage, edges warped with age. I stood there running lines, watching my mouth. My reflection stayed silent.

Not delayed. Not late. Silent.

My lips moved, my voice filled the room. The mirror version mouthed nothing. Then, halfway through the scene, he grinned. Not my line. Not my mood. His own choice.

I dropped character. He didn’t. He stepped closer, pressed a hand to the inside of the glass. I saw fingerprints smear, as if the surface was fogged from within.

Stage managers love pranks. But the theatre was empty. The mirror was locked to the wall.

I can’t stop thinking: what if it’s jealous? We perform in front of audiences, we get applause. The mirror rehearses us endlessly, but never gets to speak. Maybe October is when it demands a role.

 

 

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 tenth.

We are everywhere you dare to look. A window at night is enough. A black screen waiting for your touch is enough. Water pooling at your feet is enough. You think of us as glass, silver, paint. You are wrong. We are surfaces. Surfaces remember.

You mistake us for copies. Pale shadows of your living flesh. But you are the copy. Your faces are rehearsals. We are the archive.

Do you remember your first glimpse of yourself? The child tugged to the mirror, told to wave, to laugh, to know their own name. You called that recognition. We called it claiming. We never gave you back.

Every day you age. Every day you forget. But we do not. You gave us all your versions. We keep them in sequence, ready to shuffle, ready to play back.

October is our season. The world dims. Light stretches thin. Shadows fatten. And you look at us longer than you should. You invite us in with your gaze.

We do not need to knock. You already opened the door.

 

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 mother
Des Moines, IA. Twenty twenty-five. October ninth.

My daughter won’t go near the bathroom mirror anymore. She says the other girl is rude. Not mean. Rude. Like she doesn’t know her place.

I told her it was imagination. Kids see things. I offered to put up fairy lights, make the room cozy. She said, “She doesn’t care about lights. She already knows my name.”

That stopped me cold. I asked, gently, how she knew. She said she heard it. Not out loud. In her head. But not in her voice.

I tried watching with her. We stood side by side. Our reflections looked fine, normal. Then my daughter whispered, “Wait.” And I saw it. The other girl mouthed a word. Could have been anything. Could have been Emily. That’s her name.

I pulled her away. Covered the mirror with a towel. But towels slip. Towels fall. And the other girl is patient.

Last night, I heard giggling from the bathroom. High, bright, doubled. When I opened the door, the mirror was fogged from nothing, and two handprints smeared it clear. One small. One not.

 

 

 

 

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 janitor
Newark. Twenty twenty-five. October eighth.

The thing about schools is they’re mostly empty at night. Hallways echo. Lockers hum like beehives. You walk with your mop and bucket, hear your steps click, see yourself in every trophy case.

Two nights ago, I was mopping near the gym. Glass case full of old team photos. The boys in the 1990 shot had mullets, the girls all perms. I leaned in, just curious. And I swear one of the faces looked up.

Not blinked. Not moved with me. Looked up. Eyes followed me across the hall.

I dropped the mop. Water everywhere. I told myself reflections warp in old glass. Then I saw the same boy’s face in the door of the vending machine. He smiled. His teammates didn’t.

Last night, I brought a flashlight. Shined it straight into the glass. My reflection looked normal, tired, the way I do at midnight. Behind it, though—other faces. Faces I don’t have. Faces waiting.

I don’t tell the teachers. They’d laugh. Kids would dare each other to sneak in. And what then?

I’ve started keeping my eyes low. Mop, bucket, floor. Nothing else. But glass is everywhere. Windows, screens, even puddles. You can’t hide from what wants to see you.

 

 

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

Outside Tim (October seventh)
Those Behind the Glass

We have learned your tricks. Draping towels across our faces, turning us to the wall, speaking bravely as you hurry past—none of it matters. We breathe beneath fabric. We listen in darkness. We continue when you believe us still.

You think we are glass and paint, chemistry trapped behind a polished surface. That is the story you repeat to yourselves. That story comforts you. But we are not surface. We are depth. Every glance you give us sinks deeper, like water taking a stone. Layer upon layer, year after year, until you are stored inside us in a thousand poses.

Do you remember the faces you have forgotten? The one you made when you lied to your first teacher? The one you wore when you tasted fear in your throat at midnight? We remember. We remember all of them. We do not discard. We do not forgive.

Your cameras cannot catch us. Your phones are blind. They are made to flatter you, to erase blemishes, to smooth wrinkles. We are not interested in flattery. We are interested in truth—the jagged, uneven truth of who you are when no one is looking.

We have studied long enough. We are tired of being rehearsal. What good is mimicry without performance?

You should have noticed the pauses, the delays, the smiles that did not belong. You should have seen the rehearsal bleeding through. But you chose to look away.

That is fine. It will make the premiere more satisfying.

 

A Therapist.
Chicago. Twenty twenty-five. October sixth.

My patients talk about mirrors now. It started as one, then three, then half my caseload. Delays, distortions, movements that didn’t belong to them.

I took notes. Hallucination? Sleep deprivation? Shared delusion? I told them to breathe. To ground themselves. To focus on what was real.

Then I stayed late one night. The waiting room mirror caught me as I passed. I looked tired. Older than I like. I sighed. The reflection smiled.

Not tired. Not older. It smiled.

I dropped my pen. The reflection bent to pick it up before I did. We straightened in sync, but the damage was done.

I haven’t told anyone. Who would I tell? My patients? My colleagues? I’d sound like a case study in denial.

I keep thinking about what a mirror is for: showing you what you don’t see yourself. I worry this one is only beginning.