A bit late, but here I am again with another ship’s log.

How are you doing?

What have you been up to since the last one?

As for my end, I’ve been getting through my driving lessons. I’m finally at a point where driving is actually quite enjoyable, and I’m learning some neat tricks of the car that help me get rid of bad habits.

It has been touch and go in places and boy howdy I hope instructors are well compensated. I would not be comfortable riding shotgun with myself behind the wheel. But it is a learning process. The only issue now, aside from getting good enough to pass a driving test, is finding a driving test location that’s not halfway to Narnia from my town.

Who’d’ve thought getting a driving license would be so popular at this exact time of year? I heard someone mention scalpers for these appointments, but I haven’t seen evidence of it. Could it be true?

Tangentially related to my driving is of course my moving. And the last few months have consisted of packing and sending boxes to the new home. Turns out it’s much, much cheaper to just ship your stuff with the postal service than to hire someone to take everything in one go. I did the math, and the difference was night and day.

Why I’m bringing that up here? Well, my boxes are arriving in a state that leaves something to be desired.

It’s not in my nature to name and shame a company (or person) to start beef but in paying for the shipping, I expected my boxes to be handled by a professional business, not the Unbridled Punching Society. It irks me just a little bit more since they recently upped their prices. Well, lesson learned. I’ve started wrapping everything in extra layers of wrapping paper and boxes inside the boxes to keep everything safe.

But enough about that. Let’s get into the meat of this log.

Looking Further Afield

Last time, I mentioned playing Fields of Mistria and the cooking skill. Well that has been a frequent subject of discussion here of late.

We’ll be living out in the boonies where we won’t have the most reliable access to shops for our daily convenience, and shifting political dynamics has seen prices of certain goods shift for the worse. Food scarcity is something we all need to take seriously.

The place we’re moving to just so happens to have a lot of space for farming. If not in the earth itself - that would take more work - we’ll definitely have room for raised planters. Seems like this is a great time to finally get good at growing our own produce, after several shaky previous attempts. And, as it turns out, there are courses for people looking to start eco farming.

Maybe I’ll look into it.

Who knows? By next year, I may not need a farming game - I’ll just be growing my own potatoes. Well at least that’s one option.

I have a lot of paths to take from here, so we’ll see which one ends up sticking. Of course, amongst all that will be my Eastbound project which is beginning very soon with some short stories to tell, and that will be a continuous project long after we have moved as I work with my girlfriend and our little startup.

I do look forward to that first part.

On That Note…

There are currently two main projects that I have my works on. And since I have nothing else on my mind to write, I might as well share a little of what those are about.

For some time now, I’ve been in the midst of writing a sci-fi story about space colonisation and the adventures it entails. Or rather, the attempt of it and the misadventures that follows. This story is called ‘ExoGenesis: So Apparently, I’m a Space Camper Now?’ and I’ve been writing it for a little over a year at this point. We’re up to about chapter 30 with my first draft, but the story is also undergoing a small rewrite as it’s being published on Royal Road.

I won’t make a secret out of the fact that the story will, and is, informed by a series of events that played out in my time playing RimWorld, which inspired me to write this in the first place. As I’m not a YouTuber, I did not make a habit of recording these events prior to publishing, so they are instead retold and sensationalised through my own prose.

It’s not a picture book series, per se, but since I have some experience with digital art, I am including a doodle from an early chapter of the rewritten version. And probably more to follow as they come.

The second project is called ‘Honey & Sixten’ which is going to be a collection of short stories (both personal and fictional) between myself and my girlfriend, who’s also participating in the project.

Honey represents my girlfriend, and Sixten represents myself, an anthropomorphic New World bunny and Old World cat respectively. With a twist. In addition, it will also feature a series of fun and and silly illustrations and comics that we might think to share.

👉 Read ExoGenesis: So, Apparently I’m a Space Camper Now? on the Resilience Substack or check out the new edited chapters on Royal Road.

👉 Sixten & Honey will launch sometime in July. Probably.

What’s Next for Me

As for what I’ll be doing next? Well, taking my driving test very soon is the most obvious thing for me, and hopefully I can pass it on the first try. Otherwise there’s a very slim chance I’ll have a license before I move, haha!

I’d cross my fingers, but at this point I have no idea if that would jinx it.

Until July, my friend.

-Sten

Where Do You Want to Go Next?

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🏴‍☠️ Resilience Writers
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~

EXOGENESIS: SO APPARENTLY, I’M A SPACE CAMPER NOW?
Copyright © 2025 CF Sten - All rights reserved

New Reader? Start Here: So Apparently, I’m a Space Camper Now?

Anthony’s Chapter 28 Recap: “I made it back down the mountain sore, bruised, and unfortunately alive enough for everyone to start treating me like some kind of hero. Then Dexter showed me Curator’s version of events, which was less of a record and more a flattering lie with our mysterious clients inserted into the background like divine sponsors. Their names were Avory and Donny Dalton, apparently, and for once I was disappointed not to remember them.”

Scientifically Perfected Misery

Laying in bed to recover was boring enough as is, but when supplemented with scientifically perfected misery on a platter it was downright torture. Barely a whole day had gone by before I wanted nothing more than to fight another monster – or, rather, fight one for real this time. But without all the fight juices coursing through my body, everything was rather too painful. Even sighing in boredom punishing me with pangs.

Having accessed my PDA properly had seen me cursed with a variety of Get-Well messages from strangers up in HQ and no shortage of accolades to my bravery. But I knew the truth. I was just screaming like a deranged gremlin at the creature eating our equipment. Naomi saw what she wanted to. Someone dependable in the dark taking initiative. Even if I wanted to, I knew I would never voluntarily do that again. At least not without a gun.

I really wanted a gun. Naomi only had hers. I would feel safer if we could request more. If they could give us worthless shovels, surely they had some spare hardware, right? Especially now that we’ve confirmed big fauna.

Perhaps my biggest humiliation in all this was perusing through Curator’s… curated story of our quest to colonise this planet. I looked like the protagonist from a classical macho flick. Under the clearly divine guidance of our clients, I had apparently braved the badlands to lead Dexter and Naomi to an oasis to set our camp; only Naomi should have been missing for this part. I had supposedly used a bush machete to handcraft a whole village hall and palisade to protect us, despite me only actually making a campfire and some basic drying racks.

As if the story wasn’t already far flung, I had apparently also discovered a sapient merfolk and made contact, which I could only assume was the fish that built little nests. We were going straight into fable territory with this one. That awkward party we had with the captain resembled an absolute feast with our benefactors taking the main seats at the head of the table. Instead of a bunch of spacemen, we looked almost tribal. I didn’t even recognise anyone from the ship, not even the captain.

Finally our benefactors sent the three of us up the mountain to exploit its resources, where I fought a 6-legged dragon-something. I didn’t even hit it. Naomi took it out. And for some reason she was holding a crossbow instead of a gun. Instead of just being tackled, the dragon was sinking its teeth into me and I was stabbing it with my non-existent machete.

These were all told in generated murals giving small parts to a whole. It ignored all the times we split up as a group, and made everything a prevailing group effort.

It was all very silly. The thought that this was going to hang on some wall years into the future to teach a new generation of their “founding members”. Boy, I couldn’t wait to see the final part.

I was just about to toss my PDA aside when I remembered there was more to it. Games, for one, but also my final documents to speed up my space lapse recovery. I once again had a look at the files.

1. qualification_quiz_bowers_anthony - audio

2. dossier_bowers_anthony - text

3. identifications_bowers_anthony - text

4. statement_of_consent_bowers_anthony - text

5. interview_bowers_anthony_1 - video

6. interview_bowers_anthony_2 - video

Last time I listened to the quiz. I could read my dossier or identification, but I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to be spoonfed my own identity from a document. At least there were two videos I could watch that might feel more comfortable. Maybe they’d get my brain cooking.

I started the first interview video. The room being recorded looks awfully residential, not at all like an office. There was a dull red couch with a floral sheet thrown over it, and the wall was an unassuming magnolia, with a full floor green carpet, quite worn and in need of a bit of maintenance. A man stepped into view and sat down on the couch. But it wasn’t me. At least I was pretty sure it wasn’t me. His voice sounded a lot different from the quiz too, but I was somehow too emotional over hearing him speak that I didn’t really hear what he was saying.

He seemed to talk at length as he was being questioned about something or another, and his tone was that of enthusiasm and admiration. But it was only 5 minutes long, so I had to replay it over and over. I almost welled up in tears as I was beginning to understand that I was listening to my next of kin, Martin Bowers, my older brother. He was sharing stories about my various trips out in the wilds, those which he’d participated in. He seemed so exuberantly confident in my abilities, even as I now doubted my own more than any. But what got to me more than anything was that he was trying to convince someone to take me away from Earth, far away. And who knows when or if I’d even return.

The next video was much more of the same, but this was a much older man and a woman. Different house. They had similar accolades to share about me, and how adventurous I had been in my youth. It didn’t take long for me to piece it all together here, and this time I really did start crying. That was my Mum and Dad, Edith and Hector, and to no surprise he had a cup of coffee with him for the interview. Seeing, hearing, it was all I really needed to put more puzzle pieces together in my memory. I would have to make sure to thank the Captain when I had the chance for giving me these files. This was definitely a good pick-me-up.

Motivated, I tried to make my way out of bed, before every nerve in my body told me I was not ready for quite a while yet. Demotivated, I laid back in bed. I could have sworn I had broken a rib or something, but Naomi assured me I was in one piece, just bruised like a bad fruit. Dexter said I should feel better in two days, and that they wouldn’t need any more RDMs while I recovered. I was immediately missing the ‘good old days’ when we just had tents and a campfire. Probably because I hadn’t found out about the monster yet.

I hoped we wouldn’t be finding ourselves having to go back up there any time soon. If the Curator had its fan fiction way with us, we’d probably already be up there with pickaxes trying to extract precious gems and minerals like greedy goblins. And I could not for the life of me imagine that life. Not to mention it would mean more encounters with monsters.

Monsters? No… it was the local fauna. I would normally be risking encounters with the occasional shy bear in the woods who likely wanted nothing to do with me. Now I was dealing with machine-eating mega monsters who had no history with humanity and no reason to fear them.

I could barely hear the sound of someone stoking the campfire and the clonking of wood being stacked. Someone was managing the campfire in my stead. Not sure why, but that did bring some comfort. Though I had no reason to necessarily suspect that the native wildlife had any strong aversion to fire. Please be scared of fire. As long as that campfire remains lit, I could at least hope it was giving us some protection.

[Last Update: 21 May, 2026]

Where Do You Want to Go Next?

🏠 ExoGenesis: So Apparently, I’m a Space Camper Now
⬅️ 28, The Dumbass Who Survived by Pure Luck
➡️ 30, Coming Soon. Probably.

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~

Greetings!

Welcome back to the ship where Joyce 2.0 has discovered Mexican food and, frankly, their obsession with finding the best tamales to pair with Guinness has not been useful to anyone. I keep telling them that molecular analysis is not the same as having taste buds but they never listen.

Anyway…

Did you know that the idea of voodoo dolls began with a west African practice involving effigies with blades stuck into them to invoke spirits to punish someone who breaks an oath?

Now you don’t need to ask why I have an eagle plushie with a pack of disposable women’s leg razors embedded in its legs.

Fuck fascism. Fuck billionaires. Fuck eagles. Fuck Whataburger.

Have you ever eaten there? It’s cardboard and they charge you a premium for it. The food is clearly designed for white people afraid of both salt and pepper. So, the other day I lost my mind and I went driving to find it.

This is how I ended up outside a store that sells items for strippers and drag queens. I’m not proud of what happened next and therefore will not tell you about it. Instead, let’s get into the newsletter.

The Study

Where I update you on the products that come from our publishing ship.

I wondered what if someone made a stop motion version of The Rocky Horror Picture Show with dildos. I mean, imagine one of the Bad Dragon draconic dildos emerging as Eddie with Meatloaf singing the soundtrack? These sorts of thoughts are why I don’t get more writing done. But I do write.

I mentioned elsewhere Cat Girl From Saturn where a manga artist falls in love with a cosplayer playing the artists’ original character. Well, it has my name on it.

So, I have a secret to share. My sister LeAnn has always been a writer. We riffed off each other endlessly as kids. She was the one who brought Cat Girl to me. She wasn’t ready to write anything herself back then, but now she’s about to. I encourage you to go ahead and grab Catgirl now. There’s heart break, yeah, but it’s a geeky, cozy romantic sapphic read and if you like this one, you're going to love LeAnn's stories.

Liam wrote Between Midnights. I remember when he had this idea for a title, and that’s all it was—a title. We brainstormed off that title. The original idea involved the term ‘forever’ and that brought ideas of Groundhog Day, the classic film, to mind.

What would Groundhog day look like to you? That’s what I asked Liam. Between Midnights is the result.

Sometimes stories are like Cat Girl where they happen quickly and click in place effortlessly. This story sat for years as he worked out the problems in iterations, throwing away previous fixes for not being quite right.

If some stories are natural and effortless and beautiful for it, stories that you have to work at—you look at them with pride.

Between Midnights takes place in the Dayfall universe, and the events are very vaguely referenced in a Jeremiah Jesus story. It is also demanding of the reader, requiring them to really engage with the plot.

Happy Reading!

The Baths

Where my mind wanders on topics of interest to me. Expect meandering of a bearish type.

Because my sub guilted me into it, I’m reading Rebecca Yarros’s Fourth Wing.

Now, I have a rule. When I let someone manipulate me, I don’t hold it against them. I knew what they were doing and I made a choice. I mention this because it means that if the book sucked I didn’t even have a right to bitch about being made to read it. So, I was delighted to find that I enjoyed it.

Leto leaves to make tea and is gone fifteen minutes.

Sorry it took a while to find the Jaffa Cakes.

So, what was I saying? The book. So this Yarros lass wrote a classic teenage boy coming of age dragon riding story and made him into a her.

It’s brilliant really. Sure you can call out in advance many of the plot turns, but you enjoy them anyway and in some cases you go “ah, she kinda got me there.”

It flows well.

The main character isn’t annoying, a major bonus with teenage characters. Now, she of course has two love interests. I’ll refer to them as EmoBitch and BitchAss. EmoBitch is the bad boy. Okay. BitchAss doesn’t start the book as BitchAss. He starts it as NiceGuy. He earns the BitchAss name. I’m told there are fans of this book who are team BitchAss. I’m not done with the book but I don’t see how.

She does need a banging. She knows it. She says it. I was hoping for her to visit a certain tower in Paris, but at this point it’ll just have to be EmoBitch. Unless she can get her best friend to join. Honestly, I think that would be the best romantic relationship in this book. That’s right, let’s make this into a cozy fucking yuri. Let Emo and Ass go become a yaoi furry couple or something.

So, is the MC a Mary Sue?

Uh, I don’t think so. She has the underdog to bad ass arc, yeah, but that’s a trope, and one worth using. It has enduring popularity and there is a lot you can do with it. And the MC has flaws, they aren’t perfect.

I know, I know, some people would argue that a self-insert who isn’t perfect but magnifies desirable traits is also a Mary Sue. Look, words matter. You gotta come up with some other term for that shit and don’t bitch about it unless you’re ready to throw Luke Skywalker under the bus too. And I don’t know shit about Yarros and if the MC could be a self insert. Yarros could be an intelligent bee colony and I wouldn’t know.

Anyway, this is a mid-way read review. When I finish it I’ll update you on the rest.

The Hearth

Where I share a story with you, of my own or something that has made an impression on me.

My name is Jeremiah Jesus as a Southern Baptist would say Jesus, though my father would have said hey-zeus. I never met him, which I keep wondering if I ever will. I certainly encounter a lot of people. Today, I was traveling with a woman named Chloe who was holding me to a promise, but I said we needed to take a side quest well south of London.

I pulled into the lot of the Farmer’s Pig.

Chloe opened the door to the pub ahead of me and held the door open.

“Thank you, m’lady.”

She bowed, rather mockingly I thought.

It didn’t take me long to find him. I sat next to a man in a booth who was wearing a cheap suit but an expensive watch. His hair was thinning and nearly gone on the forward half of his head. He looked like he was trying to let the back grow out a bit, as if the average would substitute for the missed coverage. His face showed a lazy attempt at shaving from several days ago.

“Is that you Gordo,” I asked, though I was confident of the answer.

“Hey, Jerry, grab a seat. Who is the lady?”

Chloe leaned over and introduced herself.

Someone came around and took our orders, a pint of something decent for me, a glass of sherry for Chloe.

Gordon was smiling at me. “I haven’t seen you around here in ages. What are you doing about?”

“I have some business down south so I’m driving through.”

“Well, it’s good to see you mate. Still translating dead languages?”

I nodded yes.

“Not much money in that, is there?”

“Nah, not much. But I’m not made out to be in insurance.”

“It’s good money for doing nothing really. It’s like the strangest ethical form of theft you can do.” He chuckled weakly.

“I’ll pass. Is it doing right by you?”

“I don’t know. I thought it was.” He shrugged, sipping his pint. “Let’s see, since we last met I got two promotions and bought a bigger house. Bought a little holiday place in the Cotswolds too.”

“You sound like you went for the whole neuvo-executive starter pack.”

“Mate, I bought the whole fucking package. This is the end game.” He passed over his phone.

I read the messages.

“Yeah, Indigo filed for divorce last week.” He nodded as I read. “Said I was distant. Talked to Samantha, our daughter, she said she thought Indigo loved me but didn’t know me. I work too much. She didn’t complain about how much I work when I paid for her holidays in France, Germany, and Italy. She didn’t think I was distant when I bought her new car.”

“I told you not to marry someone with a stripper name.”

For the first time his laugh had some heart to it. “So, you did, so you did.”

“More to life than money.” Chloe traced a line on the table with the base of her sherry glass.

“Sure, sure,” he waved his hand, “but they didn’t ask me to be around for the last twenty years. Just asked for stability, opportunities. I worked my ass off to give them that and then … this? They never told me not to take a promotion because they wanted me home more. I would have you know.” He stared into his pint. “I really was doing it for them.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay man.”

He gave a half smile. “I gotta piss. Be back in a few.”

He left and Chloe turned to face me full on.

“Well, he’s a prick.”

“Cut him some slack.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s protecting the world.”

Her muscles froze. “What?”

“Ever heard the myth of the dozen secret kings?”

“Sure. You’re not telling me that…”

“No, I’m not. The folk tale is too neat, too concise. It’s rubbish. Exactly twelve people who the world can’t run without? No. But there are people who find themselves at crossroads of a crisis and a shocking number of them stand fast despite their frailness. Gordo is one.”

We both looked to make sure he was gone. “What does he do?”

“He can tell you.” I turn to him, “That was a fast whiz.”

He slid back into the booth. “Well, beer won’t drink itself.

“I was about to tell Chloe about your dreams.”

“You always ask about those. Why?”

“I just find it interesting. Like dreams are this complicated way the brain decompresses and I’ve never heard of anyone else having the exact same one every night. I think it’s cool.”

“It’s silly.” He faces Chloe, “Started when I was maybe eight or nine years old. I grew up in this office converted into a bedroom for me. Built in bookshelves around a desk built into the wall. A single window. Where I lay in bed, I faced it. One night, a bright light came through. I never found out what it was. Maybe a car losing control on the street, but it was bright and shone right in my face. It blasted through my eye lids and even keeping them shut, the outline of my window was floating in my eyes.”

He was now eating pork rinds from a tiny plastic bag. How he had time to grab those and hit the head is beyond me.

“However,” I add, “he’s also had the dream every night since. Every single night.” I hit the starting syllable of each word strong.

Chloe’s eyes went wide. She understands dreams better than I do. “Wow.’

Gordo pointed a pork rind at me. “He’s a silly bugger isn’t he? He always asks me about that silly dream.”

He shrugged. “Known each other off and on for a long time, haven’t we Jerry.”

I nod. “Long time. I’m not through town very often but we grab a pint when I do.”

“God bless accidental friends.”

We all held up our glasses. “Kanpai!” “Cheers!” “Chin chin!”

I waited a few minutes while we all studied our drinks

“You going to be okay?”

Gordo sighed “Yeah. Fuck it, right? I tried to be a good man and I guess I didn’t do it right. Maybe there’s not a right way and maybe I was set up to fail. But…” he looked up from his pint and grinned. “I tried. I tried to do the right thing. I may have fucked up, but I tried and I can hold my head high.”

“What did you tell them?” Chloe asked.

“I told Indigo I still wanted to try. I told Samantha a bunch of things. Indi I can handle but my little girl saying she didn’t know me - that fucked me right up. Anyway, I’ll be there if she lets me. I’m thinking about quitting. I can’t retire yet, but I don’t mind selling the house, downsizing, slowing down.”

“Does it make you feel like everything you did was unappreciated?”

“Yeah, a bit.” He finishes the beer. “Anyway, I’m going to head. Sorry to cut it short. I’m going to see if Sam would like to watch a movie with me tonight or even just talk a few minutes.” He scooted out and left enough on the table for his drinks and ours. “Have one on me mate. Nice to meet you Chloe.”

After he left Chloe sipped her sherry. “Is that what we drove an hour for?”

“Yep,” I said.

“Waste of time.”

“Not at all. We may have saved the world.” Her expression clearly said she thought I’d lost my damn mind. She was bothered more than she had been when I put Johnny Cash on the stereo in the car.

I let my statement stand until she realized I wasn’t going to follow up and she asked, “What do you mean?”

I sipped my beer. “There is something on the other side of that window. It tells him it wants him to open it.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know but I’ve never met or heard of anything that asks to be released through dreams that would be a good to let out. But he doesn’t. He feels in his bones that it would be easier but he doesn’t. You called him a prick but he’s trying and while he’s failed at his personal life he’s succeeded in being a hero.”

“So, what are we doing here?”

“He needed a little pick me up. I don’t know if I gave him any hope but he needed to know that someone is in his corner. And, I am. If I’ve learned one thing in my life it’s that you can’t judge someone by how if they win, but only if they tried to do what was right.”

Chloe held up her glass. “For Gordo.”

I clinked gently with my pint glass.

“For Gordo.”

And because Sir Bear was concerned about not delivering enough while the creative juices were flowing, here’s part two of the short story with Brick and Diesel that began in his April missive:

Spats continued, “Hey, would you boys like to earn a bit of scratch?”

Brick kept his eyes forward but responded. “Well, you’re going to have to lay it out a bit more proper than that, counselor. See, Diesel here failed second grade three times until it stuck.”

At that Diesel held out a finger in some communication meaningless to anyone else except the angels and Brick.

“Fair point, fair point. So, that’s Diesel and I’m as thick as a brick in a bank vault. So you’re going to have to make it a bit more plain.”

Spats leaned forward, excited. “Here it is. See I said it a bit wrong. The novel has already been stolen, we’re just covering it up. Have you read The Bell Rings At Midnight?”

Brick, “That’s one of them dime novels they have next to the magazines in the back at the pharmacists, right?”

Diesel adds, “Lashed by the Librarian, that was my favorite.”

His companion focused on him. “You know that was really written by Mark Howard, the pulp writer. That’s his smut pen name.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

The lawyer cleared his throat. “Gentlemen. The Bell Rings at Midnight was a huge bestseller, written by a brilliant young writer named Erik Orm. At least that’s what has sold copies. Really some old fucker died and Orm, who was his nurse, stole it. Anyway, the whole thing was done and then some busybody figured it out. The old guy’s kid I think. Anyway, now the Justices are involved.”

Brick and Diesel spared each other a glance. Police were police, judges were judges. Justices were both, people empowered to write their own warrants and go where needed to rule on a case. The cabbies did not operate at a level that interacted with Justices and they would rather keep it that way.

kia ora

Well, I hate to see you go. No, I do. I enjoy having you folks around. Guests make me want to bake and that’s a happy thing. I like to have people dance with me in the kitchen.

In fact, that’s your homework assignment before next time. Cook a meal and dance in the kitchen and get someone to dance with you.

-Leto

Where Do You Want to Go Next?

⚓ The Resilience, Home Port
🏴‍☠️ Resilience Writers
🌶️ The Snuggery

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Sometimes a detour is not a failure of discipline - it’s where you build the ship.

Hejsan, Tjena, Hello, and Happy Thursday!

It’s been a month since we last sat down for a proper fika and shared our reader sins. That’s when I told you how I’d broken my own rule and allowed Yoana Krakow’s story, Running Weather, to jump the queue.

This month, it would seem, I have some explaining to do…

See, the plan was simple enough. At least in the way most plans tend to be simple before they’re tried and tested in real life. I wrote Yoana’s story when I was supposed to be doing something else, and to tell you the truth - I fell pretty hard for it. So much so I believed it would be out before the end of the month.

Then Freyja looked at me, looked at the calendar and the boxes still waiting to be packed. And she laughed.

Ruddy fleabag.

You’d better grab the big cup for this one, Messmate, because reality decided to kick my backside and break the schedule completely. The Resilience is preparing for her longest voyage yet, and somewhere between the packing tape, the edits, the product files, and the increasingly un-cooperative goal bingo cards, I’ve had to admit something important:

Yoana’s story is still coming. It just isn’t the next thing to leave port.

We are.

The Voyage Ahead

If you haven’t followed every creak and groan from the lower decks, we steered the ship out of London two years ago and planned to stay put up north for the next five years.

We chartered the course for the next voyage, named it Lexit II: The Great Crossing, and set about working on how to make it happen. I even called the five-year preparation period my Radical Resilience Challenge - a way to propel myself into the ultimate version of my dream life:

One where I’d be free to roam on sea and land. To play with the grandpirates on a beach. And where I wouldn’t have to wait a few years between each visit. I’ve never been drawn to fame or fortune, but freedom is important to me. Especially the freedom to spend time with family.

The dream itself is pretty simple and straightforward.

The Great Crossing is not.

We’re not just talking about shuffling furniture from one room to another, or even from London to the north of England. This time we’re talking about an actual crossing that involves boxes, paperwork, decisions, file migrations, business housekeeping, and the emotional labour of sorting through the pieces of a life before packing them into archive boxes with neat little labels.

I am not going to pin a date to the mast just yet as reality has a vexatious habit of overruling them, but the direction is set. Scandiland is no longer a pipe dream we’ll get to some elusive day in the future.

It’s a 2026 thing!

Which means that alongside the writing, the publishing, the editing, the newslettering, and the general Resilience wrangling, we have to make the old lady shipshape for the biggest adventure she’s ever undertaken. She needs to be able to withstand her first Scandi winter and keep functioning so we can feed the crew.

The Ship Nearest Port

There’s a rule of seamanship I forgot to apply to my own writing schedule: you finish the ship that’s closest to port before you launch the next one.

Between Midnights has been waiting longer. The structural pass is done. The second pass is halfway through. And with a crossing on the horizon, leaving a book half-finished in dry dock is not responsible seamanship, so I moved her to the front.

Running Weather hasn’t gone anywhere. Yoana is still at the dock, story intact, waiting her turn with considerably more patience than I deserve. I haven’t forgotten her, and I won’t. She’ll have her moment.

But first, Erin’s story in Between Midnights written under Sir Bear’s Liam Armitage pen name.

Here’s a taste of where we’re going:

In a room of mad people, Joe was the least mad.

...

Me? My name is Erin. In my bacchanalian phase, I slept with over fifty men and thirty women. That was mostly on a single Saturday, the previous week. So long ago, I can’t remember most of them.

...

“Why are we here and not at the diner?”
“We’re here to talk about a murder. One that would keep.”

Things You Can Hold

In all the noise of the digital world we live in, there’s something almost radical about receiving a real letter. On real paper. Something that arrives through a real inbox, lands in your hands and stays there. Because it’s yours now.

Plunder & Prose is the Resilience becoming something you can actually hold in your hands.

The idea is simple. Real letters. Seasonal paper treasures. Little things designed and written with care and sent out into the world by hand. With a proper envelope and a real stamp. A pen friend scheme with a literary twist because we are, after all, a ship full of readers and writers who still believe that words on paper mean something that words on a screen can’t quite replicate.

We planted the first seeds in winter and the first visible shoots are already in the ground. Some of them have even reached our shops already. The Äppelpaj Seasons bundles are coming next and more will follow.

This will grow slowly, which feels right for a project that, by its very nature, is unhurried. But the flag is raised and now you know where we’re headed.

If the idea of getting actual post from us makes you smile even slightly, watch this space.

Seven Birthdays and a Scandi Winter

In between Between Midnights and Scandiland, we have Midsummer and seven birthdays. Seven. All belonging to people I love dearly. All of which I’ll miss, because scheduling a dream is easier said than done, and the crossing will happen when it happens.

This is the part I didn’t think to write into the plan. Not the birthdays specifically, but the weight of having to choose. The things you carry in the reckoning of getting somewhere worth arriving at. I feel it, and it weighs me down. I’m not pretending otherwise.

Alongside that, I feel something else: this is actually happening. In half the time I thought it would take. The Great Crossing was supposed to be five years away. Now it’s a 2026 thing. And the only reason it became a 2026 thing is because the ship kept moving even when it looked like it had turned into box mayhem.

It had. But boxes are how you move.

So….

Between Midnights will leave port.

Running Weather will have her day.

Plunder & Prose will send its first letters out before Midsummer.

And on the other side, a Scandi winter, a life that fits, and grandpirates who won’t have to wait years between Mommo Linn visits await.

The ship is still moving, and we’re rolling with the tides.

Fair winds, Messmate!

~Captain Linn 🏴‍☠️

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This month’s poem is not by me, so it’s actually good. Enjoy!

In my craft or sullen art

Exercised in the still night

When only the moon rages

And the lovers lie abed

With all their griefs in their arms,

I labour by singing light

Not for ambition or bread

Or the strut and trade of charms

On the ivory stages

But for the common wages

Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart

From the raging moon I write

On these spindrift pages

Nor for the towering dead

With their nightingales and psalms

But for the lovers, their arms

Round the griefs of the ages,

Who pay no praise or wages

Nor heed my craft or art.

“In My Craft or Sullen Art,” by Dylan Thomas, who was lucky enough to have his very own writing shed. And, apparently, still sulked about being allowed to use it at all hours of the day and night. Some people don’t know they’re born…

Dylan Thomas’s writing shed, overlooking the estuary of the river Taf. With thanks to Wiki Creative Commons user Tony in Devon.1

Psst! Over here! Quick! No, don’t look around, act casual, like you’re just having a stroll or something… that’s right! Now duck in here sharpish, before anyone notices you’re gone!

Shhhh – wait…

[Holds up a warning finger, listening]

Ok, I don’t think they saw us. We can hide here for a bit. Heaven knows, we’ve earned a break, haven’t we?

Which is to say, normal people don’t understand writers. They just don’t.

I’ve been so good for months now – real-worlding and adulting like I actually know what I’m up to! I balanced work and cooking for the family without resorting to ready-meals or takeouts more than just a handful of times! I kept up with the laundry too! And you should have seen my “professional” diary lately – I had to plan in time to sit in the loo and massage my eyeballs back to life!

Proof that I have, indeed, been good. Me and the dog shared this responsibly-sourced salmon and cream cheese sandwich for lunch yesterday when frankly I could have eaten something fried…

So you’d think I’d earned a bit of a breather, wouldn’t you? A spot of time to maybe sit at a desk when I don’t have meetings to plan for or turn up to or communicate about afterwards, and just scribble ideas onto a dog-eared notepad, or maybe pootle about doing “historical research” that may or may not lead somewhere interesting and story-supporting?

But no. Five seconds after my last deadline tried to whizz by but was deftly caught by me in a dazzling fit of mature responsibility, people are already demanding sh*t. And I don’t just mean this newsletter.

Actually, this is the part I’m enjoying. If you want to know, I’ve barricaded myself in the closet with my laptop, a thermos and a secret stash of chocolate, and am pretending I can’t hear people hammering on the door asking if I’m “on a call”.

Shhhh, don’t give me away.

The day after my work-related, more-hectic-than-Costco-on-a-Saturday-afternoon schedule had eased off to its merciful seasonal lull, Hubs responded to my cheery I-don’t-have-to-rush-breakfast-for-once greeting with a “what have you got to do today?” followed unceremoniously by “because if you’re not busy…”.

My attempts to press upon him how eagerly I had awaited this bright new dawn of not-having-piles-of-responsible-grownup-stuff-to-plough-through-before-I-can-write-ness were met with a terse exhalation, a roll of the eyeballs, and a general demeanour that suggested my aspirations for the day were somewhere on a par with the dog’s desire to roll about on the back lawn before retiring indoors to snuffle for forgotten crisps down the side of the sofa.

Not really a lawn, and not ours - the neighbours’, because we don’t have pretty bluebells and an interestingly gnarled tree to lean against and read, not that I’d be allowed to anyway…

Surely it can’t just be me? Hubs, for all his faults (and I still maintain that having to pick beard-hair out of the plughole on a daily basis before I can shower is the kind of thing that will get me off the hook for murder should I ever succumb to the urge to skewer him with his own nail clippers) is not a particularly unsupportive spouse. He’s even been known to read my stuff with an amused smile on his face, on occasion. (This is a sign of true love, from someone whose relation to fiction is akin to Middle’s fondness for vaccinations). It’s just that he sees my writing as equivalent to sitting on the sofa binge-watching Bridgerton and it feels through-the-looking-glass-crazy to have to find a way to explain it’s not the same thing at all…

I mean, I do sort of get it. Writing for me is still more of a hobby than an actual career — it’ll be a long time (a cold day in hell?) before I make enough money from it to pay the mortgage. But surely I don’t have to measure the value of creating whole new imaginary worlds with only the power of a keyboard and a particularly strong cup of Yorkshire Gold exclusively in dollars and pounds sterling?

And I can’t help thinking he wouldn’t react that way if I happened to be male, wear a black polo-neck, and take myself very, very seriously indeed. Even if I never sold a single e-book.

It sometimes seems like women (me) being allowed to write is such a bizarre and illogical proposition for the general populace that only the most empirical, spreadsheet-friendly facts and figures can possibly excuse it. If it’s not making bank, it should make way for us (me) to bake extra cookies instead. Or something.

Some buttercups, to make up for me being very much not-sunny right now

I’m pretty sure this kind of nonsense is what Virginia Woolf was on about in “A Room of One’s Own.” I may not be a genius like “Judith Shakespeare” but I do know what it feels like to have a flash of inspiration that gets instantly trampled by someone querulously enquiring where the laundry detergent’s gone. (It is in the same place where it always is. Of course. Which said enquirer would know, if they did their laundry more than once in a blue moon.)

Yes, I know they didn’t have laundry detergent in Elizabethan England (other than, I suppose, soap, if you’re being picky), but I’m pretty sure Woolf’s imaginary sister-of-William could relate to the weary patience-through-gritted-teeth-for-the-love-of-god-don’t-you-have-eyes? tone I seem to be rocking this month and, I fear, for the foreseeable future.

I’m very tempted to wail and gnash my teeth about the unfairness of it all, and point to that part in the Tolkien biopic where Edith gently reminds him the children haven’t seen him all day, and is instantly mollified when he reveals he’s started writing The Hobbit. (I may be misremembering; I was distracted by the fact she’d brought him his dinner on a tray). Contrast this to all the biographers who smugly and snarkily recount what a terrible mother Enid Blyton was for writing about other children while she neglected her own. Because men writing is a fine and noble contribution to society, whereas women trying to do the same thing is selfish and neglectful of their god-given duty to keep the fridge stocked with perishables.

I think it probably used to be even more like this, back before men too were quite so crushed by the weight of people demanding endless chores of them, but the fact remains that it’s still widely looked upon as mum’s job to keep the house running and make sure the kids don’t turn feral, only nowadays and for the past half century or so, she’s supposed to work while she does it as well.

Unless she’s the tradwife type, but let’s not even go there.

My apologies to the apparently anonymous genius who created this meme - I have looked and can’t find you to attribute. Please accept my humble admiration instead.

For those of us trying to balance demands in the non-lunatic quadrant of the ongoing (whatever the postfeminist media might suggest) battle of the gender wars, there’s more than a little truth to the idea that while female writers have to fit in a scribbled page or two between wash cycles and mashing the potatoes, male authors are indulged in their obsession, which reminds me of Carol Ann Duffy’s wonderfully irked poem, Mrs Sisyphus:

But I lie alone in the dark,

feeling like Noah’s wife did

when he hammered away at the Ark;

like Frau Johann Sebastian Bach.

My voice reduced to a squawk,

my smile to a twisted smirk;

while, up on the deepening murk of the hill,

he’s giving one hundred per cent and more to his work.

I like this image, in case you’re wondering, because it relieves me of the need to be embarrassed about my hubris in demanding a little time for my writing. If Sisyphus could get kudos for rolling a dirty great rock up a hill only to watch it roll back down so he could start all over again, I don’t have to apologise for wanting a bit of time to write despite not being Shakespeare, or, I suppose, Virginia Woolf. At least I’m doing something more than temporary boulder relocation. Or would be, if I didn’t have to go and vacuum the stairs.

So this month, rather than the glorious authorial retreat I had envisaged, I shall be moving on from guerilla gardening to guerilla writing.

In case you were wondering how my guerrilla gardening of a forbidden apple tree (mentioned last newsletter) was going - the landlord discovered it and, true to anally-retentive form, demanded it was got rid of. Fortunately BiL took pity on me, so it has been transported to his landlord-free back yard, where it can grow old in peace. Sadly, it lost all its blossoms in transit, but this is allegedly good for the apples next year, right?

To paraphrase Churchill, who somehow managed to find time to write speeches while simultaneously holding back the Hun:

I shall write in the laundry room. I shall write in the loo. I shall write in the garage while ostensibly repotting pea seedlings. I shall write in cafés when I’m supposed to be just doing the groceries (shout out to the lovely Kev, who has bought me more coffees in this scenario than I can count, and to whom I owe at least half a dozen stories as quid pro quo). I shall never surrender. And if, which I do not for a moment believe, things ever quieten down to a level where I can write without subterfuge, I shall carry on the struggle to write, right out in the open, on the bloody desk I bought, clearly naively and in a fit of utter self-delusion, for precisely that purpose.

Wish me luck, dear reader? There are stories bubbling in my head – half-formed, twisted things that want to be free. Whether they should be released or locked up forever on the grounds of taste and sanity is beside the point. They want out. And I want to let them.

So let’s see how sneaky I can manage to be.

You go first – check the coast’s clear. That’s right. When you get there, give me a sign if it’s safe to come out.

Or if someone’s still banging on about the laundry liquid and us being out of crumpets again…

I shall leave you with the heavenly scent of lilacs in your nostrils, because after this tantrummy rant it feels like the least I can do.

Happy writing! May your bolt-holes be many, and your discoverers few (and blackmailable). And may you never run out of chocolate Hobnobs.

Hello again, what are the odds we’d keep seeing each other like this?

Since last I wrote, I celebrated my anniversary with my girlfriend who gifted me a copy of the Early Access game Fields of Mistria. I had already bought this game for my older brother who proceeded to binge play it for 40 hours in the span of 3 days… Not sure how much he slept in that time, but he gave it a stellar recommendation.

Well, now it was my time to give it a go and it’s been a pretty addictive bit of entertainment, let me tell you. I already have well over 50 hours on it and I’m enjoying the content that it offers.

Fields of Mistria is a very cosy 80’s anime aesthetic farming game. And with farming game you usually also get cottagecore! And, my, how much of it I feel! It’s a lot like someone peeking on the homeworks of Stardew Valley and Animal Crossing, tweaking what they did, and making a whole package that just brims with life. At least as far as NPCs can have them.

The townspeople travel around town, make visits to each other, hang out, have conversations, and generally feel like their lives are going on even when you’re not around.

The fact that not every conversation involves you just adds that extra bit of life. You’re just listening in on conversations some of the time. I know how these people know each other, who they are friends with, who they like to hang out with, and what they like talking about to each other. I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if they ended up marrying each other while I was busy in the mines or going fishing for days on end.

That is to say, where Stardew Valley walked, Fields of Mistria is running. Pretty high praise for an Early Access game. I know. I have a few stories to share about the fun moments I’ve had in this game. They may not all fit into this ship log, but I can paint a picture of my general experience.

Frolicking in the Fields

Fields of Mistria begins in the small town Mistria that just experienced an earthquake, which left the place worse for wear. Unfortunately they neither have the funds nor the manpower to restore the town back to its former glory. That’s when the acting mayor has the idea to invite the help from people outside with the promise of land in return for their servicea. This is where you, the player comes in.

You are quickly introduced to a colourful cast who show you around town and help you get settled. As with any game, the beginning is slow, but the calendar tells me there are weekly meet up events on Fridays at the local Inn. And I can see where everyone is at any given time on the map by just looking at it. Wow! Quality of Life additions I sorely missed in Stardew Valley!

I get to work setting myself up, slowly being introduced to more mechanics as I progress the game’s built-in progress ladder. When Friday suddenly comes around, I check the Inn out and expect it to be something like Stardew Valley, each one to a table of their own, minding their own business. But, no! They are hanging out and socialising with each other!

One group is playing cards, the other is playing an in-universe version of DnD, and another group are being wine snobs, and the kids upstairs and planning a heist! Everything feels alive and I can feel the sense of community! A feeling I’ve felt from time to time in the small fishing village I’ve called home many summers and winters back in the day. Games, songs, food, and fun. Family, friends, and everyone in-between.

I expected a repeat the next week, but the conversations were all brand new! The DnD game had progressed in the story, the card game dynamics had changed, the heist plans was coming along and about to be executed, and the wine snobs had brought in new drinks from out of town now that we had repaired the bridge.

But that’s not all! Because I repaired the bridge, the second Saturday of the game now hosted a Saturday Market! 4 new characters from out of town came in to sell their stock and everyone in town had gathered to shop. The town felt positively bustling with life!

The next week was their Spring Festival and I was challenged to collect flowers for the event. And I did so with gusto! Breaking the historical record, I was the champion of the Spring Festival, rewarded with a flower crown that forever adorned my head for the rest of the game. I went from adventure from out of time, beginner farmer, to the prince of all faeries!

And so went my days in the town of Mistria. Weeks passed by, every time I spoke to an NPC felt like a new conversation because I barely saw any repeats. Seasons passed, more festivals to celebrate, and just when I started thinking running around was taking a little too much time, I suddenly find myself randomly coming upon a magical horse that will carry me around even faster!

Now I’m positively frolicking through the fields of Mistria getting my chores done, chatting up the townsfolk, and upgrading my farmstead! I was quite late to the adoption of animals to my farm, which ended up biting me in the back when a sudden Animal Festival came to show. Which is kind of funny as it was foreshadowed back in spring. But I think I’ll have my revenge next time, because I’ve been breeding special gold and silver livestock to take that medal! (Oh, yeah, you can breed your livestock in this game and unlock new and unique coats and plumages on the cute little critters.)

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this game so far, and am eagerly looking forward to it’s 1.0 release.

Shilling for a Killing…

This week we have a special offer involving Klöver the green spring cat and his friends from the Äppelpaj Seasons collection. If you follow the captain on Instagram, you might have seen her monthly goal bingo cards. Well, we have made a whole season’s worth of them and they are now available in our Ko-Fi shop. For FREE! But only until the end of this month.

The idea is simple: turn your to-do list into a game. Fill the squares with your goals or chores and tick them off as you complete them. Plan some treats for each bingo and celebrate them in style.

This first set of cards are digital och designed for social media and digital planners, but we have print-at-home versions in A4 and US Letter coming to in case you’d like to stick them to the fridge or keep them in your physical planner.

We’re starting out small, but it’s the beginning of a rather ambitious plan. Klöver is the spring cat. Solana will bring summer, then we have Rönn arriving in autumn and Lumi just in time for winter. Each season comes with its own colour palette, its own bingo cards, and a few more vignettes from the Äppelpaj Orchard.

What’s Next for Me

Well the flat is getting emptier and emptier. I’ve recently started taking driving lessons again to finally get my driver’s license. And I’m both anxious and excited to put that to practice when it comes time to go back to Sweden.

Before I’ve maintained I do not much enjoy driving, but during my last lesson I ended up actually enjoying it a bit. So that’s a good sign! Though I doubt I’ll ever be the one to go for joy rides. I’m still a hermit at heart.

-Sten

Where Do You Want to Go Next?

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🏴‍☠️ Resilience Writers
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Did you know that the pirate ship Resilience is the portal to at least seven literary worlds - each with its own voice, its own characters, and its own history?

Every world has its own Codex: a living knowledge base keeping track of that world’s inhabitants, locations, history, and lore. The Codices are our internal world bibles, but we will try to get better at sharing the highlights here on Substack and across social media as we go.

These are the names of the seven worlds and their Codices:

Concordia: The Legendarium

Concordia is the metafictional universe where Libertalia serves as our centre - our home port - and where The Resilience lies at anchor when she isn’t ferrying readers between our worlds. You’ll also find my croft, The Plot, here, just at the edge of the deep Northwoods. Our ship, our home, and the heart of everything we’re building is catalogued in The Legendarium.

Dayfall: The Obscurum

Dayfall is a world much like our own, but darker and more dystopian. This is primarily the home of our science fiction and dark fantasy, with a touch of horror and thriller to boot. Characters like Jeremiah Jesus live in Dayfall, which is mostly Liam’s domain - though Leto’s upcoming Hunted is set here too.

Reuel: Ursus Major

Reuel is Liam’s epic fantasy and LitRPG universe, complete with its own history, mythology, and geography. This is where the Ratcatchers roam, though lately I’ve come to suspect that the border between Concordia and Reuel runs somewhere deep in the Northwoods. These two worlds may even be overlapping in some places for all I know.

Spoonieverse: Bacchanalia

The Spoonieverse is the vast parallel universe of the unwell you get exiled to when you have, or acquire, a chronic illness or some kind of disability. Physically, you’re still living in our world, same as everybody else, but you don’t have the same access to it as normies do. In Spoonieverse, you’ll find our spoonie tribe Linn/pet, Maddox, Foxi, Anna, Geoff, Gianna, and Joe, but there are a whole host of other spoonie characters there too - all of them living their best life on their own terms. This is primarily the domain of pen name Linn Rhinehart, and it’s a collective creative sanctuary for stories about courage and love for yourself, your body, and others. We call them our sweet ‘n’ spicy spoonies.

Sunrise: Codex Solaris

Sunrise is the polar opposite of Dayfall. It’s a world like our own, but a little brighter, a little sweeter, and altogether more hopeful. No world wars, no grand catastrophes, no gratuitous violence - just romance, warmth, and happy vibes. Do people still hurt here? Yes they do, but the pain is not the point, it’s just part of the journey. In Sunrise you’ll find Leto’s spicy stories, LeAnn’s yuri and sapphic romances, and Evie’s rosy rescue romcoms.

Ulfrheim: Codex Lunaris

Ulfrheim is Saga’s domain, a world steeped in Norse mythology and Scandinavian folklore. Here in the Ninth Realm you’ll find Fensala Mead Hall, where Edda makes her home and Saga has her writing nook. This is where you’ll meet Solveig, Lovis, Finn, Freja, Fenris, and a host of other familiar and new faces.

Komodo: The Lexicon

Komodo is the umbrella world for books that haven’t yet found their permanent home. Most are written by authors we’ve helped to publish, but our own stories end up here too while they’re in process, i.e. any time from first draft to published or classified book. Komodo was indeed named after dragon in a small nod to my consultancy days when “the dragon lady” was my honorary title.

Our aim is to keep adding to the Lexicon category with individual world entries drawn from the Codices themselves, introducing the characters, places, and lore that bring each world to life. The more you explore, the deeper the worlds go.

Welcome aboard, Messmate!

Where Do You Want to Go Next?

⚓ The Resilience, Main Deck
🏴‍☠️ Resilience Writers
🌶️ The Snuggery

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~

Greetings!

I heard a sound that seriously disturbed my sleep. I reached out to slap my 3D-printed, eagle-shaped alarm clock to snooze, but it wasn’t there. That’s when I opened an eye and saw an actual eagle.

“Captain says no more snoozing, fur blanket! She’s been covering for you during the winter but it's time to get your lazy ass up.”

I considered slapping the actual eagle, but she would probably just move out of the way. Reluctantly, I sat up. I had a dream about Japanese school girls again. It was not a sexy dream - they just fed me and gave me fruity drinks for three months. But okay, spring is here and the damn eagle is right. It’s time to take up my slack.

Welcome back to my den, let’s get started. The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can go find food. Maybe I’ll cook up some oily chicken and pretend it is eagle.

The Study

Where I update you on the products that come from our publishing ship.

I’m an older bear. When I hear “bunny girl”, the first thing I think of isn’t a half human in an isekai story. I think of stockings, body suits, push up bras and women that are sophisticated, sexy and playful. So, I wondered what situation would cause a man to find a bunny girl, my kind of bunny girl, in his back yard? That led to my latest story.

When his motion sensor goes off on Easter Eve, Josh grabs his shotgun and throws the back door open. What he expects to see are the feckin’ rabbits helping themselves to his vegetables again. What he finds is a wild a bunny girl - damp from the rain - sitting in the garden chair on his patio.

Brooke is practical, funny, and entirely unbothered by the awkwardness of turning up unannounced, and half naked, on a stranger’s deck. Josh finds this irresistibly charming, and what starts as tea under the awning soon turns into something neither of them had planned...

A Wild Bunny Girl flows differently from a lot of my stories, starting off stronger and then backing up. I always look for emotional sincerity even if the situation is a bit outrageous in my writing, and I think this counts.

Sometimes you meet someone in a charged situation and you let go, you enjoy and then realize you let it get out of hand. I’d enjoy it if you picked up a copy and read it. Review it. Especially if you like it.

👉 Get your copy of Wild Bunny Girl on Smashwords.

While I’m trying to write about slutty nurses and gaming store owners, my captain is over in the corner coming up with new story ideas. She has one going about a thirteen-year-old boy learning Swedish and solving a cozy murder. I’m appalled at how much fun that sounds like. I want her to write it … after her move is done!

Other stuff I’m doing…

1. Rat Catchers - I’m stuck on a stupid part of the plot. When I get past it I will write the rest angrily, offended at how long it has taken me.

2. I might have a piece in slow development for the winter season too. I may even attach it to Christmas. It involves nuns and a horny werewolf, so that sounds festive, right?

3. A long in development story called Hemingway’s Cats is almost done. It features Jeremiah Jesus, who you can also see in the story Time is Dying.

Happy Reading!

The Baths

Where my mind wanders on topics of interest to me. Expect meandering of a bearish type.

Welcome to the baths. Join me, join me, everyone is welcome.

I’ve been thinking about the 62 million story. Yeah, that one. I’m not surprised, unfortunately. At one time, I would have been surprised at the scope but not anymore.

The truth is that men need to accept there is a male problem. I don’t know the percentages but it’s enough that it’s not isolated. It doesn’t have to be 51% but we can see qualitatively that it’s big enough to be a problem that isn’t solved by therapy for individual men alone. And I’m worried.

The last time I saw men organize for collective change was ... never. Even the current, fundamentally anti-woman, right-wing efforts would not have succeeded without a combination of the passivity and lack of support of women associated with those men.

Meanwhile, non-brainwashed women are learning to hate men. Have learned to. And they don’t just have a right to - they are right to. I’m a man. That hurts. I’m not a good guy, I just try to not be an asshole. But I’m not worried for me. I have women in my life who know me, so I don’t have to look good on Tinder. I just don’t know what the path forward is.

Women have to protect themselves and in doing so they accelerate a problem. The problem-solving in this case is the responsibility of men, but I trust women more in this.

Fuck, I just don’t know. And I ask myself - what have I done? I’ve raised daughters that won’t be passive or cooperate with misogyny, and that started with me teaching them to question everything, including me. Is that enough?

I think it’s time for us to see boys become real men. Real men cry when the passion warrants it. Real men don’t hide behind pregnant women. Real men can throw a punch and do so to protect those they can. Real men can sew a button, wire a socket, bake a loaf of bread and change a tire. And so much more.

We need to teach them to be men. I see a generation now that wants to be men. They feel a need to be masculine, but they clearly don’t have the right role models. And I don’t have male children, but I am a storyteller and I think stories have an important role in this task.

What made me realize this was when I heard Gerry Conway passed. A lot of folks may not know who that is. He was a comic book creator and starting in the 70s, he became a major voice. Among the characters he created were Power Girl (a feminist icon for many), Vixen (a rare black female superhero), and many more, including a personal favorite - Firestorm.

There are right-wing nutters who are fans of super hero comics but they are the minority. Most fans of the genre (I think) understand what a hero is, and if you’re on the side taking away people’s rights you’re not on the side of heroes.

If you’re using goons to scare and kidnap people, if you don’t provide due process, you’re not on the side of heroes. I was heartened when the comic community rallied against ICE. It was largely symbolic but welcome.

I think we need more comics and more heroes, especially for young readers. We need the teen boy power fantasy with ethical boundaries. We need male super heroes that can re-arrange matter and respect women. We need female super heroes. We need the male characters who like their whiskey, think with their dicks, ride motorcycles and play electric guitar - who also love women, real women, not just their ideas of them.

We need men in fiction that teach boys how to be men while enchanting them with stories of the men they want to be.

(Part of this was originally a post on Threads.)

The Hearth

Where I share a story with you, of my own or something that has made an impression on me.

As the world spun away from the sun, twilight entered the City. Twilight wasn’t a transition but a warning and people responded, scurrying home or to their night jobs. As Diesel drove, and Brick passengered, the streets emptied of souls.

During the day the City was filled with life, men wore suits, at least every man who wasn’t a wag and bought flowers for dames. Dames wore skirts and showed leg while hiding plans. During the day people ruled the city. During the night people were sojourners through streets owned by the dark.

In the City the night wasn’t the absence of the sun. When the sun left, it allowed the dark to bleed in. Buildings of art deco pushed up like a competition for tallest ego monument. During the day they were testaments to humanity. During the night they were caves with boulders rolled out to block the things that reminded humanity that even a tall cave is still a cave.

Not even the police came out at night. Everyone stayed indoors, leading to every building having its own little stores.

In a world like this, enterprise found means and few things were more enterprising than a cab. A typical cab crew was a duo: one driver, here Diesel, and one goon, here Brick. The men looked alike, having that vaguely cromagnon-like appearance that was balanced by fastidious tidiness.

Brick was pale enough to be a witch’s familiar, and Diesel dark enough to be disturbing or gorgeous depending on your viewpoint. And though it was night time, both Brick and Diesel wore suits. Thy were unrelated, but knew each other well enough to spend hours in utter silence and feel the closer for it.

Their car glided, the night only interrupted by the odd cab on the road. Diesel’s cab was a Ford Victoria, the 42 model with the v8 engine and a custom hardened front that could ram a brick wall. He drove slowly enough for them both to watch.

Occasionally, in desperation, someone would wander out of a building to hail a cab. They were the ones who couldn’t afford to use Dispatchers. And the Dispatchers were the ones who gave all the jobs to the closest licensed cab. For those two reasons - finding the desperates and getting dispatched - it was better to stay on the move and try to get lucky, rather than bundling up with a bunch of others in one of the few safe places to park.

After all, petrol and skin were both cheap.

It was a night in June, hot, humid and quiet. A faint smell of salt water and decomposition came in from the wharf. They passed another cab, doors open, no one in sight. Diesel looked at Brick who just shook his head. Diesel nodded agreement. They drove on.

Outside a seventy-story tall apartment building Diesel said one word.

“Spats.”

Brick looked and sure enough, a short man with slicked back hair, a rumpled suit, and immaculate white spats on his shoes was standing under an awning looking nervously about. He was holding a typewriter.

Diesel pulled up.

“Hey Spats, you need a ride.”

Contrary to rumor, Diesel was not named as such because his car used diesel, but rather because his voice sounded like he gargled with it.

Spats, real name Reggie, quickly got into the back.

“Christ, are you two lunks the only ones who drive this stretch?”

“Good to see you too. We can drop you back off if you want, just charge you for the drive around the block.”

Brick did not sound like he gargled with anything or had calcium deposits formed in his throat.

Spats wiped his brow.

“Is that what passes for humor with cabbies? Bloody hell, don’t be busting my chops just drive. Walking Avenue, 300 block, the middle brownstone.”

“That’s a good ways, you got coin?” Diesel asked.

“Yeah, some. Enough.” Spats shifted in his seat.

“Three denari,” Brick provided.

“Come on, you think I just walked off the bus? You going to give me a bath and happy ending too? Two denari and that’s generous.”

The dual grunt was assent. For a few minutes there was quiet and then Brick had to ask.

“Why the typewriter?”

“For that matter why not call a dispatcher, fancy barrister like you can pay the fees,” Diesel added.

“This trip isn’t exactly something I want registered. Or remembered.”

The front passenger grinned. “Ah, I got the salt on seeing our dapper, and I should mention, glabrous,” they both rubbed their bald heads, “persons. So, what crime brings you out here? With a typewriter at that.”

“I need to facilitate a cover up.”

“Cover up?” Brick actually turned around to look at Spats. Mostly to make sure he wasn’t holding a weapon, not because he enjoyed the view.

“Of a crime. A theft,” Spats replied.

“And the typewriter is a relevant piece of equipment?”

“It is when you’re stealing a novel.”

kia ora

Until next time, keep up with me here on Substack

-Leto

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You really must excuse me,

It’s all gone a bit la-la,

I thought I was on top of things,

Chaotic as they are,

I thought I had a little grip,

I saw the end in sight,

But now I see ‘tis but a train

That brings its fatal light…

There will at least be lots of pretty pictures to look at this “newsletter” - I have to keep getting up from my desk-shackles and walking around the block every couple of hours or I seize up. So enjoy some pretty flowers with me?

First thing, there’s the grown-upping —

This month, that’s out of hand,

I barely get the time to pee,

I hope you understand.

And while I’m grateful for the cash,

That’s very sorely needed,

The workload means my brainpower

Is horribly impeded.

More glorious flowers. Do you forgive me yet?

My bed and I are distant friends,

Don’t speak of work-life balance —

If we met on the street I doubt

I’d recognise the valance.

And if by miracle I get

A moment to relax in,

A look at international news

Is (put it mildly) taxing…

I needn’t tell you, for you know

The crazy and the tension

The global markets, frankly, f—d;

The oil price, we won’t mention,

Supply chains, it is darkly said,

Are creaking from the strain,

Looks like it’s back to stockpiling

The toilet roll again…

Blue skies up ahead? I do hope so…

Oh, and did I forget to say —

It’s tax form filing season?

A thing that leaves me terror-filled

Beyond all rhyme and reason.

All said and done, this newsletter

Was nearly the last straw.

“It can’t be done!” I gnashed and howled

While weeping on the floor.

“There’s no wit left, no, not a smidge,

No trace of cheery chit-chat—

To quote the ad, I need a break

And more than just a kit-kat.”

“And then my heart with pleasure fills / and dances with the daffodils”. There you go, a bit of proper poetry after all!

But what to do? You lovely lot

Have stuck through thick and thin.

I must do something, even though

My banter’s in the bin.

My repartee is in retreat,

My badinage is broken,

My raillery is off the rails,

My wisecracks can’t be woken.

My inspiration’s up the spout,

My novelty is knackered,

I’d like to entertain you but

I’m frankly too cream-crackered.

“You know how to whistle, don’tcha? You just put tulips together and blow…” Yeah, I’m sorry, that’s about as much of a pun as I’m capable of this month (and yes I AM still quite proud I came up with it myself - have you seen how rubbish the tulip puns on the internet are???)

I promise that it’s just this month—

It’s been the perfect sh*t-show

If something could go wrong it did,

Right from the very get-go.

There’s been no slack for slipping up,

Which makes things deeply dour

For someone like me who screws up

At least three times per hour.

I’m scrambling to keep my head,

I’m not waving but drowning

I’m clinging on by fingertips

No bandwidth left for clowning.

Two weeks—I think—just two more weeks,

Until things get less hairy,

Some white space in my desk planner,

My in-tray pile less scary.

Two weeks (touch wood) until I’m back,

The Belle Dame that you all know,

Perhaps I’ll even pen a tale

Again, as FK Marlowe,

Perhaps I’ll write a newsletter,

That isn’t total drivel,

(What do you mean, “fat chance of that?”

I’ll thank you to stay civil!)

My apple tree that I grew from a pip and that is now hiding behind the garage so the landlord doesn’t spot I’ve planted it… The Cap’n wanted this newsletter to be called “Gorilla Gardening” so this one’s for her.

We can but hope, I guess we’ll see

After the dust-cloud’s settled,

Until then, please be patient and

I hope you’re not too nettled.

Tomorrow I’ve three plays to read,

Four lessons still to write,

And if I am to get them done,

I must bid you goodnight.

So humbly I shall beg you,

As I stagger to my bed,

Please give the newsletter a pass,

And take this rhyme instead.

See you next month!

Until then, why not read some proper stuff at the Captain’s table?

Where my mind wanders on topics of interest to me. Expect meandering of a bearish type.

This dude named Dinniman wrote a book called Dungeon Crawler Carl.

I heard about it one day. Then I heard about it again. And again. I had been curious about LitRPGs as a genre. There was a certain buzz in geeky circles. I read it. I enjoyed it. And the next. This has gone on for eight books now. During that same time the popularity of the books has exploded.

And honestly?

The books are really good. They aren’t going to be to everyone’s taste, but they are to my taste which objectively makes them good.

Why?

The tropes aren’t original, but the execution is excellent. There are a few things I think make them work:

1. They mix horror and humor, both the grotesque and the existential.

2. They have a mystery teased from multiple angles with layers to separate the metaphor from fact. It isn’t a mystery to the universe, but it is to our characters and us, the readers.

3. And finally, through well created circumstances, heavily tied to above mysteries, the underdogs. Literally trapped in a dungeon, with technology that appears to be magic, run by an insane AI, these underdogs could bring down the whole bloated, corrupt, callous society that has fucked them over.

Carl’s words, “You will not break me” later morphs to “You will not break me. We will break you.” The books are both inspirational and horror. He may not be able to save humanity but he will avenge it.

This spirit easily resonates for reasons you already know if you’re paying even the least attention to the world.

We come to know the characters and invest in their journey towards a tragic end. The first half of A Parade of Horribles felt like filler, but it wasn’t without value. We see Carl continue on the path he needs to and grow in his self-awareness; and I was nervous related to my Dresden Files reading just a few weeks ago. I do not want to see DCC fall down that same trap.

The second half of the book removed that concern. Dinniman strapped me into the chair on top of a cocaine snorting water buffalo who sang songs from The Mikado while running downhill. And the hill was steep.

Yeah, this story is not stalling, and it made the need to bring Carl to the emotional point he was at by the end of the first half very clear.

Honestly, this was the least good book in the series so far, but I don’t care. With Twelve Months I was hopeful. For this one … also a not great book in a great series … I’m eager.

I think A Parade of Horribles is a pivot point, but in this case, it’s a planned one. Not a late game resignation.

Links & Footnotes

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Hej and Happy Thursday, Messmate!

I’m going all in on the whimsy today, because I desperately need a break from all the darkness outside. We’re going to confess our reader sins in a minute, but let’s start with something we rarely get these days - some good news:

Hungary said “No!” to more authoritarianism with Péter Magyar’s Tisza Party landslide. Canada said “I don’t think so!” to their homebrew version of MAGA in recent byelections. Portugal launched a deposit system to slash waste and boost recycling; and Brazil now grants joint pet custody in separations because pets deserve a fair deal too when things go tits up.

In a quiet but massive nod to safer seas, terrorism deaths hit a 20-year low globally; and the United Nations’ Environment Programme reached a milestone for ocean protection and migratory species. More than 10% of the ocean - an area larger than the European Union! - is now officially protected.

Africa ratified its first road safety charter saving lives on the continent’s toughest roads; and Chile wiped out leprosy in the Americas (verified by the WHO). And in the world of medicine, an apparently long-ignored organ called the mesentery1 got fully mapped. Yay, science!

This last one is one of my favourites, though. You see, even optimism itself got a boost recently. Okay, it wasn’t all that recent, but a 2023 study of 9,000+ elders found that a positive outlook may cut the risk of dementia by 15%. And you know what - if spite doesn’t cut it, I guess this could be a motivator. We’ll just have to keep looking for things that bring hope and joy to our lives.

Now, pull up a chair and listen closely as I’m about to make a confession. Well, several confessions, actually, but I thought it only fair that we do this together. If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine, and we’ll have ourselves a proper absolution party. Or at least a very entertaining afternoon... 💃

Confess Your Reading Sins

Here’s something I believe to be true about readers. We are, as a species, completely unhinged, and I say that with the deepest possible affection, because I include myself in this entirely.

I have judged a book by its cover and been spectacularly wrong in both directions. I have started a series in the middle because the middle book had the better title. I have bought… sixteen (I think) books in a single sitting while my to-be-read pile looked on in silent, towering reproach. (It was a two-for-one sale on the sale price!)

I have stayed up reading until morning, telling myself just one more chapter even though I’ve never - not even once - managed to read “just one” more chapter. I have cried over more fictional characters than I can count and felt no shame whatsoever about it.

I have re-read the same book more than ten times and called it research. And I have been known to pick up a book and read the last page first. In fact, I do it all the time and no, I don’t feel the least guilty. It’s my book, isn’t it?

Now, as for my most recent crime...

You may recall that I set myself (and Sir Bear) a rule for 2026. No new stories. We have a slushpile the size of a small island and a publishing schedule that is already looking at me like a disappointed harbourmaster. New stories were categorically off the table, and for each new story ideas we wanted to add to the pile, we’d have to publish two already in the pipeline.

I broke the rule, Messmate. And my own kottam rule at that.

In my defence - and it is a measured and reasonable defense if I may say so myself - it’s not a new new story. The scenes already existed in discarded notes from when I wrote Tied Together. This was merely a case of me finding them again and... bringing them back to life.

In the original story, Captain Maribelle Silver claps eyes on Yoana Krakow in the bar at Kraken’s Rest. Two days later, Yoana joins the crew of the Night Wind as their new Quartermaster. Tied Together is more Maribelle’s story than Yoana’s, but for some reason it’s Yoana’s backstory that speaks to me. Just like she does.

This blonde whirlwind of a pirate insisted on having at least a part of her story told, and we decided to use the scene just before Maribelle stepped into the bar. The one that caused Yoana to be there in the first place. But then, I kinda wanted to go a bit further back, so I may have added two more scenes. They were clearly already there, waiting to be written, and technically, this is a salvage operation, not the creation of something new.

Anyway… I explained all of this in the Captain’s Quarters the other day. Sir Bear, without blinking, just looked at me across the table and said, “She’s just trying to get spanked.”

The crew lost it entirely, but I maintain my innocence.

Did I break the rule? Technically, yes, but come on - it was a misdemeanor at most. Besides, salvage is an entirely honourable profession, donchaknow.

The sentencing, for those keeping score, is two more published stories from the pipeline. A perfectly reasonable consequence and, since I’m both the criminal and the magistrate, I believe I can afford myself a certain amount of flexibility in the interpretation of justice here. Which brings me to the evidence. Or the tax, if you will:

Yoana Krakow’s story, Running Weather, is the fourth short story in the Libertalia Tales: Pirate Legends collection.

Running Weather is the story of a woman who is very good at running away. So good, in fact, that she’s never stopped to figure out why. Yoana may fix the loose board on the third step and learn the barrel schedules, she may even stay long enough to see the seasons turn, but she always leaves in the end.

I think it’s fair to say that it’s a little heartbreaking in places, and a little but funny and even sweet in others. Expect pirates, salty sailors, and something about the price we sometimes pay for our freedom, as I take you on a field trip to the Northern Reaches, to the old garrison city of Calderra, and back to Saltwick in the south.

We are, of course, releasing this little gem under my Linnea Lucifer pen name, and it should hit the shelves before the end of this month. I am, obviously, unrepentant. While we’re waiting, I’m passing the quill to you, Messmate.

Come confess your own reader sins in the comments - the more ridiculous, the better. You know you want to. And what do you have to lose, anyway? The worst thing that can happen on a ship full of fellow reprobates is that our Ship’s Belle will give you the schoolmarmy look of disapproval. Or that the Bear will say something inappropriate. Or that Freyja might…

You know what - there’s always a risk of a good ribbing on a pirate ship, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Fair winds, rebels!

~Captain Linn 🏴‍☠️

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~

EXOGENESIS: SO APPARENTLY, I’M A SPACE CAMPER NOW?
Copyright © 2025 CF Sten - All rights reserved

New Reader? Start Here: So Apparently, I’m a Space Camper Now?

Anthony’s Chapter 27 Recap: “I learned three things: that cave predators have very little respect for expensive equipment, that a dislocated shoulder makes for a long walk home, and that apparently I defended a geological probe with nothing but a knife. I have no memory of deciding to do that.”

The Dumbass Who Survived by Pure Luck

When the first light came, I only had two things on my mind:

One, I did not look forward to the walk back down the mountain on this leg.

Two, I was quite uncomfortable with the unearned approval I had suddenly been afforded.

I was already awake when Naomi came back into the tent to fetch me, and we made hasty work to pack up the tent. I was quite comfortable with the silence over our first meal, as I had nothing to contribute to any conversation she may have had. Well, other than to carefully explain that under no circumstance was I daft enough to fight an alien monster just to protect a piece of equipment I barely even knew what it was, let alone how it worked.

Speaking of the monster, it was still there. Splayed out and lifeless, though much farther away from the device it had mauled now. The more I looked at it, the more it resembled the bastard son of a dragon and a very lucky, or unlucky, weasel. Lithe and long - with teeth that pointed inwards to prevent any would-be prey from freeing itself - this thing could definitely go full sprint through a narrow tunnel.

“What do you want to call it?” Naomi asked, gently.

“Dead.” I had no intention of dignifying that thing with a name.

We didn’t say much more after that, but I could swear Naomi was glancing at me a few times. Though, to be fair, most of those times coincided with me trying to use my previously dislocated arm, or adjusting my seating to relieve the pain in my leg.

Getting back up on my feet was no easy feat and sadly, for me, we couldn’t just make a beeline for the camp. We had to pick up the probes along the way, too. Thus began my limp of shame. I tried to keep pace with Naomi and be as self-reliant as possible, if only for the sake of my pride, but she was gracefully helpful when I stumbled and encouraged me to lean on her. I would have been more inclined to do so, had I not been concerned that, should I lose my footing, we might both fall to our deaths.

By the time we collected the final probe, I greatly desired a rest. But I had an even greater desire not to have another encounter with the probe-eaters that resided within these mountain halls. That would have to be something for our wealthy benefactors to deal with.

The last trek down the mountain was thankfully not eventful. Though the caverns were looming in my mind the entire time, we had no intention to explore them in the foreseeable future. And for that I was grateful as there was no telling if there were more of the creatures and, if so, how many there might be. Trying to be optimistic, I wanted to assume this had just been a lone creature, especially since only the one probe had been attacked. Still, we had no way of knowing unless we checked.

“You don’t suppose we’re safe from any more encounters down by the camp?” I asked Naomi, tentatively.

“We’ve done fine in the tents so far, and now we have the barracks. We should be fine.” She gave her firearm a jostle. “But at least now we know we’ll be needing this. And maybe some more ammunition, just in case.”

“How many shots you got?”

“Enough to take out a few more. Long as I don’t waste any on target practice.”

Well, that was reassuring.

Stepping out into the clearing of our camp, I beheld its new, modernised, space-age state. Dexter had taken his tent down. Now our campfire and the primitive drying rack sat next to the high-tech, rapid deployment modules that featured a full suite of necessities and amenities.

“What the fuck am I even here for?” I groaned aloud. “What am I even contributing to the group at this point?”

Naomi laughed. “You sound exactly like my old company back on Idunn. We don’t always appreciate our place when we’re competing with technology.”

Well, that was hardly a boost to my ego. I would have liked to have a piece of paper that set out, in detail, what made my addition to this whole project so important. Given Dexter’s previous despair over our situation, however, I had no reason to believe our clients had any intelligent or logical explanations to give me.

I looked at the three squared imprints our tents had left in the grass and was struck with a profound sense of loss and nostalgia. I would have liked to keep the tents, but my newfound fear of the actual fauna on this planet helped me accept that the barracks were a better option. And to seal the deal, as Naomi helped me up on the foundation, I had to admit that laying down on a real bed was exactly what I needed right now.

Before I had even made myself comfortable, Dexter came in to check on me.

“Well, that doesn’t look too bad,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Check this out,” I replied and zipped open my jumpsuit.

It was hard to say who was more surprised at the sight of my bruised body, Dexter or I. I didn’t even know skin could be whatever that colour on my chest was.

“Never mind, you do look like shit.” He took a sip of his coffee. “So, why’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Risk your life for a piece of equipment.” He tapped his head. “Not a smart thing to do. We can replace those. There’s no replacing you.”

“Why, thank you for your consideration.”

I wanted to nip this story in the bud before it became mythologised and I had to confess to just standing there like an idiot as the dangerous beast attacked me. I was no Heracles, at most I was the dumbass who had survived by pure luck.

“So, what was going through your mind? The pictures suggest it was pretty big. Maybe even swallow-you-whole-big. I could see the shadow of the damn thing from down here.”

I thought about that for a moment.

“Big fucking monster. I don’t want to die.”

“Seems reasonable.” Dexter nodded. “Short and simple. Might not look too good on the plaque, though.”

“Plaque? What are you on about? Are you writing it down?”

“No, not me. But everything we’re doing is logged and documented, remember? Everything gets reported back to HQ. I’m sure they’ll want to print a book or something as a founder’s log when this planet gets going.”

“Right. We’re making history.” I moaned.

“You seem embarrassed. Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll find a flattering angle for you. Maybe they’ll even paint some muscles on you. Make you look real manly.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Right, you’re only using your PDA as a toy.” Dexter chuckled and brought his own out. What he showed me was horrifying.

There were images of us, there on the planet, but they weren’t photographs or paintings. Something in-between. Like a fantastical representation of previous events.

“What the hell is that?!” I yelped. “Who made these?!”

“No one. They’re done by Curator, an artificial intelligence up in orbit. It parses everything that happens, rewrites it into a story, and produces images in our likeness to go with them.”

Dexter looked at the images before he turned his PDA back to me.

“Well, sort of. There’s some weird fuckery to it. I’m always too tall and Naomi much too short in all of them.”

I took the proffered PDA and scrolled through the images. There were snippets of stories attached to each one, but what confused me the most was the persistent element present in most of them. Another man and woman, usually pointing at something or striking a pose somewhere in the background, but never actually doing anything. They looked stoic or dignified, and they both had a weird glow to them.

“Who the fuck are these people?!”

“Our clients. I guess the Curator is programmed to add them in wherever it can.” Dexter shrugged again. “They aren’t shown in the images of us in the drop pods, so technically they aren’t lying about their inclusion.”

My head went to a lot of places trying to analyse what I was seeing. Perhaps the best thing would be to read all of it myself. I asked Dexter to show me where to find this gallery on my own PDA and laid back down. My incredulity had begun to fade, and with that, the pain I had momentarily forgotten returned.

Naomi entered the barracks carrying a tray of cooked food and drink. “Oh, you’re finally using your PDA,” she said cheerily and set the tray down by my side.”

“He just discovered Curator,” Dexter said.

“Oh, that thing.”

Naomi knew too? Once again it was just me, the person with space lapse, who was out of the loop.

“I can’t wait to see how that comes out,” she sighed. “It’ll be a total butchering of the real story, no doubt.”

“For sure,” Dexter agreed. “I’d love to see the instructions on that machine. They totally programmed it to edit our appearances to match their ideals and make us look superhuman.”

“Superhuman? I look like a shaved lumberjack on a meat diet,” I muttered, looking at an image of myself from the days of setting up our first camp.

“I look like a kid.” Naomi chuckled. “They shrank every piece of me. My muscles, my ass, my tits, the works. I can’t tell what’s sadder - the missus thinking I’m too feminine, or the mister finding me too intimidating.”

I nodded in agreement before I could catch myself.

Dexter just laughed. “And the captain looks 30 years younger! There’s clearly some strict ‘beauty’ standards that must be included in their story.”

“Question…” I started. “Why aren’t we calling our clients by name? We do know who we’re working for, right?”

Naomi and Dexter both went silent for a moment.

“Oh, right, you don’t remember.” Dexter cleared his throat. “That joke actually started with you.”

“Me?” I asked with surprise.

“Yeah. The company we’re working for is ExoGenesis, and our clients are contracting us through them. The joke was that they were so reclusive and secretive that there was no point remembering their names. It kind of stuck.”

“And, frankly, in the two weeks we had to meet them, I only saw them twice,” Naomi added, “so I struggle to remember their names too.”

“Avory and Donny Dalton,” Dexter supplied.

They both looked at me as if this information should have jogged my mind, but no. Absolutely nothing about their names rang a bell. 4

For the first time since we landed, I was actually disappointed to relearn something.

[Last Update: 30 March, 2026]

Where Do You Want to Go Next?

🏠 ExoGenesis: So Apparently, I’m a Space Camper Now
⬅️ 27, Things That Go Thrum in the Night
➡️ 29, Scientifically Perfected Misery

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~

This week we had extended family over, to return Nowruz hospitality – that’s Iranian New Year, and I’ve written before about how cool it is that in a family like mine, we get to hit “reset” 3 times before April annually.1

My husband has a (ludicrously) big family, so the house was bursting with adults, children, food, drink and joyful noise. Smaller kids daubed the study with mercifully washable art supplies while teens screamed with glee in the living room (someone had found Twister) and older folks gossiped around our huge kitchen table, bought specially with this kind of event in mind, with its magical extension sections and array of mismatched chairs purloined from all over the house.

Part way through the evening I escaped with the dog for some cool air and a bit of peace, and was joined by the more introverted members of the family. We wandered down the street in the dusk, skirted the park, spotted various mildly alarming wild animals scurrying into the shadows, and counted stars as they appeared overhead. I’m not from a big family, and it has always amazed me how joyous this kind of event spontaneously is, how easily people rub can rub along with one another when they show up with a generous smile and an open heart.

It feels necessary to say this, loudly, defiantly right now. People, most of us anyway, actually aim to get along happily. We aim to like each other. We aim to be kind and to make the other people in the room enjoy being there. And you don’t have to be related by blood to do it, either.

And times like these — strolling through dusk streets, enjoying the peace and tranquility — are precious. We take them for granted. But they can be snatched away on a politician’s whim, as we are all, sadly, learning in real time.

Shirini Nokhodchi - Persian sweeties made with chickpea flour and cardamom; a traditional Nowruz favourite

Of course, the reason I need to say this is because part of my husband’s family celebrated Nowruz rather differently this year. With Tehran under siege, the skies intermittently raining oil and other, worse things, and the whole country bracing for the next impact, the Haft Sin2 table with its promise of renewal and blessing must have seemed more poignant than usual. They must have remembered other New Years that were happier. Some that were darkly similar — Iran is not unused to war.

I am surmising, I don’t know. Internet contact and other communication is spotty. There is no time for philosophical conversation in the snatched, treasured calls we intermittently receive that must always, these days, begin with the urgent reassurance, “everyone is fine.”

But I’m remembering. Every time I hear on the news, or social media, that Israel and the US are bombarding Iran again, I remember. I wonder how much of the Tehran I know is still standing, how many of the places important to me have been reduced to dust. And my relation to the place is comparatively glancing. I cannot imagine how heartrending it must be for those who grew up there, went to school and university there, fell in love there, are living there now, watching their places of memory crumble around them.

Last newsletter I wrote about how Iranians are misrepresented in the media. That old Western warmongering narrative that likes to turn people who had the temerity to be born in distant lands where they don’t speak English and — gasp — mostly have more melanin in their skin, is still going strong.

A traditional Persian Haft Sin display. Haft Sin means “Seven S’s” and refers to the seven symbolic Spring items that happen to begin with “S” in Farsi.

But the world has changed. Social media means we can see and hear people from Iran, from Palestine, from Lebanon, from Ukraine, from all the war-torn and weary corners of the world sharing their experiences. It’s not so easy to lie to us when we hold someone’s heartfelt words in the palm of our hand, when we can follow them, and watch tiny slivers of their daily lives. Watch those lives shattered into shards, like a broken mirror that has reflected so much that we recognise in ourselves.

Even more importantly, humanity has gone global, no nation moreso than Iran. The Persian diaspora is vast – there are over 4 million people with recent Iranian heritage living outside the country, over a million of them in the US. They can’t be lied to about what’s really happening over there, because they, like us, are living from phone call to intermittent phone call with their loved ones bearing witness at the sharp end of things.

So we try to put the jigsaw together — what they are seeing from the ground, what facts can be gleaned from the propaganda and smoke-screens that pass for news these days. And we wait for it all to stop, and the dust to settle.

And we remember. Because to remember is to hold something sacred and safe in the one place it cannot be destroyed — the heart.

The Tajrish Bazaar is at the centre of life in Tehran, its stalls overflowing with everything you might need, and quite a few things you definitely don’t. You can’t see it here, but the architecture is worth a visit on its own merits. At least, I think it still is.

I remember the bazaar in Tajrish Square, where we haggled over toys for the kids, and embroidered slippers, a samovar, souvenir gifts to take home to my untravelled family in Shropshire: ornaments, sweets, the ubiquitous bags of pistachios3. The air between ornate columns and vaulting arches was laced with spices, the stalls spilling over with their brightly coloured fayre. Just across the street was a little ice-cream parlour where we treated the kids to chocolate bastani with strawberries and puffy waffle pastry, indulging ourselves in the more traditional saffron-and-rosewater flavoured version. We walked home to my father-in-law’s apartment down wide avenues shaded with sycamore trees, happy and sticky-fingered.

Those avenues, the trees – how many of them are still untouched? Social media, in the last two days, has been full of stories about how crowds of Tehrani’s come out to Tajrish Square every evening now, to show their defiance of the war, and comfort each other with their solidarity, not even moving when the bombs begin to fall.

I remember the faces of stallholders, of the smiling waiter in the ice-cream shop, and I wonder how many of their lives have been forever changed.

Bastani - Persian ice cream treats from happier times

I remember my in-laws’ high-rise apartment with its dizzying views, where you could wake in the morning and see the mountains that girdle Tehran from the panoramic bedroom window, without even getting out of bed. The biro doodle my then two-year-old daughter managed to draw on the smart cream paint of the kitchen wall before I noticed, my frantic, embarrassed scrubbing with baby wipes. My father-in-law’s pretend rage: “How dare you try to erase my grandchild’s artwork?”

I do not know if it is still there, because I do not know if the apartment itself has survived. The building next to it, its twin, was one of the first buildings to be bombed last summer in what we are now calling “The Twelve Day War,” as if it has already been consigned to history, the outrage tidied into neat statistics. The gorgeous green glass elevator that ran the height of that building was utterly destroyed, and along with it my ability to comprehend how this could be allowed to happen. This, to me, was as awful as if somebody had bombed High Street Kensington in London. Both are ultra-civilized residential and shopping areas in the heart of modern capital cities. Families live there. Tourists shop there. Who bombs such places? How can anyone bomb such places?

How innocent I was, back then.

I remember a different apartment, with a white balcony gleaming in the morning sunshine, a breakfast of bread, dates, grapes, fresh green herbs, orange juice, and steaming glass cups of fragrant Persian tea. Down in the garden below, someone was filling a paddling pool for their toddler to splash in. Birds flitted in the treetops opposite. The little internal garden was a well of living green, a tiny oasis in the centre of the busy city.

I wonder if that little cluster of homes is gone.

I wonder if the toddler, surely a teenager now, with hopes and dreams of the future in its eyes, is living. Is safe somewhere. Shelters from bombs and chemical rain, and remembers a green garden, cool blue water, their own long-ago laughter wreathing the leaves above like birdsong.

I remember a bright, cold morning where our breath made white rings as we walked up the hill, through sparse trees, to visit the impossible jewel-box palace of pale green stone with its breathtaking mirrored hall that, at least for me, out-sparkled Versailles. Looking for pictures of Shahvand Palace online, I stumbled upon its Tripadvisor page which advises me, heartbreakingly, that there are no tours available at present. I wonder when – I wonder if – they will be restored.

The Ministry of Roads and Urban Development, in the centre of Tehran. Part of the infrastructure under threat.

And it isn’t only Tehran. Last month, I wrote about visiting Isfahan, which you will have heard mentioned in the news because the US-Israeli coalition has repeatedly bombed the city for the munitions depot and alleged nuclear enrichment site near it. Setting aside the dubious merits of bombing something nuclear (didn’t we all agree that was a really bad idea when similar things happened in Ukraine?) Isfahan is a UNESCO World Heritage City crammed with gorgeous, historic architecture and gardens. A 16^th century proverb, still used today, boasts “Isfahan nesfe jehan” — “half the world is Isfahan,” suggesting that, so impressive are the culture and beauty of this city that seeing it is equivalent to seeing half the wonders of the world.

The historic gardens at Bagh-e-Fin, with their gorgeous decorated arches

I remember strolling along Isfahan’s Bridge of Thirty-Three Arches in glorious sunlight, the river below dancing with diamonds, while old men snoozed over their chess games in the shadows. I remember the ornate columns and cool waters of the Bagh-e-Fin Gardens, completed in 1590. Streets where we stepped cautiously in the murk of twilight from the taxi to the pavement, over the joobs where water drained in intricate systems of guttering that watered the city’s trees.

I wonder how much of it is in rubble.

I wonder how long the people there must continue to be brave and carry on with their daily lives under sustained bombardment.

I wonder what the point of it all is.

I wonder when it will end.

I wonder, after the bombs stop falling, how we pick the pieces up and put them back together. Because one thing is certain. The world will look very different when we do. And I don’t think many people have realised that yet.

So I turn over my Nowruz memories in my mind, along with my memories of Tehran and Isfahan, as if they are treasures in a jewel-box. And I wonder what Iran, and the rest of the world, will look like when next Nowruz comes around.

More historic paths to follow in Bagh-e-Fin

I apologise for the more-than-usually philosophical and melancholy nature of this month’s newsletter. Maybe we’ll all get lucky, and the world will be a much cheerier place by the time I write the next one!

Footnotes

Where my mind wanders on topics of interest to me. Expect meandering of a bearish type.

I finished 12 Months by Jim Butcher today.

The Dresden Files have never been great literature, but they are characterized by fun, re-readable stories. The last book, Peace Talks, didn’t land well for myself and many others. How it didn’t land is interesting and a cautionary tale for writers.

It is no secret that this series has been successful while other works by Butcher haven’t taken off. Which is a shame, as his Codex series is excellent and deserves a sequel or side series or something. Honestly, I just want to know what else happens to the those characters.

Anyway, Butcher is at his best when playing Dresden as Sam Spade and Bugs Bunny’s love child with a bit of a John Wick attitude. The series has been stretched out to cater to reader demand and bank account balances, but I’m not shaming Butcher for this. He’s a storyteller and people wanted more story. He did the right thing in my opinion, but there came a point where I think we all felt it just wasn’t working any longer. And I think he felt it to.

The result was Peace Talks and now Twelve Months.

I believe Butcher is pivoting us to the long delayed finale conclusion and such a long series makes for a difficult pivot. The big bad for a city level wizard and what Dresden has become are different things. The pain your protagonist must face changes when they’ve already been hurt so much.

I found the first half of 12 Months painful at times. The repeated elements to emphasize points, the call backs to fill in readers who skipped Peace Talks. The second half was fan service, so I enjoyed it but because I’m cheering for Harry, not because I’m sure it was good. But the thing is I am still cheering for Harry. I still go back and read most of the series with joy (imperfections of a universe created on the fly and all).

So, yeah. Good books?

No, not really. But I’m past viewing the Dresden Files as a book. It’s a long-form story told over many books, and if Butcher delivers in coming titles all will be forgiven.

These two books will just be mediocre chapters in the omnibus. And I still look forward to reading what is to come.

Links & Footnotes

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Hello again, it’s that time once more.

I wish I could tell you I had played some more cottagecore games since my last post, but at least I finished the available content for Runescape: Dragonwilds and I’m still awaiting their Fishing update expected to come some time next month. Instead I’ve been playing Dying Light 2 and not been very cosy at all.

That is not why we are here, though!

No, this time I have something else to talk about. It is one thing to be muttering about cottagecore on the Internet, or LARPing it on your tradwife TikTok account. It is another thing entirely to live it. And as of the last post I made, there have been some developments.

I may, or may not, have mentioned that I am moving out of the UK and back to Sweden later this year as part of some sort of “manufacturer’s recall” by family. Well, we’ve recently come to an agreement of where we will stay.

And that, as it turns out, is going to be out in the sticks. Literally. Trees everywhere!

My grandparents (on my father’s side) owned a lofty house deep into the Swedish woodlands. It’s so remote couldn’t even call it the “countryside”, due to the sheer density of the trees preventing you from seeing much of any “country”, let alone a “side” thereof, at all. This house mainly functions as holiday retreat for the family these days, but now it seems like yours truly is about to become a permanent tenant in this place.

Indeed, it’s so far away from civilisation that you need a car to go anywhere. It’s practically in the wilds. If you’re driving down the road, the inlet to this place is a “blink and you’ll miss it”, but it carries a lot of nostalgia for me.

I’ve been there for a good few Christmases as a child, and I’ve even been Santa Claus for the next generation after me once or twice. It is a lovely place. Quiet, serene, and positively… cottagecore.

There’s even a well nearby if you get tired of modern plumbing.

So, yes. It’s one thing to talk and play cottagecore, but another thing entirely to live it. And live it is exactly what I am about to do.

Reports will follow.

Cottagecore Actualisation

There are a lot of things that I’ve been pushing for in my life that never truly materialised. Moving to my current flat, for example, I was excited to spend the next few years making a proper home of this place. We’d turn the back garden into a proper allotment, set up a gazebo, and let the cats enjoy some fresh air.

Or so we thought. Then some belligerent youths smashed a window above our flat and scattered broken glass all over the place. And then they did it again. And again. Then they kicked a hole in the fence that turned out to be so thoroughly rotted it toppled over in a storm a few weeks later. Then it collapsed again after some less than stellar repair works from our landlord.

No… We were never going to turn this place into a forever home.

Now, however, we finally have the opportunity to do that. Even if I don’t end up living in that house out in the woods forever, it is a family home that we all frequent. I now have every incentive to start doing something with the place. Something materially persistent.

The first thought that came to my mind was trying to grow some crops again. I tried during the pandemic, but a record heatwave in London made it impossible to keep those poor sprouts alive. Maybe this time I’ll actually be able to grow a tomato or two. Fancy that!

And my cats will be able to walk outside again without fear of traffic. If they’re up for it. I know the dog will be zooming around like a rocket once we get there, but the cats may take a little convincing.

Eastbound at Last

It’s not just me looking to move to Sweden. My girlfriend of many years, tragically still in the USA, has been waiting to move in with me. There’s a process to it that’s not worked in our favour so far, but with a more permanent home on the horizon we can take a step closer to that dream together. That is something I fondly look forward to.

To get her Eastbound, we are starting up a joint venture to share our stories, to entertain, and to fund our dreams. It is a project we are looking to launch pretty soon.

That’s not all words, though. We’re working on some designs for the project, and today I’m happy to share this draft of one of the characters involved.

Every little project needs a mascot, and ours has two. This is one of them. A tuxedo cat, still unnamed, who’ll star in the various dishes we’ve got cooking.

As an artist, I’ve regretfully left a lot of fun drawings and comics gathering dust in my old folders that all deserve a chance at daylight. And what better way to revive them than with a fresh coat of paint?

I’m looking forward to bringing them to light over on our Eastbound stack very soon! A lot of these pieces were made in the early to late 2000s, so hopefully they can bring a smile and a touch of nostalgia to people.

What’s Next for Me

All that said, what is next for me?

Well, I am finally getting my driver’s license sorted out. The pandemic put that on hold for a long while, and I’ve never lived anywhere where I had any need of a car due to extremely accessible and affordable public transport. And I don’t spend nearly enough on transportation to warrant owning a car in the first place. But now I’m moving into the sticks, so that is changing.

Also I might also be driving back to Sweden. A whole road drip with the family in tow. I’ve already done it once before, so I looking forward to doing it again.

I am also getting ready to publish an edited version of my ExoGenesis space fantasy serial on Royal Road this month. To celebrate that and all the other changes we have ahead of us this year, I am making it free to read here on the stack from Easter Eve to the end of the month. A little Easter Egg, if you will.

And on that note, I take my leave of you for this time. I’ll be back again in May with another progress update and, hopefully, an Eastbound taster or two.

Until then, fair winds and smooth sailing.

-Sten

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~

EXOGENESIS: SO APPARENTLY, I’M A SPACE CAMPER NOW?
Copyright © 2025 CF Sten - All rights reserved

New Reader? Start Here: So Apparently, I’m a Space Camper Now?

Anthony’s Chapter 26 Recap: “I kept pace with a woman who runs until she gets bored, learned what a flechette is, and discovered that surviving prolonged warfare costs rather more than just money. Also, the tent situation. Let’s not elaborate on the tent situation.”

Things That Go Thrum in the Night

Part of me knew I must have roughed it out in the wild a few times on even, hard, or outright unfriendly terrain. But clearly, I had not worn a helmet any of those times.

There was no angle or form I could take that didn’t bend my neck in a way that I never thought possible. And once I could stop my tossing and turning and just bite the bullet – mercifully before I had annoyed Naomi enough to shoot me with a real one – I realised that I could actually hear the nearby probe scanning the mountain. A persistent, evenly spaced out thrum seemed to reverberate all through me, and I swore it was trying to undo every cell in my body. Or maybe that was just my paranoia.

I am no geologist, but I would have guessed we didn’t have such technology back on Earth, and if we did - it certainly was not commonplace. It made me very uncomfortable.

Naomi was apparently fine, and I could only assume she was fast asleep by now. Lucky her. Dexter did not seem to need anything, because time passed and I heard nothing from him. I was tempted to start a conversation on my own, but I doubted he’d be very talkative this time of day.

Unable to fall asleep, I eventually decided to brave the dark and take in the fresh air. Though a smidge colder than I would have liked, it was not freezing, and the night view was certainly a sight to behold.

Standing on my feet, I didn’t feel the trembling of the probe as much, and I could focus on myself and being somewhat at peace. I could just about see the campfire back at base. It was rather comforting to know we had a place down there to return to once we were done. And now that I knew what the probing experience was all about, I quite looked forward to sleeping in those barracks we just got.

“How’s it going down there, Dexter?” I asked into the microphone.

There was a short pause.

“Everything is fine,” Dexter responded. “The probes are all responding and I am sifting through the data as it develops.”

“How’s it looking?” I asked despite knowing full well I wouldn’t understand any of it.

“Do you want me to list all the minerals and metals we’re detecting, or are you asking me to describe the map?”

I thought for a moment.

“The map, I suppose?”

Dexter seemed to sigh before turning to a more polite tone.

“From what the imaging is showing so far, it looks like the mountain has some notable ore deposits not too deep from the surface. There appears to be some series of aquifers within the mountain that may be fed from snowmelt up top, but I don’t have a clear image of that yet. I would guess some of our freshwater comes from this mountain. There are a few winding caverns below the probes that stick out a little, and I’ve been waiting for the scans to clean them up and glean more information.”

Wait, caverns? Under the mountain? That sounded pretty cool. I was tempted to go investigate right away, but I didn’t have much in the way of equipment to do so. Not to mention I certainly didn’t want to know what other kinds of beetles and bugs might be skulking around in the dark on the way there. The Bombardment Beetles had already sullied my appreciation for the local fauna. What I wouldn’t give for a bird or a lizard to come eat them all! I’d even take a spider, at a stretch!

“What about the caverns stick out to you?”

“While I’m not an expert on mountains,” Dexter prefaced with heavy emphasis, “they look perfectly normal at first. But I can’t shake the feeling that some of the formations are tunnels; artificially made. They look cleaner, more linear. Purposeful.”

“Hang on, you’re saying we’re looking at potential diggers in this mountain? Not people, right? We were the first ones here, didn’t you say?”

“Not people. No, I don’t think so. Possibly some kind of fauna. Could be a big discovery.”

“Something worth investigating?” I asked, somewhat hesitantly.

“I don’t think you have much choice. Some of those tunnels seem very close to where you came up the mountain.”

I was both apprehensive and curious at the same time. So far, we had only encountered fish and bugs. I had yet to see any birds in the sky, so a chance to discover new fauna seemed like a dream come true. Well at least if I had been a researcher of some kind. Regrettably, I had turned out to be nothing more than a run-of-the-mill outdoorsman. But then again, I had Naomi with me. That had to count for something!

“Get some sleep, Anthony. I might ask you two to check it out on your way back. I don’t want any surprises down the line.”

“Sure.”

I knew I wouldn’t get any sleep in that tent, but there was no harm in trying to get some rest at least. However, before I could enter the tent again, Dexter chimed back in.

“Where on the mountain are you?”

I hummed and stammered as I looked around.

“We should be on the north side, facing the camp. I can see the campfire from here.”

“Mind shining a light my way? Your PDA and helmet should both have one.”

My helmet had a flashlight? I took it off and gave it another look. Hard to do in the dark, but it had some buttons on the side of the earpiece that I hadn’t taken the time to figure out yet. A quick press and two hidden lamps came on, blinding me with the intensity of the light.

After digging my eyes back out from the deep recesses of the void, I could see just enough to know where the camp was. I put the helmet back on and faced it, waving my arms as if my hands could magically dazzle Dexter from however many kilometers away we were.

“Ah, that could be a problem,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m looking out the window, and it seems like something dark is moving across the mountain. Not sure if it’s a cloud shadow, but it’s coming your way.”

Every hair on my back stood up and for the second time I felt like I was being stared down by a predator. I pivoted to my left and saw one… two… three… four small dots glowing back at me, and growing in size.

Frozen in place, I was not quite sure what to do.

“Your light disappeared,” Dexter called out. “Can you see anything?”

See, I did. A shape emerged out of the dark and into my headlights. Four eyes reflecting back to me almost in a circle around a maw with rows of reflective teeth. Its fur was thick and bristled, pale grey with dark spots and streaks.

It had a steady poise and moved with purpose, and its claws looked sharp enough to disembowel a polar bear. And it was staring right at me.

A feeling of dread overtook me and the world just seemed to disappear around me. The only thing left in the world was the creature before me and what I must do to survive.

Fight? Flee? Freeze?

My breathing had almost completely stopped. My heart was beating strangely, vibrating through my entire body down to my feet. Or was it the other way around? I might as well have dropped all my limbs and inner organs the way I had dropped whatever semblance of courage that had caused me to step outside, into the night, on an alien planet. And for what? A bit of fresh air.

What would it be like to be devoured by this monster? Faster than jumping to my death? Could I outrun it and live? If I screamed, would Naomi wake up in time to do something heroic?

Time came to a standstill as I pondered my options.

Thrum. Pause. Thrum. Pause. Thrum. Pause.

Every time the beat came, the creature moved. Every time it stopped, the creature stopped. In a few more beats it would be close enough to strike.

Heartbeats? Heart-thrums?

Had time truly slowed down?

Now so close that I could smell its breath, my throat somehow clamped down to deny it reciprocity. I had not moved an inch.

Then it pounced.

Pulled off my feet, I hit the ground like a log. The creature’s bristled fur tore at my skin like sandpaper, and I could have sworn it had broken at least one bone in my body. The last I saw of it looked like a tail, then there was only stars.

Stars? I was alive?

I got on my feet as fast as I could and pivoted around. Where did it go? Did it miss me? I had to act now while there still was hope.

“Stop yelling!” Dexter yelled through the comms.

I whipped my head around, eyes scanning the terrain until they locked on the creature. Its fur blended so well with the stone, but in moments I could make out its writhing mass against the mountain wall. It had pounced something and was tearing into it ferociously.

Do something! Anything! I tried to will myself to take action, but my left arm was dangling lifelessly by my side, and the way my left leg was shaking it could barely hold me up.

Now would have been the perfect time to retreat, but I couldn’t see myself running in this state. Maybe I could at least warn Naomi.

“Answer me, Anthony! What the fuck is going on?!” Dexter yelled into my ear.

A series of double-bangs rang out behind me, and the creature screeched in agony as large holes popped open all across its body. Before long it went still and I could see the victim of its attack - one of our probes.

In a moment of soon fading clarity, I realised what had happened. The probes must have disturbed the cave-dwelling creature, causing it to come out to investigate the potential prey or rival.

This was what Dexter had wanted us to investigate on our way back.

As the situation came to its brutal end, I felt myself rapidly deflate. My left leg gave out under me, and I crashed to my knees. Then the pain truly hit me.

My mind went muddled. I tried to make a noise, but my jaw was clenched so tight my teeth were on the verge of shattering. From somewhere far away, I heard Naomi’s muted voice and felt her hand on my shoulder.

Her headlights were so bright I couldn’t see her, but I knew it was her who carried me into the tent. She took my helmet off and aimed its lights up to the ceiling to light up the interior. She surveyed my whole body.

Me left arm had been dislocated. I could barely make out a word she was saying, but her face seemed to suggest she was trying to help and that was enough for me. It wasn’t until she set my arm back in place, I regained control of my voice.

“THE PROBES! IT WENT AFTER THE PROBES!!”

I’m pretty sure I spat on her the way I howled with the pain.

“Yes, I can see that. But why didn’t you take my rifle? It would have been a lot more effective than a knife.”

Knife? What knife? I looked down to my right hand and saw my knife strangled in a death grip. My hand simply refused to let go of it. When the hell did I pull out my knife?

Raising my arm, I could see both my hand and the knife were soaked with blood; but I couldn’t say whether it belonged to that creature or myself. It seemed far more likely that I’d managed to stab myself than actually find the the machismo to fight a space monster. Nowhere, not even deep in the fibers of my being, had I ever thought of myself as a ‘punch-a-bear-in-the-fucking-mouth’ kind of man. Not me. I was fairly certain I was the ‘love-the-wild-but-don’t-forget-the-bear-spray’ type.

Naomi tended to my injuries, and I inhaled sharply as she swabbed my bruised and bleeding skin with alcohol wipes. She frequently paused to survey our surroundings, making sure we had no more surprises coming.

As far as I could tell, we were safe now. Mostly safe. I still had a giant woman straddling me and treating my wounds. I had yet to recover from my skirmish with the four-eyed tooth monster - figuring out how I felt about my current situation was pretty far back on my list of priorities.

Dexter’s voice rang out from somewhere in the distance. Naomi had either turned her radio turned off, or she was ignoring him. She slowly zipped my jumpsuit back up, then she took my hand and slowly, but firmly, pried it open to extract the knife. I’m sure it was very grateful to be able to breathe again.

Only when she was done taking care of me did she tap her helmet.

“Dexter, are you still there?”

I couldn’t hear his response.

“We had a situation. We’ve made our first encounter with some type of mega fauna up here on the mountain. It was tearing up one of the probes. Please advise.”

There was a short silence.

“Lost signal? I feared as much. We’ll have to make do with what we have. Anthony is injured. I’ll be taking him back down as soon as we have light. He tried to defend the probe with nothing but his knife.”

No, I fucking didn’t! Was she lying to him, or was that her honest assessment of the situation?

“He’s roughed up,” she continued, “but will recover if allowed to rest. He’s sturdier than he looks.”

Wow, a compliment?

“You told him? And he still took the knife?”

She looked down at me, but I wasn’t sure what to make of her expression. What was going on?

“Well I think we have an idea of what those tunnels are about now. I can still give them a look if you want. No? Alright, we’ll head back down at first daylight.”

She slowly packed up the medical supplies and grabbed her rifle. Then she moved my helmet closer to my head and ruffled my hair, almost gently.

“I didn’t know you had that kind of stuff in you, little man. Good job!” She slowly climbed off me, grabbed her rifle, and shut the tent on her way out.

No idea what to make of her tone, or what was going through her mind, I let out the most pent-up sigh I had ever stored up, I turned off the lights, crossed my legs and rolled to my side. I couldn’t decide what scared me more - encountering another monster, or whatever it had awakened in Naomi.

I had to get some sleep so I could stop thinking about it. I could hear Dexter voice from the helmet behind me, but I ignored him.

[Last Update: 19 March, 2026]

Where Do You Want to Go Next?

🏠 ExoGenesis: So Apparently, I’m a Space Camper Now
⬅️ 26, Field Notes on Firearms and Fallen Soldiers
➡️ 28, Coming Soon. Probably.

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~

The last time I penned one of these, I told you it was time to rage against the dying light, and I meant it. I still do. So much so that Sir Bear hid my knitting needles the other day. I think he was concerned I might start stabbing people with them. Blunt end first.

Having said that… I did promise you I wouldn’t post any more politically charged Ship’s Logs1, and I meant that too. But then I got the message, loud and clear, from some of our lovely readers. It went something like this:

“Oh, hell yeah, I want to rage! I just can’t seem to pull my arse off the couch.” And I felt that, so today we’re not talking about rage.

Let’s talk about what happens when the world has been so relentlessly awful for so long that your brain just stops, instead. Let’s talk about the seeds you were going to plant that are still in their packet, and the cake ingredients on the counter top that have been glaring at you for a good week now.

Why don’t you come sit with me while I put the kettle on?

This one’s for you, Messmate.

My Farmor and the Finns

If your brain is wired differently – as a fair few of the brains aboard this ship are – the current state of the world is destabilising in a very specific and utterly exhausting way.

When faced with overwhelming external chaos, the neurospicy brain tends to operate in one of two rather common modes:

1. Full ostrich: This is where we shut everything out to hyperfocus on something blissfully irrelevant. You know, like reorganising our bookshelves by spine colour. Or falling down an endless rabbit hole trying to figure out why vampire romance is… whatever it is. (Hello, 2020! Remember me?)

2. Full ferret on speed: This is where we obsessively consume everything we can get our hands on. Where we cling to the entirely irrational belief, or desperate hope, that if we just stay informed enough, alert enough, vigilant enough, we might actually be able to… I don’t know, to be honest. Prevent the next terrible thing from happening? Find a sliver of hopium to see us through the darkest night?

Now, you may argue that this is a fundamental character flaw, but I beg to differ. I think it’s just the nervous system doing its level best to cope with burdens it was never meant to carry.

Doomscrolling was brought into our lives by people who profit from our anxiety, and don’t even get me started on the 24-hour news cycle. You must keep watching, they seem to whisper. You must be ready. Must not miss the signs. But this is not our conscience pleading with us. It’s the result of a capitalist system that has worked out exactly how to keep us hooked, like hatchlings endlessly calling for one more worm.

But we’re allowed to look away.

We’re allowed to rest.

And resting is not the same as not caring. It took me an embarrassingly long time to figure that one out. But knowing it’s true does not make it easy.

Here’s something else I figured out a long time ago that I still struggle with in these unprecedented times.

Guilt.

Have you ever worked on something, a story perhaps, or a project you’ve been really excited about, and then it suddenly feels all wrong? Almost shameful.

There are real people suffering real harm out there, and here you are in your little safe zone, writing your silly dragon smut stories or tending your windowsill herb garden. And now you can’t do it. You can’t keep working on it anymore, and you can’t share it with anyone.

Even talking about it feels like having a fit of the giggles at a funeral.

I’ve been trapped in this feeling for stretches of time that I’m not proud of. Not in the least because I’ve been someone people felt so sorry for they felt they had no right to be happy around me or share their joy with me. This is something that always reminds me of adults saying shit like, “you have to eat all the food on your plate because not all children get to eat.”

Not only is it silly to think that you holding on to whatever joy life has to offer has any bearing on someone else’s lived experience – it defies any kind of logic. Compassion and self-preservation are not two mutually exclusive concepts. The world does not exist in binaries, and two (or more!) things can be true.

I know this. I keep explaining it to other people, yet I keep falling into the same trap. I go quiet online because talking about my silly stories2 and my meta-fictional pirate ship feels tone deaf. Like I’m unable to read the bloody room. And it makes me feel like I should be doing something.

The whole reason I decided to go all in on the piratecore, and build a universe where you can become whoever you were meant to be, was the question of legacy. I wanted to leave something behind for the grandpirates to know me by and, if possible, give them something to hold on to for the future.

Now, let me tell you about one of the most unassuming women I know.

During the Second World War, Finland was invaded by the Soviet Union and tens of thousands of people fled across the border into Sweden. Many of them were children, travelling alone. They were scared. Exhausted. Starving. They had been torn from everything they ever knew and forced to face that which most people fear the most. The unknown.

My grandfather was in the cavalry at the time, protecting the border, but Farmor (my grandmother) took them in. She was no soldier. She wasn’t a diplomat or a politician or a person with any particular power to speak of.

Farmor was a woman with a strong sense of right and wrong and a willingness to open the door. She fed people, gave them shelter, and learned enough Finnish words to help frightened children feel slightly less so. At a time where darkness was everywhere and you had no way of knowing which side your neighbours were on, she still kept the lights on and the doors open.

Many decades later, some of those children tracked her down. Grown now, with children of their own, they came to visit her. To say, thank you. The warmth you offered when we were cold mattered. You mattered. They brought gifts, but more importantly – they brought stories of the lives she’d touched.

Farmor was deeply moved by this, but also a little bit embarrassed. She wasn’t the only one who did this, she argued. Anyone would have done the same. She didn’t win the war and she couldn’t stop the invasion. She just saw people in need, and did the right thing.

And that, Messmate, is legacy.

By some cosmic miracle, I was born at the intersection of several rather interesting genealogical lines. I can trace my roots way back in history, and in each line there seems to be extraordinary people doing truly extraordinary things. But because I was born in (for this purpose) the right family, of the right ethnicity, at the right time, and in the right country, I can open the cover and look at the stories inside. And guess what they tell me?

No, these people were nothing special. Not in themselves. But what they did with the time they had was, indeed, truly extraordinary. And inspirational.

If you look for them, you’ll find that history is full of people who kept their doors open. Or, as I like to say, ordinary people doing extraordinary things. They made it into the family history books, but we are all made of stories that - directly or indirectly - may inspire artists and authors to capture and preserve them.

In Goodnight Mister Tom,3 it’s the gruff, grieving old man who takes in a small, damaged boy who’s been evacuated from the London Blitz. Mister Tom saves Willie with steadiness, a bed and a fire, and a dog called Sammy. The radical resilience of simply showing up for a child who needed someone to lean on.

In The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society,4 the villagers kept a book club going under Nazi occupation. They couldn’t do anything to stop the soldiers; but faced with a war machine designed to crush the human spirit, they shared stories and potato peel pies to keep it alive. The radical resilience of choosing meaning when meaninglessness was forced upon them.

The legacy is not a book or a person. It’s real and fictional hope. It’s warmth and solidarity. The radical resilience of all the people across the ages who kept the lights on and hid families in attics and cellars and back rooms. Who forged papers and smuggled food and refused to become collaborators in their neighbours’ erasure.

The Swedish poet Stig Dagerman, who understood darkness better than most, wrote something that I keep coming back to. In Swedish it has a rhythm to it that lands like soft water on stone. It’s not quite as poetic in English, but the words ring just as true.

You cannot change the world, still your restless soul.
Only one thing can you do, care for your fellow man.
But this is already so much, even the stars smile at the thought.
One starving person less, is one brother more.

Dagerman was talking about the hunger for food, but I’ve seen hunger wear many faces. Sometimes it’s the a hollow heart or a starving soul. And the small act of nourishing just one person is not nothing. It never has been.

No, we can’t all be soldiers. We can’t all be activists or organisers or the kind of person who’s brave enough to wave a flag on the barricades. But the good news is that we don’t have to be. We just need to do something and contribute in a way that is ours to give.

For some people, that might be money. Or blood. (Hi, Kev!👋) For some, it’s time or food. The radical resilience that made Farmor decide to be the warm hand and calm voice that said come inside. You’re safe here.

For the creative community as a whole, it might be as simple as this: keep making things. Keep your lights on. Keep your stories alive. Keep growing seeds on the windowsill.

Make sure you always have water in the kettle and a cake in the pantry. Oh, and don’t forget to keep the reading nook warm and ready for mys.

Right now, this very minute, there’s someone in this world who desperately needs something that is yours to give. A few hours’ escape on a meta-fictional pirate ship full of messy, imperfect dreamers, perhaps? A t-shirt, bandana, book, sticker, video, song, keyring, necklace, planner, checklist, painting, or a romance so spicy it helps them breathe again.

None of that is frivolous or shameful. They’re just different ways to keep your door open. And guess what?

On days when even that feels impossible – planting a few seeds on the windowsill is enough. So is making yourself a cup of tea, exactly the way you like it. So is feeding the cat, taking a shower, and reading twenty pages of something that makes you feel less alone. You have to give yourself grace and permission to find and embrace each moment of peace.

Most of all, we have to keep reminding ourselves – and each other – that our small lights matter more than we will ever know.

That our lights can be our legacy.

That rest is not surrender.

And that joy is not betrayal.

Next Port of Call

We’ll be back soon with more crew stories, more serialised fiction, and the sort of chaos only a procrastination of Resilience Writers can create.

Until we meet again, be gentle with yourself and see if you can’t take a leaf out of my Farmor’s book. Protect your peace and pick one thing – just one! – that is yours to give and do that.

Fair winds, Messmate. I’m so glad you’re here.

//Linn 🤍

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Old Man:	‘Tis unnatural
		Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last,
		A falcon, towering in her pride of place,
		Was by a mousing owl hawked and killed.

Ross:		And Duncan’s horses – a thing most strange and certain –
		Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race,
		Turned wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out,
		Contending against obedience, as if they would make
		War with mankind.
Macbeth Act 2 Sc 4

Snow on the pine trees viewed from our deck. More on this later…

Oh you lucky, lucky people! How I spoil you! Today we begin with not one Shakespeare quotation but two. Above, you have an exchange from Macbeth, where Ross and an Old Man are discussing the terrible political events of the day (in this case the murder of King Duncan, rather than just the assassination of truth, justice and accountability for all under the law – ooh, politics already?) To underscore just how unnatural such a deed is, they discuss all the odd, disturbing and just plain wrong occurrences in the natural world, which mirror the skewed state of affairs of mankind.

(Note – I have cut the bit where they talk about Duncan’s horses eating each other, mostly because it reminds me of the Blackadder spoof of that line, which ends with Prince George scoffing in disdain, “as usual!” As you know, I’m a bit of a Blackadder geek, but I’m going for serious and portentous here, and silly old Prince George would just unharsh my vibe. Also, I have tidied the extract up a bit, to make it easier to read, because frankly I’m not sure we need an apostrophe in “hawked” or “killed” to remind us not to pronounce them “hawk-ed” and “kill-ed” these days – Shakespeare-online, a wee suggestion that maybe it’s time to update?)

Old Willie liked this idea – nature reflecting turmoil in the human and/or spiritual world. He does it again memorably in A Midsummer Night’s Dream where Titania and Oberon’s marital barney is wreaking havoc on crops and inverting the seasons. Hmm. I wonder if they’re having another tiff now? More on that later… And the title of this newsletter is, of course, a reference to Hamlet, the beginning, in fact, when the procrastinating prince has just had a chat with the ghost of his father, clocked that Pop’s death was murder, and henceforth sees Denmark as an “unweeded garden,” rotten with corruption.

The Quarrel of Oberon and Titania, Sir Joseph Noel Paton, courtesy of Wiki commons

Why am I off on a theatrical trek around the Swan of Avon’s scribings already, you ask? Probably because it’s comforting to think this isn’t the first time in history that it’s felt like the world is going totally tonto and taking us with it. And that’s a very necessary reminder this week.

You see, first off, Canada just moved its clocks forward an hour. Yes, I know, my European dears, you don’t have to worry about that for another three weeks, but I’m sure you can relate to the sorry upheaval it’s already caused for those of us on this side of the Atlantic – US readers, you know what I’m talking about, right? All day Sunday, wondering why everything felt a bit off, ricocheting between smugly self-updated phone-screen times and the obstinacy of the cooker-clock, with its luminous green insistence that change is not necessary thank you very much and I dare you to figure out how to drag me screaming out of daylight savings, because you’ve mislaid the instruction manual since November, haven’t you? And god forbid you have to Zoom call anyone who lives somewhere they don’t go in for such shifty shenanigans. (“Wait – so one hour forward means we get to their tea-time an hour earlier now or an hour later…?”)

It’s just wrong. Lighter mornings be damned. I like it dark in the mornings. It comes as less of a shock to my eyeballs.

So I was already discombobulated before we finally, improbably, got the snow I’d given up on for the year.

Yep. Snow on March 10^th. Not just a few half-hearted whispers, either, no – full, fat goosefeathers. Ok, I’ll admit I capered around the deck like a kid for a bit catching them on my tongue, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t unsettling. I’d very nearly retired my snowboots and bodywarmer for the season.

Snow and cherry blossoms in our back garden. Very pretty and all, but wrong

While I’m somewhat relieved that this show of frostiness (and yes, there have been several “hard” frosts of late, predictably just after I’d eagerly planted up the garden pots) might mean we’re not headed into a climate change meltdown quite as infernal as I’d been fearing, yet, I have to admit it’s thrown me off my stroke.

But when you look at the state of the world right now, it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?

The time is out of joint. There’s something rotten in the State(s)…

I’m not going to be doing my usual slick segue into what this teaches us about writing this month. Please, try to contain your disappointment. Instead, I’m going to try something a little different. It’s basically a rant, but in bullet points. You have been warned.

The biggest “unnatural” event right now, at least as far as we’re concerned chez Marlowe, is Israel and the US’s unprovoked, bad faith attack on Iran (and I’m not going to apologise for that, so leave now if you’re affronted. I don’t know what else to call a decision to bomb someone you’re currently negotiating with. And I don’t know why I should try.) As some of you will know, my husband is half Iranian, which means that he still has a lot of extended family living there. Yes, in Tehran. Including the grandfather of my children. As you can imagine, we’re more than a tiny bit discombobulated by that right now, too.

And while it’s far from the worst aspect of the whole brutal mess, one thing that is driving me a little bit nutso is seeing all the misrepresentations of Iranians in the press and on social media.

For the record, the vast majority of Iranians are some of the kindest, politest and most pleasant people you could choose to spend time with. I am, of course, not Iranian – I didn’t grow up there, I have never lived there, and I have only visited on a few, fleeting occasions, so I can’t pretend to speak with authority. But I can say what my experiences have been. So, this newsletter, that’s what I’m going to do.

Here are some misconceptions that make my blood boil:

1. Iranians don’t want women to be educated

Nope, you’re thinking of Afghanistan. Different country. Every Iranian woman I know speaks at least three different languages, fluently. Most of them have postgraduate degrees. That’s postgraduate. While it’s true that the regime has limited places and courses for female students in recent years, it’s still the case that over 60% of students in Iranian universities are women. The reason for this is that Islam sees education as a divine obligation for both men and women. Equally. If you don’t believe me, look it up.

Does the current regime discriminate against women? Absolutely. Are the restrictions on where they can work, what they can wear and how they can behave acceptable? Absolutely not.

Are Iranian women uneducated, mousy simpletons? Oh my friend, you do not want to make that sorry assumption. Along with being some of the most intelligent women I know, they’re also amongst the most terrifying. My mother-in-law once drove at speed the wrong way down a one-way street, gleefully yelling out of the window “what do you expect? I’m a woman!” as oncoming traffic desperately backed-up and swerved out of the way. And I’m telling you now, there wasn’t a male driver amongst the lot of them who dared to even flip the bird.

An uncharacteristically empty Iranian highway. The speed blur implies this was taken when my Mother-in-Law was driving.

2. Iran is a backward, uncivilised nation

The US government is currently finding out what a myth this is. While there are, undeniably, a range of nefarious oppressive restrictions on the Iranian people in general, to think of them as lagging behind in knowledge, technology, infrastructure, culture etc, is woefully mistaken, as US strategists are discovering to their cost.

I shouldn’t need to point out that Persia is one of the world’s oldest continuous civilizations, with the Persian nation dating back to the 7^th century BC. For comparison, England didn’t exist as a country until the 10^th century AD (I’ll let you do the maths on that) and Great Britain wasn’t a thing until 1707. If you think Iranians spent all that time sitting around on their hands, you’re probably qualified to work in the DoW.

Yes, you can get pizza, ice-cream, and Dolce and Gabbana in Iran. Most Tehranis I visited, way back as far as 2007, had bigger flat-screen TVs than any other country I’d ever been to (and at that point I’d already clocked up some impressive air miles). Most of them were screening South American soap operas, albeit on illegal satellite dishes. These were, largely, turned a blind eye to by the powers that be, because you mess with people’s ability to watch Yo Soy Betty at your peril.

A mosaic arch from the Bagh e Fin garden in Kashan. The garden was completed in 1590 and is a UNESCO world heritage site. So Iran has actual flowerbeds older than many countries.

3. Iranians are all religious fundamentalists

Let’s skip for a moment the fact that a lot of the people toting this opinion live in a nation whose defense secretary holds weekly prayer meetings at the country’s military headquarters. Or that more than one military commander of said nation has been justifying their current war to the troops by suggesting it is part of “the End Times” and a precursor to Armageddon.

I don’t have the stats for you, because I rather suspect any that might exist are somewhat “questionable” under the circumstances of having been taken in a theocratic state that, let us not be disingenuous, does not take at all kindly to dissent. What I can tell you is that most of the Iranians I met inside Iran were no more religious than your average Brit, which is to say not very (though you’d be surprised how many of my countryfolk still describe themselves as “Church of England” despite not having been inside one since Old Uncle Fred’s funeral, when you can bet most of them had to mime to the hymns because they hadn’t a clue how the tunes went.)

When I visited Tehran I was given a tour of the city. We started at the bottom of the mountain, where I did indeed see women in chador (the black bed-sheet like cloth wrapped around most of the body by very conservative Muslim women) somehow riding motorbikes. Here, murals on the sides of run-down concrete apartment blocks depicted martyrs to the regime, in various states of ascension to paradise.

As we ascended though, the air got cleaner, the housing more affluent, and the signs of religious observance, including murals, markedly scantier. I’ll let you make for yourself the connection between religion and poverty, and wonder whether we don’t see the same thing across much of the world. “So, who do you think lives at the top of the city?” asked my guide, before gleefully announcing, “the mullahs!”

A mural on Nelson Mandela Boulevard, Tehran. Yes, you read that right, which should tell you something about not believing all the stereotypes. I don’t know if this chap is a martyr, and Hubs is currently asleep, so I can’t ask him

You might be grunting, “that’s all very well, but Tehran is a capital city. What’s it like in the rest of the country, eh?” Well, Isfahan is generally considered one of the most conservative cities in the whole of Iran, and while I did indeed see more women in heavy hijab when we visited there, I was also party to the mutterings of a cab driver upon seeing a little girl of about seven years old wearing the veil. Later, I asked my Father-in-Law for a translation. “I – can’t tell you exactly,” he grinned sheepishly. “Let’s just say that he didn’t approve.”

I won’t bother you with the religious opinions of most members of the Iranian diaspora that I’ve met – and over the years, that’s a lot. Suffice it to say that when you leave a country because you don’t agree with its Islamic Revolution, chances are you’re not going to be particularly religiously observant.

All of which is to beg you to take what you might be seeing on Social Media and your TV with a large helping of salt. You may have heard the phrase, “Iran is a country of 92 million people.” While that’s currently being bandied about to explain the unlikelihood of “American boots on the ground,” it’s also a very big number. It’s a lot of people. Any attempt to paint them all as faceless clones, all alike, is going to be an idiotic distortion.

But more than that, I’d like you to please not give in to the pressure to see them as only numbers, as a mass of unfortunate casualties of war, suffering under relentless bombing and black rain as a pitiable, but ultimately impersonalised mass.

Because, just like the children cowering in bomb shelters in Tel Aviv, these are real people. In Iran, right now, are my Father-in-Law, his sisters and his wife. And an annoying but irresistible terrier called Bumsie. Not to mention the giggling little girl I heard on the phone call we finally, blessedly, managed to receive from my husband’s father, reassuring us they are still, for now, safe. Safe and, apparently, packed into a house with cousins and nephews and nieces, some of them children just as innocent and precious as your kids and grandkids.

Please remember that, this month. If you manage to, and maybe even remind others around you, that alone will help put the times a little closer back into joint.

A shopping mall in Tehran - not, sadly the Iran Mall, which just happens to be the biggest shopping mall in the world, but you get the idea

Welcome to this week’s gathering of the Tart & Tipples Society at Smugglers Cove, down the docks in Libertalia.

I’ve made two posts so far that both talk a bit about that #cottagecore aesthetic. But why am I so fond of it, where did it start, and why does it affect my gameplay preferences?

Well I guess it started all the way back here when I was a little lad:

So what is this? This is Pettson and Findus by the Swedish author Sven Nordqvist. I grew up with these cosy books as a child and it inspired a few things in me. Firstly that I love cats, secondly my comfort with and nostalgia for the simple cottage life that these books are centred around, and, of course, the seemingly simple pleasures of life as it was before big tech took over and became ubiquitous.

As a 90’s kid, I grew up in that transition, running around in parks and forests with my friends and gaming with my buddies at home. By the time I was a young adult, I was thoroughly immersed in the digital age where everything was online and long distance. Most people I knew as a child are not hundreds of miles away from me, yet I can’t recall the last time I saw them face-to-face.

I’m not bitter, though. Despite my adventurous youth, I have always been an introvert at heart, content to be left to my own devices. Nevertheless, I find myself enjoying that simple lifestyle ideal, despite paradoxically being addicted to my digital age amenities. The compromise? As long as I have a solid Internet access, running water, and a roof over my head, I am generally comfortable anywhere.

What was I saying? Oh yeah, cottagecore. I enjoy survival games and a lot of them just so happen to line up with that cottage aesthetic by virtue of having you build things with wood and explore survival mechanics such as cooking. You see it a lot, to the point that some players are sick of it. Fair enough, I guess. These kinds of games are always better with friends, which not everyone can organise on a whim. Much easier to start up an RPG or join a competitive lobby.

There is another point to this. When it comes to survival games, there are always parts that people are drawn to. Some want to fight monsters. Others want to explore. Builders take up a portion as well. And then you have the logistics people, the ones who see to resources and managing supplies and making sure the base is organised and everyone has what they need. A logistician, quartermaster, or Camp Mum, if you would; that is where I fit in.

I’m not the strongest combatant, I don’t go crazy for adventure, and I don’t try to build the next great wonder of the world. What I like is to find a safe place to build a cosy home where every need can be met without struggle. That means an organised stockpile of resources, a fully stocked kitchen with foods, medical supplies, beds and personal storage, and easy access to amenities (via portals or signposts).

As a result of this, I am generally back at the base building and improving while other players are out exploring. Once the shelves are restocked, the food is cooked, and the gear is upgraded, I like to tidy up the place which sometimes incudes completely rebuilding the base just to make it more pleasant to look at.

This is even true when I play these types of games solo. I am something of a turtle player. I play defence all the time until the time is right, or when I am forced to. It was how I played Minecraft, my first big step into the survival genre. As far as cottagecore goes, that game leaves a little to be desired. The mechanics is flimsy and reductive, and you need mods to truly get anything out of it. I am not a big modder, but the play style stuck with me.

Mushroom World Maladies to My Cottagecore Fancy

Last time I wrote, I spoke about a game called Enshrouded. Lately I’ve been playing Runescape Dragonwilds, which was gifted to me by my girlfriend on Valentine’s Day. I have not had enough time to dig into the games potential for cottagecore yet, though I can see the potential.

So far, I know you can build pretty houses and that it has all the elements needed to make for perhaps the cosiest cottagecore experience to date. And if you’ve played Enshrouded, this game is easy to get into — they are practically twins but farming is much better in Dragonwilds. You have to micromanage it much more in this game or weeds will grow in empty plots and disease spread amongst the plants.

Oh, and there’s that constantly looming presence of a Dragon that keeps spraying you and your house with poison sludge. Oh, boy... I’ve never felt so nervous about exploring new grounds. Thankfully, I managed to kill that pest last night before writing that post so here’s hoping it will be a little more peaceful going forward. Unless I jinx myself.

So, what is this cottagecore I keep talking about? Let me directly quote Wikipedia:

Cottagecore is an internet aesthetic and subculture concerned with an idealised rural lifestyle. The aesthetic centres on traditional and vernacular architecture, clothing, interior design and crafts. Based primarily on the visual and material culture of rural Europe, cottagecore was first named on Tumblr in 2018 and is related to similar internet aesthetics including goblincore and dark academia. A subculture of Millennials and Generation Z, cottagecore developed as a response to economic pressures faced by young people; the aesthetic emphasises sustainability, agrarianism and slow living.

While a lot of people on the Internet romanticise the cottagecore aesthetic, I tend to view myself as uniquely experienced in that lifestyle. I’ve lived in a rural village by the coast, a cottage without running water, no plumbing or indoor toilet, or even electricity; just the vibes of nature and the sound of the ocean, which is where I’d go to wash myself and where I learned how to swim.

This was a big part of my childhood, and it means a lot to me. I understand both the good and the bad aspects of this lifestyle. It’s definitely not as cosy as it looks. If you’re not a fan of spiders or flies, you can only imagine what going to the toilet was like. What I am saying is: cottagecore is a wonderful aesthetic that I enjoy reliving, but from personal experience it’s not something I aspire to return to. I indulge in my nostalgia through video games instead of travelling back to my little costal village to live the dream out in person.

It also helps that common tropes of survival games is fishing and the farming of crops and vegetables. These were the staples of my diet growing up. Not only does it look like home, but the food “tastes” like home too. Let me make pudding rice in the winter and I’m a happy camper!

So, What About Runescape Dragonwilds?

As I mentioned before, I haven’t really played the game long enough to truly get into the part I enjoy about survival games yet, but let’s take a moment to talk about what I have experienced, shall we?

This game (I’ll just call it Dragonwilds from here on) is a game that has been on my radar ever since it was first announced. And by announced, I mean I randomly spotted it in the Steam store and thought it looked frightfully bareboned. I watched a video or two on YouTube and thought “maybe once the game is fully released.”

Well, Dragonwilds is still in Early Access, but I’ve already dipped into it and what is currently there is just enough for me to call it a “good game”. The base building is intuitive, the snapping and grid assist is a really cool addition to the mechanic, and it comes together to make building a house easier than ever! It also retains the charm of Runescape where you can fail at cooking food, but at least now you can still compost the burnt foods. Oh, joy! I kind of wish I could milk the cows and make a cake, too, but last time I stepped close to one, it tried to kill me. Yikes!

An addition I would like to see is the ability to tame cows and chickens to could farm them. Apparently, you can ride the Terrorbirds. I don’t know how, but it does make me want to farm animals all the more.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again. Before I could get into cosy, I first had to experience the complete opposite. You remember that dragon in Skyrim? Alduin? He flies over Bleakfalls Barrow and you can hear some NPCs talking about seeing him, but you never encounter any more dragons in that game until you complete a specific quest (ignoring the DLC).

Not so in Dragonwilds.

Before I knew it, or even what triggered it, the dragon cruising across the sky decided I was way too happy-go-lucky for his liking and needed to be humbled. Thus began my first strafing of poisonous sludge. It was also my first death in the game. After that, every 15-30 minutes, that dragon would come roaring and force me into hiding.

I’m telling you, it is very hard to feel the joys of gardening with the ever-present threat of a big dragon that will come and spew acid all over your homestead every so often. It takes some of the joy out of cutting trees, exploring, or just cooking your meals, too. Pair that with random goblin raids and you are going to find yourself quite stressed.

I was many hours into the game when I discovered a cave that is inaccessible by foot. You can only get in by high-jumping or building stairs. Goblins, as it turns out, can do neither so there I was, safe in my new little “hobbit” hole, while the dragon wasted his time spraying the cliff walls with his poison. Well, at least until I mustered the courage to go out to battle and kill it. Fourth time’s the charm, as they say! Not that it took me four tries, and I certainly did not die from poison damage on the final try as I struck the finishing blow!

With my dragon neighbour dead and my home secure, the cosy cave life has become a lot quieter. The goblin raids don’t even warrant my concern, and I can farm my flax, snapdragons, and pumpkins at my leisure. The new quiet has opened up my creative eye and I’ve started dolling up my base. But it’s still not quite there. What’s missing is the ability to place my cooked meals onto a table and arrange a dinner hall.

What happens next?

Well, it’s not like I’ve beaten the whole game. Just north of where I fought the great dragon is a new region. One of the dead and undead. Jolly!

To enter this world I had to undergo a process called “Withering”, which seemed to place me somewhere in between the land of the living and the not alive. Fair enough. What they failed to let me know, however, was that as long as I’m Withered, I’ll shine like a beacon to another dragon who will come chase me down.

Are. You. Serious?!

That was absolutely terrifying! Let’s not do that again! Oh, but I get the feeling I’ll have to. And that’s where I am now.

According to the developers’ roadmap, they’re going to add Fishing in March! My cottagecore hype for this game is going up!

Next for Me

Life is changing again and I’m taking the appropriate steps to prepare for it. First of all, I’m finally getting around to getting my driver’s license. I’ve had a provisional one for a long time, but COVID saw me isolate and since then I’ve not made it a priority. Well, the time has come. And I hope to get it done before (the end of) April.

Secondly, and related to the first note, the time has also come for us to move again. The new place we’ve got our eyes on would see me return to Sweden after more than two decades away. How it’s related to me finally getting a driver’s license? Well, paying for a removals company to take our stuff to Sweden would cost an arm and a leg, but it’s only a fraction of the cost if you drive there yourself. Guess what I’m thinking of doing?

If all goes to plan, this will be my third road trip through Europe but the first one where I’m the one driving. I’m not sure whether we’ll be camping along the way or booking some nice Bed and Breakfasts, but the idea at the moment is to make it a combined house move and holiday trip.

This year is going to be quite interesting, that’s for sure. And who knows - I might even reclaim some of that lost cottagecore of my childhood. Only this time, I’ll make sure we have water and electricity. And a solid Internet connection.

Have a wonderful day!

CF Sten

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EXOGENESIS: SO APPARENTLY, I’M A SPACE CAMPER NOW?
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New Reader? Start Here: So Apparently, I’m a Space Camper Now?

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Field Notes on Firearms and Fallen Soldiers

We had walked for about an hour or so by my reckoning, using my hand to measure the sun’s position. Of course, it wasn’t a precise measure given the days were longer on this planet, but at least I knew we had walked far enough to no longer be able to spot our old camp. Any smoke from the campfire was hard to spot from most angles, given the dense vegetation.

I would have wanted to stop and catalogue some of my discoveries on the way, because I could not remember ever seeing such variety in colours in the trees. Various shades of red, green, and even orange. One type of tree even looked like it was scaly, and each scale had its own colour, forming what I imagined was this planet’s version of a rainbow. Naomi, for some reason, did not find this particularly interesting.

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