The Unreal Press Podcast

For the love of God, don’t ask me how I got here. I’ve been asking myself for the past hour. All night? Has it been a week here? Jesus, do you lose your sense of time when you don’t have a phone in your pocket to check. To think I laughed when the Algerian flexed his waterproof watch. The ocean. It’s always terrified me. Always filled my head with dread. Those vast swaths of empty darkness stretched across the abyss. My greatest and only fear before I realized how quickly death can swim up on you. What a moron I am, fearing the deep, trapping myself where else but the bottom of the ocean. To be fair the surface can’t be that far away. But that’s part of the kicker. Doesn’t matter. Can’t see the surface from here. I’m worried I’ll never see it again. Just a matter of accepting this fate. Or picking which fate to go out on. Rescue though. Living a long fulfilling life. Hell, that wasn’t in the cards before I went on the Aramay. It’s insane to think just a week ago I was writing my suicide note. Telling everyone it wasn’t their fault. Then redrafting it, blaming the world for making me feel so isolated. Ha! If I knew then what was in store for me. How deep the world really is. I’d just decided on no note all together, let the rotten world wonder for eight minutes before forgetting me, and then that damn text message popped up. The name of my killer is Elijah DuPont. I knew him in college. Met the semester I took my science elective. Oceanography. Most students were bored out of their mind, you’d almost feel bad for the professor given he knew most of us weren’t going to remember a single piece of trivia from the course. Forgot the guy’s name. Kind of like how I wanted the world to forget me had I taken a swing in the attic. If only I got the chance. No. Just had to get the message from Elijah. Oceanography taught me to truly fear the deep. People love Finding Nemo but it’s not all coral reef and Bikini Bottom down here. Did you know the majority of the ocean exists in total darkness? In space you’re guided by the stars. You’ve got nothing in the way of navigation down below. In space you can only wonder if there’s life out there. Down here in the dark you can’t see it but you know you’re not alone. Did we ever discover that… I went into midterms with nightmares. Somehow the rich French student next to me adored the course so much he switched majors. Think he was a communication major before. Imagine what it takes to go from radio to Gyo. Forget switching majors. I should have switched schools. Switched names. Elijah remembered me and for that I’ve paid so terrible a price. “I’m down for a swim. HBU??” The message came with an attachment. A sizable orange submarine in the harbor of Toulon. Elijah made some dumb joke about Paul McCarttney selling him the thing but he had to paint it from yellow to orange. I don’t remember. Can’t check my phone since that’s out in the water. Don’t think it was waterproof either. Will scientists of the future be able to uncover my life on that funny little device? See the photos of a man on vacation in Spain from another century. Read his final message to his parents, whining how he has a bad feeling, his ears won’t stop popping, and the food sucks. The messages never sent, mind you. Bad reception in the bowels of the ocean. My sense of time is wrecked right now. Just like that damn submarine. Like I said, I think it was six days ago I was on the edge of taking my own life. But I thought, hey! Not every day a rich ancien régime playboy invites you aboard a multimillion euro party ship. I thought screw it. A call to adventure at my lowest point. People are always saying you need to put yourself out there. So I went ahead and put myself out there in the Atlantic. God. The ocean! I deserve this. I thought I didn’t have anything to lose. For a man who wanted to die, I’m finding the prospect of death quite terrifying. My depression was rooted in loneliness. Often is, I imagine. It’s not a good...

Special Interest is a series of guest-written essays that focus on the intersection of art, culture, and the self. If you would like to contribute to Special Interest, email the editors, or reach out to us on Twitter. Folding Ideas Written by Gálvez Caballero “For a thousand men who can speak, there is only one who can think; for a thousand men who can think, there is only one who can see.” -anonymous Two years ago, I came across a thread in /po/(4chan’s Papercraft and Origami board), centered sharing their figures with others. It was a pretty broad question in a very old thread, /po/ being one of 4chan’s slowest boards, and so anons had come out in the hundreds to answer this question. In that thread, anons recounted their experiences sharing their creations with others, the ways they’d gone about transmitting their bringing a hobby shrouded in Oriental Mysticism to, for lack of a better term, the masses. As your typical atomized youth, it was this promise of communal exchange that sparked my interest in Origami. Japanese Papercraft is the practice of folding paper in extremely fine and precise ways, and I had to teach myself this art via a multitude of pirated magazines (like the Spanish magazine cuatro esquinas). It was transformative, I think, for the better. That Origami became my is no coincidence; it follows from the four things I seek most in art and life: beauty, honor, community, and prosperity. It was the papercraft community that first awakened this love in me, and in order to bring this thing I love before others, I feel that it’s necessary to extend the marvelous art to all who would come and hear me. In terms of beauty, Origami wants for nothing. One needs only to see the harmony in symmetry of the axis, the patterns on the folds, and appreciate how every step, every single fold neatly begets the other. Admire the final work, stroke each ear of your rabbit. Once you’ve finished, see how this process has given birth to a precious figure, an original work, made with your own hands. You don’t have to scry to see the honorable aspects in Folding Paper; not only in the work of the Origamist, but often also in the technique of the one making the folds. See the pride that each folder takes in his work. Whoever undergoes the work of folding paper, taking these “four corners” and creating art of the blank page, sees that his work gives fruit, and also comes to have a hobby (based in reality: this is, that brings the digital world of the anonymous forum to the real world) with a high skill ceiling. An honorable vibe exists in such abundance that it begins to approach divinity. I’m not unique in feeling this, the allure of mathematics is evinced by the scores of Engineers and Mathematicians that pursue the craft. As Masons derive their theses from working the stones, you can summon Order from Chaos through papercraft, a trait man shares with God, an ability kept even from the Angels. As a bulwark against alienation, Origami allows you to find legions of quiet and productive people. For every man or woman who is a paying Member of National Associations and frequently attends conventions in real life, there is a shadow community of ten times as many in servers, anonymous messaging boards, and oriental channels where they share PDFs that may or may not be illegally acquired. We become all of us teachers, encouraging novices to take up this hobby trade. There’s also a great, personal joy to be found in origami, a joy that can arrive only after a time spent raging. It’s real work, work with your hands, work that is intricate and asks a lot from you, in ways that you are unaccustomed to if you don’t use your fine motor skills often. This isn’t a flimsy, digital thing in a word processor. Ted Kaczynski was right, A real hobby, a concrete practice, trumps over a more abstract one. And what is a hobby that cannot enrich the hobbyist? A cynical thought, but even for cynics, Origami can open many doors. Once you’ve...

Vacui originally ran in Tales of the Unreal Volume 1. Ogden Nesmer is the author of Silkworm, which can be purchased in either paperback or digital format here The wind drives a sharp cold, barreling up the slopes as fast as a boulder might tumble down. Bending the blades of grass and tattered shrubs towards the same subject like reverent onlookers. All pointing to the ridge, all crusted with frost and locked in accusation at an empty edge and the vacuum beyond. Standing there, looking straight into the roar and trying to assemble the village below from the golden pinpoints that shimmer through the murk, it feels as if you've been placed in the way of impending punishment. Someone is coming to get you. Melner marks this down in his log-- the small one, for personal notes, not to be produced at the end of the assignment. It's lonely, he writes, but it feels crowded too. His pants are tucked into his socks, but the cold air still finds a way to slip up past his ankles, his knees, his crotch, chilling him under his thick coat. He scratches three thick lines over his entry. The measurements for the day are filed; the 22 km hike between vantage points, completed. Dobrick is down there already, nursing a whiskey and keeping a seat free. But Melner has to put something down, lest he should forget. The days would be lost if not for vigilant observation. The vibrations of a foghorn, inaudible under the sustained blasts of frigid air, resonate in Melner's chest. It's the boat, invisible, but unmistakeable. He jots two words ("Oxbow back") then scoots uneasily into the misty flow, looking away as he stumbles with care, trying to keep the ice out of his eyes. A block away from the harbor and the boat phases into view. Its main deck is still too high to see from the cobblestone streets, but Melner can hear a crew laughing and cursing, the only human sounds to be heard in otherwise empty streets. Inside the tavern, Dobrick and Oxbow are already conversing. They speak low, but it doesn't matter. Sailors and locals, equally drunk and raucous. Nothing can be heard in the bar this soon after a landing, unless someone's shouting it in your face. But Oxbow is calm, and Dobrick is listening politely, both of them grinning. Melner walks past them and sits at the bar, waiting for his turn. Oxbow is a code name. He told Melner and Dobrick this on the day he brought them to the bay, making it clear that, although there were things being kept from them, their employers would be transparent in their obfuscation. That was a long time ago now, hard for Melner to remember how he felt about it then, but it set the tone for the entire expedition. They didn't know where they were stationed. They weren't to stray too far from their observation points to collect measurements, and the village was their only respite for shelter and essentials. Perpetual cloud coverage made determining location effectively impossible. Government jobs could be like this, enforcing a level of secrecy that seemed to precede any real goals. Neither of them spoke the language of the locals, and Melner wasn't even sure what language it was. He couldn't say if Dobrick knew, as they didn't speak much when they shared a drink at the end of the day. They weren't allowed. They weren't even allowed to talk about their lives before the assignment. Melner didn't know what Dobrick's responsibilities were, and Dobrick never asked about his. Naturally, Oxbow's infrequent visits always involved a lot of precision misinformation, a mix of delaying, misrepresenting and perfectly timed silences. And, of course, every so often he had to feed them a little something to keep their hopes up. "We're South," he confided one quiet night, either a little too drunk or just putting on an incredibly convincing act. "What do you mean?" Melner had asked, knowing damn well what Oxbow had meant but hoping he could squeeze some more out of him (he couldn't). What he meant was that they'd already been lied to:...

Mariana is a popular story from the first issue of Tales of the Unreal. You can purchase issues of Tales Here. You can read them for free Here . Earlier this month, Mariana was read by Lucas Bineville for his youtube channel By Daniel Gavilovski Read by Lucas Bineville September 2nd, 1855 Being now the assistant cook to chef Mr. Fig Neil, following the disembarking of the previous assistant after the Ship's return to the Cape of Good Hope, I have been advised that it may be useful, and I agree, to keep note of HMS Mariana’s provisions on its voyage to Bimini. This includes its supply of good water, cutlery, glassware, tinned meat, fresh meat, livestock, vegetables, fruit, lime juice, spices, and any other foodstuffs relating to the ship kitchen. There are few things which evade such a description. Of sweet biscuit and cream I will take particular note, as the Mariana kitchen has experience being the lair of petty thievery of such confections. Probably deckhands. I have no issue with a biscuit disappearing every now and then, but the Royal Navy is founded on order and documentation, and I must embody my role and duty. Therefore – a record will be kept. What is more worrisome than the biscuits are the fresh oranges which I have already found missing and unreported in the manifest. Immediately I suspected Mr. Fig Neil. As I've discovered, he has an affinity for secretly distilling fruity gin "for the officers", as he says. So I confront him in his quarters where he's asleep in his own sweat but he tells me that the produce was blue with mold when he checked on it and so, seeing it was unfit for crew or officer, threw it overboard with haste. To my ears, it sounds like a lie. How can two crates of oranges picked at an atoll go from tree to blue in two days? But both Mazlov and Evans on deck saw with their own eyes that the fruit was inedible. Noted in manifest. Perhaps it is just how tropical fruits are but, just in case, I will wash down the storeroom of any black disease that might have caused this. For the 5 officers of Mariana, dinner tonight will consist of two freshly slaughtered sucklings caramelized and stuffed with peacock liver and dates. Accompanied by aubergine roasted in butter, and baked potato. As dessert: crimson syllabub topped with bilberry and mint leaf. For the crew of 87: tinned pork, fresh courgette roasted in honey, and boiled potato. As dessert: crimson syllabub mentioned previously. No sign of gin... September 5th, 1855 Raleigh the seaman along with surgeon Lezisky will be absent from dinner due to some injury the sailor sustained. The man is unable to hold his spoon apparently. Though the pain should already subside come the morning, Lezisky tells me he'll give Raleigh some laudanum and stay by his bedside tonight. This comes as if in exchange for yesterday when, after having nothing but crew meals for three nights, Lieutenant Fitzroy finally quit his hunger strike and re-joined his fellows at the office table. If a certain Irish topman is to believed, the Lieutenant had a disagreement with the Captain so caustic that he refused to share a table with the good man until now. Something about wanting to turn the ship back – signs of bad winds. He personally came down below decks to thank the chef but, finding only myself, invested in me his compliments. I had never seen someone quite so content and delighted as he (who had just devoured a golden brown pullet stuffed with mash and leek). He must have been starving. "Marvellous, boy," he told me. "Simply marvellous. And they taught you that in the Rochelle did they? Well my God, my saliva was like a waterfall at the very sight! Keep it up, my friend!" It's such moments that make up the dessert of life. Tonight for five officers: ortolan drowned in armagnac and braised in rouge, alongside vegetable moussaka topped with oriental tomatoes and dried parsley. As dessert: raspberry kaiserschmarrn with apple sauce. For crew of 85: Boiled beef, roasted...

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Buy Fedbook! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BRC7Z2Q9/ Tales of The Unreal!: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BVZP4L2X Join Our Discord!: https://discord.gg/66w2MBsZDy This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit unrealpress.substack.com

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit unrealpress.substack.com

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit unrealpress.substack.com