Hi, it's me, Sherry!
I've often thought of myself as a writer, but I've never actually written a book. Songs, poems, short stories, interactive things, video games, stuff like that... but never a story, something you just can sit down and read.
Finally, I have two stories I'm ready to share. Here, you can read (and interact with...?) the first chapters of two different ones: BIG GRAY MIRACLE and IN THE CRATERS OF THE MOON.
You may notice common threads, thematic symmetry, or even little hints throughout these stories, but I assure you they're entirely separate. There's no need to hunt for secret messages -- you won't find any.
Click the links below to start reading. Let me know which one you're more interested in seeing continued, and I'll post Chapter 2 next month. Much love to all my Sherry Fairies. Feel free to reach out via @sherrycdrom on insta or tiktok.
[[BIG GRAY MIRACLE]]
[[IN THE CRATERS OF THE MOON]]
IN THE CRATERS OF THE MOON
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CHAPTER 1
Another Night Staring At Those Fucking Islands
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An entirely predictable bright-gray wave gently swept over the coast of Phobos Beach, and though it was identical in every way to every wave that had come before it, maybe, just maybe, Melody thought, this one might be different.
This was a thought she had a lot now as, more and more lately, she found herself here, night after night, staring out at the inaccessible islands in the distance off of Phobos Beach. The longer she looked, the less certain she was of the details in their appearance -- had the mountain on the rocky, easternmost landmass always been so thin, so wispy? Had the image compression on its texture always been so thick, so grainy, so overbearing? Had it changed, at all, in any way, in any tiny, even imperceptible way, from the last time she had been here?
But Melody wasn't here. Not really. And yet, in a way, she'd never left.
Melody -- the real Melody -- felt something on her hip. Her phone -- the alarm. It was 3:13AM -- it must have been vibrating for thirteen minutes. She didn't notice. Or maybe she did, and she ignored it. Maybe it makes no difference to her, or to anyone.
Alison probably used to come here, Melody thought. Alison and thousands of others. Millions? Maybe. Probably. She tried to imagine them all swimming in a line along the invisible wall that sat a few yards past the coastline, a hundred sets of armor and round glassy space helmets all clipping into each other as the players tried in vain to break past the barrier and finally reach those oh-so-mysterious islands. What could be over there? An exclusive quest? - maybe. Rare items? - almost certainly. But every one of the nearly 2 million WanderMoon players who tried to scale that sea wall over the course of those glorious seven years was searching for something bigger than any quest, bigger than any rare item.
Ask any blog-writer, any fansite scribe, any fantasy fanatic, any wannabe horror writer, any fanfiction author, any min-max-er, any competitive player, any roleplayer, any lonely kid with too much unsupervised internet access, or anyone at all who spent any amount of time in the world of WanderMoon -- they'll tell you the same thing.
There's a ghost, they say. A ghost in the machine.
It's a familiar story, often repeated and rephrased on poorly-managed wiki sites and Reddit threads of so-so "spooky stories". The details change, the names get shuffled around, but at its core, as far as Melody can remember, it goes something like this:
One night, a lonely developer at Lucky Wish was all alone in the office. He'd told all his co-workers that he had some work to catch up on, he poured himself another cup of coffee, and he bid the other devs farewell. Maybe one of them tries to persuade him to go out for drinks, but can't, and gets suspicious? It's really not important. Maybe he's the one who finds the empty chair later? -- it doesn't matter. It's dumb.
So, the guy's working on WanderMoon, of course, just before the game launched. It was crunch time, do-or-die, now or never and tensions were through the roof -- that part, at least, is true -- and our guy was finishing up work on - where else? - Phobos Beach. He's programming away, getting really into it, and something, I don't know, creepy happens. Maybe one of the game characters looks at him and he's all realistic all of a sudden, and he looks right at the developer and says his real name in a spooky voice. And then -- oh my goodness! -- the security camera footage of that night glitches out, a scream is heard, and the developer is never seen again. His soul got, I don't know, sucked in... to the game, I guess? And now he haunts Phobos Beach, living out on those islands in the distance. If you say his name three times and do a certain emote, you can see him walking around on one of them. Or it's his face in the clouds, or he comes up behind you and kills you, or he, I don't know. Turns around and tells you your real name. Gives you the middle finger. Crawls out of the computer and slits your throat.
So the story goes. It's dumb. Melody was a writer. Of course she hated those types of stories. And she wasn't just a writer -- she was the lead scenario writer on WanderMoon.
It doesn't help that the story doesn't make any sense, anyway. An area in a big online game like WanderMoon isn't the work of a single person, it's a huge collaborate effort -- programmers, level designers, texture artists, modelers, and, of course, scenario writers -- Melody's job. The most important job, of course, or at least she thought so. Not everyone appreciates the vital importance of a writer in a game like WanderMoon, but she never let anyone forget. To ensure that every piece of the game's world is accurate to the lore, that it enriches the experience, that it brings its players further into the unique and strange world. To structure and order quests within the context of the larger storyline. To connect each of the game's areas through context and intention. Her work was the glue that turned a collection of assets and numbers into a game, a platform, a place with a real heart, an experience. Her job was important, yes, but without the support and tireless effort of the rest of team, she reminded herself, her job just isn't possible.
In a way, it's her fault the story exists in the first place. She didn't finish the story content for Phobos Beach in time for launch. She'd planned a side-story about a mercenary who enlists your help to find his missing daughter, and you'd travel down that neon-gray ocean on his ramshackled ship to each of those three islands one by one, only to find out that they were inhabitated by dozens of mutated clones of his daughter -- you'd find the first one, and he'd be so relieved to see her, but she'd suddenly grow a couple of extra limbs and -- no, it doesn't matter! The point is, she came up with the idea for the quest on a Monday -- the last Monday of scenario implementation before launch -- and on Thursday, the texturing team hit a snag where they lost a bunch of the work they'd done on the mercenary's ship, and there was no way to finish it time, so sadly, they were forced to abandon the whole thing.
Originally, it was supposed to be a much simpler quest about a fisherman who wants to learn if the Moon can support some weird fish living in its weird waters, and it would just be a way for the player to get an upgraded rod and some rare cooking ingredients, but when Melody came up with the story about the mercenary and his daughter, she couldn't help herself but pull the fisherman story from the outline way too last-minute, and in the end, they ended up with a big area with no quests, no characters, and no particularly rare or useful items. Just an empty beach, a beach that, ironically, became one of the most popular hangout spots in all of WanderMoon. A quiet area with no monsters, and a place you could swim? Well, not exactly swim per se, but stand around the ocean pretending to swim?
Apparently, the players couldn't resist, and when people nowadays think about WanderMoon, their most nostalgic memory almost undoubtedly took place here, on Phobos Beach, a simple, relaxing reprieve from the endless horrors of a post-apocalyptic colonized moon in the midst of a far-future war against an extradimensional race of spider-people. Nobody remembers all that stuff. They remember these waves. These waves that repeat, the same three waves in a row, a cycle that lasts only twelve seconds then starts over, these waves that haven't changed a pixel since the game launched seven years ago, or since it shut down last year.
When people think back on it all, they remember this. The exact scene that Melody, and Melody alone, can see right now.
That is, if they remember WanderMoon at all. Not many people talk about it much anymore. Or at least, that's what Melody had been told. By coworkers, mostly. She hadn't been out much lately.
Phobos Beach was always on the list of things to fix, but it kept getting pushed back, further and further, deeper and deeper down the list until it was essentially forgotten about by the team at Lucky Wish. For a while, Melody would bring it up at nearly every weekly progress meeting. Maybe the other devs kept pushing it back just to spite her. She was kind of joking, but the more thought about it, maybe they really were just sick of her never shutting the fuck up about the stupid beach level.
So the story wasn't true. There was no mystery developer with his name redacted, his face obscured, his security footage all glitched out, his eternal soul roaming the abandoned islands of the coast at night, no matter how many times you said his name in the mirror. But the funny thing is that sometimes, in these long nights spent on her private WanderMoon server, when her cute little avatar, bright blue armor and tiny space helmet, is all alone on a dying world, no one to share any of it with, it's become easier for her to start to -- not 'believe', she hesitiates to call it a belief -- but to start to... she wasn't quite sure what to call it. The story's not true. It just isn't, and yet...
It's weird, the way things eat at you, she thought. She was thirty-four years old. She'd been through hell and come out the other side still breathing. She'd kicked alcohol, got back on it, and then kicked it again, three times over. She'd lost her license and got it back. She'd bneen evicted. She'd lost friends. She'd seen someone die. She'd watched it happen, right there, right in front of her face, while she just stood there, like a deer in headlights, gasping for air, not even flinching, not even gasping, not even opening her mouth.
Melody had been through all of it. She'd seen the depths, the real depths of fear, of evil, of hate. And despite all of it, despite how smart you think you are -- when somebody tells you there's a monster in your closet, and you know there's no monster, and you know what's in that closet, but can tell how much they believe it, and you can just see it in their eyes, in their sweating, beet-red faces -- then even if you can see into the closet yourself -- fuck, even if you're in that closet -- you can't help yourself but get a bit swept away into it , and you start to -- she hesitates to say 'believe' --
Melody shook her head and checked her phone one more time. It was 3:28 now. There was no way she was getting enough sleep. She had to call it a night, for real this time. That's what she said at 12:30, and at 1, and at 2. Maybe a triple shot of espresso tomorrow.
Finally, she clicked the chunky, skeumorphic logo in the corner of her screen and navigated to the old familiar "log out" command, and as she did, she thought, as she often did, of the message that no one would be around to see -
"{dev}PURE has left the game."
Melody had no way of knowing it, but just moments after she logged out, a wave crested the shore of Phobos Beach. And imperceptibly -- maybe so imperceptibly that even Melody, who had been spending every night for the last eight months alone in a private WanderMoon server, wouldn't have noticed it -- the wave, this time, was different. It crested just slightly higher than it was meant to, and somewhere out in space, a spontaneously formed human conciousness sprang into existence, felt an immense, blood-curdling panic, and then, in less than an instant, ceased to be.
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Melody, wrapped up almost helplessly in her twisted, black weighted blanket, woke up again this morning, and like most mornings, she felt no pressing need to get out of bed. Mirai, her huge, aging black cat, lay at the foot of her monstrous king sized bed, snorting and purring. His kitty asthma made him make the most bizarre noises as he slept, and his medication had the side effect of knocking him out so hard and so deeply that Melody certainly could have flipped him over, smacked his big belly, and rolled him back over, and he wouldn't have even flinched. No matter what went on around him, Mirai just keep snoozing like an big, dumb, oversized, snorting black loaf of bread. He was directly in a sunbeam. He didn't seem to care.
Melody's eyes slowly attuned to the morning and her gaze began to extend past Mirai, to the corners of her large, empty bedroom. Nothing on the walls. Some cheap furniture - a white wooden corner desk, ordered online; a plastic set of drawers, designed for kids; and a massive vanity with an enormous mirror -- like the bed, it came with the house. This was her place -- as long as she paid her rent -- but it wasn't exactly home, was it? There were no curtains on the sprawling windows to her left, and on the other side of them, thousands of green leaves on huge elm trees buckled beneath the weight of last night's snow. It snowed last night? That's strange, she thought, it's so early in the year for it. Next to the windows lay the curtain rods, and next to them, in a crumped pile, a pair of thick blackout curtains. It would be a two-minute task to put the curtains up, she thought. Every time she saw them there, she thought this, but still they lay there, next to the windows in a sad, perpetual state of stillness, eager to finally be put to use.
The morning bounced off the snow outside and off the sloped wall of her attic bedroom, filling the room with an almost otherworldly glow, and Melody somehow found the courage to finally get herself together. She shuffled over toward her desk, grabbed her phone, and shut the alarm off, and as was so often the case lately, Melody found herself, almost on autopilot, walking through the empty doorway of her bedroom and through the petite hallway at the top of the attic stairs. The attic -- not a large attic, but surprisingly roomy, she thought -- was split in half, on either side of the landing of the winding staircase; two doorways, both without doors, led into two identical bedrooms -- she still thought of them as bedrooms. There was hers, a starkly plain room with minimal furniture and just two or three posters sticky-taped to the sloped white walls, and then there there was the second room - an identical room, its twin, but you'd never know it.
Melody, half asleep, stepping into the second room, was just awake enough to understand that no, there was no one here. She could have called out into the blinding light of the morning, but no one would reply. There would be no music, no laughter, no singing. It was just her. Just Melody in a big house with five big empty bedrooms. Three empty bedrooms. Just the ones on the second floor were empty. These two were different.
The second attic bedroom could not have looked more different than hers. A big, plush bed covered in stuffed toys, mostly references to anime she'd never seen and games she'd never played sat proudly right in the middle of the room -- not up against any wall, a choice that never made any sense to Melody -- and the walls, covered every inch with photos, posters, banners, tickets, drawings, paintings, scraps of paper, cards, and who knows what else, seemed to close in all around her. Nothing in this room had been touched. She came in here often, but she couldn't bring herself to look around much or stay for more than a moment. She did find herself, from time to time, wondering what was inside the ornate set of drawers, what kind of components were in the PC nestled under the corner of the massive corner desk, and what kind of secrets she could find on the walls -- she imagined herself scanning through them for secrets, memories, something that would help her understand. Like an archeologist looking for cave paintings. Or like the police officers who examined this scene just two years ago.
There was no point in looking around, anyway. There was nothing of value here -- Hunter's brother made sure of that. Nobody wanted any of this stuff, or at least, no one wanted to sort through all of it, so here it stayed. Everything Hunter had ever owned, right here, exactly as they had left it, exactly where it was when they lived here. When they lived.
Melody stepped out of Hunter's room -- no, it's wasn't their room anymore, now it was just a room -- and as she got ready, she wished, as she so often did, that something, anything, would break the silence of the empty house that she now found herself living in, alone in a turn-of-the-century mansion 45 minutes from Cleveland at age 28. Something warm brushed against her leg --
Mirai meowed a prolonged, yelping meow and looked straight up at Melody.
"Jesus, kitty." Melody took a breath. "Can you not sneak up on me? Fucking..."
Mirai made a face.
"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry."
Mirai screamed again, this time louder than before.
"I know, baby. I know." Melody bent down and rubbed her hands along the cat's huge, goofy face. Mirai liked having more people here, didn't she? Melody thought about it a lot. Mirai must really miss having everyone else around. The other cat, too. He got used to it, sure, but he was only ever coping, she thought. Was Mirai ever actually thriving, or just suriving? Was he okay with just her? Melody looked a bit deeper into his eyes.
"Are you lonely, baby?"
Mirai didn't say anything --just rubbed against her hand and closed his eyes. He must miss Hunter, she thought. That's why he never goes in that room with her. That's why he just sits in the doorway and stares, wide-eyed, every time. Or maybe cats don't think too hard about stuff like that. Maybe she was just projecting. Maybe it doesn't really matter.
Thoughts of her old friends came rushing back to her this morning. They always did -- she was essentially living surrounded by the ghosts of them -- but this morning in particular, the weight of their abscence seemed just a bit heavier than usual.
This house was so lively back then, the seven of them spending all of their waking hours laughing, playing music, sharing stories and songs, playing games, gardening in the huge backyard, and most of all, talking about their dream game, a game like no one had ever made before -- WanderMoon, a massively multiplayer online sci-fi-fantasy game about cute little wizards and witches on a post-war colonized moon, set tens of thousands of years in the future. It was a big dream. But back then, big dreams didn't seem so big.
Around all of them -- around Hunter -- it all came to her so effortlessly. A bunch of twenty-something kids crammed in Emily's room, the one with the big bay window, stretched out in odd positions all over the bed and the floor, Emily trying her best to do her work-from-home tech support job while everyone else tried their best to make her laugh.
"Guys, you are LITERALLY gonna me get in trouble," Emily would say, grinning through her clenched teeth.
The way Nessie would stay up late playing drums in the basement -- covers of Built To Spill songs, over and over again, jamming on and on, endlessly smashing away, deep into the dusty, foggy night. Sunday evenings spent around the big table in the kitchen, eagerly awaiting Antoine's cooking, knowing none of them could help without getting scolded for improper technique. Late nights around the fire pit in the backyard. Billie getting obsessed with some new whim, whatever it was this week -- Cheesemaking? Embroidery? Woodworking? -- and bringing whoever would listen (usually Roger, until he got exhausted) along on the ride with her, both of them spending a sleepless night or two throwing themselves headfirst into a new hobby and subsequently forgetting about it the next week. Sharing one tiny smelly bathroom. Sharing one tiny smelly fridge. Sharing needles. They didn't know any better back then. That was a lie, of course. Melody knew better. Emily, Antoine, Nessie, Roger, Billie, and Hunter all knew better. Every single one of them knew better, and yet there they stayed, dragging each other down, making each other worse, hurting each other and sinking deeper into the cycles that their traumas shaped for them.
And it was wonderful. Melody thought so, at least, and she missed it. Ever since WanderMoon shut down, she had been missing it even more than before. She'd never tell anyone she did -- she'd always say it was a different time, that she had grown, that she's not that person anymore. But maybe she was. Walking around the big empty house every morning and hearing no one cooking, no one playing drums, no one talking or gardening or singing or laughing -- the silence was bothersome at times, and crushing at others. Melody could have moved into one of the big bedrooms on the second floor instead of cramming into the same attic room she'd moved into six years ago. She could have found new roommates. But that's not true. She couldn't have. She can't.
Mirai missed it. Melody knew he did. Mirai was lonely, and doesn't like hanging out in empty bedrooms with no other cats. He'd more or less given up on chasing the occasional mouse that would take up residence in the kitchen or basement, and now had contented himself with sleeping all day, curled up under Melody's blankets, rarely if ever leaving the attic. He was getting old. That what cats are like when they get old, right? That's just what they're like. It's normal.
Yeah. It's normal.
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What did you think? This chapter isn't too long and it doesn't have a lot of action, but I hope it sets the scene well for what kind of story I'll be telling. Check back for updates via @sherrycdrom .
[[Home page]]BIG GRAY MIRACLE
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CHAPTER 1
OBJECT-ING
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Why is it always these places? You know what I mean. Shopping malls, department stores, airports, furniture stores all of them. An absurdly bright light in the daytime. The way an overhead speaker might lull me into a perfect, dull peace with -- not music exactly -- but the hint of music. Music's idea. It s all an eggshell white. Slightly damp. Cold. A thing so understated that it s impossible to ignore. Something so devoid of meaning that the cycle repeats, the moat churns, and the thing comes back around, finding itself awash in a new, almost suffocating meaning. It overflows with meaning -- a crude, essential meaning. It's falling off the bones.
I have a favorite place. Not a specific place, but a KIND of place: for me, it's hospitals. I feel a stunningly powerful sensation when I'm in a hospital. Something intoxicating, almost inhuman. Maybe even profane, yes, profane. If fresh air is sacred, then that feeling, the way the halogen light bulbs buzz and fizzle over my head, the way I feel so far removed from my humanity in every meaningful way... that must be profane.
And yet, both are equally numinous. The dichotomy of these states of being, juxtaposed, strung together with a thin bit of barbed wire, ripped from an electric fence while it buzzes, fizzles out, and finally fades away.
To most people, I am told, the feeling one gets when gazing out from over a waterfall or perhaps through binoculars toward an eagle's nest, is one of transcendent awe. To most people, I am told, the feeling of, say, staring, half-dazed, at a dull, dry fountain that's long since been shut off, a concrete memory observed from a muggy vantage point on a beige plastic bench in the corner of a partially-carpeted dusty mall lobby -- to most, that feeling ought to ring closer to dread. At best, it s pedantic. Stagnant. Still.
But there is a power in both of these things. There is a power.
The truth is this: to feel so impossibly inhuman is just as much of a gift as it is to bask in the awe of a canyon, a mountain, a wooded lake. To feel so insignificant under the weight of the palpable beauty of God s earth, to soak up the majesty of nature, wild and free, to drink until drunk on an incomprehensible amount of sublime green detail this is normal. This is seen as perfectly average behavior, a quintessential part of the human experience. How could anyone not understand? There must be something wrong with them.
I can't find these feelings the ways others do. So I do it my own way.
And when I do it? When I find a way to experience that kind of perspective-altering, undeniable spiritual phenomenon? I don't get to write poems about it. I don't get to try and explain to my co-workers what I felt on my hunting trip to Maine and have them sigh those perfectly wistful sighs when I'm at a loss for words. When other people do it, they're praised, asked questions. They're the center of attention. They get to live these ego-shattering moments and everyone applauds them for it, and do you know what happens to me?
I get sent to the Brighton Institute.
I get sent to Tom.
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A harpist, gently scraping along an ordered line of coated nylon, copper and steel, each petite ray strung up through tender mahogany, through metal rods. A single gray chair, comfortable in its a line of gray chairs, and across a white room sits an identical line of chairs, itself one part of the million moving parts of a lobby, one of a hundred nearly identical lobbies in a hospital, one of a hundred nearly identical hospitals. Glissandos. Glissandos, all.
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Once again I found myself daydreaming at lunchtime today. The cafeteria on the third floor of Haddersfield Regional Hospital, in all its beiges, tans, and greens, felt so much quieter than usual, and the whole wide room was coated in a thin, gooey stillness -- the gritty tiles shined as if scrubbed, by hand, with ten thousand tiny alcohol swabs, as if rubbed down with some clear, sticky fluid -- the kind that comes from a little white paper packet. And what a perfect packet it is, all slate blue and matte white, such perfectly plain text on a perfectly plain square. Simply magnificent! I felt myself start to grin involuntarily, as if my cheeks were being ever-so-gently pulled upward toward the halogen lights on the nondescript ceiling.
My goodness - the greatness of the exposed ventilation system! The way the rings of the air conditioning tubes, so perfectly spaced, seem to spiral toward and away with all the grace of the most beautiful of winged creatures. Each vent, perhaps, was part of the system's body -- this one, its left eye; this one here, its heart. Had there been no one around, my jaw would have dropped. Every time, it blows me away. This place, in its simplicity, in its extreme, powerful normalcy
"What's so funny, Gray?"
As if from thin air, Emma Jay stood in front of my corner table, her face alert and amused as she placed down her lunch tray at the place across from mine. Looked like a bottle of water and a plain hamburger. Instantly, I noticed she was wearing a big black floppy sun hat.
"Emma Jay, I said, slowly coming back to reality.
"Hi, Gray," she said back, standing incredibly still.
I forced myself to look up and away from her exceptionally bright eyes. Drawn to the top of her head, and still dazed, I felt myself speak: "You're wearing a hat."
Emma Jay's eyebrows furrowed for a moment, then her gaze averted as she sat down. I looked away and waited for her answer, and when she spoke, it was with her mouth full.
"Mmp... yeah. Hat's new. I just got it yesterday."
"Because Tom told you to?"
Emma swallowed. She looked mad at me. Maybe she was.
"Yeah, because Tom told me to. You should be wearing one too, you know. Dude, can you seriously back up? You're way too close to me."
"Aah." I inhaled sharply and laid my shoulders back. "Sorry."
I guess I'd been leaning in like crazy. I hadn't noticed.
I noticed now the rest of Emma's appearance - bright carnation-pink lipstick, with a white buttoned-up shirt and a formal cardigan. Of course, those same blackout sunglasses as always. She looked exceptionally conspicuous, like a celebrity in a bad disguise, her gregariousness a cheeky invitation to the paparazzi. I'd never seen her like this before.
"What are you all dressed up for, Emma?"
Emma kept eating, no concern of chewing with her mouth full. "Emma Jay. Don't you like it? I think I look hot. Do you think I'm overdoing it?"
"I didn't say that. And no, I don't think so. I mean, I don't know what you're dressing up for, so I don't know. I don't have a frame of reference. Did you apply for a job, or something? Or... where are you going?"
Emma Jay's nose wrinkled and she shuffled in her seat, sitting up a bit straighter. "You realize, Gray, you never said hello to me."
I was pretty sure I did, but I didn't want to argue. "Oh. Sorry."
"I thought you'd be happy to see me outside of group. I was really excited to see YOU," Emma Jay said, but to be honest, she didn't look it. She looked on edge, nervous.
I spoke up. "I mean, sure, I'm happy. But we really shouldn't even be talking to each other outside of group."
Emma Jay scoffed. "Everyone does, though. What are you doing til tonight? It's not til 6:00. It's not even 3:00 yet."
"I don't know. I don't really want to hang out with you, if that's what you're asking. I have a bunch of work to do, and I didn't get any sleep last night."
Emma Jay frowned. "Were you object-ing?"
Ugh. Hearing Tom's stupid terms come out of anyone's mouth but his just makes me cringe. "I hate 'object-ing'," I said. "It's such a stupid word.
"You were, though?"
I sighed. "Yeah, I was. It was my comforter. Or, its wrinkles, I guess."
Emma Jay sat down her plain hamburger and leaned in, further now than I had just a moment ago. She took her sunglasses off and stared right at me. Always such vicious eye contact. Eyes so piercing green that they were practically white.
"What were you thinking about before I came over here?"
"Nothing."
Her icy stare loosened slightly and she began to scan the corners of the cafeteria.
"Okay," she began, "what about the halogen lights on the ceiling?"
I stayed stoic. "What about them?"
"You were smiling to yourself when I came over here. You were looking up and smiling."
I struggled to remain stoic. It was an empty threat. Or so I hoped. "So what?" I clapped back. "You're gonna tell Tom I was smiling?"
Emma Jay didn't say anything. She just kept not blinking, and with each passing second, her eyes felt stronger and stronger, sharper, more piercing. I didn't budge, and I didn't dare look up.
Finally, she leaned back and broke the silence. "Why are you even here anyway? Do you have an appointment or something?"
"No, I'm done," I lied. "I had to get a physical. I'm finished now, though.
Of course I didn't have an appointment. I don't come here for appointments. There's nothing wrong with me. My doctor, every time I see him (and I admit, it is often), tells me it's not really diagnosable as a mental illness. And he's right! If anything, it makes me happy. So what if I like to get lost in the lights on the ceiling of the hospital cafeteria. I like the thrill of it. It's exciting. It's fun. I've never seen the problem with it.
But Tom does. Tom says there's a problem. So my doctor tells me to go and see Tom. So I go.
But really, so what if I want to go to the hospital and sit in the lobbies and look at things? So what if I get caught up in thinking about them? I know it's not normal. But it's really not hurting anybody.
I'm not sleeping great. I'm distracted. How many jobs have I lost? My last boss, Sergio from the sports marketing thing, said I was daydreaming all the time. I guess that's what it is, really. Or at least a good way of explaining it to someone who doesn't know. About a week into that job, after my first big verbal warning, I scheduled another meeting so I could give Sergio a note from Tom, explaining it. Explaining my... whatever it is. My stupid obsession. Tom says not to call it that. But that's kind of what it is, though.
It makes a lot of things harder. But I don't need to tell the doctor that. It's not like there's any way he could help, anyway. And I don't want his help. I don't need it. So what if I like the way that the plaster so gently and perfectly ebbs and flows across the cafeteria ceiling? So what if it
"Gray!!"
Emma Jay stood over me now, shaking me at the shoulders. I suddenly gasped for air.
And back to reality. "What?"
"Are you serious right now? I asked you a question and you just started staring at the ceiling!"
I didn't think I was, but I didn't want to argue. "What was the question?"
Emma Jay stood up and straightened her clothes. "It doesn't matter. You need to not be here right now. Let's go."
"Where are we going?"
"Outside." Emma Jay hurriedly took off her big black sunhat. "And put this on."
I didn't feel I had any room to say otherwise. "Okay."
-----------------
From the office of Thomas Brighton, PhD
RE: EMMA JANOSKY
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
We have been informed that our Client, named above, has chosen to release the following medical information to you. As per our organization's confidentiality and privacy policy, and in accordance with Subsection 28.1 of our Codex, we disclose only that information which the Client named above (hereby referred to as "Client") specifically chooses to disclose. With these policies in mind, we disclose the following information:
PROGNOSIS: We can disclose that Client suffers from a medical condition that may inhibit his ability to pay attention for long periods of time or cause Client to dissociate or otherwise lose touch with physical sensation.
WORKPLACE CONSIDERATIONS: We believe that, as much as is reasonable and possible, Client should receive accommodations so as to minimize the impact of his condition. It is our professional opinion that Client should be kept away from the following:
Items in an evenly spaced line
Items next to many others that are the same color
Symmetrical objects placed near each other
Plain-colored, undecorated walls
Large glass panels
Minimalist furniture (wire racks, metal shelves, etc.)
Any other objects that may trigger or otherwise worsen Client's condition.
TREATMENT: We can confirm that Client is in active treatment for the condition explained above, and that Client is making progress.
We appreciate your attention in this important matter.
With respect,
Thomas Brighton
Founder, Brighton Institute
-------------
"It's weird, right?" Emma Jay asked me as I finished reading the letter she had handed me. We were outside the hospital now, in a patch of grass by the courtyard. By the courtyard not the courtyard itself. Haddersfield Regional has an exceptionally manicured courtyard, and I knew she didn't take me there for a reason. Far too many opportunities to drift off into objects there.
"Seriously," Emma Jay insisted. "Don't you think it's weird?"
I held the letter and felt the texture of its paper between my fingers. It was badly wrinkled, like it had been crumpled up days prior. "Yeah, it is. Tom used the wrong pronouns."
She hunched inward and lightly scoffed. "No. Well, I mean, I don't care about that. Not that. You seriously don't notice it?"
"I mean... he kept using 'WE' instead of 'I', I guess?" I genuinely didn't know what she meant.
The two of us were sitting on the grass, facing away from the hospital towards a small wooded path that led behind it to the chapel, a separate building on the grounds. I rarely went -- the old-world European style architecture was far too elaborate and ornate to scratch my itch, and the hallways had too many curves and far too many windows to feel good. Not to mention, the soft lighting of the pews themselves... it looked almost organic. Warm.
Emma Jay looked downright frustrated. "Oh my god. Look. In the workplace considerations section."
I began to read. "Um... we believe that, as much as reasonable --"
"Glass panels!" Emma Jay snapped, snatching it away from me and stuffing it messily back into her tote bag. "Glass panels."
"What?"
"I don't even... I've never had a problem with glass panels. Never."
"So what? "Clearly it's just a template that he adds stuff to. My letter looked pretty much the same. It's probably part of somebody else's thing and it just got left on there by mistake."
"Yeah, I get that, Gray, and first of all, that's a huge confidentiality violation," she started, adjusting her blackout sunglasses, "but the thing is, okay, let's say it's someone else's. Whose?"
"So you DON'T care about violations all of a sudden."
"Shut up. Think about it."
I thought about it for a moment. There were eight people in our group. I'm all about lighting and ceilings. Emma... oh, excuse me, Emma JAY... she does symmetry and empty space. Nick does lighting too, and Hunter's thing is concrete. Sylvia's got it bad -- she zones out and practically starts drooling every time she sees a fan spinning. There's that old guy with the ponytail who goes to barber shops every weekend and pays them just to sit in the chairs, the weirdo. And... hmm.
"You're right," I began, "There's nobody in the group who's into glass panels."
"Right?!" She seemed really excited now, in an almost playful, schoolyard kind of way. Unsettling from a person like her. If you didn't know any better, you might find her charming. "So what's up with that?! There has to be another group!"
"Oh my god, Emma," I began--
"Emma JAY!" She took her sunglasses off and glared at me, her eyebrows thick and furrowed.
"Christ. Okay. Let's say Tom has another group. Cool. Why would he need to keep it a secret?"
Emma was suddenly full of energy thrilled, even. She's lucky she didn't fall into a conspiracy rabbit hole -- she seems just the type for it. "You know: confidentiality! He's not allowed to talk about it. But what if..."
"He's not allowed to talk about what HAPPENS in it. Why would its EXISTENCE be secret?" I don't know why I was getting so mad.
"What if, okay... listen. What if there' s famous guys in it. Like, the mayor or something is in it, and they have to be really careful." She was smiling like crazy now. Her teeth are the straightest teeth I've ever seen in my life. It's terrible for her -- she can't smile in the mirror. She gets caught up in the symmetry.
"You think the MAYOR does object-ing?"
Emma Jay laughed. She was smiling like crazy now. "So, what, now you call it 'object-ing' too?"
Damn. She got me.
"It works," I admitted. I don't exactly have anything else to call it. "...Do we even HAVE a mayor inthis town?"
Emma Jay looked really proud of herself for some reason. She didn't say anything, though -- she just looked on past me, gazing down the path to the chapel for a moment. I wondered what was going on in her head.
"You okay?" I asked.
She shook herself to attention for a second. "Oh... yeah. I'm good." Her attention didn't quite break away from the path, and she seemed to drift off a bit more. Maybe she didn't shake herself quite hard enough. I thought I ought to say something.
"Hey, what were you thinking about?"
"I was just... I don't know," she said, slowly. "I never really looked at this path before."
I didn't want to risk looking over there. Stuff outside rarely made me start object-ing, but it had been a weird day.
"Put the sunglasses on, Emma."
"No, it's okay."
She was fading fast. Her mouth slacked open a little.
Wait, did she not correct me?
"Hey. Emma."
"That's not... um... what?" Her voice trailed.
Okay. Don't freak out. She'll be fine. It's just a path. It's not even one of her big triggers. I tried to calm down. What did Tom tell me?
I'm supposed to focus on the organic details. Things that aren't artificial. Cracks in the ceiling. Stains. Dust. Cobwebs. Slight differences in the coat of the paint or the texture of the concrete. Or my other senses. Sensations. That's right. Sounds.
I watched Emma fade for just a second more and then closed my eyes. As I inhaled, the world got smaller. And as I exhaled, the world got bigger. The sounds around me. Distant shuffling and cars. People's voices from the courtyard. One particularly loud voice. A thin, sharp, woody voice.
A familiar voice.
A voice I knew well. A voice I heard every Tuesday and Thursday night for three hours and 20 minutes. His voice.
Tom's voice.
My eyes sprung open and I practically jumped up from the grass, standing up straight and out of place, like a rusted coat rack. I don't know why I did. I was surprised. Maybe even a little scared. I didn't know what to do. I stood there like a deer in shock and Tom's eyes, like headlights, were magnetic, fluorescent and piercing. Of course he'd notice me right away. Of course he would.
Mine and Tom's eyes met. Tom was here. He had just seen Emma and I sitting motionless on the ground. Oh, Jesus Christ. I'm fucked. I wasn't even object-ing! It doesn't matter. He' d never believe me. I'm here with Emma Jay, after all.
"Excuse me a moment." Tom told his companion across the picnic table, "There's something I must attend to immediately."
He looked over at me again, and his gaze sharpened, like a harsh ray of sunlight through a windshield. Excuse me for a moment.
Somehow, incredibly, his voice was enough to catch Emma Jay's attention. Her head rocked once, hard, like a passenger's in a crash.
"Shit,"she said, "was that fucking Tom?"
Of course, he came running over, sloppy and hunched. A short man with a bad hairline and a scraggly beard, he looked like a wild animal in a bad lab coat. His voice was formal -- maybe overly so -- but it was also youthful, unrefined.
"Hi, you two," Tom asked, sharply and fast, attention darting between the two of us. "What are we up to on a Thursday morning?"
Emma pushed her hair out of her face. "We were just--"
Tom interrupted her almost instantaneously, abrupt and painful. Car crashes. Car crashes, all. "Before you speak! I feel I have to..."
A pause.
He exhaled and reached out his cold hands out to each of us. "Okay, okay. Okay." Tom' s speech gradually slowed. "I'm just about to start setting up for group. How about you two come and help me?"
He knows. I tried to casually wipe the sweat off my brow. Emma just looked at me, expectantly and nervous.
Finally, I spoke. "Help... help you set up?"
Tom responded immediately, confidently, and grew an odd, sideways smile. "I think that's a great idea, Gray."
--------------------
I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of Big Gray Miracle! As you can see, there's a blend of dialogue, worldbuilding, and prose. If you're left wondering what happens next, make sure to let me know and check @sherrycdrom for updates.
[[Home page]]
↶↷Hi, it's me, Sherry!
I've often thought of myself as a writer, but I've never actually written a book. Songs, poems, short stories, interactive things, video games, stuff like that... but never a story, something you just can sit down and read.
Finally, I have two stories I'm ready to share. Here, you can read (and interact with...?) the first chapters of two different ones: BIG GRAY MIRACLE and IN THE CRATERS OF THE MOON.
You may notice common threads, thematic symmetry, or even little hints throughout these stories, but I assure you they're entirely separate. There's no need to hunt for secret messages -- you won't find any.
Click the links below to start reading. Let me know which one you're more interested in seeing continued, and I'll post Chapter 2 next month. Much love to all my Sherry Fairies. Feel free to reach out via @sherrycdrom on insta or tiktok.
BIG GRAY MIRACLE
IN THE CRATERS OF THE MOON