DEATH IS ETERNAL #411

3,000 words

Do you know what I love? When I sit down to begin writing DEATH IS ETERNAL and I know what I’ll write. More often than not, I begin the newsletter without the slightest clue of what the short story will be. And although interesting from the standpoint of forcing my creativity, the pressure is a bit maddening. However, when I know what I want to write, I sit down excitedly because the idea is already in my head, demanding to be on the page. And, to be honest, there are very few things that I love more than having an idea pushing to leave the brain and go to the page.

Contents

1. ECHOES OF A FORGOTTEN SMILE

2. Writing: changing

3. Bye!

4. Life (from July 22 to August 4, 2024)

5. Reviews #295, #296, #297, and 298: THE TRUTH VS. ALEX JONES, SENSE & SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen, BATMAN: DEATH AND THE MAIDENS by Greg Rucka, Klaus Janson, Steve Buccellato, and others, and THE ZONE OF INTEREST

6. The end

1. ECHOES OF A FORGOTTEN SMILE

Daisy Jones crouched down, her fingers lightly brushing the worn leather of the abandoned bag.

Daisy glanced up at the departure board—four hours until her flight. Time stretched ahead, heavy and slow. She had already flipped through a magazine and a book and scrolled endlessly on her phone, and now, in a rare shift from her usual routine, she observed the ebb and flow of humanity around her.

People bustled by, each a living story. A businessman with a furrowed brow, a young couple whispering secrets, a family corralling their children. Daisy’s eyes flitted from one to another, weaving imagined tales of why they were here and what journeys had brought them to this moment. It was an unusual pastime for her, a digital native more at home in virtual spaces, where the real world often felt like a side quest, a background to the screen-lit main event.

Her gaze settled on a woman who seemed oddly familiar. There was something about her face—a fleeting memory from a classroom, perhaps, or an ad glimpsed and forgotten. Daisy’s mind strained, neurones firing in a futile attempt to spark recognition. She was on the cusp of an epiphany when the woman turned, catching her eye and smiling.

Heat rushed to Daisy’s cheeks. She had been staring, lost in thought. Her eyes darted away, landing on her phone, which she clutched like a lifeline. She feigned engrossment, but the blush lingered, a telltale sign of her discomfort. Minutes passed before she dared to lift her head, her movements slow and cautious, checking if the woman was still watching.

She wasn’t.

The woman was gone. Daisy’s eyes scanned the crowd, seeking the familiar face, but she was nowhere to be found. A pang of sadness mixed with embarrassment knotted in her stomach.

“I should’ve smiled back,” Daisy chided herself silently. “The woman had smiled warmly—no one smiles if they feel threatened, right?” The thought circled her mind, each loop tightening her regret.

With a sigh, Daisy turned back to the spot where the woman had been. Empty, except for an old Wilhelm backpack, once white but now marred with stains. It drew a small smile from Daisy. “She must’ve gone to the bathroom. Who forgets a backpack in an airport?”

Minutes stretched. Ten passed, then twenty, and worry crept in. The intrigue was too strong to resist. Without a second thought, Daisy walked toward the backpack, curiosity overriding caution. The bag lay untouched, an anomaly in the bustling terminal, overlooked by everyone else.

She approached, crouching to inspect it. The idea struck her like a cold wave: “What if it’s a bomb?” Fear jolted through her, and she stepped back hastily, heart pounding. “Only terrorists abandon backpacks in airports. This could be a bomb!”

Daisy’s gaze darted around the terminal until it landed on a security guard standing by with a watchful eye. She opened her mouth, ready to report the abandoned bag, but paused. The woman’s smile flickered in her memory, a serene reassurance that stilled her anxiety.

That smile—it radiated peace, a silent message that the bag was not a threat but an invitation. An invitation to something beyond the mundane, something profound and perhaps perilous. Daisy felt a tug of curiosity and an inexplicable trust in that fleeting smile.

With a steadying breath, she crouched again and unzipped the backpack. Her heart raced, but as she peered inside, fear gave way to awe. Instead of danger, she found a darkness that drew her in, a darkness that wasn’t menacing but welcoming. It was the kind of darkness that envelops the night sky, a cosmic embrace that reveals the stars.

This darkness was not the kind that children fear, needing a light to banish it, but the kind that invites contemplation and wonder. It was the essence of the unknown, the mystery of the universe, the serene void that promises discovery. It was a darkness that spoke to the soul, a rarity in a world constantly illuminated.

Daisy felt an ancient familiarity with this darkness, a warmth she had forgotten existed.

Daisy smiled. Inside the backpack wasn’t a bomb, but darkness. A welcoming, familiar, much sought-after darkness. Inside the backpack, Daisy found an idea.

The end

2. Writing: changing

Photo by Chris Lawton on Unsplash

I have often pondered over this notion, though I can’t quite recall whether I’ve delved deeply into it or merely skimmed the surface. Regardless, with the recent shift last week, a significant event that made me think about the subject, and the ever-present possibility of this DEATH IS ETERNAL reaching fresh eyes, it seems worthwhile to explore the topic anew or perhaps for the first time in greater detail.

When I embarked on writing A TAPESTRY OF ACCOMPLISHMENTS, I intended to craft a narrative with a bleak conclusion—a penchant of mine. I shunned the idea of a happy ending. The core of the short story was meant to critique the unthinking allegiance that thrives on social media today. The kind of allegiance where a nondescript individual, armed with nothing but persuasive speech, ascends to the status of an expert and a celebrity—not by virtue of the content’s substance but its delivery. That was the initial idea. However, as you may have noticed from reading, the story took an unexpected turn as I progressed with the writing: it went from its original critique to a narrative of hope and acceptance.

As I wrote, the narrative began to veer away from my intended path, steering me towards a place of lesser critique and greater joy. The further I progressed, the more evident it became that while my original concept was valid and significant, it was not the right vehicle for this story. Instead, this tale yearned to express something else—something about hope and acceptance. The ending reveals not just Penny uncovering the truth but also myself. The story transformed because, deep down, I had an unconscious desire to convey something personal, and this brings me to my main point: stories invariably reflect their tellers, which is why we must always remain open to listening and adapting to them as they unfold.

Always, always heed the story. Do not attempt to coerce or redirect it. If the story leads you in a particular direction, the best course of action is to follow it. Even if you end up somewhere unexpected, it will be where you must be. Stories are an extension of ourselves, and thus, listening to the story is akin to listening to our own inner voices. Embracing change is beneficial, especially when it is the story itself guiding the transformation.

3. Bye!

Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of DEATH IS ETERNAL, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.