A Letter

The following is the contents of a paper I found wedged behind a TV in the lobby of the business building. Evidently, it was meant for someone else.

Dear Seth,

I hope this letter finds you well. We at the meetinghouse have missed your presence these last several months. You will be pleased to know that we have welcomed another member into our fold. She has taken on the name Valentinia in remembrance of the great teacher. She has an affinity for seeing things behind the curtain in a way few new students do. You will get along well with her whenever you return.

You will also be pleased to note the progress we have made in the compilation of your words into our first publication. We have worked diligently over these last few months to ensure that your wisdom is adequately contained and preserved. It has not been the same since you left. We all pray the highest authorities have seen it fit to preserve you so that your wisdom may continue to enlighten.

I am concerned with Paulus and his progress is developing his senses. We found out that he is more tied to the carnal than we thought and we cannot make progress until his inner alignment changes. Perhaps we were mistaken in allowing him into our circle. What is your advice for nurturing the development of eyes to see and ears to hear? We have tried walking in the path of the great teacher but have found our abilities lacking.

I also want to relay to you my own message for your benefit, though it hardly compares to the products of your erudition. I was impressed by my encounter with a street preacher recently to reflect on the nature of the divine. It seems even the loudest of the voices in this city cheering on behalf of the Father are as blind to the true divinity as their god is. Let us not forget what the great authors wrote long ago

“Their chief is blind; because of his power and his ignorance and his arrogance he said, with his power, ‘It is I who am God; there is none apart from me.’ When he said this, he sinned against the entirety. And this speech got up to incorruptibility; then there was a voice that came forth from incorruptibility, saying, ‘You are mistaken, Samael’ – which is, ‘god of the blind.’”

Let us not forget that the so called Father is but the lowest, rotting, fruit of the tree. May incorruptibility grant us knowledge and freedom from the illusions of this world.

With great respect and admiration,

Sophia

I can only wonder how this letter found its way behind a TV. I wonder, too, how old this letter is. Is this a group here in the city or is this a reference to some show or book?

The House With Narrow Windows

On a languid street corner near the old high-school was a house I was always fascinated by. It was a large house, with peeling paint, and narrow windows revealing bits and pieces of the rooms within. On the bus in the morning I could see a warm, incandescent glow illuminating a cramped kitchen, in the afternoon I could see the faded lettering on the sign out front. It may have once been a restaurant, or a small hotel, or some other business that had long since fled.

I imagined who must live there. An old man, worn by time. An austere life, a life defined by struggle. I imagined how grown up I would feel living that imagined life. I felt sad that it wasn’t mine.

On a forgotten corner of a narrow street that crossed the local bike path sat a house with narrow windows. I always thought it was an apartment. When I was young I took my bike out at the blue hour and imagined who must live there. A warm light glowed through the blinds, cutting through the cool blue atmosphere. I was barely a teenager then.

I imagined the young professional that must live there. He had game nights with his friends, he listened to grown up music and lived a grown up life. I imagined how mature and liberated I would feel living in a place like that. I felt sad that it wasn’t mine.

I got older. My life changed. My perspectives changed. I saw that house near the school again, and it looked run-down. I saw that house on the path, and it looked sterile. Where did the warmth retreat to? Where did that young professional go? Where did the austere old man end up? Did they ever live in those places?

I have never met the owners of these places. I don’t know their name nor their face. I never want to. The people who live there I already know and the lives they live give me life.

Systems Theory

My head is full and my heart is empty. Another day another day another day, marching towards graduation. Like so many other mornings I sit in a lecture picking up what the professor puts down on the board. Outside snow dances in the twilight, pirouetting in the icy winds. Its odd, I’ve been going here for years but it still feels like a foreign place. I know the best sitting places for charging my laptop, the best bathrooms with the fewest people, the fastest routes above and below ground to each building, but it still feels all wrong. And the snow falls falls falls painting an unfamiliar world in a cold wet layer.

The function of a silicon diode is relatively simple. A voltage is applied and as it approaches a certain limit the current it allows through increases in an exponential relationship. So simple so simple so simple yet it is the ground on which the entirety of modern computing technology is built. From it came the transistor, and from the transistor came the logic gate. AND OR NOT NOR NAND XOR INV the names of the roots from which springs adders and subtractors, multiplexers and demultiplexers, ROM and RAM. Even further still ALUs, registers, I/O interfaces, and on into CPUS and GPUS. How brilliant to learn the foundations of a world most take for granted?

Yet still still still I sit here waiting for something to happen. I know it all, I test well, I see the pattern language of which the entire world is composed yet nothing nothing nothing feels like it should.

When I was a kid I had visions of university life. Fiery social situations, art and soul everywhere, adventure and new experiences. Yet, the experience I came to learn was one of quiet and solitude. New experiences, sure, but rare. In general, more of the same with a slightly different coat of paint. Maybe I was desensitized to new things in the same way our eyes perceive color less vibrantly as we age. How horrible? Irreversible magic death. Nothing new under the sun sun sun so they say.

Have you ever seen a picture of a city in Russia during the blue hour? Let me paint it for you. A single light on in an endless Soviet apartment block. Gray skies and yellow street lights. The dull dull dull grays of a life among the ruins. Its cozy isn’t it? To imagine a sparse apartment, a jar of pickles in a cupboard, and a loaf of bread on the counter. A couch with holes in the fabric. A television older than the students who live there. Strangers strangers strangers in a homely homely homely land.

Alienation. Not a nation of aliens or a strange EDM artist from 2004. Alienation. Having no place. I know so much about how the parts fit together. I know about how the wholes interact into even larger wholes. Systems within systems systems systems ever and ever increasing in complexity. I know how it all works. I could build the infrastructure. Yet it doesn’t work for me. And I feel the same same same.

The Talking Heads, surely you’ve heard of them? “Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was” David Byrne would echo with increasing hysteria into the microphone on Once In a Lifetime. “Well, how did I get here?” he would ask before launching into the chorus. A question I ask myself frequently. Where is that social ecstasy, the fire of life, community and camaraderie? I see how all these silicon parts fit together, a world designed with interlocking systems, yet outside the people seem ever more disconnected. I can piece all the systems in the world together, but the human factor remains out of reach. So I sit here, my head full and my heart empty. Waiting waiting waiting.

Guest Book

I was browsing old websites from the early 2000's and was fascinated by looking through the guest book pages. People left messages that have survived decades untouched like hieroglyphs on the walls of digital pyramids. So let's add one to The Silent Page! If you visit this site, leave a comment on this page with your name, a note, or anything else you want to save for the future! Cheers to us a few decades from now!

The Apartment (From the Cutting Room Floor)

Hello dear readers, welcome to a new format for posts here on the Silent Page! The Cutting Room Floor series will be pieces that are unfinished and probably won't ever be finished but I think are worth sharing. This first one is saved under the name "The Apartment" and tells the story of a young man cleaning out his grandfather's apartment after he passed away. 

As part of this series I will also analyze the piece to explain what I was going for, elucidate the writing process, and hopefully make it make sense.

This was my grandfather’s apartment. He lived here in the city for almost his entire retirement. In the past he had worked as a technician, repairing high tech simulators for pilots. His knowledge of applied electronics was beyond that of even the best grad students at the local university. The apartment reflected this. Technical books and drawings on tables, scopes and meters on the walls, a workbench messy with projects only he understood. The faint smell of warm solder still hung in the air.

As you can tell these sentences are pretty rough, but I was trying to setup the grandfather to be similar to my own who was a big inspiration to me. I was sort of shooting for the old "skilled technician who shows that experience outweighs knowledge" stereotype.

I stand at the threshold to his world, a manila envelope of paperwork in hand.

I personally really really like the imagery of this line. Our narrator is both literally at the threshold to the apartment but is also figuratively at the threshold to his grandfather's life as he steps into the task of organizing his things. The idea was for this story to revolve around the process of packing and labelling someone's life after they passed away - a task I was privy to with my late grandfather and one I found both disturbing and strangely beautiful. 

It was a cold day in October when I got the call. My grandfather was in the hospital, cancer, aggressive, nothing they could do. I sat down on a bench outside the building with my head in my hands. People passed by, no one said anything. Here was my inspiration in life, dying on the other side of town. I had always wanted to be like him, he had inspired me to pursue these studies and now he wouldn’t see their completion. I don’t know how long I was like that for, but I was snapped out of my rumination by the old math professor leaving to his next class. “Are you ok?” he had asked but I didn’t respond. He sat next to me in the silence. Eventually he left me to my own melancholy.

I started this project on a cold day in early October. Decided it was thematic enough of a season to base the story's exposition in. The character's sadness over his grandfather not getting to see where he ends up after being inspired by him is a personal experience I had and one I wanted to capture in the story. I think the professor's actions are a little strange and I needed to do a rewrite of the ending of the paragraph to make it less disjoint.

A few days later an envelope arrived in my mailbox. Apparently, I had been put down in the will as the one responsible for cleaning out my grandfather’s apartment. Evidently, my extended family had more important matters to attend to.

Here is where I started tying the exposition back to the story. From here it was going to be established that the narrator was the only one in the family who would handle the task of cleaning the apartment and we would follow him as he reflects on what he knew of his grandfather's life. I had little vignettes for a few different mementos he finds that were going to explore the story of his late grandfather and their relationship. I may still explore these concepts in future work but for now this is the station where the train of thought stops.

Overall, its definitely a rough, unfinished draft but I see potential in the ideas and general story outline. What do you, dear readers, think of this style of post? Yay or nay? I kind of like the idea of taking things I'll never finish and exploring them in this manner. I, personally, like seeing how authors/song writers/poets break down their works and expose their inner thought process but that may just be me. Proper pieces soon to come, stay tuned!

(Also, as an aside, if anyone has a knack for being artsy I would love to collaborate on images for these posts. I want to move away from stock images and towards lovely, original work. Reach out at the contact email if interested! - Silent Partner)

You Don't Wanna

This is an excerpt from a larger piece I'm working on. Some of you may know where it came from. Obviously, memory and imagination have filtered the experience. Thanks for reading!

“No limit to the limit – I thought I told ya. You don’t wanna go to war with a soldier” the drill sergeant calls out into the morning air, cutting like a bayonet through the marching boots. Soldiers go to war. That’s nothing new. Its another day of training for Alpha Company – a company of engineers in training. Not the six-figure salary kind. The kind who clear minefields and demolish bunkers. The kind with an eighty percent casualty rate. The kind who die.

The faces of the marching troops are as diverse as the reasons they signed up. Immigrants looking for citizenship. White kids from the midwest with nothing left. College students earning their tuition – swapping books for boots. A grown man hoping to provide both an example and some money for his kids. Ideological zealots with a desire to become dangerous. The list goes on. Today they all march to the same cadence. “Hooh – Haah – I wanna slap somebody! Hooh – Haah – I wanna leave them bloody!”

It’s a violent place by nature. Every day and every action is accompanied by violent imagery. These trainees will be the next set of bodies on the tip of the spear. “Engineers – lead the way!” they’d shout while spacing themselves to march. For all their pride, the bleeding edge is what makes their task so fatal.

I’m stuck in a small formation behind them. They call us “holdovers” – a group just as varied as the company we fell out from. Some of us had discipline problems. A few couldn’t take the stress. Others realized they made the wrong choice. One of us, a grown woman, is losing her mother. An unlucky few of us are injured to the point of becoming non-trainers. All of us walk – out of step – together. Following the main company to wherever it travels. Right now that happens to be towards breakfast.

I fall into the realization category. I had joined as a Guardsman – with a desire to be a first responder during disasters in my community. I chose to be an engineer because they told me that I would be first into the disaster zone. I wanted to pull people from rubble – not make it. I wanted the adventure. I wanted to be a hero when heroes were needed. I wanted to save people.

But, the reality of training is death – not saving lives but taking them. Potentially, losing yours in the process. A heroic sacrifice? Sure, in the right circumstances. But I see nothing heroic in dying in the desert far away from the community I took an oath to protect.

“Motivated – Dedicated – I thought I told ya. You don’t wanna go to war with a soldier.”

My only motivation is to go home. My only dedication is getting out. And I sure don’t want to go to war as a soldier.

“Company – Halt!” and the boots fall for the last time in front of the dining facility. “The order of chow is – One – Three – Two – What's the order of chow?” each platoon in the company calls back in order. It’s like something out of an educational cartoon. “Ready – Shift!” and the neatly formed platoons shift themselves into two ordered columns. Us holdovers loosely form up behind them. We barely dress right dress or cover down – and it shows. What use do we have for the almost theatrical discipline of the main company? We're quitters. Our only focus is home.

Freshman Works

My freshman year of high-school was my first introduction to publishing writing online for others to read. To celebrate one year of The Silent Page lets look back on some of the better examples of my work from nearly five whole years ago.

The first is this story that I thought was very clever when I wrote it. Not entirely sure what I was shooting for but I titled it "A Peculiar Dream". I think you can see some of the dances with the strange that have continued to feature in my works as time has gone on.

He woke up. The glow from the computer bathed the room in a blue glow. To the left of him the door stood like a monolith to a forgotten realm. He wished to never know what hid behind the door as he looked out the one open wall into the purple void. The void looked friendly. He stood up. The computer was speaking in a foreign language. He understood it. It told him of a time of heroes and legends. He listened. Then sat down. The door was watching and he wished not to anger it. The computer told him of a boat. The boat had come to take him to a land from which he could never return. He got on the boat. The door was annoyed. He looked back as the boat floated on and saw only his room in the void. The red purple clouds were swirling in the distance. The door starred on with unbridled glee. The reckoning had come. The boat continued until it hit a cloud. He got off and began to walk towards the man who stood watching him. The man had the face of a book and began to speak. The man told a story of heroes who had fought a great battle. The door was intently listening. He turned to see the door. The door was watching him from the boat. He told the door a story of myths and legends. The door began to smile and then creaked open. Inside of the door was a land of myths and legends. He ran into the door and looked behind him. The door closed and stared on. He sat next to a river that was running through the land. He saw the glow. It spoke to him of a time when men travelled the stars. He listened intently. The door looked at the river with a longing. He thought of the time when men travelled the stars. He stood and walked through the river. He looked down and saw a miniature castle. The castle seemed to speak. It spoke to him of a time when men travelled the stars. He picked the castle up and examined it’s immaculate marble surface. It was marked with the stamp of an artisan from long ago. He thought of the flavor of marble. He bit into the castle and a large egg fell out. The egg was made of gold and echoed a long forgotten chant that spoke of a long forgotten land. He picked up the egg and held it in his head. The door spoke softly to him. The door had known the artisan in a time before time. It told him of the artisans store and so He walked in. The artisan stood behind a counter. His face was blurred. He inquired as to his business. The artisan told him of his craft. The artisan made sculptures out of stone and wood. The artisan told of the difficulty of gathering enough beetles to make the stone to craft with. He had never heard of such a thing.

Light streamed in through the one window in Sean’s bedroom. How long had he been asleep for? He looked out and saw the road in front of his apartment building. Sean walked into his kitchen and poured some milk into a glass. He thought back to what he had dreamt but couldn’t remember much more than a computer. He looked to his right and saw the marble castle that he had received from his grandfather who had carved it for many years. Suddenly the dream came back. Sean took his glass and sat down in front of his computer and began to write the tale of the dream with the door. He stared at his screen. The first sentence was complete. “He woke up”

I remember writing this next one. I was sitting in church and decided to take the time to create something. Its short, not particularly clever, but it addresses the idea of legacies which has interested me for a long time. It is titled "The River".

I sit on the banks of the dried out river.

Water hasn't graced this land in eons

yet the remains of a river still exist,

the remains of a hard life's work continuing.

Will I have that same effect?

Will my life's works continue,

like ripples from a stone thrown into a pond?

I can only hope that they will.

Perhaps that is the hope of all men.

To live forever, even if only in memory.

Will these words leave ripples?

Or will they sink without a trace?

I look out into the distance

and see the sun setting far away.

I wish I could have seen this river

when the waters still flowed.

This next one is one of many prose pieces that I wrote on stack of note cards I would keep in my jacket. Again, another dance with the strange, twisted, and deranged. It is titled "The Valley of Faces".

The traveler speaks of a valley far away.

A valley carved in stone.

A valley that rarely sees the light of day.

A valley he walked alone.

The ground is made of faces

carved into the stone itself.

The faces have the same calm expression

staring into the sky above.

Their calm expression is fixed forever,

their countenance never swaying.

Faces created with unknown purpose,

forever watching the sky.

Strange rumors are spread about the valley

Where the faces are as far as the eye can see.

Rumors of their speaking have spread far and wide.

What do they say? Who knows except the gods themselves?

Let's do another one off the cards. This was the first in the series and was titled "Land of the Broken". There used to be a pencil sketch that went before it to illustrate what this world looked like but it is long gone. 

Staring off into the distance

The land of the faded star

Rises like a tombstone

garnishing the land.

Where once there was life

there is now sand

and the faded echoes of strife

like the distant playing of a band.

Upon the distant horizon

rises the dome

a monument of a land forgotten

by time and the ages.

The great pillars of eternity remain.

Sentinels guarding the land forever

until their creator returns

bearing the gift of destruction.

Yet even with all the dilapidation

some still call it home.

A fire here.

A cabin there.

Markers of life continuing

Ad infinitum.

Even if forgotten.

Amen.

It was kind of cool to see these old works again. I can see elements of them that have carried over into other things I've written over the years. Especially the stories off the cards. They were largely inspired by Adam Poots' Kingdom Death universe and T.S. Elliot's The Waste Land. Here's to another five years of writing! Hopefully I can look back on what I've written on this page with the same nostalgia some day!

Nikolai (One Page Exercise)

 

I used to work at the old folks home down on Mardona Street. You remember the place right? It was next to the hardware store before Bob went out of business. Anyway, thats tangential to the story. I used to volunteer there on weekends while I was in uni, every week from my sophomore to my senior year. It was good for me, both for my social skills and for my psyche. Helping people kept me sane during midterms and finals, gave me purpose when I felt lost in the sea of coursework, and even made me a few friends before I left. My dearest friend to come out of the experience, was the old mathematician Nikolai.

As far as I know Nikolai was born sometime in the early 20th century on a farm in Russia. His birth date was never recorded but he always celebrated it on January 20th. His favorite way to celebrate? A bottle of wine and a fancy coffee cake from the bakery down the road. I had the privilege of celebrating his birthday with him a few times during those years I volunteered. A couple sips of wine into his private party and he'd start to reminisce about his younger days.

When he was still a child he often would visit the village's priest, Father Serimov. An old man with a long white beard – always dressed in the signature black robes of an Orthodox priest. Serimov was well liked in the village and would often pass out sweets to the children who would come to the church and help him with chores. Nikolai was a big fan of fetching the candles for the parish. Red wax, golden flames, wisps of smoke – the way the candles could hold a flame until they melted away caught his imagination as a child. He told me that this curiosity that was sparked by the mystery of the candles would lead him to asking more and more questions.

Why does the sun set? Where do flies come from? How many stars are there? Questions that no one in his rural village could answer. Father Serimov was the only one who could attempt to fill the voids in his mind. Nikolai's appreciation for Serimov grew beyond the gifts of sweets, it was gifts of knowledge that kept him visiting. One day, during one of these visits, Serimov would tell him to pursue a course of study at the university in St. Petersburg. Serimov knew a professor there and, after some correspondence, managed to get Nikolai admitted to his program.

Years would pass and Nikolai would become an expert in his field, even publishing a few papers during Soviet times. But he never forgot the priest who had made it possible for his curiosity to become a career. A year or two after his graduation he went back home to his village and discovered that Father Serimov had passed away. The new priest gave him a note that Serimov had left behind shortly before his passing. Nikolai never told me what was in the note, but he summarized it as being the final treat from his finest teacher.

After I graduated from my studies I moved to a city on the west coast. I left my life behind in my home town and pursued a job in a research lab studying organic polymer synthesis. A year or two later I would come back to my hometown with my future wife so she could meet my parents. It was a cold January then – frost even covered the old river. I stopped by the bakery to visit a friend there and catch up on what was new in my small town. It was here, among the warm smells of fresh bread and cookies, that I learned of Nikolai's passing. That year he never ordered his special cake. I was heartbroken.

It turns out, however, that Nikolai had left a letter for me with the head nurse of the nursing home. When I visited her she passed it to me and told me that he gave it to her shortly before he died. A crumpled receipt in a wrinkled manila envelope. I won't tell you what the letter said, but old Nikolai left me with one last story. One last treat. One last memory of the old man.

The Shower, The Car

This must be the place

Stark white door with a modern handle

Guess I'll give it a knock

And see where the night might take me

"Oh come in, come in," he says

"Let's spin a Monkeys vinyl

and sip on chilled martinis"

Legs crossed in a postmodern room

We don't care much for the chic-

but he saw it in a magazine

and had to have it.

Plate glass windows

City lit bright

White-on-white

Sleek design

And this is how he lives.

I can't quite tell

What that painting's meant to be

Leaves interpretation

Up to me

Some blurry impressionist thing-

Maybe it means nothing.

Or maybe it means something to him

as he keeps talking.

"Oh, elegance-my excess

It keeps the haunting thoughts at bay

Someday all of this will vanish

All of this will slip away

and when I go - 

bury me with my money."

"Oh, the women I know

are dazzling in their dresses

Star-spangled in their excesses

all they want are my successes-

they're so easy to please."

I'd better find the door-

Like I had so long before

The monologue

Of that deadbeat fraud

still echoed through the hall

Readers of The Silent Page may have seen a rough draft of this poem from late 2024. This is the only surviving creative work to have come out of the period when my grandfather passed away in spring of '24. This revision finally gives it the level of polish it deserved. I hope you all enjoy.

That Was Twenty Years Ago (One Page Exercise)

I have worked at the Greenhollow Public Library for twenty-two years as of last week. I started as a book sorter back when I was just sixteen and have since been promoted to a full-time librarian. In all my twenty-two years I have never experienced something as strange as today’s encounter. I was at the front desk, placing new stickers on the spines of some old volumes when a man I vaguely recognized entered the foyer. He had with him a pristine copy of a very old printing of Atlas Shrugged. I greeted him as I usually do and he asked if he could return the book. I hadn’t seen a copy of Atlas Shrugged in our little branch since I was a teenager. In fact, I could only ever recall one person checking it out. And then it hit me. Twenty years ago I checked a copy of Atlas Shrugged out to a man who never brought it back. I still remember what he wore, a gray overcoat and polished shoes, and the color of his eyes as he scanned the volume on the shelf. Here he was in front of me. Apparently unaged. And wearing the same outfit. Surely this couldn’t be the same fellow?

He strolled up to the counter and placed the book down. I flipped the cover open and searched for the barcode. There wasn’t one. Instead, on the inside cover was a paper checkout slip. We haven’t used those in well over fifteen years. “Did you check this book out at our branch?” I asked, incredulous, while continuing to examine the volume. “Yes, about a month ago” he said matter-of-factly. I stared at the book in my hands quietly for a beat. “Are you sure? It doesn’t have the stickers we put on all our books” something was all wrong about this. My mouth went dry. “Perhaps they fell off” he said plainly “I know the usual return time is two weeks, how much is my late fee?”. I stared at him, then back at the book, then back at him. “I-I won’t charge you a late fee” what else could I say? It’s not like it would be in the system anyway. “Thank you young man,” he said with a strange glint in his eye “I’ve got some errands to run, good day.” With that he strolled out of the library. I flipped the book over and over in my hands, searching for a reasonable explanation to the whole episode. Finding none, I set the book on the counter and glanced out the glass entrance doors only to see him sort of – vanish. No puff of smoke, no theatrics, no tractor beam. Just gone.

You Should Read: The Red Tower

 

Hello dear readers of The Silent Page! I come to you once again with another issue of You Should Read! With a very special spooky report, in honor of October having finally arrived!

Before I reveal today’s story, a note on weird fiction as a genre. If you aren’t familiar with it, its a genre of stories that started in the late 19^th – early 20^th century. You may have read examples of it from H.P. Lovecraft who was perhaps the most famous author to ever pursue the subject. Supernatural entities, dead gods, and grotesque objects are all tenants of its stories. I, personally, am a big fan of older examples of the genre (especially the aforementioned Lovecraft) but find newer stories lacking. Often they turn the unique concepts of previous works into cliches or boring derivative works that don’t keep the fiction weird but instead turn it into a paste-pudding norm. The author of today’s story, however, has made something very strange indeed while still keeping with what this genre represents.

Today I am recommending The Red Tower by Thomas Ligotti, a strange story about a red tower (who could’ve guessed!) that produces… things… and delivers said things to strange places. It is entirely told from the perspective of a fellow who acts as a sort of unreliable narrator. He speaks of rumors of the red tower, its productions, its deliveries, its history, and its fate but we can’t be quite sure of what he says. Half prophet, half madman, the narrator guides us through the red tower’s dark evolution from a stain on the otherwise peaceful landscape to a manufacturer of “novelties” to a distributer of horrors. What better story to read this October?

As always here’s the link to The Red Tower on the Weird Fiction Review site:

The Red Tower

Better check your closets in case the tower delivered you something.

Silent Partner

The Garden (One Page Exercise)

It felt like the pause before a thunderstorm. No voices echoed in the room yet the feeling of impending cataclysm remained.

“We need to talk” – the classic line. He had been eating when the notification came up and with it, his food lost all its savor. Just like last time. He knew he would soon be in for nights of solitude and reflection once again. Maybe that was for the best.

The next morning, she came to visit him at the old apartment he rented on Gehrig Street. A knock. The door opened, the hinges squeaked, and nothing was said. She invited herself in. Her footsteps echoed and the chair sounded a low drone as she pulled it out. He looked at her and in that moment it felt like a gulf had opened between them. California and New York were closer in that moment than he and she.

The old wood floor squeaked as he followed her lead and took a seat. She looked him over, scanning from head to toe. Her lips flicked as if she were about to utter something but thought better of it and kept them shut. He looked down at the worn grain of the tabletop and contemplated what could’ve led to this.

“Paul,” she paused, letting his name linger like cigarette smoke. He felt it dance in the charged air between them. “This isn’t right,” he muttered without lifting his gaze. Paul had never been good at eye contact; situations like this made it worse. “This isn’t right,” she spoke his words back. “This isn’t working Paul. What happened to you?” her words were scalpel-sharp.

Paul looked to his left, out the window, and glanced at the garden outside. Ever since he’d come home he’d been ignoring her, tending to his garden instead. How could he make her understand what had happened to him? He was still processing it – pulling the weeds and ordering his thoughts. It wasn’t out of malice towards her, he just wanted to be alone to pick up the pieces of his fragmented mind.

“You left for three months and now look at you – sad and pathetic. You haven’t returned my calls in a week. Every time I want to visit, you have an excuse. What is your problem?” her tone caused Paul to retreat further into his vision of the garden. The intensity she displayed was the same that made him withdraw from her. Everything that was wrong between them suddenly made sense in that instant. He knew what was coming and felt no sorrow. It would be for the best.

You Should Read: The Book of Beginnings

Hello dear readers of The Silent Page!

It is, once again, time for another installment of You Should Read! Where today I am recommending you The Book of Beginnings.

Yes, another strange project from a bygone era of the internet, its kind of my thing at this point! This one I discovered as a freshman in high-school while researching the 3D rendering engine POV-Ray. An artist on the POV-Ray site created this webpage full of renders and accompanying short stories. The interesting thing? Every short story is unfinished. 

Mr. Gilles Tran's works often take the form of incredibly surreal, sometimes comical, starts to stories about everything from cows conquering humanity to robot families. The accompanying 3D renders are similarly nonsensical and fun (and a handful include nude models so be careful how you browse the site!)

I don't want to spoil any of the stories because they're all short and sweet and incomplete but I think its worth your time if you want something curious to explore!

Book of Beginnings

Here is the link! Click one of the faces to enter a collection. Each one links somewhere new. Hope you have as much fun browsing as I did!

(P.S. take a look at the 3D renders tab! Mr. Tran has made some incredible works for an artist using primitive software in the 90s and early 00s!)

Silent Partner

Some Thoughts on Algorithms

 

Hello Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome back to The Silent Page!

Today’s article may be the most serious that I’ve written thus far and is based off of some observations and conversations I’ve had over the last couple years. Specifically, on the topic of why our collective social lives seem to be so dysfunctional. It’s a topic I’ve seen a lot of people debate about in various forums but here’s my two cents.

The root cause is the algorithmic media you’re consuming.

That’s the answer. Now let me explain my analysis.

Have you ever noticed how easily categorizable most people are these days? Have you ever had the experience of meeting someone and immediately knowing almost everything about them because you’ve seen people like them online before? How many aesthetic groups can you name and how many people have you met that fit them (or are aspiring to fit them!) to a T? This has been a very common experience for me, and it has made an entire generation of people feel flat. There’s no depth anymore! This is an unfortunate symptom of people spending their formative years watching algorithmically curated content. Think about it, when your personality was still malleable you were being conditioned by an algorithm to be a certain way and now that you’re older your opinions, thoughts, likes and dislikes, and personal aesthetic were all influenced heavily by those autonomous systems. This is why people feel so shallow now, because instead of having unique experiences as they grew up, they were carefully spoon-fed by a computer.

I know that I, personally, spend a lot of time reliving what life was like before I had access to these systems. YouTube, Instagram, Snapchat, etc etc. How many people do you know are living stereotypes? Do you remember how people were before about 2015/16 when these algorithms came into their own? I remember.

A couple days ago I decided to do an exploration to see if things really have changed all that much in the era of the algorithm (or if it was just my imagination) so I went back to old school writing blogs, travel YouTube channels, and even old personal sites to see what changed. The strange thing I found? You can see the changes happen in real time. You can see people’s writing blogs go from barely political and very unique to highly polarized and polemical over the course of a few short years routinely. Why are people all-of-a-sudden so polarized? The answer is the algorithms.

I highly recommend you try your best to remember what it was like before technology changed the world in ways few have put to paper. Remember what life was like before people were sorted into just a handful of aesthetics by algorithms. See if people in your life remember what it felt like before this. Even more importantly, consider what must be happening to the Generation Alpha kids who don’t remember a time before a smartphone! We may be the last generation (the older half of Gen Z) who recall a time where people weren’t mostly socialized through online platforms.

That’s a lot of gloom, so let’s talk about what we can do to regain our organic thoughts, feelings, and lifestyles. Obviously, there are a lot of possible routes but here are some pointers that are helping me to rehabilitate myself away from a screen.

The first thing you need to do is figure out what kinds of things you organically believe. This is a hard thing depending on your level of introspection but I’m sure that if you think about the things that you were interested in and motivated you before you ever got “plugged in” then you’ll have a few examples. The next thing to do is drastically cut down on the amount of time you spend scrolling. You need to start regaining your focus and mental clarity and the noise that infinite scrolling imparts into your brain is antithetical to this. Cut it out. Read a physical book, go for a walk, meet up with friends, check out an event in your city, go hiking, do something real! For me, I’m writing this article. Just pick something!

Now for the hard part, how do I rebuild an organic social life with people who feel real? Unfortunately, these people – in my experience – are hard to find. I don’t have a lot of advice for this one because I’m actively working on this myself. Family members are a good start; coworkers could be another place to find a few. Try joining meetup groups in your area, see if you can find people who aren’t always online and make friends with them! Unfortunately, we don’t have the benefit of living in a time where our generation is particularly social. Us who are trying to unplug are very much so a minority. The good news? It only takes finding one or two more of these people to have some friends! I exist and so do you, dear reader, and that gives me hope!

It’s never too late to step off the path. Yes, you’ll probably always have mental scars from growing up plugged into these platforms but it's better to have a few scars than open wounds! As C.S. Lewis once said “We all want progress. But progress means getting nearer to the place you want to be. And if you have taken a wrong turn, then to go forward does not get you any nearer. If you are on the wrong road, progress means doing an about turn and walking back to the right road.” and this is exactly what we need to do. We all still have lots of life left to live! It’s never too late to reclaim it!

I think that about summarizes my thoughts for this post. Hopefully you found some part of it inspiring and maybe, just maybe, you’ll find yourself on an organic path like you once were! Before we part, do something today to start finding yourself again! Even if it's just reading a book for thirty minutes instead of spending that time on your phone. Every bit counts!

Silent Partner

You Should Read: Mirrorshades

Welcome to another installment of You Should Read!

Today’s recommendation is the cult classic anthology Mirrorshades.

Cyberpunk has become an overdone and worn out cliche for media over the last few years but few have read the works that defined cyberpunk as a genre back in the 80’s. Enter, Mirrorshades, the defining collection of 80’s cyberpunk designed to define the, then freshly minted, genre. You won’t find blue and pink bisexual lighting or Johnny Silverhand here. Instead, its a collection of bizarre stories that have far more life in them than anything CD Projekt Red can cook up.

My personal favorites from the collection are The Gernsback Continuum and Freezone. honorable mentions include the strange Till Human Voices Wake Us and Solstice. This collection will be unlike anything you’ve read before, I promise you. From stories about Soviet astronauts desperately trying to save their ancient space station, to tales of burnt out rockers in international waters, to a photographer that has a psychotic break after capturing too many Art Deco buildings, it’ll keep you on the edge of your seat!

Actual copies of Mirrorshades go for large sums on Ebay and ThriftBooks so the original compiler of the anthology has made it freely available as a webpage which I will post at the end of this article for your enjoyment. You can read his own explanation of why he compiled these stories but I’ll give you the gist of it here for those of you just interested in the fiction.

Basically, Bruce Sterling wanted to capture the ethos of the newly formed Cyberpunk genre in one definitive work to set the standard for future sci-fi authors interested in the topic. A lot of things you’d expect from a modern cyberpunk story are here; drugs, rock music, punks, hackers, futuristic technology, sex, and social decay. However, it has none of the cliches you’ve come to expect from the genre. In fact, its a really refreshing read in an era full of overly corporate anti-corporate sci-fi.

I think that about wraps it up! As promised here is Bruce Sterling’s site with the whole anthology available for free:

Mirrorshades

Enjoy!

Silent Partner

Where Were You?

Where were you a year ago today? Do you remember? How did you feel, what were you doing, what were you hoping to achieve? Did you enjoy the beginnings of fall? Were you mourning a breakup? Were you starting a new chapter?

Take some time today to think about that. Remember where you were, and where you are. Has it been a good year? A bad one? Maybe even an ugly one? Has there been triumph or tragedy? Growth or decay?

I remember where I was a year ago today. It was my first semester of Uni and I was sitting on the first floor of the math building. It had a cozy lobby with big plate glass windows that gave a view of the leaves changing outside. Many lazy mornings were spent there soaking up the sun and reading Infinite Jest before class. However, it was around this time that I began to grow restless. I had finally made it to college but something was missing. It felt like I had no purpose.

The first semester of your freshman year is always challenging. Lots of new things going on, new people, new faces, new experiences, it can all be a little disorienting and I certainly found my head spinning. It would be later that same month that I'd find myself in a recruiter's office and a very strange chapter of my life would begin.

So, again, where were you? Write yourself a little paragraph to help you remember. If you feel like sharing, send it to the contact email on this site and I'll give it a read! A little introspection can go a long way on the path to self actualization!

That's all for this post, until next time!

Silent Partner

You Should Read: The Books of Sand

Friends of mine in real life know that I love a good short story. Especially a short story that is a bit of a mystery!

Today it is my pleasure to introduce to you, dear readers of The Silent Page: The Books of Sand.

The Books of Sand, as far as I can gather, is a fiction writing project named for the short story by Argentinian writer Jorge Louis Borges (I’ll leave a link to it on the Internet Archive so you can read it because its a fascinating tale!). It takes place in an unnamed South American city and takes the form of a notebook written by the author’s late older brother. The stories contained within it take place from the perspectives of multiple authors who are all part of the same group of friends and are written in such a way to where they feel incredibly realistic. It’ll take you through their often very strange experiences growing up in the city, and may leave you a little melancholy.

This is the product of a talented writer and its no wonder its become a cult classic in online fiction circles! The explorations of nostalgia, solitude, youth culture, and the way its all portrayed through multiple voices will keep you reading for hours and leave you in a thoughtful mood!

Back when this was my personal fiction writing blog it acted as my inspiration for several short stories which I’ve since relegated to the archive. Maybe if folks are interested I’ll post fiction here once again.

Highly recommend finding a cozy place to sit down with your computer or phone, relax with a coffee, enjoy the fall weather outside, and give this blog a read!

Here’s the link to the blogger site:

The Books of Sand (Start in the 2011 archive with "What I found.")

And here’s the link to the short story The Book of Sands:

The book of sand (It’s the last story in the compilation)

Hope all of you out there have a fantastic week!

Silent Partner

Welcome to the Silent Page!

 Hello,

Welcome to The Silent Page!

This site is a personal project of mine to half journal – half connect with the world around me. I grew up in a world of the outdoors and literature, of curiosity and adventure, and as I got older, I lost the magic of living. So here we are, trying to find the magic of life together. I’ll post about adventures, musings, books, music, or even cool things that I think you should see in some effort to bring back the magic we all miss. If you feel a little alienated, a little cold, like life is lying dormant for the season, then this is the site for you. If you miss the 2011 aesthetic, are tired of politics, or just need somewhere to rest your mind then this is the site for you. If you want to take it easy for a little while, learn something new, and see the world from a new angle then this is the site for you.

I hope your time here is well spent and leaves you with something to smile about!

- Silent Partner

(P.S. if you like what I’m doing here then feel free to drop a comment! I’ll do my best to respond in a timely manner!)