The NoSleep Podcast - S19 Ep20: NoSleep Podcast S19E20

Episode Date: June 18, 2023

It’s Episode 20 of Season 19. We ponder weak and weary with tales about the killing kind.“The Wolf Which Ate the Man Downstairs” written by Emmalias (Story starts around 00:14:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Ilana Charnelle“Off Course” written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 00:33:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Alex – Jessica McEvoy, Rex – David Cummings, Jude – Kyle Akers, Death/Dad – Mike DelGaudio“Mrs. Degree” written by Memphis Despain (Story starts around 01:34:15)Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Alma – Marie Westbrook, Matt – Dan Zappulla, Michelle – Mary Murphy, Angelina – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Police Officer – Graham Rowat“House of Horrors” written by JR Blanes (Story starts around 01:57:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Ma – Mary Murphy, Missy – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Nick – Matthew Bradford, Attendant – Jeff Clement, Pa – Graham RowatThis episode is sponsored by:ShipStation - ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your online orders faster, cheaper and more efficiently. Keep growing your business all year long with ShipStation. Use promo code NOSLEEP today at shipstation.com to sign up for your FREE 60-day trial.ZocDoc - Zocdoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient-reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Go to Zocdoc.com/nosleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about The Mysterious Legacy of The Poe ToasterExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Wolf Which Ate the Man Downstairs” illustration courtesy of Catriel TallaricoAudio program ©2023 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. The works of Edgar Allan Poe reside in the public domain.

In the dark shadows of the Rue Morg, to the rhythm of the stolen telltale heart, as the black cat swings upon the pendulum, and the cask offers its sherry, deep and dry. As you knock at our chamber door, we open and usher you. Our sleepless tales for you in store, and the terror shall be lifted. Raise yourself for the no sleep. Welcome to the No Sleep podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. This past week, on June 13th, to be precise,

the No Sleep podcast celebrated its 12th anniversary. A dozen years of audio horror storytelling. It's a time to look back on all that's happened over the years, while at the same time looking forward to future possibilities. Allow me to take a moment to reflect. and reveal as we march forward into our 13th year. I'll begin by expressing my undying gratitude for all the people who have shared their talent with us these past 12 years.

This is not a production I do alone. Never has been. I'm incredibly lucky to have the opportunity to collaborate with passionate, dedicated people. I hope you'll recognize them as much as anybody for what this show has grown into. There have been so many highlights over the years. Just seeing the audience grow has been something beyond my wildest dreams. To know that what we do has touched so many people, it's humbling. And I'm thrilled that people have discovered the power of audio horror storytelling.

I experienced it from the radio as a kid. Now I'm sharing it with others around the world. I never knew fate would give me such an enchanting opportunity. The live shows, big season finale's, the chance to meet and perform with people who have achieved so much in their own careers, it's all been a whirlwind of wonders. It's been 12 years, which have not been without challenges. The past few years in particular have been a struggle as we fought through the pandemic

and all the ways that affected our world and our audience in particular. Podcasting as an industry has evolved and changed markedly over the years. As you know, for more than, I guess, 10 years now, we've tried our best to provide good content, along with generating enough revenue to compensate our team for their work. The business of podcasting isn't an easy one, and recently we've gone through some tough times. But despite the difficulties, we remain, and we push into the future with a brighter outlook ahead. This fall will be the launch of our 20th season. Imagine that. We have some very exciting things planned for that special season, and 2024 hold some things

in store for us, which will mark new and exciting ways to bring horror to our our audience, we can't wait to lead you into the darkness yet again. Okay, I'll stop my rambling now, but thank you, dear listener. Thanks for caring enough to listen to what we do. I hope you will remain with us, The Sleepless. As we begin this episode, I'd like to do something a bit different before we launch into our stories this week, because this season we're celebrating the life and writings of Edgar Allan Poe. And as we consider our anniversary, I want to share an aspect of Poe which is a fascinating footnote to his life,

and it too has to do with an anniversary, the yearly celebration and remembrance on the date of Poe's birth. Picture this. You find yourself on a cold night in January, slowly walking through Westminster Hall and Burying Ground in Baltimore, Maryland. Its hallowed ground is the final resting place for many renowned people. While there, you'll stroll past grave markers for people who served in the Revolutionary War, who served in various levels of government, and those in the arts. It's a burial site recognized in the National Register of Historic Places. But you're there on the night of January 19th. And imagine the serendipity of being there on Edgar Allan Poe's birthday.

Because in those burying grounds are the remains of the man himself. There are two cenotaphs for Poe in that place. One is the original spot where he was buried along with some of his family members. A modest headstone marks this first place of his internment. But as Poe grew as a literary giant, it was decided that he should have a more appropriate place of remembrance. As such, he was reburied from the back corner of the cemetery to a place closer to the entrance of the grounds. He was given a much larger headstone befitting the man's legacy. And so, there you stand, well after midnight, looking at the memorial to the man who gave us stories of terror, tales of crimes and detectives, and poetry like The Raven, a poem so famous that Baltimore honored Po by naming its NFL team, The Baltimore Ravens.

The air is still. The atmosphere is somber, but you feel a sense of connection to not only the dead, but to a man whose life was so close. connected to the grave. Poe himself feared death so much that he wrote about being buried alive. You ask yourself, might Poe be under there, still alive, still living the horrors he inspired for so many others? A shiver runs up your spine. You wonder if being here at this hour is a good idea, especially when most other people aren't like you, aren't sleepless.

Then, suddenly, you're shocked to see a shadow moving off to your right. Is it a shadow, a figment of your imagination? No. Your eyes adjust and you make out the figure of a person. They're dressed all in black and carry a silver-tipped cane. You look closer to see the face of this mysterious visitor, but a hood, perhaps a scarf, obscures their face. Your heart pounds as you determine.

if this person is friend or foe, but they are not there for you. They pay you no mind as they step forward to pose Senetaph in a silent and somber ceremony. The figure produces a bottle and pours an unknown liquid into a small glass. But wait, a breeze blows through at that moment and you catch the slightest whiff of the libation being poured. You recognize the scent. Cognac, Soutil, Soutal, yet unmistakable. You then see the black-clad figure, raise the glass of Cognac in a silent toast to the memory of Edgar Allan Poe. Transfixed, you want to bow your head as if to join in the solemn ceremony, but you cannot look away. As the figure downs the toast of Cognac, you watch as they then reach under their cloak to produce three red roses. They step to the foot of

the grave marker and position the roses thoughtfully, reverently. The figure stands at the grave, head bowed. You feel a part of something intensely meaningful. The figure then reaches down and leaves the bottle of unfinished cognac on the grave next to the roses. Along with it, a small note is left behind. The figure, his ceremony now completed, turns and walks away. in the direction from which he came. You sense that he glances briefly in your direction, but no words are spoken. You are not acknowledged in any way. You are now alone again at the gravesite of Edgar Allan Poe.

The late hour and cold chill of salty Baltimore harbor air has overcome your sense of awe. You know now is the time to depart. As you turn to go, you glance back. at the grave to see the coniac, the roses, and that note. You pause, pondering if perhaps you should read what the stranger has written, but you choose not to disturb the memorial. The note is not for your eyes, perhaps not for the eyes of any person other than the man whose remains lie below you. You leave those burying grounds, having experienced what has become known as the Poe Toaster. an unknown person who for decades has toasted the memory of Edgar Allan Poe

at the sight of his burial on the day of his birth. And so, as we celebrate our own anniversary, we raise our metaphorical glass of cognac, or perhaps a sniffer of a Monteado, to salute the man who inspired writers of horror, as we honor the many, many people who have created audio horror with us for 12 years now. Let's hope the passion for horror and audio storytelling comes to an end, never more. Thanks for allowing me to share these thoughts with you.

We're going to take a short break now and then begin the episode proper as we begin another year of the No Sleep Podcast. In our episode this week, we feature tales with a rather disturbing theme. Death. Death by killing. Death by killing at the hands of someone you. you know, death by killing at the hands of someone you know and who is the last person you would expect to kill you. And while this is a fiction podcast, we recognize that oftentimes murder takes place when two people who should love each other end up blurring that thin line between

love and hate. So be it friends or domestic partners, let's delve into the world where death is close at hand when you're close to someone else. And now, our tales come to you from a cemetery upon a midnight dreary. Best not to ponder them while weak and weary. In our first tale, we meet a woman trapped upstairs in her house. The man she lives with is dead downstairs and she fears she may be next. But in this tale, shared with us by author Emma Leas, we learn that in this case death comes not by human hands, but rather that of a wild animal.

Performing this tale is Elana Charnel. So if you feel trapped, try to remember what she went through as she tells us about the wolf which ate the man downstairs. The wolf which ate the man downstairs is pacing again. I can hear its feet placed over and over against the untended floorboards, two at a time. Front left, back right, front right, back left. I imagine it has nails more than claws. The sound of cartilage scraping against wood is not the pittering of sharpened points,

but the long and removed scratch of flattened nails. They drag forever before they are plucked into the rhythm of another step. Front left, back right, front right, back left. I haven't eaten anything in three days. The wolf ate the man two days ago, but even before that the man downstairs guarded the kitchen. If I dared venture down the stairs, the carnivorous man would hear my plopping footsteps

and take his place at the threshold of the pantry. He'd grin at me and ask why I hadn't been downstairs in so long. Forced kindness has the same taste as scorched hatred. He'd remind me that I must be hungry. How many days had it been? The wolf ate the man two days ago, but long before that, the man downstairs guarded the kitchen. I would tell the carnivorous man,

through gritted teeth and a friendly smile that I liked being upstairs. I would lie. I would book down at the untended floorboards and feel them splintering into me. It's better to lie and not make the man angry, I would think. I'm a bad person. The man always told me that.

I do not like being upstairs, but downstairs is undeniably worse. I used to feel bad about my fear of the man, like his alien thought patterns shouldn't have kept me locked up above at all. At least now that he's been eaten by the wolf, I feel more validated in my fear. A wolf in devil's clothing. Maybe now the outside people will see why I hide upstairs. I've not seen the wolf which ate the man downstairs,

but I've heard his growling, his grunting, the dribble against his gnashing teeth. At first I thought the wolf would come to save me from the carnivorous man. I heard the human tears coming from down the stairs, and I thought at last I would be free. I listened to the wolf eat the man. I took fearful pleasure in each bone snapping, each moist and bloodied tear of flesh.

It was a haunting symphony. I heard the man fight back against the wolf, and I did not help him. I remember our kitchen table flipped over. The silverware from our last meal together, still crusted with crumbs and saliva, shuttered onto the floor. I heard holes punched into the walls and tripping and cursing and frightful yelps.

When the massacre was over, I waited for the wolf to depart so I could descend and explore the gruesome reality. I thought about leaving the house, and I thought about staying. As usual, I did not get the chance to choose. The wolf did not leave. Nothing has changed. I'm still prey in my home. I still live upstairs where there is a... a veil of security but no food or water. I wonder how long it will be before I die up here

above the wolf which ate the man downstairs. If I starve, no time will pass before the wolf learns to climb and consumes me too. I swore I would never be like the man downstairs, yet I fear even in death I am not free from the clutches of the wolf. We all end up the same. If I allow myself to think for too long, I can hear the sounds of its flat nails dragged along the stairs. The sound of its arrival at my locked bedroom door. The wolf would pass through the door easily. The little bolt would do nothing to protect my flesh gone cold. There were times when the man downstairs would arrive at my door. He was very capable of climbing. And so I'm sure the wolf is too. It's only a matter of time.

The man would call through the door and tell me that we were going to town. Who would buy me pastries and chocolates and black coffee and sit silently across from me? I like my coffee untouched, just as I like my interactions with the man. There was always hunger in the carnivorous man's eyes. All of the pastry and coffee in the world was not enough for him. He was a carnivorous man with a taste for people, and he consumed wherever he went. He took his coffee with cream and moor. multiple spoonfuls of sugar.

I wonder if I could imagine some pastries and chocolates and coffee. I could take them downstairs and feed them to the wolf. Then maybe he would be satisfied. Then again, I could eat the imagined delicacies. Yet somehow that feels wrong. I could not eat the wolf's pastries, even if they were willed out of my own thoughts. I know my story doesn't end that way.

happily fed and glad I can feel the world telling me that I begin and end with the wolf as hard as I may try there is no escape the man downstairs always told me that I am delusional he must have been correct I will sit here waiting until the day I die and make my premature departure

it will be natural starvation or dehydration I'm too stupid to know which one comes first. At the service, the ghost of the carnivorous man will arise and tell stories of our fabulous adventures together. Even in death, he'll find a way to make himself known. The guests will crowd around him and wish him safety and comfort for such a trying time. They'll say how strong he is.

He'll speak on our time spent laughing and joking loudly at cafes. He'll make an extra special point to say, how sweet I took my coffee, with multiple spoonfuls of indulgent sugar and lashings of cream. The wolf which ate the man downstairs stopped pacing. I'm certain. There is no more long scratching. The hair on my arms has laid flat for the first time in three days, or longer. How many days has the man downstairs been guarding the kitchen?

There is no more growling. or heavy breathing or undue restlessness. The wolf must be asleep. Darkness has come and gone in the last three days, but only now has the beasts breathing slowed. I can feel the wolf curled up in my bed next to me, but I know that couldn't be true. No matter how many times I remind myself that the wolf lives downstairs,

I can always feel it near me. Every few minutes I'm certain I can feel its fur brush against my legs, or arms or neck. I am delusional. I unlock my bedroom door. Descending the stairs makes my entire body hurt. I can feel the dread pulling in my neck. It's like flooding or the slow, thick dripping of bile.

I descend forever. There is no end to the stacked wooden hell. Each step forward plummets me a thousand feet down. While the stairs do not creak, they loudly punish each of my barefooted movements with the echo of the thousand boots which came before. I did not think it was possible to reach the bottom of a never-ending staircase. Yet I stand here at the end. I am surprised and equally disappointed. In my world, never-ending means truly forever.

I shouldn't be so silly. I know that the rules do not apply in this house. I turned the corner quietly, fully expecting to see the carnivorous man. Eaten or not, men like that have a way of reappearing. When I enter rooms, I usually see his silhouette, in reflections off of windows, in half-open doorways, in cups of black coffee. The man has branded himself onto my eyes.

The process was hot and painful. eyeballs bubble when faced with extreme heat. And eventually they melt away into tears. The carnivorous man is in every tear I will ever weep. My vision of the man asks me enough questions to send me back upstairs. He wonders out loud why I've been upstairs for so long. How am I not lonely in my isolated space? When the last time I ate was?

If I'd like for him to make me something. Despite his many offers, a carnivorous man has only ever made me one thing, and that is why I stay upstairs. The Vision offers me a pork sandwich and a cup of coffee with cream and sugar. I push past him and into the unguarded pantry, reminding myself that I do not like pork. Even despite this, my lips are wet withdrawal. I eat quietly in the pantry for a long time. constantly prepared to hear the waking of the wolf which ate the man on the floor on which I now sit. I like the wolf better when I can name it from afar.

When the wolf is downstairs, I don't have to face it. Now we're on the same plane. I barricade the pantry door with stacks of canned corn and beans. I doubt the wolf will supply me any protection from the wolf, but if it finds me here, they may prove useful. If knocked over by the pantry door opening, the force of aluminium tins will kill me before the wolf does. The house is always filled with unsavory amounts of corn and beans.

I've never seen anyone eat them. Despite my comfort in crackers and cookies, the presence of the wolf is creeping upon me. Even if it is asleep, I know that it is aware that I'm in its domain. Downstairs is owned, and I am an unwanted thief. The cookies and crackers and even the crumbs. I am barely bothering to chew are the property of the beast. I should go back upstairs.

I do not belong here. I realize that I'm cowering in a pantry which is not mine, eating stolen cookies. Once again, I am ashamed of my fear. Hiding in a pantry like a mouse, or better a rat, is not the life which I wanted here. There is something wrong with me. There must be.

I have not even seen, this wolf and I assume he's here to destroy me. This fear could be my mind playing tricks. It's been known to do so. The wolf ate the man downstairs. And in doing so it made me free. I should be thanking it, feeding it, loving it. Maybe the wolf only growls downstairs because it knows that I am neglecting it. I hate myself for hiding from the wolf which ate the man downstairs. I am a bad person. No, a crazy person for ever avoiding it. I have nothing to fear except for myself. I dismantle the wall of corn and beans and open the pantry door. I pick myself up onto my knees and palms. I'll make my escape and find the wolf which ate the man downstairs, front right back

left, front left, back, right. In the kitchen, I find relics of my last dinner downstairs with the carnivorous man. I have not eaten since then, just like I heard from upstairs. There are holes punched into the walls and silverware strewn off of the upturned table. The carnivorous man must have been very angry with the wolf. He usually only destroys the walls when he's uncontrollably enraged. I keep navigating on my hands and knees to avoid detection. I'd best avoid being caught in the kitchen. I wouldn't want the wolf to think of me as nothing but a petty thief. The wolf and I don't have the greatest relationship.

But when I speak to it soon, it will understand. I know that the wolf will listen to me. I'm sure the wolf must be asleep in the front room. It has beautiful pillows and blankets which I am not supposed to touch. It's the most obvious place for an intruder to sleep. On the rare occasion the carnivorous man would leave me alone in the house. I would go downstairs and swaddle myself in the Kashmir. There is a conspicuous absence of blood at the scene of the feast.

The wolf must have done a spectacular job lapping up every splutter with its long, curling tongue. While I admire its dedication, I wish it had left some for me to enjoy. Whether with my eyes or my own tongue, I don't know, but I would have liked to share in the glory of the man turned inside out. I am a bad person. In desperation, I put my eyes very close to the floor. I'm sure that if I search hard enough, I can find one morsel of blood, one microscopic scarlet stain. I do not allow my eyes to stray from the ground. There may be remains stuck between the grain or in the brain.

cracks between planks. I crawl in the direction of the front room, pulling splinters out of my palms as I go, but never letting my eyes leave their focus in front of me. Though my body trembles almost constantly in my day-to-day existence, I am more steady now. My fearful shuddering has stopped. Downstairs feels strangely like home without the man. I know that the wharf will be happy to see me.

I crawl forward towards where my friend the wolf is napping. I do not look behind myself. With my eyes on the search for blood, I put on blinders in the name of safety. Looking behind yourself is a sure way to see all of the terrible things you've walked past. Ten large, flat, unkempt nails enter my sight. They are attached to two large, fat, unkempt feet which I don't. allow myself to recognize. I know that the wolf did not have pointed claws. The sound of their stepping was all wrong. Scorched hatred smells the same as burnt coffee with too many sugars.

I freeze, and my quaking returns to its rightful place in my core. I knew that the downstairs was not my home. I do not allow my eyes to wander. If I do, I know. I know. I know. I know. I know. I know I will see something more terrible than my upstairs brain could have imagined. This is my fault. I am delusional. I am a bad person. I keep my eyes strained down at the splintering floorboards, looking, longing, searching for any proof of the wolf which ate the man downstairs.

To some people, it's the idyllic life, floating on the sea, on a boat with friends enjoying the good life. But this is a horror podcast, so in this case, the friends have been blown off course by a storm and they're now lost and adrift. And as we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Gemma Amor, Making Matters Worse, is someone new showing up on board. I join Jessica McAvoy, Kyle Acres, and Mike Delgadoo in performing this tale. So make sure your nautical knowledge is in tip-top shape, especially if you get off course. Captain's Log.

The Wittershins. Number of persons on board. Three. Number of supernatural entities on board. One. Course. Unknown. Latitude.

Longitude. Unknown. Time of log. Unknown. Date. August 19th, 2021. Day 13 of being lost at sea. They say that if a rescue team doesn't arrive within the first 48 hours when you're lost at sea,

the chances of being found alive are slim to none. It's now day 13 of being adrift, and no one has come. No human relief. No helicopters, no ships. I haven't seen any planes in the sky, so we aren't beneath any flight paths. I've slowly come to accept the truth of our situation. Rex, Jude, and I are completely lost and completely alone. Except for death.

Who turned up on day three, I was asleep on my bunk when death first made its presence known. I knew who it was right away because it wore the skin of my father, who died. of cancer six years ago. Death's chest was scarred with the memory of a long removed malignant mass. The skin that remained was shiny and pink and harder

than elsewhere on his body. Cutting the tumor away hadn't done Dad any good, for the cancer had rooted firmly in his lungs. But seeing those scars again for the first time in six years brought back all sorts of feelings. Hope,

despair, resignation, weariness, disgust. Shame at feeling disgust. The distinct memory of my aching throat as I held back tears. A kaleidoscope of constantly shifting emotions. A three-plane mirror reflection of a man's life abruptly ended. I knew when I saw it wearing dad's old dressing gown, his favorite. buttoned down to the navel what death was doing. It was introducing me to the idea of my own mortality,

as subtly and gently as it knew how. Death confirmed this. It had worn my father's appearance, it said, because it wanted me to feel comfortable in its presence. I didn't have the heart to say that, waking up to find your long-dead dad sitting at the end of your bunk, smiling at you, wasn't exactly the most relaxing experience. Don't be afraid.

It even spoke in Dad's voice. I sat up, rubbing my eyes. I could feel the familiar rock and sway of Wittershins, which had been aimlessly drifting since the storm had put us off course. I'm not afraid. What are you doing here? Death patted my leg. I think you know.

And that was our first conversation. It has not left my side since. Granted, there aren't many places on a vintage 56-foot motorized steel catch to escape from anyone, let alone my impending fate. Still, it feels kind of crowded now. Rex and Jude share a cabin, so I have some privacy. But I can still hear them fucking through the wall sometimes. It's a degree of forced intimacy that I'm getting tired of. It occurred to me early on that if we are to die out here,

We ought to leave something for people to find. That's why I co-opted the captain's logbook to use as a diary. There's a lot of information I can't complete. Exact time of each entry. Water log, water speed, position fix, leeway, wind speed and direction, all the usual things that go on a ship's log. We have no way of getting that data anymore, at least reliably. Every day something else on this little floating bucket breaks, and we lack the energy or tools to fix it.

Rax was never very good at filling out the ship's log anyway. In fact, if I'm being completely honest, we all know he wasn't the best captain that's ever sailed. But we love him, despite this. I know what I'm writing is hardly coherent, but it's better than nothing. Besides, it gives me something to do beyond stare at the blue all around. Writing is a distraction from the monotonous, watery prison sentence we've been afforded. Turns out, being stranded at sea is not as dramatic or exciting as it sounds. It's actually insanely boring, not to mention disorienting.

I no longer have any sense of time or direction or even with. The hatchway is up or down. Both are the same color, you see. Blue. Whether your nose is pointing at the sky or the water. It's all different shades of the same end. Captain's Log. The Witterschins.

Number of persons on board. Three. Number of supernatural entities on board. One. Et cetera, et cetera. Day 14 of being lost at sea. The storm had come on us unexpectedly. One minute the ocean was an azure dream,

frosted with tiny white caps that bird skimmed over lazily as a strong sun beat down from above. The sea moved with calm and tense beneath us, its color a deep, reassuring sapphire. We were going at a good speed, about seven knots. I remember feeling good. about our progress. Rex and Jude had been in fine form,

colorful banter flying across Wittershens like sea spray. Then, suddenly, sneakily, everything started to get weird, still. As of all movement were being sucked out of the world while we were distracted with the grift and grind of keeping Wittershins on course. The wind died. Wittershins slowed.

Her sails, gorged in a fool, drooped and hung limp like the petals of a dead flower. The sea's surface turned to level, waveless glass, darkening to a threatening grayish black. Birds vanished. The world felt both loud and muted at the same time. A strange tension made the air feel thin and mean somehow. My ears had a low, womp, womp, wamp, sound in them, as of pressurice. I took me a moment to realize that the sound was my own heart pumping blood around my body sluggishly. I remember looking up from the fixture I was polishing.

Goose bumps flared on my skin. Sweat popped out all over me. The absence of any breeze meant it no longer dried the second it came out of my pores. I stood up, went forward of the bow. I saw a small, single cloud on the horizon, oddly shaped like an old old. fashioned blacksmith's animal. The sky had turned pink around it. Then, as I watched, a deep, ominous green, an early night suddenly leapt toward us. I could see it approach across the surface of the sea, the movement of gloom, like a slow wall encroaching. I squinted. I was fairly sure I could

see the wall glinting and flickering, as if reality itself were being switched on and off and on again. I called out to Rex and Jude. Are you seeing this? Seeing what? I pointed at the cloud for Jude. Rex came out of the forecabin. He shaded his eyes. What am I looking at exactly?

The cloud. The sky over there. It doesn't look right. Jude chuckled, peeling a mango and licking juice from his fingers. What about the tiny organized mass of heart? Water drops in the sky is not right, exactly. I didn't take the bait. Jude'd love to question me at every turn, but today I had no time for it.

Can you feel how still it's gotten? It's green out there. You know what that means. Rex spat off the side. There were no storms forecasted when I last checked. Nothing on the Wefax? The weather decoder had been playing up lately, but I thought I'd ask anyway. Do I always have to repeat myself with you?

But he didn't take his eyes off the green horizon. I held my ground. I think we should batten everything down. Rig the storm trysail. Rex folded his arms. I don't need you to teach me how to suck eggs, Alex. I could see the veins on his nose, red and angry. A ruddy complexion, people who stay on land like the call it.

He drank too much, even. that Jude came over. He offered sticky chunks of mango around, but both Rex and I declined. I wish I'd eaten the damn fruit now. I would murder for fresh fruit and some vitamin C. It does look like it's building to something. Alex might be right.

Rex glared at him, too, but when he saw the tiny, peculiar anvil cloud had rapidly doubled in height and surface area, he begrudgingly agreed. We battened down the hatches, prepared for the worst. He grumbled about it the whole time, but we were used to that. I slept poorly that night, drifting in and out of nightmares, saturated with bruised skies and 40 feet waves bearing down on us.

The number of times I drowned in those dreams was countless. One image in particular was hard to shake, A glistening, towering wall of water, stretching high up into the sky before me. Not a tidal wave, but something more sinister, more solid, or vertical. Above it, my father's voice calling out. The sharks swim up the wall. The wall is blue. Can you see it?

I woke at 3 a.m., drenched and sweat. Needing air, I went up on deck. There was no air. Everything felt wrong. I don't know how else to describe it. Sinister. Like an electric current humming along a massive power line. The hairs on my arms stood up.

I could hear the others snoring. They'd been drinking, which felt like a dumb thing to do right before bad weather was expected. Then a sheet of lightning blanketed everything with a searing moment. hairy brains. It revealed a flickering, nightmarish tableau. An enormous cloud system swirling above us, hundreds of meters up in the sky. The towering cumulus ominously feathering out on top.

The bleak mass all hunched and bunched. A cobra about to strike. Garlanded with more lightning. Below it, enormous waves, lurching, thundering in our direction. Witterchins was sitting in a tiny pool of calm. But that calm was about to come to an abrupt end. I cried out. We were going to be pulverized. Then, as if the storm had merely been waiting for me to wake so I could better witness its fury.

Captain's log, the Wittershins, such as. etc. Day 15 of being lost at sea. At times, when I listen to the waves lapping against the sides of the boat, feels as if we never existed at all before this. Pts, we didn't. Maybe everything that came before the storm was a dream. And this is actually reality.

And we've just woken up to it. I think about land, about the idea of solid ground beneath my feet, and the notion is absurd. There has only ever been the sea and the sky and the rocking motion of the boat. And there only ever will be those things. Land is an elaborate fantasy.

It must be. Why else would no one have come for us yet? Because other people don't exist. Only we exist. We are the crew of the good sailboat Wittershins, and we are lost at sea. Death wants me to face facts. My days are numbered. We were playing chess in my cabin when it told me so.

You will die out here soon, Alex. So were Rex and Jude. I moved a pawn across the magnetized board. What will it be like? Curious. Death thought about this. It's different for everyone. For some, it's swift and painful.

For others, slow, protracted, full of regret. Do you have regrets, Alex? I stared out of the cabin porthole, refusing to make eye contact. I have nothing but regret. Who the fuck are you talking to? Rex was passing my cabin, which had its door open. I realized then that he couldn't see. see death, or at least my version of death.

Rex waited for an answer with an odd expression on his face. I just smiled and went back to the chessboard. Death did the same. When I think about it, Rex and Jude will probably go before me, for a variety of different reasons. So my demise is likely to be a lonely one. just me and this catch and the big bad blue but that's okay

no fuss no must alone or with others death is a pretty definitive state of affairs Jude shakes his head at me when I say these sorts of things out loud come on Alex you can't think like that someone will come for us we just have to be patient

he is horribly sunburned his skin raw and peeling. It felt like I was getting a pep talk from a sun-baked tomato, but I appreciated the effort. Jude is putting all his energy into trying to catch fish. He has made a line and is using scraps of garbage for bait, but so far, no luck. We eat what we have on board.

It is a limited diet. Before we departed, I made sure we were stopped, with multiple cases of high-protein chocolate and nut energy bars, which keep us going, but make us extremely constipated. Anything fresh has been consumed. I'm more worried about water than food. During the storm, the boat tipped almost completely over, dumping several packs of 15-liter drinking water bottles

we thought we'd strap tightly to the deck into the sea. This put us down to less than half rations in the blink of an eye. We're struggling to make it less. last. I do keep thinking, how in this day and age, can three people disappear as easily as we have? We've been adrift for two weeks without seeing a single other sign of humanity on the horizon. Is the world really that large? I used to tell myself the planet was only getting smaller. Population running rampant. But since the storm, I've realized, while overcrowding might be a problem. problem on land. Out here, there is plenty of space. Bed space. I look at the ocean and think

we may as well be on another planet entirely. There is nothing here that can sustain human life beyond the fish swimming below us. Fresh water. No food. No shelter from the elements. We're at the complete mercy of the wind, rain, and sun, and whatever else lurks beneath the waves. waiting for us to let our guard down. Namely, and most immediately, shirks. Three of them. Big ones. Not great whites, but a comparable size.

It's my fault, I know. I should never have blood into the sea. When the storm hit us, I was flung overboard. As I hurtled off the deck, I hit my leg hard against a winch and cut it badly, for the brief time I was in the ocean before the boys dragged me back on board with the life belt and rope. I bled.

A lot. They've been tailing us lazily ever since, meandering after Wittershins as she drifts. Every now and then, I think they've gotten bored. Gone off to hunt new prey. And I'll cut a small gash into my palm with Jude's penknife,

and dangle a hand experimentally over the side. Watching my blood seep into the water like miniature storm clouds, and a thin will appear within seconds, slicing through the water toward me like a hot knife through butter. Is it odd that they don't frighten me? I think they're more curious than anything, although I am surprised at their tenacity. It's like the taste of my blood is strong in their memory. But they can't do anything except swim and wait. As long as we stay in the boat, we're fine. If these were orca, I'd be more worried. Orcas have a habit of using their tails to make huge waves that roll over icebergs and small boats, washing prey-like seals into the sea where they're easier to get hold of.

We are not seals, but easily as vulnerable. But for now, I can handle sharks. Even if there is something a little off about these particular sharks, When I mentioned that to Rex, he frowned. Off how? He isn't talkative these days. I hesitated. Like, they have too many eyes.

And it's true. They do have too many eyes. In the wrong place. Not on their heads, but along their backs. Twin rows around onyx-colored orbs. lining the spine to either side of the first dorsal fin. Rex and Jude both stared at me as if I'd grown an extra set of eyes myself. I dropped the subject.

I expect they thought I had sunstroke again. It's entirely possible that I hallucinated the eyes, sure. The last few days have been so damn hot, and we've all been so thirsty. Anything is possible when you're this thirsty. It's particularly cruel to be dehydrated when you are surrounded by so much water. I caught myself eyeing up the ocean earlier, thinking, maybe just a sip. How can something that looks so cold and blue and enticing be so bad for you?

But I saw what I saw, thirsty or not. I tell myself that as firmly as I tell myself drinking seawater is a fast ticket to death. Instead, I sip from our... strictly rationed, grossly depleted water supply, and tried to distract myself from the fierce headache, swollen tongue, dry mouth, and aching throat I have. Jude keeps telling me to be thankful for being alive, at least. I'm trying, but gratitude is hard in the circumstances. Captain's Log. Wittershens. Number of persons on board. Three. Day 16 of being lost at sea.

The eyewitness guide to sharks stashed below deck doesn't mention anything about massive marine fish with rows of eyes along their backs. I read it cover to cover three times just in case. Aside from reading, I'm just about to start on a very worn copy of Edgar Allan Poe's tales of the grotesque and arabesque. There's nothing else to do on board except tinker and sleep.

I don't find sleep easy. My leg hurts a lot. Our first aid kit has disinfectant wipes and clean bandages, but I'm getting through those at an alarming rate. The gash on my thigh never seems to get better. It feels warm and swollen to the touch. When I poke it, pus leaks out. The good news is there's plenty of salt water around to clean it with.

Looking at my leg, wound reminds me of the time I fell out of a tree when I was eight, cutting my knee badly. I remember how much blood there was, how terrified of all the red I was. I remember Dad lifting me up, putting me across his lap, gently cleaning my wound with a hot, clean cloth, then slapping a large bandage across it. I know it hurts, Dad said softly. You're a big, brave. girl. It should be a good memory, but for some reason it lies heavy like curdled milk in my guts.

Rex says I should be pulling my weight more, helping him and Jude fix our engine, which won't start, but I know it's pointless. I had a look myself after the storm. When I saw the condition of the fuel tank, which was coated in sludge, I was shocked we made it as far as we did. Diesel plague, also known as the Black Death, will kill an engine without much warning. Ours was riddled, the filters clogged, the injection nozzles corroded. We could try draining the tank and cleaning the fungus away, but we're all too exhausted, hungry, and dizzy for the amount of work that will entail. Woodershins will move in only one of two ways or not at all. Under wind or wave power, as there has been no wind for days on end, I don't rate our chances much.

Captain's log. Witterschens. Day 17 of being lost at sea. Before the storm hit, we were somewhere off the coast of Australia. Now, it's anyone's guess. Rex and Jude say that knowing where we are on a map, doesn't help anybody, least of all us. Besides, our nav equipment stopped working properly after the boat was slapped around so

badly, and Rex finished the job yesterday when he smashed everything up in a fit of frustrated, drunken rage. He'd come to the same conclusion I had about our engine, that it was fucked beyond repair. He emerged from the engine room covered in filth and went straight to the liquor cabinet in the saloon. Jude followed, looking defeated. An hour later, I heard a commotion. In my way to the saloon, I saw a wrecks, drunker than I'd ever seen him before,

going wild on the chart table, which is where a variety of our nav equipment was also located. Charts were shredded, the dials damaged. The beautiful polished elm surfaces ravaged. Fucking point! What's the fucking point of any of this? Jude cowered in a far corner.

He had a black eye and a bloody lip. I could see red on Rex's knuckles, and I knew then how far he'd gone. I yelled at Rex to stop, but didn't have the energy to stay mad. And is not in his right mind anymore. He's lost all hope and is heavily dehydrated. We all are.

But he seems to be worse affected than myself or Jude. We could always drink our own piss. Jude said it this morning, when the last of our water rations ran out. I was surprised they'd lasted that long. I glared at Jude, who was nursing his split lip with a saltwater-soaked rag. I was too tired and depressed to say anything out loud. I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. He shruged.

What? Rex groaned from where he lay on the deck. Head awkwardly tipped over the starboard side, staring at three. shark fins as they circled lazily around the boat. His eyes would drift closed periodically with each rotation of the shark group, then snap open as he slipped dangerously forward. Counting sheep, I thought, only these sheep want to eat. Rex had spent the last hour trying to puke up the gin he'd sunk the night before, hence

his position dangling off the boat. He was suffering now, barely. able to move, hungover and thirstier than ever. I knew he was also trying to get a better look at the sharks to count their fin eyes. But they were being shy today. Only thin tips visible above the water. He spoke like a desperately tired parent talking to a small and annoying child instead of his closest, oldest friend.

We have to have drunk enough. to be able to produce some piss. And I don't know about you, but my dick is drier than a breadstick right now. My bladder is the size of a dried fucking pee. The effort of making conversation triggered another surge of nausea, and his body tried to purge itself again. He gagged and wretched. The sharks kept circling.

What became of the... Drunken sailors. Fuck off, Alex. He sounded as if he was in real pain. A thin stream of bile hung from his cracked lips. What if I could? Death, who was sitting next to me, but a comforting arm around my shoulders.

Jude laughed just once. He was still mad at Rex. You brought this on yourself, Rex. You can fuck off too Drink in your own piss Only dehydrate you more Don't you know anything You mean like

Sinking two bottles of gin in one sitting Will dehydrate you Jude threw his rag down Angrily Anyone were to think You were trying to die faster Rex said nothing Just dribbled into the sea

Rising tensions were bound to happen They would be even higher, but we're all exhausted. Every remaining ounce of strength we have goes into the business of survival when we're not fighting each other. Still, I feel like we are a pile of dry kindling waiting for a match. Strict food rations don't help. Rex has always been a big eater.

The sudden cut to his calorie intake is taking its toll. All this drama doesn't distract from the most important. issue of the day, that we won't last long without fresh water. We need to figure out a way of collecting some or harvesting condensation. I'm going to see what I can rig up while also praying for rain. The sky stays bright and blue and clear. At least the sharks seem to be having fun. There are four of them now.

Captain's Law. Whittershant's. Day 18 of being lost at sea. Today, I read the dictionary. Phlasophobia is the fear of large bodies of water, apparently. Not a term I've come across until now. I've always loved the sea. Water used to make me happy.

It was dad's favorite thing, too. We went fishing a lot when he was younger and fitter. I remember watching as a lot. small kid as he warmed maggots between his lips to make them wriggle more on the hook he said i was revolted and fascinated an equal measure by the sight of those brown shiny worm things poking out of his mouth when i think about it a lot of the memories of us together are rooted either in intimacy or disgust especially at the end when he was in the hospital i try not to think about that too much Even though death keeps hinting, I should.

He's not very subtle. When I turned around to speak to him today, I saw wriggling things on the scar tissue on his chest. I could see Dad's ribs beneath. The maggots were eating him away. Remember how they used to smell? They had this ammonia smell. They'll stink.

They used to foam up, too, I whispered back. Swallowing down vomit as I remembered the Tupperware boxes of worms, dad would keep in the fridge. Too warm. They would sweat and make this foam. I snapped my mouth shut. I no longer wanted to talk. Death wearing my dad's face looked disappointed. A school of flying fish leapt across the bow of Wittershins then. It was an incredible sight. A shoal of silver sea dwellers with large wings shaped like that of bird gliding through the air. I rushed to the fore. Fish only fly like that to escape predators. And sure enough, moments after the school broke the surface and left over us,

an enormous swordfish attempted to follow. Using its tail to propel itself up and out of the water, couldn't make it the whole way across the bow. And landed heavily on the deck where it flopped and flacked around dramatically. Kill it! Kill it! Jude, who was loitering aft, was near frantic, Swordfish would represent our first real meal in days. Rex, who was closer than I, left on the fish with a savage roar.

Attempting the bear hug and pin it down. His long, wickedly sharp, spear-like bill coming at him like a deranged swordman, thrusting in Perry. Rex did his best. He couldn't stay out of harm's way for a long. He wrestled and fumbled the huge fish. then scream. As I rushed the help, I saw he had been speared right through the stomach. The fish, not enjoying the sensation of having its sharp nose stuck in the innards of a giant stinking land creature,

yanked, snapped, bucked in an effort to pull free. Every movement brought fresh agony to Rex who continued screaming. Jude and I eventually got a hold of the fish tail and pulled hard. The sword part of the fish slid free And Rex fell back to the deck Clutching his stomach and groaning The swordfish Stronger and more desperate than any of us

Flipped out of our grasp And somehow managed to throw itself back over the side With a tremendous splash Disappeared under the waves Without a moment's hesitation While Jude and I hurled obscenities after it Our hands sliced to ribbons by sharp scales and fins That was when we felt a gentle

gentle breeze on our skin. The first for weeks. Did you feel that? Jude stared at me, and his eyes filled with tears of hope. His hair lifted in the breeze, and I felt my own heart erase in response. Help me! Rex was bleeding heavily. We could see this, but the wind was more important.

Sorry, Rex. Hang tight. Fuck you. And those were his last living words. Death, who had been standing just behind me, went and sat with Rex, keeping him silent company. Jude and I excitedly hoisted the main and mizzen sail to take advantage of the wind. Our head sail had several long tears in it that I tried to fix. It's hard to properly mend a sail on board.

Not enough space to lay it out flat. match up the edges properly. I did what I could with sail repair tape and hoped it would hold. I don't know what direction we moved in once under sail because we had nothing to steer by. The sun is not reliable, no matter how bright it shines. We've lost our sextant, our compass doesn't work, our charts are ruined. We didn't let any of that stop us. Moving under sail felt better than drifting, we agreed.

Even if we did have a hard time getting our aching, sore body. into gear. But after a while, it felt good to be doing something again. Better than lying on deck, waiting to die. Like Rex, the blood out of the course of a few minutes. He gave him a sea burial that night. Said some words, wrapped him in the towel, and pushed him over the war. The sharks were on him in seconds. I looked at death as Rex's body was torn into fleshy chunk. He said some words. He said, Swift and painful. I am almost envious. Captain's log.

Witterchins. Number of persons on board. Two. Day 19 of being lost at sea. Jude and I figured out a way of collecting condensation, making a solar still from plastic bottles and saran wrap. Tastes more of this sea than I'd like, but keeps us alive. We also found an old tin of pineapple chunks

swimming and juice lurking in a cupboard. It tasted incredible. We take it in turns to sleep so we can keep sailing. The wind has gained strength, as if something is pushing us towards a destination, tired of waiting for us to get there under our own steam. Wittershin's poor old girl continues to fight us at every opportunity. Her Genoa sheet tore, resulting in the front sail,

flapping around maniacally. Her coffee-grinder wench only brought in rope sporadically, and when it didn't, spun wildly, smashing knuckles at will. The sliding hatch from the bridge deck came off its fittings, letting water below whenever a healthy wave came over the deck. Fixtures and fittings seem to snap off in our hands for no reason at all. Interestingly, neither Jude nor I seemed to be able to openly mourn Rex, despite both of us having been friends, with him for years. I think we were so fixed on the horizon, on finding land, that we can't process his grisly, bizarre,

and I think Jude is still mad at him for getting drunk and beating him up, not to mention our equipment, especially the marine GPS, which was also a chart-plotter and fish finder that told us what was in the ocean beneath Wittershens, thanks to some high-tech sonar scanning. I feel differently. Now I think if the sharks are anything to go by,

it's better not to know what's down there. Captain's Lock. Wittershans. A number of persons on board. One day 30 of being lost at sea. The wind betrayed us. Drove us up onto a massive sandbar. a sandbar that shouldn't exist out in open water.

Witterchins has been stranded here for many days, broiling in the relentless sun. The sharks, of which there are now ten, are limited to swimming along the edge of the sandbar. Our lifeboat was lost in the storm, so I can't escape in that. The catch is too heavy for me to physically push back into the water. Even if Jude were still alive to help me,

He is not. On the fourth day of being grounded, he took himself into the engine room, siphoned off the remaining gunk-saturated diesel from the fuel tank, and drank it all down in one foul gul. His death was protracted. He vomited for hours. Shit his pants, then arrived as his insides burned.

His lungs gave out a few days later. He slipped into a coma, not long after. I put him out of his misery with a pillow, when I realized he wasn't going to wake up. Me pressing down hard on Jude's face with a sad smile. Looking at me, tears streaming down my face. I wasn't crying for Jude. I was crying for death because this wasn't the first time.

I had used a pill. At first I was angry at Jude for leaving me alone. But then I realized, I'm not alone. I have death here with me. I dug a shallow grave for Jude some distance. from Wittershens. Death stood to one side as I covered Jude's body with heavy yellow sand.

All I could think of was Dad's funeral, standing on the edge of his grave, looking down at a coffin covered in soil and rose petals. I remember thinking, he buried down there in a long wooden box. I was done, dusted my hands, and turned to death. When the fuck is it my turn? I asked, angrily. Soon, it replied, walking away. Captain's log.

Witters since. Day 35 of being lost at sea. Desperate. No water. Solar still broke and I can't make another. No materials left. Started drinking sea water. Regretted it.

Cannot stop vomiting. Death holds my hair back as I heave and wretch, but I don't want it near. me. It smells bad, putrified flesh, like dad before he died. The sharks are many now. I deliberately bait them by opening my leg wound with a can opener as soon as it crusts over and walking into the sea a little ways. Gives me something to do, watching the sharks lurk and thrash beyond the sandbars limits. Captain's log. Witterschins. Day 36 of being lost. at sea. The water rose. There was another storm, off in the distance. I saw lightning strike

the horizon. The storm never reached us, but the waves it made did. Huge waves. They surged up onto the sandbar and Wittershins broke free. I used her sails to take her as far from the yellow strip of land as I could. Watch Jude's grave grow smaller and smaller as we sailed away, Dunslaw. Wittershins. Day 37 of being lost at sea. There is a giant wall of water before me. It appeared just after dawn.

I didn't sleep. I didn't see the point. Sleep will come soon enough. It smells like ammonia, like feces and dried blood. It smells like sickness spread through a good man's body. The smell kept me sailing. and Wittershins picked up so much speed I lost the sharks for a while.

Until I came upon the wall of sea. I think it might be the edge of the world, or perhaps the edge of the living world. What lies beyond the curtain of sea water is anyone's guess. I'm hoping it is rest, peace. Death knows, but it's not telling me anything. The wall of water is moving, pouring up. into the sky, like a waterfall running backwards. There are white horses made of foam, too. I can see

the sharks surging through them, swimming vertically. Their fins perpendicular to the horizon behind me. Doesn't make any sense. It's beautiful, though, as Witter Shins sails closer. I remember something that said to me just before he died. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. His body ravaged with cancer and most of the things that came out of his mouth were nonsense. This one utterance stuck with me though, because he woke out of a deep, slack mouth of sleep to say it, jerking away from his pillow and opening his bruised eyes and proclaiming. The sharks swim up the wall. The wall is blue. Can you see it? Then he sank back into the bed, looking at me. He was terrified. I could tell my poor.

diminished dead, once so strong and broad-shouldered and kind and funny. Now he was dry wood, eaten away by cancer termites. He had also wet himself, a dark pool of urine spreading across his covers. And the smell was sharp, almost sulfurous, like maggots, sweating in a box. A dying stink. I remember I held his hand, which was bloated from the IV drip in his arm. His circulation was failing. He was in pain.

I could tell him. I said softly, I was too afraid to tell him I loved him. I was afraid he would hear and understand how scared I was. Telling him I loved him would be admitting that he was about to die. couldn't bring myself to say the words out loud. Perhaps I thought I could delay the inevitable by keeping my mouth shut. You can't delay, death. It comes for everyone. No matter what, I should have acknowledged that and loved Dad out loud so his last moments could be moments of comfort. Instead, I gently slid the pillow out from underneath his head, pressed it down hard

on his face. He struggled weakly. His hands feeble against mine. I heard my heart beating thunderously the whole time. Adrenaline roared through me. I told myself, I was administering mercy. I told myself, he would have wanted it this way. I told myself I could make the pain and stop, like slapping a bandage on a cut knee.

But I don't think I believed myself. I later read about things that people say just before they take their last breaths. Analogies are common apparently, especially figurative analogies linked to things that once happened in a person's real life. Dying minds use symbolism to construct a path between living and the other side. And I can't help but wonder. As I gaze up at the vast oceanic wall before me, is that what my brain is doing? Manufacturing a vivid analogy to help me process my own end. Behind me, death has a hold of the varnished helm wheel.

My dad's hands firmly gripping the spokes. One is bigger than the other, bloated, blackened. The fingernails greenish-gray in color. Its chest is now a vast hole. I can see a beating heart inside. I can see stars, too, with a tree. The little girl sitting on her dad's knee. He's putting a bandage on a wound there, slapping it on carefully,

but with the playfulness that is intended to distract the child from her pain. Bandage has colorful patterns on it. I don't have to look closely to know those patterns are large, cartooned sharks, grinning and friendly. And that when the girl flexes her knee experimentally, bandage wrinkles, and the sharks get smushed together. and one of them looks like it has several rows of eyes running along its back as a result. The wall of water fills my vision.

But her shins skirts right up to the base, her nose lifting slightly. I know if I can catch the wind a certain way. We can sail right through the curtain and be on. I am ready, but I need to check with death first. I turn. Death stands at the helm. Eyes forward. Is it time?

Above the rush and roar of an ocean climbing into the sky. It's time. My father smiles. Alex? Yeah. My face is wet with more than sea spray. This night, poetic works from darkness alight. We leave you with this a question on a theme.

Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Ollie White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. Please visit The NoSleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for being a

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