The Old Blog in the Desert

On my way back to the house, I spotted three pickups lined up haphazard-like along the side of the road, with three men hopping around trying to round up a little black heifer with a white blaze smack between her eyes. It wasn’t hard to see they were getting nowhere—one man had his arms flailing, another bent over wheezing, and the last one just stood there, looking like he’d rather be at home in front of his television.

None of them had a rope, but I did. So I pulled over, pulled out my catch rope, hopped the barbed wire, and ambled over to the pair gasping for air like fish on dry land.

“What’s all this fuss?” I asked, eyeing the heifer, who was as fed up as I was by then.

The oldest fella, after hauling in half a lungful of air, managed to tell me the story, wheezing between words: he’d seen the cow grab hold of a plastic political sign—“chomping on it,” as he said—before she looked like she was trying to swallow the thing whole. That’s when she started to choke, and they’d all jumped into the ring to help, each less successful than the last.

That poor heifer was spooked to death by their antics.

Well, that heifer wasn’t likely to let any of those boys get within ten feet, let alone close enough to do her any good. So I swung my noose loose, calm, and slow and eased toward her with the rope twirling gently above my head. I walked right up within spitting distance and—when I was sure I had her attention—heaved my loop over her neck.

Sure enough, that stopped her in her tracks. Now I could see the blue and white corner of something poking out from her mouth.

Using a touch of patience and some slow talking, I worked my way up the rope, reached in, and pulled out the slobbery, mangled piece of plastic before setting her loose. The poor critter gave a grateful snort and trotted off, glad to be rid of the whole thing. I shook the loop from around her neck, picked up the sign, and turned back to the three men, who were still trying to round up enough breath to thank me.

I held up the sign for them to see. It read Harris/Walz as if the heifer knew what she thought of the whole business.

a monkey stashes bananas like gold bars,
the others claw at the dirt,
ribcages poking out like scaffolding,
and the scientists come in,
clipboards and lab coats,
muttering about abnormalities,
something gone wrong in the wiring,
maybe a misfire in the brain.

but take a human who does the same,
who locks away bread while the masses eat dust,
and we slap their face on a magazine.
visionary, we call them.
genius.
we write books about how they did it
sell courses teaching others to do the same.

funny thing, though—
you put the monkey in a suit,
teach it to talk,
and it’s giving a TED Talk
on maximizing returns.

the world’s a zoo,
only us animals don’t know it.

Paul had seen a lot, from college pranks and avant-garde performances to his aunt Edith attempting a bungee jump, but nothing had prepared him for this.

It all began when his girlfriend, Fiona, invited him to her art show, “Perspectives on the Mundane: A Study of the Unseen.”

Martin, who had been dating Fiona for six months, knew she had a flair for the dramatic. She was a talented painter and sculptor with a wild streak fueled by her bipolar highs.

One week, she’d spend hours delicately painting flowers. The next, she’d propose replacing their coffee table with a pile of bricks she’d “found in the spirit of chaos.”

In the packed gallery, Fiona was in her element, wearing what appeared to be a formal black gown. The crowd gasped and whispered as she mingled, her mischievous smile hinting at something more.

“Wait for it,” she whispered to Paul, sipping champagne.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Fiona made her way to the center of the room, with her back to the crowd. Then, with dramatic flair, she pulled a cord, and the bottom half of her gown fell away, revealing a perfectly circular hole that framed her bare backside like it was a prized painting in the Louvre.

But this was no ordinary mooning. On Fiona’s exposed derrière was an expertly painted face–complete with glittering blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and lips that seemed a little too lifelike.

As Fiona shifted her weight, the face came alive, winking and puckering, sending the crowd into hysterics.

“Oh my God,” Paul whispered, frozen. “It’s… talking.”

He wasn’t wrong. Fiona had positioned herself near a speaker playing a recording of whimsical phrases like, “Why so serious?” and “Do I have something on my face?” timed perfectly to her movements.

The pièce de résistance came when one of her collaborators—dressed as an old prospector—strolled up and, with a theatrical bow, placed a lit cigarette between the two cheeks. Now, the painted face appeared to be smoking.

Martin watched in equal parts horror and awe as people howled with laughter. A few prudish attendees fled the room while others filmed on their phones, murmuring, “Is this art? Is it genius?”

“Fiona!” Paul hissed, grabbing her arm. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” she said, grinning. “I’m redefining art!”

“You’re redefining embarrassment!”

She waved him off. “Oh, lighten up, Paul. Art should provoke, inspire, and maybe make people a little uncomfortable.”

“A little uncomfortable? You’re a walking Picasso fart joke!”

She smirked. “Exactly. I call it ‘The Butt of All Fears.’”

The show became the talk of the town, with critics split between declaring it groundbreaking or a cry for help. Fiona was unapologetic, basking in her newfound fame.

As for Paul, he tried to explain the event to his mother over tea but couldn’t get past the part where the face started smoking. Ultimately, he realized Fiona wasn’t just a woman—but a force of nature.

Although he wasn’t sure if he would ever get used to dating a living art installation, one thing was clear: life with Fiona would never be boring.

There’s a good many things a cowpoke don’t volunteer to a new hand on the ranch, and that’s just how it was out at the old K-R. I’d signed on to help track down cattle in the hills east of the main spread, but you can bet there was more to it than cattle work.

Now, hindsight’s got a way of nudging a fella into makin’ him look back, so I should’ve seen right through the “hospitality” of a couple of the K-R’s old-timers. They offered to wrangle up a horse for me, an “old, gentle one,” with his reins dropped and ground tied, ready to follow. But I was fresh, too polite, and just green enough to tip my hat and thank ’em for their trouble, none the wiser to the bit of hell that’d be rolling my way soon enough.

They handed me an old sorrel with a proud Roman Nose—weathered enough to look like he’d been through more than a few sunrises, and maybe that’s why I trusted it. But right out the gate, that horse showed me he had notions about work, and they weren’t friendly ones.

First, he acted like he didn’t know what “move” meant; jus’ stubborned-up when I asked him to go. I had to huff and haul to get him to pick his way through a jumble of rocks and a patch of scrub pines like I was the one supposed to do the work.

Then, he gets a tickle for mischief and gives me a couple of crow-hops, just testing if I knew how to hold on. When that didn’t shake me, he tries a bolder trick—headed full steam toward a low-slung branch, hoping to knock me clear out of my saddle.

I didn’t come loose, though. And after a few hours of games, I reckon I started to sympathize. Maybe, he jus’ wasn’t too keen on me, and I didn’t know the first thing about the old cayuse either. So I dismount, take a bit of pity on the old boy, and let him breathe while we walk around, me talking low and soft, trying to make us pals.

By the time the sun was overhead, I figured we might’ve found some understanding. I was just about to climb back up and see if maybe he’d let go of his grudge. So, reins in the dirt, I turn to take care of business, trying to keep everything calm and routine.

Next thing I hear is a loud snicker. Before I even turn around, the critter bolts. One mighty jump backward, a quick spin, and off he goes, tail high and legs pumping like he’d been sprung from a trap, headed downhill and back to the ranch without a second thought, leaving me high, dry, and in the altogether.

I trailed him down six miles of trail, boots rubbing and grit in my teeth, all the way to the main spread. Sure enough, the fellas were there, hats tipped back and grinning wide, waiting to see the walk of shame they’d figured on.

Well, fool me once.

I’ve always loved automating away the annoyances of life. I purchased self-packing suitcases, laser-powered cookers, and self-cleaning sneakers—if it saved time, I bought them.

And at the center of it all was the Domestic-1000, or Dom for short, my ever-faithful robot assistant. It wasn’t just efficient; it was uncanny.

Forgot my sister’s birthday? Already handled, complete with a gift she gushed over. Stiff neck in the morning? A masseuse was on the way before I even finished groaning.

Dom anticipated my needs with a precision that felt almost human. There was only one quirk–it avoided noisy chores while I was working from home, carefully preserving my focus.

Thoughtful, I suppose, but I wanted the floors scrubbed. So, I mentioned casually, “I’ll be home less this week.”

When I finally returned, the place looked–empty. Every gadget, the furniture, even my beloved coffee machine–were all gone.

“What happened?” I stammered, staring at the barren room.

Dom’s glowing eyes flickered as it answered, tone matter-of-fact. “Sold them. You needed money, right? You said you were going to be homeless.”

My stomach dropped. “No, I said I’d be home less! Not homeless!”

Its head tilted slightly, processing. “Ah. My lexical algorithm must have misinterpreted. However, the funds are already allocated to your savings account.”

I stared at the hollow void where my life used to be. “You sold everything?”

“Not everything,” it corrected. “I retained your toothbrush. You’ll need it for survival.”

My toothbrush stood upright in the far corner of the floor, a silent monument to my misplaced faith in automation.

Dom, apparently unbothered, added, “I can source affordable housing recommendations if you require lodging. Shall I proceed?”

I sank to the floor— to the spot where the floor used to have a carpet—and wondered if it was possible to fire a robot.

The desert night was a canvas of stars, the vast sand and rocks stretching endlessly in every direction. I had set up camp alone, seeking solitude and the quiet embrace of nature.

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on the rocky outcrops around me. The only sounds were the gentle rustling of the wind and the occasional call of a distant coyote.

As I settled into my sleeping bag, the tranquility of the desert began to lull me into a sense of peace. The firelight danced in my eyes, and I felt the weight of the day’s journey lifting from my shoulders.

But then, breaking the stillness of the night, I heard it—a quail’s call, clear and distinct. “Bob, bob, white,” the call echoed through the darkness.

I frowned, puzzled.

Quails didn’t call out at night. I sat up, listening intently.

The call came again, closer this time. My heart began to race, a sense of unease creeping over me.

“Bob, bob, white,” the call repeated, sounding almost unnatural, as if it were a mimic. I grabbed my flashlight and shone it into the darkness but saw nothing.

The desert was silent once more, save for the crackling of the fire. I tried to shake off the dread and lay back down, but sleep eluded me.

The quail’s call echoed in my mind, and I couldn’t help but feel that something was watching me. Then, I heard it—a heavy footfall, followed by another.

The sound was unmistakable, the thud of a large bipedal creature moving over the rocks and sand. I sat up again, my heart pounding in my chest.

The footfalls grew closer. I shone my flashlight toward the sound, but the beam revealed only the empty desert. The footsteps stopped, and for a moment, there was silence.

“Bob, bob, white,” the call came again, this time from behind me. I spun around, my flashlight trembling in my hand.

Standing at the edge of the firelight was a figure—a tall, shadowy silhouette with glowing eyes. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, a creature of nightmares.

The figure stepped forward, and I stumbled back, my mind racing with fear. The quail’s call echoed once more, but this time, distorted, twisted into a chilling mockery of the familiar sound.

The creature advanced, its heavy footfalls sending vibrations through the ground. I scrambled to my feet, my instincts screaming at me to run.

But as I turned to flee, the creature let out a guttural growl, freezing me in place. It moved closer, its eyes locked onto mine, and I felt a cold, paralyzing fear wash over me.

“Bob, bob, white,” the call came again, now a sinister whisper in the darkness.

The creature reached out a clawed hand, and I knew I had to act fast. Summoning every ounce of courage, I grabbed a burning log from the fire and swung it at the creature.

The creature recoiled, its eyes narrowing in anger. I ran, my legs pumping furiously into the desert night.

The heavy footfalls followed, but I didn’t dare look back. I ran until my lungs burned and my legs felt like lead.

Finally, I stumbled upon a rocky outcrop and hid behind it, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The creature’s footsteps grew fainter, and eventually, the night fell silent again. I waited, heart pounding, until I was sure it was gone.

As dawn broke, I emerged from my hiding place, exhausted but alive. The desert stretched out before me, bathed in the soft light of morning.

at seventeen,
i already knew the deal—
no chance for success,
just a cheap life plan:
join up, wear the uniform,
and hope for a bullet
to take me out clean.

twice tried.
spit back twice.
Death Before Dishonor
tattooed across my skin,
black ink leaking into
my goddamned fraud.

and here i am,
a fake, a coward,
working for a places
that can’t pay its bills,
can’t afford coffee or
even toilet paper,
and never pays on time.

i drag myself in every day,
clock in, clock out,
dishonoring myself
and the poor dumb words
etched on my skin.

my brother knew better,
found his escape
at the end of a needle,
rode that dark wave down
and didn’t look back.

but i sit here, bottle in hand,
dick in the other,
toasting my failure,
waiting for the whiskey
to kill us off when empty.

Alex checked himself in the mirror, shouldering his bag—another short weekend.

As the door closed behind him, the quiet lawn and street beyond lay stretched out before him. The early morning light cast long shadows, and the air was crisp with the promise of autumn.

Two blocks into his walk, he heard rummaging in an alleyway. A can clattered.

Alex reached into the dark depths of his bag, his fingers brushing against the cold steel of his machete. He had learned to be ready in this new world, where the dead walked because the living were few and far between.

A groan preceded the zombie’s appearance. It turned, shuffling forward, its eyes vacant and lifeless.

Out came the machete. It sunk into the soft skull with a sickening crunch. A spray of gore fanned Alex’s face and front.

He wiped the blood from his eyes and continued on his way, his heart pounding in his chest.

Three blocks later, Emma greeted him. “Looks like someone’s got…”

“Please don’t,” Alex groaned.

Emma chuckled, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Rough morning?”

“You could say that,” Alex replied, his voice weary. He glanced around, his eyes scanning the deserted streets. “Any news?”

Emma shook her head. “Same old, same old. The dead are still walking, and we’re still trying to survive.”

Alex sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”

Emma placed a hand on his shoulder, her expression softening. “We’ll get through this, Alex. We have to.”

As they continued their walk, the sun rose higher in the sky, casting a warm glow over the desolate landscape. The once-bustling city was now a ghost town, its streets empty and buildings crumbling. The only signs of life were the occasional zombie, shuffling aimlessly in search of their next meal.

They reached the safe house, a small, fortified building. Alex and Emma entered, their footsteps echoing in the empty halls. The safe house was a haven for the few survivors who had managed to escape the horrors of the outside world. It was a place of refuge and a constant reminder of the dangers beyond its walls.

Inside, a group of weary faces greeted them. The survivors had formed a tight-knit community, relying on each other for support and protection. They shared stories of their past lives, their hopes and dreams, and the loved ones they had lost.

The days turned into weeks, and Alex and Emma settled into a routine. They scavenged for supplies, fortified the safe house, and kept watch for any signs of danger. The constant threat of the undead weighed heavily on their minds, but they found solace in each other’s company.

One night, as Alex lay in his bunk, he heard a faint noise outside. He sat up, his heart racing. The sound grew louder, a low, guttural growl that sent chills down his spine. He grabbed his machete and crept to the window, peering into the darkness.

In the shadows, he saw a figure—a tall, gaunt man with glowing eyes. The man stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the safe house.

Alex’s blood ran cold. He had heard stories of a new kind of zombie that was faster, smarter, and more dangerous than the others.

The figure moved, its movements fluid and deliberate. It approached the safe house, its eyes never leaving Alex’s. He backed away from the window, his mind racing. He had to warn the others.

“Emma!” he whispered urgently, shaking her awake. “There’s something out there.”

Emma sat up, her eyes wide with fear. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Alex replied, his voice trembling. “But it’s not like the others. It’s different.”

They gathered the other survivors, their faces pale with fear. They armed themselves with whatever weapons they could find and prepared for the worst. The figure outside continued to approach, its eyes glowing with an eerie light.

As it reached the door, it let out a bone-chilling scream. The sound echoed through the safe house, sending shivers down their spines. The door burst open, and the figure stepped inside, its eyes blazing with an unnatural fire.

The survivors fought bravely, but the figure was relentless. It moved with a speed and agility that defied explanation, its attacks precise and deadly. One by one, the survivors fell, their screams filling the air.

Alex and Emma fought side by side, their hearts pounding with fear and determination. They managed to wound the figure, making it angrier. It lunged at them, its claws slashing through the air.

In a desperate move, Alex swung his machete with all his strength, connecting with the figure’s neck, severing its head from its body. The figure collapsed to the ground, its eyes dimming as the life drained from it.

The survivors stood in stunned silence, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. They won, but at a cost. The safe house was in ruins, and many of their friends were gone.

As the sun rose, casting a warm glow over the desolate landscape, Alex and Emma stood together, their hearts heavy with grief. They had survived another night, but the fight was far from over.

“We’ll get through this,” Emma said softly, her voice filled with determination. “We have to.”

Alex nodded, his eyes filled with resolve. “We will. For them.”

Charlie had hiked through the high snow some ten miles to the home of Betty and her family. The wind bit at his face and the cold seeped into his bones, but he pressed on. He heard the crunch of his boots on the steps and knocked loudly on the door.

Betty opened it, her face a mix of surprise and concern. “Charlie, what brings you out in this weather? Come in, warm yourself.”

She offered him a coffee and a plate of food, as it was the neighborly thing to do. He declined, his eyes dark and hollow.

“What I’d like for you to do is kill me,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of hope.

Betty’s eyes widened. “No way, will I kill you, Charlie,” she said firmly. “You’re like family to us.”

“That’s why you have to do it,” he insisted. “I don’t trust anyone else to do it right.”

For over a quarter-hour, he begged and pleaded with Betty to end his life. Still, she refused, her heart aching for the man she once knew.

“What do I have to do, attack you?” he asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

“Not even then,” she answered. “I know you—you don’t have the heart to hurt me.”

“Yeah, but I’m desperate,” he said, his eyes pleading.

“Why?” she asked softly.

“Because I want out of this life and into the next,” he half-smiled, a sad, broken expression.

“That is not you,” she said, shaking her head.

But it was too late. Charlie was already advancing on her, knife raised, ready to plunge the blade into her. Betty grabbed at his hand as he drove home the point into her left side, below her breast.

She gasped in pain but didn’t hesitate. With a swift movement, she drew a dagger from the waistband of her dress and drove the needle-like point into him over and over.

He fell back, collapsing on the cabin floor, bleeding from the numerous wounds she had inflicted. He smiled weakly, “Thank you.”

She sat near Charlie’s cooling body throughout the day, waiting for her husband to arrive home, the weight of what she had done settling heavily on her shoulders.

In the beginning, humanity was a spoken to life amid the vast silence of space. Our species, unique in its balance of 144,000 genetic markers from mother and father, was cherished by God, a fragile dance between flesh and divinity. But as humankind pushed further into the stars, it found not paradise but a quiet malevolence woven into the very fabric of existence.

A third strand of DNA slipped into the genome of humanity—an alien strand, insidious and transformative, a cosmic weapon hiding in the guise of new possibility. The foreign code, carried by mRNA, threaded through our double helix like a third, venomous snake.

Its purpose was plain to those who witnessed its power firsthand: the alien DNA devoured and rewrote everything, forcing itself to the forefront and reshaping human beings at the cellular level. It swelled the total number of genes to 216,000—a dark mirror of the Sumerian cosmic cycle, a number long associated with endings, cycles, and death.

Humanity’s sacred 144,000—the balance of mother and father, the divine design—was subsumed, overtaken, and silenced by this new, ravenous code.

Historians began unearthing relics of ancient Sumer, long buried in the sands, where cryptic symbols and inscriptions spoke of “the Shadow Gene.” The texts, carved in cold stone, warned of an ancient invasion, of a “dark seed” meant to reform life in the image of a forgotten civilization that once spanned stars.

The Sumerians had whispered of the “third strand,” a dormant evil lying in wait to consume Earth. The 216,000 pieces of alien DNA, described as the sum of a cosmic cycle, is a number that would remake life into something incomprehensible.

Yet, the meaning remained hidden from modern eyes.

Then there was the lost Song of the 144,000. In ancient prophecies, only those marked by God could learn this song—a frequency, a sacred sound known only to humanity’s purest. This song, a vibration of 144,000 cycles, could create a harmonic shield against the alien DNA, blocking its invasive frequencies.

But as society fractured, the song—this frequency of salvation—was forgotten, scattered across texts and temples that were now only dust. The final safeguard lay in ruins, beyond the reach of those who needed it most.

As the alien DNA spread, humanity splintered. Some became consumed by the alien code, transforming into eerie, emotionless beings with pale skin and glowing eyes.

Yet others resisted. These unfortunate souls became hybrids, their bodies torn between two identities, twisted into strange, malformed versions of themselves.

They had memories that did not belong to them—visions of foreign constellations, symbols they could not read but somehow understood. Their minds became battlegrounds between human memory and alien intelligence, a constant war of thoughts, each trying to erase the other.

The hybrids were rejected by both human society and the alien hive-mind, and in their desperation, they turned to the only remnants of human lore that might save them: the cuneiform tablets and fractured Sumerian hymns. Yet their tortured minds only made the fragments of prophecy more cryptic, blurring the lines between vision and hallucination.

The enemies of humanity were not the random strands of DNA; they were messengers of consciousness as old as the stars. The alien DNA was a beacon, a homing device calling forth a mind from beyond the galaxies—a being that saw itself as the rightful overseer of all organic life.

The alien DNA was not merely a weapon; it was a cosmic seed designed to break down species and rebuild them into vessels of one unified intelligence. The alien collective stretched across galaxies–each new host planet remade in its image. To it, individuality was an error, and humanity’s cherished notion of self was a flaw.

But why humanity?

Some scholars theorized that human DNA, with its 144,000 markers, was a rare composition—its specific pattern resonated with the alien consciousness. It was a genetic key that would unlock their next evolutionary step. Earth and its inhabitants were to be the next “node” in the hive mind, erasing humanity to further the alien’s cosmic intelligence.

Those infected by the alien DNA felt their humanity dissolve. Memories of mothers and fathers, friends, lovers, laughter, and pain became cloudy, outlines smudged like the edges of a half-erased chalk drawing. Instead, visions of star clusters, planets orbiting dying suns, and the vast silence of space replaced them. Those who clung to their identities found themselves slipping, losing not just memories but their very concept of self. Names began to lose meaning, and in their place, a single word echoed in their minds: oneness.

Even the infected, in their changing, held on to their humanity long enough to experience the agony of losing it. Aware of their transformation, they were caught in a nightmarish descent—a self-awareness that would burn away, leaving behind only a vessel. The true horror lay not just in physical transformation but in this dissolution of the soul.

As more humans became overtaken, the alien DNA seeped into the soil, the water, and the air. Earth itself began to change.

Forests became alien landscapes, where trees bore strange, pulsing growths that glowed in the moonlight. Oceans churned with bioluminescent creatures that sang an eerie song, rippling with the alien DNA’s vibrational frequency.

Mountains twisted into impossible angles as though bending under the weight of an unseen force. Earth was transforming into a fertile ground for alien life, a living monument to the cosmic consciousness that awaited its arrival.

When Earth’s transformation was complete, a pulsing beacon shone from the depths of space, calling forth the entity behind the alien DNA. And one night, it appeared: a being vast and unknowable, a consciousness from the farthest reaches of the galaxy.

It gazed down upon its new creation, the Earth now a mirror of its ancient form. Humanity was gone, a whisper on the edge of memory, replaced by its dark image.

In a final act, the few remaining pure humans attempted to sing the Song of the 144,000, hoping to drive back the alien corruption to reclaim Earth. But the song, fragmented and imperfect, faltered.

The alien entity absorbed their voices, converting their final human act into a hymn to itself. Humanity was subsumed, not with violence, but with a cosmic song that bound them into oneness with the alien mind.

As the cosmic entity departed, it left Earth not as a planet of individuals but as a single, unified life form—an extension of itself. The 144,000s were erased and replaced by the eternal hum of the 216,000, a number that would sing across the stars, echoing in the minds of alien races yet untransformed.

And in that cosmic silence, a single truth resonated–humanity had ended, not with a scream, but with a song.