This is not fake news. This is what people used to refer to as fiction. Is that still a thing in a world where people base beliefs on “their own truth?” Woodstein Media will not always post fiction on Fridays but every time a piece of fiction get posted it will be on a Friday. It will be clearly marked as fiction. Fiction Fridays will be few and far between, but this is the first of a trilogy that was written for a college class on fiction I took in fall 2025. The stories cut across genres and slip in comments on current events. The first story of the series was published on August 21st, and the follow up was released on August 28th. This is where it all ends.

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I was mistaken but who can blame me? Dying isn’t something we do every day. I mean – dying for real. We decay every day. But dying? That’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.

We all live in naive ignorance with our ideas of heaven, hell, ghosts and lights at the end of tunnels. I can’t explain why people believe those things, but I had my own idea of what death would be like until the weight of Christianity squeezed me out of life. I was sure I would fade from the reality I lived as a human named Jamie into nothingness. I didn’t. I blended into everything. And you know what? Being an introvert means that feeling at one with everything is unbearable. There is no opportunity to recharge. I long for the heavenly feeling that fading into nothing would have brought.

You are always switched on in this community of death as part of the energy that brings life to the universe. It is hell to be one with God. Your insignificance is exposed. Do you really think that ants, bacteria or cats give a shit about being a member of Heaven’s favourite band? Every single lifeform that lived becomes one in death. There is no hierarchy of species. In death you are outnumbered and useless.

Humans believe the myth of their supremacy, but it’s a load of shit. When methamphetamine users scratch their skin raw and bloody because they believe bugs capable of killing us all are crawling all over them, are they wrong? People who designate themselves respectable and superior believe so but having joined the aggregation of death I know the microscopic beasts are as powerful as the pompous macroscopic swarms of flesh that claim dominion of Earth. I’m at one with those tiny killers now.

Humans don’t rank amongst the true giants of this planet either. There are lifeforms that dwarf whales but only appear to us as gourmet delicacies, paths to enlightenment, or, once again, organisms with the ability to bring death that would make the most sadistic humans sick with envy. These giant fungi that live long lives beneath the human crust are not quiet. They monitor our activity with disinterest and communicate cosmic secrets we will never understand. You might get teased with a taste of perception if you are curious enough to trip on magic mushrooms, and yes, I was one of those people who ate my fair share of psylocibin mushrooms, but it’s doubtful we will ever comprehend the true secrets of life. So, if there was any reprieve from the massive cesspool of dead energy, it was the full-fledged power of enlightenment bestowed by the giant fungi.

These hulking detonations of life which can be up to 40 or 50 kilometres in size, defy the border between life, death, time and space. Our reality is not theirs, but they touch our reality here and there, now and then. That’s how my death trip ended with me being a whiff of energy mingling beyond tangibility just close enough to influence my parents’ thoughts on Labour Day 1989.

I want to ask you a question based on the current world you live in, and the description of death that I’ve been able to share with you here. If you didn’t have to exist, would you take that opportunity to make that happen? I am in no way endorsing suicide. Life has a lot going for it and if you are like me, you’ve probably lived passionately, fanatically, romantically and shared in massive amounts of joy. Shitty times do not always dictate shitty living.

I’m in a strange position that allows me to ask a different question. My connection to the fungi and their lack of connection to our linear timeline has connected me to the past, not the future. I guess you can’t explore that which hasn’t happened yet, but the past, well, that has been written, but Joe Strummer was right when he said, the future is unwritten. Who is Joe Strummer you might be asking. Well, I promise you that if my plan fails, I’ll answer that.

The electric vibes of intellect that the Fungi communicate with are essentially cosmic strings that bind the past to the present. Even though every trip to the past effects change to the present and ultimately the future it’s not so easy to affect change in the past. After all, in death we are non-corporeal – essentially, a voice of inspiration whispering in someone’s head that can be easily ignored. Here I am mingling with my parents’ essence before my birth, shortly before my conception even. They weren’t a couple at this point, just friends of friends in a small group of outsiders.

From the ground where I died in 2025 to the bandshell where my parents and their friends are enjoying an outdoor festival is only about 500 metres, but the events were almost 36 years apart, give or take a few months. The sharp shadows of the invasive Trees of Heaven that besieged the park many years ago are stabbing at the crowd as a cool wind pushes the heat slowly at this Labour Day gathering.  Attendance is exceptional, considering the small town hosting the concert.  A smattering of grungy punks, goths and weirdos with a rainbow of dyed hair and black clothes fill the ground directly in front of the stage but the rest of the field was packed with lawn chairs, blankets, parents, kids, and coolers. Most of the crowd expected a family friendly celebration. 

My father was the frontman of a nefarious punk band in the late 80s and growing up I was subjected to many recounts of the concert that brought my parents together, and when they came together, well, they were shameless and they let people know they meant it literally. I figure I won’t begrudge them their love. They made a hell of a couple but keeping them from conceiving me just means I must influence the situation, so they don’t fuck when they fucked historically to bring my sperm and egg components together.

My siblings called dad, King Billy after he passed away. They said it was a sign of respect, but I saw it as a sign of ignorance. He always hated being called Billy.

“It’s fucking childish,” he’d snarl derisively.

Bill, William, or the Irish, Liam, were all fine, but Billy, he hated that. Nevertheless, children that he always had a hard time connecting with in life ended up crowning him King Billy in death.

The odds of influencing conception are in my favour because there is no indication we are so special that our existence is predetermined. We are simply the astronomically improbable occurrence of sperm and egg merging, and yes, my mom likely only ovulated one egg or maybe two that month, but for King William, love comes in  spurts, and those spurts typically send between 2 and 4 million sperm on their journey to fertilize that egg, so I just need to change their reproduction schedule and let my Dad’s macrophages break down that part of me which he contributed and POOF they’ll raise another kid, and I’ll be blessed by peaceful nonexistence. What are macrophages you might be asking. Well, I’ll answer that one now. They are immune cells that harmlessly break down old sperm, amongst other dead cell debris, that isn’t ejaculated. It’s a partial abortion process that is naturally occurring. This story of existentialism, I would argue is the truest story of freedom that, if I am successful, you’ll never get to read.

I won’t steal the spark of their love because I love them, but I can blow lightly on the candle of their lust making the wick flicker at the right moment. Whose head will I need to be in to rouse the thought that will disenchant the moment momentarily but still let the love blossom?

Sometimes I misunderstand irony, but I believe I find it ironic that the biological imperative to procreate overpowers intellectual reason in people who can articulate that they realize the world has been buggered up for the children. For generations we have claimed we want to leave a better planet than we were born into, but we never seem to succeed, yet we still breed. My dad’s band hits the stage, and as he scans the crowd he takes a moment to admire my mother’s shaved head with clumps of dyed green hair hanging off in strings. A new theory clicks and their thoughts connect: that’s the person I’d love to have a litter of children with. It’s not love at first sight, more like clarity, and really, maybe there’s no thought about the future in the moment.

“This song is called Little Johnny Cougar and it’s about how, as a species we ignore the truth that we perceive. Popular culture shows us that we repeatedly fight the same social and political battles, and we don’t fucking learn any lessons,” King William bellows and the band surges into a wall of noise that ended up being the most talked about topic in both the local newspaper and town council meetings for months.

It may have been hard for the audience to take my dad seriously. After all, he was wearing saran wrap pants and Caesar salad underwear as he made this statement, but I could feel that mom was into him. She was making those connections that are more carnal than intellectual.

“I want you to be more Stand By Me and less River’s Edge

Because I’ve got Nothing in Common with the Money Pit

I want to see the Berlin Wall fall, Peace is on the ground

Free Mandela from Victor Verser, together we’ll be loud

Mutually assured destruction may be a stinking way of thinking

But it stops the cold war from scalding the children of Tashkent

We laugh at acid rain as the sitcom concern of the week

As Different Strokes make pointless jokes, and Kimberly’s hair turns green

It’s a decade since the Irish told us

“The solutions are all problems”

And the world takes no heed

We just elevate the greedy

While we ignore the needs of the needy

And the planet goes on bleeding

I want you to be more Crazy Steve Goof and less Larry Lloyd Jacklin

Stomping skinheads instead of signing on as a Bayou of Pigs assassin

AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power, the strength of being queer

Free Mumia Abu-Jamal, the strength of being clear

Kissing doesn’t kill; greed and indifference do

But you know these slogans are nothing new

It’s almost thirty years since Dylan denounced your worth

For destroying the world for children not yet birthed

It’s 25 years since a teenager announced

“we’re on the eve of destruction”

We won’t fucking listen

And we refuse to question

As we surrender integrity to authority

And the planet continues bleeding

If John Mellencamp can fight authority

Why can’t you?

He’s been doing it since he was a young kid

Why haven’t you?”

And just as my father had told me, by the time the feedback from the amps silenced the P.A. system had been shut down. They were restrained after one song and months of debate over the question of whether saran wrap pants and underwear made of salad constituted nudity began.

At this moment I whisper in dad’s head that he should follow the band instead of riding the wave of hometown elation that spawned me. In the original story of this moment, he leaped off the stage into the crowd and ran from the fallout, spending the night at a 24-hour truck stop, and creating me in the back seat of mom’s gold 1987 Honda Civic a few minutes before a police officer knocked on the window to see why the car was parked in the middle of a cemetery at 4 a.m.

Dad feels my thought slip into his head encouraging him to follow the band down the stairs from the stage and face the fallout of his actions. Representatives from the youth organization that organized the festival, and at least one police officer are waiting for the band. How fucked can I be? I sense my father wondering. He stands on the stage considering the leap that would take him into my mother’s waiting arms. He hesitates and then walks toward the stairs, stops and looks out to where my mom is blending into the crowd. I can feel one last gasp of moxie that could have propelled him off the stage into the crowd fizzle and die. He walked down the stairs.

I don’t know what I was expecting. I guess I was expecting nothing – literally. That did not happen. I did not join the fizzle of my dad’s moxie and cease to exist.

It was visible in my dad’s gait that a mixture of Caesar salad dressing, romaine lettuce and sweat sloshing around in his crotch was a gross mistake. Saran wrap pants and Caesar salad underwear was a terrible fashion faux pas. King William wiggled awkwardly down the short stack of wooden steps at the back of the bandstand.

Most of his band had been allowed to disperse but dad was stopped by a serious looking young man and a friendly looking cop. Either dad was more well-known to the police than he ever let us know or this cop was a real friend, “We’ve received a lot of complaints about your outfit. We might need to arrest your tailor, Billy.”

I could sense a bristle at being called Billy, but he didn’t let it piss him off. In fact, he seemed relieved to see this officer.

“Thank Christ it’s you Tony, I thought I was going to have to eat shit with Constable Dave Butkus.” I felt a genuine sense of respect from dad for this cop.

“You’ve peeved some big wigs from town council who thought that this was going to be a nice family outing,” said Tony.

The serious looking young man piped in “It was supposed to be.” 

I recognized this guy from photos my dad used to show me. It was Chuck Dion, the original drummer of King William’s band ECBAP, at least that was the name for this festival. The full name which was inspired by a line from Degrassi Junior High, was “Everybody Can’t Be a Pig.” Spike said that after being turned down for a job based on her looks. If you don’t know who Spike is, you have my condolences because you are probably not living your life to the fullest, so if I am a failure in my planned obsolescence, after I share the secrets of Joe Strummer, I’ll let you know about Spike.

“People might find your clothing choice disturbing but it’s not unlawful,” Tony declared. “As a police matter, I don’t really think there’s any reason for this to go any further, but just a heads up, some members of town council are livid, most likely because they are going to be hearing from the public for weeks. Your shit storm will rage on for them because they approved this event. It’s going to fizzle out for the police in a few hours.”

As if speaking about smalltown politicians was a summoning spell a livid councillor came stomping around the corner of the bandshell. Under his breath Tony warned my dad that “Dan Applebee is the worst of them so keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“If this was supposed to foster a healthy outlet for youth it failed miserably.” He spat these words into Chuck’s face. “Next time you come asking to put on a concert I’m going to suggest a more appropriate venue like a landfill.”

Applebee turned on dad and splattered his face with more sloppy anger. “I was embarrassed as an adult and a citizen of this town to witness this lewd and profane behaviour in our park.”

He paused, breathing in a heavy broken rhythm. He was apoplectic – seemingly on the verge of physically breaking. His red face was draining to a pale grey.

“You ought to…”

He fought to force his final thought out but he was so angry it caught in his throat.

“You ought to…”

Tears of anger shot forward from his eyes. They did not roll down his face. It was as if even Applebee’s vision wanted to spit.

He finally forced his thought out of his mouth.

“You ought to be censored!”

Then, as if the passing of the words had had helped him achieve nirvana, he grinned amiably at Tony and wobbled away leaving everyone dumbfounded.

“Well, that was fucking weird,” Tony whispered and then jumped with surprise as the paralysis of the moment was broken by a hand tapping on his shoulder. He turned to see a woman with a shaved head, save for random strings of green hair. Can a collection of energy sigh? I hadn’t changed a thing by sending him down the stairs. Were they destined to be together? Perhaps I could think of a better way to stop the action that seemed inevitable if I got into mom’s head instead.

My mom, the world called her Molly, but to me she’s just mom. Same with my siblings, they never had to elevate her after death by crowning her queen because there is no higher level of respect than mom – kind, gentle mom. As I felt my energy connect with hers, I felt a profound joy.

She had died in her early forties of a heart attack caused by an undiagnosed congenital heart defect. Her heart was designed to eventually kill her. The flaw had been there since she was born, undiagnosed. There was no flaw in her heart’s ability to love, and as I felt the joy from this gift of connection, I began to feel like an asshole.

My whole family had been stupefied by her death, and we never really got over the shock of it. I’m still shocked and this connection woke me up to that truth. I felt profound sadness as I made the connection and I knew I had to abort my mission. It was selfish to attempt to change anything about their love.

My mom was sweet talking Tony into letting her take my dad away from the park. I don’t know what she said. I was lost in the beautiful marrow of her mind. When I surfaced from the sweet grief I was drowning in, I could feel melancholy seep into her mind. I had to leave.

My being crawled reluctantly back to the hellish everything leaving behind dreams of nothingness to allow my parents their love.

I guess it’s time to tell you who Joe Strummer is, huh? He was an English musician who gained fame as a singer, guitarist for the Clash. He was christened John Graham Mellor and born in Ankara, Turkey, in 1952. Wait, now that I think about it, I wonder if he was a Turkish musician. Come to think of it his dad was born in India and his mom was Scottish. Nationality might be a strange and ridiculous thing to celebrate…this energy listing titanically. Lacking cohesiveness…I’m…. feel like the meaning of – what the fuck? – personified…oh shit…

Poof.

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