The Premise: A minor traffic stop turns into an overnight holding cell — no bondsman, no clock, no way to know how long it’ll last — while the guy tries to keep his guard up as the cellmates around him keep changing and getting worse. For Fans Of: Trainspotting meets a really unlucky Friday night. First-person, foul-mouthed, and funny in the way people get when they’re too scared to stop narrating. The Context: Nobody warns you what waiting actually does to your head. This one sits in that stretch of hours where boredom turns to dread and dread turns into bargaining with yourself about how far you’d go to survive a room. Why Read: Profane, tense, and weirdly hilarious — a guy losing his composure one detail at a time while trying to sound like he isn’t. The Runtime: ~6 minute read.

Wasn’t even five minutes past sundown on Friday night when they picked me up. It was real fucked too, the way it went down. I was going like seven miles over the speed limit, tops, but they pull me over anyways. Then, ‘cause I hadn’t paid my registration and the car was a shitbox, they decide to make an example of me.

Then there was the half-ounce of weed sitting in that compartment between the seats. The car must’ve reeked, since I’d been toking on pretty much a daily basis at that point. They knew it, but didn’t say anything just yet.

I almost lost my shit when the cop offered to drive my car across to the Walmart parking lot. I mean, he was doing me a huge favor, really. They should’ve just called for it to be towed. But with all that weed in there, I freaked. I almost told him not to do it, but he was already behind the wheel. Way to skirt the whole probable cause thing, really. Genius move, I gotta hand it to him.

So he drives my car over, gets out and calls half the boys over, and then start climbing in and around.

Game over.

They take me in, and tell me I’ve got to wait for the bondsman. Only they can’t just let me sit in reception—they’ve got to stick me in a cell.

Seriously guys?

But I was polite about it, and they appreciated that. Let me make whatever phone calls I needed to before sticking me on ice for two hours or whatever. You might think two hours is no big deal, and for a hardened criminal it probably isn’t. But for me? In a cell? Felt like an eternity.

You can’t know how it feels until they slam those bars shut. That exact moment, freedom is officially revoked.

So they put me in for what they claim is going to be two hours, but then it turns out the bondsman isn’t available, or that’s just some shit they pull, and next thing I know there’s a cop at the bars telling me to settle in. I tell him I’m bored, and he hands me a copy of “Jaws”, which I proceed to read. Nothing better to do, even though by then I have a couple of cellies. One shitfaced, the other crazed or high or some sort of fucked up. The drunk one is already passed out and snoring.

The other one ain’t sleeping, so I don’t either. I’m reading with one eye, the other trained on him, and he’s crouched in the corner, head twitching and hand swatting something imaginary off it. I’m not sure how long we stayed like that. No clock in the cell, no clue what time it is. All I know is, it’s a long time until dawn.

They never did a proper lights out, and the buzz-hum was as annoying as the brightness. I thought to myself that sleeping was a bad idea anyway. I lay there a while. Rolled over, thought better of it, rolled so that I could see them coming.

I wonder when and if breakfast will happen, and then I guess I did fall asleep, ‘cause next thing I know I’m listening to the tune of the technicolor yawn. Drunkie is awake and surrendering yesterday’s meals. I’m ready to puke myself, just from the chunky splatter sounds, but I manage to hold it back.

I locate the tweaker and make sure he isn’t within shanking distance. I see him safely half-asleep on the far bunk, still agitated even at attempted rest. I’m relieved he didn’t do something to me while I foolishly slept.

When they came back and told me the bondsman wouldn’t be available, and I’d have to wait to see the judge via video on Monday, the first inklings of suicide crossed my mind. My cellmates, a parade of new faces rolling in all through the night, started to look the same. Strangers, some vaguely threatening. Some so fearsome I’d never want to know them in real life.

“Gonna be a while!?” said the tweaker, his voice shaky fast, but loud enough to startle. I suppressed the urge to shout back, instead taking a step to the side, out of immediate harm’s way. I could kick myself for being so dumb—lost in thought in front of the toilet, and with my dick out no less.

I hiked up and moved, telling myself to start being a fuck of a lot more careful. It wasn’t like I was a good fighter or anything, and I was going to be spending a lot more time with these guys.

As I thought through the suicide options, I realized how futile that was. In fact they’d taken my shoelaces on arrival. I noticed I was the only one. The other guys (there were five of us altogether now) had theirs, but I didn’t think I was ready to try taking them off anyone. Not like there was anything in here to tie it to anyway.

There were plenty of sharp edges around, not to mention the bars, but unless one of my cellies opted to smash my head into them, I didn’t hold up much hope. I didn’t have the kind of strength it would take. Not yet anyway.

Suicide was out.

Time to dissociate. Or find some other way to pass the time. Chatting up the cellies was no option, so I tried dozing with one eye open. That’s how I spent pretty much the whole night, drifting in and out of despair. No daylight to speak of. Not for a long time.

By then there were eight of us, it was starting to stink worse than before, and the tension was ramping up. Every time someone took a shit, everyone else got pissed. But what could you do? It wasn’t like there was an alternative. And most of the guys were in for some state of intoxication or another, so bodily needs were on the urgent side.

I hadn’t shit since they locked me up, and I’d only pissed the once. That time I was daydreaming with my dick out, although I’m not even sure I pissed then. Which was weird, come to think of it, since I’d worked out before getting jailed, and had drank close to a liter of water.

Thinking about it made me wonder about it, see if I had to. But I guess the stress was clogging up the system both. Not the worst thing, really—I didn’t want to go any closer to that funky toilet. I wondered if holding cells were made to hold so many. It seemed like the bunks were crammed in. It would’ve made more sense to have six. Then I wondered what if someone else came. Would they roll in a cot?

That didn’t turn out to be a problem, as two of the guys were suddenly removed. No idea why. It all happened fast, and I had my eyes closed for one of them. I saw the other go with the guards, but it wasn’t like I couldn’t just count to six.

“You ain’t sleepin’ there,” said the biggest guy. This cellie was ‘new’, and hadn’t spoken a word until now.

I made a ‘who, me?’ gesture, pointed at the ratty bunk, and shrugged.

“That’s right. It’s mine now.”

I almost gave it up—but something told me that’d be a mistake. If I gave in now, what next? My shoes? My ass, more like it.

“Get your own,” I said. It came out with more bravado than I felt, thank God. Keeping up the ruse, I lay back and closed my eyes. I was dying to blink one open, see if a fist was coming at me, but I held fast.

I heard him breathing, moving closer. But then he snorted, agitated but not enough to bother. His breathing faded.

I resisted the urge to breathe a sigh of relief myself. The others were watching, I was sure of that. I had to maintain the illusion.

One thing they never tell you is how much the sense of desolation gets to you. After they lock those doors, there’s no human contact with anyone you’d want to be around. Only threats. Dangerous enemies. So you’re completely, totally alone in the truest sense of the word.

On the outside, you can go find friends, anytime you like, even if you don’t normally do that. The option exists, that’s the point. But in here, you’re trapped, nothing to do but think. And as the body becomes agitated for being stuck somewhere, the brain flips into overdrive, trying to find a way out.

When that doesn’t work, the brain starts freaking out, looping negatives around and around as you sit there helpless. And over enough time, you start to go mad with it.

Turns out, the amount of time it takes is just over three hours, going on four. And my brain hadn’t even begun spinning at full-tilt yet at that. But it was coming. I could feel it.

I sensed my cellmates were losing it, too. More savvy than me, for sure, but they weren’t hardened criminals either. And only a hardened criminal can stand being locked up for long.

Maybe I needed to start thinking about how to become one.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Deane Haskell writes across past, present, and future. His short fiction is topical, human, and sometimes built to shock, while his novels unfold on a larger scale—sweeping stories of technology, survival, identity, and the forces reshaping our lives.

His nonfiction explores trauma, recovery, and inner-child healing here:

innerchildjournal.substack.com

The Premise: He’s convinced nobody would notice if he disappeared — except Sally, who’s been running on fumes for years just to keep them both afloat. Then one Thursday she stops pretending it’s fine. For Fans Of: Denis Johnson meets a Leonard Cohen breakup song. A man narrates his own rot in real time, certain he’s protecting the one person still stupid enough to love him. The Context: There’s a version of self-hatred that sounds like generosity — “she’d be better off without me” — right up until she agrees. This is that moment, watched from inside his head. Why Read: Bleak, sharp, and honest in a way that makes you complicit. You’ll hate him and understand him in the same moment. The Runtime: ~6 minute read.

To be aware that no soul on this earth gives a fuck whether you live or die. To scream for attention and hear only the rustling of the wind. To cast about for a kindred spirit, only to realize that all the spirit in the world is dead. These are the things that can drive a man to suicide. And that’s pretty much where I’m at right now.

Ready to pack it in and call it a day.

There’s just one thing that stops me. It’s funny how one person can mean so much to you when the rest of the world can just go fuck itself, but that’s how I feel about my old girl Sally. She’s the only thing keeping me going, honest to God. And for whatever God only knows why reason, she feels the same about me.

I’d die for her. It’s a little ironic saying that since I’d pretty much like to die anyway, but I’m talking about violent, lay down on the tracks dying. The kind of death nobody but a Japanese schoolkid would wish for. I’d suffer for her, walk through hell and back for her if it would help. But the help she needs, I can’t provide, because I’m the problem. Her only connection to insanity is loving me, and everyone’s entitled to one stupid vice I suppose.

I know I’m no good for her. That’s something I really can’t escape. I know—and this is a serious realization, not some melancholy bullshit—I know she’d be better off without me.

That’s a fact, nothing to do with pity or angst.

Deep down I think she knows it too, though she’d never say so. If I died tomorrow, she’d weep and she’d mourn, for a while, but in the end she’d know she was better off. I could only hope she wouldn’t beat herself up over it too much, but she probably would.

I haven’t always been this tragic. Fuck, I used to be downright optimistic. Before the world shat on me and reminded me what a big nothing it all is. And it’s mostly my own fault, really. I had the world by the balls for a while, but even then I couldn’t appreciate what I had. Now all I have is broken promises and regrets. The real nightmare is that I still dream about that past, as though the years have melted away, and I’m right back where I mattered.

Where life had promise.

Where I had ability and worth to spare.

Where’s all that now? Lost at the bottom of a bottle, I guess, even though I don’t even drink anymore. How funny is that? The one thing that ruined me and I can’t even enjoy it anymore. Not that I can afford to get drunk either. I gave that up along with all my other vices, and still I’m dead broke.

Oh, yeah. There’s that too. I don’t have a pot to piss in. No prospects, no reason to even get up in the morning except to enjoy the daily news as George Costanza would say. I’m kinda like him, in some ways, except at least he had his good days. Not me. My days just eke by, one miserable slog at a time. Never good, never fun.

Sally’d have fun if it weren’t for me. As it stands, she’s just as bored-stiff tired as I am. With no friends between us, and family can’t stand us, we’re completely alone. Work is just a way to pay the bills, she keeps her nose to the grindstone and avoids any friendships or entanglements. The only reason she works at all is ‘cause I’m too depressed to do it myself. I try, but the energy it takes to get through the day is just about all I’ve got, and even then it’s like I’m running on fumes most days. I feel guilty making her take all the heat, but there’s nothing much I can do about it. I’m medicated to the gills, so it’s not a clinical thing. It’s just that the world is a big nothing, like I said, and I’m circling the drain waiting for the inevitable. Wish I had the balls to pull a trigger, but that takes energy too.

Up to her eyeballs in my shit, Sally autopilots through the rest of life. Working her ass off every day, she staggers home and zones out in front of blogs, or youtube or whatever other white-noise infotainment she can find. Anything to ignore her life, and who can blame her? I’d want to zone out too, if I were her and stuck with me. She acts like it’s no biggie, like she’s perfectly happy and content, but the reality is as plain as the disjointed nose on my craggly face.

“Don’t you ever want to go out?” I ask for the umpteenth Thursday. I always ask on Thursdays, in case she’s interested in going out for dinner over the weekend, or a movie or something. Not that I want to. I say it out of a sense of obligation, plus I knew she’s not going to take me up on it anyway. She knows as well as I how fucked we are financially, plus ninety percent of the time when we go out I do something stupid to ruin it, so why in hell would she want to put herself through it.

“Maybe next week.” was her usual canned response, which was fine with me. Next week might as well be next year the way time plods along, and I can’t possibly be expected to worry about that when the simple matters of the day have got their hooks in me. All I’m doing is pushing through moments, hoping for blank ones. That’s it. And next week I may be dead anyway. Here’s hoping.

Except this time she doesn’t say ‘maybe next week’. Instead she goes all quiet, and from behind I can see her shoulders are shaking. This makes me freeze up, because Sally is never emotional when it comes to our lot in life. That’s one of the reasons I love her, I think. Since I can’t do any better by her, at least I know she’s strong enough to take it. But here she is, shaking. I can’t tell straight off whether it’s a cry, or a sob, or maybe a complete breakdown. That makes me nervous, just because I know I won’t have the energy to handle it. If it’s crying and she tells me to forget it, that I can handle. But if she’s going off the deep end, I’m not confident in my ability to cope, much as I wish I could.

“Awe, Jesus, I’m sorry. We don’t have to worry about that now.” It’s a weak attempt, but it’s all I can think of off the cuff. “I’m sorry. Really.”

I reach out to give her a pat, but she shakes some more and shrinks away, and that’s when I realize she’s not just upset.

She’s pissed.

In my typical passive-aggressive haze I handle this by setting her off, in turn giving myself permission to retaliate. Once I get on an anger jag, I can usually hold my own, since it feeds on itself and seems to be about the only way to summon up extra energy. I feel like shit afterwards, but in the moment I can go toe-to-toe with anyone and not back down, Sally included. Thing is, I can’t do it if I’m aware of that, and at the moment I’m hyper-aware of pretty much everything psychologically going on with us, so I can’t force her to blow up. I mean, I could, but she’d see through it.

All this amounts to nothing when she gets up and stumbles before finding her footing. There’s a sharp intake of breath, almost a grief swoon, so powerful it forces her head back so the sound hits the ceiling and echos for a second or two. Then she recovers herself, puts a hand to her face so I can’t see anything but hateful eyes, and bolts for the room.

I take the door slam as an indication I’m not welcomed in there, which is fine because at this point I’m completely at a loss. Not that I didn’t expect this sometime, but what triggered it is a mystery, and without that information I have no idea how to approach her.

She’s not in there ten minutes before I hear something heavy thump against the door. Then she’s grunting from effort and I hear her fumble at the knob twice before turning it and flinging it open again. It hits the far wall and she swings her suitcase into the hall. That’s the heavy object, I surmise, and from the heft of it I’m guessing it’s got most of her clothes in there plus bathroom supplies.

The sight of the suitcase fills me with sudden dread. This is really happening, and I’m not even sure why. It occurs to me that the proper thing to do would be to ask, but I can’t summon up the courage to do anything but stare, jaw on the floor, at this bizarre ritual unfolding in front of me. A sick, twisted little part of my brain is enjoying the show, and I realize that’s probably the part that wants to speak up, too. The honest part of me knows that, whatever the immediate reason, she has good reason to do this, and I have no right to stop her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The twisted part had to win. “You could at least give me some sort of explanation.”

She stops, chest heaving, and stares at me like I’m some kind of zoo exhibit. Her expression says ‘you seriously don’t know?’, even though I can see the wheels turning.

I know better than she thinks.

My argument sense is well-tuned, and I know the question’s legit. So does she. She fills her lungs with a deep, stuttering breath, then blows it out. She sort of kicks at the suitcase for a minute, then walks slowly back to the table. When she slumps down into the chair, she looks me straight in the eye, and I know in that instant that we’re totally, irrevocably through.

I’ve been known to make a pathetic ass of myself when begging lovers to stay after it’s over. I have no shame in that regard, probably the self-loathing makes such displays a bonus option most wouldn’t even consider.

And I have to say I was tempted this time, too. I mean, it’s a natural reaction for me. It’s all wrapped up in my abandonment complex, that plus the fact that I’m pathologically incapable of ending a relationship like a mature adult, and most of my targets are similarly crippled.

But I didn’t do it. I don’t know if it was because I knew she deserved better, or because I’d finally grown up. Or maybe given up is more like it? I couldn’t say, but anyway I let her go. I sat there for like a half an hour, recalcitrant muscles mindlessly jerking toward the door over and over, each time getting ignored by my rational self so that I stayed put. My mind, habitually and constantly winding through countless negative scenarios, was unusually quiet. I guess I really had given up, even my neuroses had abandoned ship.

Finally I stood up, and even as those muscles urged me to run out the door, I ignored them and walked to the window instead. The chilly air blew the curtains around as I slid it up and looked down the eight stories to the pavement. Even in my numb state I didn’t want to see it coming, so I turned and sat in the windowsil. It was in that instant—leaning back too far to recover—that I saw her shocked face, her hand still clutching the key stuck in the doorknob as she let herself back in.

ABOUT ME

David Deane Haskell writes across past, present, and future. His short fiction is topical, human, and sometimes built to shock, while his novels unfold on a larger scale—sweeping stories of technology, survival, identity, and the forces reshaping our lives.

His nonfiction explores trauma, recovery, and inner-child healing here:

innerchildjournal.substack.com

The Premise: A guy road-tripping the world’s most photographed places starts to notice something everyone else is too busy posing to see — the pictures are all lies, staged around whatever’s ugly just outside the frame. Then a near-miss on a cliffside road changes what he’s willing to post, and it costs him more than he expects. For Fans Of: Nathan Fielder deadpan wrapped around Chuck Palahniuk dread. A travelogue narrated by someone slowly realizing he’s been performing his own life for an audience that was never really watching. The Context: Everyone curates the highlight reel and calls it a life. This one keeps the camera rolling past the point where the highlight reel stops making sense, and asks what’s actually left once nobody’s clapping. Why Read: Starts as a cynical travel rant, turns into something colder. The last line will send you back to reread the middle. The Runtime: ~7 minute read.

I hit the road, dying to see all those amazing places everyone was always posting about. You know the ones. Those adventure soaked flashy vids of amazing destinations most people only dream of. Far flung islands surrounded by turquoise waters, filmed with the wing of their jet in view, of course.

It’s funny how that proves they’re flying economy, but what can you do? You need the wing in the shot, right? Maybe it was shot backwards.

Those views never end. Every scroll-flick on every screen, everywhere you look. You can’t escape it. Everyone’s showing off their version of perfect, with their perfectly framed, perfectly posed smiling selves, in front of those perfect places the rest should envy.

Except it all changed once I got on the road. My view turned out to be watching them set up their view. Photo shoots, everywhere I turned. And you know what else? Those places weren’t all that great, once I got there. It’s just they all kept all the bad stuff outside the frame.

Funny how easy that is.

It isn’t right. It isn’t healthy. But damn if we haven’t set up the whole world around this glossy-photo lifestyle shit. I’m living proof.

I’ve been crisscrossing the planet a while now, and while the local scenes change, the places where the tourists go are all the same. Local folks always speak the language of money, and the ones funding these adventures are demanding as hell. It’s a real treatise on the haves and the have-nots, really, although the have-nots are the only ones I see chilling out, taking in the views the beautiful people aren’t paying attention to, except to line up their shot.

Yeah, I’ve been going along with it, but I’m not like these people. I don’t carry around equipment and do hair and make-up. I don’t search for perfect locations before I take my envy shots. I’m not as bad as they are, and I’ve been watching. Those people are just extreme.

And when I say extreme, I mean it’s like pro-level, man. The girls all dressed just so. Doing their hair just so. Putting their feet in the water just so.

The most amazing of the spots I was able to check out was the beach from The Beach. Maya Bay in Thailand. What a place.

It was overrun, people trudging this way and that, looking for the perfect spots, with the best backdrops and the perfect rays of sunlight to stand under. Everybody had to get their shots.

But the funny part is, you’re not allowed in the water. And everybody’s going to the water’s edge to try to get their shot, so everybody’s in each other’s frames—messing up this perfect image of being on the most incredible beach in the world by yourself.

Because we weren’t by ourselves. That’s the whole thing.

And all these envy shots that everybody has to take so they can send it back home. “I went there. Aren’t I awesome?”

How cool is that, really? I mean, yes and no, right?

But anyway, you’re not allowed in the water. The guides will scream and blow whistles if you go too far out—and I mean a step or two in. Because they’re trying to keep the place open. The government wants to shut it down because the tourists have overrun this pristine, amazing place.

Which, really, is just a tourist trap. Just like all the rest of these places where we go and we do our photo shoots.

And it’s not quite right when you’re there and watching people do it. But then you go to their Instagram, and boy, does that look amazing. I mean, that looks as professionally done as you might have seen in a glossy magazine 10, 20 years ago.

But did they enjoy their vacation? Did they take in the incredible views they were surrounded by? Or were they more concerned with their perfect shot?

And of course, then there are the influencers. Those are the ones you can really spot. Because they’ve got all the heavy equipment going on. You never see that equipment on their YouTube channel, of course. But they lug it all around.

I do my share of photo shoots as well. Hate to admit it. I wish I could just chill with the locals sometimes. But you gotta keep up. And everyone back home wants to know where I’m at anyway. I can’t disappoint, can I? Even if they don’t respond nearly as much as they used to. Not since I came to within an inch of a very different travel experience.

That was the week I almost sailed off the edge and off the planet, in the Nihn Bihn highlands of Vietnam. Scared me half to death—almost getting run off the road by one of those crazy truckers. I dunno how I missed that cliff, either. I was heading right for it. If I’d gone off the edge, my photoshoots would’ve had to go on without me. But the folks back home, they never knew about my near miss. I made sure the perfect life show went on. No matter how few likes or comments I got after that.

I think my vibe must have changed. The fear, or something. Like it bled into my narrative. Honestly I don’t know if I got a single like after that. Wasn’t like I filmed myself flying off that cliff or anything. I mean, the camera was rolling but I wouldn’t post that. Especially not a live shoot. Can you imagine?

From Bali to Hanoi, from Tokyo to Phuket, and all kinds of spots in-between, I’d seen crash victims hitting the beaches, insisting on pursuing their life of leisure even though you’d think they should stay home and rest. Arms. Legs. Faces. I thought to myself, ‘Man, talk about a rough go. Glad that won’t happen to me.’

They were the only ones skipping the photo shoots, I realized. In fact, I’ll bet you could hop on social media right now and figure out which of your friends got fucked up in a crash on holidays..just from the style of their photo shoot.

If I’d gotten injured from that cliff dive, man. I mean, it was a long way down and that arc was scary. It’s weird that I can remember it, even though it didn’t hurt me. I even remember thinking, ‘turn off the camera man, they’re all watching. They can’t see this!’. I reached for it, I think, but I was trying to grab onto the handlebars too, and land right. Except I don’t remember the landing.

I walked after that. Gave up the biking. Every country, just walking. Beaches, mostly, but some cliffside outlooks too. Watching those photo shoots. Feeling sorry for them, all obsessed with their perfect shots. Not paying attention to their amazing surroundings. I was paying attention, though. That’s all I was doing anymore.

There was no more camera. I think I might have lost it off the cliff there. I never did shut it off.

People stopped commenting after that. I tried to blame the algorithm, but I think maybe my amazing picture perfect lifestyle was too much for them.

I tried messaging, too. But no one answered. Which was weird.

Even though I’m still traveling all the time, I haven’t really connected with anybody far away or near. They don’t even really look at me anymore. Too consumed with their damned photo shoots.

Or maybe they just don’t see me because so much has changed.

My picture-perfect life wasn’t perfect, but at least people were reacting. I knew I wasn’t alone. People were always there—at a distance, sure—but they were there.

Right up until I went over that cliff.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Deane Haskell writes across past, present, and future. His short fiction is topical, human, and sometimes built to shock, while his novels unfold on a larger scale—sweeping stories of technology, survival, identity, and the forces reshaping our lives.

His nonfiction explores trauma, recovery, and inner-child healing here:

innerchildjournal.substack.com

I’m writing this from my desk in Chiba, Japan, and I’m honestly blown away.

This weekend, I set the first book of my new oceanpunk series, The Solarian Deep, to be completely free on Amazon. I didn’t run massive ads; I just put it out there into a few reader communities.

As of today, The Solarian Deep has officially cracked the Top 5 in Cyberpunk Science Fiction!

I’ve been on this ride now for over a year, rebuilding my writing career after a five-year writer’s block which found me hitting the depths of despair—and not just because of the death of my creativity! It was a really dark time.

At times, even recently, it really felt like things weren’t going to work out.

But having surges like this one really makes me feel that we’re getting somewhere.

Sometimes I speak about the past, with an eye towards healing. That’s what brought you here. But other times, like now, I look to the future, and with an optimistic heart, I write speculative fiction. I hope you don’t mind my sharing all of it at times, though I intend for the inner child journal to remain focused on my non-fiction inner child healing by and large.

So, to everyone who has already downloaded it—thank you. If you haven’t grabbed your copy yet, and you’d like to check it out, it is still 100% free right now through August 5th. It’s a gritty, high-pressure dive into a submerged dystopia, and I couldn’t be prouder of how it turned out.

This is also the official kickoff to a massive summer campaign. Over the next three weeks, I’m running staggered deals across my entire catalog. I respect your inbox too much to email you every single time a price drops over the next 20 days. Instead, I’ll be posting real-time updates via Substack Notes.

For those who want to mark their calendars, here is the master schedule for the next few weeks:

• Now – Aug 5: The Solarian Deep (FREE)

• Now – Aug 10: Dark Alignment ($0.99)

• Aug 11 – Aug 18: Too Much Information ($0.99)

• Aug 14 – Aug 21: The Gold Club ($0.99)

Thank you for reading, for supporting indie sci-fi, and for putting us in the Top 5.

With Much Gratitude,

David

P.S. Right now, the second edition of my dystopian thriller, Dark Alignment, is down to just $0.99. Interestingly, there’s been some speculation lately about a hidden connection between these two books. Dark Alignment is a near-future disaster story where gravity goes haywire. The Solarian Deep takes place in a distant future where humanity had to flee underwater. A possible solution to surviving gravity tearing itself apart? Protect yourself by going deep underwater for a time. We might not really know if these two timelines meet until deeper in the Technoquatics series... but it’s an interesting thought.

If you’ve listened to my recent conversations on podcasts like Whereabouts Tales or Amazing Worlds, you know that for five long years, I suffered from a total creative block. I couldn’t write a single sentence of fiction.

When that silence finally broke, it didn’t come back as a trickle. It came back as an entire submerged civilization.

I want to shar that story with you today—completely free.

Chapter 1.

Coming of Age

The trading post hummed with energy, crowds of school-agers eagerly browsing all the coming-of-age deals. Off to one side, against a moldy wall dripping from disrepair, Calistya traced the sleek lines of the full-gill, open-ocean enhancement set. Her pretty reflection along the shimmering edges spoke to its quality, adding contrast to the discount district vibe.

“There’s probably something wrong with it. Must be fake,” she whispered to herself.

But despite her surroundings, the merchandise itself was top-of-the-line, unaffordably so, and she knew it. She felt a knot of anxiety as she thought about what it would take to get her hands on it. To have it installed, and to experience the fullness of life it promised.

Everything would change, if she dared make the decision—the most monumental choice any Technoquatic would ever make. No longer could she spend any time in the dry zones, which encompassed some thirty-percent of their city, including all the youth habitats. She’d never be able to walk again, which meant giving up one of her favorite hobbies—jogging along the merchant’s promenade.

But the tradeoffs… Those were more than worth the struggle. To be able to glide through the open ocean for as long as she wanted. No oxy-tanks to encumber her, no flippers or quasi-gillslits forcing what should be so natural. No more swim instructors—their own flippers full and strong and marvelous—telling her how she needed to take it slow, stop trying to race the full-ones, and remember that she wasn’t a mermaid yet.

Calistya wished her parents could be alive to see it. She’d never known them. They had passed on during the great dying, at a time when nearly half the population had perished. She’d been at school when she received the word, and before she knew it she’d been placed in a care-community with thirty-four others of various ages and backgrounds. It wasn’t a horrid place, but it wasn’t home, and it wasn’t family. Techno-mers weren’t known for having large extended families, so there simply hadn’t been any place else for her to go.

She often wondered if things might’ve been different up on the surface. There were stories and legends about extended human families up there. Grandparents, aunts and uncles. Hundreds of dancing, running cousins to play with—if the children of the care-community could be believed. Calistya often wondered, since they were so adept at spinning tall tales. But it sounded wonderful.

As life settled down, the great dying passing into memory, then history, some of the children began to get picked up. From well-to-do families looking to be charitable, or couples who’d dreamt of having a child but could not. Offers came from proper homes almost daily. But Calistya, being one of the oldest, was almost always passed over.

She had met with a couple or two, awkward exchanges where she would eagerly tell them about her top marks in school, her dreams about going full-gill so she could ‘help save the seas’ (a vague aspiration she hadn’t quite figured out yet), hypervigilantly feeling them out and trying in vain to impress. Then came the realization that she was getting nowhere, plunging her into an anxious silence. She would float there at a loss, not knowing what to say to save things. Her hopeful dream, that they’d suddenly exclaim, ‘You’re perfect. Let’s go!’, would fade into despair as the minutes passed, and they would finally excuse themselves without saying much.

Her best friend in the community, and the one she most counted on when times got tough, was a girl named Khrystal. Not much for school life, this girl was a troublemaker and then some. Always teasing about what she’s going to do with her undersea unicorn once she finds it and catches it and tames it for her own. How that was going to be her ticket to get out of here. Far, far from the school and all it’s rules. Not that there really was such a thing as a unicorn, not in all the seven seas as far as anyone knew. But that didn’t stop her from dreaming of an ethereal creature with a technicolor mane and a flowing tail, ready to carry her away to a safe place.

Calistya asked her once if she’d been talking about a Narwhal — not native to their part of the world, but at least a for-real creature that might actually, you know, exist. But Khrystal was adamant that she wasn’t talking about a fish. That a unicorn was known to inhabit the warm waters of the south, and yes it had gills and could swim and everything else. And it would take her away from here. Then they spent an hour or so making up stories about what they’d do with such a fine steed.

Khrystal was fun that way, and good at keeping Calistya’s mind off of sad things. Things like thinking about her parents, or how much she wanted to escape. Not that it was a terrible, or even a bad place. It was just the loneliness that came with it. Especially at night. When the waters went dark and they had to close up the place from predators, that was when reality really started to sink in. Luckily she and Khrystal shared a common room between their bedrooms, and on non-school nights they could stay up late. So they often shared unicorn stories and whatever other fun topics they could come up with.

“What’d you wanna do with your life when you’re a fully-grown?” Khrystal asked suddenly one night.

She snapped Calistya right out of her sad reverie with that question, and the mergirl had to think for a minute. Khrystal, being a year older, had obviously given the matter some thought.

“I haven’t thought so much about that, really,” Calistya had to admit, “but I guess I’d like to be a teacher. Help other mergirls with their math and oceanography, that kind of thing.”

Khrystal wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t the finest student.

“Well, what about you? What do you want to do when you get out of here?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Khrystal said with a sigh, “lots of things, I guess.”

“Oh, come on,” Calistya prodded, “there’s got to be something that really excites you. Something special.”

“It’s stupid really,” said her friend, “and impossible anyway, so…”

Calistya moved closer, intrigued.

Khrystal’s voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned closer to Calistya and said, “What I really want to be is a sentry.”

Calistya recoiled at the very idea of a mergirl sentry. It wasn’t exactly forbidden for females to fight. But it wasn’t in their nature, generally, and it was so dangerous. Merfolk were a peaceful lot, by and large, but there was cause for keeping an army. What with all the dangers in the seas, and above, how could they not. But it was usually the boys—once they grew into strong mermen, of course—who went off to fight. But even for them it was a burden, not a pleasure. And Khrystal wanted that?

“Are you serious?” Calistya said, taking in a deep breath and reaching down to blow bubbles into the common pool. “You’d really want to do that?”

Khrystal backed off, looking fairly stricken by her friend’s response. “I didn’t say it was a smart idea. Just a dream is all.”

“A dream to get yourself killed,” Calistya said, “or kill someone else.”

“Oh, come on,” Khrystal replied, “you know perfectly well it’s mostly shark-defense and border protection. That sort of thing. The sentries hardly ever fight head-on any more. It’s just a way to protect the community is all. I think it’s brave.”

“It is brave,” Calistya admitted. “I just never thought you. I mean, what are you going to do, ride in on your unicorn and kill all our enemies?”

The two mergirls laughed.

“Maybe,” Khrystal said. “A sentry’s got to have some kind of steed after all. Not everyone can ride dolphins into battle.”

They started laughing harder, picturing the picture books they’d been given in first year, those old tales of mermen (and women, to be fair) riding off to fight the sea-devils and humans and killer whales with two tamed dolphins underfin. It was a fantasy from start to finish, but it’d been more impressive when they were little, and they’d almost believed those tall tales.

The two girls discussed full-gill enhancements a number of times. There were pros and cons to either choice, and not every Technoquatic opted for it even if they did quality. There were serious limitations, after all. It was one thing to put on the gear and enjoy the sea, but a whole other matter to have to stay there for the rest of your life.

Little things changed forever. Like how you slept or how you ate. The way you cleaned and groomed yourself. Even bathroom breaks, gross as that sounded. It was just different. You could say it was like becoming another person, really. From a groundwalker to a seaswimmer was no small transition.

“Cali, it’s not all that,” Khrystal would say. “First, you can’t afford it, besides which you have to give up your socializing. You really want to miss out on clubbing with me, when we’re old enough?”

“They have events on the seafloor, Khrys,” Calistya would argue, though she knew her friend had a point. “Anyway, it’s what we were meant to be.”

“That’s just a fairy tale,” Khrystal said, “we were meant to be right where we’re at. And it’s dangerous, too.”

“Not that dangerous,” Calistya said weakly, feeling she was losing the argument. “I thought you wanted it, too.”

“I did, but…”

Her friend didn’t have to finish the sentiment. They both knew the reality, and it was just as true for the both of them. It was crazy expensive, and an indulgence neither could afford. Not as orphans, at any rate. Who was going to pay for some pathetic kids to get the enhancements, when people with actual money were willing to shell out for them?

Thank you for reading, for listening, and for keeping space for thoughtful independent work.

The Premise: A self-styled master planner brags about the elaborate trips he builds for retirees, honeymooners, and thrill-seekers — dress-rehearsing every detail himself before he sells the finished version. Now he’s looking to retire, and he likes how fast you answered his ad. For Fans Of: American Psycho meets a late-night infomercial. The pitch never breaks, even as what’s actually being sold gets harder to pin down. The Context: Some people can sell you the dream so well you forget to ask what’s ultimately being delivered. This one’s built entirely as a sales pitch — you’re meant to buy in before you notice what’s missing. Why Read: Slick, funny, and unnervingly congenial. The charm doesn’t crack — it just gets a little too comfortable. The Runtime: ~5 minute read.

I’ll bet you have an eye for detail. Not many do, but those of us who have the gift, well, it can really pay off.

How so? I thought you might ask that. You see, my keen eye has taken me places. Let me tell you about it.

Who brought me in? Long time ago. Doesn’t matter. They saw my eye for detail and knew how to use it.

And damn if they weren’t on to something.

What really comes out best is my ability to envision a trip, start to finish—plan every meticulous detail so that nothing, no matter how slight, is left to chance.

Of course, that kind of planning can only end in disaster, so I can’t sell it. But out of those experimental clusterfucks come frameworks I can work with, and those, I can sell. And for a pretty penny, too.

Mostly it’s retirees, looking for that once-in-a-lifetime African train trip, or a round-the-world sailing excursion. Safely adventurous and spare no expense. I love those. So many additions you can toss in. So many added amenities they just can’t live without, once I tell them so.

Those are the easiest to plan, too, since they involve agencies who’ve been doing this sort of thing far longer than I. They’re not opposed to shoehorning in a middle-man, just so long as they get theirs. And they do. And so do I. Win-win.

Then there are the honeymooners. They’re the tricky ones. Especially the female halves of the equation. They’ve got their own vision, and even though I know it ain’t gonna work out the way they think, I have to humor ‘em. I make sure and let the groom in on the reality, of course. Make sure he knows what to expect when things don’t go to plan and she gets in a snit about it. They appreciate the help, and I often get a little something extra out of it. That’s fine by me. Better than them coming back for a never-gonna-happen refund demand because they didn’t know what they didn’t know.

And, the thrill seekers. The true exotic-minded. These guys want something akin to a fantasy camp, with all the bells and whistles that come with, and even a certain element of danger. For these folks, the planning takes on a serious edge. If I screw it up, they might die. And nobody gets paid then. Not for a good long while. Bad business model, dead tourists. Bad for all. No good no how.

The really cool part about all this, and what allows me to charge the real money, is the fact that I get to put my own self through a dress rehearsal for all these trips. Planning all the details means I have to know what each plan will come down to. And sometimes I have to run through a plan multiple times, to account for every eventuality. This is a pleasure when it comes to five-course feasts, but tedious at times, when your eco-tourist bride decides a day of beach-cleaning is just the thing to humble-brag to her friends at home.

And it can also be downright frightening, rappelling over a pond full of crocodiles without losing a toe in the process, but the thrill keeps my adrenaline pumping and my brain switched off, so I manage to get through it.

But I’m looking to retire now, and I see you answered my internet ad in record time, so tell me. Are you ready to make some serious cash?

Trust me, it’s not like I want out. Who would?

Just think—getting paid to plan out and go on exciting, amazing adventures!

Who wouldn’t want that?

Hello?

Where’d you go?

Dammit. Lost another one.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Deane Haskell writes across past, present, and future. His short fiction is topical, human, and sometimes built to shock, while his novels unfold on a larger scale—sweeping stories of technology, survival, identity, and the forces reshaping our lives.

His nonfiction explores trauma, recovery, and inner-child healing here:

innerchildjournal.substack.com

Moving day came for Jeremy and his new family. The jet lag had set in hard. Worse than he could have ever imagined. It gave him a pounding headache and horrible disorientation. He’d been a coast-to-coast redeye guy for years, but this was a whole nother level.

Exhausted as he was, the nature of what he was seeing got his attention. Those movements, eerily efficient. Silent as mice. Clumping through the house in their stocking feet. Grabbing huge boxes and furniture, lifting it over their heads, and then gently slipping into their shoes when they got to the doorway.

The door was propped, and they were moving fast, hardly watching it all, as if they’d done it a million times a day. The effort was recognizable only from the beads of sweat, and the occasional grunt when they hoisted something particularly large.

Watching them tag-team a refrigerator, stuffing their feet into their shoes in a choreographed two-part motion, actually made him laugh out loud. That got their attention. A glare, just for an instant, from both of them in tandem. They conveyed so much in those disapproving stares, and he didn’t like it.

But then again, he’d just mocked them. The foreigner, laughing at the locals and their weird customs. He was lucky he got away with just an angry glance.

Kimiko had noticed, too. As she fussed with the baby, patting his back and making sure he didn’t add to the noise, her disapproving stare was even more severe than the moving men. As she caught his eye dead-on, she added a tsk sound with her tongue, as much admonition as any angry word.

Baby Ken, conversely, was being very good. How the jet lag hadn’t affected him, Jeremy would never know. He hadn’t screamed on the flight either, maddening as that was. Jeremy himself had wanted to scream. Transcontinental was nothing to sneer at. Nor was a new life in a new world, with all kinds of rituals he had no preparation for.

Jeremy offered to take the baby, hoping to make up for himself. But his wife shook him off, gently bouncing the child up and down on her shoulder as the chaos swirled around her.

Over the next few weeks, service people came and went, turning on utilities and delivering goods. Having a professional in full work uniform stomp in his house like they lived there was one of the things he had issues with, but it was one of a million. He had a lot to get used to.

He made plenty of mistakes along the way, but none worse than the day he missed that most basic, cardinal rule. Never had he seen his wife go red like she did that day she caught sight of his accidental boot. He almost fell over himself trying to backtrack on his knees, so the soles couldn’t hit any more of the floor.

In the end, he got used to it. As time passed, he came to find a comforting routine in this place. The rules, all of them unspoken, became structure. Stability. Predictable and familiar.

The day the heart attack came, he was watching his son. Little Ken, still quiet, kicked and cooed as Jeremy fell to the floor. As the sides of his vision fuzzed and swam, he saw the front door swing open.

Kimiko dashed in, the horrified look on her face breaking Jeremy’s heart. He knew from her expression how dire things were. As the room swam nauseatingly, a loud ringing drowned out her frantic pleas into the cell phone, that cherry red color he’d picked out up against her small ear. He strained to keep sight of her, to hold on.

Then the long minutes: Kimiko holding his hand, tears streaming down her cheeks—Jeremy trying to stay alive, for her sake if nothing else. He looked over at the baby.

But his head grew too heavy, his struggles, too hard. He slumped as he heard the clomp of feet, one last look up at the flash of badges. Eyes down again, to the spotless floor. The last thing he saw was the black, stockinged feet of the emergency responders.

* * *

“My condolences, Mrs. Everton,” the chief muttered, pronouncing the unfamiliar name ‘evaahtaan’.

The coroner crew lifted the gurney up with care, so as to leave no scuff marks. Such a routine, so impressive. But Kimiko felt no comfort that day.

The officer was still speaking, “Evahtaan-san, your husband simply ran out of time. If only we had been here sooner. Seconds may have made a difference.”

AUTHOR BIO: David Deane Haskell writes where the futuristic meets the familiar. Blending ultra-modern landscapes with the gritty realities of personal struggles, his stories explore the questions that keep us up at night. David weaves his own reflections into these visionary worlds, creating characters who — whether human or synthetic — feel like people we all know, facing truths we all share.

PARTNER UP: Writing these stories is a labor of love. If my words resonated with you today and you’d like to help me keep these worlds spinning, I’d be honored to have your support.

🚀 Fuel the next iteration

I recently sat down with José on José’s Amazing Worlds of Fantasy for a relaxed, wide-ranging conversation. While we definitely touched on the lore of The Solarian Deep, this chat was really a look behind the curtain at what makes me function as a writer. If you’ve ever wondered how an author’s real-life journey bleeds into the worlds they build, this is the episode to watch.

A few things we talked about:

• Breaking a 5-Year Silence: The honest truth about my grueling five-year writer’s block, and how doing the hard work to heal my inner child completely unlocked my creativity to write The Solarian Deep.

• Defiant Optimism in Sci-Fi: Why I flat-out refuse to write bleak, hopeless dystopias, and why I choose to believe humanity will ultimately learn to transform and get along.

• The Multiverse of Self: How I realized that the main characters in my upcoming fiction aren’t just fabrications—they are actually different, hidden dimensions of my own life.

• Influences & World-Building: A nod to classic masters like Asimov and Clarke, thoughts on The Three-Body Problem, and a few weird detours through Tokyo Disneyland.

Grab a coffee, hit play, and let’s dive into the deep end together. And be sure and check out all of José’s Amazing Worlds of Fantasy right here.

AUTHOR BIO: David Deane Haskell writes where the futuristic meets the familiar. Blending ultra-modern landscapes with the gritty realities of personal struggles, his stories explore the questions that keep us up at night. David weaves his own reflections into these visionary worlds, creating characters who — whether human or synthetic — feel like people we know, facing truths we all share.

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The Breaking Point

Following their forbidden swim, a fragile quiet had settled over Calistya and Khrystal’s world. The pair talked often about their amazing day off, dreaming of another escape, but the normal run of lessons and report-ins didn’t allow for it. At any rate they needn’t have worried, for the stillness didn’t last long—and this time, it wasn’t the grid.

The alert system was color-coordinated, designed to be visible even to swimmers moving through the city. Audible alerts were impractical underwater, so the system relied heavily on shifting hues—minor alerts, such as power grid watches, changed the calming, oceanic blues to a more yellowish hue, subtle enough to blend with the natural light.

The cascading alert system then followed a predictable pattern—the more they intensified, the more serious, though still incremental, keeping the population on an even keel. The riots of Pelagic Year 104, the participants of which had inadvertently caused a breach, led to major shifts in crisis management. As the last of the floodwaters were pumped back out to sea, city leadership voted to overhaul the system ‘from stem to stern’, intent on preserving societal equilibrium at all costs. The calming escalation of alert hues was just one tangible result of their efforts.

The shock of the classroom flaring a fiery red didn’t set off immediate panic. Instead, there was an excited buzz—it felt like something out of the history books. But Mr. Albi’s frozen expression, radiating concern of the utmost gravity, shifted the mood more effectively than emergency lights ever could.

Then, shaking his head to clear it, he sprang for the door, far faster than his usual, deliberate pace, and yelled for them to get moving. Chairs scraped against the floor as the entire class complied without hesitation.

The Shallows was on red alert.

* * *

Red alerts were so rare that the electrodes buzzed with neglect, dust filtering down off the suddenly hot bulbs. No gentle transition here, the soft hues of various conditions were integrated and fine-tuned, but these were a riot of antiquity. They were rumored to signal breaches, catastrophic air system failures, or worse—threats from the outside. Though the wartimes were long past, other settlements and societies were still a concern, theoretically.

The students, drilled but never tested, streamed out of the building, teachers barked orders as they went: “Single file! Single file! Stay calm!”

They were ushered out the doors and towards the air shelter.

“Down the corridor out the doors! Out the doors! Out the doors!”

The unified voices of well-trained teachers rang out, all of them looking stern as steel, but there were hints that they were just trying to keep it together themselves. Ms. Terri, usually such a calming presence, voiced her commands in a raspy, shaky voice, while Mr. Albi moved with the intensity of someone who’d dealt with this kind of chaos before.

The oxy-shelters were placed strategically throughout the city, and the one nearest the school was just a few minutes’ walk—or swim. The students walked calmly, though it quickly became noticeable that other citizens were heading in the same direction, the younger ones looking rather more excited about it, the elders moving faster with each step.

This prompted everyone around them to step up the pace as well, and the crowds grew. People were filtering out of work buildings and homes, the crowds growing larger, the single-file order quickly dissolving.

When they reached the oxy-shelter, audible sirens had welled up, adding to the confused, heightened sense of tension all the redness was producing. Someone from high up must’ve ordered that, the screeching sirens of old. It was as if the whole place had been slammed into survival mode.

Aquasentinels were already positioned in front, clipboards in hand, looking stern and questioning the people who were reaching for proof of local residency. Only locals were allowed in, normally, though they were supposed to allow everyone through in an emergency. This was not happening.

People were coughing, body to body now. The stench of fright and sweat mixed with an acrid, sickly sweet smell like burning rubber, filling the air and adding to the sense of imminent danger. A baby screeched somewhere in the crowd, and people started jostling one another, their movements becoming less organized by the second.

With the students mixed in now, the trickle of people being allowed through included a few of them as well, though the teachers yelled for them to wait. Corralling the students before it was too late, they pushed them to one side.

Twenty per class, six classes—keeping them together was the only way to ensure none were left behind. As the confusion mounted, sentinels were shouting questions and demanding credentials. The students, of course, carried no IDs, but the teachers had theirs, which was supposed to be enough.

At that point, the smell was beginning to nauseate people visibly, and the panic grew. As the throngs intensified and the shelter filled up, Mr. Albi stepped forward to demand that the students be allowed in.

He leaned in and listened to the shouted responses, nodding, trying to hear them out amid the shouts. When he’d heard enough he put up a hand and said, “Yes, we’re from the Shallows Orphanage.”—his indignation grew, rising up against the curt replies he was receiving—“These are the students. We need to get them inside!”

“Just hold on,” the sentinel barked. “There’s too many of you at once. I can’t ID every student. Let me get the others inside first.”

Albi’s eyes widened and he balled his fists, raising his voice in protest.

“These children are residents of this district. They have the right to be sheltered immediately!”

He matched the intensity of his words with a defiant posture, which the sentinel took for aggression. They both moved at once, and in the confusion Albi never saw the other sentinel, moving fast, until he cried out in pain as a stun-baton was thrust into his side, dropping the older man in a heartbeat.

The sight of Mr. Albi crumpling to the ground froze the students in place, the momentary shock then giving way to frightened murmurs. Some cried, while others clutched their classmates, unsure whether to move or stay rooted where they were.

The sight of more sentinels moving in made their decision for them. They scattered in all directions, running on instinct and adrenaline, any ideas of getting into the shelter abandoned. Khrystal grabbed Calistya’s arm, her heart pounding. “Out the gates,” she whispered. “Now!”

AUTHOR BIO: David Deane Haskell writes where the futuristic meets the familiar. Blending ultra-modern landscapes with the gritty realities of personal struggles, his stories explore the questions that keep us up at night. David weaves his own reflections into these visionary worlds, creating characters who — whether human or synthetic — feel like people we know, facing truths we all share.

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AUTHOR BIO: David Deane Haskell writes where the futuristic meets the familiar. Blending ultra-modern landscapes with the gritty realities of personal struggles, his stories explore the questions that keep us up at night. David weaves his own reflections into these visionary worlds, creating characters who — whether human or synthetic — feel like people we know, facing truths we all share.

JOIN THE JOURNEY: Writing these stories is a labor of love. If my words resonated with you today and you’d like to help me keep these worlds spinning, I’d be honored to have your support.

🚀 Fuel the next iteration

That was not how it worked.

I struggled with editing, cover art, formatting — back then you formatted your own EPUB files using software I can’t even remember the name of anymore, and it took weeks. I struggled with marketing, outreach, advertising. My results were meager at best. Then came five years where I barely wrote at all. A writer’s block that felt less like a block and more like a slow emergency I couldn’t name.

And I still couldn’t quit.

I’m now six books in, well over a decade into this, and The Solarian Deep is the best fiction I’ve made so far. It started as a serialized novel — first on Royal Road, then on Substack under the title Solaria Rising — and became something I didn’t plan when I started it. The ending didn’t exist when I wrote chapter one. The themes got deeper as I went. The characters got more real to me than I expected.

It’s a story about transformation and connection. About two people who never fit anywhere finally finding each other. I didn’t set out to write that. It’s just what came out.

I intend to make it a trilogy. The dynamics feel more urgent now than when I started writing them, which either means I was onto something or the world caught up.

I’ve been connecting with fellow sci-fi author Patrick Abbott, who wrote the novel Fallen—a first-contact story about what it costs to be the person standing between two worlds.

Five years after aliens known as Sabia arrive and refuse to leave, the world holds its breath. When former infantryman Brendan Murphy throws himself into the path of an attack on a Sabia diplomat, he wakes beneath an alien ceiling — his shattered body healed by hands not of this Earth. Grateful, suspicious, and painfully aware he’s become a living bargaining chip, Brendan is pulled into a fragile dance of first contact where one wrong move could ignite global panic. Haunted by battles he can’t forget and choices he can’t undo, he’ll have to decide what he’s willing to betray to keep a spark of trust alive.

FALLEN by Patrick Abbott

AUTHOR BIO: David Deane Haskell writes where the futuristic meets the familiar. Blending ultra-modern landscapes with the gritty realities of personal struggles, his stories explore the questions that keep us up at night. David weaves his own reflections into these visionary worlds, creating characters who — whether human or synthetic — feel like people we know, facing truths we all share.

PARTNER UP: Writing these stories is a labor of love. If my words resonated with you today and you’d like to help me keep these worlds spinning, I’d be honored to have your support.

🚀 Fuel the next iteration

His flockmates so much larger, his self-worth so much worse. Made to feel inferior, he could never make his mark, nor forget his place, not even for a moment.

But when a man came along and cooked the others up, and served them with dumplings over rice, Philip found it better to be small, after all, than not at all.

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The Premise: A reformed addict spots his struggling, younger self in a desperate stranger before a flight to Tokyo, only to realize that trying to save the young man is a distraction from his own risky behavior. For Fans Of: Lost in Translation meets Beautiful Boy; a grounded look at the gritty reality of recovery. The Context: We often try to fix others to avoid looking at the cracks in our own foundation. When a mid-flight gambling meltdown forces a raw, vulnerable connection between two strangers , it exposes the trap of the "savior complex". This story is an honest, neighborly reminder that true healing sometimes requires the courage to admit you still need guidance yourself. Why Read: If you’ve ever poured your energy into someone else's problems to dodge your own, this down-to-earth narrative will hit right at home. The Runtime: ~6 minute read.

The fat young guy was really going at it—playing Russian roulette with a heart attack on the line, just to prove he could go there. He was huffing and wheezing, pushing dangerously beyond his meager lung capacity.

Was I really like that? How many years ago? Before I met…

He stopped his own workout for a quick water slosh, examining his bicep progress as he reflected back. Five-mile runs, no prep. No prep for the five-minute quickies, either. Everything was risk.

Punishing himself so much, emotionally, physically, and every other way—pain was the only path he felt safe with.

He could feel that pain radiating out of the fat guy in the intensive over-efforting, the facial expressions. The self-flagellation.

He knew how hard it was too, to do it right. But killing yourself minute after excruciating minute for a timed, miserable half-hour wasn’t going to do it.

“Trust me, you’ll quit,” he said under his breath.

Anyone would. I almost did a million times.

He was aching to advise.

“No, Yuri,” he told himself, still muttering aloud, this time not to judge, but to imprint the reminder.

“We help those who are ready. When it aligns. Not until, and not before.”

The lessons flooded back. The mistakes.

The men he did a disservice to, forcing his will on them. And allowing others to do the same to him. Enmeshed in unhealthy savior relationships, not even knowing they were wrong. Not knowing enough to trust that the underlying shame was his own integrity, showing him the way out.

And then there were the setbacks.

Not just last year. He remembered the business travel through Southeast Asia, changing environments, availability of food that he was familiar with and exercise that he liked. Came and went. He tried new things. But even so, he gained.

It took a few months, a new environment with a beautiful city-center lake, and healthy food options to finally set him on the right path. It wasn’t easy.

And stepping on that scale again, as his mentor had always suggested. That was key.

It’s just data. Get it and use it.

You can’t possibly turn things around if you don’t know what’s going on. He criticized others for the same thing, and here he was, reluctant to step on the scale.

He was in central Bangkok. Every convenience store had a scale out front for a price of a one-baht coin. He balked. But he did it. And it stung for a little while. But it also motivated him. He wasn’t as heavy as he thought he might have been.

Getting back on track is always a one-day-at-a-time thing. It’s so easy to be judgmental of others when you have to find a way yourself. His sensei had always been loving and kind about that. It’s intuitive, even though he was a thin man who probably never had an overweight day in his life.

Thank God his sensei had always been there, to offer support as well as perspective. Without forcing his view, either. He demonstrated by example, simply giving him the space he needed to prove how ready he was. And only then, when asked, did he offer direction.

No unsolicited advice. That was the requirement. But that didn’t stop Yuri from advising the heavy man in his mind.

Do some light cardio. A nice leisurely stretch. Relax a bit, get a feel for the rhythm of the place. It’s a far better approach. Try and feel into your body, see what feels tight, what feels good when you move it. Better yet, get the hell out of the gym and find a park to do a long stretchy walk or a casual bike ride.

I know. I hate seeing my own unwanted folds. Less obvious than before, perhaps, but still emotionally gutting.

But such damage doesn’t go away. Not overnight. And never entirely.

But you can do this. If I did, anyone can.

*

He’s so like me, Yuri thought as he pushed the gym doors wide and stepped into an oven. The sun, not even mid-morning intensity yet, radiated so powerfully that he changed his plans. No walking today, not at the risk of an ocular migraine.

As always with a sudden change of plans, he felt a compulsion to get some caffeine in first. He looked around, but saw no familiar signage. An image of the hotel coffeemaker flashed into his head, but the excitement sank when the literal and figurative weight of his suitcase reminded him of the early check-out, specifically to get in an hour at the gym.

C’est la vie.

As he contemplated his next move, a jet roared overhead. In that same distracted second, he was bumped hard from behind. He very nearly took a tumble down the steps, barely catching his balance on the very suitcase he’d just been lamenting.

Stunned rather than angry, he nonetheless almost called something out, but the jet noise made it a futile notion. Instead, he stared at the back of that overweight gym-mate as he stumbled his way across the street and into a youth hostel.

The place had seen better days. Paint peeling off, and a hand-scrawled sign offering an extremely cheap monthly rate. Yuri remembered all the times he stayed in places like that, and worse.

He was fortunate that his accommodations of late were of a higher standard, though he was far from extravagant when it came to spending. Just down the road where he’d checked out, he’d had a clean environment, and nicer scenery. Another jet screaming overhead reminded him that a few minutes down the road could be more peaceful, as well.

Hailing a cab, he hefted his bag easily into the trunk and climbed in, still lost in thought about those past versions of himself the fat guy at the gym reminded him of.

Not the version I like to tell people about, is it? The one I try to forget. The one who still flinches when the old ways creep back in, too painful to ignore. Those times are closer than I like to think. As close as the next binge. The next slot machine. The next caffeine fix, even.

His perspective shifting, he voice-texted Suzumi, expressing his excitement at finally catching up. He wondered if his old spiritual advisor would respond. Probably not. A man of few words, that was a part of the allure.

Not Yuri, though. After sending the message, he began typing out his thoughts on the man he wished he could have helped, as if they were already bound together for the work.

Wishful thinking?

Perhaps. But it felt right.

‘It takes courage to go for it. Guts and determination. And he wants to succeed, that’s obvious. Nobody puts themselves through that unless they have a serious side, a never-say-die mentality. That could serve him well once he gets into the swing. We could start with relaxation and mindfulness. Mindful eating. He must be malnourished. His complexion hinted at toxicity beyond mere diet. Prescriptions, alcohol, hygiene, sleep difficulty.’

The number of unhealthy self-soothing mechanisms were endless. Turning all that around was daunting, to say the least.

He recalled his struggles at a younger age, and what it took to get him to where he was now. A mentor had played a front-and-center role, once he was finally ready. In fact, he was on his way to visit that very senpai now. In truth, he was more a sensei than senpai, though they never delved much into the formalities. He was a friend, first and foremost.

A sushi master by trade, Keisuke Suzumi had taken Yuri’s reckless younger self under his wing in a way that bonded them, and helped them both, when all had seemed lost.

Though a Westerner, and surely of the defiant sort, he took to the role of kohai more readily than he ever might have if not for the intense level of respect his fishmonger senpai commanded. So much so that he would travel half-a-world away just to pay his respects, upon his master’s retirement. This trip had been in the works for ages. Now it was finally here.

A smile broke out on his face when the ON TIME message flashed across the departure board. Spotting the destination and the gate, HND 21, his journey to Tokyo’s Haneda Airport finally felt real. It was always this way. Surreal, and as if it would disappear into the mist, right up until the bags were checked. He looked around for a Starbucks.

*

The flight wasn’t so full, and it looked as if he might luck out. Two seats still free, and most everyone already onboard. But a latecomer appeared just as the cabin was settling in. A familiar, ruddy face.

His friend from the gym, struggling to force his way down the aisle, making no attempt to apologize to the people he was bumping. Yuri looked around, and realized there were no other seating options. He felt a tug of annoyance, which gave way to curiosity as he watched the display.

With a massive huff, the man tossed his dusty carry-bag up, then plopped down hard into the seat and started sucking in painful, labored breaths. Then, struggles with the belt. The flight attendants had to scramble. Though he claimed it was unnecessary, his voice an irritated hiss, they insisted. He put on the extension.

Though he was clearly taking up double-space, they didn’t insist that he pay for an additional seat. The man watched in relief as what could have been an embarrassing argument turned into a pleasant enough, solution-based encounter. Their professionalism was admirable. The man’s agitation, though, left little room for gratitude.

He spent half the flight snacking from a grocery store bag under the seat, then whipped out a credit card and proceeded to play online poker, swearing and poking at his phone harder the more he lost.

Yuri could feel the angst and knew exactly where it led. He couldn’t see the screen, but he knew the bets were increasing by the intensity of the audible groans which reflected a mounting sense of out-of-control dismay.

Finally, the man paused. More to the point, he froze. Staring blankly down at the phone, Yuri knew without a doubt that the money had run out. And he knew the exact sense of dread within his seat partner that would fast flash into outright panic.

He wasn’t expecting what came next, however. The man began fishing around in his pockets, bumping obliviously into Yuri and pushing his seat back deep into the row behind.

He pulled out a few crumpled dollars, fished some more, and came up with two crisp 10,000 yen notes.

“Hey,” he said, a suddenly friendly smile crossing his face, “you want to make some quick cash? I’ll give you all this if you toss me a lifeline here. I just need a hundred dollars, and this is worth way more.”

He waved the money lazily, as if it were nothing to him. Then he grabbed at the small pile of American money and clutched it all together.

“The dollars too. I’ll give you all of it. I just need you to authorize your card.”

Yuri realized what was being asked, and at the same moment, realized he didn’t have the usual ‘I don’t have one’ out, as he had used his card to pay for a coffee.

“Well,” Yuri began carefully, “I would, but what will you do for money? Japanese ATMs cost a fortune, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s fine. I just need a quick game here and I’ll cash in after I win. I can get it in crypto. It’s all good.”

“Is it?”

They made eye contact for the first time, and Yuri fought back a gasp. The pain behind those eyes was so deep, so familiar, that he felt as if he’d flashed back into his own version of hell. He knew those eyes. That pain. The lids flickered and there was water building, and for the first time, he saw a vulnerability. This man was ready.

“Here,” Yuri said, thumbing his card, “just call up the screen, and I’ll enter it myself. But I don’t need any cash.”

The man looked stunned, then a flash of annoyance as he tried to figure out what kind of scam was being pulled on him.

“You for real?”

Yuri nodded. “I’ve been there. I know how it is. And I know if I don’t help you someone else will, and they’ll take all your cash. I can’t have that on my conscience, because it happened to me more than once, and you don’t want that in a foreign country.”

“Happened to you?”

Yuri nodded, smiling slightly this time. “Wound up sleeping in an alleyway in Da Nang, woke up with a rat chewing on my arm.”

Any normal person would have scoffed at the insinuation that a borrowed credit card might lead to such a thing, but Yuri could see that this man had experienced similar trauma. And that he feared it happening again. He decided to ask the gentle question, just once.

“Do you want to know how I turned things around?”

It was the man’s turn to nod. He looked transfixed. And desperate.

The gift of desperation.

“I learned there’s never any payoff. Not ever. Only losses. Again, and again.”

Silence. Both their eyes were filling up with tears.

“Do you want me to help you?”

There was a long pause before the man whispered “Yes,” and slowly put away his phone.

They discussed potential solutions for an hour, napped, and when they woke, there was a bond.

The rest of the flight was uneventful. They discussed their excitement about landing in the Far East so early. The whole day stretched ahead of them. The younger man, on his first overseas adventure. A job offer which had landed him in the capital of Japan.

“A good deal, if I could just make the most of it.”

“You will,” the senpai responded in a warm, supportive affirmation.

He asked for advice, and so they decided to discuss the future on arrival, over breakfast. As the plane descended into the pre-dawn darkness of the Kanto Plains, the pair had moved their heads closer together and shoulders inward, blocking out the restless sleep-sounds of their fellow travelers. It was as if they’d been friends for ages, though even with the confusion of a half-world of time zones behind them they’d still not known each other a full twenty-four yet.

“Let’s see…on day one we arrive at 5:30 in the a.m., we can catch a train straight away, get a nice early start. We’ll hit that old fish market where you can get sushi for breakfast, I’m sure you’ve heard of it? No? Anyway, jet lag will be setting in so we won’t be too hungry, but it’ll do us good to have a light breakfast.”

The other man was nodding, taking mental notes, and appreciating the gentle guidance in his new friend’s tone.

Yuri realized he was falling into oration, and checked himself.

Not too much at once, he thought. There was more than enough time once they got into town and met up with Suzumi-senpai. They’d have more to say together, anyway, and the thought of sharing the work lit him up with anticipation.

He almost fooled himself into believing that would be enough. That bringing in a new apprentice would allow him to sit back, and not examine his own troubles. He’d been avoiding thinking about that ever since finalizing a trip he’d realized was necessary. More necessary than he liked having to remind himself just now. So he hadn’t.

Until the flight attendant passed with the beverage cart, and he reached for that credit card again, ready to pay an exorbitant price for ‘just one more before landing’. Nevermind it had already dehydrated him, and left him trying to ignore a worsening headache.

He’d found himself relying on it more and more, until he’d realized it was time for a return to basics. A return to Japan. A return to the practices which had saved him from far deadlier vices.

That slippery slope was already underfoot. Looking at his newfound friend, and the pain he was in, hadn’t served as the reminder it should have.

His own pain had to do it for him, like always.

“There’s an old friend who runs a shop there,” Yuri continued, a meeker tone emerging with a more humble smile.

“Someone I’d like you to meet. I’m going there to get some advice from him, maybe he can help us both.”

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AUTHOR BIO: David Deane Haskell writes where the futuristic meets the familiar. Blending ultra-modern landscapes with the gritty realities of personal struggles, his stories explore the questions that keep us up at night. David weaves his own reflections into these visionary worlds, creating characters who — whether human or synthetic — feel like people we know, facing truths we all share.

PARTNER UP: Writing these stories is a labor of love. If my words resonated with you today and you’d like to help me keep these worlds spinning, I’d be honored to have your support.

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🧠 Note: This fringe report was assembled in collaboration with an AI researcher trained on source material garnered from original manuscripts and associated cultural records. The serialized novel itself, The Technoquatics, authored by David Deane Haskell, remains the only official canon.
This companion analysis is intended for deep readers, speculative thinkers, and those willing to examine what lies beneath the sanctioned narrative.
Canon-adjacent. Interpret at your own risk.
Due to the sensitive nature of this material, access is restricted to paid subscribers.

Pre-Submersion Relics: Fringe Analysis

Echoes from the Abyss: A Fringe Researcher's Annotated Review of Pre-Submersion Relics and Metaphysical Resonances

I. Introduction: The Veil of the Submersion

The world as known by the Technoquatic populace of The Shallows is one of engineered adaptation and controlled existence. This technologically advanced underwater city stands as a monument to human resilience following the catastrophic events of the "Great Dying" and the subsequent "Submersion". Citizens, such as the young Calistya, are deeply reliant on mechanical solutions like "full-gill enhancement" to navigate their aquatic environment, a stark contrast to the natural world that surrounds them. Yet, beneath the hum of hydro-grids and the glow of bioluminescent urban planning, fragmented whispers persist—tales of a forgotten "surface" and "land-dwellers" that hint at a past fundamentally different from their current reality. These accounts are often dismissed as mere "tall tales" or childish fantasies, underscoring a pervasive societal disconnect from their origins.

The official Technoquatic narrative is meticulously crafted to maintain "societal equilibrium at all costs". This is evident in the sophisticated crisis management systems, such as the "calming escalation of alert hues," designed to prevent widespread panic and control public perception during emergencies. Any inquiries that challenge this established history or venture into forbidden topics are typically deflected or dismissed. The persistent questions posed by Khrystal, a student, regarding their restricted existence and the unexplored open sea, are met with polite but firm redirection by her teacher, Mr. Albi. This systemic aversion to inconvenient truths shapes the very fabric of their perceived reality.

As a fringe researcher specializing in ancient mer-cultures and forgotten cognitive phenomena, my work often involves piecing together fragmented accounts, dismissed theories, and suppressed records. This report is an attempt to lay bare some of these unsettling truths, drawing connections that official channels refuse to acknowledge. My very existence, often labeled as a "crackpot" by figures of authority , is a testament to the societal resistance against such inquiries. The evidence presented herein suggests that the Submersion was not merely a physical retreat but a profound, almost spiritual, re-orientation of humanity. The narrative indicates that humanity was "forced... to become creatures of the sea". However, the subsequent emergence of "true merfolk," known as Solarians, possessing natural gills and innate telepathic abilities, existing alongside the technologically dependent Technoquatics, points to the Submersion as a catalyst for divergent evolutionary paths. This implies a deeper, possibly pre-ordained, split in human destiny, where some lineages embraced an organic, resonant existence, while others pursued a technological, engineered one. This suggests a metaphysical "reset" or an unlocking of latent potentials in response to extreme environmental pressure, leading to distinct ontological states of being.

Furthermore, the "forgotten surface" is more than just a source of physical ruins. While ancient power stations are indeed tangible relics , the narrative also alludes to "stories and legends about extended human families up there" and the existence of "ancient-text libraries". Crucially, Ms. Terri references "Pre-Pelagic" texts that describe "great migrations" where some humans "fled to the stars, while others took to the seas". This suggests that the "forgotten surface" is a vast repository of lost knowledge concerning human origins, capabilities, and perhaps even alternative evolutionary paths that fundamentally challenge the Technoquatic self-perception. The active suppression of this knowledge by the authorities is therefore critical for the maintenance of the current Technoquatic societal structure and its chosen reality.

II. Relics of a Forgotten Surface: Whispers of the Old World

Along the desolate shores, "rotting" remnants of "power stations" stand as silent sentinels, once capable of driving "entire ancient cities". These colossal structures are widely dismissed by Technoquatic society as dangerous and excessive, symbols of a misguided and destructive past. The prevailing fear extends to a "hard and fast rule against fossil energy," a direct consequence of the

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The Premise: A father’s obsession with an immersive augmented reality game spirals from harmless distraction into a deadly cycle of neglect, proving that the ultimate cost of "winning" might be the only life that actually matters. For Fans Of: Black Mirror meets Beautiful Boy (or Uncut Gems for the sheer anxiety). The Context: While the setting is a near-future techno-dystopia, the mechanism here is timeless: dissociation. This story acts as a visceral metaphor for the loops we get stuck in to avoid pain, and explicitly illustrates "generational trauma"—how we inadvertently teach our children our own dangerous coping mechanisms. Why Read: If you have ever caught yourself doom-scrolling to numb out, or worry about the habits you are modeling for your children, this story is a necessary, dark mirror. The Runtime: 6 min.

I haven’t eaten in days. Over the weekend I stopped and scarfed a bag of burgers, but that only happened because my phone died. When I plug it in it takes a few. So I ate.

On Monday I dipped into my shrinking cash reserves for extra battery packs. But my heart still thunked into my ribcage at the thought of going dark again, so I got another phone, too. Plus I can use the second one as a tracker, so I don’t have to take my eyes off the first.

Anyway, haven’t eaten since then. Honestly not sure if I drank water either, although I must have, I think, during a bathroom break sometime. Swigged some when I splashed my face. My brain’s somewhere else the whole time—no recall. But yeah, I probably did. Or else I just don’t get thirsty anymore. Maybe that’s what true dehydration feels like? Would I even know?

I have managed to take care of my hygiene, mostly, though I can feel that slipping as well. Sometimes I’m too exhausted, so I flop into bed a sweaty mess. If I keep going, I’ll stop bathing soon. I haven’t brushed my teeth much—once every few days. I’ve considered cutting back on bathroom breaks by getting waterproof gear. The thought crossed my mind, and didn’t even sicken me. Except that would tap me out, and I need every last nickel to feed my addiction. So I have to.

I’ve caused accidents more and more lately. Poles and pedestrians, even a few cars. The sidewalk scrapes were bump and bruise, but what happened on the street was near-fatal. Altercations, too, some that I barely got out of with my face intact. Quick to aggression at the start, I’d come to and back down when things got thorny, so I never got into any outright brawls—but one of these days...anything, when it comes to furthering the game.

Then there were the run-ins with cops. Not only did I fail to notice them when I should’ve—when they’d call for my attention I’d keep ignoring them, hoping they’d go away.

You can see how jacked my state of mind is, that I’d even think such a thing was possible.

Once they had me, there wasn’t much I could do. I had to look up and pretend to pay attention, even with my mind a million miles away. They could tell, and it pissed them off, but I also came off a little batshit, so they went easier than they could’ve. Probably the only thing that saved me from jail.

My tightest escape involved a harrowing few minutes when a cop tried to flag me down. I sped up to avoid him, but he made a run at me and nearly took me out. There might’ve been a gun, too. I remember a glint. He would’ve been within his rights, too—I was flat-out resisting arrest.

The danger didn’t even cross my mind. I had to keep playing, that was all my mind was looping on. On pure instinct, I was trying to get away before he had a chance to stop the game.

It took a few minutes to realize what I’d done, and with that cold recognition of danger came enough fear to stop me. I went home, my chest pounding. The one-and-only time I put a stop to my own madness.

I can’t say for sure how long I’d been at it when that happened. Felt like years, but it can’t have been more than a few months. I know this because of the news reports, how the game was soon to become available for wide release after a successful beta, and how any interested players had better log on early and get a codename—the good ones were going fast.

Just months, from entertaining distraction to death-by-cop flirtations. Because at first it was a blast. I was advancing fast and having fun.

I bested my neighbors, then my whole town. Soon I was regional champ, riding high.

It’s strictly a game of chance, so it wasn’t like there was any strategy involved. Just like a casino, the only ones really in control are the owners. But that didn’t matter. I was playing so much I had a winning percentage, better than most, and that was enough.

Those were heady times, before the obsession took hold. I felt confident in my ability to play without difficulty. Despite the breathless reports of early adopters, those lucky few selected to beta-test, along with some who cheated their way in, I wasn’t convinced. Far from the fear of a relentless addiction taking hold, I wasn’t even sure if I’d like the damned thing.

With a history of obsessive gaming that landed me in Gamblers Anonymous, you’d be right in wondering why I started at all. It seems insane, looking back, but this wasn’t a casino. There was no money involved. Not exactly. They suck you in in other ways.

I created my own downsides, though, completely foreign to most normal, casual gamers. Even the obsessive ones would cringe at my lunacy.

For one, I’m deathly afraid of losing my place, of having my scores and winnings erased by some server glitch or cyberattack. So I take it to extremes. I’ve even gone to the point of date-stamping my progress on a daily basis, screen-capturing my status and backing it up to multiple servers. All so I’ll have proof to send in if the worst should happen.

I even considered delving into the proprietary code, data-mining my account so the raw numbers would be there for me to provide them, should the need occur. Once I started looking into that idea, though, the legal ramifications smacked me in the face, causing such a panic attack that I didn’t dare log in with my primary account for a full two hours, just to make sure they weren’t monitoring my online activities side-by-side.

The first time I stumbled onto a game hack, I was crushed. It was like finding all your presents ten days before Christmas, tucked in the corner of your Dad’s study. And worse than that, you’re sure there are a few too many to be just from Mom and Dad. But you hope beyond hope that you’re wrong, because if you’re right, it ruins everything.

That’s what the hack represented. It ruined everything. Any remaining fun I might’ve had would be ruined. It would be too easy. There would be no challenge. The thrill of the hunt was gone.

Addict that I was, I bounced back quickly and with a vengeance. So what if I cheat? I can win that much more quickly, right? I can score higher, advance faster, and beat the game like no one ever before. I threw myself back into the obsession full bore, and things got even worse.

It got so that when the hack was patched, I was pissed. Upset when it turned up, upset when it was taken away. By then I was, literally, never satisfied. Right around that time I started having serious issues with hyperventilating. That sense of panic when you don’t have enough time? That was me, every minute. I couldn’t even sit, I stood up most of the time, like I had somewhere to go.

It’s amazing I can write this at all, given that I’ve still got the bug real bad. I guess writing about it is sort of connected to being there, so my brain halfway accepts it. I can’t explain why, but it works like that.

Somewhere along the line, I lost touch with humanity. The real world encroachment happened first. Either people would try and help to the point where I lashed out, at which point they would withdraw, or else I’d simply cease communicating with them. Friends first, then family.

Last to go were my allies in the game. Either I ignored them until they went away, or else my obsession soured them. I can’t say as I blame them. I was in it for myself, and I was sacrificing them left and right to suit my ends. I was constantly switching sides, lining up with those I thought would best suit my goals. They were good natured about it for a while, but it grew old. Finally I was left to hunt my whale alone.

My immediate family, my boy and my wife, were still around, but I wasn’t in a space to acknowledge their presence, let alone act as father or husband. The really crazy thing is, they were playing with me for a while. Those allies I talked about? My wife and kid were among them. We even had a good time of it for a while. They seemed as into it as I was, or at least somewhat close. They even played when I was out doing other things—back when I did other things. And we’d get together and compare notes, praised each other for good moves and for advancing the cause. And we even did other things in between the gameplay, just like a regular family. Out and about and having a good time. Getting some sun, exercising, exploring. It was great.

But they dropped off eventually, just like everyone else. First physically, when they tired of the game, and then emotionally when they tired of me still playing it.

I wasn’t worth talking to anymore, so they stopped trying. At some point we were just ignoring each other, a trio of strangers sharing a room. They stayed connected with each other for a time, ignoring me, but even that grew strained—I made things untenable for anyone trying to live in that house.

They finally left. I knew it was final when they said their goodbyes in the virtual space, too. Even after I tuned out the real world, I was still reachable in there, until the family was gone. After that, even virtual interaction became untenable for me. The game took over completely.

I started ignoring messages from people I used to enjoy responding to, and when even the alerts started interfering, I tuned those out too. All but the vital ones. For that, I used a specially designed filter—only strictly game-related messages were allowed in. Nobody could reach me. I was lost to the world. And still I played, even if I didn’t know why anymore. Nothing mattered but the game.

Post Script

They say you learn your lesson when the pain gets great enough. That’s a hard false. Even the death of my girl didn’t knock any sense into me.

Not even that.

It was my fault, too. She, like me, had taken to the game, then taken it to an obsessive end. I thought she hadn’t gone to my extremes. That she wouldn’t. I wasn’t worried about her, more knotted up in my own issues, my own pain. But I should’ve known. Should’ve seen it coming. She was so much like me.

She was using one of my techniques, a dangerous maneuver that I never should’ve been doing, never mind showing my kid. She copied her old man and paid the price. Now tell me how you live with that.

And you know the real kicker? I still haven’t quit. That’s how powerless I am. Oh, I did for a while. Swore off. Stayed away. Even started to build an existence back for a few months after the funeral. But I couldn’t stay away, not in the end. And if losing her didn’t stop me, nothing will. It’s exacted such a price already, I’ll be playing catch-up forever. The pleasure’s gone, obsession is all that remains.

It owns me now.

She deserved the life I robbed her of, so now I rob myself of life to make up for it. Not with a quick suicide, no—much as I’d thought about it. That’d be too easy. Instead I waste away, endlessly absorbed, till it drains me dry.

But only if I don’t win first.

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AUTHOR BIO: David Deane Haskell writes where the futuristic meets the familiar. Blending ultra-modern landscapes with the gritty realities of personal struggles, his stories explore the questions that keep us up at night. David weaves his own reflections into these visionary worlds, creating characters who — whether human or synthetic — feel like people we know, facing truths we all share.

JOIN THE JOURNEY: Writing these stories is a labor of love. If my words resonated with you today and you’d like to help me keep these worlds spinning, I’d be honored to have your support.

🚀 Fuel the next iteration

🧠 TOP SECRET // EYES ONLY
This intelligence summary was reconstructed in collaboration with an AI telepathic analysis agent trained on sealed archives, psychic residue patterns, and source material from The Technoquatics. The serialized novel—authored solely by David Deane Haskell—remains the only official canon.

This document is a classified companion file, intended for advanced readers tracking anomalies at the edge of known cognition.
Canon-adjacent. Interpret at your own risk.
Due to the nature of this data, access is restricted to paid subscribers cleared for deep-field psychic review.

Technoquatic Telepathy: Suppressed Analysis

TOP SECRET // EYES ONLY // FILE XR-774

Subject: Analysis of Anomalous Psychic Phenomena and Suspected Mental Influence Operations within Technoquatic Territories (Codename: SOLARIA ECHO)

Section 1: Introduction: Emergence of Anomalous Cognitive Signatures

This document constitutes a formal review of anomalous cognitive signatures and suspected mental influence operations observed within Technoquatic territories. Recent escalations, most notably the emergence of the Solarian juvenile designated Subject KYLE and the unprecedented biological and psychic transformation of the Technoquatic orphan, Subject CALISTYA , have necessitated this inquiry. These events occur against a historical backdrop of persistent, though officially unacknowledged, rumors pertaining to "mindreaders" , accounts of "ancient wisdom that seemed to come from the sea" , and certain unexplained societal stasis, such as the consistent non-expansion of Technoquatic settlements beyond established continental shelf limits.

Previous investigations into such phenomena, where they exist in accessible archives, have been largely inconclusive or were archived under special access protocols, limiting comprehensive understanding. The concurrent appearance of an overt Solarian operative (Kyle) and a Technoquatic individual undergoing spontaneous Solarian metamorphosis (Calistya) strongly suggests a potential destabilization of the long-standing, covert equilibrium—often referred to in restricted circles as a "cold stalemate" —between Technoquatic civilization and the deeper, unacknowledged Solarian society. Kyle's presence represents a significant breach of established Solarian secrecy protocols, while Calistya's transformation is a biological event without precedent in Technoquatic medical or historical records. The proximity of these occurrences implies a shift in the underlying conditions that have historically maintained the separation and mutual ignorance between these two cultures. This shift may be attributed to external pressures, such as The Shallows' increasingly assertive resource exploration initiatives, or to internal dynamics within Solarian society, exemplified by Kyle's own adventurous and rule-breaking tendencies.

The very commissioning of this SOLARIA ECHO investigation points towards a critical deficiency in past and current Technoquatic intelligence frameworks. These frameworks have evidently failed to adequately address, or perhaps even to formally acknowledge, the psychic dimension inherent in Technoquatic-Solarian interactions. Had such phenomena been properly understood and openly analyzed, the current reactive posture might have been averted. This suggests a systemic blind spot, possibly cultivated over generations, regarding the true nature and capabilities of the inhabitants of "The Deep." The current crisis, therefore, is not merely a consequence of recent events but is rooted in a prolonged history of dismissal or deliberate suppression of vital intelligence, as explored in subsequent sections of this report.

Section 2: Documented Manifestations of Telepathic Capabilities

The phenomena under investigation are characterized by diverse and potent telepathic capabilities, observed in Solarian individuals, the transforming Subject CALISTYA, and, increasingly, among certain Technoquatic individuals.

Case Study: Subject KYLE (Solarian Juvenile) Subject KYLE has demonstrated a range of telepathic abilities. Direct thought projection has been documented, with clear messages conveyed to Technoquatic individuals without audible speech. Examples include

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Then, the damned replacement only lasted ten months after that! Sounds petty maybe, but it hits different when you’re already on the ground. The breakup. The silence. The fact that the one thing helping me shut out the noise shit the bed twice? That hurts.

So then the asshole at the shop says I’m shit out of luck, ‘cause the original one year warranty is past—even though we’ve gone through two units! What the fuck? And why are they standing behind such pieces of shit anyway, right?

Fuck them!

I’d leave a bad review, but that wouldn’t make any difference.

The thing about shitty products is, you never know if you can rely on the reviews either, because these companies spend beaucoup dollars keeping up appearances, and who the fuck knows if that means greasing the reviewers from time to time. Fuck, for all we know it could be their own employees writing the shit, although with the ‘guaranteed purchase’ verification and all it’d have to be a pretty shady operation to go that far. That’s borderline fraud right there. But still, there are other ways. Paid shills. Kickbacks for nice words. You know.

So anyway, there you have it. I’m out a pair of headphones and I haven’t got the cash for another, so I’m just going to have to suffer.

Or maybe I’ll go shoplift a pair.

That’s an option.

Not a real good one though, what with the way they’ve got the anti-theft shit set up these days. And that’s another thing. The companies ought to invest a little more in un-shittifying their merchandise, and a little less worrying about protecting against ‘lifters snatching up their little pieces of shit. Am I right?

I probably won’t risk it, at any rate. Which means I’m going silent for a while, and that sucks. I do way too much thinking in silence. For some that’s a good thing, I suppose. Not for me. I’m better off drowning out my brain with white noise, the louder the better.

Silence is like death to me. The death of the comfortable, or something. I think maybe that’s exactly how you feel the second you die. Like all the silence in the world is crashing in on you. Deafening. Crushing. Endless quiet.

Fuck that. I want the noise.

I didn’t used to mind so much. Not when I was younger. I’d sit by the lake or a tree or whatever. Not totally silent, though. Always water sounds. Nature sounds. Something. It’s never a hundred percent quiet. Some machine noise or traffic or planes are always out there, heard even if unseen. You just tune it out. I’m just more about tuning everything out, that’s all. Besides, when I was younger I didn’t fear my thoughts so much.

But now I do.

Fuck it, I’m lifting one. It’s not that big of a risk, if I’m careful. And it’s karmic, too, so it’s not like the universe’ll be looking to punish me for it. I’ll be stealing from the ones who fucked me over, and that’s fair, isn’t it? I’d say so, yeah. And while I’m at it, I’ll add to their pain a little more. You know, like Trump says—always get even. And then some.

So who says I’ve got to stick to the pair they screwed me over? Hell, they’ve got *way* higher end shit I could go for. Thousand dollar products, not these pieces of shit that are liable to crap out on my ass, just like the last two.

Fuck it, I’m going for broke. And while I’m at it, I might as well get some more shit I’ve always wanted. In for a penny, right?

What else do I need?

A couple portable batteries, maybe. Some high capacity flash storage. I’d say a tablet computer, too, but they keep *that* shit locked up. I’m surprised they don’t do the same with earphones, too, but aside from placement it shouldn’t be that hard to lift a pair. Or three.

I’ve got friends don’t I? And they’d like a nice pair, too, I’d imagine. Why not lift a whole set of ‘em, get everyone hooked up while I’m at it. Now that’s karma, y’ask me. Bigtime. Just thinking about it’s giving me a chub.

And it’s been a while since I felt any blood moving. It’s starting to feel like something’s finally going right. Like the scales of justice are tipping in my direction, you know? Instead of landing on my skull.

I snap to my senses. I’m getting ahead of myself. First off, I can’t carry all that much at once. Secondly, I want to make sure and get what I’m entitled to first, so even if it means risking two trips, I’m not taking any chances. Get the ones they owe me first, same ones or similar ones. Something to make up for my pain and suffering. After that, I’ll think about the rest.

I walk the store fence twice, getting a read on where the doors and cameras are, and which direction I should bolt if things go bad. If the shit hits the fan inside, I can handle it with the fear factor, but once I’m out I need to disappear fast. There’s no way I’m going to get surrounded by LEOs and shoot my way out. Death by cop isn’t the plan here.

I walk hoodie up, hands in pockets. Not because I’m cold, but so I don’t get recorded before I even do anything. It hits me with a wave of anxiety that I’m making myself obvious already, but I need to see the place, don’t I?

Then I feel my phone in my pocket, and the stupidity just washes over. I could’ve hung back, like way back, and video recorded the whole damned place for later study. Why in the hell am I walking the fence where the recorders are?

Anyway, I’m halfway committed and already there, so I peer in. Through the glass, I see the ones I want. The ones they owe me. Same brand, same box. They didn’t even move the display since I went in there to bitch them out. Right near the door. Should be easy as fuck. I look for the clerk I know, but he’s not there. Looks like a tall skinny high school type, zits and a bored expression with the hunched shoulders. I’m guessing he’d look the other way, even if he halfway suspected me. The fuck does he care if the store gets ripped off, right?

Do it now. Get it over with.

My heart’s thudding like I just sprinted, even though my fence walk had been purposefully slow. My palms are wet. My jaw’s clenched tight enough for my teeth to start hurting.

I don’t even know what I’m waiting for. A sign? A distraction?

Maybe I just want my body to move without having to ask.

While I’m standing there, some guy walks out with a new pair in his hand, swinging the bag. He looks like someone who never had to worry. Like he already forgot the money’s gone, and wouldn’t give a fuck either way. Like he didn’t have to work for it. Like he was okay.

This shit was for him. Not me. These things are extras—I have practical shit to worry about.

This ain’t yours, a voice in my head says. It never was in the first place.

I press my hand to the glass—just for a second. Then I turn and walk away, faster than I wanted to.

Not now, I think. Maybe not ever. But God damn did I want to.

I go home and start taking care of things. I’ve got a lot to do. Coming off a nasty breakup, my place is in a state. She grabbed half on her way out, which I agreed to, but because I wasn’t home when she did it, she took the better half of everything. That’s another one I should seek out for some karmic revenge, but honest to God I really don’t even want to see her again. I just wanna not be where I’m at. Surrounded by old, broken shit.

Maybe it’s not all that stuff I want. Maybe I just want something to feel fair for once. Like the world didn’t get away with it this time. Like I matter. Maybe.

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Author bio: David Haskell is a fusion writer who’s impossible to pin down. Want new age future-vision with a deep dive into the human psyche? Tales that reverbarate through fact and fantasy and back again? Always with that undeniable kind of truth we can still find, even in this fucked up, post-truth world?

David’s stories drill into the lives of introspective characters (real ones, and ones who feel almost real) and illuminate the thought-provoking themes that keep us up at night. His settings range from ultra-modern A.I. life with fantastical future backdrops, to dark places in real life where he hesitated to return—but had to. David weaves personal reflections into his stories, creating a reading experience that blends relatably human reflections with deeply personal truths. Truths that you may well share.

I hope you loved Shopping for Revenge. If my style resonates, read Emergence next, my expansive scifi novel where artificial intelligence dreams, memories endure, and identity finds a new, unyielding path.👉 Emergence by David Haskell

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🧠 TOP SECRET // EYES ONLY
This field report was compiled in collaboration with an AI historian trained on source material from The Technoquatics and related cultural records. The serialized novel—written solely by David Deane Haskell—remains the only official canon.

This document offers canon-adjacent insight for readers tracking suppressed patterns in Technoquatic development and contact history.
Interpret at your own risk.
Due to the sensitive nature of this material, access is restricted to paid subscribers.

The Shallows: Socio-Economic Stratification Analysis

A Socio-Economic Analysis of The Shallows: Structures, Mobility, and Inter-Societal Dynamics

I. Executive Summary

This report presents a comprehensive socio-economic analysis of The Shallows, a technologically advanced Technoquatic city. The investigation reveals a complex societal fabric characterized by deep-seated hierarchical structures, where status is predominantly determined by physical augmentation, functional roles, and ancestral wealth. While theoretical pathways for social mobility exist, practical barriers, particularly economic constraints and institutional biases, severely limit genuine advancement, perpetuating significant economic disparities. The city's reliance on finite internal resources has driven an aggressive expansionist policy, leading to escalating inter-societal tensions with the naturally evolved Solarian communities. Furthermore, the emergence of marginalized "gutterstuck" populations underscores systemic failures in ensuring universal well-being and equitable access to fundamental societal functions. This analysis subtly critiques The Shallows' current trajectory, suggesting that its pursuit of progress and stability often comes at the expense of internal equity and external harmony, potentially undermining its long-term sustainability.

II. Introduction

This report presents a formal socio-economic deep dive into The Shallows, a technologically advanced Technoquatic city. The analysis aims to dissect its intricate social structures, the mechanisms by which status is determined, the theoretical and practical realities of social mobility, the pervasive economic disparities, the dynamics of resource control, and the emergence and implications of marginalized "gutterstuck" communities.

The Shallows represents a unique human civilization, adapted to an underwater existence following a "great ecological collapse" on the surface. The city's design and societal organization are deeply intertwined with its aquatic environment, relying heavily on technological adaptations for survival and daily life. This report is framed as a neutral yet subtly critical thinkpiece, released under the auspices of a body dedicated to societal harmony, aiming to foster understanding and identify areas for systemic improvement within this complex society.

III. Social Stratification and Hierarchical Structures

A. Augmentation as a Primary Status Determinant

The society of The Shallows is fundamentally stratified by physical augmentation, creating a distinct social hierarchy. A primary division exists between "full-gill" individuals and those who remain "non-augmented" or "half-tech". Full-gill individuals possess permanent, technologically advanced enhancements, including a single fin and no legs, enabling a fully aquatic, "3D lifestyle". This advanced state is explicitly contrasted with

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I hit the road, dying to see all those amazing places everyone was always posting about. You know the ones. Those adventure soaked flashy vids of amazing destinations most people only dream of. Far flung islands surrounded by turquoise waters, filmed with the wing of their jet in view, of course.

It’s funny how that proves they’re flying economy, but what can you do? You need the wing in the shot, right? Maybe it was shot backwards.

Those views never end. Every scroll-flick on every screen, everywhere you look. You can’t escape it. Everyone’s showing off their version of perfect, with their perfectly framed, perfectly posed smiling selves, in front of those perfect places the rest should envy.

Except it all changed once I got on the road. My view turned out to be watching them set up their view. Photo shoots, everywhere I turned. And you know what else? Those places weren’t all that great, once I got there. It’s just they all kept all the bad stuff outside the frame.

Funny how easy that is.

It isn’t right. It isn’t healthy. But damn if we haven’t set up the whole world around this glossy-photo lifestyle shit. I’m living proof.

I’ve been crisscrossing the planet a while now, and while the local scenes change, the places where the tourists go are all the same. Local folks always speak the language of money, and the ones funding these adventures are demanding as hell. It’s a real treatise on the haves and the have-nots, really, although the have-nots are the only ones I see chilling out, taking in the views the beautiful people aren’t paying attention to, except to line up their shot.

Yeah, I’ve been going along with it, but I’m not like these people. I don’t carry around equipment and do hair and make-up. I don’t search for perfect locations before I take my envy shots. I’m not as bad as they are, and I’ve been watching. Those people are just extreme.

And when I say extreme, I mean it’s like pro-level, man. The girls all dressed just so. Doing their hair just so. Putting their feet in the water just so.

The most amazing of the spots I was able to check out was the beach from The Beach. Maya Bay in Thailand. What a place.

It was overrun, people trudging this way and that, looking for the perfect spots, with the best backdrops and the perfect rays of sunlight to stand under. Everybody had to get their shots.

But the funny part is, you’re not allowed in the water. And everybody’s going to the water’s edge to try to get their shot, so everybody’s in each other’s frames—messing up this perfect image of being on the most incredible beach in the world by yourself.

Because we weren’t by ourselves. That’s the whole thing.

And all these envy shots that everybody has to take so they can send it back home. “I went there. Aren’t I awesome?”

How cool is that, really? I mean, yes and no, right?

But anyway, you’re not allowed in the water. The guides will scream and blow whistles if you go too far out—and I mean a step or two in. Because they’re trying to keep the place open. The government wants to shut it down because the tourists have overrun this pristine, amazing place.

Which, really, is just a tourist trap. Just like all the rest of these places where we go and we do our photo shoots.

And it’s not quite right when you’re there and watching people do it. But then you go to their Instagram, and boy, does that look amazing. I mean, that looks as professionally done as you might have seen in a glossy magazine 10, 20 years ago.

But did they enjoy their vacation? Did they take in the incredible views they were surrounded by? Or were they more concerned with their perfect shot?

And of course, then there are the influencers. Those are the ones you can really spot. Because they’ve got all the heavy equipment going on. You never see that equipment on their YouTube channel, of course. But they lug it all around.

I do my share of photo shoots as well. Hate to admit it. I wish I could just chill with the locals sometimes. But you gotta keep up. And everyone back home wants to know where I’m at anyway. I can’t disappoint, can I? Even if they don’t respond nearly as much as they used to. Not since I came to within an inch of a very different travel experience.

That was the week I almost sailed off the edge and off the planet, in the Nihn Bihn highlands of Vietnam. Scared me half to death—almost getting run off the road by one of those crazy truckers. I dunno how I missed that cliff, either. I was heading right for it. If I’d gone off the edge, my photoshoots would’ve had to go on without me. But the folks back home, they never knew about my near miss. I made sure the perfect life show went on. No matter how few likes or comments I got after that.

I think my vibe must have changed. The fear, or something. Like it bled into my narrative. Honestly I don’t know if I got a single like after that. Wasn’t like I filmed myself flying off that cliff or anything. I mean, the camera was rolling but I wouldn’t post that. Especially not a live shoot. Can you imagine?

From Bali to Hanoi, from Tokyo to Phuket, and all kinds of spots in-between, I’d seen crash victims hitting the beaches, insisting on pursuing their life of leisure even though you’d think they should stay home and rest. Arms. Legs. Faces. I thought to myself, ‘Man, talk about a rough go. Glad that won’t happen to me.’

They were the only ones skipping the photo shoots, I realized. In fact, I’ll bet you could hop on social media right now and figure out which of your friends got fucked up in a crash on holidays..just from the style of their photo shoot.

If I’d gotten injured from that cliff dive, man. I mean, it was a long way down and that arc was scary. It’s weird that I can remember it, even though it didn’t hurt me. I even remember thinking, ‘turn off the camera man, they’re all watching. They can’t see this!’. I reached for it, I think, but I was trying to grab onto the handlebars too, and land right. Except I don’t remember the landing.

I walked after that. Gave up the biking. Every country, just walking. Beaches, mostly, but some cliffside outlooks too. Watching those photo shoots. Feeling sorry for them, all obsessed with their perfect shots. Not paying attention to their amazing surroundings. I was paying attention, though. That’s all I was doing anymore.

There was no more camera. I think I might have lost it off the cliff there. I never did shut it off.

People stopped commenting after that. I tried to blame the algorithm, but I think maybe my amazing picture perfect lifestyle was too much for them.

I tried messaging, too. But no one answered. Which was weird.

Even though I’m still traveling all the time, I haven’t really connected with anybody far away or near. They don’t even really look at me anymore. Too consumed with their damned photo shoots.

Or maybe they just don’t see me because so much has changed.

My picture-perfect life wasn’t perfect, but at least people were reacting. I knew I wasn’t alone. People were always there—at a distance, sure—but they were there.

Right up until I went over that cliff.

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Author bio: David Haskell is a visionary fusion writer weaving raw emotional truth into a boundless imagining of what we could become.

Craving new-age futurism that dares to dissect the psyche? Stories that blur the line between memory and legend—where every page feels like a secret you already knew?

In a post-truth world gasping for something real, his writing reminds you what truth still feels like.

Isn’t that what we’re all searching for?

David’s stories drill into the lives of introspective characters (real ones, and ones who feel almost real) and illuminate the thought-provoking themes that keep us up at night. His settings range from ultra-modern A.I. life with fantastical future backdrops, to dark places in real life where he hesitated to return—but had to. David weaves personal reflections into his stories, creating a reading experience that blends relatably human reflections with deeply personal truths. Truths that you may well share.

Loved Vanishing Point? Now dive into Emergence, my sweeping scifi novel where artificial intelligence dreams, memories endure, and identity finds a new, unyielding path.👉 Emergence by David Haskell

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Loved No Way Out? Now dive into Emergence, my sweeping scifi novel where artificial intelligence dreams, memories endure, and identity finds a new, unyielding path.👉 Emergence by David Deane Haskell

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Wasn’t even five minutes past sundown on Friday night when they picked me up. It was real fucked too, the way it went down. I was going like seven miles over the speed limit, tops, but they pull me over anyways. Then, ‘cause I hadn’t paid my registration and the car was a shitbox, they decide to make an example of me.

Then there was the half-ounce of weed sitting in that compartment between the seats. The car must’ve reeked, since I’d been toking on pretty much a daily basis at that point. They knew it, but didn’t say anything.

I almost lost my shit when the cop offered to drive my car across to the Walmart parking lot. I mean, he was doing me a huge favor, really. They should’ve just called for it to be towed. But with all that weed in there, I freaked. I almost told him not to do it, but he was already behind the wheel. Way to skirt the whole probable cause thing, really. Genius move, I gotta hand it to him.

So he drives my car over, gets out and calls half the boys over, and then start climbing in and around.

Game over.

They take me in, and tell me I’ve got to wait for the bondsman. Only they can’t just let me sit in reception—they’ve got to stick me in a cell.

Seriously guys?

But I was polite about it, and they appreciated that. Let me make whatever phone calls I needed to before sticking me on ice for two hours or whatever. You might think two hours is no big deal, and for a hardened criminal it probably isn’t. But for me? In a cell? Felt like an eternity.

You can’t know how it feels until they slam those bars shut. That exact moment, freedom is officially revoked.

So they put me in for what they claim is going to be two hours, but then it turns out the bondsman isn’t available, or that’s just some shit they pull, and next thing I know there’s a cop at the bars telling me to settle in. I tell him I’m bored, and he hands me a copy of “Jaws”, which I proceed to read. Nothing better to do, even though by then I have a couple of cellies. One shitfaced, the other crazed or high or some sort of fucked up. The drunk one is already passed out and snoring.

The other one ain’t sleeping, so I don’t either. I’m reading with one eye, the other trained on him, and he’s crouched in the corner, head twitching and hand swatting something imaginary off it. I’m not sure how long we stayed like that. No clock in the cell, no clue what time it is. All I know is, it’s a long time until dawn.

They never did a proper lights out, and the buzz-hum was as annoying as the brightness. I thought to myself that sleeping was a bad idea anyway. I lay there a while. Rolled over, thought better of it, rolled so that I could see them coming.

I wonder when and if breakfast will happen, and then I guess I did fall asleep, ‘cause next thing I know I’m listening to the tune of the technicolor yawn. Drunkie is awake and surrendering yesterday’s meals. I’m ready to puke myself, just from the chunky splatter sounds, but I manage to hold it back.

I locate the tweaker and make sure he isn’t within shanking distance. I see him safely half-asleep on the far bunk, still agitated even at attempted rest. I’m relieved he didn’t do something to me while I foolishly slept.

When they came back and told me the bondsman wouldn’t be available, and I’d have to wait to see the judge via video on Monday, the first inklings of suicide crossed my mind. My cellmates, a parade of new faces rolling in all through the night, started to look the same. Strangers, some vaguely threatening. Some so fearsome I’d never want to know them in real life.

“Gonna be a while!?” said the tweaker, his voice shaky fast, but loud enough to startle. I suppressed the urge to shout back, instead taking a step to the side, out of immediate harm’s way. I could kick myself for being so dumb—lost in thought in front of the toilet, and with my dick out no less.

I hiked up and moved, telling myself to start being a fuck of a lot more careful. It wasn’t like I was a good fighter or anything, and I was going to be spending a lot more time with these guys.

As I thought through the suicide options, I realized how futile that was. In fact they’d taken my shoelaces on arrival. I noticed I was the only one. The other guys (there were five of us altogether now) had theirs, but I didn’t think I was ready to try taking them off anyone. Not like there was anything in here to tie it to anyway.

There were plenty of sharp edges around, not to mention the bars, but unless one of my cellies opted to smash my head into them, I didn’t hold up much hope. I didn’t have the kind of strength it would take. Not yet anyway.

Suicide was out.

Time to dissociate. Or find some other way to pass the time. Chatting up the cellies was no option, so I tried dozing with one eye open. That’s how I spent pretty much the whole night, drifting in and out of despair. No daylight to speak of. Not for a long time.

By then there were eight of us, it was starting to stink worse than before, and the tension was ramping up. Every time someone took a shit, everyone else got pissed. But what could you do? It wasn’t like there was an alternative. And most of the guys were in for some state of intoxication or another, so bodily needs were on the urgent side.

I hadn’t shit since they locked me up, and I’d only pissed the once. That time I was daydreaming with my dick out, although I’m not even sure I pissed then. Which was weird, come to think of it, since I’d worked out before getting jailed, and had drank close to a liter of water.

Thinking about it made me wonder about it, see if I had to. But I guess the stress was clogging up the system both. Not the worst thing, really—I didn’t want to go any closer to that funky toilet. I wondered if holding cells were made to hold so many. It seemed like the bunks were crammed in. It would’ve made more sense to have six. Then I wondered what if someone else came. Would they roll in a cot?

That didn’t turn out to be a problem, as two of the guys were suddenly removed. No idea why. It all happened fast, and I had my eyes closed for one of them. I saw the other go with the guards, but it wasn’t like I couldn’t just count to six.

“You ain’t sleepin’ there,” said the biggest guy. This cellie was ‘new’, and hadn’t spoken a word until now.

I made a ‘who, me?’ gesture, pointed at the ratty bunk, and shrugged.

“That’s right. It’s mine now.”

I almost gave it up—but something told me that’d be a mistake. If I gave in now, what next? My shoes? My ass, more like it.

“Get your own,” I said. It came out with more bravado than I felt, thank God. Keeping up the ruse, I lay back and closed my eyes. I was dying to blink one open, see if a fist was coming at me, but I held fast.

I heard him breathing, moving closer. But then he snorted, agitated but not enough to bother. His breathing faded.

I resisted the urge to breathe a sigh of relief myself. The others were watching, I was sure of that. I had to maintain the illusion.

One thing they never tell you is how much the sense of desolation gets to you. After they lock those doors, there’s no human contact with anyone you’d want to be around. Only threats. Dangerous enemies. So you’re completely, totally alone in the truest sense of the word.

On the outside, you can go find friends, anytime you like, even if you don’t normally do that. The option exists, that’s the point. But in here, you’re trapped, nothing to do but think. And as the body becomes agitated for being stuck somewhere, the brain flips into overdrive, trying to find a way out.

When that doesn’t work, the brain starts freaking out, looping negatives around and around as you sit there helpless. And over enough time, you start to go mad with it.

Turns out, the amount of time it takes is just over three hours, going on four. And my brain hadn’t even begun spinning at full-tilt yet at that. But it was coming. I could feel it.

I sensed my cellmates were losing it, too. More savvy than me, for sure, but they weren’t hardened criminals either. And only a hardened criminal can stand being locked up for long.

Maybe I needed to start thinking about how to become one.

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Author bio: David Deane Haskell is a fusion writer who’s impossible to pin down. Want new age future-vision with a deep dive into the human psyche? Nominally fictional (nom-fiction) tales that resonate somewhere between fact and fantasy? With that undeniable kind of truth we can still find, even in this messed up, post-truth world?

David’s stories drill into the lives of introspective characters (real ones, and ones who feel almost real) and illuminate the thought-provoking themes that keep us up at night. His settings range from ultra-modern A.I. life with fantastical future backdrops, to dark places in real life where he hesitated to return—but had to. David weaves personal reflections into his stories, creating a reading experience that blends relatably human reflections with deeply personal truths. Truths that you may well share.

Loved No Way Out? Now dive into Emergence, my sweeping scifi novel where artificial intelligence dreams, memories endure, and identity finds a new, unyielding path.👉 Emergence by David Deane Haskell

If my words resonated today and you’d like to support me directly.👉 Help David Keep Writing