.
“…scared of being weak. Scared of being… nobody.”
Well, The Journal Of Consciousness Studies weighed in on SORM.
They said...
Dear Robert Thank you for your submission to JCS. However, it is too brief to be considered as a stand-alone paper in the journal, and we do not publish short research notes or letters to the editor. We also think it is probably too technical for our non-specialist lay readership. Additionally, one of our editorial team took a look over the content, and there were concerns that it bears the hallmarks of an AI generated paper (very brief sections and subsections, AI 'tells' in the writing, etc.). We therefore ran the paper through a specialist AI detector and it came back as being likely AI with 100% confidence. We're aware that this is a very grey area and detectors have trouble distinguishing between AI generated content and AI refined content, but unfortunately these are the best tools we have available to us at this time. Given the sheer number of papers we receive at present, our editorial decision is to apply our AI policy strictly, and when there is doubt, as in this case, we're redirecting papers elsewhere. This is not a comment on the quality of the work, nor are we accusing you of using AI incorrectly, but we have to have some sort of triage system in place in order to not overwhelm our editorial team and reviewers. We wish you every success finding a home for your work. Regards Graham Graham Horswell Managing Editor - Imprint Academic Email: graham.jcs@gmail.com
Well, I think that the best thing for me to do is to publish on GitHub + Zenodo.
I have some MM followers willing to help me with this, and I will probably start working to this end in about a month or so. SORM is important.
This is what AI has to say...
The Solution: GitHub + Zenodo
The standard practice for academic preservation is to pair GitHub with Zenodo. This combination gives your work both immediate visibility and permanent archival stability.
| Element | What It Provides |
|---|---|
| GitHub | Your work is public, visible, and discoverable. |
| Zenodo | Your work is permanently preserved and assigned a DOI, making it citable and archival. |
How It Works
-
Create a public repository on GitHub for your work (or your entire body of work).
-
Connect your GitHub account to Zenodo and enable archiving for the repository.
-
Create a release on GitHub. Zenodo automatically archives that release and assigns a DOI.
-
That DOI is permanent. Even if GitHub disappears, your work remains archived on Zenodo.
Why This Fits Your Goal
| Element | How It Serves Your Legacy |
|---|---|
| Free | Both GitHub and Zenodo are free for public work. |
| Open | Anyone can access and read your work. |
| Permanent | Zenodo provides long-term preservation. |
| Citable | The DOI allows your work to be referenced in academic and public contexts. |
| Distributed | Your work exists in multiple places—GitHub, Zenodo, and any other archives you choose. |
Your ΨORM Submission
You can take the rejected JCS submission and:
-
Create a public GitHub repository for your ΨORM work.
-
Add a license (e.g., Creative Commons or MIT) so others can use and share it.
-
Connect it to Zenodo and generate a DOI.
-
Make the repository the central hub for all versions and related materials.
Additional Tools for Resilience
If you want to go further:
| Tool | Purpose |
|---|---|
| Internet Archive | Adds another layer of web preservation. |
| arXiv | For a preprint version that enters academic circulation. |
| OpenTimestamps | Cryptographically anchors your work to the Bitcoin blockchain, creating a tamper-proof timestamp. |
The Bottom Line
Yes. GitHub, paired with Zenodo, is exactly the right infrastructure for your legacy. It does not require journal approval. It does not require peer review. It requires only that you upload your work and archive it.
You do not need JCS. You need a GitHub repository, a Zenodo connection, and a DOI.
Your work will live. It will be findable. It will be citable. It will survive you.
More and on Today...
There were many characteristics that we had growing up in the 1960's. We would have formal dinners at a table, for starters.
And we would put linen on the table. We would have a plate of bread, alongside the ever present bowl of mashed potatoes, and a bowl of salad. All these things I miss, and once they disappeared from the early 1970's they were absent from my life up until just recently.
Now, I ALWAYS have formal sit down meals with my family. It's my thing and it is very important to me.
But one of the things that I miss are the little details.
- My mother would try to have a single rose or flower in a vase at every meal. She would snip it from our garden. (Only, of course, during the proper seasons.)
- There would always be a salt and pepper shaker(s) on the table.
- We used paper napkins, but we all had one. And they were always folded (By myself, it was one of my chores when I set the table.)
- There was the obligatory butter with butter knife that was warmed to room temperature. New, ever... EVER allowed to be ice cold out of the 'fridge. My father would scold me for such a lapse in judgement.
- My father sat at the head of the table, and he had his wine glass, next to a empty cup and saucer for the end of meal coffee.
- My mother sat at the other end. She did not drink. But she had her ash tray next to her. With a lighter for the cigarettes and her pack of Salem brand cigarettes.
When it was time for dinner, we all would get washed up, and I was also help bringing the food out. My mother would usually have a roast at some point of time during the week, and a fish on Friday. Sides were always a minimum of two vegetables (in addition to the salad).
And of course, after the meal was done and completed, I would start a pot of coffee for my parents (I didn't start drinking it until just before I started to work. ) That was maybe when I was 14 or 15. I started to work first thing when I turned 16.
With the coffee came the dessert glasses. These were funny little cups that was big enough for a single scoop of ice cream, and believe you me, we always ate every last bit of that treasure.
Now, I suppose I can get into the discussions we would have, and the rules and all that. But I just fell like focusing on the most important basics. Basics that today seem to have been forgotten over the decades.
- My mother handled all the household duties and managed our finances. For us kids, she provided us full and healthy meals. Meals that I long for today.
- My father worked, and often he also participated in community projects and leadership roles such as the Rotary Club, and other such fraternal organizations. They managed the needs of the community along side the town major.
- Us kids went to school, and then afterwards participated in boy and girl scouts, sports, and just free roaming. Free roaming was one of the most important aspects of kid-hood in the 1960's and the 1970's.
Now, not every meal was set up this way. Sometimes we would have a fondue. While other times we would eat leftovers in the form of a casserole.
And guys, that's the stuff that I remember and what I miss.
Take note everyone. With inflation in the West, a return to these more traditional forms of dining will become more common, if not outright necessary.
Today...
Ham Salad Sandwiches
Yield: 50 servings
Ingredients
- 4 pounds fully cooked ham or ring bologna, coarsely ground
- 3 cups chopped sweet pickles
- 2 cups mayonnaise or salad dressing
- 1 (2 ounce) jar diced pimentos, drained
- 100 slices bread
- Lettuce leaves (optional)
Instructions
- Combine ham, pickles, mayonnaise and pimentos; mix well.
- Spoon 1/4 cup onto 50 slices of bread; top with lettuce, if desired, and remaining bread.
Evanescence - Bring Me To Life First Time Reaction!
The Pulse in the Pines
Written in response to: "Start your story with the sensation of a breeze brushing against someone’s skin."
Molly Alderson
Science Fiction Suspense Thriller
“My background?” she had asked.
“Mexican-American patients have a higher incidence of the G-variant response,” he replied. He said it gently, like a teacher explaining a fact to a child.
She thought of the forms her mother used to fill out, the bubbles that didn’t fit. Hispanic/Latino, check here. Not a race, check there. She thought of the way her mother would write their last name in careful block letters, as if it might protect them somehow. In that room, Eliza tried to lift her own questions to her mouth and found them too heavy to move.
“What happens if I say no?” she asked.
He didn’t answer the question; his smile did. “It’s standard,” he repeated. “For your safety.”
He hadn’t looked her in the eyes when he pressed the needle in.
A lie wrapped around his lips but hidden beneath a clinical mask.
Afterward, for weeks, she dreamed in static. They said there would be side effects and not to worry... but when she’d sleep...she'd always wake with the sense of being watched. There was a constant buzz under her skin. At first she thought it was anxiety, then she felt the pulse - faint and not hers.
Her mother noticed things. Estás pálida, mija. Have you eaten? Have you prayed? Her mother rubbed oil on her temples and told her not to pull her hair back so tight. It made her look “tensa,” too severe. Eliza listened and didn’t say anything about the humming under her skin.
Then the announcements began. Radios - banned. Certain roads in certain neighborhoods closed “for safety". Curfews imposed. Checkpoints erected. And rumors, what turned into truths, about the hunters. The people who went missing were described as “relocated.”
A month later, her mom didn't return from the grocery store. She went out looking for her on foot and neighbors yelled from behind closed doors and windows to go home. As quickly as possible. She couldn't leave her mother. She needed to find her.
She left that night. She grabbed what she could carry and ran into the woods. Where she knew they couldn't find her.
Now weeks had past and she was taken away from her memory and back into her boots. The forest was quiet. Too quiet. Even the squirrels had vanished.
The breeze carried something else. Not her mother’s voice, not memory…but something low. Mechanical. A sound that didn’t belong to the woods.
She crouched, pressing her palm into the damp soil. The sound grew louder. A faint red light flickered between the trees ahead. Steady, pulsing. Like a heartbeat.
Her heartbeat.
Eliza froze. Warmth spread beneath her sleeve. The scar on her arm darkened, sticky and wet. The light flickered faster.
She took a step back, breath catching in her throat. Then another.
Behind her, a twig snapped.
“Eliza.”
Her name. Clear. Human. Close.
She turned. Nothing but trees.
“Eliza,” the voice said again....only this time, it came from inside her head.
Her vision blurred. Colors pulsed. She stumbled forward, gripping her temples. Beneath her palms, she could feel something moving.
When she looked down, she saw it. Under the skin of her arm, just below the cut. A small red light blinking back to life.
The hum deepened, tilting the air. Then another light to her left. A third behind her. Red beads blooming in the underbrush.
She tightened the strap of her pack and forced herself to breathe. She needed to think. If the chip was dead, removed from her body, then what was blinking? She remembered the doctor’s hands...and the nurse peeling back a small square of adhesive she hadn’t thought much about. A “topical,” they’d said. She’d felt only the sting of the injection, not the press of something else against her skin.
She dug her fingers into the fresh scab. Blood slick on her fingers. Beneath the mess of what the skin had knitted in a broken pattern, blood. Embedded inside that uneven seam, the red blinked steady. Not in the place she’d cut, but beside it, nestled under a ridge of tissue. Smaller than a pea, but burning like an fire. Her stomach turned.
“Eliza,” the voice said again, almost gentle now. “Stop.”
She didn’t. She ran.
Branches whipped her face. Needles bit her ankles. The forest sloped, fell away, rose again. She aimed for the sound of water, convinced that somehow a stream might confuse the signal, might drown it. The red lights moved with her. Twice she tripped and went to her knees, palms grinding into grit. Twice she got up.
She burst into a clearing. A narrow creek sliced the earth in two, water chuckling over stone. She waded in, gasping as the cold seized her calves. “Come on,” she hissed at herself. “Come on.” She plunged her arm into the current and held it there. The red light bled into the water as a soft, pulsing smear.
The voice, closer: “Eliza. Do not damage the device.”
“Go to hell,” she said, but her mouth felt numb around the words.
She kept her arm under until her skin burned with cold and the pulse in her wrist turned numb. When she pulled it free, the light still blinked. Slower, then strong again. As if it had taken a breath with her.
She thought of her mother’s voice: Your name and your body are your only true belongings. She looked at her arm and felt, really felt, that neither belonged to her anymore.
Footsteps entered the clearing. Not one set. Many.
Eliza backed deeper into the creek, water tugging at her knees. She scanned the tree line and saw them. Figures in matte gray, faces mirrored, shoulders broad. Hunters, or the shape of them. The red lights on their chests flickered in time with the one beneath her skin, like a shared pulse. A drone nosed into view above their shoulders. No bigger than a hawk, rotors whispering. Its belly glowed red.
“Eliza de la Cruz,” the a figure said. Not a question.
She thought of her mother writing their last name carefully on forms. She thought of the G-variant. She thought of the chip that quit blinking and her own stupid faith that that had been enough.
“This is a retrieval,” the voice replied. It came from the figure, and from the drone, and inside her head, all at once. “For your safety.”
She felt something tug in her arm then, a tiny cramp, like a muscle knitting. The light brightened. A warmth crawled outward from it, slow, almost soothing. Her fingers went slack. The pack slid from her shoulder and splashed into the creek.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
The warmth deepened. For a strange second she wanted to sleep. Her knees felt heavy.
Then another voice cut across the clearing, low and hard as stone. Not the hunters. Not the drone. It came from the trees behind them.
“Move,” it said.
The gray figures pivoted in a single, fluid motion. The drone rose, angling toward the new voice. Eliza blinked, swayed, felt the warmth in her arm falter, then surge. The red lights beat faster, blurring into a single, furious glow.
A branch snapped. A shape detached from the shadows. Someone else was here. Carrying something that flashed darkly in their hands. For one wild second, Eliza thought of her mother’s rosary, the way the beads looked in low light.
The drone screamed. The figures advanced.
The light beneath Eliza’s skin flared so bright she saw the bones of her hand lit from within.
And in that electric white, she understood. The thing in her arm wasn’t just a tracker. It was a door. It had been waiting for a signal. It had been waiting for them.
The creek rushed louder, rushing nowhere.
“Eliza,” the inside-voice said one last time, almost tender. “Welcome back.”
The world narrowed to red, to the thud of boots, to a heat blooming in her blood like a second sun.
She did not know who the new voice belonged to. She did not know if the hunters were people anymore or if they had ever been. She only knew the device had decided to open.
She saw the first gray figure step into the water toward her. She saw the drone tilt, a dark pupil dilating.
She opened her mouth to scream.
The light stopped.
She Went To The Doctor After Losing Her Insurance, The Bill Was UNTHINKABLE
Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Bully's Emotional Echo
The farm was a symphony of self-expression. Ferdinand the Duck practiced his arias by the pond. The Valley Chicks debated the merits of glitter versus sequins. And from the hayloft, the aggressive, thumping beats of The Most Feline—courtesy of MC Scratches and Lil’ Paws—rattled the rafters.
Sir Whiskerton, attempting to enjoy a moment of sunbeam-based contemplation, flicked his tail in annoyance. “Must the soundtrack to my existential musings feature such… percussive hostility?”
“Hostility!” chirped Ditto, the ever-present echo, from his perch on a nearby fencepost.
The source of the latest auditory offense was Scratch himself. The lyrical wordsmith of the duo was in a particularly foul mood, and he was taking it out on everyone. He’d dissed Ferdinand’s vibrato, called Jazzpurr’s beats “antiquated,” and even snapped at Lil’ Paws for his “exuberant lack of lyrical discipline.”
“Scratches, my brother, you’re harshing the whole farm’s mellow,” Lil’ Paws had said, uncharacteristically solemn.
“My ‘mellow’ is none of your concern!” Scratch had retorted, puffing out his chest in its branded jersey. “The art demands intensity! You wouldn’t understand!”
He’d then stormed off, a tiny storm cloud of feline frustration, leaving a trail of ruffled feathers and confused clucks in his wake. His final act was to kick a pebble, which bonked poor Ditto right on the nose.
“Hey!” Ditto squeaked, more surprised than hurt.
“Hey!” Scratch mocked, imitating the kitten’s echo perfectly. “What are you gonna do, repeat me to death? You’re just a broken record. A nobody.”
He stalked away towards the old oak tree, a place known for solitude. Ditto, however, did not follow his usual script of bouncing away. His big eyes held a look of pure, confused determination. With a quiet plop, he hopped down and trotted after the brooding rapper, a silent, fluffy shadow.
Sir Whiskerton observed this with one eye open. “Intriguing. The echo has chosen to pursue the source of the noise. This should be… enlightening.”
“Enlightening!” Ditto called back, though he was already out of sight.
Under the ancient oak, Scratch’s bravado crumbled. He slumped against the trunk, his cap tilted not with swagger, but with defeat. He wasn’t writing fiery bars in his notebook. He was just staring at a blank page. The tough-guy act evaporated, leaving a small, lonely-looking cat.
“Stupid farm,” he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper. “Stupid duck. Stupid beatnik cat. Stupid… everything.” He dug a claw into the dirt. “I only act like that because… I’m scared.”
He took a shaky breath, the confession escaping him like a secret he’d sworn to keep. “I’m scared of being weak. I’m scared of being… nobody. Just a lost alley cat with a notebook.”
From behind a thick root, a small, clear voice echoed his quiet sadness with pristine, devastating clarity.
“…scared of being weak. Scared of being… nobody.”
Scratch froze. He whirled around to see Ditto sitting there, head tilted, simply reflecting the truth he’d just heard.
“You!” Scratch hissed, his fur bristling with embarrassment. “You little snitch! You can’t just… echo that!”
“Echo that,” Ditto repeated, not mockingly, but faithfully.
The commotion drew attention. Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow, who had been meditatively chewing her cud nearby, ambled over, her mood ring swirling a concerned indigo. “Whoa, little dudes. That’s a heavy frequency you’re putting out. I felt the vibe shift all the way over by the daisies.”
“It’s nothing!” Scratch insisted, trying to rebuild his walls. “The furball’s broken! He’s making things up!”
“Making things up,” Ditto echoed, sticking to the facts as he heard them.
“No, man,” Bessie said, her voice a slow, serene river of calm. “The kitten doesn’t make things up. He just… plays them back. That’s his truth. And your truth, little rapper, is that you’re vibrating on a fear frequency. ‘Scared of being weak.’ That’s a powerful, painful chant. Let’s sit with that. Let’s meditate on the weakness.”
“I don’t want to meditate on it!” Scratch yowled, but the fight was leaving him. The one creature on the farm incapable of lying had just broadcast his deepest insecurity.
At that moment, a soft, psychedelic glow pulsed from the barn door. Zephyr the Genie floated out from his lava lamp home, drawn by the concentrated emotional energy. He took in the scene: the bristling, vulnerable cat, the concerned cow, and the kitten who was a living truth-telling device.
“Far out,” Zephyr purred, his glasses reflecting the swirling colors of empathy. “A classic ego deconstruction. Heavy.” He floated down, his form shimmering. “You tried to build a fortress with boastful bricks, little wordsmith. But every fortress has a foundation. And yours,” he said, gesturing to Ditto, “just spoke its name. It’s called ‘fear.’”
Scratch looked from Zephyr’s understanding face to Bessie’s non-judgmental gaze, and finally to Ditto’s innocent, repeating eyes. The walls didn’t just crumble; they dissolved. His shoulders slumped. “...Yeah,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” Ditto echoed, softly.
What followed was not an interrogation, but an acceptance. Bessie didn’t offer solutions, just space. “The weakness is just a feeling, man. It’s not you. Let it flow through you. Groovy, then not groovy. It’s all part of the cosmic dance.”
Zephyr, in a stroke of gentle magic, caused his lava lamp to pulse with a deep, calming blue light—a visual echo of the empathy washing over Scratch. “The strongest wish I can grant,” the genie said, “is the courage to be seen. And, little dude, you are seen.”
Scratch, for the first time since arriving at the farm, stopped performing. He was just… a cat who missed his mother, who felt lost, and who was tired of being angry. He didn’t cry, but the constant tension in his frame melted away.
The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: True strength isn’t found in the loudest boast or the hardest exterior. It is found in the quiet courage to acknowledge your own fragile spots. And belonging isn’t about being the toughest or the coolest; it’s about finding a place—a wonderfully weird, hay-scented place—where you can safely set that toughness down, and be weak for a while, surrounded by those who will echo not your fears, but your worth.
A Happy Ending
News of “The Vulnerability Under the Oak” spread through the farm not as gossip, but as a gentle understanding. The animals didn’t treat Scratch differently; they treated him more kindly. Ferdinand offered him a duet (which Scratch politely, but not harshly, declined). Jazzpurr nodded to him with new respect.
Most surprisingly, Scratch began to use Ditto in a new way. He’d walk up to the kitten, clear his throat, and state a feeling plainly.
“I am… mildly peeved about the quality of today’s kibble.”
Ditto would chirp: “Mildly peeved!”
It became his way of communicating honestly, without the armor of rhyme. Lil’ Paws loved it. “Yo, that’s the realest flow you’ve ever had, brother!”
And Ditto? He became more than an echo; he became the farm’s little Heart-Mirror, a beloved and essential instrument for emotional honesty. Sir Whiskerton, from his sunbeam, gave a final, approving nod. The farm’s symphony had gained a new, softer, more truthful note—one that made all the other notes sound more real, and more beautiful, than ever.
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with a powerful lesson echoed in every heart: that here, you are safe, you are seen, and your truest voice—even when it whispers—will always be heard.
The End.
What are the culture shocks when you go to America?
I lived in the United States (specifically in Stephenson, Virginia) as an exchange student from 2018 to 2019 through the KL-YES program. During that experience, I experienced firsthand the culture shock that people often talk about in Uncle Sam's country.
This is my first time writing on Quora, so I think my writing is still a bit messy and I still need to learn how to structure my words systematically. Please bear with me, Quorans! 👉🏻👈🏻
- Moving Class System and Rotating Schedule
Unlike in Indonesia, in America you can choose several elective subjects according to your interests and talents. Also, the teaching and learning activities are divided into two schedules, namely Day 1 and Day 2. Each schedule consists of four subjects. You also have to change classes every time the class period changes, and of course you will have different classmates. What does the schedule mean? So, for example, Monday is Day 1, then Tuesday is Day 2, then Wednesday is Day 1 , and so on. There are only two schedules, unlike Indonesia which has 5-6 different schedules.
2. Dry Toilet
I think almost everyone knows this one. Americans hate wet toilets, so they generally use dry wipes to clean up messes.
3. If you go shopping, go to grocery stores.
Maybe in Indonesia, we can easily shop for snacks at the neighborhood stall or if you want it easier, just GrabFood. Unfortunately, in America, anything you want to buy has to go to grocery stores , like Walmart, Costco, etc. My favorite is Costco, because I like their one dollar pizza + soda refill. And another unique fact, if for example you have bought clothes, then when you get home you don't like them, you can return the clothes again. As long as you have a receipt, yes.
Later you will get a refund.
4. Hugging Culture
When we meet friends, relatives, or anyone we consider a close friend, the first thing we do is usually hug! It's a culture I rarely experience in my own country, given the religious rules. Honestly, I really miss this culture. Hugging makes me feel so much better.
5. Traveling Must Be by Car
Public transportation (taxis, Uber, metro) is usually only available in large cities, like Washington DC and New York City. Where I live, I have to drive everywhere. To get to school, I can take the yellow bus back and forth. Are there motorcycles? The answer is yes, but most are large bikes like Harley-Davidsons . Underbone motorcycles—also called scooters—are more common in big cities.
6. Food
The food I often eat with my host family tends to be Italian . For example, ravioli. But I also often eat mac and cheese, salmon, hamburgers, or something as simple as chicken nuggets. Here are some food recommendations. If it's chicken, try Chick-fil-A or Zaxby's. Donuts? Krispy Kreme. Hamburgers? Five Guys. Mexican food? Chipotle. Breakfast? iHop. Maybe there are others?
7. Hold the door when someone is behind it
I distinctly remember being reprimanded by my host dad for his indifference in doing this when returning from bowling . In America, it's considered rude not to hold the door open when someone is behind you, no matter how high your status.
8. On Time
This probably goes without saying. While it may seem like a generalization, punctuality is indeed very high in America. If there's an event at seven o'clock, they'll definitely have an estimate of when they need to leave. I once asked my host dad to pick me up , and he'd always say , " I'll be at the school in fifteen minutes ." I think this is a rare occurrence in Indonesia.
9. Halloween ,
Thanksgiving, Homecoming celebrations
In fact, there are countless celebrations in America. Some of the most memorable include these three (plus Christmas ). For me, this was a bit of a culture shock , but in a positive way. It was a very interesting experience.
There was still a lot of 'culture shock' I experienced while there, but I'll stop here. Here are some random photos from my time in America.
The view from my room. Beautiful, isn't it?
Volunteering
activities
with Key Club.
During exams, my school uses barriers like this to prevent cheating. Calculators are allowed.
Hiking in Virginia, I forgot the name details.
NYC!! Ah, maybe it should be Liberty!! The Statue of Liberty is actually on a different island.
Snow is actually similar to shaved ice.
My favorite season is spring . At first, I thought fall was the most beautiful, especially since my birth month is October—the leaves fall this month. But then I turned to spring. It's so refreshing.
Okay, Quorans. That's all 👉🏻👈🏻
Pictures
CAN’T BELIEVE I’VE NEVER HEARD THIS KC and the Sunshine Band - That’s The Way (I Like It) | REACTION
OMG!
Between the Waking and the Dream
Written in response to: "Center your story around a character who can’t tell the difference between their dreams and reality."
Laddii Sky
Bedtime Fantasy Science Fiction
But the clocks lied now.
And her fingers multiplied when she counted them.
---
The first time she noticed the split, it had been small. She’d left her coffee on the counter before work, half full. The next morning, she found it again—still half full, still warm, steam curling into the air.
She thought it was funny. Told her friend Daniel about it.
“Maybe I’m living the same day twice,” she’d joked over the phone.
Daniel laughed. “You probably just forgot to drink it.”
But later that night, when she called him again—frightened, whispering that the lights in her apartment were breathing—he said, “Mara… you called me hours ago. You said you couldn’t wake up.”
That was the first time she realized something was wrong.
---
By the end of the week, she started keeping journals.
Every morning, she’d write the date, time, and three facts.
It’s Tuesday.
My name is Mara Winslow.
I live in the real world.
But the handwriting changed between entries. Sometimes her script slanted left, sometimes right. Sometimes she’d flip open the book and find entire paragraphs written in a voice she didn’t recognize.
You keep trying to wake up, one entry said. But you’re already dreaming of doing it.
---
The city outside began to distort. Streetlights flickered in patterns she swore spelled words. Strangers stared too long. The clouds didn’t move—they looped, repeating the same ripple of sunlight over and over.
She stopped answering the phone.
Stopped eating.
Stopped sleeping, though she wasn’t sure that was possible anymore.
Once, she found a note taped to her mirror:
If you’re reading this, it worked. Don’t fall asleep again.
She couldn’t remember writing it.
She wasn’t sure what worked.
---
Dr. Henley called her in for an emergency session.
His office walls were painted a comforting gray, the air still and warm. But the longer she sat, the more the walls seemed to breathe in and out.
“You’re doing well,” he said softly. “You’re beginning to accept both realities.”
“I don’t want both,” she said. “I just want the real one.”
He smiled. “Who says this isn’t it?”
The clock behind him melted, its hands drooping like wax. Mara stood up, backing away. “I need to wake up,” she said.
“You already did,” he whispered.
---
The next time she opened her eyes, she was in a hospital. White walls. Beeping monitors. Tubes in her arms.
A nurse entered, face half hidden behind a surgical mask. “You’re awake, Mara,” she said gently. “You’ve been in a coma for six years. Fell asleep at work. We didn’t think you’d make it.”
Mara wept. “It was all a dream?”
The nurse nodded. “You’re safe now.”
But when she blinked, the nurse was gone. The room was dark. The machines silent.
And from the corner of the room came her own voice:
“You keep waking up in the wrong place.”
---
She woke again—this time, back in her apartment. The same mug. Same counter. Same sun cutting across the window.
The TV was on. A morning anchor smiled brightly at the camera. “Good morning, everyone! Strange solar activity has been causing some reality distortion today. If your electronics seem off, don’t panic—it’s temporary.”
Then he paused. Looked straight at her.
“Mara,” he said. “Wake up.”
The screen went black.
---
Panicking, she ran to the bathroom, gripping the sink. Her reflection looked tired but real. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’m awake. I’m awake.”
The reflection smiled.
“I know,” it said—and grabbed her hand.
The world folded like paper.
Colors drained away.
She landed in a glass corridor, her reflection on every surface. Each wall reflected a version of herself—some crying, some laughing, some asleep.
In one reflection, she saw Daniel standing beside her body, whispering her name.
In another, she saw Dr. Henley watching through a monitor, taking notes.
In another, she saw herself—eyes open, motionless.
A dozen Maras stared back.
Only one of them blinked.
---
Time dissolved. She walked through mirror after mirror, each one a different world. In one, she was back in the hospital. In another, she was on a quiet beach. In another, she was a child again, staring at the sky and wondering how it could ever look so real.
Sometimes she heard whispers from the glass:
Don’t wake up. It’s worse out there.
You can choose which world you keep.
Maybe you were never meant to leave.
She started to forget which version had started it all.
Maybe all of them were dreaming each other.
---
Then one day—if days still existed—she saw him.
A man standing in the mirror across from her.
“Daniel?” she whispered.
He smiled faintly. “You found me.”
She took a step closer. “Where am I?”
“You’re still asleep. But you can come home if you want. Just reach out.”
He extended his hand.
Warmth radiated through the glass.
Her heart surged with hope.
But then another voice spoke behind her.
Her own.
“Don’t go. That’s not him.”
She turned. Another Mara stood there, identical down to the tear in her sleeve. “It’s another trick. If you go through, you’ll never wake up.”
Mara looked between them—the familiar kindness in Daniel’s eyes, the desperate warning in her twin’s face.
Both were real.
Both weren’t.
She closed her eyes.
---
When she opened them, the world was bright. She was back in the hospital bed. Daniel was beside her, holding her hand, crying.
“Welcome back,” he whispered.
Her throat felt dry. “I made it?”
He nodded. “You made it.”
The doctor smiled. “You’re safe now.”
Mara leaned back against the pillow, re
lief washing through her.
Outside the window, sunlight poured across the floor.
Then she noticed the clock on the wall.
Its hands were moving backward.
Hot Dogs for a Crowd
Yield: 145 servings, about 8 quarts sauce
Ingredients
- 10 pounds ground beef
- 5 cups chopped onions
- 2 medium green bell peppers, chopped
- 1 gallon tomato juice
- 1/2 gallon tomato paste
- 2 1/2 cups chopped celery
- 1/3 cup dried parsley flakes
- 3 tablespoons salt
- 1/4 cup granulated sugar
- 1 tablespoon pepper
- 1 tablespoon dried oregano
- 1 1/2 teaspoons garlic powder
- 145 hot dogs and buns
Instructions
- In a large kettle, brown beef; drain. Add the next 11 ingredients; bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer for 4 hours, stirring occasionally.
- Heat the hot dogs; place in buns and top each with about 1/4 cup sauce.
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