Creepy - Vessel & Live Birth of Humanity's Legacy

Episode Date: July 13, 2023

Vessel***Written by: Chester Rogalski and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Live Birth of Humanity's Legacy***Written by: Allison Sommers and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content Warning: Tokophobia, Acrophobia, animal death, gore, dysfunctional family dynamic, suicide***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex AldeaHosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence. and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Vessel. Written by Chester Ogalsky and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. I'm writing this from a comfort inn somewhere outside Austin, New York. No continental breakfast here. Remember those?

Serial and tiny colorful boxes with their favorite characters on them. little handles, good times. Those used to be a thing when I was a kid. Parents would take us down to the Jersey shore and mom would fill up our beach bag with them from the motel lobby. Took all the croissants too. Tony the tiger, that green frog whose name I never remember. Heads poking out amongst baked goods trying to catch a glimpse of the ocean.

Look at me now, Mom. Sitting in a motel with all the pages of Gideon's Bible ripped out and stuck all over the windows. Anything glass. Anything to keep the face out. I can't escape it. But this professor says he can. Or at least give me some kind of explanation. So I've got this legal pat and a lot of time to fill.

To organize my thoughts. I consider myself to be a serious person. Call me Jake. I don't rattle. Spending four years in the U.S. Marine Corps as an O311. Grunt for the layman. We'll do that to you. Or have you howling in the middle of the night and reaching for the bottle, the pills, the needle, anything to escape it.

That's not me, though. Not that I would ever judge the way a man deals with those kind of demons and the hell we face down together in the sandbox. I've heard it described to me by a buddy of mine who struggle with severe PTSD as a projector in your head, being on constant loop replaying the fucked-up shit you saw over there. But he's getting shot and blown up. Civilians mangled. Gunned down over fucked rules of engagement.

A literal hell. full volume, live in technicolor. I was lucky that it didn't happen to me. You never could tell who it would affect. The biggest, baddest on the outside, only to be found having hung it all up when the shit got heavy. I put rounds downrange, and they were put right back at me. I came home and I got healthy as a horse.

mentally and physically, tip-top shape. Big time fucking lucky. And that's really all there was to it. Dumb fucking luck. I kept my nose clean while plugging away at a degree in economics and living a modest, uneventful life on the GI Bill. Enough money rolled in to where I didn't have to work and was able to live okay.

Rent was cheap in Newark. for good reason. Naring graduation, I realized the GI Bill party was nearing an end, and it was high time to find a job. I found work at a prominent executive protection firm based out of New York City, packed up my studio apartment and headed for the Big Apple. The training was a two-week course, and afterwards I was posted in the home of an extremely,

extremely wealthy businessman in New York City. It is important to me, at least, and for my safety, that I do not divulge details about who the client was and where this home is located. I can't go into much detail about the location, and describing the home's exterior would very likely give away where the home is. I have enough on my plate right now. I took to the job well and got along with the clients and the house staff. There was a rotation of a handful of us alternating between nights and days and weekends and weekdays.

Everyone worked alone, and everyone besides our boss, and we'll call him Tom, had been there less than six months. They were all Tom, Jim, Ed, John, Chris, Joe. Seemed to me that you got promoted in the first ride of passage was to chop off half of your name, since I was the newest edition. I worked the night shift, where there were minimal interactions and less of a chance for something to go wrong. I did rounds hourly, starting from my guard post which housed all the security cameras, alarm panels, fire suppression system, and other various security equipment. I always started from the bottom of the home and went upwards. The subseller housed all the boilers, cooling, plumbing, laundry room.

The kitchen, wine room, pantries, and staff quarters were on the cellar floor. The first floor, where the ground floor, had the large dining room, where formal dinner parties were held along with the foyer. My guard post office and the estate manager's office. Above this was a second floor where the study, recital room, and resuscital room. reception room were located. Floors three, four, and five all had guest bedrooms. The master bedrooms and a living room with a large skylight. If you couldn't tell already, they live in a fucking palace. About two months in, I got an email from Tom, that the clients were having a party that night, and to make sure I wore a black suit, a white shirt and a black tie. Okay, Roger that.

The email went on that this was a formal party they held every year on March 20th, and I would have to sign an additional NDA about what I might see that night. Okay. Fucking weird, but okay. I arrived on site, 15 minutes early to make sure I got all the information I needed from Tom. I walked into the side door that staff used, which led into the hallway, where our security office was located, along with the service elevator.

Tom and the estate manager, Helen, were waiting for me. Jake, glad you got here early. We have some things to discuss before everything gets started, Tom said, clasping both of his hands as he spoke. Helen has the NDA I mentioned to you, as well as that you'll have to sign before your shift. I looked at them briefly before I spoke. Helen had a wide smile on her face.

She was a middle-aged, box blonde that always looked far too put together. Born in a pantsuit. Lots of peach and salmon colors making her pale skin look washed out. She didn't say anything at first. Why do I need to sign another NDA? We have a standard company NDA that I agreed to stating that I won't divulge anything client-related, I said. I asked. Helen stepped forward, widening her grin before speaking.

If she was trying to look more friendly, it wasn't working. This is for us to keep on file. The attorneys, you know how that can be. They're requiring us to get one from you. It's a whole bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo. Don't worry too much about it. She said as she waved her hand and scoffed, They both stared at me, waiting for me to take a pen and sign.

Tom smiled and nodded his head towards the document. I relented, and I signed. Great. Well, that takes care of that. Tom will give you the details of what's needed tonight. She grabbed the document off the desk and scurried out the door leading into the house. Tom gave me a quick rundown of what I had to do that evening. Standard access control and roaming occasionally around the party to keep an eye on things.

Told me it was supposed to be an easy night. He didn't look me in the eye the whole time he spoke, and hurried out the door giving me a quick wave in the window with his back turned as he pulled the gate open and left. The iron gate smacked against the maglock, an ominous symbol of finality. If you haven't noticed, there were quite a feeling. few fucking red flags.

Guests began arriving a little after eight. Helen stood at the main entrance door, checking them in while I watched over the security cameras. Everyone arrived in the evening wear, holding something in their hands. I couldn't make out what it was. The camera was up too high to see. Approximately 150 guests were expected. By 10, everyone had arrived.

Before making my rounds through the party, I realized that they all had on a mask. And that's... That's what they carried in with them. Masks. Rabbit masks specifically. I would soon find out. I pushed open the door leading into the house and stepped out into the dining room where I saw a handful of guests milling around, speaking with one another. Each of them had an ornate rabbit mask, ears jutting straight up, bedazzled with rhinestones in different colors.

I received nods from the group as I walked by, returning their nods with what I'm sure came across his very uncomfortable smile. An older man in a golden green rabbit mask stepped in front of me and grabbed me by the shoulder. So glad you can make it, my dear boy. So glad. He said before walking quickly away, I didn't have time to really react or quite understand what the hell he meant by that. He disappeared up the stairs and into the party. A large arrangement of flowers was placed in the center of the foyer.

It looked expensive and planned well in advance. Vines of flowers went around the handrails leading up deeper into the festivities. I went up the stairs and saw more lush green plants. and flowers on the landing and on the entryways to the study, recital room, and reception room. The door to the study remained closed while the others were open. I took up a post in the recital room, and from where I was standing, I saw, not quite sure how to describe them, small, childlike adults playing instruments. They were dressed in white, with crowns of vine flowers around their heads.

and spotlights shining on them. They weren't kids. Up close, their faces appeared much older. The instruments they played were unfamiliar to me. I believed I saw a harpsichord, flute, a small drum, and maybe a fiddle, or a violin. The music was awful, sounding out of tune and to me, like they never played them before until that night. Guests circled around them, though, and watched as if they were witnessing a grand performance, clapping off and on even with the song hadn't ended.

White Bassinet was off to the side, and I saw guests get up occasionally to drop things into it. I figured it was likely money. I made my way over to the reception room next to check on what was going on in there. A bar was set up in the back and I took a seat on the stool next to the bartender to survey the activity going on. Guests walked up and gave me a nod before ordering, smiling with their rabbit masks on. I was starting to get uncomfortable, asking myself whether I was going crazy or did everyone here fucking know who I am. I left my seat to go find Helen. She was in her office on the ground floor, off to the side from the foyer.

The glow of her computer monitor was the only light on as I walked in. She was looking out her window with a cigarette lit in her hand. The Venetian blinds overlooking, well, let's leave it at that. Rough night, I said from the doorway. Helen didn't look over and continued to take long poles off her cigarette. To tell her smoking wasn't allowed inside would have been moot. She knew the rules. Where are the clients?

I haven't seen them tonight at all. They flew out hours before the party started. Some type of emergency down in Louisiana, the family home. Too much was already in motion and they didn't want to cancel. Why don't you just relax in the security office? I think it's all under control. She said. She asked her cigarette on the floor, and I left it at that.

I went back to my office and watched the activity from there. Sufficiently weirded out. Little did I know. The party was only just beginning. The party lasted until a little after midnight. Clean up by house staff took roughly another hour. Helen waved at me from the foyer and left without saying a word. But by about 1.30 in the morning, I was the only one in the house.

I sat in the office and thought over the strange night's events. Party in the house. Clients left town before it began. It's all strange music. Rabbit masks held every year on the same date. What the hell is even today? I did a quick search online and found that, it was a spring equinox.

Some kind of spring party, I thought. That's not that crazy. I made myself a pot of coffee and put on a movie, hoping this shift would end quickly. Around 4 a.m., I got an alarm in the study for one of the paintings. All of the paintings in the house were worth quite a great deal of money and were equipped with motion detectors that would cause an alarm to go off in our office if someone moved one of them.

Typically, this was because one of the maids dusted a little too vigorously and set it off. I looked at the camera in the study, which was where the alarm was coming from. The lights were off, so I couldn't see much. I'd have to go and take a look to make sure nothing fell off the wall. That was one of the first stories Tom told me, how a former member of the team ignored an alarm for one of the paintings on the night shift, only for it to be found by the client the next morning. Boom, fired.

I grabbed my flashlight and made my way towards the study. An important fact as well is that the lights in the house operate on a timer, and any messing around with the lights switches manually messes up the timer. I'm not sure how accurate this was or is, but I believed it at the time. I always kept lights off and used my flashlight to get around. It was pretty fucking bright anyways. so don't think I'm a moron because I didn't immediately go for the lights. I got to the door to the study at the top of the landing and opened it up.

The towering dark wood doors looming over me as I entered. My flashlight lit up the study, shining light on the rows of old books spanning the entirety of the room. The alarm was for a painting I hate it. The screen of the art alarm system gave a picture. the painting that needed to be checked, which in this case was of a nun with yellow eyes. To me, it was a nun based off how she dressed, in black and white, with some type of headdress on. The thing that always got me was the yellow eyes, and the fact it was perched on the stand

in the middle of the room facing the door. I stood about 15 feet away from it, and looked fine to me. All clear. I turned and walked back towards my office and slammed that goddamn door closed. I grabbed a cup of coffee off the fresh-brewed pot and sat down in my chair to resume the movie I was watching. As I hit play, I realized that the light in the study had turned on. The screens were small, so I had to get up to look and see what was on the screen. The camera faced the center of the room where the painting was.

Except... Except... Except... Something was off about it. It was blank. The painting was there, but there was no woman in it. Just a blank canvas from what I could see. I sat back in my chair, dumbfounded, not fully realizing, nor wanting to believe what exactly

I was seeing. I went to the DVR controls to play. Playback the cameras, still not sure what exactly I was going to see. We kept a log of whenever we left the area after hours. So I rewound to the time I had entered into the log and let it play. I was only gone for about five minutes, so there wasn't much footage to go through. I put it on double speed and hit play. The footage began and was black.

Then out of nowhere, the lights go on. and the canvas appears on the stand. Blank. As I stood there looking at it, another alarm went off. This time it was a chiller alarm in the subseller. These chillers, air conditioning, I think, not my forte, were on the older side and prone to flooding. It was just another thing we had to check if it was bad enough and inform the house manager. It was just another thing we had to check.

and if it was bad enough informed the house manager. I grabbed my flashlight and walked over to the service elevator feeling like I was on autopilot, being directed. I arrived at the subseller and pulled out my flashlight, turning it on to light up the pitch black area ahead of me. I walked down and turned the corner pointing my flashlight down the long hallway, leading to the rest of the subseller. At the end of the hall, I saw it.

There was a tall figure dressed in a black shroud hunched over. The ceilings down here were maybe seven feet, and this. This thing was hunched over considerably. Down where it was standing was the laundry room, and as I pointed light at it, I realized that it was wearing a black wedding dress and veil. Its limbs were unnaturally long. Its neck was bent.

The sight of its head flushed against the ceiling. I heard over the hum of the chillers, boilers, and plumbing at work down there, the figure humming. It was a low and deep hum that made my chest vibrate like I was standing too close to a subwifor. It still hadn't realized I was there. and my flashlight was shining on it. I was terrified to turn it off and lose sight of it. I was frozen. The humming continued and I put it together.

Whatever it was, was humming Ave Maria. I stood there with my flashlight still pointed on it. I was dripping sweat as the song ended. I held my breath. The figure turned and I saw a picture. face, with two black chunks of onyx for eyes, in a long jaw. I heard a groan as it lumbered towards me, its feet pounding on the ground, shaking the floor, and the walls around me as it made its way.

The humming started again, but faster, louder. It moves slowly, as if its feet weighed hundreds of pounds. Its jaw was drooping and elongating towards the floor as its feet thudded and shambled. I dropped my flashlight in turn and ran towards the elevator behind me. I heard heavy football stundering towards me, quickening. I dashed inside and hit the first floor button, never realizing until then how fucking slow those doors were. I got out of the elevator and locked it in place, unsure if this would actually do anything to stop. the creature from getting to me.

I went to the camera feet in my office to see where it was. It appeared again in the study, standing fully erect and staring directly at the camera. The figure stared straight at me, somehow knowing I was watching. I walked slowly towards the camera. I felt its heavy feet thudding from my office as it moved. The figure walked straight until it was out of the camera. a sight beneath the camera. I kept watching. I saw on the feed the top of its heads slowly appear on the screen. It continued to climb up until its full face was in view. It was the nun

with the yellow eyes. She smiled on screen. Her eyes and the holes that held them turned black. So did her mouth until it was the face of the pale creature that I saw. saw in the subseller. It began to appear on each of the screens in the office. I ran out the door. I sprinted out to the gate and pushed it open. I was out on the sidewalk when I saw a group that was standing there, cheering and clapping quietly in hushed tones. I heard voices calling out. You did it. She's back. You brought her to us. Oh, bless you, Jacob, bless you. I sprinted to my car as the group continued behind me. I got in and pulled out as fast as I could.

A sun was coming up and I was on my way home to tell Tom I quit. I stopped at a red light when I saw it. Nunn's face was forming in my windshield. I pulled over and got the fuck out. I took my phone out to call Tom. I saw her face on the black screen of my phone. I put it back in my pocket and pulled it out again. There it was.

I stared at it for a second. It didn't move. The face was just there. I got back in my car. She was in the windshield motionless. I thought I was losing my mind. I got back to my apartment and saw that her face was appearing in every window. Everything glass, in fact.

Fucking crazy. I thought I was fucking crazy. I pulled out the drink. drinking glasses that I had and there she was. Bathroom mirror, that horrible fucking face was there, staring at me. I realized if I made eye contact long enough, the face would form a wide smile, revealing black teeth. Hell of an Easter egg. I didn't sleep for three days.

Still haven't. They called me Jacob. How did they know me? I went by Jake. Always. I pulled open my laptop. and did what research I could with her fucking face in the glass of the screen, staring at me. I must have sent 3,000 emails.

I got a reply from a professor at Yale, who for whatever reason only wants to talk in person. So I'm on my way. I just need some sleep. I ripped out the pages from Gideon's Bible and the dresser to cover up all the glass here. I just need sleep. That's where she appears, and she's beginning to taunt, sticking her tongue out if I see her too long, disjointing her jaw on letting it drag open.

I just need a couple of hours to make it to Connecticut. Answers lie there. I just woke up. Got maybe three hours asleep. It's 0.4.36. She's talking now. Vocal. She needed a vessel, and I was there.

She needed a vessel, and I was there. She needed a vessel, and I was there. I needed a vessel, and there you were. I needed a vessel, and there you were. I needed a vessel, and there you were. Weas mehi obeserat, and Ibiheras. We have to go now. Creepy presents.

Live birth of humanity's legacy, written by Alison Summers, and narrated by Risaumontinez. Children toss a starfish like a hot potato while I squint at a smooth boulder a mile up the coast. It wasn't there when I surfed here six months ago. Spotting important discrepancies is half my job, and the least recognized skill as a DevOps engineer for the worst unicorn startup in the Bay Area. I'm unsurprised that the crowd hasn't noticed. Bodies swarm the beach like locusts. I had the good sense to schedule my first.

vacation six months ahead of the Santa Cruz surfing season, ensuring another on-call scheduling overlap wouldn't cause me to miss out again. But I can't even hear the waves over the tourists. And I can't catch a wave without worrying if another surfer is going to bang into me with their lack of safety etiquette. I breathe in. My lungs fill with crisp air. Rage vibrates against my ribcage, clawing at the flesh, longing to fly free. The 20-pound surfboard lightens and bounces off my chest. I wade in from the shoreline to the shallows. Breathe out.

I climb onto my stomach, toes curled against the plastic. My hands dip into the chilled salt water, mechanically, as if my body has chosen to flee while I'm swallowed by agoraphobia. I paddle perpendicular to the waves. The screaming children and yelling surfers fade out as I sink into the repetitive shoulder rotations and smoldering burn in my back. I trust in myself, even if I haven't swam long distance in the open ocean since I lived in Miami years ago.

Either I swim out or return sobbing to my car. When I'm between the horizon and cliffside, beyond the well-trodden beach, only then the tension dissipates from my toes. Kelp catches between my fingers. The underwater forest stretches between me and the cliffside. No real barrier against slamming into my own death. And I paddle further out into the ocean to avoid disturbing the life below. But the only things I see in the kelp are plastic bags, bobbing on the surface.

I watch the smooth boulder, holding it fiercely in the kelp. holding it fiercely in sight as if it's what's dragging me to safety instead of my own limbs. I've never visited the remote beach, regardless of how often I daydreamed of it over the past six months. Though I sobbed behind a screen 30 times more often than I taste salt water, I think of myself as a surfer first and site reliability engineer second. What's this vacation for if not to continue the self-deception? If I swim there, maybe that'll be enough to be enough. to get me through the next month.

Humidity and droplets on my goggles impair my vision. Their prescription strength and provide gorgeous details underwater. But on my surfboard, they only serve to protect my eyes from the salt. Besides, if I remove them, my natural eyesight probably couldn't pick up

the boulder's white streak. As I draw closer, the smooth boulder's white streak sharpens into a pectoral fin. barnacles break up its outline. This isn't a boulder shifted by the ocean. Monterey Bay Aquarium doesn't keep whales, at least not since I've been there last, but a humpback whale beached itself around here when I onboarded,

and this whale matches its description. The event was all over the news and got me hooked on a whale fax podcast. I paddle until my fingernail scratched sand on the stroke, then dismount. Pull my goggles down to my neck and drag my feet through the shallows. I carry the surfboard on the wrong side before I trip over its leash. The Whales Island twitches. The motion rolls down her body to her half-buried tail, her fluk rising out of the earth with celerity and a cloud of sand.

Through the haze, I spot a lump in her reproductive track. She sets down her tail before I can be certain it's a calf. Then she throws another and another until the sand is as thick as fog. I stop. My arms rush to guard my face, but the grit finds my eyes. I blink rapidly. The salt water dripping off my hands would only increase the pain. Through the flashes of my eyelids, the rotting behemoth shivers, then stills, like a great sigh.

Her fluke warms back into the wet sands as she watches me. She's ready to throw more sand, or fling me into the ocean itself, if I advance. She lays on her left side, white belly bloated and misshapen. Barnacles crowd her head, but craters like ice cream scoops on her underside mark where they used to cling. Did someone swim to the beach to torture this dying whale? implausible, unless the barnacles had unstuck themselves, choosing to sink into the bottom of the ocean

rather than join the whale in her fate. She spasms. Both white fins churn against the sharp sea rocks, fresh cuts that splatter blood. Yet she's dragging herself away from the waves. If this is how she came to the beach, then it must have been a slow, grueling process. She flails for a long moment, to move inland. But I match her with a single step. Her fluke kicks another wave of sand, but this time I shield my face and, as I spot the horror inside of her, I understand why she beached herself, and why she might want to chase me away. But nausea freezes my body. A lump of tangled fishing lines pulses within her flesh. Her vagina stretches until it's worthy of the moniker, birthing canal.

Viscuous fluid squelches out of the quivering muscles. I sway, stomach somersaulting, vision blurring as my legs dissolve. This is worse than the sex ed in high school and my teacher forced the class to watch a video about four different childbirths. That day, as I slid down my chair from the nausea, I flipped from a fence sitter to adamantly dismiss. The Spising the idea of giving birth. Now I slouch down, butt hitting the sand, and I sandwich my head between my knees. Yet, like InSac said, I can't avert my eyes.

My stomach drops beneath my hips as if to hide in the sand. The wada fishing line squelches. Slower than the whale crawled inland, it exits her body. The smell of rot and salt clogs my nose. Fish heads dangle from hooks within, with their missing eyes, staring and judging. With an inhuman, high-pitched ring, the whale succeeds in pushing the putrid ball out. It rolls two inches before settling, marooned, rusted hooks stripping blood on the sands. Saliva coats my teeth.

bile coats my tongue in a bitter film and drips out of my lips. I saw Tupperware lids, crushed, flat, water bottles, a broken comb, earrings like my grandmothers, ribbons of translucent plastic like thin celery stalks, space age alarm clock, too many recognizable pieces of my life tumble out of the whale's belly. Blood seeps into the sands, and the red radiates out in a circle as the beach drinks its fill

until the coarse grains become sludgy mud. I jump back, but not quick enough before blood stains my toes. I drag my feet against the sand as I back away, leaving streaks. The blood does not stop running as glasses, a snorkel mask, and plastic, all squeeze out of the wound. her belly deflates, the whale's breath heaves. The whistle of her blowhole fires intermittently, but she is still alive while the torrent of plastic alleviates into sporadic showers.

Together, the small pieces form a mound as large as a newborn whale calf. Plastic pens, the most expensive of the cheap variety and my homework companions in university, all tumble onto the pile. ink spills from the broken ones and darkens the blood the yumber colored garbage could have been eco-friendly lip service in a fine art gallery the whale spasms and a final item leaves her body unlike everything else

I can't name it at first sight transparent yet iridescent like dragonfly wings slippery like oil ambiscuous like honey It oozes down the garbage pile until it plops onto the sands. The gelatinous goo reabsorbs. Its coloration darkens to wine red,

glossy in the sunlight. Then it squeezes into the snorkel tube and disappears within the berthed garbage. The whale thrashes, coiling her body to the left. Her massive head drags, trailing blood over the rocks. She's turning so slowly I almost can't decipher the meaning to her movements.

But she's dragging her body closer to the sharp rocks rather than the beach sand. She's avoiding the garbage pile, even when the only other way to the ocean is excruciating. Mindful of her tail, I cautiously step closer. Either she doesn't notice or doesn't care. So I sprint over the last ten steps and dig my shoulder into her side, and my heel slide in the sand as I push. Thick blood oozes out of the barnacle-sized holes. Her skin is like supermarket chicken and smells rotten. She drags herself half a meter before she stops.

Her body stills. I push into her side again. and the whale spasms. This time, there's no method to the madness. Her body wobbles like an upside-down turtle, and her tail nearly smacks me while I back up to the cliffside. A deep cough shakes her down to her pectoral fins. Then again, punctuated by a gurgling rattle.

On the third cough, pearls rained down from her. blowhole, I crouch and cover my head with my arms. They hurt like a hailstorm, each hit stinging my bare skin, throbbing whenever striking bone. A stray pearl bounces off my shoulder and into my left hand, and then the wails spasms abate. In between convulsions, she lies still, longer and longer. Her pectoral fins move sluggishly. Then her thrashing stills. Her ma opens, chin dropping to a rock, baline teeth glistening a hair's breath from the seafoam.

She's dead, and I've forgotten how to breathe. The pearl spins in my clenching fist. It's slimy, but it reminds me of my mother and her obsession with verisimilimilimitude over truth. The texture of its wrongness is the same as her lies. My head presses into the sands. I inhale. Sand follows.

It seeps into my nose and mouth as I breathe, and yet I wish for suffocation because today has been the first time I felt anything in a long, long time. Since before I took the promotion. Since before I moved to Miami Since before I graduated from Virginia Tech Why didn't I notice Is this how my mother feels

When she says she put her head down for a paycheck and 30 years? My whole life? Pass her by? Yet she knows And lets herself keep slumbering Keep pretending she was a good mother and I am an untramatized daughter happy with the rules she carved into my brain. I will not repeat my parents' mistakes.

I will not. I will drown in the ocean before I destroy myself chasing the plastic American dream, and I will surf again. But first, I must leave the speech. Then I will worry about how I will thrive. therapy, zero contact with my family, terminate my lease, return to the Gulf Sea. I laugh, sputtering on the sand, because I could have done this months, years ago. Why am I only seeing the obvious flaws of my life when faced with another creature's death?

Cold strikes under my right thumbnail. My hand clenches, fingers closing around a rubbery cord. It squarms. Repulsed. I jolt up and cough sand from my mouth. An iridescent thread connects my throbbing fingertip to the garbage. It shimmers like ocean spray where it enters skin, then fades into a dull pink, like a wilting hollyhock,

until it joins the wine-red goo lurking within the garbage. The goo vibrates with such intensity, the clock its anchor to sinks into the sand. A second thread shoots out. My left hand blocks my face, but instead, I feel a tug around my neck. The thread yinks my right hand towards the goo. My thumb knuckle pops. Pain flares then fades into stiffness.

I grab up my right wrist and pull it against my chest, but the monstrosity has intelligence. Broken plastic and connective goo jumps out of the pile and into the whale's mouth, tying themselves in knots behind her teeth for leverage. Almost like a moray eel hunting in a reef. The pressure coiling around my neck intensifies. A black shape moves under my chin. I release my right hand in a panic,

only to feel relief when touch confirms the plastic is my goggles. I curl my left fingers under the strap and pull it over my head. My goggles die for the garbage pile. They smack into the clock and stick. The goo tugs my thumb. I instinctively release my wrist instead of letting my joint break. If only I had something sharp to cut the string. My traitor's hand reaches for the goo.

I try to pull myself backwards, but I can't get any traction in the sand. My feet slip until I land on my ass. Then the sand swallows my legs halfway at my calves, but I can plant my heels and brace. The force of the next tug travels at my arm. My shoulder pops. The elbow clicks painlessly. The same hyper-mobility aching my joints when I am hunched over a 2 a.m. Emergency Maintenance is buying me time.

I grab my surfboard and drop its edge. on top of the thread. My thumb points down to where the thread disappears into the sands, but the thread slackens. I lean my weight onto the surfboard and flail my right hand. The thread drops away from my skin. Its end forms a shimmering spike, like clean plastic, and it writhes like a worm on hot concrete. Blood beads under my thumbnail. A superficial cut? The surfboard vibrates under my palm. A rubbery cord grazes my knuckle, and I jerk my hand away. Threads have already wrapped around my purple surfboard.

The tangled reds are too much for counting individual lines, but there's more than one connecting to the ewes. The polyurethane must be a greater prize than the microplastics in my body. The ewes' plastics have already spread over the beach. I can't run for the shoreline without stepping. on five fragments along the way. And that leaves the cliff. As I bolt for the looming wall,

I select my route based on the best clustering of handholds. I rock climbed as a kid. I dabbled in bouldering over a summer of no internship. Real rocks dig in harder than the gym's fakes. That's good. But I'm lying to myself, because I don't have chalk. The friction might scrape the skin off. But no, I don't think about dying.

I have to remember the techniques. One hand always on the wall. Feet finding previous handholds. I don't remember the rock climbing techniques I learned as a kid, but my muscles remember. Like the trick to always straighten my legs to save my upper body strength. My right foot slips. A toe throbs, likely broken, since the pain cuts past the adrenaline,

but it's stable enough to push off onto the next hold. My left hand grabs onto a secure overhang. I pinwheel my right shoulder to let both hands cling there, arms straight and relaxed, so my skeleton holds my body instead of my biceps. Fear burns hotter than the tension in my fingers. I turn my neck, so far that my jaw pops, but can't spot the ooze on the cliffside below me. My stomach swings from the height. If I fall now, an unlucky landing will kill me.

Yet I look down to the motionless wail. I'm five meters up, my hands are cramping. I last rock-climed a fiscal year ago. How can I make it up twenty more? Because otherwise I'll die. Either way, my work laptop will remain unopened. And there's relief in that certainty. Even if I don't have the power to live, my choice will stand.

My shoulders relax enough to twist my neck to scan further down the beach. The ewes isn't even chasing me. The assorted plastics tethered to its body flop in and out of the sands like uncoordinated centipede feet to drag the U's to the shoreline. My surfboard bobs in the shallows. I exhale, thinking I can wait for it to wash up on the beach I started from. Then red threads dazzle in the sunlight, tethering the board to the goo warming over the sand.

My heart spasms as I corkscrew my torso so I can face the cliffside. I climb up another half meter before my sweaty palm, off a rock. I grimace, supporting myself with my legs. Then I try again, succeed, and don't waste my time on self-congratulations. Five meters later, my right shoulder throbs in the familiar agony of a partial dislocation, but I'm not giving up. My shoulder pops itself out of the socket all the time when I need an extra inch and wingspan for the top shelf. I can't. I can't. can patch myself together after I reach the top. No. I can book a day of physical therapy after I evacuate the tourists. I don't know how. The next problem doesn't matter if I don't solve the cliff.

The cat tail sway in the wind five meters above. The next handhold is too high. I can't reach it, even with my right arm. I have to jump and grab it with both hands. The waves crash far below, and I'm probably imagining it. But there's a flash of purple in the ocean. One large red rock juts out of the sedimentary layers. I clench my hands against their handhold so tightly my fingertips squeeze against the fingernails. I inhale. On the count of three, I'll live or die.

I'll live Or every annoying tourist An infuriating local on that beach will die I'll live Or my workplace will feature in my obituary I'll live Or my curiosity will be culpable For a plastic apocalypse

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