The sand feels different today. I run it through my fingers, counting each grain as it falls, though I know that's impossible. One, two, three—the rest blur together like static. The morning fog hasn't burned off yet, and the pier stretches into nothing, its endpoint lost in gray.

I've been here six hours. Or maybe twenty minutes. Time moves differently when you're counting sand.

"Ma'am?" A voice breaks through. Police, probably. They always come eventually. "Are you alright?"

I don't look up. Can't look up. There's work to be done. "I'm organizing," I tell him, my voice raw from the salt air. "Each pile needs exactly one thousand grains. It's important to be precise."

His shadow falls across my workspace, disrupting the careful patterns I've drawn in the sand. Concentric circles, each smaller than the last, spiraling inward toward some truth I can't quite grasp. Yesterday there were seventeen circles. Today I count twenty-three. Tomorrow there might be none.

"Dr. Garcia called us," he says gently. "She's worried about you. You missed your last three appointments."

A laugh bubbles up, salty-bitter as seaweed. "Dr. Garcia doesn't understand. I'm conducting an experiment." My fingers tremble as I separate another small pile. "If you remove one memory at a time, at what point do you stop being yourself?"

The tide is coming in. I feel it in my bones, that slow creep of water. Soon it will wash away my work, like it does every day. Like it has every day since Mason—

No. Don't think about Mason. Don't think about the pier, or the fog, or why you know exactly how long it takes a body to—

"Five hundred ninety-eight, five hundred ninety-nine..." My voice cracks. "I lost count. I have to start over."

The officer crouches beside me. Through my peripheral vision, I catch a glimpse of his nameplate: Officer Collins. He was here yesterday too, though he's pretending this is our first meeting. They all pretend.

"How about we get you somewhere warm?" he suggests. "The fog's getting thicker."

"You don't understand," I whisper, my fingers cramping as I scrape together another pile. "If I can just figure out the exact number—if I can find the precise point where a heap becomes not a heap, where a person becomes not a person—then maybe I can work backwards. Maybe I can find the grain of sand that changed everything. The moment before it all went wrong."

A wave crashes closer, sending spray across my carefully ordered piles. The salt mingles with something warm on my cheeks. When did I start crying?

"One grain at a time," I murmur, more to myself than Officer Collins. "That's all it takes. One grain, and then another, and another, until suddenly your heap is gone. Until suddenly you're gone. But if you can count them—if you can keep track—maybe you can put them back in the right order. Maybe you can rebuild..."

The fog swallows the rest of my words. In the distance, a siren wails, or maybe it's just the foghorn. These days, I can't always tell the difference between warning sounds.

-----

Dr. Garcia's office smells like lavender and lies. She thinks she's clever, using aromatherapy to mark the passage of time—lavender on Mondays, sage on Wednesdays, eucalyptus on Fridays. As if temporal anchors could stop the slipping.

"You're agitated today," she observes, pen hovering above her notepad. Three months ago, she used blue ink. Two months ago, black. Today it's red, like warning signs, like blood in water.

"I made progress," I tell her, watching dust motes drift in the afternoon light. Each speck a tiny universe, falling. "I reached six hundred grains yesterday before Officer Collins interrupted. That's eighteen more than my previous record."

She doesn't look up from her notepad. "And how many times have you met Officer Collins?"

"Once," I say automatically. Then: "No, three times. Or—" The certainty crumbles like wet sand between my fingers. "He pretends it's always the first time. They all pretend."

"Who pretends?"

"Everyone. The officers. The lifeguards. The man who sells ice cream by the pier." My hands twist in my lap. "Even Mason pretends, when I see him in the fog."

The scratching of her pen stops. In the silence, I hear the clock on her wall ticking. One second, two seconds, three—how many seconds before a lifetime becomes a life sentence?

"We've talked about Mason," she says carefully, each word measured, weighed, precise. "About what happened on the pier."

"Nothing happened on the pier." The words taste like salt. "Nothing happens. Nothing is happening. Nothing will happen. Time is just grammar."

She sets down her pen. Red ink bleeds into white paper. "You were there when they found him."

"I found a shell that morning," I say, the memory suddenly sharp as broken glass. "Perfect spiral. Mathematical precision. The Fibonacci sequence made manifest in calcium carbonate. I was going to show him, explain how nature builds itself in predictable patterns, how even chaos has underlying order, but—"

My fingers trace spirals on the arm of the chair. One rotation, two, three...

"But?"

"The shell disappeared. Like the sand castles. Like Mason. Like everything, eventually. Entropy in action." I look up at her window, where fog is creeping in despite the afternoon sun. "Did you know that beach sand moves? Littoral drift. Constant motion. What you touch in one moment is gone the next. The beach you stand on today isn't the same beach as yesterday."

"Is that why you count the grains? To hold onto something constant?"

A laugh escapes, hollow as a seashell. "I count to find the edge. The boundary. If you remove one grain of sanity, are you still sane? Two grains? Three? Where's the line, Doctor? When does a person become a patient? A mother become a mourner? A witness become a—"

I stop. The fog is pressing against the windows now, impossible for this time of day, this time of year. Through its gray veil, I see a familiar silhouette on the pier.

"He's out there," I whisper, reaching toward the window, fingers grabbing empty air. "On the pier right now. All I have to do is count backwards, find the right number, the exact moment—"

"There is no pier outside my window," Dr. Garcia says softly. "We're three miles inland."

I blink. She's right. The window shows only a parking lot, sun-baked and solid. No fog. No pier. No Mason.

"I need to go," I say, standing. My legs shake like sand castles in rising tide. "The beach changes with every wave. If I don't get back soon, I'll lose count. Have to start over. Have to—"

"Please sit." Her voice has an edge now, sharp as shells, as broken promises. "We're not done."

But I'm already at the door, fingers reaching for the handle. I step into the hallway. The cold lights flicker—one, two, three…

-----

The sun is setting now, or rising. The fog makes it hard to tell, turning everything the color of old memories. I've arranged three hundred and forty-seven piles of sand, each containing exactly one thousand grains. Or maybe it's seven hundred and twelve piles of three hundred and forty-seven grains. The numbers swim like fish beneath the surface.

Officer Collins sits beside me now, no longer pretending this is our first meeting. His radio crackles with static that sounds like waves breaking.

"Tell me about the shell," he says.

My hands keep moving, sorting, counting. "Fibonacci. Perfect spiral. Mathematical certainty in an uncertain universe." A grain slips through my fingers. "Mason would have understood. He was brilliant at math, did I tell you? Sixth grade, but already taking pre-algebra. He could see patterns everywhere. Even in chaos. Especially in chaos."

"Wiser than his years." His voice is gentle. Like the fog. Like Mason's was, before. "What happened after you found it?"

"He was angry about the phone." The words come easier now, worn smooth like sea glass. "Such a small thing. A stupid thing. One week without it, that's all. His grades were slipping. He needed to focus. I thought the beach would help him find his peace, like it always had before. If I had just... if I had waited one more day, let him keep it one more day..."

My fingers stop moving. A thousand grains of sand cascade into nothing.

"You couldn't have known," Officer Collins says.

"There was a pattern," I insist. "In his behavior. In his moods. In the way he stormed out, slammed the door. The way he ran—" My voice cracks like a shell under pressure. "I counted the seconds before I followed. One, two, three... sixty-seven. Sixty-seven seconds between his door and mine. Between his footsteps and mine. Between mother and—"

"That wasn't your fault."

"But where's the line?" The words tumble out like tide rushing in. "How many seconds of anger before discipline becomes cruelty? How many moments of rebellion before attention-seeking becomes... If you remove one word of the argument, then another, then another, at what point does a mother's caution become a child's last—"

"Stop." His hand hovers near my shoulder but doesn't touch. "The investigators were clear. The railing was wet from the fog. When he turned around to come back—"

"No." I pull away, start a new pile. "That's not—I need to count. Need to find the right number. If I can just figure out how many grains make a heap, how many moments make a childhood, how many breaths between defiance and regret, between standing and falling, between his laugh and his—"

The fog shifts, and suddenly Mason is there, at the end of the pier. Twelve years old forever, balancing on the upper rail, turning back with that look—half-anger, half-fear, whole child. "Mom," he says, or maybe it's just the wind. "Mom, I didn't mean—"

"Do you see him?" I whisper.

Officer Collins follows my gaze. "I see fog," he says softly.

"He's trying to tell me something. He's always trying to tell me something." My voice sounds far away, like shouting underwater. "But I can't... the numbers keep changing. The grains keep shifting. Yesterday I was sure it was one thousand grains. Today it might be three. Tomorrow..."

A wave crashes against the pier's pylons. When the spray clears, Mason is gone. Like always. Like everything.

"Come on," Officer Collins says, standing. He offers his hand. "The tide's coming in."

I look down at my piles. The neat circles I've spent hours creating are already disappearing, erased by wind and water. Tomorrow I'll make new ones. Tomorrow I'll count again. Tomorrow I'll find the right number, the perfect equation, the exact point where everything changed. Where a mother's discipline became a child's rebellion became an empty bedroom with a phone still charging on the nightstand.

Or maybe I won't. Maybe that's the real paradox—not how many grains make a heap, but how many times you can watch it disappear before you accept that some questions don't have answers. Some patterns exist only in the spaces between "I love you" and "I'm sorry."

I take his hand. Let him pull me up. My feet leave perfect prints in the wet sand as we walk away from the pier.

Behind us, the fog swallows everything—the piles, the patterns, the possibilities. One grain at a time, until nothing remains but the sound of waves counting seconds into infinity, each one the exact length of a child's last breath.

Every night down in the street i heard him open bin lids sorting through rubbish for tin cans, i hadn't seen but i just knew it, on dark almost every night.

bang, bang, bang

At the time i didn't have much money as i waited to start university living above a Thai restaurant in the city.

I had saved up a bag of coins, dollars, twenties, fifties for emergencies, and i had resolved to give this to the man who i called tin can man.

One night i heard him at the bins, shuffling, banging and rushed down the wooden steps through the restaurant out to the street below.

What i saw was a little bent over old man, intent on the bin he was looking in not noticing me at all.

I walked up to him with the bag in hand and said, 'Hey mate, i have something for you'. He had turned quickly, flinching at the same time, expecting an attack.

'I have these coins for you please take them', i had said quietly. He looked at me for a moment then took the bag, not saying a thing.

Then i went back to my room, and he to his life on the streets, but at least i helped if only a little bit.

You’d think by now i’d be a pretty crier

You’d think by now i’d know how how to make the tears fall like diamonds

Keep them in a jar and sell them to whoever crosses my path

You’d think my now my sobs would sound like a melody under the trees

And my shaking body would look more like dancers floating in a field of roses

You’d think the tears in my eyes would glisten like the sea

And that my sadness would remind the masses of the Mona Lisa

You’d think time heals all wounds

You’d think by now i’d be covered in scars

Rather than bleeding out in the dirt, the cacti to drinking from my pain

Alone in the desert, no water for miles

The only thing escaping my chapped lips is a cry for help

But no one can hear me

Its almost like I’m camouflaged

You’d think by now i’d be a pretty crier

You’d think by now i’d know how how to make the tears fall like diamonds

Keep them in a jar and sell them to whoever crosses my path

He's a leader, a visionary. He's relentless in his pursuit of a better future, a more perfect future. He's responsible for founding Sinclair Enterprises, the corporation that connects humanity with the latest technological advancements. He brought the first men to Mars back in 2063. He's a pioneer, a visionary. He's single-handedly keeping the national space program alive and the military outfitted in the most cutting-edge equipment.

The world seen from inside Sinclair's tower at the manufactured peak of Silicon Valley radiates abundance. His army of drones fly all throughout the sky, casting shimmering lights down on the modern city. He's old enough to remember when it was renamed the capital of New America, after the second revolution. He's young enough to witness with his eyes the havoc that humanity has wreaked on the world.

Pollution. Extreme poverty. Famine—crops withering up in waves throughout the globe. Plummeting fertility rates, which led to his forefathers beginning their research into genetic engineering. The Sinclairs went from owning 99% of the world's diamond mines to leading the world's largest tech empire. They make the smartphones you text on and the cars you drive.

Leaders around the world were failing to provide answers or solutions. That's one thing they all had in common: an inability to act. So he took control of the reins. If you can think of it, Sinclair Enterprises probably makes it or powers it—including the government.

He's the richest man in the world. If you ask anyone in the media, they'll say he's the smartest man in the world. His digital infrastructure happens to power every network. He happens to own the social media companies their messages are distributed to the masses on.

He just does so much good, you see. Seeing the chaos all around him shaped his philosophy: humanity is nothing but buggy hardware in dire need of a software update. People are incapable of self-regulation and true progress without the sacrifices of the many and the governance of the few. Disorder is humanity's greatest weakness. Consolidation of power and control is the solution.

Sinclair Enterprises continues to expand its reach into every corner of every mind and market. The latest venture he announced was a project that evolved his grandfather's clandestine genetic research into Project Genesis, a program intended to preserve the genetic blueprints of mankind to protect biodiversity in the event of inevitable manmade disaster. It was inevitable at this rate. The only question was: how? Mutually assured destruction via nuclear warheads? The complete elimination of our abilities to reproduce until every last one of us dies out?

With Project Genesis, we'll all be able to store our genetic code to rebuild a new wave of humans. A do-over. Thanks to Damian Sinclair, humanity has a second chance to do better. And it goes without saying that Sinclair will only deploy the genetic bank in the event of catastrophe—that must be why he doesn't say it. We didn't really get to read the fine print.

He shares a lot with his foe: their icy blue eyes, the unwavering ambition, the computer engineering skills. Oh, and 100% of their DNA.

Adrian is Sinclair's clone, which he finds out one late night spent investigating at his employer, Sinclair Enterprises. Sinclair's grandfather executed Phase 1, which began to seed Sinclair clones throughout the planet. He himself finished the total replacement of natural humanity, as the last non-clone died quietly in a secret government cell last year. Adrian uncovers the dark truth. And Sinclair hates him for it. Hates him for defying his programming.

All Sinclair wants to do is erase imperfection and unpredictability from the world. He could've followed through with his vision if it weren't for the foolish meddling of one young man grappling with his identity. He could've cemented his legacy, ensuring his influence persisted even after his death. But this junior engineer is hard to evade and even harder to catch.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

This is my original character from my unpublished novel, Legacy.exe. Find chapter 1 on my profile.

So this story begins as so many do with me standing at the bus stop outside of my university, waiting for the bus. The day was cold, but not colder than usual for late November. Cold enough for it to hurt so much if you were outside all day, but not cold enough to kill you. The snow was falling slowly, making the world seem soft.

There was a shelter made of metal and glass at the bus stop. A metal frame and glass walls. There were no benches or chairs in the shelter. There used to be but they got taken down, so all we have now to sit on is the concrete floor. I was outside this shelter, but I noticed that there were two men inside of it. I didn't pay much attention to them.

Until I heard a voice from the shelter. It was a loud voice, yet strangely meek all the same. One of the men was asking all of us at the bus stop if we had naloxone (this is also known as narcan to those who don't know). This is a medicine that stabilizes people who overdosed, so that they can stay alive until they get the medical care they need at the hospital. At first I thought nothing was wrong, maybe he forgot his own kit somewhere. So I replied that I was sorry but I didn't have any.

But I quickly realized that maybe he needed it, maybe someone was having an overdose. I asked the man if he needed the naloxone, telling him that I knew where to get some, and he showed me what was happening inside the shelter. Inside the shelter, there was an unconscious man lying on the ground, who was clearly overdosing.

I didn't feel any emotions at all. It was like my brain was on autopilot. I was acting entirely on instinct. I gave the conscious man my cellphone and told him to dial 911, the emergency number where I live. The man was trying to do CPR on the unconscious person but it was clear that he didn't know how to do CPR. I urged him again to call 911 and told him I was going to get naloxone.

I ran into my university, I ran up the stairs, and I walked as fast as I could through the school, until I reached the student union building. Inside the student union building there was an information event going on about harm reduction, aka how to help people struggling with addiction. I thought that there would be some naloxone kits there. That they were probably distributing naloxone kits to people who came to the event.

I was worried for a moment that the information event was over, but it wasn't. I told the girl at the desk that someone was having an overdose at the bus stop outside and I needed a naloxone kit. She told me she didn't know if she had any. She searched briefly, and found none. But she told me that in the student groups room they probably had naloxone kits.

I asked her where the student groups room was, and she went with me to the room, which was behind a glass door on the other side of the cafeteria next to us. There I explained my situation again to the two girls at the administrative desk. They got out a naloxone kit. I told them that I didn't know how to use it, so one of the two girls at the administration desk came with me.

We ran through the school, and then to the bus stop. It was difficult, running all this way, because I was somewhat out of shape. But I'm really glad that we did run, because it means we got there quicker.

Once we got there, we saw two ambulances parked on the road beside the bus stop, their lights flashing. We also saw a small crowd of paramedics and security guards around the unconscious man. The unconscious man was lying on the ground outside the shelter now. There were paramedics kneeling over him and an oxygen mask over his face.

The security guards told me and the other lady to not to come too close, and they thanked us for getting naloxone. They said that our naloxone wasn't needed, they had their own naloxone kits and everything else that they needed. But that they appreciated what we did and that we did a great job.

The lady from the student groups administrative desk told me that things seemed under control, and she took the naloxone kit and started walking back towards the student union building. I thanked her for her help twice and saw her off.

The man who was with the unconscious man before, the man who I gave my phone to so he could call 911, he was in the shelter. He gestured to me from inside the shelter and held my phone up. I went around the back of the shelter, the two of us looking at and gesturing to each other, and I went to the entrance of the shelter. He passed me my phone and said thank you. I said you're welcome.

There wasn't anything else for me to do, so I walked to the next bus stop a few blocks down the road. I was thanking God for sending the paramedics and praying to God to save the man's life. I kept praying while I was on the bus.

I resolved to keep a naloxone kit with me in my backpack from now on. Where I live, in Canada, naloxone kits are free at the pharmacy. One kit lasts two years. I resolved to go to my pharmacy when I got the chance and get a naloxone kit to keep with me whenever I go out. You never know when you'll be in a situation such as this one. You never know when you might see someone overdosing. Maybe next time I won't be lucky enough to be beside a university or another building in which there's naloxone kits available.

I resolved to also watch some videos teaching me how to use naloxone so that I know how to use the kit and how to administer the medicine if I am in a situation like this again. I have learned how to use naloxone one time before, but I forgot how to use it and I need a reminder.

I will close by saying this. Nobody deserves to die from an overdose. And nobody can be blamed for being addicted. A wise woman who had a difficult road to recovery from drugs once said that addiction starts and ends with pain. Everyone has a different reason why they became addicted.

Everyone has a different pain they were trying to hide from, or a different naivety that lead them down this path. But people who struggle with addiction need help, support, kindness, compassion, and resources. They need medical help, mental health help, and a better situation. The last thing they need or deserve is judgement.

Please pray for the people who struggle with addiction, and the people who are at risk of it.

find a place in your heart for hate find a place in your heart for all that you hate your heart is a big place there aren't just chambers there it's eternity in there ...encase it...enfold it...that's how you overcome..if you accept them into your heart they can never hurt you...that's the secret..that's the trick...don't hate just love..but if they hurt you or your family be terrible like a swift wind...like a storm above the sea..never lay down..never submit..always fight...that is heart..a rapacious thing.Heart.

Where I Live

November 28, 2024

Where I live

Bikini season just ended

It will begin anew

On Monday

We have 28 words

For Sunny

We have no words

For Cold

Sea Turtles

Crossing the beaches

Is the largest

Spectator sport

Breakfast consists

Of crabs

And conch

With an OJ chaser

Unfortunately,

Amazon shipping rates

Are astronomical

But worth it

I see constellations

Few,

where I grew up,

Have ever witnessed

I feel breezes

Carrying songs of

Love and more love

Never once a piercing siren

I know my neighbors

They know me

We rely on each other

When adversity strikes

Each day is measured

By the quality of opportunity

Not the quantity presented

Or the quantity taken

I live on island time

Even though

I don’t live

On an island

I learned snorkeling

By trading away

Rush hour

And income tax season

Where I live

Is where you should live

I await your arrival

I’ll make it worth your while

Blaze with compassion.

Radiate loving kindness;

Like light from the sun.

Warm every soul.

Love unconditionally.

Cast none in shadow.

Fear, hatred, greed, doubt:

These weeds wither in your light.

Peace and joy prevail.

In your garden, wet by tears;

Insight blooms from seeds of pain.

Like soothing moonlight;

In your glow, suffering fades.

Only love remains.

Today we visited the birds in the Buddha bush.

There is a particular bush (a small coniferous tree really) about 30 yards from the path where I walk my dog.

During the cooler months the sparrows like to congregate in the bush. When the birds are in there, all chirping at once, it’s so loud that we can hear them clearly from the path.

“The birds are in the Buddha bush“, I’ll say, and we‘ll take a detour to pay them a visit. The foliage of the bush is so dense that we can’t see any of the birds, even when we’re standing directly in front of the bush. It sounds like there must be 50, or maybe 100 of them in there.

To my untrained human eye, there are many other, very similar bushes nearby. But, the birds always pick this particular bush. Their choice is remarkable to me, because at the base of this one particular bush the owner has arranged a collection of Buddha figurines. It’s the only bush with the Buddhas, and it’s the only bush with birds.

It seems that even the birds know that this is a place of peace.

In the pursuit of happiness, there is only the acclimations of pain and suffering, and passion periodically precedes perversion, albeit catalysts for one another. The heart of Orpheus whine and bleat to the sonic dissonance of temptation, dancing to its choreography; the soul eventually chases the echoes of their sentiments like whispers of manifestations, bringing me to turn my head to look back when all there should be is forward. In my apotheosis I finally awake - my demons in constant seek for control, deified by the societal normality of their presence. And in the end, once I turn forward once more - all I see are my hopes and dreams vanishing, & I wonder why I've lost everything I've built up to earning.

That's because it was me who chose to go down this road - they simply spoke it into existence.

It's only one of the many reasons to focus on yourself.