Published on May 6, 2026

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Finesse Fatigue

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 6, 2026

Finesse Fatigue

Only a few hours remained to be passed in a frantic haze before all my efforts came to fruition in a day. The big day loomed as I sat oblivious to the external universe in deep preparation. As my fingers flew across the piano keys in a flurry which had long since attributed itself to muscle memory, I became aware of a slight disarray in my otherwise mechanical demeanour.

Lost in the endeavour of making each note immaculate, I remained absentminded to this disconcerting sensation. It seemed determined to establish its prominence and presence, and before I comprehended it, my head pounded in a spiking crescendo of red-hot misery. My body had eventually let go after days of relentless practice. I understood that in my present condition, all possibilities of appearing at the ‘Music Meltdown’ were non-existent. My condition was a severe one. Along with the penetrating pain in my head, I experienced excessive fatigue to the extent that I felt less connected to the world than during preparation.

I was ravaged by frequent bouts of slicing pain in various regions of my body.

The most awful aspect of this episode was the consciousness that my perseverance had terminated in failure. I am extremely passionate about music, and the competition would have served as an avenue to showcase this eagerness to the world while exploring unique perspectives and gaining knowledge from other talented performers. Listening to music to keep my mind off the hellish pain was bittersweet as I knew that the melody ebbing from the speakers of my piano is what I should have been hearing.

I had engaged in rehearsal for over a month as of writing. During this duration, every day was devoted to either polishing the composition or enhancing my technique to deliver the piece in a flow of emotion and grandeur on the day of the competition. I consumed food in my room, the plate unbalanced on the frame of the instrument, homework was completed in the early hours of dawn, and socialisation was imperceptible during this period.

Every breath of effort had terminated in this. I had relentlessly pushed only to run out of fuel at the finish line. I realised I had pushed so devastatingly intensely that not only had my energy drained, it had compromised my very being while doing so. I had ignored my wellbeing; so my wellbeing, in a twisted turn of fate, ignored me. Today, as I push out feeble resonance, a speck of what my ascendancy was a month ago, I climb the peak of recovery, but slowly, with breaks, and most importantly, taking inventory of my supplies every now and then.

Although the outcome was a speck of irrelevant dust compared to my mountainous expectations, I have retained several crucial lessons. Not only was it a journey of discovery down the serene road of the musical world, but it also taught me that our bodies need taking care of, and just like we give way under tremendous pressures and burdens, they can too.

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Happy Birthday, Tasty Boy!

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 6, 2026

Happy Birthday, Tasty Boy!

My watch clicks once every second, loud enough to feel like it’s inside my skull. 11:59. The house is dead. My watch clicks over to 12:00 a.m. That’s when I step onto the porch.

The house looks ordinary, maybe too ordinary. No lights, no music, no decorations. Just a quiet family home with a welcome mat that hasn’t been shaken in years. I flick the ash from my cigar and press the doorbell.

Nothing. I try the handle.

Unlocked.

The moment I cross the door, the air shifts. I blink. The hallway explodes into color. Streamers cling to the walls where paint should be peeling. Balloons rise as for the first time, strings creaking softly.

A birthday banner stretches across the ceiling, letters crooked, spelling HAPPY BIRTHDAY in pure red.

Music hums fill the room.

My cigar slips from my fingers and dies on the carpet.

“Happy birthday!” voices sing.

They drift down from above.

Children, actually the shapes of children float near the ceiling, bodies stretched and translucent, their faces pressed outward like masks under rubber.

Their mouths open too wide when they smile.

“This is so fun!”

“Happy birthday!”

I move forward because stopping feels worse.

The dining room table is set perfectly. Plates. Hats. A cake at the center, candles burning steadily. Arms push out through the icing like decorations, fingers flexing. A leg protrudes from the side, sock still on, smeared with cream.

Sugar coats the back of my throat. Something rotten sits beneath it.

I hear laughter from the next room, this time higher.

Baby-sized balloons bounce off the walls, squealing and shrieking, the sounds folding in on themselves until joy and terror are indistinguishable.

Then I hear footsteps.

Slow. Careful. Measured to the music.

In the living room, a figure dances.

He is tall and wrong, his limbs too long, joints bending a second after they should. His skin is dark and cracked, like something scorched and stretched back into shape. A party hat sits neatly between two curling horns.

He holds a balloon by its string.

The balloon has a boy’s face pressed into it, with freckles, missing tooth, eyes wide and wet. The mouth laughs, then trembles, then laughs again.

They spin.

The figure notices me and stops.

“Oh,” he says, voice layered, several tones speaking at once. “A late guest.”

He gestures to a chair that slides back on its own. “Sit.”

I don’t.“What are you?” I ask.

He smiles, and the room seems to lean toward him. “I am the host.”

I pull the photograph from my wallet. My son stares back at me, Gary, seven years old, cake smeared on his cheek, candles burning behind him.

“He vanished on his birthday,” I say. “I was at work.”

The host inhales deeply. His nostrils flare. His grin widens.

“Ahh,” he purrs. “Tasty boy. Tasty, tasty Gary boy.”

My gun is in my hand before I realize I’ve drawn it. “You took him.”

“I celebrated him,” the host corrects gently. “Candles were lit. Wishes were made. The doors were open.” I fire.

The bullet passes through him like smoke and bursts a floating child behind him. Red mist rains down. No scream.

The others keep smiling.

The host sighs. “You always bring noise to parties.”

He steps closer. The balloons recoil, strings tightening.

“You missed his,” he whispers. “But don’t worry.”

He taps my watch with one clawed finger.

“Yours is soon.”

The music swells.

The balloons begin to rise.

And standing there, surrounded by color and laughter, I finally understand: birthdays aren’t about growing older.

They’re about being ready to be taken.

 

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Autumn’s Brews

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 6, 2026

Autumn’s Brews

Amie heard the jingle of a bell as the coffee shop door opened, and a woman with frizzy red hair stepped inside.

“Welcome back, Jane! How was your day?” She reached for the purple cup to start brewing her usual — a hot Americano.

The redhead groaned as she made her way to the counter, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Hey Amie. I… uh, I think I’m gonna quit.” Amie almost fumbled with the cup.

“Wait, what?”

She sighed. any longer.”

“I think I’m gonna quit my job. It’s just so stressful — I’m not sure if I can do this “What happened?” Amie asked. excited and passionate!”

“I mean, you clearly wanted the job, right? You were so ““I know, I was excited. But it’s not the way I thought it would be, you know… being an assistant for the legendary Madame Joanne…”

Amie pressed a button on the machine, watching the espresso stream in a thin ribbon, when she noticed Jane stopped talking.

“Hey, go wild. You know I’m always listening.”

Jane then immediately started rambling at an impossible, but rather comprehensive pace. Somehow Amie could keep up.

“… It’s more like I’m a glorified errand runner than an actual assistant, you know? I mean, I thought I’d be able to talk to her, learn her oil painting techniques — but most of the time I can’t even see when she’s painting because I’m too busy getting her a box of jelly donuts, or changing her plans on her color-coded schedule, or arranging her next transport to who knows where. My creative voice is practically screaming to get out because it feels like I haven’t used it in decades —”

“Pause,” Amie said, as she stopped the stream with a press of a button, letting the last drop of espresso fall. She poured some hot water into the cup, and then placed it on the counter. Jane held the handle, blew at the steam, and took a careful sip.

“Thanks, Amie. I really needed this.”

“That’s the magic of Autumn’s Brews.” She tilted her head.

“You wanna quit?”

“I wish it were that easy,” Jane said.

“But what am I gonna do after that?”

Amie hummed, thinking of possibilities. Jane was an amazing artist, with an amazing portfolio.

She could be a curator at the town’s art museum, do art commissions, or be a web comic artist.

There were options, but what would be the best?

That’s when she remembered — Jane already knew. She mentioned it briefly to her sometime in mid-December, when both of them sat in a corner, cupping a hot chocolate.

She wanted to be a mural artist.

Painting on huge walls and transforming them into pieces of art — that was her dream.

But she never did that because of financial instablity. The money she would get from painting murals couldn’t satisfy the crazy rate of New York apartments… but what if she could start painting on the sidelines?

“Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you paint the café walls?” Jane raised her eyebrows.

“Think about it! People pay to sit here, they drink coffee, they stare at the walls anyway. Might as well stare at your art.”

She laughed, a bit incredulous.

“Woah. I mean, I could try, but what if it turns out awful?” Amie grinned.

“Are you kidding? Even your ‘awful’ paintings could sell for millions. It’s gonna be awesome! Picture this. Step one, paint the cafe. Step two, paint the town!”

Jane stared at the walls, picturing colors and shapes, building a vision that only she could see. And she couldn’t lie — it looked amazing.

“You don’t have to quit your job. Just spill your art onto the streets, and everyone — even Madame Joanne — will see you for the artist you are. What do you say?”

Jane took a deep breath, hands on her hips, admiring her vision.

“Heck yeah.”

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Unconditioning Ruth Walker

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 6, 2026

Unconditioning Ruth Walker

Ruth Walker had lived her life, working hard to make her way to the top. She was now the CEO of the biggest oil exporter in all of the seven seas. She had moved her way up, slowly but swiftly, office politics was a game to her. She handled media and press with ease, every word calculated and configured to create her desired effect.

She was untouchable, or so she thought. That was when she met Jason.

He had cornered her at the yearly company gala, a journalist with sharp eyes and even sharper questions. For the first time in years, she found herself stumbling over a response. She brushed it off with a smile, but the moment she got home, she called her publicist to ask for his contact information. One business meeting turned into four, then into late-night dinners. But by the second date, she noticed something strange: every time she laughed,

Jason pressed a small metal clicker in his hand.

The next morning, when her secretary clicked her pen, Ruth felt an involuntary smile stretch across her face. She froze. Her secretary froze. Something was wrong.

She paced in her office rambling: “What would Jason want from me- money? His family has enough. Power? He’s a journalist, he can ruin people with one article.” She hated feeling lost and she knew just who to call when she did. Mason was her private investigator, she had used his help to secure many business deals.

“Mason, how have you been, how’re your parents and Chiquita (his parrot),” she asked “All well Miss Walker”, he answered in his deep British rumble. “ I have a new case for you- Jason Briatore, 27 year old Journalist. ”

“Ah, Briatore, that name rings a bell, I’ll send the files to you by the morning,”

“This case warrants a personal visit, things are quite grave,”

Mason arrived at her penthouse the next morning. His coat was still wet from the rain, and when Ruth opened the door, his eyes softened, just slightly when he saw her.

“You look tired,” he murmured.

“Don’t start,” she sighed, with a faint upward twitch of her mouth. They sat across from each other on the velvet sofa as he opened a slim folder.

“Jason Briatore has a history,” Mason began. “Dropped out of a behavioural psychology program. Specialized in associative conditioning. He’s tried… experiments before.”

Ruth’s stomach tightened.

“Experiments?”

“He conditions reactions in people. Smiles, fear responses, compliance.” He tapped the clicker in the file. “This is his tool.”

For the first time, she felt something she rarely allowed: fear. Mason noticed. He always noticed.

“He chose to cross Ruth Walker’s path, he miscalculated, Ruth. He doesn’t know what we’re capable of.”Mason said softly, holding her hands.

Their eyes held a moment longer than necessary.

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The Living Illusion

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 6, 2026

The Living Illusion

Ebony celestial skies embellished by Luna herself; gazing upon folks with quietness. The sky crammed with silhouette of bright colours, inking the clouds with strokes of revolution. Even the clouds couldn’t recognize them. All they seemed like were, figure of something close to our own reality. They seem ours. Yet alien. Bizarre yet enticingly beautiful. They truly seemed like what dreams were crafted of. Or maybe they are the part of dreams, themselves? The ones which appear when our vision is hindered. Those which flow in the ebony, with shades of the seven rays themselves. The seven rays which brought the sense of familiarity and hope, even in those silhouettes of a reality we didn’t know. Maybe they truly belonged from a reality which ignites itself, when we are in quiescence or when the soul is on the journey of discovering various worlds. And the eyes? They could only see and feel. Never disclose to human. The hindered gaze only able to feel the trail of the seven- ray inked silhouette’s drive of endlessness.

Unifying themselves to form tints no man seen. Playing to form serenity. They intrigue the human-mind, even drive them senseless with frantic and propitious. And those silhouettes? They continue to plague and even play in their pursuit of living. Besides appearing in the ebony, they often appear when the skies are painted by melding the amber strokes with the burnt shade of rust; where they are guarded by the supreme, Sun himself. They flow and meld together to summon the trinity of colours in a majestic play. Soft clouds tint graciously upon the play of unity and magic. They are accompanied by the tranquil gush of the rivers. The birds fly by, adding to the picturesque vision. Yet it seems familiar to ones we meet in our crafted dreams or the ebony skies. These calming yet unfamiliar scenes which are epitome of unravelling living illusion. They beautifully intrigue yet haunt the humanity. Haunting the humanity to believe into a reality which exist? Or not? The mystery of multiple illusions always seemed to soothe the hearts of inquisitive but further rendezvous the petrified ones. Yet the inquisitive find themselves to unravel the truth about The Living Illusion, we are currently present in. This is crafted by Universe, itself. These all are the dreams of The Universe which exist as Living Illusions which we commoner folks only can ponder upon or be haunt by it. Literature scripts it as beauty, Science scripts it as physical reality. Names numerous. But the truth of it remains to be wrapped in bulky scriptures or volumes. The human heart knows no truth about it. But it will always remain be rooted with the humanity and reality. No one can escape it. We are all embedded within it. Even if there is no self-acknowledgment about it; the heart of the soul knows and is familiar with it from decades. The identity might change but the soul remains the follower of living realities. It is our truth. Our past, present and future. Humanity, flora or fauna all kneel at the step of our reality which we can not escape forever, we all have a role in this beautiful, divine yet haunting play of The Living Illusion.