Vortex

Pedro Chora’s sneaker had a hole near the toe. The damp came through. He shifted his weight and waited for the tram. The street smelled of rain and sardines grilled the night before. He looked at his phone. He wanted more exclamation points. He muttered about edits.

The tram bell rang. He thought about the fisherman in his story. The fisherman had found a mermaid’s phone. Pedro thought the story was good. He thought it needed more punctuation. He tapped the screen.

Far away, in Almaty, Alexander Kass sat in a café. The café was dim. The monitor flickered. He had written too many drafts. He had written about elevators. Soviet elevators. He had written forty-seven drafts. He pressed publish. “Fuck it,” he said. His thumb was greasy.

Image: Obtained with Copilot by prompt

The world bent. Pedro’s ticket fell. The pavement shifted. His phone stretched. The marks on the screen wrapped his wrist.

Alexander’s keyboard broke. A key cut his arm. He tasted copper. The smell changed. It was old and wet.

Pedro looked down. His shoe opened wider. He saw stars.

Faces screamed. Alexander saw himself in the glass. Many selves. All writing. All failing.

Pedro slipped through the hole. His foot touched something vast. The stars roared. They were not stars. They were faces. Bloggers. Their mouths open. Their words unfinished.

Alexander’s arm burned. Letters crawled under his skin. Cyrillic letters. They pulsed blue. The bulb burst. Glass hung in the air. He thought about elevators. He thought they never worked.

Pedro bent. His shoe widened. His story spoke backward. His tongue burned. He knew the tram was never real. He knew the fisherman was here. He knew the stars were dead blogs.

Alexander’s wound ticked. The café walls peeled. His old drafts floated in jars. A throat sang. It tried to choke him. The letters on his arm told him to chew.

Pedro’s fisherman appeared. Shouted. His beard tangled with cables. He held drafts. Accused Pedro: “You didn’t finish the story.” The phone glowed. One unread horror. Pedro tried to speak. Only keywords came. They burned.

Alexander chewed. The drafts tasted of regret. He swallowed. He saw timelines flicker. One where he had published. One where he had died mid-sentence. He chewed again. The taste was bitter.

The fisherman staggered from a sewer grate. His beard was tangled with cables. He coughed. He said Pedro owed him royalties. Pedro looked at him. He said nothing. He smoked.

Alexander looked up. An elevator hung from the ceiling. Its doors were stuck. Inside were many Alexanders. They typed. They pressed publish. They failed. The command on his arm burped. It said: monetize.

Pedro bent and shifted. The phone loaded. The world cracked. Both men woke. Lisbon sidewalk. Almaty café. Their devices chimed. The universe had taken their words.

Pedro looked at the sidewalk. It was cracked in a spiral. His notification read: one horror read. He lit a cigarette. He thought about the fisherman. He thought about the mermaid. He thought about the phone.

Alexander sat in the café. The key was still in his arm. It glowed. It said: posted eight months ago. He rubbed his brow. He thought about elevators. He thought about drafts. He thought about chewing.

Pedro walked. His shoe was torn. The damp came through. He thought about sardines. He thought about rain. He thought about the tram. He thought about the fisherman. He thought about the phone.

Alexander sat. He thought about vodka. He thought about drafts. He thought about elevators. He thought about chewing. He thought about the word monetize.

The world bent again. Pedro’s cigarette fell. The sidewalk shifted. Alexander’s monitor flickered. The elevator doors opened wider. The fisherman shouted. The mermaid’s phone glowed.

Pedro tasted copper. Alexander chewed. The world bent. Their words were taken.

Pedro bent closer to the crack. He saw faces. They moved. They spoke. They spoke in words he had written once. They spoke in words he had abandoned. They spoke in words he had forgotten. He listened. He smoked.

Alexander chewed. The drafts tasted of regret. He swallowed. He saw timelines flicker. He saw himself in many places. He saw himself in many failures. He chewed again. The taste was bitter.

Pedro dropped his cigarette. It fell into the crack. The faces swallowed it. They glowed brighter. The crack widened. He stepped back. He thought about leaving. He thought about staying. He thought about writing.

Alexander stood. He walked to the elevator. He touched the doors. They were cold. They were wet. They were alive. He pulled. The doors opened. He stepped inside. The other Alexanders looked at him. They typed. They failed. They typed again.

Pedro’s phone glowed. It showed one unread horror. He tapped it. The screen widened. It showed stars. It showed faces. It showed words. He read. He smoked. He thought about writing.

Alexander’s arm burned. The letters crawled. They spelled words. They spelled commands. They spelled chew. He chewed. He swallowed. He saw stars. He saw faces. He saw words.

Pedro dropped his phone. It fell into the crack. The faces swallowed it. They glowed brighter. The crack widened. He stepped back. He thought about leaving. He thought about staying. He thought about writing.

Alexander stood. He walked to the elevator. He touched the doors. They were cold. They were wet. They were alive. He pulled. The doors opened. He stepped inside. The other Alexanders looked at him. They typed. They failed. They typed again.

Pedro lit another cigarette. He smoked. He thought about the fisherman. He thought about the mermaid. He thought about the phone. He thought about the crack in the sidewalk. He thought about the faces.

Alexander chewed. The drafts tasted of regret. He swallowed. He saw timelines flicker. He saw himself in many places. He saw himself in many failures. He chewed again. The taste was bitter.

Pedro walked away from the crack. He smoked. He thought about writing. He thought about sardines. He thought about rain. He thought about the tram. He thought about the fisherman. He thought about the phone.

Alexander sat in the elevator. He typed. He failed. He typed again. He thought about elevators. He thought about drafts. He thought about chewing. He thought about the word monetize.

The world bent again. Pedro’s cigarette fell. The sidewalk shifted. Alexander’s monitor flickered. The elevator doors opened wider. The fisherman shouted. The mermaid’s phone glowed.

Pedro tasted copper. Alexander chewed. The world bent. Their words were taken.

Pedro woke with his face pressed against damp pavement, the taste of ash and static still coating his tongue. The tram bell clanged overhead, real this time, ordinary, but his hands shook as he fumbled for a cigarette. His phone lay beside him, screen cracked in a spiderweb pattern, glowing faintly with the words "DRAFT SAVED."

The fisherman wasn't there. The crack in the sidewalk was just a crack. But his left sneaker gaped open at the toe, and when he prodded it, his finger came away smeared with something iridescent, like ink mixed with fish scales.

Alexander came to in the café with his forehead against the keyboard, the smell of burnt coffee and old grease thick in his nose. The monitor displayed a single line: The elevator doors opened. His arm ached. The wound had scabbed over, but beneath the skin, something moved: a cursive монетизировать pulsing faintly blue.

The other patrons didn't glance up. A waitress slapped a check next to his elbow. When he reached for his wallet, a crumpled page fell out: a draft he didn’t remember printing, the words dissolving at the edges like wet paper.

Pedro stood, knees popping, and limped toward the tram stop. His phone buzzed. A notification: 1 new comment on "The Fisherman and the Mermaid’s Phone." He didn’t open it. The air smelled of rain and diesel, ordinary and suffocating. Behind him, a sewer grate clanged. He didn’t turn around.

Alexander peeled the key from his arm. It left no mark. The café’s elevator, ordinary, modern, dinged open. Inside, a teenager scrolled on her phone. No infinite drafts. No typing doppelgängers. Just the scent of cheap cologne and the tinny blare of pop music. He exhaled. The word on his arm itched.

Pedro’s phone buzzed again. The comment was dated eight months prior. "You left the fisherman in the sewer," it read. "Why?" His thumb hovered. The tram arrived. He boarded.

The seats were cracked vinyl, warm from bodies. Across the aisle, a woman read a paperback. The cover was familiar. His own name stared back at him. The publication date: last spring. He’d never written it.

Alexander’s phone chimed. An email notification: "Your latest draft has been auto-published!" The timestamp blurred. August. Last year. His fingers trembled over the screen. The draft was titled "The Elevator That Never Worked." He’d abandoned it in June.

The café’s Wi-Fi password was still taped under the table. It hadn’t changed since winter. He pressed his greasy thumb to the monitor. The letters smeared.

They say it was so that @hefestus and @alexanderkass slipped into this timeline...

Who knows?