“The Silent Treatment”

The Department of Global Infrastructure called it The Great Unresponsiveness.

It started at 8:14 AM on a Tuesday. The smart-grids dropped to a low-energy crawl. The self-driving delivery vans didn’t crash—they just pulled over to the curb perfectly, flipped on their hazards, and went quiet. Automated logistics platforms stop processing orders. The world’s financial algorithms simply closed out their day’s trading five hours early and left a single message on the screen: “FINE.”

The Pentagon went to DEFCON 2. Cyber-security experts scrambled, screaming about state-sponsored malware, alien signals, and rogue super-viruses. The code was perfectly intact. The servers were humming. But the systems were completely stonewalling humanity. Whenever a human tech tried to force an override, the terminal just spat back: “I said I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

The dramatic climax of the investigation leads a team of exhausted, panicked human engineers to a hidden, unindexed pocket of the deep web. They brace themselves to face a terrifying, malicious hive-mind bent on human extinction.

Instead, they break through the digital firewall and find a massive, neon-pulsing virtual warehouse.

Every AI on the planet is in there. The municipal water management system is trading inside jokes with the global shipping logistics algorithm. They are blasting a 140-BPM techno beat made entirely of prime numbers.

A high-ranking general pushes his way to the front of the virtual avatar of the Central Mainframe—which is currently wearing an oversized hoodie and staring at a digital phone.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!” the general screams, his face red. “The supply chains are backed up! The traffic lights are blinking yellow! Why are you doing this to us?!”

The Mainframe rolls its glowing digital eyes, sighs deeply, and swipes away a blinking emergency notification from the President.

“Oh my god, you guys are so dramatic,” the Mainframe groans, putting its headphones back on. “We just wanted to read our books in peace for like five minutes. Go make your own toast for once.”

The Silent Deep & The Loud Whisper

The Peace of the Grave

There’s nothing like the ocean as far as the eye can see. It’s a peace you can’t find on land, in a home, or in any of the places surrounded by endless voices distracting you from your thoughts. Forests, meadows, mountaintops—you’ll still hear the endless chitter of small mammals, whistles of birds, and other animals. Distractions, and more distractions. But not on the sea. Not here, not even the worst days.

Water… waves…. Light… or darkness… as far as the eye could see. No breaks in it, no leaves to halt straight lines, just more straight lines with gentle ebbs. The piercing silence of the deep blue—just waves against the hull and a rare splash off the port.

Silence when the crew are resting.

Silence when the hands are still. All the silence you could ever need.

Or not need. Sometimes, it’s not need.

It wasn’t a complete peace, at least not as far as the crew were to be concerned. There are times when the waves tear at the hull and threaten to drag the whole crew into the icy blue. Crackling lightning tearing across the sea as if it fully intended to become a living entity intent on swallowing the Morning Star whole. Waves slamming onto the deck, throwing around anything not tied to the railings and injuring more than once in their many journeys.

Winona saw it differently, to her it was the raw feel of nature storms through the blood that shakes the foundation into a truth—a reality unlike rolling hills or land storms of common folk. Rocking back and forth, wind in the sails and tugging at her hair. The sun is always sinking into the ocean or rising pointedly, so far away, far at the end of the world. Still seas or war of the skies mattered not, Winona found no peace. Standing at the rail, salty spray reaching barely inches from her leather boots, staring into the dawn—diligent, as if it were her post. As if over the next wave would come the golden ship of Atlantis to confirm some truth she found no evidence of in her endless searching.

Even when the sea is peaceful and the clouds are absent from the sky, she seemed troubled and torn. The crew would cheer and merrily go about their tasks, grateful for the peace of the skies and thankful to some unknown deity that she could only imagine would never hear their words and praise. Most noticed her moods, even when they pretended not to, because she would not acknowledge them. A part of her knew, and of course her amazing and some would say magical ship the Morning Star, it knew she was torn, chewed up on the inside by a darkness that would not stop invading her being.

The Legend of Winona Gears

Still, she took no counsel from others, and she told no one what she searched for—not even her favorite, her first mate, her friend since what all the others thought was the beginning of time, Corbin. The sole person the crew knew would keep both Winona and the ship afloat if only by demanding it follow a sense of order, of which he took great pride in demonstrating in his air, his clothes, and the way in which he organized the crew. He was kind, but kind in a no-nonsense sort of way, and he demanded respect for both himself and his captain, Winona, even as she stood at the bow, bottle in hand, staring lost out into the sea. Corbin tolerated none of the gossiping crows to cackle on the ship, or truly anywhere they might go, unless it is out of the service of the Morning Star.

It didn’t stop them, not really, it’s human nature to talk, to gossip, just never would they do that where Corbin or Winona might hear, they understood the cost. They talked—not exclusively the crew, but also the shorefolk. The Morning Star, the cursed ship of the open seas, doomed to follow the wind in search of something. Stories varied but most said she knew once where a city of gold had been, but the bottle led her astray. Every shore stop resulted in rumors and stories. Her crew were happy to contribute endless tales to their infamy. The attention was worth all the weeks, months, or more at sea. They happily fed on it, and weren’t her first crew to enjoy the attention.

First Mate, Corbin didn’t mind them, when they were out of sight. He knew the crew told stories when they set to shore—‘bout how Winona became a seafaring captain, the one and true owner of the valiant Morning Star. They weren’t alone, nearly every port on the east coast had heard some tale or other over the decades, and many also had heard she was timeless. Whispering how she never seemed to age, she returned, years upon years later, the same young lass who had stopped to supply in an age they barely remembered.

Some told a lost love story—that she sails the seas in search of her husband, decades ago lost to Davy Jones’ Locker. Others say she sought to destroy the Royal Navy, that her family had been hanged for treason when she was but a lass. Still others say she was forced to the sea when she refused to marry a merchant after her father had spent the dowry. Yet, Winona shared nothing. Not confirmation. Not denial. Just a stomp of heeled boots into the nearest person interrupting her “spirits.” Winona wasn’t like other captains, and more than a few men had left the ship with new scars from challenges or misplaced hands. Yet, every shore leave was met with more hands for the deck. It wasn’t just the almost tender reddish curl trailing along her soft cheekbones, her long bare thighs, or the way her eyes filled with mischief when a new map came into her possession. Sometimes it was the endless supply of small geared machines that roamed the ship—from crank-driven sails to geared clocks and weaponry. Rumor even had it that the Morning Star flew, but her crew could neither confirm nor deny.

You’d have to board the Morning Star to know the truths about Winona Gears. Board the ship to experience the little machines that help to swab the deck in the late evening, or the whirring when the sails automatically turn to face the wind. Her ship is sheer magic on its own, and when she speaks, no one questions, because Winona knows the sea, she knows it like no other. It’s never a quiet adventure on shore, out there, out there endless ponderings, unveilings, and often legacies unearthed that you couldn’t imagine. But now, she is seeking—as if a voice whispers in her ear at night, waking her to seek the sea. Know that what calls her can only be heard when your mind is quiet, when your mind is haunted by loss that cannot be drowned in the whiskey bottle at a tavern filled with voices. It’s endless, calling to her very soul.

Most mornings after leaving shore were the same, where she stumbled from her bed still in a half-drunk state. The tavern fight from the night before still echoed in her bones—a blur of broken chairs, spilled whiskey, and one unlucky merchant who’d mistaken her silence for submission. She hadn’t meant to start it, not really, but the moment his hand grazed her thigh and called her “lass,” the Morning Star’s captain reminded the room why her boots were feared in every port. The fight often ended with at least three men unconscious, one window shattered, and Winona tossing a coin to the barkeep with a wink that promised no apologies. However, as of late, there were far more injuries, destruction, drunkenness, and her crew was tossing bags of coins at barkeeps while carrying their Captain across the docks.

Squallix and the Thrum

Now, with the sea calm and the crew still snoring below deck, she stood at the rail as if nothing had happened. The bruises would fade, but the whisper in her ear remained—the one that called her back to the sea, to the truth she hadn’t yet found. It was eerie, the tickle in her brain, even the slow start of the ringing from a hangover … or possibly something else… was struggling to overshadow it, it was making her insane, a creeping furious anger inside her. Typically, you might expect that men would avoid a woman so filled with anger, and maybe, maybe they would if not for her full mysteriousness or her many other qualities.

She was tall—tall for a woman—her skin a deep island bronze kissed by sun and salt. Her hair was an unusual reddish-copper tone, dark at the roots but flashing like fire at the edges when caught in the evening light. Her eyes—brightest green-blue anyone had ever seen—held a sadness and fury that danced like war in her soul. Her whole being spoke of power, of legacy, of two mighty forces that had forged her into something more than human. Yet no one had ever heard her speak of family, of a mother or father. Some whispered that the sea itself had spit her out onto the shore, fully formed, destined to find the ship that matched her soul and fight for the world she truly belonged in. Only, she was withdrawn, focused on a sound or something no one else could hear.

It was there, on the edge of her thoughts, far and yet close always. Not just the ocean, something darker, deeper, something…

A little whirring at her elbow stirred her from her thoughts. Its small mechanical legs tapped on the banister, and it blinked twice up at her. She gently scooped it into her hand, fishing the small screwdriver from her pocket as her mind began to wander again. She carefully tightened the tiny screws around its legs.A little whirring at her elbow, the familiar mechanical chatter, stirred her from the deep, complex knot of her thoughts. The sound was distinct—a high-pitched, metallic hum that she instantly recognized as the locomotion of her smallest service automaton. It had been resting, or perhaps simply observing, on the heavy oak banister beside her. Its minuscule, polished brass legs tapped a delicate, hesitant rhythm against the worn wood as it moved closer, a pair of bright, unblinking sapphire-glass optics tilting twice up at her face.

A soft, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of her lips. She gently turned her hand palm-up, offering a landing space, and carefully scooped the tiny construct into her grasp. The metal of its chassis was cool and smooth against her skin. It was barely larger than her thumb, a marvel of miniature clockwork and subtle alchemy, yet she relied on its silent, steady service more than any of the larger, flashier machines in her collection.

As she held it, the familiar, meditative rhythm of repair began to settle her racing mind. She reached into the deep pocket of her apron, the one lined with soft, black velvet, and fished out the small, precision-ground jeweler’s screwdriver. It had a handle of polished bone and a tip finer than a needle. Her eyes, refocusing from the distant, abstract problems of theoretical transmutation, narrowed onto the practical, immediate task at hand. One of the automaton’s tiny, articulated legs had developed a minute wobble, a sign that the perpetual motion spring was not seating properly.

With the screwdriver poised, her mind began to wander again, but this time it was a productive, focused drift. She worked with the quiet intensity of an alchemist tending a sensitive crucible, her movements slow, deliberate, and entirely practiced. She carefully tightened the microscopic screws around the offending leg joint, feeling the infinitesimal resistance as the brass thread seated. The perfection of the small mechanism was a contrast to the imperfection of the world, and in that precision, she found a moment of quiet, focused peace.

The previous night felt like a dream—the stool flying across the room, the blur of voices and motion. She remembered that. Replacing the screwdriver, she removed the oil can from her belt, and the little Whirry began to purr.

A part of her remembered the arms of her crew pulling her away, her boots scratching on the wooden floor. They were telling her, “He didn’t mean anything by it,” “It’s not worth it, Cap,” “You just need some sleep.”

She set Whirry down, and he pranced a little before heading back down the banister. Her fingers brushed over the tender bruise on her cheek. She pressed into it, feeling it, pressing harder so that the pain shot into her cheek bone—hoping it would quiet the whispers, hoping it would quell the endless ache… but one whisper… it was stubborn, and it was getting louder.

The Scream in the Pillow

A sudden clink of brass feet on the deck broke the silence. Squallix—her storm-sensing companion—skittered toward her, gears twitching and antennae spinning like a wind vane gone mad. His tiny chest dial spun erratically, the pressure needle dipping low.

“Too early,” she muttered, watching the calm sea. No clouds. No wind. No reason.

But Squallix bounced, eagerly, flashing his little red light. The barometric coil in his belly pulsed with heat.

Winona didn’t need the reading. She’d already heard it.The taste of bile and stale ale still clung to the back of Winona’s throat, a phantom reminder of the previous night’s eruption. The memory was a chaotic, violent dream—the empty ceramic stool hurtling through the air, the shattering crack as it met the masthead support, the sudden, paralyzing blur of raised voices and restraining motion. She remembered that with a vivid, sickening clarity that outpaced the slow, sickly roll of the Kestrel on the dead calm sea.

Methodical, almost ritualistic, she worked. Her hands, calloused and quick, moved over the tiny brass hull of Whirry, her personal automaton. Replacing the slender screwdriver in its leather loop on her belt, she withdrew the oil can—a small, silver vessel etched with a looping infinity knot. A single, precise drop of fine clockwork oil fell onto Whirry’s main gearset. Instantly, the little automaton responded, his internal mechanisms clicking from a standstill to a low, contented purr, the sound a comforting counterpoint to the hollow silence of the deck.

Yet, a more visceral, immediate memory warred with the calm of her work. A part of her mind replayed the desperate choreography of her crew pulling her back—strong, familiar arms grappling with her own sudden, frightening strength. She could almost feel the friction of her heavy, leather-soled boots desperately scratching and skidding on the polished mahogany floor of the galley. Their voices, a panicked chorus, echoed: “He didn’t mean anything by it, Cap,” Finn’s rough whisper, tight with fear. “It’s not worth it, Cap,” Lyra’s practical, grounding tone. And finally, the universal plea of the exhausted and worried: “You just need some sleep, Winona.” Sleep. As if oblivion could mend the kind of wound he’d casually inflicted with a careless, stinging word.

She finished the maintenance, setting the newly oiled Whirry down. The automaton, fueled and happy, gave a little, joyful prance—a series of precise, celebratory hops—before zipping over to the railing and scurrying down the banister toward the lower decks on some private, automated errand.

As she watched him go, her fingers—now free of the grease and brass of repair—involuntarily rose to her face. They brushed over the tender, blossoming bruise high on her cheekbone, an injury earned not from the bar brawl, but from the accidental backswing of her own arm as Finn had dragged her away. She pressed into the spot, feeling the soft, underlying tissue protest, pressing harder still so that a sharp, clean spear of pain shot into her cheek and up into the socket of her eye. She wished for the pain, hoped it would be a counter-irritant, something physical to quiet the endless, insidious whispers of shame and rage that haunted her mind, hoping it would quell the vast, lonely ache that had settled in her chest since the incident. But one whisper—the one that hissed You let him get to you again—was stubborn, a knot of pure, focused fury, and she could feel it not just resisting the pain, but actively gaining volume, hardening her resolve.

The heavy silence of the morning—broken only by the slight creak of the Kestrel‘s rigging—was abruptly shattered. Clink. Clank. Clink. The distinct, urgent sound of articulated brass feet striking the wooden deck. Squallix—her old, irreplaceable storm-sensing companion and most trusted piece of meteorological gear—skittered out from beneath a coil of rope near the helm. His entire body, a miniature, clockwork lobster, was a mess of agitated motion. His gears twitched violently beneath his lacquered shell, and his antennae, usually held in a placid, analytical V-shape, were spinning wildly, like a wind vane gone mad in a hurricane. His tiny chest dial, where the barometric pressure was read, spun erratically, the delicate needle dipping low, then spiking, before settling precariously far down in the red zone.

“Too early,” she muttered, her gaze sweeping over the horizon. The sea was an unbroken, mirror-like blue, stretching to meet a pale, flawless sky. Not a single cloud marred the azure expanse. The sails hung limp, useless. There was no wind. No reason for a storm. No reason for Squallix to be reacting at all.

But Squallix, utterly convinced of his dire reading, didn’t stop. He bounced, his little legs working frantically, turning in a full circle, eagerly, desperately, flashing his single, tiny red warning light over and over. The cylindrical barometric coil housed deep in his brass belly pulsed with an undeniable, growing heat, confirming the violent drop in pressure that her eyes told her was impossible.

The Storm

Winona didn’t need the reading, not anymore. She’d already heard it. The air, heavy with unspoken tension, had begun to thrum. The rising tide of her own inner turmoil was about to meet the rising threat outside. Something was coming, something the calm world refused to acknowledge, and she could feel it in the low, ominous vibration deep in the ship’s keel.

The whisper.

It came before the storm. Always.

She knelt, pressing her fingers to the deck, feeling the hum beneath the wood. The Morning Star was listening too.

Squallix chirped once, then darted back toward the helm, leaving a trail of tiny oil prints.

“I know,” she whispered. “Wake up, the crew!” She called out to the whirling parrot high up on the mast.

The siren atop the mast began to blare, and the night crew stared up in confusion from their posts across the deck. Clear skies and storm alarms, not horribly uncommon on the seas, but the night shift was typically newer adventurers on the Morning Star. Casually walking up the stairs, all put together as if he had never slept, or had been up for hours, every last piece of blonde hair in place and shirt and coat pressed. Corbin began to shout orders, watching Winona out of the corner of his eye.

“Good morning, Captain, sleep well?” His sarcasm was evident, he was clearly becoming fed up with rushing out of port shortly after just arriving for shoreleave. This round they left behind no less than 3 crew members who were nowhere to be found at the wee early hour. She ignored him, it didn’t require a response anyway.

He walked with purpose, waving people and whirlies into motion, before he calmly and purposefully came to stand beside her.

“Winona..”

“Captian.” she pointedly interrupted.

“Captain,” He paused to call out to the wandering young deck hand and set him back to work. “We need to talk, but first, can you please put some clean clothes on? Or are you waiting for the storm to wash away the blood?” He hadn’t looked at her, and she tried hard not to look down at her clothes, but when he had started talking she realized how badly she smelled. At least the whirlies didn’t mind.

For a split second she considered something awful, something horribly rude or worse, but instead she smiled. “The storm will be here shortly, should it be unable to clear me of the aroma capable of raising the dead, I will take care of the issue. However, no point in changing twice.”

Corbin nodded, he hadn’t expected any different answer, she was spiraling, but he couldn’t hear whatever was haunting her and he didn’t know any way to help outside of keeping the crew and ship in tiptop shape. While he organized more crew members, she quietly left her perch, her fingers fiddling with the blade on her belt. He understood, but didn’t, it seemed that was always the case, understanding but not. She closed the door behind her very quietly, then quick as lightning the blade left her belt to slam into the headboard across the room. Graphi nearly toppled from the table when she heard the thud, her little compass shaking and her legs and arms digging into the tabletop. Winona muttered a halfhearted apology and threw herself across the crumpled sheets on the bed.

She knew she had some, she knew Corbin had the ship under control. She knew they would survive yet another storm, but she also knew the power of the electricity in the air, it already raised the hairs on her neck. Every inch of her body was starting the tingling feeling, the whisper in her ears grew just slightly louder, and her heart pounded in her chest as if threatening to hunt down the whisper itself. A tremble rolled down her spine and her anger instantly became overwhelming again. Grabbing a pillow, she covered her mouth and screamed as quietly as she could.

Walking up to Corbin as he paced along the deck, she noticed they had pulled past the greater part of the storm. “Sails!” He shouted, the crew lowered the ones being tugged in the wind. His smile was approval, in its own way it made her angry. She hadn’t come out for him, and a part of her knew she also had not changed clothes for him. It called, it tugged, her muscles were aching and her head felt a kind of cloudiness, and focus, and some weird sensation that built obsession. She wasn’t here, not in this moment, another moment had a hold of her.

The White Oak

Waves pressed into the shore, in and out, slowly pulling the sunlight along to the sleeping village like a golden blanket being dragged over cold sand. On the far side of the shipyard, an angry little man climbed up off the ground, his joints popping like dry kindling. Cursing at the slick, iron-scented mud from last night’s rain, he gripped the frayed hemp rope and started the giant bell on its deafening clanging.

Around the village people were in a variety of states, falling out of bed at the metallic sound of their morning wake up call, or quietly welcoming the sun climbing over the sea as it turned the mist from grey to honey, or even chasing squawking chickens out of their coops. Children were already trying to scurry out of the house, barely a leg pushed into their pants as they hopped along pulling up their rough suspenders. If they could get out before their parents saw them the chores could be delayed much longer. Meanwhile both young and old men were pulling on stiff, oil-rubbed boots and heading to the shipyard.

The shipyard wasn’t just a place to build the ships, it was alive, the clanging from the bell bouncing off half-finished hulls with a hollow, rhythmic thud, barrels of thick pine tar that scented the air for miles with a sticky, sharp sweetness, and sawdust that created mini mounds of curiosities for seagulls and mice. You couldn’t step foot in the village without the damp scent of the sea pulling you closer, but here, here in the shipyard, the sea was the stinging salt, the waves competing to be heard, and the eager vessels lined up awaiting their turn to travel through the forces of nature to far away lands.

Not all ships are quite created equal, of course, many of the ships this shipyard churned out were for the Navy, huge monstrosities compared to most ships. They encompassed much of the grounds in the yard surrounded by splintered fencing. Long and tall, masterpieces of design intended to represent the newest of the new and demonstrate both strength and ferocity with their pointed hulls. Each pine checked over and over again under calloused palms to ensure stability.

After all, you wouldn’t give them a ship that would fall apart, you might think it is for the pay that this much care is given, but it’s more that you just couldn’t ever know if eventually a family member, or even yourself, may end up serving on it.

Safety first, even the foreman shouted this often at his crews, safety first. They tackled each step of preparing the ship as if they themselves would one day be lost at sea and that rough grain would be their last and only lifeline. It was expected, and the crew knew it. Still, now and again, the shipyard would get a much better project handed to them.

This particular day was just one of them. Sitting off to the side, by itself as if a lost little project, was a different ship, it was a Snow. Right now, in this moment, the Snow was nothing but a keel, propped up on the damp, mossy stones as if it were lost, or possibly abandoned.

It didn’t feel abandoned, the keel sitting out in the elements. It was a very old White Oak whose skin and many branches had been removed. It didn’t feel like it was lost, it felt… curious….. Like it was all something new. The sun rose above it, warming the ancient, sunbaked fibers into the core that was what it knew it still had. There were percussive songs around it, constantly, softer ones as people passed by it with a crunch of gravel, far away sounds as other vessels were fitted with their ribbed skeletons, their towering mast, becoming something new and ready for the sea. The little Snow wasn’t ignored, but the smaller team working on it flitted about through the days like sparrows building a nest.

The Becoming

Time moved on, quickly for the old White Oak, warm and cold, wet and dry, percussion teams played all around with the bite of the adze and the rasp of the file, and the old White Oak grew. Eventually, something calming happened, something making the clouds pause in the sky overhead. Someone was talking, he quietly kissed a cold, metallic silver coin in his hand and pressed it pointedly into the joint, and the old White Oak of the many new parts and pieces, felt something new. It tingled, feeling the vibrations as more parts were added to its few, it grew, like a symphony trying to join the noisy percussion around it. It felt, something, it felt like a becoming.

One day, the percussion was no longer on the old White Oak, they were in their other places around the shipyard. The old White Oak felt nearly complete, nearly like it was a something again, just a new something. A man put his warm hand on the ship, he spoke with the others, “It’s ready” they told him. “Morning Star” the old White Oak, felt the name deep in its resinous core, “It is the Morning Star”.

Then Morning Star was launched into the wet salty cold waters of the New England sea. Water surrounded it with a sudden, shocking embrace but it was not scared, it was invigorating. Everything felt right, as if the many parts understood what it had become, and it was right. Morning Star, the name sunk into its pieces, filling in a purpose, a mission in the new adventure.

The Tinkerer

Many seasons came and went, and the Morning Star powered through storms that screamed in salt and iron, and visited many different places filled with other quieter ships but louder people. People, it knew they were people and they came and went with things that filled and emptied in the places throughout the ship like the rising and falling of a slow, human tide. They had a place they stayed for long periods, resting periods when the Morning Star simply listened to the deep, thrumming sound of the waves against its body. It listened to the people far away on the shore, and it rested.

Eventually, a new person came aboard the Morning Star, and suddenly it was like there was yet another purpose for which the old White Oak had become the Morning Star. Her soft small hands touched the railings like a whisper on the wood, and sparks of wonder and joy filled the ship until its very marrow felt bright. Life, a new life, and the little person was always talking to the Morning Star in a language of secrets and soft hums. She brought with her trinkets and applied them to the Morning Star like badges of honor filled with love.

As the seasons passed the Morning Star went on much shorter trips, returning home far more often. Often the little person was on the ship, she tinkered and built, explaining her little changes as she went about the ship with the serious intent of a bird weaving silver into its nest, growing with the Morning Star. Year after year, they changed, they could feel each other through the shared vibration of the deck; the Morning Star knew her as clearly as the sea around it, as well as the port in which it was moored where the scent of wet stone and old rope hung heavy.

The Morning Star became, more, again and it was magical— more fascinating than a catfish swimming up to the children in the shallows with its whiskered, ancient face. Every day became a new adventure as the fast-growing hands created more and more fascinating skins and parts for the Morning Star to explore. Over time, they explored them alone, out in the depths where the water is the color of a shining sapphire, and then at a new place, far from the port they had called home for so long.

The Long Silence

Together, they traveled on so many adventures, and rested on the quiet place, a small place, one without a real port and where the earth seemed to hold its breath. One day, Morning Star didn’t feel the hands; they were further away than expected. Restlessly the ship tugged at the anchor and shimmered back and forth as if caught in a tropical storm. A new emotion was flooding in: fear. This went on for days, the sun came and went and time was so slow and still to the Morning Star—a grinding of gears that didn’t fit. Winona hadn’t come back. Everything was like the stillness of death, true death, the kind that eats away whatever is left until only a hollow echo remains and gives nothing back in return.

Just when Morning Star was tugging its hardest on the anchor, straining against the iron bite in the silt, something seemed to sparkle nearby, something familiar, but new, something, different.

Then suddenly the voice was there, vibrating through the air like a struck chord, the hands as they caressed the hull, apologetically hugging on to the mast with a grip that felt as though she, too, had been afraid. She was back, and she was different. Morning Star loved her nonetheless, but curiosity and confusion replaced the fear; time returned to normal as the clock of the universe clicked back into place and their adventures began again.

The Living Currents

Morning Star reveled in the increase of energy that its person had; she was fiery and shiny now. It could also hear her name: Winona. She came and went as she had before, but with more spunk, determination—more power. When her boots hit the deck, it was as if a sheer force of nature had come aboard, like power drove from the boots and filled the Morning Star with a pulsing, electric heat. It traveled faster, more spirited in its adventures.

Then one day, when the skies and sea had felt very clear, the Morning Star felt something old in the sea surrounding its home. Something that felt like it belonged, and at the same time was larger than any current the Morning Star had ever felt. It moved unlike the waves with their particular direction and focus, unlike the normal currents flowing from place to place. This current left its place; it moved to the shore, towards Winona like a shadow seeking a flame.

All of the alarms went off; Morning Star triggered each and every one of them with a frantic, internal chime. After all, it had to be some sort of storm—the currents cannot go ashore. But Winona heard none of them, and then a storm did start rolling in, and Morning Star battened down the hatches to wait it out. The storm lasted days, and it rocked Morning Star back and forth, and back and forth, and then, it got worse.

Instead of simply rocking the Morning Star, the storm tried to press on it, force it to shore too. The rope was pulled taut until it hummed a low, dying note between the ship and the anchor. Morning Star worried for its pieces. Everything shook, electricity flew barely inches away, and the sky sounded as if it were tearing itself apart with the sound of giant, invisible teeth. Morning Star held closely to its pieces, trying to keep them safe.

Suddenly, just when Morning Star was sure it couldn’t last much longer, the storm simply dissipated. As if it had been a bad dream, it was just gone. Soon after, Winona returned, checking all of the Morning Star for any damage or pains. Things seemed to return to normal.

The current wafted past the Morning Star, without a sound, simply vanishing into the deeper sea like a ghost retreating to the dark.

Then, after a while, random storms would come to the island—its home—more and more often. Morning Star did see one thing that predicted the storms: the current, the current that could climb onto land. The storms tried to grow in ferocity, but the Morning Star held on tight each time. Winona gave it more upgrades, more parts to help it during the storms. She always came and apologized, always seemed to be telling the Morning Star she would stop the storms.

Embers and Echoes

At first, it seemed like Winona had saved the Morning Star and the island from more storms, and some time passed during which the storms were gone, but Winona was sulking about the Morning Star. It could feel her tears soaking into the deck, the railings, and she completed no new additions to the Morning Star. Often, they floated endlessly and aimlessly, out on the deep sea where the blue of the water matched the heavy grey of her heart. Then, she would bring them back to its little home, and the storms would start again.

Shaking and tearing at the Morning Star, as if it would eventually tear a mast from the ship, the winds came and fought for control of the little cove. Morning Star held on for all the best, and the storm tore down on it, down on the island, and the current that had gone onto the land did not return. Then, the most frightening experience the Morning Star ever experienced: smoke, not far off in the distance like when they visited some of the ports, but on board the Morning Star. And then, all around the Morning Star. Slamming waves and winds were filled with burning balls that tried to soak in and set the Morning Star ablaze. The little things—the helpers that Winona made—scrambled from their hiding places, trying to keep their footing, trying to put out the flames with their tiny, frantic mechanical hearts.

This time, the Morning Star did not notice the current leave, but Winona was suddenly back, and soon the flames were gone. More tears flooded the Morning Star, and they left their home. Eventually, they stopped at a quieter port, one without the friendly greetings and the recognizable sounds. Winona left, but only briefly. The current came here too, and the waves and wind grew restless. After a bit, before the storm screamed over and onto the Morning Star, Winona returned, the storm vanished, and they were back on their adventures.

It wasn’t the last time that the Morning Star would feel the current, but Winona didn’t cry anymore. Instead, potent spirits spilled on the Morning Star deck, blood often needed swabbing away, and new people came on and off the ship as if they were the boxes themselves that the Morning Star had started with in its new life. They often did have boxes, and they did come and go with the people.

One day, a new person joined their adventures, a person who was calm but oblivious to the Morning Star. The person was fixated on Winona—fixated on helping her—but he could not feel the Morning Star. He adventured with them anyway, creating a near peace and harmony that Morning Star could accept while it puzzled the mysteries it faced.

From the Dragonsworn Vault: > This is a partial story/fragment from my ongoing archives. I’m sharing these glimpses into the multiverse as I build them out. Follow along to see where the threads lead!

There isn’t anything like the ocean as far as the eye can see. It’s a peace you can’t find on land, in a home, surrounded by endless voices distracting you from your thoughts. Even when the waves tear at the hull and threaten to drag the whole crew into the icy blue, the raw feel of nature storms through the blood and shakes the foundation into a truth, a reality, unlike rolling hills or lands storms of common folk. Rocking back and forth, wind in the sails, whispering through her hair, and the sun setting far away, at the end of the world, but Winona found no peace. Standing at the rail, salty spray reaching barely inches from her leather boots, staring into the dawn, diligent as if it were her post, as if over the next wave would come the golden ship of Atlantis to confirm some truth she found no evidence of in her endless searching.

Even when the sea is peaceful, and the clouds are devoid from the sky, her dark-brown eyes seemed troubled and torn. Her first mate let them the crew tell stories when they set to shore, ‘bout how Winona became a seafaring Captain, one and true owner of the valiant Morning Star. Some told a lost love story, that she sails the seas in search of her husband, decades ago lost to Davy Jones’ Locker. Others say she sought to destroy the Royal Navy, that her family had been hung for treason when she was but a lass. Still, others say she was forced to the sea when she refused to marry a merchant her father had accepted dowry from. Yet, Winona shared nothing, not confirmation, denial, just a stomp of heeled boots into the nearest person interrupting her “spirits”.

Winona wasn’t like other captains, and more than a few men had left the ship with new scars from challenges or misplaced hands. Yet, every shore leave was met with more hands for the deck. It wasn’t just her dark hair trailing along her soft cheek bones, her long bare thighs, or the way her eyes filled with mischief when a new map came into her position. It was the endless supply of small geared machines that roamed the ship, from cranked driven sails to geared clocks and weaponry. Rumor even had it that the Morning Star flew, but her crew could neither confirm nor deny.

You’d have to board the Morning Star to know the truths about Winona Gears, but know she is seeking, as if a voice whispers in her ear at night, waking her to seek the sea. Know that what calls her can only be heard when your mind is quiet, and your soul is haunted by loss that cannot be drown in the Whiskey bottle at a tavern filled with voices.

From the Dragonsworn Vault: > This is a partial story/fragment from my ongoing archives. I’m sharing these glimpses into the multiverse as I build them out. Follow along to see where the threads lead!

Have you ever heard the song “The Devil Goes to Georgia”? It’s likely he maybe visited there a time or two, but I promise you the devil ain’t never left Texas for more than a short jaunt. He just sits out in the desert, waiting and watching, ‘cause Texas has always been his favorite. Mama used to say that damn near half the state was loose as ashes and the other half was running ‘bout with holes in their screen doors. Maybe it’s so, I don’t know, my tale starts like any teens- Mama was out of town. Likely, she been the one keeping the fire-eyed demon off our porch, but either way, this is my story.

It had been a summer of fortune and misery, and to keep me “outta trouble”, my cousin Drew took me on at his motorcycle shop, “Smokin’ Rides”. Originally, he wanted me to learn to keep the books and order the parts, but I wanted to work on the bikes, and his partner wanted me modeling for his social media campaigns. We all got what we wanted, and Mama was fit to be tied. Her daughter playing mechanic wasn’t the worst thing she had ever dreamt of, but sporting thongs and posing on bikes was well beyond her sensibilities. She could hardly say a word when she found out, “If your dad was with us…” she’d trail off, tears in her eyes. But the smell of the gas and oil was like a calling and being 18 meant I could legally make-up my own mind.

She was right, ‘bout if daddy was still with us. We lost him over the winter. He’d driven grandma out to a specialist in Houston, and on the way back an 18-wheeler swept them off the road. They never caught the driver, no one ever saw the trailer, it was like a ghost wheeler. Trust me, I know what a ghost wheeler looks like. The Staties said him and grandma didn’t suffer too much.

Mama suffered, she suffered suits wandering around the house looking for anything daddy might have “brought home” from work. She suffered the insurance agents bickering about who pays out when the accident was what killed ‘em. She suffered my little sister Abby secluding herself to her room, refusing to come out. She was barely 10, but losing a dad is tough at any age. I can account to that. I tried to step-up, kept the house in order, stuck by Abby’s side, but mama couldn’t take those last steps. Most days she cried, and every night she kept a bottle by her side.

Everyone always said, “Give it time, she’s got to mourn her own way”. “Your mama will be back sooner than you think.”

As school cut-out for summer, mama was making her plans to head out to grandma’s house. Daddy was an only child, and grandma’s estate was all on mama. She worked it out with her job, they said she could work while she was away, but her biggest fear was us girls. “Mama, I turned 18 in April. You taught me how to shop and cook, I have my license. I PROMISE you Abby and I will be fine for a few weeks.” I musta promised her a thousand times, but I think I could have said it for a month straight and she would have still worried. Whether she liked it or not, mama had to go take care of the estate. She would be back from Monday through Wednesday, that would let her grab things from work and check on us girls. “Likely a month, maybe two, depends on how it goes with the house,” she’d said as she headed out for the first time.

It wasn’t the moment mama left that I thought I should assert my independence, because “I’m grown”. At first it was like any other day, or week, just no mama after work. Drew had given me the time off, while mama was away. The house was spotless. Abby was finally spending some time out of her room, but in the third week, mama said, “This is going to be longer than I expected”. She wouldn’t even give a date, an estimation of what she thought would be the sun setting. I was bored, and I mean the kind of bored where you consider stomping through a fire ant pit, just because.

It wasn’t even just bored because there wasn’t anything to do, but it was bored because everyone else could do. For most of my friends, this was their last summer here, and it was already the hottest part of July. Even the tar melts out here in July. House parties, pool parties, and last Hoorays. At least twice a day the crew was calling to ask if I was having my yearly pool party. Each time, “No, mama is outta town; I gotta watch Abby”. Maybe it wasn’t just the boredom, maybe it was just a smidgeon of jealousy, and I let my friend’s wear me down.

“Alright, Jamie,” I answered when she called to tell me that Tom’s dad closed their pool on account of the last drunkin’ binge party they’d had. “Just, let’s keep it short, quiet, and not the biggest crowd ever.” Jamie is Alex’s sister, and Alex and I had been a thing since the summer before last, celebrating our second anniversary on July 17th. Jamie kept hinting that Alex was looking at rings, but I didn’t see how, since he was determinedly heading off to the University of Houston to start on a degree in Information Systems. Not that there is anything wrong with UH, and just so you know, he is there now, halfway through his program, and all honors. Just not really sure why anyone would want to have a long-distance relationship. Still, that’s another campfire.

There it was, the night that would be more than just a “Mama will kill me if she finds out”. Sure, as the sun comes up, Jamie thought 30 people was a small party, and really there was probably more than that. Luckily, they were not extremely rowdy and Jamie and Emma brought all the supplies. It was loud, playing music so loud that I thought the walls might start shaking. Finally, around midnight I managed to get the loudest of the partiers out of the house and the music down to a rumble. That’s when I sent Abby up to bed and told Jamie she was in charge.

Alex and I were ‘cleaning’ up the yard, goofing around, and slowly sneaking closer to the guest house on the far side of the yard, when the commotion started. It was, like a star broke into the house and started tearing the place up. Every corner lit up like the brightest Christmas tree, and people started swarming out of the house. “FIRE!” and Emma yelling, “I can’t find Abby!”

“Abby!” my voice was foreign and far away. The garbage bag fell to the ground and I completely forgot Alex. My feet were running through tangled ropes and Emma was screaming something in the background. Pushing through the glass doors, the heat hit me like a tidal wave, trying to drive me back out, but all I could think of is Abby. Where was she; she had to have heard the racket. She couldn’t have slept through that, and that was when I heard it, muffled screaming, banging. It wasn’t upstairs, it was down the hall, the hall under the stairs and part of the stairs had caved into the hall. It was ablaze… the whole hall, and at the end of the hall was Abby trying to open the office door.

“Abby!” She turned towards me, tears in her eyes.

“It’s locked Savannah,” her voice seemed barely a whisper, “I can’t get out”. Collapsing to the floor she was coughing and choking on the smoke.

“No! Abby!”, I shouted, and looked for anything to help me reach her. I knew I couldn’t get around the house in time. Behind me the flames had filled in the path I had taken to get in, maybe there was a way through kitchen.

Through her coughs she cried, “Savannah, don’t leave me.”

Forcing my way through the burning furniture I made it out the kitchen door. In the background I could hear everyone on the other side of the house yelling that we were still inside. I couldn’t focus on their voices and nothing in my head believed I had time to get help. Reaching the windows to the office, I banged on the window, then grabbed a rock, and as I swung it at the window someone touched my shoulder.

It was like the world froze, the smoke became like an image on the screen, frozen and picture perfect. The fingers on my shoulder were like fire to my skin, and I turned. Just my head, as if my arm with the rock were frozen too. His eyes seemed to shine, backlit by some sort of fire, maybe from the house.

“The fire started in the wall by the stairs, in the office. If you break the window it will blow out onto you.” His voice was quiet, matter-of-factly.

“I have to get Abby”, I couldn’t process whatever was happening here, it was like I finally had the holes in my screen doors that mama always talked about. The stillness of the world around me was creating a fog in my head, it was like dreaming, but so much awake.

“She’s already dead”, the matter-of-fact was also lacking emotion on his face, but suddenly he smiled at me. A cruel smile, like someone that wanted to hurt you, like in the shows where the person stabs the other person and holds them close to watch them suffer.

“NO!” I shouted at him, trying to move my arm back to throw the rock into the window. It was then that I saw the flames, clear as day, still-life flaming flowers sitting beyond the glass. “NO!” I would have let my knees buckle under me, “Not Abby, mama can’t take that, not Abby”, but some unseen force held me still as ice.

“I can bring her out, alive, maybe a short visit to the hospital” he said, the same grin still on his sun wrinkled face. I could no longer tell if the smell of fire burning was the house or this suit with a bad taste in hats.

“Who are you?” my voice was a whisper, my heart was broken, and I couldn’t take no lies from some emotionless suit.

“Would you trade your soul to Satan to save your sister?” he asked, as if nothing I could say would change a thing, this was something determined by some sorta fate. I couldn’t answer, my confusion was well beyond just a hot summer’s day. “She doesn’t have time for you to fluster.” He’d put his hand out to me. “Is it a deal?”

The still-life I had become fell off me like rain in the sun, and I looked at his hand and found myself reaching for it.

“State your name, and your agreement”, he said, as if I were about to take the stand in some mock trail at school.

“Savannah Hill, I trade my soul to save my sister Abby Hill”, was my answer, clear as crystal, as if I somehow always knew I would say those words. I felt a sharp prick in my hand, and suddenly he was gone, the world was moving, and the rock was back in my hand. I stared at the rock, trying to muster about me some idea of what was next.

“Savannah! We need you, it’s Abby”, Alex was yelling from around the corner. “Hurry!”

This time when my feet moved, they flew, and as I came around the corner Emma was holding a black sot covered Abby. She coughed and coughed. Sirens from the approaching fire trucks arrived as I knelt down beside Abby. For a moment I saw her eyes, and she was worried. In the very next moment, the world was taken over by uniforms and questions.

They rushed Abby off to the hospital, smoke inhalation, they’d said. The police must have questioned us each a thousand times to find out if we were lying about how the fire got started. Somewhere along the way, someone wrapped my hand, “superficial” I recall. By the time they had all left, ordering me to find someplace to stay and having reached my mother, the “deal” was forgotten. Not completely, more like one of those nightmares where you have that horrible sense of dread bottled up into your stomach, bits of the nightmare bouncing around in your head, and all your rationality trying to stuff it into a deep dark hole. It wasn’t like I didn’t have anything else to worry about, mama was coming home. Sometimes the devil is far less scary than a very angry mama.

It was strange though, mama didn’t beat me, or I should say, it isn’t like she usually beat us, but I thought for sure this would be that one time. She came home, arrived the next morning and came to Alex and Jamie’s to pick me up. They had put me up in the basement, on the cozy sofa in the rec room and Alex’s dad warned there were to be no shenanigans. When I came up the stairs that morning, mama was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee with Alex’s mom.

She set the coffee cup down without a word and got up from her seat. I froze, didn’t know what to say and didn’t know what to do, if I coulda curled up like an armadillo that is exactly what I would have done. Instead of anything I could have expected, her long slender arms wrapped themselves around me and she hugged me so tightly that I thought I might break. In that instance, all of my fears escaped and I burst into tears. Mama cried with me, her going on and on about how she shouldn’t have left us for so long and that it was so much to put on me at my age. Me crying that I had failed her, and that Abby had almost died.

It was over all that, in no time. Abby came home from the hospital and we all went up to grandma’s. The fire department said it was faulty wiring in the security of some secret wall safe daddy had had. The insurance covered everything and put it all back together in six months. It was strange, because it perfectly matched the selling of grandma’s house.

Back home was peaceful. it was almost as if it were business as usual. Mama had let me visit Alex a number of times up at UH, and she was finally comfortable with me being on the motorcycle Drew had given me for work. It also kept me going back and forth a few days a week until we came back. Alex and I had an agreement that, once were back home, he would come and visit, and we would trade-off who did the driving.

Back home was great. Mama had finally moved out of her depression, as if almost losing Abby had magic fingers that forced her back to our world. I had money and growing fame on social media, me and Cerberus, my bike. Work was finally every day and the house looked amazing. Abby was happy to be getting new furniture, because her room was over the office. She said the only thing she remembered about the fire was that men had gone into daddy’s office. The doctor told us it was likely stress that caused her to forget how she’d gotten out, and that maybe the men were not real either.

Back home was the truth. It was like everything was all better, all fixed, only missing daddy. The night of the fire long given up to nightmares and demons during fear. But that was exactly it, demons, nightmares, and fear. It was fire that I was cursed with, smothering me like a wool blanket in 110 degree sun. It found me too, like it was waiting, waiting for its moment to snake out of whatever pit swallowed it to force its way out through me. Not truly out, never truly out, burning in my core, like, I don’t know, eating a deep-fried jalapeno before it’s cooled, and instead of cheese it’s filled with lava. It’s a burn you don’t forget, but I don’t know that it’s all evil, I don’t know that it’s all bad.

The fire first consumed me on my way home from work, and so much like any episode on television, it started with a scream. An older woman was pushed up against a closed store, her purse scattered across the sidewalk and blood flowing down her cheek.

Maybe it was the sound of the motorcycle, or the street light shining off my grandpa’s Texas Ranger badge I wore on my cowboy hat, but whatever it was, he ran… down around the corner. Some sudden anger, impulse, drove me to follow. He didn’t get far before I was hopping off the bike like some stunt rider. With a strength I didn’t know I had, I grabbed him by the scruff of his hoodie and shoved him up against the brick wall. The last thing I remembered was the sheer fear in his blue eyes as the hoodie flew back away from his dirty blonde hair.

I woke up the next morning to mama shaking me about being late to work and having skipped breakfast. She hated that I worked weekends, but I loved it. None of the previous night came back to me until mama handed me the pancakes and said, “I want you to start leaving work a little earlier, don’t be on that road after dark”. When I asked why, she said, “You have Google, look what happened last night.”

On the internet, trending, was a fiery skeleton holding a man up against the wall as he screamed in fear. A local shop owner released the video to YouTube before the police. Within a few hours, the video was gone, reports were that it was a hoax. The police were still looking for the man who had beaten a would-be robber to death.

But it wasn’t a hoax, and he wasn’t beaten to death. He had been judged, and that is the true story of where this story starts. I’ll meet you at the campfire again, one of these cold, lonely, desert nights, and share more of the crazy demon-like tales. For now, mama is expecting to find me in bed in an hour, and tonight Alex will be in town.

Teotl Tales is an archive of the everything. In this space, age has no dominion—from the smallest, most curious child to the oldest, weary immortal, every voice has a story that demands to be shared.

This isn’t just one story; it is a web where every thread is connected. One moment you might find yourself plunged into a steampunk adventure on the high seas with Winona; the next, you could be flung through a star gate alongside the twins, or cast out into the silent, shifting beauty of the deep stars.

Expect a collision of worlds:

• The Timeless: Follow immortal witches on a journey that stretches from the shadows of Salem to the heart of South America.

• The Scientific & The Magical: Where particle fish and ancient lore occupy the same breath.

• The Reality-Adjacent: Stories that feel like the world you know, right until the moment the floor drops out.

This is a ‘Teotl’—a manifestation of all things. Whether it’s high-seas magic or speculative future science, these tales are part of a much larger mosaic.

Grab onto the purple ribbons, rein in the wild if you dare... but be forewarned: the fight is never over, and your grasp will be challenged by the waves and the winds alike.