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Wednesday, April 16, 2025

Astral Rob Episode 7: Late Night Coffee?

 

ASTRAL ROB

Episode 1: Waking Isn't Always Wanting

Episode 2: Echoes Over Beaver Creek

Episode 3: A Long Day’s Night

Episode 4: Night’s Not Over Yet

Episode 7: Late Night Coffees



Rob slept.

Not just slept. He rested—for the first time in years.

The boxed breathing routine had done something. Not just calmed his nerves, but lit a fuse inside him. He woke up charged. Lighter. Sharper. Like someone had jump-started his soul with jumper cables and fresh coffee.

Last night’s trip... It was real.
Short, but real.

He couldn’t wait to go again—longer this time.

After inhaling a hot breakfast of maple oats mixed with Raisin Bran (a favorite hybrid from darker days), Rob headed for the shower.

The doorbell rang first.

Ding-dong.

He padded to the door, towel over shoulder. When he opened it, he froze.




“Detective Coleman?”
“Morning,” the detective said. “You got a few minutes?”


Inside, over lukewarm coffee, Coleman got right to it.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the woman...”
“The one who... exploded?” Rob interrupted.
“Yeah. But there was another. A teenage boy.”

Rob’s mug hit the table. “What? Two deaths in two days?”

Coleman nodded grimly. “And we’re still processing what this means. I came to check in on you—and to warn you.”

He slid a photograph across the table.
An evidence shot.
The teen’s chest.
The mark.

Rob’s stomach flipped. “Glenn’s signature…”

He trailed off. Something was different. He squinted. “Wait. That’s not carved with a blade.”

Coleman leaned forward. “Exactly. The coroner says... it looks like it was scratched in. From under the skin.”

Scratched... from the inside.

“Was there anything like that on the woman?” Rob asked.

“There wasn’t enough of her left to know,” Coleman replied. “But the coroner mentioned dermal tearing consistent with... internal force. Like something pulled her apart from beneath the dermis.”

Rob swallowed hard.

His mind flashed back to the man who walked through his astral body during that first projection.
He felt that man. That presence. That entry.

It was just a flash. But it meant something.

Coleman stood, collecting the photo. “I’ll keep you in the loop. But keep this between us, okay? Official investigation.”

Rob nodded. “Thanks. Really.”


Work that night at Idle Hands felt... wrong.
Off rhythm. Off center.

Marcel tried. His usual one-liners flew, but Rob’s brain wasn’t in the room.

“By the ears!” Marcel shouted over Tiffany’s “I Think We’re Alone Now.”

“What?” Rob blinked.

“That’s how I hold my liquor!” Marcel beamed, miming two floppy ears.

“Oh... gotcha. By the ears.”

Drinks poured. Bills broke. Tips received.

Clock ticked.
Patrons trickled out.
Closing time.

In the staff room, chatter buzzed. Banter sparked. But Rob stayed quiet.

As he grabbed his jacket to leave, Wendy brushed past him.

Casual. Subtle.

She slipped a folded note into his hand.


Rob,

I couldn’t help but notice you were reading that OMNI magazine yesterday on your break.
If you were reading the article on astral projection…
Meet me at Denny’s tonight after your shift.
I know some things you might be interested in.

Hell—even if you weren’t reading that article,
meet me for coffee anyway.

I’ll be there until 4AM.

—Wendy


 

Rob sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, rereading it.
Smiling.


End of Episode 7


Meanwhile...

The guard made his rounds through solitary. Two occupied cells. One silent.

Too silent.

Others would be pacing. Crying. Screaming.
Some doing pushups. Others...

...well, other things.

But not Glenn.

He just lay there.

Breathing.
Deep.
Slow.
Smiling.

Monday, April 14, 2025

Astral Rob Episode 6: You Will Cry Over Spilled Juice Though

 

ASTRAL ROB

Episode 1: Waking Isn't Always Wanting

Episode 2: Echoes Over Beaver Creek

Episode 3: A Long Day’s Night

Episode 4: Night’s Not Over Yet

Episode 6: You Will Cry Over Spilled Juice Though



For most inmates, prison was a calendar game.

Mark a day. Cross it off. Survive the next.

But not Glenn Picco. Glenn didn’t count the days. He used them.

While others watched their backs, dodged gangs, navigated the hierarchy of fear, Glenn reveled in confinement.

To him, prison was freedom.

Freedom to continue.
Freedom to kill.

There was just one thorn in his metaphysical side:

A cellmate.

Annoying. Loud. Smelled like onions and regret. A distraction Glenn could no longer tolerate.

But murder?
Too messy. Too loud.
And another trial would just delay his pleasure.

He needed something simple.
Something calculated.
Something… sticky.


Lunchtime.

Single-file shuffle to the cafeteria.
Same slop. Different tray.
Institutional blandness served with lukewarm coffee and a side of despair.

Glenn got his tray.
Watched the mystery meat ooze onto it.
Grabbed a juice.
Walked—purposefully—straight into a member of the Blue Death gang. A wall of inmate muscle.

Their trays collided.
Juice splattered onto Glenn’s shirt.

He stared, calmly.

“Watch what you’re doing, motherfucker.”

Then he threw the first punch.

The explosion was instant.
Tables toppled. Shouts echoed.
Trays flew. Guards swarmed.

Within seconds, alarms rang and chaos reigned.

The fight was broken up fast. Too fast for it to be anything more than a message. A demonstration. An act.

The warden reviewed the footage.
Interviewed a “trustworthy” inmate who swore he saw Glenn initiate the collision.
His verdict?

“Intentional provocation. Near-riot conditions. Solitary for a month.”

As the cuffs clicked around Glenn’s wrists, he smiled.

Led to The Hole in chains, he stepped inside the cold, concrete box that would now be his home.



Door slammed.
Chains removed.
Lights dimmed.

Perfect.

He lay down, hands folded calmly on his chest.

Inhale… 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Hold… 1 2 3 4


End of Episode 6


Meanwhile...

Exhale… 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Hold… 1 2 3 4
Inhale… 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Rob’s body tingled.

Not pain. Not fear. Something deeper. Lighter.
Pleasurable. Electric.
A warmth running from the inside out.

Hold… 1 2 3 4

The energy surged.
Not sharp. Not jolting. Just... charged.

And then—he rose.

Not from the bed.
From himself.

Rob looked down at his body, slack-jawed with awe.

So tired. So worn.
No wonder I hurt.
No wonder I drank.

And then… he drifted.

He rose through the roof.
Past the ceiling fan, past the shingles.
The city stretched out beneath him—vivid, alive.

He had never seen it like this.



The lights weren’t just on. They glowed.
Fluorescent veins of color pulsed across rooftops.
Energy shimmered in the trees like music.

He descended slightly, brushing the sidewalk.
Not walking—gliding. Like skating on breath.

Then—tingle.

A ripple through his form, from chest to spine.
He paused, confused.

Another tingle. But in reverse.

He floated upward and turned.

A man walked the sidewalk below.
Had walked through Rob’s astral form.

Rob gasped.
He didn’t see me...
But I felt him.

Overwhelmed, elated, terrified—

Rob drifted back home.
Back into his body.

He blinked awake in the darkness, heart pounding with joy.

“Wow.”

Sunday, April 13, 2025

Astral Rob Episode 5: And Hold 1 2 3 4...And In 1 2...

 ASTRAL ROB

Episode 1: Waking Isn't Always Wanting

Episode 2: Echoes Over Beaver Creek

Episode 3: A Long Day’s Night

Episode 4: Night’s Not Over Yet

Episode 5: And Hold… 1 2 3 4... And In…



Rob was finally home.

The club was behind him. The drinks. The lights. The noise. Gone. But peace? That hadn’t followed him home. The weight of the news about Glenn Picco’s upcoming execution pressed into him like a second gravity. His chest ached. Not from drink. From memory.

The image came fast, like it always did:
The picnic blanket.
The laughter.
His wife’s face, bright and playful.
The kids chasing each other through the trees.

Gone.

Fifteen minutes.

That’s all it had taken for everything he loved to be turned into a crime scene.

Rob clutched the family photo from the mantle. His arms shook. He hugged it tightly, trying to hold them in place—if only in his mind.

On the same shelf sat reminders of another life:



A framed Royal Architectural Institute of Canada gold medal.
Academic awards.
Blueprints he once lived and breathed.

He kissed thefamily photo gently.
Set it back.
And whispered into the silence, “Fucking Glenn. Fucking booze.”

One killed his family.
The other buried the man he used to be.


Later, in bed, Rob opened the OMNI magazine to the article that had been burning a hole in his thoughts all week.

Astral Projection: Exploring the Frequencies of the Soul

He didn’t just read it—he devoured it.
Paragraphs etched themselves into his brain like blueprints.

The concept? Strange. Pseudoscientific. Mystical.

“All planes of existence are connected by frequencies of energy,” the article claimed.
“The mind must be relaxed.
The body tension-free.
Consciousness becomes the tuning fork.”

Rob rolled his eyes at some of it. But the boxed breathing technique? That part felt… scientific. Rhythmic. Procedural. Like building the foundations of a high-rise.

Boxed Breathing Technique:
Inhale: 1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8
Hold: 1...2...3...4
Exhale: 1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8
Hold: 1...2...3...4
Repeat.

According to the article, the method was like scanning a radio dial. You can’t just receive—you have to transmit. And you couldn’t do it alone. Projection only happened when two or more minds tuned in together.

Rob wasn’t sure he believed it.

But the relaxation? That sounded like something he desperately needed.


Lying back, he followed the instructions.
He tensed and released every muscle from toes to scalp.
Cleared his mind as best he could.

Inhale...
Hold...
Exhale...
Hold...
Repeat.

He did it again.

And again.

A vibration.
No—not a noise. A feeling. Internal. Wavelike.
He felt as if something inside him had begun to drift, stretch, rise—

And he jolted upright.
Sweating. Shaking.
Heart racing like it had outrun something.

The thoughts returned instantly.
The woman on the news.
The reporter’s voice describing what shouldn’t be possible.
He saw it—more than heard it.
The bed. The blood. The explosion.

He buried himself in the covers, eyes open in the dark.

Sleep didn’t come.


End of Episode 5


Meanwhile...

“That poor kid,” the officer muttered to Detective Coleman, standing just outside the bedroom door. “How the hell does someone’s insides come outside like that?”

“Absolutely no idea,” Coleman replied. “But... do you see that?”

“What?”

“His chest. Look closer.”



The officer leaned in.
There it was.
Thin, precise. Like a brand carved with no blade.


With an arrow piercing upward between both loops.

“It’s an infinity symbol,” the officer said.

“Not just that,” Coleman replied. “It’s the Gripper’s symbol.”

“I thought that was a college thing?”

“It was,” Coleman said, snapping more photos. “Back in the day, the joke was ‘Infinity doesn’t exist—because I killed it.’”

“And Glenn made it his own.”

“Yeah. He twisted it. Said it meant: ‘You’re fucked forever.’”

Silence.

“But Glenn’s in prison, right?”

Coleman nodded. “Still... this mark?”

He touched the edge of the wound with a gloved hand.
It wasn’t cut.
It wasn’t burned.

It was scratched...
From the inside.