2062.03.15 06:32
Solitude Probe reporting back to Bright Futures Inc.
Successful landing: Enceladus, moon of Saturn Data stream active
7326 m of ice breached
Molecular scan complete: Confirmed H2O with NaCl
Scanning for lifeforms

When the probe started transmitting data, the busy Exoplanet lab went still for the first time in months as the entire team held their collective breath. One might think it was because the probe had been travelling for years and the scientists were experiencing a moment of reverence and gratitude for their success. Or perhaps they were eager to see if their various hypotheses would be proven correct. Both true, as far as they went. However, the bigger reason was the time-honored tradition of betting on mission outcomes; there was a surprising amount of money riding on this particular probe.

The only one not leaning in was the team manager, Dr. Elliot. Her lead tech, Frank, knew she disapproved of betting but didn’t know quite how many lifeless planets she had seen come and go. She tended to reserve her excitement for either petty bureaucratic victories or real scientific advances. Though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt breathless enthusiasm for her own work. Really, she should have quit Bright Futures Inc. after the fiasco on Ganymede.

She brushed her hair out of her eyes and squinted.

“Is it coming through?” she asked, as the team crowded around the monitors.

There were reasons they needed to find something, anything. Bright Futures’ deep-sea mining equipment was already flying toward Saturn, so the company was rushing to get their extraterrestrial assessments done before the big rig entered the planet’s orbit in two years. Time was running out for anything living in its path. The assessments were critical in determining where the developers would be allowed to destroy and disrupt, where they would be allowed to dig.

It was Go Time after all the waiting. Now there was a verified stream of data pouring in and soon there would be audio and video feed. Instead of excitement though, Dr. Elliot fought

off a familiar sense of dread. But so far, nothing but darkness and silence. That was to be expected with the amount of ice packed above the probe. It would take a while.

“Turn up the volume, Frank,” Dr. Elliot said, gesturing at the screen.

After fiddling with the sound and getting nothing, Frank pulled up the betting scorecard and started checking the early spreads.

“Salt water… who had salt water?” Frank scrolled through the spreadsheet and started calling out names. Twenty-one out of twenty-five of them had expected salt water.

“What else?” asked Dr. Elliot, ignoring the betting tally. “How long till the lifeform scan is complete? And what range is it reporting?”

“Range is less than a centimeter right now, no lifeform detected,” said Frank. She nodded absently. With the night vision capability of the probe’s camera, they should get a decent visual soon. Could they be looking at alien life in a few hours? And would it be sentient? What Earth creature would it resemble? Though she disapproved of gambling, she had to admit that she understood the impulse. So much of their life’s work depended on luck.

Throughout her entire career, there had been so few chances to find alien life. They had found anaerobic bacteria on Phobos and microbes on Ganymede, fat lot of good that did them. They had proudly reported “Level 1: Life” in their extraterrestrial assessment and recommended further study. But Bright Futures Inc. wasn’t interested in microbes when they got in the way of collecting rare metals.

That was when Dr. Elliot first started feeling tired.

To halt development, to protect life, you had to have “Level 2: Sentience.” That huge milestone was what it took to freeze mining in its tracks and get researchers sent in instead. Researchers could then evaluate for “Level 3: Society,” and even the not-yet-found but often dreamed of “Level 4: Civilization,” demarcated by technology and higher thinking.

Of course, the Exoplanet Team didn’t care about mining at all. They were in it for the big alien discovery: first contact stuff, like in the old movies. The bar had been set so high. Everyone wanted space whales. Everyone wanted little green men who could speak English. Everyone wanted squiggly creatures in spaceships.

Frank scrolled through the betting spreadsheet. A long list of scientists’ names followed “Cephalopod” on the betting chart. Everyone leaned in, wanting tentacles.

There was a tang in the water, something had changed. We tasted the change and were curious. Rising carefully, our scouts drifted to the front. Clinging and then releasing our neighbours, we reached. A slight bitterness as some of us let go and left us, but we clung to who remained and wished the explorers well. Then we waited impatiently, concern radiating out and over the curiosity.

A buzzing, as heat ran up, and down, and through, with ripples as the currents tugged us this way and that. We reached out and out, seeking our scouts and finally rejoined some but not all. We tallied the lost, embraced the returned. As we became whole again, swirls of sweet greeted us, then an odd hint of metallic ice. A new taste for the palate. Fascinating. Something new had arrived in the world.

2062.03.15 23:47
Solitude Probe reporting back 
Visual image attained

A video feed of dark nothingness pinged back for several hours. Darkness, and a few effervescent bubbles. Nonetheless, the team stayed. Stayed and stared and tried to manifest something. Anything.

“Nothing on visual?” Dr. Elliot was calm and methodical. Frank shook his head.

“No—but the probe should automatically adjust for night vision. It’s darker than outer space down there.” Minutes passed, then a soft ping began, and numbers and letters flew up the screen.

“Look!” Frank’s voice rang out. “Something’s coming through!”

As they watched, the dark screen lit up. Tiny pinpricks of blue light, swirling like fireflies. There was a swish of cyan, followed by a flash of pulsing fuchsia. A discernible pattern. But what did it mean?

The long-forgotten thrill of discovery shot up Dr. Elliot’s spine and she took a deep breath. Please, please, she thought, let this be different.

“What is it?” Dr. Elliot whispered.

Someone checked the spreadsheet. Seven people had bet on “Bioluminescent Signature,” including Frank.

Dr. Elliot felt her bone-deep tiredness begin to fall away.

The scouts were buzzing with excitement at the new thing. A metallic tang, smooth and sharp, but not cold. It had its own glow at one end of the cylindrical thing. We had embraced the new object and it had bitten us, dissolved us. A red-hot sensation, a burnt taste, and the remaining scouts had broken free and sailed back to our main body to report on the novelty, to report on the loss. It was dangerous, but what was it?

We approached, the young of our sparkle rushing ahead, the elders holding back. “Don’t touch the hot end,” we shared guidance up and down and out. We drifted, then sailed forward to intercept.

The strange thing was coming toward us, powered by something beyond the currents of the water. A flash of warning rushed through us but the young did not falter. They approached, sailing in and around, a gentle buzz of greeting, a sweet welcome. Fearless, and we were proud.

A young bud touched the glowing tip and evaporated in an eruption of pain. We let go, considering.

2062.03.16 15:21
Solitude Probe reporting back
Cellular sample attained... Analyzing

The images of winking lights continued for hours, intensifying. Like fireflies, but swimming. Or sailing? Was it just organic material drifting in ocean currents? Or were they sentient? Was it alien life? This could be bigger than when alien crabs had been found at the bottom of Europa’s ocean. Were the lights tiny creatures or spots on a larger animal? Nothing was conclusive yet, but Dr. Elliot already imagined a swarm of life in front of her. She felt the burnt-out husk of her bureaucratic career slip away as the scientist leaned in. Excited again for the first time in years, she grinned and touched the screen, willing the flashing lights to resolve into a sign.

The bioluminescent creatures wavered, dove, then circled back, like a susurration of the starlings of old. From cerulean to indigo and then deepening to magenta, the tiny dots wept across and around the screen. The fireflies were putting on a show. But was it intentional or incidental? It looked thoughtful, purposeful. Like the entire flock moved as one.

Dr. Elliot did not sleep. No one went home. Years of waiting and they were on the cusp of a grand discovery, they all felt it. The day passed, the data stream sharing new information about the alien ocean.

“We’re receiving more data,” Frank said. “Looks like it’s evaluating a substance, something on the probe. We have a sample analysis coming through.” Everyone held their breath. “It has a DNA signature,” he said. “It’s a complex organism.” There was a somber silence as the scientists took that in. “We have alien life. Multiple individuals.” Cheers erupted.

Dr. Elliot whooped along with the team. People hugged, some even cried.

Frank was too busy to check the spreadsheet, but someone did. Twenty people had bet on finding lifeforms. No wonder, really, it was what drove them; it was the dream that powered their lives.

Dr. Elliot squinted. “But who are you?” she asked the data streaming past. “Sentient?”

Frank stared hard at the screen. “The cellular analysis says it’s similar to the animal kingdom on Earth, somewhere between gastropod and… marine algae? What does that mean? Swimming snails?… That form toxic clouds like marine algae?” he shook head. “That’s wild.”

Someone pulled up the betting spreadsheet again. Zero takers for algae, two takers for gastropods. Two people across the room laughed and high-fived. Frank had cephalopods or fish on his list, nothing related to what they were seeing. And “sentient algae?” Well, no one had called that.

“The movement of the lights is not consistent with the currents we’re detecting,” Frank continued reporting on the data analysis. “They appear to be moving of their own volition. They’re alive and capable of independent movement. It’s not just little spots of light.” They all watched the glowing patterns on the display.

“They’re practically using morse code,” Dr. Elliot said. “I wish we could direct the probe in real-time instead of just receiving data. We could have a conversation—I know we could.” Her voice was light and her eyes shone, filled with wonder.

After some reflection, we strained toward the strange new thing again, curiosity overcoming the danger. Was it alive? Could it speak to us? It was clearly “other.” But “other” from where and from whom? Was it a thinking creature? Could it communicate? We knew only our world, but we could imagine new things, new tastes, new sensations. Perhaps this thing was alive and thinking. We needed to know. We embraced the danger.

We tasted, we welcomed, we embraced.

And the strange thing… did nothing but blink and sting us.

No change in texture, no change in taste. Just a dead blinking thing, like a tiny volcano eruption. No thought. No response.

We considered.

2062.03.17 09:54
Solitude Probe reporting back 
Data stream intact

Dr. Elliot watched the blinking lights on the screen and imagined they were dancing. Imagined they were creatures who felt happiness, felt pain. She longed for a sign of sentience, anything she could put in the way of the deadly machinery powering toward their moon. The fireflies could be intelligent and capable of self-awareness. Capable of making decisions. Potentially capable of communication.

Watching the swirling, blinking dots growing in brilliance until they took up most of the screen, tiny undulating blobs becoming visible, she could imagine a greeting. Outreach. All the fireflies acting in unison, purposeful.

“Let’s look at this backward,” she said to her team. “If these little lights were sentient, what would they do? How would they act? And how would they be moving?”

“Jet propulsion, maybe?” Frank said. “Like hundreds of tiny jellyfish or octopuses?” He checked the spreadsheet. Fourteen people had bet on “Fins” for mobility, one had bet on “Salt Water Jet Propulsion” and no one had bet on “Cilia,” but Frank was thinking creatively now.

Dr. Elliot was already composing her report in her head. They’d need more data to make a convincing argument for sentience. It was one thing to demonstrate that the blinking life forms were alive, quite another that they were capable of independent thought and feeling. If the probe took another twenty-eight days to circumnavigate the moon’s ocean at a depth of one to ten meters under the ice, they could map out an entire upper ecosystem. What did the fireflies eat? Other animals? Were they scavengers, predators? Were there similarities to Earth’s oceans or was the moon’s habitat truly alien? They could learn so much! She could save them. She just needed more data, more time.

A gasp from Frank brought Dr. Elliot’s attention back to her team. “Data stream inconsistent. Something is happening.”

The scientists crowded back around the monitors. The entire screen flashed turquoise, then cyan, then crimson. It flared for a moment then went dark. No more twinkles.

“Ah, crap!” came a voice from the back of the room.

“We’ve lost visuals,” said Frank, unnecessarily.

For a few minutes, data continued to flow, the image display a stream of numbers and letters. Then they started to waver, chunks missing, empty spaces rolling up the monitor. “We have a thin layer of life around the probe,” Frank reported. “We’re surrounded by the lifeform. This is a pretty weird kind of algae, it’s gumming up the works. We can’t receive cleanly anymore. I think we’ve lost the propellor. The probe is behaving erratically.”

The stream of data continued but the information had changed. “Still salt water, but the composition is changing, and the temperature is dropping. I think the probe is malfunctioning. It shouldn’t be doing this.” Frank fiddled with the data stream and peered at the monitor. “Wait, the pressure around the probe is changing. It’s increasing. The propulsion system can’t regulate its position. We can’t detect the lifeform anymore. No! I don’t think the algae likes us. Is it attacking the probe?”

No, thought Dr. Elliot. Please, no. They needed more time. She thought about the mining equipment zooming on its way, thought about Bright Futures Inc. and the destruction they would bring. She stared at the monitor and silently begged the lines of numbers and letters to keep coming.

The thing was not a thinking thing. It was not alive. It was not something that communicated. Its flavors did not alter. It did not have moods. It did not have feelings. And it was a danger to us. The course forward was clear.

We engulfed the strange cylinder and squeezed. Different hums coming together for a common purpose, even when those of us closest to the sharp lifeless thing were burnt. We squeezed, coating the cylinder and tasting, tasting. The hot light went out. The thing was dead but had always been dead. And as it fell away, it started to skitter sideways. We gripped firmly and some of us dove, stretching downward where the ocean would press it in. Finally, we let go, reaching upwards. The thing would trouble us no more.

2062.03.17 10:09
Solitude Probe reporting back 
Data stream inconsistent

“I think the algae killed the probe!” Frank’s voice cracked.

Fireflies, not algae, thought Dr. Elliot. She sighed as the monitor reflected the building pressure, the plunge downward. The data stream ended abruptly—the sensors must have bent in on themselves and the transmitter collapsed. She caught her breath and fought the urge to weep.

As she stared at the monitor, blinking back tears, she had a thought. “Wait, play the last visual back again,” she said. As she watched the swirling dots, all her seemingly wasted years analyzing exoplanet data coalesced into an observation, an idea.

“Do you see it?” she whispered, her heart beating faster. No one answered. An intuitive leap is not logical. Not predictable. An intuitive leap is the human brain rearranging known facts and seeing a bigger picture. And the bigger picture was staring back at her, dancing on her retinas. “I see it,” she whispered, so low that no one heard her.

The swirling lights weren’t little bugs or birds acting individually, they were part of a larger, singular intelligence, she was sure. There was sentience, there, oh yes, and of an entirely alien kind. She had always dreamed of encountering something entirely new, unexpected. Something that humanity’s tiny imagination had missed. And that something was practically smiling at her on screen. Well, maybe not smiling, since it had gutted their probe, but it was still a greeting of sorts. A pang of compassion for the being they had disturbed pricked her, followed by a wave of elation. After all this time, there it was, her big discovery. And Bright Futures Inc. might destroy its home. She felt something like grief flood through her.

“I’m calling it!” said Frank, doing the calculations. “Fifty-one hours and thirty- nine minutes of data feed. Who had ‘Probe Malfunction on third day’ in the pool?” Three people did, but no one cheered. The probe’s destruction ended their data collection and even the winners weren’t happy with that. Someone made a joke about killer algae. I’ll always think of them as fireflies, thought Dr. Elliot.

Excitement over, the data stream terminated, the scientists went home, saw their families, went out for celebratory drinks, caught up on sleep.

Except for Dr. Elliot, who, mindful of the mining equipment churning through space, argued with the astrobiologists about unified consciousness and hive minds. The alien fireflies were given a random name that no one but Dr. Elliot and the astrobiologists remembered. The exo-ecologists said there wasn’t enough data to confirm an ecosystem, although the presence of the fireflies suggested there had to be one. Days passed, and Dr. Elliot pushed for a broad finding when she sent in her draft assessment for approval. “Firefly species, most likely sentient. Further study and evaluation needed before the moon is developed, either for resource extraction or settlement. Final Recommendation: further study before development proceeds.” She waited.

A few weeks later the finalized report came back: “Lifeform detected. Evidence is inconclusive on sentience. More study needed before a sentience reading can be confirmed. Degree of accuracy estimated at low to moderate. Extraterrestrial Assessment conclusion: Enceladus is provisionally cleared for development.”

Typical. But instead of retreating in her usual caustic defeat, Dr. Elliot stayed late at the lab, energized. Not on her watch, no way. Not again. She drafted up a new request and insisted on redirecting another of the company’s probes to investigate whether sentient marine algae lived on Enceladus. She wanted to meet the fireflies again. Who knew? Maybe the life cycle of the firefly alien was complete in days and there would be the equivalent of a billion years of evolution before they even arrived for their next visit.

Before she put the final report away, she closed her eyes and let her imagination stray back to the frozen moon. She saw the dark ocean depths and wondered how a sentient lifeform experienced such a dark and crushing place. She wondered what had lurked just beyond the probe’s scope, what wonders beyond her comprehension or perception might live there. She pictured a full ecosystem of creatures under pressure, deep-sea monsters and delights with the fireflies as shepherd, the fireflies as predator. Just beyond the probe’s night vision, what new kingdoms waited?

She rewatched the video of the fireflies again and again, imagining she could decipher their blinking and converse with them if she just stared long enough. She found herself gazing at stars at night, imagining them swirling, then flashing blue and pink. She was entranced, re-invigorated. Someday, she promised the fireflies.

We remembered. Even long after the thing had plunged to the depths and bothered us no more. We wondered and considered the mystery. We remembered. We didn’t understand, not yet. But someday perhaps we would. We waited for something new that could help us understand. We remembered, we would be ready. We stretched out and sailed on, still considering, and hoping.

Dr. Elliot turned to the next project with something like joy. The probe she had redirected to the fireflies’ home moon would land in about nine months. In the meantime, there were three more probes scheduled to land on other moons of Saturn, so at least one new data stream was expected to start soon. Surely one of them would pay off. Optimists were calling for another frozen ocean.

Frank was taking new bets and filling up a fresh spreadsheet.

“Hey Frank,” she called. “Put me down for Sentience. And maybe something with tentacles.”

I’ve long believed that stories make up the invisible architecture of our identities, beliefs, and societies. From the myths we inherit to the ads we consume, across time narratives have dictated what we desire, who we admire, and what we think is normal. Before we even learn to read and write, we inherit countless narratives from our environments. These begin with our family’s worldviews, often influenced by our country’s dominant religious and political ideologies, and shaped by the way history is constructed and passed down. 

What happens when we examine some of the stories we swallow whole? In ‘Stories As Us,’ I’ve pulled back the curtain on some of the modern stories shaping us in surprising ways–exploring how advertising molds our desires, how Hollywood and the military collaborate to sell heroism, and how marginalized voices are rewriting history to reclaim their place in the narrative. If storytelling shapes who we are, scrutinizing our stories provides an opportunity to choose not just the ones we retain and retell, but who we ultimately become in the process.

Repetition

The stories we repeat define us, for better and for worse. Advertising operates on this basis, seeding desire via carefully-crafted tales of transformation. A perfume commercial constructs a story about allure and power, while car advertisements sell fantasies of freedom and status. These microfictions shape our self-perception by linking consumption to identity. Who doesn’t want to be hot and high status? Plenty of us before we saw these advertisements, probably. But hey, anyway, buy this perfume!

Advertising is effective because it transforms us, the would-be consumers, into characters with aspirational plots. That’s great for selling products, but it has interesting implications for our identities and values. In Stories as Therapy, I talked about the monomyth as a journey of healing and self-development. Similarly, narrative-driven advertising frameworks, like Donald Miller’s Storybrand, also take us on a journey by repurposing the monomyth to generate sales. The customer (hero) has a problem that the company (mentor) guides them through by purchasing products (trials) to guarantee success (transformation). Customers become brand advocates when they return from their trial with their newly-gained wisdom: that company is great!

Don’t get me wrong–I’m not saying this journey need always be a perilous one. Sometimes I want to be sold a solution. I am a writer. I don’t know a thing about lawnmowers, but I need one for my home. In this context, I’m more than happy to be guided towards a purchase, in fact, I need it. But when advertising narratives replace introspection with consumption–as they often do in our fast-paced society–when I ponder too long on products being jammed into the chapter of the monomyth where our personal growth occurs–I’m not gonna lie, it kinda skeeves me out.

Normalization

Over the last decade or so, cultural backlash against “woke media” has revealed many of society’s taken-for-granted assumptions about stories. Increased diversity has confronted us with assumptions about which groups of people we think should portray which roles, and why–a welcome, and much overdue confrontation, if you ask me. 

Forced diversity proponents believe stories with diverse or divergent representations are too political, opposed to the fondly-remembered, bygone era of heroic stories with predominantly white, predominantly male leads which weren’t political at all. (Sure, Jan.) The challenge with this line of thinking is that it does nothing to examine the origin of these so-called non-political stories. Why do we assume that a story is apolitical just because it’s normal? What makes a story normal? Delving into these questions can reveal a great deal about the way we make meaning from the stories we’re exposed to, and how, oftentimes, normal doesn’t mean apolitical at all.

An intriguing example of this are the Hollywood-military partnerships that have occurred for decades to influence what we see in blockbuster entertainment. It turns out ‘White Guy Saves The World, With Guns’ is not the organically-occurring narrative phenomenon we might have believed was the case growing up. Marvel’s collaboration with the U.S. military—particularly in films like Captain America: The Winter Soldier—embeds pro-military narratives into its films in exchange for production goodies. The Department of Defense’s script approvals ensure heroic portrayals of American might, while anything less than favourable gets sanitized or cut. In Winter Soldier, framing HYDRA as a corrupting foreign element within S.H.I.E.L.D preserves the U.S military’s heroic veneer despite the film’s clandestine plot. Combine that with high production budgets and action-packed entertainment, and we swallow it whole. This is normalization in action.  

Contrarily, when Ms. Marvel, the 2022 miniseries centering a Muslim heroine was released, the controversy was palpable. This contrasting reception highlights normalization at its finest, whereby we become so inundated by certain worldviews, we mistake them for the truth and struggle to swallow anything different. 

New Norms  

It’s precisely because we are wired for storytelling that narratives are such an effective vehicle for shaping, and reshaping our identities. Just as we can get lost chasing trends fed to us by advertisements, or imbibe political ideas we were not even cognisant of through the process normalization, new and different stories are just as powerful in pushing culture in new directions, allowing us to explore and discover new aspects of ourselves. Stories are fundamentally a place for experimentation and play, and mainstream media is no longer the only place we go to get our daily dose of fiction.

Different types of storytelling such as table-top roleplaying games (TTRPG), video games, fanfiction, cosplay, and the modern juggernaut self-publishing, all function as hubs for the constant creation of new, experimental, and collaborative stories. While many of these are enjoying their time in the spotlight, stories don’t need to make it to the mainstream to make a difference. Cultural shifts happen, and rapidly so, when stories are told through different formats and from different perspectives. It’s my belief that representation and diversity aren’t forced phenomena. Unlike our assumptions about the apoliticism of white male might, or the power fantasy of a new car, narrative diversity unfolds naturally when we are empowered to pick up the pen and given the opportunity to reflect the truth of the multifaceted world we live in by expressing ourselves. New stories reveal to us how much we’ve missed, and beckon us to explore what we can become.

‘The Power of Stories’ is a limited blog series exploring the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling. The final installment will take a deep dive into the power of storytelling as an agent for change.

Recommended Reading

• ‘Anatomical Venus at the Gynecologist’ by Jade Hurter, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Envisioning Trans Bodies in Fantasy’ by Niki Schumacher, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Waves Fall on Every Shore’ by Jaime Gill, F(r)iction Log

(downstage left) ENTERS LOUDLY: the comfort of a luxury hotel lobby

An ego reflects iridescent 
in the gilt, its body rolls laterally 
to favor high value angles. 

She is selling lips: shaved, parted,
a diastema swollen with cocaine.
Her breaths a brachycephalic dog

waking from a nightmare
of a perpetual moan heard
only by bitcoin johns.

(center) MALE INDEX FINGER: strumps across the glass of a tablet looking for Instagram

Mother of pearl veneers
hiss behind the curtain 
of an inflated labrum, generous 

with technology. Evolved 
silicon anxious to be 
found by a future archaeologist

in a potter’s field 
of swaying daisies, afflicted 
by their immortality.

(left/offstage) OPEN WINDOW: centered, a shellac glossa automaton plays Billie Eilish

A baritone bullhorn scatters Rumi’s
wisdom, asinine yet unworthy
of Pinocchio’s pleasure island.

A spirituality of scented candles 
recasts drug dealers as white shamans 
pushing gear she will not buy 

but readily use to cultivate a wit
edited into a skin tone trend
of the latest pantone standard.

(apron) NOILE SILK GRAND DRAPE: the stranded protagonist wears proscenium as tiara

A horned gait fawns a litter of
struts born with old age 
embroidered driftwood replicates

faster than shipwrecks, tik-toking
into an anachronism
as momentous as a male orgasm.

Lights dim out of charity 
to leave her later years devoid 
of reflections, veiled in a penumbra 

of hyaluronic acid. The warble of 
an extinct bird is preserved:
unknown in life, acknowledged in flesh.

A Review of Twilight of the Gods by Kurt Baumeister

In Twilight of the Gods, Kurt Baumeister strikes a fatal blow against the Norse pantheon and retools ancient mythology for our modern age of authoritarianism, mass surveillance, and failed collective civic memory. The gods (yes, even the gods) are not immune from the consequences of history. When mere mortals stop kneeling in fealty, divine power strains, weakens, and under threat of irrelevance, disappears eternally. 

Like Baumeister’s previous novel, the near-future sci-fi thriller, Pax Americana, Twilight of the Gods maintains a thrilling pace and continues his focus on socio-political themes played out in cinematic scenarios. Thankfully, he maintained his wry sense of humor; his characters deliver hilarity and vulnerability in unexpected places. The writing dances deftly between satire and sincerity, without undermining either. For example, when Loki proclaims that, “It turns out Christianity absorbed us,” it lands like a punchline while meditating on an important truth: myths don’t die, they are recycled and rebranded for new ideologies and audiences. 

Twilight of the Gods offers a clever narrative that evokes mythology’s core purpose, to explain through enchantment. Like the myths of old, Twilight of the Gods uses supernatural figures—gods, monsters, and mechanical Valkyries!—to make sense of uniquely human failures. In Baumeister’s telling, the gods are not metaphors for natural forces, but active agents, manipulating history. Odin (the All-Father, himself) plays a central, catastrophic role in the rise of Adolf Hitler.

Hungry for relevance and divine prestige, the pinnacle of the Norse hierarchy helps the Bastard of Austria gain power, praying fascist myth-making will resuscitate the Norse gods’ cultural dominance. Fate, the mysterious arbiter of destiny, is horrified and punishes the gods for this cosmic betrayal by stripping them of their power (mostly) and banishing them to life among mortals. The divine order collapses, and Fate vanishes. For decades, the gods are scattered, weak, and silent. As war and hatred persist in swaying modern heads of state, Odin and the power-hungry among the gods begin to claw their way into nefarious inner circles. Back to Germany, back to toying with totalitarians, back to fantasies of relevance.

Fate’s cosmic entourage, the Norns, return to Reality to tip the scales toward justice once again. They approach Loki, now living in mortal exile, with a desperate plea: help us stop your father’s new plan to empower Vekk, another rising fascist figure in modern Germany. Loki, driven by a complicated love for one of the Norns and a wary sense of justice, agrees. Baumeister expertly sets the Trickster up to be constantly beneath the Sword of Damocles and always one step ahead (or behind, whether he knows it or not).

To seduce Loki into orchestrating Odin’s downfall, Fate tempts him Odin’s throne as king of the gods. Whether Loki accepts or refuses, he understands what the Norns and Fate have long suspected: the gods’ time is over. The world no longer needs these divine overlords or their mythic scapegoats. At the heart of the narrative is a question beyond time: what happens when the old gods no longer serve us? Baumeister’s answer is as brutal as it is profound; they may kick and scream and foment chaos, but their destiny is to fade into obscurity. 

Loki’s participation in the Norns’ plan could very well trigger Ragnarök…sort of. “The End,” would not come by way of firestorms, serpents, and dragons. Instead, the pantheon’s final unraveling would be quiet and stoic; with the gods dissolving into pure myth once and for all, finally mortal, finally haunted by the coming specter of death.

Twilight of the Gods doesn’t end with an optimistic cosmic balance. The gods, for all their flamboyant meddling, are essentially irrelevant. Once fiery agents of fate, they find themselves diminished, not only in power but in relevance. Baumeister doesn’t just rewrite myth—he shows us what happens when myth is co-opted, marketed, and weaponized.

Baumeister doesn’t provide closure, he states a quiet horror: truth itself is anathema and memory is a threat. The last god standing won’t go out in a blaze of glory, but with the understanding that stories—dangerous, unkillable stories—can outlast even divine power. Loki needs the truth to survive, but he finds that truth turns out to be just as unwelcome in the Human world as it was in Odin’s kingdom.

In Baumeister’s hands, Loki is more than a trickster. He’s a storyteller, a survivor, and finally, a victim of the war against ambiguity. Even as the myth collapses inward, the novel suggests what replaces it may be far worse. The old gods may be cruel and obsolete, but the systems of belief, control, and narrative manipulation that gave rise to their power will live on in darker and darker forms.

Baumeister’s mythopoeic vision is devastatingly contemporary. We see a desperate god manipulating authoritarianism to stay relevant and we see the opposite, a mortal who has learned well from divine ambition and co-opted mythology itself to rewrite history and seize control. The hunger to control reality moves from the hands of gods into the hands of mortals. The cycle repeats because we allow it to. In exposing how gods and fascists both rely on spectacle, faith, and fear, Baumeister has written a novel that feels very timely. 

Baumeister renders the Norse gods forgotten, erased. There will be no more songs or stories, no new tales of adventure and glory. 

Only silence. 

The sound of boots. 

And the crack of gunfire in the distance.

On May 3^rd,1890, Jonathan Harker arrives in Bistritz. His fresh legal expertise has caught the attention of one Count Dracula, a Transylvanian noble looking to stake his claim on London property. A full-ride getaway to the Carpathian Mountains as his first professional task? A dream come true. But as his rendezvous with Dracula draws near, so too does a growing dread; for the townsfolk bring warnings of a great evil. A brutish, bestial, bloodthirsty evil. By the time it all sets in, he’s already at Dracula’s doorstep. So begins the harrowing events that would haunt Harker’s life forever…

It’s no secret that Bram Stoker’s Dracula is the blueprint for modern vampirism. When one thinks “vampire,” a certain picture’s usually painted: a sinister aristocrat with an equally-as-sinister castle, complete with a coffin, a cloak, and centuries of baggage. Indeed, Stoker certainly wasn’t the first to depict Romantic vampirism on paper. He had lesser-known predecessors in John Polidori, whose The Vampyre was famously written for the same contest as Frankenstein, and Carmilla author J. Sheridan Le Fanu. And though neither came close to Dracula’s cultural impact, each work convinced the world that the vampire—an immortal, immoral corruption of man—was here to stay. Why do we, as readers and storytellers, continue to revisit the Romantic vampire? What of the 19^th-century paradigm has stayed? What has changed, if anything?

Welcome to Monster of the Week, a new F(r)iction Log series exploring the origins of classical monsters and their impact on storytelling. The answers may leave you thirsty for more.

The origin of the vampire (or upir, or oupire, or vampir) is rooted in folklore. Vampire scholar Nick Groom traces its ancestry to Eastern Europe; though undead revenants have existed since time immemorial, creatures like Romanian strigoi directly inspired the vampire’s earliest incarnations. “The return of the dead is a primaeval fear,” and this is reflected in its folkloric origins. But the vampire itself is no primaeval being; it’s a creature influenced profoundly by contemporary thought.

So, what truly defines the vampire is its emergence in response to historical change—”change” being both scientific advancement and moral panic. As a living dead monster, they’re defined by their transgression of normality. They embody questions of human ambiguity; formative questions that were already being asked by thinkers of the century. Like the vampire, their hypotheses sparked confusion in a society dedicated to its principles. To quote Groom, the vampire became “a powerful tool for making sense of the human predicament”… and in the hands of the 19^th century author, they became a tool to inflict fear.

Bestial and Bloodthirsty

The rise of new-age theory played a massive part in popularizing the vampire. In a society shaped by spiritual belief, intellectual movements like the Enlightenment and Romanticism were only the beginning. Charles Darwin’s theories of natural science, for example, challenged human exceptionalism. The thought that humans were not a unique body, but instead derivative of animals, was unthinkable. Fearing an animal lineage evolved into fearing the cross-contamination of bloodlines; and once this fear bled into literature, its influence became grounds for monster stories. Vampires were, essentially, a “fantastically rational” explanation of Darwin’s human-animal body as monster.

From Harker describing Dracula as reptilian, to Carmilla appearing to Laura as a predatory beast, this fear of human-animal consanguinity pervaded the 19^th century vampire novel. It solidified vampires not just as monster, but as “Other”—a sick, sanguinary perversion of the human body.

Filthy Rich and Fanged

Vampiric aristocracy existed long before Stoker’s Count. Its roots lie in political allegory, symbolic of predatory oligarchs who leeched life from working class prey. Thinly veiled references to real-life aristocrats can naturally be found in the 19^th century vampire. Dracula’s connection to Vlad the Impaler undoubtedly comes to mind, though Polidori’s Lord Ruthven—cunning, charismatic, and stinking rich—was himself a caricature of Romantic writer and hedonist Lord Byron. Another was Elizabeth Báthory, a Hungarian countess and alleged serial killer who targeted poor young women. Legends describe her as “blood-bathing” for eternal youth, and it’s believed that these accounts partially inspired Le Fanu’s sapphic horror-tragedy Carmilla.

Jabs at the upper class weren’t exactly subtle in 19^th century horror, and drawing parallels to notorious real-world nobles underlined vampirism as the Other. In this way, vampires became both physiologically and culturally inhuman; representative of a class hungry for power, youth, and blood. In every way, they resembled parasites more than their former human selves.

Fresh Blood

Much has changed in the vamp-paradigm since Dracula. Stories such as Twilight and The Vampire Diaries reframe Romantic into romance, while others like the Castlevania games tap into the vampire’s fantastical potential. But what’s most notable is how modern writers have redefined the vampire’s original purpose as a symbol of transgression. Under its darkly comic pastiche of vampiric aristocracy, for example, FX’s What We Do in the Shadows presents an immigrant narrative—in which a coterie of multicultural characters struggle fitting into a society that rejects them. Urban fantasy TTRPG Vampire: The Masquerade explores class divide, systemic violence, and the (in)human condition through the World of Darkness’ clan system. And recently, we’ve had Ryan Coogler’s Sinners conflate racism with blood-sucking monstrosity; vampirism becomes a backdrop to exhume a repressed, bloody history.

Each work mentioned draws from the same vein. Whether forbidden by law or by social intolerance, characters are inclined to hide their vampiric identity. They are monster; they are animal; they are completely and unequivocally Other. Most importantly, they represent a shift in the system. Instead of the unreachable Other—bestial tyrants terrorizing those deemed beneath them—modern vampirism has now come to represent social monstrosity… or, more accurately, monstrosity in the eyes of the human ideal.

But there is refuge in this reclamation of the Other. To reframe vampirism as a foundation for solidarity fosters new understanding. It’s for this reason that vampire fiction has prevailed: it unearths the stories of those shunned by society, standards, and systemic prejudice. And it’s through representative storytelling that these bloodlines will endure and evolve, even in (un)death.

These narratives are exactly what we’re hungry for at Brink Literacy Project. From fresh blood to elder bats, our coven feasts heartily on tales from underserved and undersold talent. Through our education programs, we draw blood from Othering to empower and embrace shared storytelling. Only by working together shall our cauldron thrive in adversity. If this sounds like your kind of literary scene, then you’re cordially invited to sink your teeth into our stories. Don’t worry—we don’t bite.

Additional Reading

• “Summer Home” by Brett Riley
• “The Purpose of Monsters” by Dani Hedlund

Sources:

1. Nick Groom, The Vampire: A New History (Yale University Press, 2018), 4–5.
2. Groom, xv.
3. Matthew Gibson, “Jane Cranstoun, Countess Purgstall: A Possible Inspiration for Le Fanu’s Carmilla” (Le Fanu Studies, 2007).

My grandmother knit the ocean. Up all night with bargain-basement yarn, she watched old nature shows and knitted fish. Silver fish, red fish, pink-and-orange-polka-dot-vodka fish. She finished each with a knot and prayer-spit and set it out to sea—which was her room in my mother’s house, painted blue. She knit fish like it was her…

The Second Wave was imminent, I knew, just a matter of trepid hours and speculationto live for. And then I too would end on the seabed with no company;or drown in this hospital bed. No use breaking windows to run farther onto land when the hotelcollapsed like a house of matchsticks. My fever kicked and…

I leaned over the railing, watching dark water thrash below. Evening light refracted off the lighthouse’s windows behind me and gilded the waves. Without warning, Viola appeared at my elbow. I knew who it was, but in the space between knowing and understanding, I jumped. She grinned at me. “Good instincts, Francis. You’ve got to…

Ocean Culture Life (OCL) is dedicated to empowering a global community of ocean storytellers, advocates, and guardians to inspire, educate, and protect marine ecosystems. Aligned with the United Nations Sustainable Development Goal 14, their initiatives promote conservation and deepen public engagement with the ocean. Since becoming a registered charity in Jersey, the Channel Islands, in December 2022, OCL has hosted vibrant World Oceans Day celebrations and immersive educational workshops, fostering ocean literacy and collaboration with marine organizations. OCL also gives out over 30 storytelling grants a year, directly funding and supporting their storytelling community. By celebrating the ocean through the power of storytelling, OCL inspires a new generation of ocean storytellers, advocates, and guardians committed to preserving our coastal environments for future generations.

Battle of the Colors

by Francesca Page

Jet-black ink engulfs the emerald and marigold amphitheater as a young male Giant Cuttlefish flees, his bruised and scarred arms a testament to the battles fought for the survival of his kind. Gliding over the reef, he wears these wounds like badges of courage, marks of the relentless competition he faces to secure his legacy.

As the morning’s golden rays dance upon the frigid waters of South Australia, this underwater world stirs awake to a new day of battles, courtship, love, and heartbreak. Descending into this realm teeming with alien-like creatures, a drama as old as time, pulsing with the ocean’s heartbeat, the relentless struggle for love.

This seasonal fighter glides effortlessly over the reef, yesterday’s battles fading like a distant memory. Today brings new hopes as he stirs with quiet resolve, stretching his tentacles wide as dawn breaks through the water. Like a painter’s brushstroke on an ocean canvas, his body shimmers with purpose, pulsating in a hypnotic dance of blues, greens, and purples. He blends into his surroundings, shape-shifting with ease, his keen eyes sweeping for potential suitors. With each pulse and ripple, he prepares to captivate, conquer, and perhaps, finally meet her.

From above, a spotlight shines down on the reef, and nestled beneath the seaweed lies the female. Perfectly camouflaged in golden hues, she hovers silently, patiently waiting for him. Her beauty is unlike any other. Yet her allure has not gone unnoticed. She is surrounded by determined admirers, one, two, three… he loses count as she becomes engulfed by a kaleidoscope of pulsating colors. The heart knows what it wants, let the battle of the colors begin!

With purpose, he moves in, fixating on his beloved; the stage is set for an elaborate shape-shifting show. The largest admirer, looming like a spaceship above him, bellows a challenge, ready for battle. Like a well-rehearsed performance, these males adorn themselves in vibrant, elaborate costumes, each putting on the show of their lives and perhaps their last. The fight begins with a hypnotic dance; they whirl around each other, flaunting and stretching

their bodies to amplify their dominance and power in the water. He has waited too long to find her; this is a fight he cannot afford to lose. As the spectacle escalates, their bodies pulsate with mesmerizing swirls of white and orange, each determined to hypnotize, control, and ultimately win her.

His eyes dilate, intoxicated by love; he is transported into a trance. For a moment, he leaves his body, observing the battle from above, powerless in the face of defeat. Blinded by passion, he doesn’t see the larger male strike, driving a sharp blade into his vibrant armor. Abruptly, he awakens from his spell. With a heavy heart, he falters under the weight of his wounds. Retreating to the safety of the seaweed, he watches his love from afar. Yet, the call of love propels him forward. What he lacks in size, he makes up for in cunning; why fight when you can outsmart?

She locks eyes with him, trapped beneath a sea of unwanted males, her gaze silently beckoning him closer. It’s not size she desires, but intelligence, and he knows exactly what to do. With calculated precision, he employs a clever strategy, slipping in undetected as he masquerades as a female, altering his colorful armor and retracting his tentacles. Like a shadow, he glides beneath the larger males, evading their notice until he finally reaches her side.

Gently, he extends one of his arms to touch her, and her eyes speak a thousand words of passion. Their arms intertwine, head to head, heart to heart, an embrace that signifies the beginning of new life and the survival of their species. In this moment, the chaotic world around them fades away; all that exists is the delicate bond between two Giant Cuttlefish and the promise of their shared legacy, where intelligence wins.

Learning to Swim

by Maddy Bolt

I have learned a lot since first landing in Indonesia six years ago. I’ve learned how to ask for a nasi goreng in Bahasa, how to navigate down a dusty hill on a motorbike with a passenger and two surfboards, and how to tell if the tide will be too low to surf. However, something I took for granted was already knowing how to swim. I barely even remember learning! My faintest memory of learning how to swim, was being told to act like a starfish while attempting to float—at the tender age of five years old. This experience was something I took for granted—until I moved to Indonesia.

Despite spending almost every day in the water, I can count on one hand the number of local women I had seen surfing. Now living in Indonesia part-time and surfing almost daily, I continued to wonder about this. Were local women interested in surfing but just not participating? Or was I projecting my own “western” assumptions onto a community that might not share the same interest in the ocean?

I decided to find out the answer. I turned to Misel, a close local friend of mine. She managed one of my favorite local restaurants in town and we had gotten to know each other drinking many coffees over the years. When I asked her if she was interested in something like surfing, her eyes immediately lit up and she said, “Surfing?! That is my dream. Of course I want to surf.” At least for Misel, it was not a question of having interest.

When I probed her further and asked whether other local women felt the same way, she added exuberantly, “Many of my friends would love to surf! That is something we have only dreamt of doing!” Interesting, I thought, “So why have you not taken the leap to learn?” Misel laughed and said, “Well first we would have to learn how to swim!” This is where I had to check my privilege. I had assumed most of these women had grown up swimming since they lived on an island.

What I later realized, is that despite being in their mid-thirties and growing up in sight of the water their whole lives, many of the local women had never even been in the ocean past their knees. This was due to a myriad of reasons, from a general lack of time due to childcare responsibilities, local folklore stigmatizing the ocean as evil, and parents instilling fear in their young daughters in order to protect them. While this fear worked to keep women away from the ocean, it worked against their favor in dire situations.

Drowning is the third leading cause of unintentional injury death in the world, and one of the leading causes of accidental death in Indonesia. Children are especially at risk, since women, who are the primary caregivers to their families, are unable to swim and save those that have been swept away by currents or rogue waves.

This is where the idea for OceanFolx began. In partnership with Misel and a few other local femme leaders in the community, we spent the next year building and starting a swimming, ocean safety, and surfing program. We aim to prevent drowning through a ripple effect. We empower local women by teaching them essential swimming skills, ocean safety, and life-saving techniques. For those who want to go further, we have started an introductory surf program once they’ve mastered adequate swimming and water safety skills. Our program goes beyond basic training by including a leadership component, which equips these women with the tools and confidence to pass these skills on to their children, families, and communities. This approach not only amplifies their impact but also fosters a broader culture of safety and knowledge.

Through our initiative, we empower women, inspire local leadership, and promote environmental stewardship. By encouraging more time spent in and around the ocean, we help transform their relationship with the environment from one of fear to one of positive engagement and respect. Our program brings women together, creating a supportive community where they can empower each other and interact with the ocean in a safe and meaningful way.

In 2025, we will be running our second year of programming. Misel has come a long way and is now working as our local program coordinator. She recruits new students to our non-profit program and is working to become a swim teacher with us. We are committed to empowering more women through our comprehensive swim training program, guiding them all the way to becoming certified swim teachers. Our vision extends beyond our current reach; we aspire to expand our impact by introducing our programs to the neighboring island of Sumbawa and by launching exciting, new at-sea sailing programs. By donating, you can help us provide life-changing opportunities and build a brighter future for the women in our community.

Throughout this journey, I continue to be humbled and inspired every day by Misel and each and every one of our students. It has been incredibly rewarding to share my knowledge and watch our local women step up as leaders, ready to become the next OceanFolx teachers as I transition into a supportive role. Watching them float and telling each other to act like a “bintang-laut,” starfish in Bahasa, brings the biggest smile to my face—and all the hard work feels worth it.

The Sea Inside Ourselves Is Showing

by Jillian Nettels

Does the darkness hold light in abeyance? 
How waves pulse between blurred edges defy. 
Emboldened by revealing raw moments, 
Glisten as we listen to the sky.
Our gazing is a tether in vast spaces,
Radiate a secret silent knowing,
As reflections on rippling places,
That the sea inside ourselves is showing. 
Waters linger in a lonely abyss,
In the dark depths we share suffused longing 
for our promised presence of Neptune’s bliss. 
In remembrance of Day’s vanishing
the Night has taken form from holding breath, 
That Life is a reckoning with Death.
The sea inside ourselves is knowing.
The sea inside ourselves is showing.

Ancient Waters, Modern Warnings: A Scientist’s Love Letter to the Mediterranean

by Arzucan “Zuzu” Askin

The Mediterranean Sea, with its startlingly blue depths and storied coastline, has a unique claim on my heart. As a child, I spent endless summer days diving into these fabled waters, searching for ancient treasures that seemed to whisper through the currents. My quarry wasn’t only shells and smooth stones; I was entranced by the seagrass meadows and the centuries-old amphoras hidden beneath the waves. Each dive was an act of discovery, a glimpse into the world of sailors and merchants from millennia past. I learned early on that the Mediterranean was no mere sea, but a bridge between human history and the wild mystery of the ocean.

From my very first encounter with those seagrass meadows—fields of Posidonia stretching across the seafloor like vast, verdant carpets—I was struck by the way these delicate green strands seemed to breathe life into the water. Posidonia meadows are among the most productive ecosystems on Earth, sequestering carbon, nurturing young marine life, and filtering water. These fields of seagrass became sacred places for me, sites of personal pilgrimage and discovery. They felt as much a part of Greek mythology as the stories of Odysseus and the sea gods.

Diving down after hearing my mother’s tales of the sea, I would imagine I was in the lair of Poseidon himself. The seagrass swayed like dancers in tune with his trident’s rhythms, and around me, I felt the presence of forgotten legends: ancient gods, sirens, and the creatures of maritime folklore. For thousands of years, the Mediterranean has held sway over human imagination. This was a sea that demanded respect, a wild place of tempestuous tides and lurking mysteries—a gateway between the known world and realms beyond.

The Mediterranean shaped me as a scientist, teaching me to observe, to ask questions, and to see the world as an intricate puzzle of ecosystems and cultural histories. It has shaped the way I approach conservation today— interdisciplinary, grounded in tradition yet open to innovation, and inclusive of multiple perspectives. As someone who grew up between cultures, I found that the Mediterranean offered a unique bridge between worlds: East and West, ancient and modern, wild and human. Its diversity, both ecological and cultural, reflects how deeply connected the ocean is to human identity. This sea instilled in me the importance of understanding not just the science of ecosystems, but the people, practices, and stories intertwined with them.

In many ways, the Mediterranean sharks I now study serve as symbols of this delicate balance between the wild and the human. Ancient Greeks feared and revered these apex predators, folding them into myths and maritime tales, from the great white to the angelshark. Yet today, many of the sharks of the Mediterranean are critically endangered, their numbers dwindling to a fraction of what they once were. Driven by overfishing, habitat loss, and the pressures of a warming sea, the decline of Mediterranean sharks is a devastating loss—not only of biodiversity but of living history. We are watching the unraveling of a story that has been unfolding for millions of years, and with it, a part of our collective human heritage.

Today, however, the Mediterranean is also a frontline for climate change. Rising sea temperatures, invasive species, and acidification are reshaping the delicate balance that has persisted here for thousands of years. The Mediterranean is warming 20% faster than the global average, putting ancient Posidonia meadows, the lungs of the sea, under grave threat. For those of us who see the Mediterranean as both a living ecosystem and a cultural cornerstone, the stakes are heartbreaking. It has always been a body of water that mirrored the ebbs and flows of human civilization, from trade routes to warfare, and now it has become an early warning system for the entire planet.

The changes sweeping through the Mediterranean Sea are not isolated—they’re ripples, harbingers of transformations reaching far beyond its shores. Invasive species from warmer waters have already begun to push out native species, with entire food webs restructured in ways we are only beginning to understand. For me, the Mediterranean’s transformations have always felt deeply personal, as though the very threads of my own connection to this sea are fraying, one species or seagrass meadow at a time.

As the Mediterranean changes, so do the traditional ways of life it has supported for centuries. Artisanal fishers, once in harmony with the seasons and the migrations of fish, now grapple with empty nets and foreign species disrupting their catch. The loss of biodiversity is not just about numbers; it is the erosion of a relationship, a rhythm of life that has evolved over thousands of years. We are losing not only wildlife but our traditional ways of being, our connection to place and to the ancient wisdom of those who lived in harmony with the sea long before us.

In global conversations about ocean conservation, the Mediterranean often finds itself overlooked. Perhaps it is due to its proximity to bustling civilizations, or maybe it’s because its compact size contrasts with the vastness of the Pacific or the Atlantic. Yet the Mediterranean remains one of the most biodiverse seas in the world. Here, species adapted to the rugged conditions of a semi-enclosed sea flourish, from seahorses hiding in meadows to groupers and tuna patrolling rocky reefs. This sea has borne witness to everything from massive migrations of bluefin tuna to the tiny nudibranchs that cloak its rocky shores in vibrant hues. The Mediterranean has long been a paradox: a relatively small, seemingly tame sea, yet brimming with an almost mythical intensity.

The Mediterranean taught me to look at the ocean as a tapestry, woven of both natural and cultural threads. As an interdisciplinary scientist, I now work to bridge the gap between these worlds, to merge science with storytelling and tradition with technology. The Mediterranean’s deep past, where sharks swam freely, where seagrass meadows grew untouched, continues to guide me as I navigate today’s conservation challenges across cultures and disciplines. This sea, this teacher, is not just a reminder of the beauty we stand to lose but of the resilience we can find—if we learn to listen to the stories that have always flowed through its waters.

The Mediterranean’s history is written not only into the marble walls of temples, or into folklore, but into its ecosystems, from the green seagrass meadows to the large whales. We are at a crossroads, and over the next decade we must decide what we want the Mediterranean’s story to become. This body of water has been humanity’s compass for thousands of years; by protecting its biodiversity, we are also protecting the cultures that call it home. In saving the Mediterranean, we are saving a piece of ourselves—our history, our future, and our enduring connection to the ocean.

Article One From the private journal of Samuel Arden, PhD. 7/11/2027 It’s good to be back! That proverbial saddle was warm and waiting for me. Today was our first explorative journey into the region of the Tonga Trench where those ridiculous anomalous readings originated from. Marissa and I set out from Tongatapu on the EV…

threnody, adrift her sister’s name was Melody because—blonde, beautiful, sweet as maple sap straight from the weeping bark— their parents knew she was siren-bound. threnody, though: bony, stringy, quiet as owls on the hunt could only ever be a ghost Melody sang threnody wept Melody keened threnody screamed Melody walked into the surf & threnody…