Heya friendos! I’m out on a little vacation, so this edition is pre-written. I want to share an excerpt of a short story I’m writing. I don’t have much else to say today, so… enjoy!

How Am I Doing?

Let’s assume I’m having a good time! When you read this, I’m presumably hanging out in a mansion in the Ardennes with a group of friends I haven’t seen in a while. There’s a swimming pool, some nearby hills to climb and we’ll probably have a Halloween party or something similar.

I’m not sure if there is a fireplace, but let’s imagine for a moment that I’m sitting on a big leather chair with a glass of Belgian beer, feet on a bear skin, fire crackling gently at my back.

What Am I Doing?

For this special edition, I would like to present you with an excerpt of a short story I’m writing. It’s about a 20-minute read, so take your time with it. I also suggest you open it up in your browser for more comfortable reading. Now then, allow me to lean back sagely and orate a few chapters inside your mind.

Introduction

I just got back from a nightclub in Cardiff where I was supposed to hook up with some guy. This must’ve been a decade or so ago. We’d done some dancing, but when we got back to the bar he couldn’t stop bullshitting. The entire time he was banging on about how much money he was making and how his father owned a private island. When I asked if he wanted to treat me to the drinks, however, he made up a lame excuse about leaving his wallet at home, even though I saw him fiddle around in it earlier to get out a rubber. The island, of course, was also not accessible for most of the year, including right now, because the heli platform was undergoing renovations. He blathered on and on like that, and I downed uncountable Long Island iced teas to make it any kind of bearable. If he was trying to impress me with his boasting, it sure as hell wasn’t working. At one point, the lights began to spin. That seemed like an appropriate moment to call it a night. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and didn’t bother to say goodbye on my way out.

Needless to say, it wasn’t a very successful date. At least, I didn’t end up taking him home that night. I took a cab home instead. Bleary-eyed, I watched the streetlamps and traffic lights form colorful halos against the dark. The ride to Newport was long enough for me to doze off and start awake from some stray road bumps here and there.

There’s something disconcerting to me about that state of half-sleep when you’re bladdered. You can never really tell what’s real or not. Did you get a kebab already, or are you fever-dreaming about getting one? Do you have to urinate really bad, or are you reliving the steps of the night in your head? In that drowsy state, my mind drifted towards a hazy memory, long tucked away, that the night had managed to dredge up.

Celebration

There used to be a kid in my primary school, who was always lying like that. Not hateful lies, about people he didn’t like. Nor lies to put the blame on others. No, he’d tell tall tales to impress other kids. Boastful flights of fancy about which celebrity was his cousin, what heroes graced his lineage, why he was the best chess player aged 9, and so on and so forth. All relatively plausible falsities when taken in isolation, but practically impossible when put together. I think he was just trying to impress us local boys. He recently moved into town from one of the islands, I believe. 

Mini Milk, we called him. That wasn’t his name, fortunately for him, because that would’ve gotten him bullied worse than he already was. No, his given name was Gwilym. We called him Mini Milk because of a particular thing that happened on his birthday. It must have been three months or so after he first showed up on the playground. I remember his mother stopping by our house to drop off an invitation, as apparently, she did with most of the boys in our class. We were all invited to go to Oakwood Leisure Park. My dad made a fuzz about it since Mini Milk’s family had already paid for tickets and everything, which must have been expensive. Most people in our town weren’t that well off ever since the coal mines closed down. I suppose none of the islands, including the one they were from, were any richer.

I wasn’t all that enthusiastic to go at first, but it was all not-Mini-Milk-yet would rave about for the week prior. For all his boasting, he seemed genuinely passionate about amusement parks. He kept going on about wanting to ride Megafobia at least ten times. I heard about Megafobia on the radio. It was a big wooden rollercoaster that recently opened in the park a couple of months before. I believe it was even the first in Wales, if not the United Kingdom. After a day of exceptionally fantastical Megafobia descriptions from Gwilym, detailing its hundreds of loops, I felt found myself hesitantly excited. I believe the other boys weren’t particularly keen on hanging out with Gwilym, but none of us were above a free trip to an amusement park.

Around that time Gwilym took a liking to me over the other boys, more so than I was comfortable with. I’m not entirely sure why. As far as I was concerned, he wasn’t hurting anyone with his lies. They seemed innocent enough. But I wasn’t particularly fond of him either, though I did feel bad for him. Maybe that’s why… I would just let him finish his stories and not call him out on it.

Anyway, his birthday came around and his parents drove us all the way to Oakwood. The drive was awkward in all the ways that getting used to another family’s normal is. Steffan, the biggest of the boys, was getting rowdy in the car. Gwilym’s dad wasn’t having it. He didn’t get physical or anything, but there was shouting involved. His mom was trying to keep the peace with placating words and gentle shushes. Gwilym was uncharacteristically quiet and simply stared out the window for the whole two hours it took to get there. 

Once we got out, he reverted to a bouncing ball of energy, running and screaming and pointing. It cut through any remaining tension and the other boys got infected quickly. I shared their excitement, of course. It was the first time I went to a big amusement park like this. My family only ever got to those child-friendly adventure playgrounds that consisted of old gym equipment rotting in the woods and, if you were lucky, a slide or two. Oakwood was different, it had proper rides! Oakwood doesn’t exactly stack up against the likes of Disney Land, but back then it felt like a little piece of heaven carved out of the woodlands. The weather wasn’t particularly good, but that didn’t seem to dissuade anyone from having a good time.

Steffan immediately sprinted towards the go-karts and thus our first ride was decided. If we weren’t gassed before, we certainly were after knocking each other about at full speed. I think we did a dark ride after, but I don’t exactly recall what it was. I do remember Steffan and Gwilym tussling in their cart and they came out quite agitated. I think they were just excited to try the Megafobia. Gwilym’s mom broke the two up and suggested getting some ice cream. That seemed to appease the blood feud for the moment.

Gwilym took the stroll towards the snack stand as an opportunity to do some more boasting. “You know them new push-up ice cream things?”, he said, “My granda invented those!” Steffan took no time to jump in: “What a load of bollocks!” Gwilym’s mom sighed. “I’m sorry boys, Gwilym has been having a hard time lately. His grandfather has been struggling with illness and he doesn’t understand…”, she trailed off. “Mah! Not in front of my friends!”, Gwilym interjected. Meanwhile, we arrived at the snack stand.“I’m sorry, love.” Gwilym’s mom responded. She pointed at the ice cream chart. “You can pick two because it’s your birthday, alright?” All the boys audibly gasped at this. Gwilym’s dad muttered something under his breath. “And you boys can pick whatever you like as well.”, his mother continued.

Crucially, Gwilym picked two flavors of Mini Milk, chocolate and strawberry. Now, that alone would be noteworthy, since there were objectively better options available to us. He could’ve chosen two magnums. He would be treated like a king if he’d wave around two magnums. Or perhaps a twister and one of those ice cream sandwich-type things. Instead, he chose Mini Milk. There’s nothing wrong with Mini Milk per se… but it’s very basic. And he didn’t just take one Mini Milk and something else. No, he took two Mini Milk! You could buy a twelve-pack of those in the super for less than a pound. Strangely enough, that wasn’t enough reason for Steffan to take the piss out of Gwilym. In fact, I think I was the only one who thought it was an odd choice. 

Anyway, all the kids were happy with their sweets and we went on our merry way towards the Megafobia. If you’ve never been to Oakwood, let me set the stage. The location is a beautiful, green hillside dotted with woods. There are a few attractions here and there and they’re connected with a little asphalt pathway. That particular day was cloudy, but those intimidating rolling clouds, so not a monotone grey sky. Because they’re placed on hills and between woods, you cannot see every ride from everywhere in the park. That’s the case for the Megafobia. 

Imagine taking a lovely stroll in a damp, green forest when suddenly, a clearing gives way to the horizon. You have a clear view of the sky above and in front of you, but a massive wooden monstrosity rears its head in the dead center of it. Now imagine seeing that as a nine-year-old. It was awe-inspiring. You could hear the metallic ‘click-click-click’ of the lift hill all the way from there. I froze. We all froze. We watched as a train half-full of people turned the corner at the peak and then… plummeted out of view. All that remained were screams of fear and ecstasy. A moment of silence passed. Then, a murmur of uncertainty washed over us children. It didn’t take long before Steffan started to dare each of the boys individually. He wasn’t above making chicken noises when someone seemed hesitant still.

And so we found ourselves in the queue, legs shaking. Each time the train bolted past, it created this eerie screeching noise. It didn’t take long before it was our turn. Gwilym’s mom cheered us on from the sidelines, but I was surprised to see his father join us. We made the appropriate nervous banter and yelps in the station and then it was finally time. The operator gave us a devilish chuckle and a wave as the train started moving. I gripped the harness tight. You could feel each individual imperfection of the rails. The train hooked into the lift hill and all I could hear was that ungodly ‘click-click-click’. Climbing the lift hill felt like an eternity. All the boys were silent, apart from a whimper here and there. Once up the lift hill, the whole park was visible. It was enthralled by the sight, until I realized how high up it was. The train turned the same corner where we saw the people plummet before and I realized I held my breath for what was to come. It wasn’t a long drop, but the train whipped up enough speed to mark me forever.

The rest of the ride was over in a flash, but I still vividly remember that first drop. When the train ground to a halt once again, all the boys were howling from excitement. All the boys, except for Gwilym. He looked white as a sheet in his cart. His dad helped him out and he was clearly having trouble walking. He reached meekly for the railings. Two colors of not-yet-digested Mini Milk decorated the asphalt outside shortly after. The other boys seemed concerned at first, but when his mom promptly came over to help Gwilym to the toilet, stifled giggles made the rounds. And thus, Mini Milk received his namesake.

The rest of the day, the freshly christened Mini Milk seemed to be out of sorts. After getting cleaned up and having a rest he seemed to be actively participating in the reverie once again, but I couldn’t help but notice something off about him. Even though he was going on rides and participating in conversation, he wasn’t making eye contact anymore. The whole time he was staring at something behind the tree line. I didn’t understand what he was looking at until we walked past another ride. We’d almost missed the old thing if it wasn’t for Gwilym stopping dead in his tracks in the middle of the path. He just froze and kept on staring at it. 

It was the Treetops Coaster, a small kids-friendly rollercoaster that twists its way through the pines. It was an odd sight, rusted red and greens of flaking paint nearly concealed it from the naked eye among the canopy. There was no queue and the entrance was blocked off. Closed for maintenance. Still, Gwilym stood for almost a minute, enraptured with the older coaster. I could see his eyes flick over the steel beams that made up its framework, trailing the motion lines as if the phantom of a train rode along the tracks. Nothing did, of course.

Gwilym’s parents and the rest of the boys didn’t notice me and Gwilym stopped. I called out to Gwilym. Twice. He didn’t respond. He just stood, watching. He pointed. I tried to see what he saw. It was almost like he pointed at the gaps between the beams. I squinted. I saw nothing but a metal construction, weathered by time too soon for its own good. The longer we stared, the more uncomfortable I got. “Gwilym, the rest is leaving”, I said. There was something wrong with the closed-down attraction, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Gwilym was behaving so strangely. It reminded me of a story my father used to tell me about the cyhyraeth, a wailing spirit that could be heard before a shipwreck, that could entrance sailers before their demise.

“Come on, lads!”, his mother yelled from up ahead. Gwilym didn’t respond. When I grabbed his shoulder, he shook his head as if to finally cast off this stupor. I practically tore him away from that spot by force until he started to walk by himself. We spent the remainder of the day making merry, but every now and then I caught a glimpse of Gwilym, looking over his shoulder.

Invitation

The cab driver woke me up, apparently after trying a while already, and told me we had arrived. It started pouring while I was out. I paid the driver and hurriedly ran up to my shoddy apartment. It was part of the then-humble student accommodations of Newport. The building was made of beautiful brick reminiscent of Victorian architecture, but the inside was clearly gutted and replaced with sterile boxes that I then called home. I barely kicked my shoes off and hopped on the bed to fall asleep nearly instantly. I had a series of blurry dreams about childhood friends and other things I can’t recall.

After sleeping off my hangover for half a day, I bought myself breakfast and checked my email. Was it serendipity then, that I received an email from Mini Milk that very day? I didn’t recognize the name at first, but the tone of the message felt familiar in a distant way. It was signed by Gwilym Taylor. At that point, I had completely forgotten his real name, but that was Mini Milk alright. I don’t remember the exact wording, but he mentioned a paper I wrote a few years before.

I published two papers and my thesis to get my master’s degree in mechanical engineering. Before even graduating, I fell out of love with it. The companies I had job prospects with all seemed to be these huge, international, money-hungry conglomerates. I just could not see myself designing car parts or worse, weaponry. A fellow student suggested checking out civil engineering instead. I liked it well enough. It was fun to see the bigger picture of projects that could actually help society. It wasn’t all roses, of course. I had to take a significant amount of extra courses that practically extended my studies by two years.

All that is to say, I was quite surprised to get an email from Mini Milk. I hadn’t spoken to him in at least a dozen years. His message seemed to imply he had taken up engineering as well, but he didn’t mention any university. He told me he was impressed by my research on how thermodynamics can be used to activate certain materials. In the paper, I added a prototype design for a bolt that could permanently attach itself when heated. Mini Milk allegedly created a successful version of said bolt and planned to make a device with it. 

We exchanged emails back and forth a couple of times. I must admit I was glad that he was doing well, since he suddenly didn’t show up in school anymore at some point. I remember the boys treated him a lot more amicably after his birthday, earning a nickname tends to do that, so I don’t think it was that. Apparently, now he lived a bit west of Cardiff. He asked if I wanted to go out for coffee if I was ever around in Cardiff. Since I studied there, I thought I might as well.

We met up at Servini’s, a bangin’ fry-up place in Wyndham Arcade that also served some pretty decent coffee. Not that I’d known anything about that back then, but I’d drink it anyway to stay upright after pulling a near-all-nighter studying. I arrived about fifteen minutes before Mini Milk. I was sipping on the last dregs of the coffee I ordered before he rode up on his bicycle. The first thing I noticed when he turned up, was that he wasn’t so mini anymore. Before me stood a tall, lanky lad with long, dark curls and an affable half-smile. I stood up to shake his hand, but he pulled me into a tight hug instead. He was at least a head and a half taller than me. I was a little taken aback by the power of his embrace. 

He pulled away from me and said: “It’s been a minute, David. It’s good to see you!” I replied, “Likewise. I hope the journey went smoothly?” We muttered some pleasantries back and forth before we sat down. He ordered lunch while we caught up on life. His grandfather died and his parents had to move back to Ynys Gybi, the island he was originally from, to get their estate in order. They had a falling out with the rest of the family about the inheritance and it took a couple of years to straighten it out. “I didn’t really understand any of it back then. From my point of view, I was finally making some friends in Abercynon, and then, out of nowhere, we had to leave. According to my parents, I sulked for at least half a year after. Ynys Gybi is a shithole. I don’t have anything there. No friends, no prospects, nothing. So when my grandfather left my parents his bungalow on the mainland, I jumped at the opportunity to claim it. They weren’t too interested in moving in, so they told me I could have it when I was old enough.” The waiter sauntered up and took our order. Gwilym ordered a rarebit topped with an egg and a cup of tea on the side and I ordered another coffee.

I asked him what university he studied at. “Oh no, nothing fancy like that”, he responded with a chuckle. “I’ve just been faffing about at home, to be honest. I tried sixth form for a bit, but traditional education was never the right fit for me. Either the material holds no interest to me at all, or I bite into it so hard that the teacher has a hard time keeping up. Fortunately, the inheritance left me some spending money as well, so I have time to figure things out. It’s not a lot, but I’ve managed to make due for a couple of years now. I think some of the stuff left in the bungalow is worth a pretty penny as well. Antiques, and all that.” He took a big bite from his egg. 

I thought for a moment and said: “I’m surprised you found one of my papers then. My work is not exactly famous outside of Wales’ academic circles.” Gwilym leaned back nonchalantly, still chewing. He had this effortless charm to him, not at all like the insecure, boasting boy I’d known in primary school. “The internet, butt! You can find anything there. All your papers and your colleagues’ papers are on there. Even video recordings of classes from all over the world! If you have the time and patience, you can learn everything you want online.” He gesticulated wildly, as though trying to wake me up. 

I must admit, I had underestimated what the internet could bring to the table back then. A lot of materials and people I worked with were outdated, even for the time. I completely accepted the fact that was part of the academic life. But if Gwilym was able to get the jist of my work by only studying materials from the internet, that was an impressive feat indeed. I decided to bring it up: “So you taught yourself engineering, by just using the internet?” “I mean, yeah, kind of”, he replied. “I started out with handicrafts. Pottery and textiles and that sort of thing. It became repetitive quite fast, so I started trying out woodworking and joinery. That was fun for a while. Even tried an apprenticeship as a carpenter for a few months. Wood is easy to work with, prototyping shapes and designs and such.” He took a sip of his tea and looked away from me for a second. “But it didn’t feel right. It does not call to me, d’you know what I mean?”

Somehow, the way he stared off into the distance reminded me of Mini Milk’s birthday in Oakwood. It was reminiscent of how he had looked at the Treetops Coaster. When spoke again it shook me from my reverie. “Metal is more of a hassle to work with, but you can build some real machinery with it. I still use wood most of the time, of course. My workshop is quite humble, it doesn’t have the equipment necessary for making my own nuts and bolts and such. Not yet, anyhow. I do have some rudimentary smithing tools though!” His eyes lit up with excitement. I envied his passion. In truth, I like the problem-solving aspect of engineering well enough but have no real interest in the production and creation aspects of it. In front of me sat a man who thoroughly enjoyed learning about every minute detail of the process.

“But enough about that, what about you? How have you been holding up?”, Gwilym started. So, we talked about my life, but I could only bring myself to talk about my studies. I realized just then how little I had outside of them. Luckily, Gwilym was easily excited about observations I made about anything engineering-related. He had this fervor to him. Almost like a hunger for the smallest morsels of knowledge I shared. It was intoxicating in a way. For the lack of a more flattering description, it felt a little bit like I was feeding a stray dog.

I talked about how I’ve been reading more into tension and compression lately, for my transition to civil engineering. I’d drawn myself some blueprints for bridges that Gwilym would love to pour over. He finished his lunch at some point and that seemed like a good point to say our goodbyes. We agreed to stay in contact and meet up from time to time.

Conception

And we did, at first. We kept mailing every other week or so. Mostly about new developments in the industry, but sometimes personal life as well. I’d been having a hard time making any real connections in my Civil Engineering courses, so I was glad for the contact, sporadic as it was. Even though we had been years apart, and practically strangers since, receiving a mail from Gwilym became comforting. We’d nerd out about anything from linear approximation to the use of high-performance concrete in cable-stayed bridge pylons.

From our contact, I got the feeling Mini Milk fancied himself an inventor in the vein of Tesla and the Wright Brothers. He never said so himself, but he was always droning on about “achieving greatness”. He often quoted philosophers and spent an inordinate amount of time waxing poetic about metaphysics. He practiced something he called “hypnagogic meditation”, where he would let himself fall nearly asleep but then get woken up by a bell. He was so proud while explaining how the system worked. 

It must’ve been late August the year after we met up, when I received his email about the blueprints. He was always talking about his “masterpiece”, something he had never actually started work on, but loved the concept of. Some kind of machine that would be the epitome of every interest he had chased over the years. That week, he had actually started working on the blueprints for it. A photocopy of a set of schematics, all hand-drawn and annotated with fine script, was attached to the email. 

It was a marvel to look at. Each part was painstakingly measured and drawn with lead pencil in detail I have never been able to achieve even with software specially designed for that task. It was reminiscent of an illuminated manuscript from the Middle Ages. It invoked the same kind of religious reverence in me. It took me an entire day to pour over the blueprints. Individual parts had their own description and there were some sketches of what the contraption would look like after assembly. The assembly process itself was curiously missing as of yet. 

While Gwilym’s handiwork was impressive, to say the least, I could not for the life of me figure out what the device was actually designed for. I then realized Gwilym never told me what exactly he was building. I sent him an email back: “The parts are astonishing, but what are they for?” I got an almost immediate reply: “What do you mean?” I hesitated for a moment. My initial question seemed perfectly normal to me. Am I really so out of touch that I couldn’t figure out what Gwilym was attempting to build? I went over the blueprints one more time. I checked the sketches of the “finished” product. I saw arm-like cranes, attached to each other via wires, vaguely reminiscent of a spiderweb. I saw steel pylons, to support the structure, each about a single storey tall. There was no apparent power source.

I had no doubt Gwilym could put something like this together, but I just couldn’t see why. If anything, it looked like the type of rig they use in theaters to raise and lower people onto the stage. I sent another email, stating: “What is the function of the machine? I might be stupid but I can’t seem to figure it out.” It was getting late at that point, so I decided to take a shower and hit the hay. The next day I checked my email and got a reply, timestamped 2:23. It only contained a single word: “Autopoiesis.”

Why Am I Doing? (this)

‘Autopoiesis’ was to be one of many short stories in a horror anthology about feelings of insignificance. The first draft of this short story has been on 95% for a while, but I’m having trouble crossing the finish line there. It’s also a lot bigger than I first anticipated, so I will probably have to trim it down once I get the first round of feedback.

So I’d love to ask, what are your thoughts so far?