End Transmissions is a collection based on a memory. Growing up, I can recall late nights trying to stay awake, lit by the steady glow of the television keeping me warm (and safe) as if some sort of digital campfire. Even while the evening slipped into the dark recesses of night where monsters lurked, there was something comforting about that persistent glimmer; keeping the room safe with its revealing reach into even the darkest corners of the room that would normally be swallowed by the darkness. There was safety within the bounds of that flickering light, shielding me and keeping at bay all of the things that slither through the night. But eventually I’d drift off and I can remember being jarred awake when, at the end of the day, the programming would ultimately end with sudden and auditory cry that often roused me out of my sleep. There was something about that feeling, about waking up while the once ever-present television was essentially shrugging as if to say “I’ve got nothing left for you” that filled me with a sense of unease. It was as if all of the grownups who run the world were asleep, and here I was – alone and in a place I shouldn’t be at a time that I shouldn’t see. Peering behind the curtain where there was nothing left but me and whatever else roams the night at this ungodly hour. That sense of being adrift in the unknown of night felt ominous. It felt unknown and I felt like a lone explorer who only wished to return to the safety and the comfort of sleep that would take me anywhere but here. I’d close my eyes and hope to find respite in the arms of a dream.

StackSlash #128

StackSlash #128

StackSlash #128

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StackSlash #128

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