If time wasn’t linear, I don’t think I would be sitting in just one moment. I think parts of me would be scattered across different versions of existence all at once, like echoes suspended in rooms that no longer exist but somehow still remember me. A piece of me would still be a child laying …
Continue reading If Time Wasn’t Linear, Where Am I Right Now?
I stepped onto Mercer Street, though it was no longer the street I had ever known. The buildings stretched impossibly, windows stacked like mirrors, reflecting streets that could not exist, alleys that looped back into themselves. Neon flickered in colors that had no name, spilling over asphalt that shimmered like liquid glass. Steam rose from …
I woke on Mercer Street, though it wasn’t the Mercer Street I knew. The asphalt was slick, reflective, and fractured — cracks running like veins, pulsing faintly under the neon light. Steam curled from every grate, thick and warm, carrying the scent of wet concrete, iron, coffee, and something… impossibly sweet, almost alive. The street …
The city waited for me. Mercer Street had changed again. Buildings leaned impossibly close, their brick faces warped in angles that should have collapsed, windows blinking like eyes in the dark. Neon signs throbbed unevenly, the colors bleeding into each other until the street looked alive, pulsing with a heartbeat I could feel in my …
I found the cafe on a morning that shouldn’t have existed. Mercer Street felt off from the moment I stepped out. Fog lingered in the air, thick and sweet, curling around lampposts and dripping along the edges of asphalt like it had weight. The neon buzz from yesterday’s signs had dimmed, flickering in irregular pulses, …
The alley appeared without warning. I had walked past it a dozen times, a narrow slice of shadow between two brick buildings. Tonight, it stretched before me like a mouth, dark and yawning, curling in a way that made the street behind me feel impossibly far. The neon from Mercer Street couldn’t reach its depths; …
Mercer Street looked wrong the moment I stepped outside. The neon buzzed low, sickly, casting fractured colors onto the wet pavement. Steam rose from the grates like living fingers, curling, stretching, lingering longer than physics should allow. The air smelled of wet asphalt, iron, and something faintly sweet — the kind of smell that made …
The next evening, Mercer Street waited for me.Not the same street, exactly. The cracks in the asphalt were sharper, the neon signs buzzed unevenly, their letters trembling like they weren’t sure what words they wanted to be. Steam rose from the manhole grates, thick and oily, curling in shapes I almost recognized — a hand, …
Mercer Street was quieter than usual that night, though it shouldn’t have been. Neon signs buzzed overhead, flickering unevenly, casting fractured pools of red and green across cracked asphalt. Steam curled from manhole grates, carrying the scent of wet concrete and something coppery that made my stomach tighten. The world was familiar and wrong all …
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