Bio: Patrick currently resides deep in the suburbs of South Carolina. He sucks at sports, can’t play any musical instruments, and suffers from crippling anxiety. In his spare time, he can be found trying to beat his best score at Ms. Pacman or passed out on the couch after a tiring day of Law & Order: SVU reruns. His favorite things include television, music, and comedy. He dislikes almost everything else, especially the Tori episodes of Saved by the Bell.
I didn’t set out to fall in love with charting. It was just supposed to be a school assignment. Check the boxes on the rubric, cite the sources, paste it all onto a tri-fold poster and call it a day. But the more I dug into it, the more it made sense. A score that can help nurses catch the subtle signs of patient decline before it turns into a code. It didn’t just feel useful, it felt powerful.
At the time, my life was chaotic. I was working full-time night shift, finishing my BSN, moving into a new home, and considering a new position. Basically, I was doing that thing nurses do: overachieving through exhaustion. What started as a class project became something I kept coming back to. Scribbled notes, half-formed ideas, and highlighter stains. I couldn’t let it go. And now, with a little time and distance, I find myself wondering if this is worth pursuing further? Have I just become too attached to walk away?
WHAT IS MEWS? (AND WHY SHOULD YOU CARE?)
The Modified Early Warning Score, or MEWS, is a tool designed to help nurses spot signs of patient deterioration before it becomes catastrophic. It uses basic vital signs; heart rate, respiratory rate, blood pressure, level of consciousness, temperature, and sometimes urine output, and assigns a numerical score. The higher the score, the greater the risk of patient decline.
It’s not flashy. It’s not complicated. And that’s kind of the point.
If you want proof that nurses are fully capable of catching the crash before it happens, a 2023 quality improvement study published in Journal of Nursing Care Quality found that implementing a MEWS protocol significantly increased the number of rapid response activations before in-hospital cardiac arrests (1). Furthermore, a 2022 review published in Physiological Measurement used MEWS as a case study to explore how predictive scores can do more than flag vitals, they can actually guide system-level alarm protocols by accounting for things like timeliness and clinical burden (2). It’s not just about catching a crash; it’s about doing it early enough to matter, and without flooding the unit with false alarms.
In plain English? MEWS helps nurses do what we already do. We’re just now armed with the data to back it up.
WHAT I DID
There’s a lot more data to support this, and believe me, I could talk about it for hours, but first, I want to zoom out and share the scope of the original assignment. A capstone project aimed at assessing staff readiness to implement a MEWS protocol at my place of employment. I put together a survey for my unit, mostly to get a sense of where my peers were mentally when it came to early warning systems. I wanted to know what they knew, what they didn’t, and what they cared enough to even answer.
Surprisingly (or maybe not), the hardest part wasn’t the research or the planning, it was getting anyone to care. Less than half the staff completed the survey. I told myself they were busy, burned out, pulled in a dozen directions. But still, it was discouraging. I started to wonder if I was the only one who thought this mattered.
Plus, implementing an early warning system had the potential to increase the sense of burden on nurses and support staff. It wasn’t just about monitoring vital signs anymore. Now we’d be reviewing MEWS scores and deciding whether a higher level of care was warranted. And what would that mean for physicians and other providers? Would they listen? Push back? Collaborate?
I spent hours building a presentation for our esteemed physicians, crafting each slide like it might be the one that kept them from tuning out. It wasn’t enough to understand the data, I had to make it bulletproof. Something that couldn’t be brushed off in the first three minutes of a morning meeting. In the end, the project was sold. Maybe not with fireworks and applause, but it landed. The system went live. Is it perfect? No. Does it add another layer of charting burden on nurses? Yes. But is it contributing to patient safety? Absolutely. And for me, that makes it worth it.
WHERE I AM NOW
It’s still too early to say whether this capstone project was a success. As of this writing, it’s only been a few weeks since implementation, and there are still wrinkles to iron out, workflows to tweak, buy-in to build. But the whole ordeal still haunts me (in the best possible way).
It’s lit a spark. The kind that makes you want to dig deeper, do more, explore something bigger. Something that isn’t just unit-specific, or just a part of where I work, but system-wide. I’ve found myself wondering what other facilities are doing. Are they using MEWS? Something else? And more importantly, is it actually working?
So here it is. My call to action. I want to encourage other nurses to get curious, to get involved, to see patient safety not as someone else’s job, but as something we can shape together. Think of this as a public service announcement disguised as a blog post.
I want to take my meager little survey and send it out into the world. And I’m starting with this. Is there public interest? Can MEWS be something truly system-wide? It still amazes me how long it took for us to implement this. But it happened. Better late than never.
If we can catch decline before it spirals, why wouldn’t we try? Or maybe I’m just crazy for thinking like this. For doing something on my own time. But then again… maybe that’s exactly what this work needs. Like I said earlier, overachieving through exhaustion. It’s what we do.
Rated R for disturbing content, language, and thematic elements.
BLACK SCREEN.
FAINT, WARPED AUDIO. A man reciting Shakespeare’s Richard III, voice shaking:
"Now is the winter of our discontent..."
CUT TO:
INT. AUDITORIUM – EMPTY THEATER – NIGHT
A dim spotlight flickers on a stage. Dust in the beam. A figure stands motionless at center stage—face unseen.
QUICK FLASH CUTS:
Surgical instruments clatter into a metal tray.
A close-up of scarred hands shaking.
A casting call flyer with BASIL KARLO’s name circled in red.
CCTV footage: a man entering a building, then that same man murdered inside... his “double” walking out.
JIM GORDON (V.O., low, tired):
“You ever look a man in the eye and swear you know him… only to find out he’s someone else entirely?”
MONTAGE – BUILDING TENSION (0:30–0:55)
KARLO in a bathroom, staring into a cracked mirror.
His reflection morphs... just slightly... into a different face.
An interview room. Gordon sits across from a survivor.
SURVIVOR: (shaky) “It was him. But... it wasn’t.”
Karlo walking down a crowded street, unnoticed.
His face shifts subtly in a shop window reflection.
A makeup chair. Gloved hands peel back what looks like skin. Rubbery, raw underneath.
DISTORTED WHISPER OVERLAYS THE SCORE:
“Who do you want me to be?”
INT. ABANDONED THEATER – NIGHT
KARLO (V.O., calm but cracked):
“I used to be somebody... Now I can be anybody.”
SHOT:
Gordon, gun drawn, flashlight flickering through backstage corridors.
KARLO (in shadow):
"Cast me, Lieutenant. Just... give me a part."
MUSIC STOPS. DEAD SILENCE.
BLACK SCREEN.
A slow, sticky sound as flesh rearranges.
TEXT ON SCREEN:
CLAYFACE
Coming Soon
FINAL WHISPER (barely audible):
“They’ll remember my face... even if it’s not mine.”
There’s no shortage of stoner comedies, but where’s the love for the high-functioning drunks? Arthur fills that void like a well-poured scotch, with Dudley Moore swaying, slurring, and charming his way through life like a true seasoned professional. Liza Minnelli keeps up, proving that chaos loves company. Sure, there’s a sequel, but I choose to believe it was just a collective fever dream. And as for the Russell Brand remake, some things are better left at the bottom of the bottle.
On the surface, it parades itself as your quintessential rom-com starring Ewan McGregor and Renée Zellweger, a dazzling throwback to early '60s New York, bursting with candy-colored charm. But peel back that glossy veneer, and you'll find a twisted satire of romance that revels in its own absurdity. With twist after twist that could make even Gone Girl shudder, the film flirts with sexy humor and subversive wit akin to the trio of Austin Powers films before it.
Yet, for all its quirky bravado, it’s a bit of a letdown that it never quite soared to the pop-cultural heights of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Day. A curious misfire, considering both films were born in the same fevered year.
Half a Million Reasons
Episode 3: Scars Are Souvenirs You Never Lose
Apple Podcasts
While taking his dog for an early morning walk in the woods, Herb Walker stumbles upon something unexpected.
Author's Note: Episode three drifts further into the frostbitten unknown. The same winter morning. Another discovery along the restless waters of the Foxfire River. Three different groups of people. Three fragments of a puzzle that may, or may not, belong to the same whole. A severed thread? The river keeps its secrets, but for how long?
Transcript:
Herb Walker trailed along the edge of Foxfire River. His Rottweiler, Daisy, padded a few paces ahead, her ears flicking at the occasional rustle in the brush. She was a good dog, a loyal dog, and that was more than Herb could say for most people.
The sun was just starting to climb, bleeding soft gold through the mist that curled off the river like a waking breath. It was his favorite time of day. The world still quiet, untouched, not yet ruined by the noise of people who talked too loud and never listened.
He treasured moments like this. Especially now.
Especially since April.
It had been nearly a year, but grief had a way of keeping time in its own strange rhythm. Some days, it felt like she had only just gone, like he’d turn the corner and see her there on the porch, coffee cup in hand, rolling her eyes at him for waking up too damn early again.
Other days, it felt like she had been missing from this world for a century.
But out here, in the unforgiving wilderness, Herb Walker could, if only for a moment, forget what he’d lost. The river’s edge, the ever-burning, never-answered glow of Foxfire River, had a way of offering something that felt like peace. Not the kind you’d find in church or the bottom of a bottle, but the kind that pressed down on you, made your bones heavy, your breath slow.
He crouched at the bank, watching the water catch the first sliver of sunlight, shimmering like something alive. Some folks said the river glowed because of trapped spirits, their anger caught in the current. Others blamed old Henry Cawthorne’s stolen gold, hidden beneath the water, cursed forever. Herb didn’t care much for ghost stories. He carried his own.
He couldn’t explain it, but the river made him feel connected to April. Not in a way he understood, not in a way he could explain, but in that cruel, cosmic joke of a way where the dead aren’t really gone, they just rearrange themselves in the things you can’t quite look at. A ripple in the water. The rustle of leaves at your back when there’s no wind. The scent of honeysuckle carried by something unseen.
He exhaled, slow.
“Damn it, April,” he muttered. “Why’d you have to go?”
The river didn’t answer. It never did. It just kept moving, kept glowing, kept doing what rivers do.
Daisy slowed, sniffing at something in the reeds, tail stiff. Herb kept walking, hands in his pockets, letting the river murmur its old, familiar tune.
And that’s when Daisy let out a sharp bark.
Herb stopped.
She was just ahead, standing rigid at the river’s edge, hackles raised. The sound she made wasn’t her usual warning growl. It was something smaller, tighter. Uncertain.
Herb frowned, stepping closer.
“Daisy?”
The dog didn’t move.
Herb followed Daisy’s gaze, squinting through the early morning haze. Nothing unusual, nothing out of place.
Except—
There, just past a patch of overgrown reeds, caught at the edge of the trail.
A car.
A black sedan.
It didn’t belong. Not here. Not in Hickory Bend, where most folks still drove pickups as old as their grandparents. This was a city car. Sleek. Polished. Too new. Too shiny. The windows were tinted.
And. The engine was still running. Exhaust curled from the muffler, fading into the cold air like a sigh.
Herb’s stomach tightened. His fingers twitched at his side, itching for something.
He made a low whistling noise, the one he always used to settle Daisy when a deer strayed too close or when she got antsy around strangers. She hesitated, ears still perked, but slowly padded back to his side. He clipped on her leash with a practiced hand, steady despite the unease crawling up his spine.
“Easy, girl. Easy.” His voice came out in a hush, barely more than breath.
He waited.
Nothing.
No door swinging open. No shadowed figure stepping out to explain why the hell a blacked-out city car was sitting here, in the woods, just before dawn.
The soft hum of the engine.
And the feeling. That feeling. That something was watching.
Herb took a slow step forward, his boots crunching against the ground with each tread he trodded.
Daisy let out a low, uncertain whine.
The car just sat there.
Herb’s gut told him to turn back. To double back down the trail, head home, and pretend he never saw a damn thing. But curiosity. That old, dangerous thing, kept his boots planted where they were.
So instead, he stayed.
He moved slow, careful, positioning himself behind the thick trunk of a sweetgum tree, its bark rough against his palm. From here, he could watch without being seen, his breath shallow, controlled.
The car just sat there. Silent. Humming.
Endless possibilities ran through his head, each worse than the last.
It had the look. That clean, unnatural sleekness, black paint polished to a mirror shine, windows dark as secrets. Could’ve been government-issued. FBI, maybe? But what the hell would they be doing out here, in the sticks, parked like a ghost on the riverbank?
Or worse… The mob.
Maybe it wasn’t a parked car at all. Maybe it was a tomb.
A body in the trunk. A snitch with a bag over his head, fresh out of breath. A cleanup crew making a quick stop before sending someone to sleep with the fish in Foxfire’s deepest bend.
Herb’s jaw tightened.
Do I stay? Or do I run?
Running was smart. Running meant getting home, brewing coffee, and forgetting all about this. Running meant telling himself later that it was nothing. A lost traveler, a drunk who pulled off the road, some teenager playing pretend in Daddy’s stolen ride.
But staying?
Staying meant answers.
And Herb Walker wasn’t the kind of man who left questions hanging in the cold.
Daisy shifted beside him, ears still perked, eyes locked on the car. She felt it too, the strangeness in the air.
Herb swallowed.
And stayed.
A moment later, the sound of crunching leaves broke the silence.
Not a deer. Not the wind shaking loose another handful of brittle, dying leaves. Footsteps. Measured. Intentional.
Daisy heard it too. She let out a low, warning growl, her body tensing.
Herb snapped his fingers, sharp and quick. Hush.
She obeyed, but her ears stayed perked, eyes locked on the movement just beyond the car.
Two men. Just out of view at first, then stepping into the thin morning light. Black suits, sharp and crisp. Brimmed hats low over their faces, their movements precise.
They looked like they walked straight out of a gritty film noir, black and white silhouettes against the graying dawn. Not locals.
The men didn’t talk, didn’t hesitate. They were combing the banks of Foxfire, moving slow, scanning the ground, the water, the reeds.
Looking.
For what, Herb didn’t know.
But something told him, they weren’t planning on leaving until they found it.
One of the men broke character.
Up until now, they had been precise. Too precise. Moving in sync, sweeping their eyes over the riverbank with the kind of eerie patience that suggested they already knew what they were looking for.
But then… a slip.
A muttered phrase, low but sharp. Herb couldn’t catch all of it, not from this distance, but the open air carried just enough syllables to send a chill through him.
“It’s got to be close.”
Not maybe. Not let’s keep looking.
It’s got to be close.
Herb’s grip tightened on Daisy’s leash. His mouth went dry.
Whatever it was, they weren’t guessing.
They knew.
One of the men broke away, striding back toward the sleek, black sedan. The kind of walk that didn’t waste time.
Herb watched as he yanked open the driver’s side door, reached inside, and pulled out something bulky. A car phone, the kind still attached to a cord, the kind rich folks and government types used when they wanted to feel important.
The man punched in a string of numbers, held the receiver to his ear.
Herb strained to listen. The wind carried only fragments, syllables slipping through the trees like ghosts.
He thought he heard, “We lost it.”
Maybe.
But then, clearer this time, firm, clipped.
“We’ll keep looking.”
Herb swallowed.
Daisy shifted beside him again, ears pinned back, sensing his unease like a radio picking up a bad frequency.
Then, she barked.
Not a soft warning this time. A full-bodied growl. Cutting through the morning stillness like a blade.
Herb’s stomach dropped.
The two men froze.
Then, in unison, their heads turned. Straight toward him.
Herb coiled to the ground, pressing himself against the rough bark of the sweetgum tree, heart hammering. The cold earth seeped through his jeans, the scent of damp leaves filling his nose. Maybe, just maybe, the shadows and the early morning haze would be enough to keep him concealed.
Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t—
Then his fingers slipped.
The leash… gone.
Daisy bolted. Straight toward the men.
“Shit,” Herb hissed under his breath, already scrambling to his knees, already reaching… Too late.
She was on them now, barreling forward, her deep, protective bark splitting the air.
The men reacted fast.
Too fast.
And that’s when Herb realized… these weren’t just any men.
The taller of the two men moved first. Smooth, practiced, too damn fast.
From the folds of his coat, he produced a pistol. Not a shaky, first-time gun owner kind of draw, but a cold, professional movement. A man who had pulled a trigger before and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
He raised it. Leveled it at Daisy.
Herb’s heart jumped, his stomach turning inside out. No time to think. Instinct took over, and before his brain could catch up, he was already lunging from behind the tree.
“DAISY, EASE!” His voice cracked, too loud, too desperate.
The man with the gun hesitated. Just a flicker. Just enough.
His eyes gravitated toward Herb. They were registering a new variable. A moment later, he lowered the pistol, slipping it back into his coat with the ease of a magician performing a parlor trick. Like it had never been there at all.
Herb sucked in a breath and did the only thing that made sense. He pretended not to notice.
Didn’t see the gun. Didn’t see how casual the guy had been about nearly shooting his damn dog. Didn’t see how his partner hadn’t even flinched.
Nope.
He was just some poor idiot out walking his dog. That was the story. That was the role. And if he played it right, maybe he wouldn’t have a matching hole in his chest by sunrise.
Daisy, still on edge, had stopped just short of leaping distance. She stood rigid, ears pinned back, growl low and steady.
Herb forced himself forward, his legs like cement, his breath hitching in his throat.
By the time he reached Daisy, he was out of breath. Whether from the sprint or sheer terror was up for debate.
He bent down, gripping the leash tight.
“Sorry, guys,” he wheezed, dragging in oxygen like a drowning man. “Guess she slipped away from me.”
He looked up.
The men were watching.
Not annoyed. Not amused.
Just… watching.
Unblinking.
Expressionless.
Herb forced a chuckle, the kind that felt like loose gravel in his throat. Keep it light. Keep it casual. Pretend the last thirty seconds didn’t just happen.
“We don’t see too many folks out this early on our morning walks,” he said, giving Daisy’s leash a reassuring tug, like that might settle his own nerves as much as hers.
The man who had nearly shot his dog finally spoke. His voice was smooth but edged, like a blade that had seen too much use.
“Scared the fuck out of me.”
Herb let out a dry laugh, trying to ignore the way the man’s hand lingered just a little too long at the pocket where the gun had disappeared.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Mornings are rough.”
The other man. The quiet one, the observer, the one who hadn’t so much as twitched when a weapon got drawn was still watching him. Not just looking. Studying.
“You guys lost?” Herb asked, shifting his weight, trying to keep his voice somewhere between neighborly and neutral.
The quiet one finally spoke.
“Something like that.”
The way he said it, flat, unreadable, sent a slow, crawling chill through Herb’s spine.
The man’s eyes dragged over him, head to toe, like he was assessing something. A calculation, an equation, a potential problem to solve.
Herb held his breath.
Then, slowly, the man smiled.
It wasn’t the friendly kind. It wasn’t the reassuring kind.
It was the kind that said, We’re not done here.
“This path will take you back to the main road,” Herb spoke. “Maybe a mile or so up.”
The one with the pistol finally relaxed. Or at least pretended to.
His fingers eased away from his coat pocket, like a man who wanted you to know just how easily he could have gone the other way.
“Yeah,” he said, exhaling like this was all just some dumb mix-up. No big deal. “Think we took a wrong turn back there. Was heading into town for some breakfast. Had to stop to take a piss.”
Herb’s lips pressed into a thin line.
A piss. Right.
Because that made perfect sense. Two men in black suits, driving a sleek city car, hunting the banks of Foxfire River at the crack of dawn like a pair of detectives straight out of a dime-store novel, all because one of them couldn’t hold it in until the gas station on Main.
Sure.
Herb let the lie hang in the cold air, nodding slowly, as if he had any interest in pretending to believe it.
“Well,” he said, scratching Daisy behind the ear, “you’re about ten miles off course if you were looking for breakfast. Closest spot’s Mary Lou’s Diner. Hell of a detour just to take a leak.”
The quiet one tilted his head, the way a man does when he wants you to know he’s listening, but not to the words you’re saying.
A long pause.
Then, a smile.
Not a real one.
The kind you put on when you’ve decided to let something slide.
“Appreciate the tip,” the gunman said, dusting imaginary lint off his sleeve.
The quiet one said nothing.
Just kept watching.
“Well,” Herb said, keeping his voice easy, almost lazy, “I’ll let you two go now. Be safe out here. Lots of black bears. Some of them aren’t friendly.”
The gunman smirked, a small, knowing thing. “Noted.”
That was it. No laugh, no thanks for the heads-up, just a single word that sat heavy in the air.
Herb nodded, tugging Daisy’s leash a little too hard. She let out a small whine but obeyed, ears still pinned back as they turned away.
He kept his stride even, measured. Running wasn’t an option. Running meant fear, meant suspicion. Running was for prey.
Still, he checked back. Once. Then again.
Each time, he forced a polite smile, the kind people give in passing, the kind meant to keep things normal. But he wasn’t smiling. He was watching. Watching for a sudden movement, a shift in weight, a hand dipping back into a coat pocket. Waiting to see if the gunman was going to clip him right here in the woods and leave him for the river.
A candid look at sex workers in 1980s New York City. Is it glamorous? No. Is it scandalous? No. Is it sexy? Wrong again. It's just a bunch of young women working in a brothel and having to deal with their micromanager of a boss, who gets angry with the girls if they let the phone ring too many times, put their feet on the couch, or leave little crumpled up pieces of tissue paper on the floor. In this grim carnival of rules and routine, the only thing burning hotter than the sinful rendezvous with paying, married men is the absurdity of it all.
Half a Million Reasons
Episode 2: Where the Wild Roses Grow
Apple Podcasts
Somewhere between a home movie and a crime scene, Beau and Maisie’s woodland escapade takes a sharp turn when the Foxfire River serves up an uninvited guest. One who won’t be leaving a review.
“How do I turn this thing on?” Beau asked, turning the camcorder over in his hands like it was an artifact from another world.
Maisie chuckled, a low, knowing sound.
“Give it here,” she said, yanking the camera from his grip with the same force she used to pop the tab on a soda can. A quick flick of her thumb, and the red light blinked to life. She set it down on a tree stump, angling it just so.
“This is stupid,” Beau muttered. “What if someone comes along and sees us?”
Maisie smirked, pulling her hair into a loose knot. “No one comes out this far.”
Beau hesitated. Then, with the quiet resignation of a man who had already lost this argument, he peeled off his shirt.
His skin, winter-pale, bristled with the shock of morning air. He stood just over six feet, built like a man who knew his way around a weight rack. Thick arms, broad shoulders, the kind of body that took work and wasn’t shy about showing it. He carried himself with a quiet, effortless confidence. The kind that came from knowing he looked good. His face, freshly shaved, still held the ghost of a smirk, a hint of boyish charm that softened his sharp edges. And his hair. His damn perfect hair. Dark brown, short on the sides, just enough on top to run a hand through when the moment called for it. A gust of wind rolled through, and his breath hitched, nipples betraying him with a sharp, involuntary salute.
Maisie glanced at him, one eyebrow cocked. “Jesus, Beau,” she teased, rubbing her arms for warmth. “Gonna cut glass with those things.”
He scowled. “Shut up.”
Maisie walked back to the truck, her breath curling in the crisp morning air. She was slender, with straight blonde hair that carried the memory of waves, never quite settling one way or the other. Her frame was delicate but not fragile, her movements easy, like someone who never had to rush. She had a perky chest and a backside that Goldilocks herself would have called just right. Not too much, not too little, perfectly balanced. The kind that turned heads without trying.
The old pickup truck sat where they’d left it, black paint faded to a dull charcoal, the body peppered with rust freckles. It had been her granddad’s once, long before she was born.
She tugged open the creaky door, reached across the worn-out bench seat, and grabbed the blue throw blanket rolled up in the front. The fabric was soft but smelled faintly of dust and engine grease. She liked that. It made everything feel real.
Turning back, she stepped carefully over the tangle of roots and dead leaves, the forest floor snapping beneath her bare feet. She found a patch of earth just wide enough, just soft enough. She unfurled the blanket with a flick of her wrists, the fabric billowing before settling onto the ground.
Maisie didn’t hesitate.
She slid off her clothing, tossing them into a careless pile beside the blanket. Her skin prickling against the morning chill, and stretched herself out on the makeshift bed. The blanket wasn’t thick enough to keep out the cold, but she didn’t mind.
She exhaled.
And waited.
"Why not do this inside somewhere?" Beau proclaimed, sliding off his pants. His voice carrying just enough edge to make it clear he was questioning more than just location.
He turned, scanning the treeline, careful. Almost too careful. Making sure no one was lurking beyond sight. But why would there be? It was early morning, miles away from anything resembling civilization. Just a lonely clearing, a patchy stretch of grass curled along the edge of Foxfire River.
Maisie, unfazed, lay stretched out on the blanket, arms folded behind her head, watching him with the vague amusement of a cat watching a nervous bird.
“Inside’s boring,” she said simply.
“Inside’s warm,” Beau shot back.
Maisie smirked. “So is hell, but I don’t see you rushing to visit.”
Beau exhaled sharply, rubbing his arms against the cold. The morning air had a weight to it, like the land hadn’t quite woken up yet. Even the birds were quiet.
“You ever think this place is… I don’t know, off,” he muttered, glancing back at the river.
“Everything’s a little off if you stare at it long enough,” she mused.
Beau scoffed. “That supposed to be deep?”
Maisie grinned. “Depends how deep the river goes.”
Beau opened his mouth, then shut it, a twinge of something unreadable in his expression. He had a bad feeling, one of those gnawing little instincts that started in the gut and worked their way up, whispering, Maybe we shouldn’t be here.
Maisie didn’t get those feelings. Or if she did, she ignored them.
She sat up, crossing her legs, tilting her head at him.
“Seriously, what’s with you?” she asked. “You think the trees are gonna tattle?”
Beau hesitated, eyes flicking toward the river one last time. The water looked different now. Darker, more aware, but maybe that was just his own nerves screwing with him. He took a deep breath, shrugged his shoulders, and shimmied off his underwear, kicking it aside like he wasn’t standing bare-assed in a freezing clearing with a camera rolling.
He walked toward Maisie, doing his best to stir something in himself, but his body was more concerned with the cold than his libido. Maisie giggled, biting her lip.
Beau frowned. “What’s so funny?”
Maisie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, still smirking. “How are we supposed to be famous if you’re not taking this seriously?”
Beau snorted, rubbing his arms against the chill. “Famous? Me? I’m only doing this because it’s your dream.”
She leaned back on her hands, letting the early morning light hit her face like a spotlight. “I want to be a star, Beau. Make something of myself. Get out of this damn town.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, then I don’t know, maybe you should play with yourself. Or find some other chump to go along with it.”
Maisie just smiled, slow and knowing. “They don’t all have your talent.”
Beau glanced down at himself, sighing. Even unaroused, and in the unforgiving grip of a chilly, January morning, he was still impressive. And he knew it. It was something in his life that he took pride in. A monument to genetics and arrogance. He smirked and with an almost lazy confidence, he gave it a swing in front of Maisie’s face, as if to say, Behold.
Maisie reached for him, trailing her fingers up his thigh. “C’mon,” she cooed, voice playful but insistent. “Give the people what they want.”
He scoffed. “The people? Don’t you mean a couple of creeps at shady video stores?”
“A fanbase,” she corrected. “A devoted following.”
Beau exhaled, shaking his head. The things he did for this girl.
He dropped to his knees on the blanket. The fabric rough against his skin, damp from the cold earth beneath. Then, his focus shifted. His lips brushing against the curve of Maisie’s neck.
Her skin smelled like drugstore vanilla and river mist. Both a blend of cheap sweetness and something untamed. He felt her shiver. Not from the cold, but from him. Encouraged, he trailed lower, mouth skimming the hollow of her throat, the gentle rise of her collarbone.
Maisie let out a soft moan, breath hitching just enough to make him feel it.
That did it.
Any hesitation, any lingering thoughts about being naked in a clearing miles from civilization, in front of a blinking red light, evaporated. He still had reservations, sure. But Beau was a man who knew how to please a woman, and something about her sounds. Small, breathy, needy… triggered something in him.
His body responded before his brain could second-guess it.
A full, unmistakable erection. Right there. On camera. In the woods. On the banks of Foxfire River. On a cold, cold morning.
Maisie tilted her head back, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Well, look at that,” she murmured.
Beau smirked, running a hand down her side. “You gonna keep talking or put that mouth to better use?”
She giggled, dragging her nails lightly over his shoulders. “Now that’s the attitude of a star.”
Within a moment, he was inside her. At first, a slow push. His body settling against hers like something inevitable. His breath hitched, the cold morning air clashing with the heat between them.
Maisie gasped, fingers curling into the blanket, her back arching just slightly. Her moans came in soft, breathy bursts, her head tilting back, eyes rolling beneath fluttering lids.
Beau watched her, studied her.
Was it for him? Or for the camera? Hard to tell.
Maisie had a way of making everything feel like a performance. Every laugh, every look, every sigh, curated for the moment, for the audience, even if that audience was just him at the moment. Maybe that was what he liked about her. Or maybe it was what unsettled him.
Either way, he didn’t care.
He grabbed her hips, adjusting, sinking deeper.
Maisie let out a sharp gasp, her body pressing against his, and for a fleeting second, he thought, this sound, this reaction, was real. Not for the camera. Not for anyone else. Just for him.
The thought sent a charge through him, something primal, something territorial.
The camera’s lens continued to capture them.
After a moment, Maisie shifted, fluid and unhurried, rolling onto all fours. The movement was effortless, like she’d done this a thousand times before. Maybe she had? She arched her back just enough, her bare skin catching the early morning light, and tilted her head to the side, peering at him over her shoulder with a lazy, knowing smirk.
“Deeper,” she murmured. “I want to feel every inch.”
Beau pushed a heavy breath through his nostrils, settling onto his knees behind her. “Much obliged,” he muttered, steadying himself with one hand at her waist, fingers sinking into the soft curve of her hip.
And then, he thrust.
A sharper moan, this time. Something different. More guttural, more euphoric. Not the playful, teasing sounds she made when she wanted to put on a show. This was instinctual. Real.
Or at least, it felt real.
His breath steadied, muscles tensing, a low groan slipping past his lips. “I’m close,” he muttered, voice rough, ragged.
Maisie pulled away. Slow. Like a woman who already knew how this scene would play out. She sank back onto the blanket, resting on her knees, her face just inches from him, eyes heavy-lidded, expectant.
Beau took himself in hand, a few sharp, shuddering strokes, and then… release.
Heat. Spilling across her face. Maisie didn’t flinch, didn’t shy away. She welcomed it. Let it linger. Let it trail in slow, glistening paths. A flick of her tongue, a satisfied hum, as she caught the taste of him.
She grinned, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Now… that’s a performance.”
Beau exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair, half-laughing, half-breathless. The air between them was thick, charged, the moment stretching long and languid.
The camera whirred, still recording. The river murmured in the distance.
And somewhere beyond the trees, something caught his eyes on the banks of the Foxfire River.
Maisie caught the shift in Beau’s expression. His brow pinched, lips slightly parted, a look caught somewhere between confusion and something darker. She turned, following his gaze, her smirk fading.
“What is it?” she asked, voice softer now, edged with something that wasn’t quite fear but was close enough to touch.
Beau didn’t answer right away. He blinked, adjusting his focus, his breath still uneven. He was standing now, bare and raw in the cold morning air, remnants of their moment still trailing down his skin, almost forgotten.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, hesitation creeping into his voice. “It kind of looks like a—” He swallowed, took a step closer, eyes narrowing. “A body.”
The word settled between them like a stone dropped in deep water.
Maisie stiffened.
The forest, silent before, felt too silent now. The kind of silence that swallowed sound instead of holding it. The camera’s red light still blinked, steady and unbothered, recording everything.
The river stretched out before them, dark and sluggish, its surface smooth as glass.
This time, the stage is set at the banks of the Foxfire River, a place where the wild roses grow and bad decisions bloom. We meet Beau Harley, a college kid home for winter break, and Maisie Kurtz, the restless hometown girl desperate for an exit strategy. Her golden ticket? Not a scholarship, not a bus ticket, but an adult film. It’s shot guerilla-style in the cold dawn, starring a reluctant Beau and his not-so-reluctant special appendage.
Why Beau? Let’s just say he’s got natural-born talent. Why does he agree? Hard to say. Maybe it’s Maisie’s persistence. Maybe it’s boredom. Maybe it’s just the kind of thing that happens in a town where nothing ever really happens.
But performance is a fickle thing. It’s all fun and games, until Beau spots something adrift in the water. A body. Not a prop, not a trick of the light. A real, pale, dead human body.
In Episode One, Bernard Capshaw found a suitcase full of cash that bumped up against his paddle boat. Now, we’ve got a corpse floating downriver. Coincidence? Is Hickory Bend starting to rot from the inside out?
Most importantly, where is this going? Stay tuned, folks.
A glorious, unhinged spectacle of teenage rebellion, loud guitars, and pure, unfiltered absurdity. The kind of film that didn't just embrace chaos, it rode it straight into the ground with blasting power chords at full volume.
Riff Randell? A rock ‘n’ roll prophet in knee socks and a leather jacket. The teenage anarchist we needed to drag us kicking and screaming into the '80s. The Ramones? The embodiment of cool. Tight jeans. Tight t-shirts. A band so effortlessly iconic they could make a high school gymnasium feel like CBGB.
And the rest? A deranged fever dream of teenage anarchy. Giant rodents. An evil headmistress. Smoking in the boys room. And detonated dreams. A finale that doesn’t just let the kids skip school, it vaporizes it off the face of the Earth. School’s not just out for summer, kids. It’s out forever.
And then there’s Dee Dee Ramone. Standing in the shower, fully clothed, bass in hand, water pouring over him like some kind of punk rock baptism. He’s not fazed. He doesn’t flinch. He just keeps slapping those strings. Dee Dee Ramone didn’t try to be cool. He just was.
Back in middle school, this was the movie that made sick days and summer afternoons bearable. A staple of Comedy Central’s weirdo '90s lineup that sat comfortably around reruns of Soap and Kids in the Hall. It doesn’t just check all the boxes. It sets them on fire and moshes on the ashes.
The river ran cold. It always did this time of year. Bernard Capshaw knew it, but knowing never stopped a man from doing something he loved.
He stood on the back porch, the faded wooded planks creaking under his weight. The first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, giving the sky a pink and orange glow. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, filling his lungs with the refreshing chill of a new morning. This was his sanctuary, a sacred moment before the chaos of everyday life descended.
He had just crossed the threshold of fifty-six but carried himself like a man who’d put in more years than that. Retirement had come early. Not by choice, but because his back had finally called it quits after decades of hard labor. He moved slower these days, careful, like he was always trying to outmaneuver a sharp pain waiting to take him down.
His hair was thinning, a stubborn mix of brown and gray, combed back out of habit even though the front was retreating faster than he liked to admit. His face was weathered, lined from years spent outdoors, the kind of skin that had seen too many summers and not enough sunscreen. His eyes, a steely blue, still held that sharpness, though. He was always sizing things up, trying to figure out what was worth his attention and what wasn’t.
A flannel-and-jeans kind of man, no matter the season. The shirts were always worn in just right, soft from years of washing, the sleeves rolled up out of routine rather than necessity. His jeans. Faded, frayed at the edges, had seen their fair share of repairs, but he wasn’t one for throwing out a good pair just because they had a hole or two. His boots were scuffed, well-worn, the kind that had walked through mud, sawdust, and riverbanks more times than he could count.
In front of him, the river was a deep, murky black that seemed to absorb all light, making the trees on the other side of the bank appear swallowed by darkness. A thick layer of mist clung to the surface, swirling in the faint dawn light. It wasn’t frozen. No, not quite. But it had that brittle look about it, like a thin crust of ice was just waiting for the right moment to form.
“You’ll catch yourself a cold,” Edith warned, like she did every morning, whenever Bernard grabbed his Thermos filled with coffee. No cream, no sugar. Black. Just the way he liked it.
Bernard had long suspected Edith wasn’t truly concerned about his well-being so much as she was committed to maintaining her personal record for Most Consecutive Days Delivering The Exact Same Warning. Thirty-seven years and counting. He let out a sigh and shrugged off her words, knowing he would hear them again tomorrow.
“I won’t catch a cold,” Bernard grumbled, pulling his knit cap down over his ears. “I’m made of sterner stuff.”
“Made of foolishness and bad knees,” Edith corrected. “And you better be home before lunch.”
Bernard grunted, waving her off as he stepped off the front porch, boots pressing into the frostbitten earth.
He glanced back at Edith, still parked on the porch, arms folded, bathrobe cinched like a judge about to deliver sentencing. They were the same age, and time hadn’t exactly been generous to her either. She’d softened over the years, a little fluffier, a little grumpier, but there were still glimpses of the sharp, spirited woman she used to be…. especially when she had something to say and no patience for nonsense. The years had added lines to her face and a permanent edge to her tone, but every now and then, in the right light, you could still see the fire in her eyes, the same one that had drawn Bernard to her all those years ago.
And in that moment, as he took in her expression, she gave him the look—the one that said, Fine, go ahead, indulge your ridiculous whims. But when you’re done gazing into the abyss or whatever existential nonsense you’re up to, maybe think about cleaning out the gutters.
But. He didn’t care about the gutters. He had a routine to maintain. And he didn’t like to mess with routine.
Get on the water just before sunrise. Paddle toward the bend on his old wood-hulled boat. Sip his coffee. Let the warmth battle the chill seeping into his bones, and sink into the kind of silence only the river could offer.
He drifted a few feet from shore, right to that sweet spot where the world felt just still enough. Paddle resting across his lap, he let the river take over, rocking him in its lazy, indifferent rhythm. The morning murmured around him. The low chitter of waking birds, the whisper of water slipping past the boat, the kind of silence that wasn’t really silence at all.
But today, the river had other ideas.
The tap was faint at first. A soft, repetitive thunk against the side of his dinghy. Bernard ignored it. Probably a branch or some stray debris caught in the current. He took a long sip from his Thermos, wincing as it burned the roof of his mouth.
Thunk.
Louder this time.
Bernard sighed and leaned over, pushing the brim of his cap up. He squinted at the water.
A suitcase.
A damn suitcase.
Floating. Half-submerged, bobbing lightly against his boat like it belonged there.
Bernard frowned. It wasn’t the usual kind of trash that wound up in the river. Beer cans, old tires, the occasional shoe. Maybe some careless fool lost it.
He reached down, the cold biting at his fingertips as he grabbed hold of the handle. The thing was heavier than it should’ve been, waterlogged and reluctant. With a grunt, he heaved it onto his boat. The wet leather slapping against the deck.
It was old. Beat to hell. The kind of suitcase his father might’ve carried back in the day, when men still traveled in pressed suits and tipped their hats at strangers. Brass latches, the edges scuffed, a faded tag on the side with no name on it.
Curiosity gnawed at him.
Bernard glanced around. Not a soul in sight.
His fingers hovered over the latches.
He told himself not to. That whatever was inside, it wasn’t his business. That some things, especially things found floating in cold rivers, were best left alone.
Then he popped the latches anyway.
The lid creaked open, stiff with years of neglect.
Money.
Stacks of it. Bundled tight. Crisp despite the damp. More money than Bernard had ever seen in his life. Not just a little… a lot. Enough to buy himself a new boat. A new truck. Hell, a new life.
His stomach twisted.
People didn’t just lose suitcases full of money.
People left them.
Bernard sat there, the morning air thick with the scent of pine and something else. Something heavy, something he couldn’t name. The river lapped at the boat like it was waiting.
He licked his lips, looked around again.
The river was silent. Still. Watching.
The money stared back.
He paddled back to shore, his mind racing faster than his arms could move. The suitcase sat heavy in front of him, like a guilty conscience wrapped in leather. The river, once a comfort, now felt like it was taunting and teasing.
The moment his boots hit the dock, he nearly bolted for the house, ready to fling open the door, announce it to Edith with none of that half-awake coffee pot mumbling and show her the fortune he’d just plucked from the water.
But something stopped him.
Edith.
Edith, with her unwavering sense of right and wrong. Edith, who still returned extra change at the grocery store, even when the cashier insisted it was fine. Edith, who wouldn’t just tell him to report this to the authorities. She’d make him.
Sheriff Hollis. Rusty Hollis.
A man with the metabolism of a bear coming out of hibernation and the disposition of a dog that had been kicked one too many times. The kind of man who never missed a town council meeting but regularly forgot his own wedding anniversary. Rusty wasn’t a bad sheriff, just the kind who’d rather spend an afternoon fishing for catfish than fishing for suspects.
Bernard could already picture it. Rusty standing on his porch, one hand on his belt, the other scratching his stomach, squinting at the suitcase like it had personally offended him.
“Well, Bernie,” Rusty would say, rubbing his chin like that alone would summon an answer. “This sure is… a situation.”
An interrogation, perhaps? His face splashed across the front page of the local newspaper? It was all too overwhelming for someone like Bernard, a simple country boy used to a quiet life.
And then there was another possibility.
What if this wasn’t just lost money? What if this was bad money?
The kind that came with strings. The kind that, if you weren’t careful, had a habit of making people disappear.
Bernard looked down at the suitcase, its brass latches still glinting. He nudged it with his boot, half-expecting it to spring open and shout Surprise! like some kind of cursed jack-in-the-box.
A decision had to be made. And fast.
Take it straight to Edith. Accept the inevitable. Be lectured before breakfast. Lose a fortune but keep his soul intact.
Or… Hide it. Just for now. Just long enough to think. To figure out what kind of trouble he was dealing with.
He chewed his lip. He wasn’t a greedy man.
But even a man with a well-worn conscience had to wonder—
If a suitcase full of money taps against your boat in the middle of the river, and no one’s around to claim it… Did it ever really exist?
Bernard sighed, hoisted the suitcase under one arm, and made a choice.
The shed.
It wasn’t a good choice, necessarily, but it was the fastest. And the fastest choices were usually the best ones when you were standing on a dock with a suitcase full of questionable cash and a wife who prided herself on civic duty.
He trudged across the yard, boots sinking into the earth, glancing over his shoulder like a man carrying something much worse than money. Like sin, or a live grenade. The morning mist curled around his ankles, thick and lingering, as if even the weather wanted to be part of the secret.
The shed sat at the far edge of the yard, leaning slightly to the left. Its tin roof rusted from years of neglect. Bernard had always meant to fix it up, but procrastination and a healthy disinterest in manual labor had won out. The door groaned when he pulled it open, the kind of sound that made a man think about all the horror movies he’d watch over the years.
At first, he hesitated.
Then he stepped inside.
The shed smelled like old wood, damp earth, and a vague sense of neglect. Cobwebs stretched from beam to beam, a small army of spiders doing what Bernard never got around to. A broken fishing rod leaned against the wall. A rusted tackle box sat on the workbench. A lawnmower that hadn’t worked since Nixon was in office took up most of the space.
Perfect.
Bernard shoved the suitcase into the darkest corner, behind a stack of paint cans and a bag of fertilizer he wasn’t entirely sure was still legal to use. He stood back, hands on his hips, examining his handiwork.
Couldn’t even see it.
Good.
He wiped his hands on his jeans, turned to leave… And stopped.
A single thought. Quiet but insistent, wormed its way into his head.
What if someone came looking for it?
Bernard swallowed hard. He shut the shed door, bolted it, and stood there for a long moment, listening to the wind shift through the trees.
Then, with a deep breath and the kind of optimism only a fool or a desperate man could muster, he pushed the thought aside and walked back to the house,practicing his best I didn’t just find a fortune in the river and hide it in my shed face.
Bernard crept back to the house like a man returning from a crime scene. Which, technically, he wasn’t, but it sure felt like one. His heart was thumping harder than it should’ve been for a man who just took a quick morning boat ride and definitely didn’t haul a mysterious suitcase full of money out of the river and stash it in his shed like a lunatic.
He stepped onto the porch, wiped his boots twice, then once more for good measure, and slipped inside.
The scent of bacon and coffee hit him first. Then, the sight of Edith, hovering over the stove, spatula in hand, mid-pancake flip, turning to face him with narrowed eyes. She was still in her robe. Once pink and smooth, now faded to a weary shade of rose. Its frilled edges curling like old paper. Her hair, a tangle of forgotten effort, lay tucked beneath a headpiece that had seen better days. A quiet crown for a woman who had long since stopped caring who saw her wear it.
“You’re back early,” she said, suspicion laced in every syllable.
Bernard forced a chuckle. “Well, good morning to you, too.”
She jabbed the spatula in his direction. “I told you it was too chilly this morning. You never listen.”
He set his Thermos on the counter and shrugged, aiming for casual, landing somewhere between shifty and recently paroled. “You’re always right,” he said.
Edith squinted at him, like she could see straight through his skin and into the very bad decision currently rusting in their shed. Bernard did his best to look like a man who had not just committed what might technically be a felony.
She turned back to the stove, but not before muttering, “Damn straight, I am.”
Bernard exhaled.
Crisis averted.
Or at least… postponed.
He pulled out a chair, plopped down at the kitchen table, and tried to act normal. Normal meant reading the paper, sipping coffee, and not immediately running back outside to check on the suitcase.
“So,” Edith said, cracking an egg against the pan. “What’d you see out there?”
His stomach clenched.
She meant the river. The birds. The trees. The usual.
But all Bernard could think about was the suitcase. The stacks of cash. The way it had tapped against his boat like some cursed offering from the deep.
He cleared his throat. “Oh, you know. The usual. Mist on the water. Ducks.”
Edith side-eyed him. “You’re acting funny.”
Bernard laughed, maybe a little too loud, a little too Oh God she knows.
“Funny? Me? I’m just… just enjoying my morning with my beautiful wife,” he said, flashing a grin that he hoped read loving husband and not man hiding a terrible secret.
Edith snorted. “Uh-huh.”
She flipped another pancake.
Bernard took a sip of coffee, told himself to calm down, and tried not to think about what he’d just dragged into their lives.
But outside, beyond the yard, beyond the shed, the river was still moving.
The river runs cold. That’s how it starts. But, is it just the river? Nah, it’s the kind of cold that settles deep in your bones. So, a chill? The kind that makes old men second-guess their decisions but still go through with them anyway. It’s quiet, it’s creeping.
I wanted Bernard Capshaw’s story to be about temptation. An ordinary man faced with an extraordinary moral dilemma. It sits heavy in his conscience, like a suitcase full of cash he never asked for but suddenly has to deal with. It’s a crime that hasn’t been committed yet but already has consequences. It’s a man standing on the edge of something much deeper than the river he found the suitcase in.
And the best part? Sure, there’s an obvious mystery. Where did the suitcase come from? Who, exactly, is missing a small fortune and why haven’t they come looking for it… yet? Or, have they?
I could chase that thread now. And don’t worry, I will. But the real story, the important story, is in what Bernard does next.
Does he keep it? Play dumb? Pretend like the universe just up and decided to hand him an early retirement bonus? Or does he march straight to Sheriff Rusty Hollis, a man who thinks too hard about everything except the things that matter, and throw himself at the mercy of small-town justice?
Episode One? That’s just Bernard’s morning. But the river doesn’t just belong to him. This story, this quiet, creeping thing that started when an old man found something he shouldn’t have, is about to ripple through the whole town.
So, stay tuned. The morning isn’t over yet. And before the sun sets on Hickory Bend, more than just Bernard’s life is going to change.
EVERY SIMPSONS EVER: HOMER'S ODYSSEY, OR DEPRESSION W/ A SIDE OF LAUGHTER
I was Lisa's age when this show started, and now I'm creeping up on Mr. Burn's territory. The difference? He's still cartoonishly evil, and I've got bad knees.
And speaking of, this episode gives us our first look at Burns in all his menacing glory, but sadly, not a single hound was released.
B-movie grit. Pay cable staple. Mid-'90s sleaze with a side of gunfire. Heist gone sideways. Backstabs, double-crosses, sex in cheap motels. Just enough skin to send young Patrick’s hormones into a tailspin. Peak Baldwin. Pre-Donaghy. Chest hair thick enough to smuggle contraband. Michael Madsen snarling, doing what he does best. Kim Basinger? Criminally hot. Plot? Who cares. You’re here for the sweat, the bullets, and the Baldwin.
Remember Blank Check? An 11-year-old gets lightly grazed by Miguel Ferrer’s car. Ferrer, playing some local scumbag with a Rolodex of bad decisions, hands him a blank check, thinking this will make the problem go away. The kid, instead of buying a sensible BMX, goes full Gatsby, purchases a mansion, hires a limo driver, and develops an alter ego. Peak '90s wish fulfillment.
Then there’s Money for Nothing. Released around the same time. John Cusack stumbles across a bag of cash that falls off an armored truck. A free-market fever dream. The moral? I’m sure this is one, but I don’t remember it too well. I’m still haunted by the creeping realization that fate never drops a sack of unmarked bills into your lap. Would my life suddenly become better, or would it spiral into something I couldn’t control? Would I be untouchable, or would the universe yank me back down, laughing the whole way?
I kept turning the idea over in my head, finding money, real money, and then dropping it straight into the boiling pot of small-town soap opera absurdity. I saw it all. The town pariah, whispering gossip at the grocery store. The sensible older couple who have just been existing all along, but now find themselves trapped in something they never asked for. A pair of mischievous college kids, too clever for their own good, dreaming of life outside this town. Some teenagers cutting class, hoping for adventure and getting way more than they bargained for. A woman who runs an insurance agency, who suddenly finds herself drowning in uninsurable problems. A police force with nothing better to do, finally getting something better to do. And then an old loner who sees something he wasn’t supposed to see. This is just scratching the surface.
What if one single event, something simple, stupid, the kind of thing that should’ve never happened, spirals into absolute chaos? What if, by sheer accident, all these people crash headfirst into a conspiracy that never should’ve touched their little town? What if nobody walks away unchanged?
And what if, somehow, it’s still about the money? Or maybe it’s not?
Hickory Bend. A town so far removed from the real world, it might as well be an illusion. A place where city problems don’t exist, at least, that’s what people tell themselves. A pocket of reality where time slows, where people don’t leave so much as they just… fade into the scenery.
It’s also the kind of place where you can hide something. Something big. Really big. And if you bury it deep enough, let the grass grow over it, let the gossip shift to something easier, something softer, it can sit there, unnoticed, for years. Maybe even decades.
People may get ideas. Nuggets of information. They start connecting dots, start feeling that nagging pull that something isn’t quite right. But Hickory Bend has a way of smoothing out rough edges, tucking uncomfortable thoughts under the rug. And soon enough, people forget.
Until one day, they don’t.
I tried to think of a name. Hickory Bend felt too on the nose. I wanted something with weight, something that lingered.
Half a Million Reasons. It had a nice ring to it. I kept tossing around other ideas, but my mind kept circling back, like an old song stuck in my head.
Is it about the money? Sure, probably. But it’s also about something else. Something harder to name, something that slips between the cracks. The kind of thing the people in Hickory Bend don’t talk about. Maybe they don’t even let themselves think about it.
But it’s there. It’s always been there. And there’s at least half a million reasons to keep it buried.
Will it be a slow burn? Absolutely. I’ve got the beginning mapped out. Scribbled in a notebook, half-legible, like a secret code only I can decipher. Some rough sketches, a handful of key moments in the middle. Scenes I want to happen. Scenes that need to happen.
But an ending? Not quite. Maybe there isn’t one.
Because endings are tidy, and Half a Million Reasons isn’t tidy. It’s tangled, frayed at the edges, like a rumor that keeps changing every time it’s told. Does Days of Our Lives have an endgame? Hell no. It just keeps going, shifting the players, looping back on itself.
Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Hickory Bend isn’t the kind of place that lets things end.
How do you consume it? However it finds you. I’m not much for self-promotion. Feels unnatural. Like standing in the middle of a quiet room and shouting, Hey, look at me! No thanks.
I just want to put it out there. Let it settle. Let the whisper of the winds carry it to the right people. Maybe it drifts to you. Maybe it doesn’t. That’s how these things work.
I don’t even know if I want my name attached to it. Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe Half a Million Reasons should feel like something you stumbled across by accident, like an old letter tucked between the pages of a book in a library no one checks out anymore. Like something maybe you were never supposed to find.
There’ll be audio readings. Released weekly, or something along those lines. A bedtime story, telling you things you probably shouldn’t know. But if you prefer to see the words yourself, let them settle in your brain, there’ll be text too. A serial. Something to sink into, piece by piece.
Watch this space over the next couple of weeks. It’s coming. Maybe even a few sneak peeks. Just enough to whet your appetite. Just enough to make you wonder if you really want to know what’s been hiding in Hickory Bend all this time.
every Simpsons ever: bart the genius, or, words with friends
As a lifelong Scrabble and Words with Friends enthusiast, I've always dreamed of drawing the perfect combination of letters: K, W, Y, J, I, B, O. That’s a whopping 24 points, plus a triple word score and a 50-point bonus for using all seven letters.
But what’s a Kwyjibo, you ask? According to Bart Simpson, it’s “a big, dumb, balding North American ape... with no chin.”
every simpsons ever: the simpsons christmas special, or, not quite episode one
If you’re a person of a certain age—cough 43—this was probably your initiation into the wild, wonderful world of Springfield. Everyone watched it. And by everyone, I mean my entire second-grade class. The day after it aired, we gathered like a council of cartoon critics in the school cafeteria during indoor recess. Because, naturally, in cold New England, that’s where we burned off our winter wiggles, and dissected this bizarre new show. Back then, we didn’t realize it was the start of a series; we all just assumed it was some weird one-off fever dream. I mean, I was way too young to even know what The Tracey Ullman Show was, so these wacky yellow characters were completely foreign to me.
But there was one thing we all agreed on: we all wanted to be Bart Simpson. This kid was the ultimate rebel—edgy, cool, and completely fearless. I mean, he got a tattoo at the mall and dropped the iconic line, "I'm Bart Simpson, who the hell are you?" It was like watching the '90s version of Dennis the Menace, only way more badass. And, mind you, the '90s were still a few weeks away. Bart was already ahead of the curve, showing us how to stick it to the man before we even knew who "the man" was.
The plot centered on the holiday struggles of the Simpson family—middle class, just like most of us. They relied on the classic financial strategy of saving up cash in a giant glass pickle jar to fuel the annual ritual of worshiping at the altar of commercialism on Jesus' birthday. You know, like any sensible family. But, in a twist that only Bart could pull off, he decided to get a tattoo. And, of course, Marge, the level-headed matriarch, had to drain the entire jar to get it laser removed.
Luckily for Marge, Homer still had his Christmas bonus to save the day—except, plot twist, he didn’t. Turns out, Mr. Burns decided to cancel that festive perk, leaving Homer scrambling to save their so-called "Best Christmas Ever." His solution? A part-time gig as a mall Santa, because nothing oozes "holiday spirit" like an underpaid dad in a rented beard. But after taxes, union dues, and whatever mysterious fees they slap on fake Santas, Homer walks away with a grand total of about thirteen bucks and some change. Naturally, the next logical step is to head straight to the dog track, hoping to turn that into a holiday jackpot. Spoiler alert: he doesn’t. Instead of cash, the family ends up with a scrappy, loveable greyhound named Santa’s Little Helper.
The structure is simple and linear, setting the tone for future episodes. Homer is portrayed as well-meaning but deeply flawed, overwhelmed by the weight of being the family’s breadwinner; but he hasn’t yet fully devolved into the bumbling fool we’d later know him as. Marge is competent and loving, the glue holding the family together. Lisa is already wise beyond her years, but still very much a kid. And Maggie? Well, she's just doing baby things, like sucking on her pacifier and occasionally making you wonder if she knows more than she lets on.
Ned Flanders makes his first appearance too, though he’s a much milder version of the religious zealot he’ll evolve into. Only one of his kids shows up—Rod or Todd, who knows? But Ned’s just the annoyingly perfect neighbor Homer struggles to keep up with, not yet the hyper-holy thorn in his side. And it works. Patty and Selma are also here in all their cynical glory, questioning, as they always will, why Marge chose Homer over literally any other man on the planet.
The humor in this episode is gentler than what The Simpsons would later become known for, leaning on situational comedy to tell the story. The satire is toned down, but it does manage to poke fun at the rampant commercialism of Christmas. It’s simple yet elegant, reminding us that Christmas isn’t really about maxing out your credit cards—it’s about family and togetherness. And it manages to deliver that message without drowning in the sugary sentimentality that is seen on most holiday specials.
Homer’s journey from despair to redemption works because it’s relatable. There’s no magical windfall, no unexpected Christmas miracle. Instead, Homer just ends up with a dog no one wanted, and somehow, that brings the family joy. It’s the perfect mix of grounded realism and heartwarming charm. While it may not be the flashiest or most sophisticated episode in Simpsons history, it’s undeniably crucial in shaping the show’s identity and securing its place among holiday TV classics.
