The parable of the gamblers.

Posted on September 1, 2026 by murphy

Three gamblers were in a saloon playing Fan-Tan when someone rode through the street, crying that the end of the world was coming. They walked outside, and saw a distant line of clouds, a storm enveloping and destroying everything in its path. They had about an hour before it would arrive, and they returned indoors and began to discuss what they would spend their last hour on Earth doing.

The first gambler said, “Gentlemen, I believe I shall go behind the bar and grab a bottle of fine Kentucky bourbon and a handful of cigars and spend my last hour upstairs with one of the ladies.”

The second gambler said, “Gentlemen, I believe I shall cross the street to the church, go inside, and pray.”

The third gambler returned to the table and said, “Gentlemen, I shall finish the game.”

I shall finish the game.

I don’t know where I’m going, only God knows where I’ve been

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On writing. (With apologies to ol’ Steve-O.)

Posted on August 31, 2026 by murphy

I am the entertainer, I bring to you my songs

I’ve always said that if you want to write to make money, you’re not a real writer. If you want to write to become famous, you’re not a real writer. And if you want to write to impress people, you’re not a real writer.

If you write because you have to, because it’s the only way to get the burning ideas out of your brain, because it’s the only way to stop the dogs barking in your head, you’re a real writer.

I’m a real writer. Have been for as long as I can remember. I was an avid reader as a child, and somewhere along the line it struck me that if I couldn’t find a story I wanted, I could make it up myself. I became a storyteller, guiding my friends through adventures in many different fantasy and science fiction worlds. I wrote, hacking away at ideas for story after story, but I rarely finished anything and even more rarely showed them to anyone. But telling my stories did stop the dogs from barking, so it wasn’t wasted effort.

I am not the only traveler who has not repaid his debt

It was being a storyteller that brought us together for the first time.

Well, not exactly. I first met her in passing at a party. We didn’t really speak, but I remembered her. At the time her hair was jet-black and cut short with a luminous white streak, and she reveled in the attention it drew. I paid attention from a distance.

Very late, an argument ensued about the nomenclature of time, and whether or not it was still “night” or if we were approaching “dawn.” Someone made the claim that in Middle Eastern countries, tradition held that if you could tell the difference between a black camel hair and a white camel hair, it was dawn. So she promptly pulled out one black strand and one white strand, volunteering for the experiment. When no one could tell the difference in the inky blackness, she picked out the right one—only afterwards explaining that she could tell by the texture.

I saw her again at another party some time later, and her hair had returned to its normal shade. She was avoiding the attentions of a would-be suitor who apparently was too persistent for her liking, and to ward him off she settled in with the group of misfits hovering around me as we talked about gaming and movies and assorted other nerdy topics.

Her ears perked up when someone commented about the gaming shop I worked at, and some of the games I’d run. “You’re a GM?” she asked.

I nodded. I explained that I’d been running games and telling stories since I was in grade school. I rattled off some of the systems I was familiar with.

“Ever hear of Dream Park?”

“The Niven and Barnes books, right?”

She grinned at me. My first time impressing her by catching a reference; there would be many others over the years. “Yeah, it’s based on the series.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m familiar with it. We got it in the shop a little while back. I haven’t checked it out yet, though, so I can’t speak to how good it is.” I thought it was an interesting pretext; a roleplaying game in which you played people involved in a live-action roleplaying game in a science-fiction adventure park. Playing a character who’s playing a character. Very meta. (When I saw Tropic Thunder years later, that infamous line from Robert Downey Jr. about being a dude playing a dude disguised as another dude made me laugh hysterically on a whole other level, and it took me a moment to recall why.)

“I bought it, but I haven’t been able to play it yet.” She eyed me closely. “Do you think you could run a session?”

Nail, meet hammer. “Absolutely. When?”

“Now.”

I blinked, then grinned back at her. “Of course.”

She hit me with that smile for the first time—the one that lit up her entire face—and said, “Consider yourself drafted.” She turned to the rest of the group. “You guys want in?”

The group around me all enthusiastically agreed that the party was dead and we’d much rather follow her elsewhere. Within the hour we were eating Chinese food in her living room and rolling characters.

I’ve been seeing things in you, oh, I think I believe in

I remember almost nothing of the session itself, outside of everyone having a good time. Eventually, the group began winding down and everyone was dozing in the early hours of the morning, but she and I were real night owls. We eventually convened in her office nook, where she sat playing an old puzzle game called The Fool’s Errand and we had the first of many long conversations, beginning to discover our common ground.

Eventually we reconvened with the rest of the group, groggily watching Saturday morning television. A new show—Power Rangers—was on, and at one point I snarkily made a comment about how all the American actors in the re-shot scenes were varying heights, but when they transformed and the show switched to the original Japanese footage, everyone was five-foot-two.

“And what’s wrong with being five-foot-two?” she asked icily. I began stammering a mea culpa—of course she was 5’2”—and then caught her grinning broadly at me out of the corner of my eye.

(Suddenly the lyrics for Randy Newman’s “Short People” popped into my head, but I decided not to press my luck.)

Eventually, everyone began making their excuses and heading towards the door, anxious to get some actual sleep. As she picked up her keys to give one of the other players a ride home, she grabbed my arm and thanked me for running the show. “Same again next week?” she asked.

“Of course.”

Though nothing will keep us together, we could steal time just for one day

Over the years, I told many more stories in her presence. She always loved them, and encouraged my creative endeavors. When she learned I was writing outside of just being a gamemaster, she encouraged that as well; I always wanted her to be my First Reader, but I never got anything polished to the point where I thought it would pass muster. I wanted to impress her, and my best never seemed quite good enough. (I’d always plot myself into a corner, get stuck, and the story would languish until I finally gave up on the thing.) And now, of course, it’s too late.

After she passed, I had a dream about us. We were out under the sky, watching the constellations above us. She made her comment about Orion, and I was telling her stories about the mythological figures the Greeks had drawn above us so many centuries before. When I woke up, though, I realized it wasn’t her, and it wasn’t me—I had the first inkling of a story. I’d actually written a similar scene years earlier for a book that never came together. I’d been writing it when I met my second wife, and the destruction of that relationship eventually killed any interest in completing the tale. That scene had always bugged me, though, feeling like it didn’t fit. I realize now it was because I was writing it for different characters entirely.

The story certainly has echoes from my life—it’s about a young man who meets an amazing young woman and she becomes the most important star in his sky. But while I did crib heavily from my past and from Sid (and I imagine I might be called to task for that on another plane of existence one day), the story became something entirely different, about love and loss and finding one’s way. I just needed an amazing woman for my protagonist to fall in love with, and I really only had one great example to pattern her after. Hopefully she won’t mind.

(I’m sure the folks who knew us both will raise their eyebrows at me. Guys, sometimes a cigar is just a p—I mean, a cigar.)

The story laid itself out in my mind in fits and starts, at first appearing with huge gaps, and then sort of backfilling with details as it unfolded. An annoying day at work or a particularly restless night would see an entirely new scene drop fully-formed into the tale, and I’d make notes and form things up. And as it grew, I began to think it might be possible to actually write the thing.

Finally, one day I drove home through ferocious afternoon storms, and I felt a power upon me. I’d been hacking at the first scene of the book and having difficulty, never being able to get it just right. So, instead, I opened a new page and jumped straight to the most important scene, one in the heart of the story, and it just flowed. I wrote page after page, and while it definitely needed some polish, it was my first time writing at length in years. I felt like Thor in Endgame, recalling Mjolnir and finding out he was still worthy.

And when I closed Word, I was dumped back to my desktop. Ages ago, I’d selected a theme which rotated pictures of dark skies, flipping through about 20 gorgeous images of stars at night. And the one that I found myself staring at bore the unmistakable figure of Orion in a place of prominence.

And I could almost hear Sid somewhere calling me a thundering dumbass for forgetting who I was for so long.

So that’s what the book is. It’s me writing a love letter to a lost friend, and a way to express how much she meant—and still means—to me through a work inspired by her presence in my life. And in the meantime, I’ll use this site to throw words out into the universe, if for no other reason than to keep my tools sharp and my powder dry.

And to shut up those goddamn dogs.

Love you, lady of chaos. Whether or not I actually finish this, I found myself again.

But I’ll never give you up, if I ever give you up my heart will surely fail

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The elephant in the room.

Posted on August 30, 2026 by murphy

They got a name for the winners in the world—I want a name when I lose

So, let’s just get this over with.

When I tell these stories, there’s one question I tend to get more than any other.

So I guess I’d better answer it.

“Murphy, is it true you were famed skyjacker D.B. Cooper?”

No, I was not.

I do feel obliged to point out that’s exactly what famed skyjacker D.B. Cooper would say. Do with that information what you will.

I’m not Doobie Keebler, either. (If you get that reference, we are of the same tribe.)

All right, I’m stalling. That is obviously not the question.

The question is this: “Murphy, you stupid fucking muppet, she clearly liked you; why didn’t you ever ask her out?”

To respond to this I honestly just want to post a picture of myself and a picture of her and do the Khaby Lame thing. When I say she was out of my league, I don’t mean I was the backup catcher for the Birmingham Barons and she was the starting centerfielder for the Charlotte Knights. It’s more like I was the backup catcher for the Birmingham Barons and she was an all-star playing in the Proxima Centauri system. We’re talking a distance that could be measured in parsecs.

But that’s not an honest explanation of the situation, because it implies something that’s not really the case—that I had a crush, and I was the poor wallflower hiding my feelings and hoping senpai would notice me.

I think the thing people get confused about is the nature of love. A lot of people (mostly guys) have this idea that love exists in basically two forms; familial, in which it’s a close friend or a family member and it’s fondness and affection, and romantic, in which the end goal is physical intimacy. And that’s kind of reductive, I think.

There’s a lot more to it. There’s the whole concept of courtly love, which came out of the middle ages, in which a knight might dedicate himself to the service of a noblewoman—usually unattainable from his station—and perform acts of fealty and devotion to her. Or there’s the four varieties CS Lewis wrote about, which includes philia (deep friendship) and agape (selfless, unconditional love) in addition to familial and romantic varieties. So love doesn’t always mean you’re looking for the happily ever after. It can be a very complex thing.

Or it can be really simple.

Sometimes love means the mere fact they exist in the world makes it a brighter place, and that’s enough.

Sometimes love means wanting someone to be happy, without reservation.

Sometimes love means being willing to put yourself in harm’s way to protect someone, no matter what that means for you.

About that…

Hold on to your wishes if you can’t hold on to me

(Yes, I’m getting to it. Give me some slack, this one gets embarrassing.)

One of the ongoing problems in fandom and gaming is how guys react to women. Just across the board, it’s rarely mature and good, and it was even worse back then. Women attempting to enter these male-only spaces were regularly challenged about their bona fides, or if they didn’t get a hostile reaction, it was more hopeful opportunism that any girl in the space was just looking for a geek boyfriend. And to be fair, some women played on that, collecting a harem of thirsty guys and playing them off against each other for attention.

Sid really hated that shit. She just wanted to be treated like anyone else, which is one of the reasons I think she appreciated me. But as her friend, I often got targeted by guys looking for an in, and I’d have to gently wave them off or let them down easy. Not all of them listened, and some tried anyway, and the resulting embarrassment generally sent them out of our group’s orbit.

But there was one guy she genuinely seemed to like, and he genuinely seemed to like her. And like some godawful rom-com, they just wouldn’t come the fuck out and say it. I got treated to endless heart-to-heart sessions with each of them, and it became clear they really wanted to give it a shot, but they’d never admit it to one another. I gave advice, I nudged, I hinted, I cajoled, but they’d always chicken out and stop short in the end.

Finally I dragged the two of them into a room. “He likes you,” I said. “She likes you,” I said. “Discuss,” I said. And then I went out and held the door closed.

They dated for a while. It was pretty stormy, and on more than one occasion, I stepped in to try to help patch things up between them. Because I genuinely thought he made her happy, and I liked him well enough. In retrospect, if I hadn’t kept trying to keep them together, it might not have gone south the way it eventually did.

They eventually fell out, and she began dating someone else. We all moved in the same social circles, so her ex was still present at events, and eventually the confrontations escalated. Eventually it culminated with a very ugly scene at a party, a scene that got violent. I wasn’t present for it; I’d been trying to defuse the situation, but had failed, and took a walk to clear my head. I came back to a broken door, some destroyed possessions, but thankfully, nobody hurt. It wouldn’t end there.

I hate to say it, but it’s probably me

A little while later, her ex made some oblique statements that suggested he was going to, not to put too fine a point on it, firebomb her house and kill them the following Saturday night. Sid, not being a shrinking violet, called his bluff and slated another party. She came to me and told me what was going on, and asked me if I’d run a game session. I told her of course I would, and we kept it to our inner circle.

The gaming session was pretty tense at first, but eventually everyone loosened up and got into the story I was telling, and it was almost like any other game night. Eventually we almost forgot about the whole reason we were there… until one of the crew got up to refresh his drink, peered out the living room window, and said, “Hey, there’s somebody on the lawn.”

(Cringing already here. Get through this, Murph.)

Sid and I locked eyes, and the realization shot through the group. And then all at once, everyone moved. Some folks started heading for the back door. Someone ran for the phone. I ran for the couch, dove behind it, and pulled out the bag I’d stashed there earlier in the evening. I threw it on the sofa, unzipped it, and pulled out—well, there’s just no beating around the bush here.

I pulled out a fucking sword.

(Yes, I was one of those nerds. In my defense, I’d actually taken some kendo so I actually kind of knew a little technique. And it wasn’t a stereotypical katana, but a wakizashi—I’ve always been better close-in than at arm’s length. But it’s still godawful embarrassing.)

Most of the crew froze, gaping at me, as I ran for the front door. Through the distorted glass, I could see a figure standing near the base of the steps leading up to the porch. I saw a flare of light that in my mind could’ve been someone attempting to light a fuse. In that moment, I had a clear image In my head of what was about to occur.

I was going to wrench open the front door and hurl myself down the steps, weapon held high, like some godawful parody of a Frank Miller splash page. And I was going to absolutely fuck up the person who was attempting to hurt someone I cared about. I have no idea what would’ve happened after that. Part of me understood that if there actually were some sort of explosive or incendiary device involved, there was a reasonable chance it would go off while I was at ground zero.

I didn’t particularly care.

When I think back on that moment, it’s honestly so weird. I’m a pacifist; I believe violence is wrong. I defuse situations with wit and humor and self-deprecation. I’m absolutely the last person to get physical. But in that moment, it was all wrath, baby. Front Towards Enemy.

I got my hand on the doorknob, twisted it, and began to yank the door open. I was seconds from leaping out and irrevocably committing myself. And all of a sudden Sid wrapped herself around my right arm, leaned in close and whispered desperately, “Murph, it’s a cop!”

You win some, lose some, it’s all the same to me

I froze as my brain tried to reboot. Sid effortlessly took the weapon from fingers that were suddenly nerveless and made it disappear. I managed to continue my motion and opened the door the rest of the way. The cop, startled by the sudden movement, shined the flashlight he was carrying at us. “Evening, officer. Can we help you?” I asked, putting on as much charm as I could muster.

Turns out the alarm had gone off at the jewelry store around the corner. Some kids were apparently horsing around, yanking on the door, and had set it off. The PD was sending cars into the neighborhood looking for anything out of the ordinary. We explained we hadn’t seen anything odd, but we’d keep an eye out. He thanked us and moved on to the next block.

As Sid shut the door, I had an adrenaline crash and nearly collapsed. I was literally about to leap off her porch brandishing a sword at an armed police officer, who likely would’ve shot me six or seven times. I would’ve died with an awfully stupid look on my face, and people would’ve shared the clippings online. “Local idiot has Highlander freakout and attacks cop.” It would’ve been hilarious.

Sid looked at me with worry and everyone else sighed with relief, and then we noticed our friend who’d spotted the cop in the first place was looking utterly bewildered. “What the fuck was that about?” he asked.

And that’s when we realized he hadn’t been in the group chats where we’d talked about the death threats. He had no idea he’d been invited to a party that could potentially be firebombed.

He was utterly furious with us and we had to buy his drinks for a while as apology.

(Some time later we all went out to see the premiere of Pulp Fiction. When Butch pulled down the katana in the pawn shop scene, I turned to see every last one of those motherfuckers smirking at me.)

Although they call me a legend, they can’t remember my name

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Happy birthday.

Posted on August 29, 2026 by murphy

(Originally posted 6/18/26)

I kissed your lips and broke your heart

“Murph!”

I turned away from the heated debate we’d been having on just how many copies of the latest Image books to risk ordering and saw that magnificent smile. I’d known her for less than a month, but I already knew she was one of the most important people I’d ever meet. I grinned to match, and then I noticed the hair. Her short brown locks were now jet black, with a slim white stripe in the front. She’d had her hair like that the first time I ever saw her, at a time when I couldn’t have imagined having the guts to just walk up and introduce myself.

Life occasionally throws you a second chance. Months later, she had walked up and introduced herself to me. I was holding court at a party with my nerd brethren talking about nerd things; she’d been seeking refuge from a guy who wasn’t taking no for an answer. When she overheard us talking about roleplaying games, she asked if I would run a game she’d just bought; when I assented, she grabbed me and the most promising of the bunch and we spent the rest of the night engaged in the first of many gaming sessions. While everyone else slept it off, Sid and I had stayed up past dawn, talking about everything.

I couldn’t help but notice every eye in the place upon her as she marched straight up to me. To be fair, any woman walking into a comic shop back then would draw attention, especially one as pretty as she was. “What can I do for you?” I asked, attempting to lean on the counter nonchalantly and accidentally tipping over several tubes of dice.

“I wanted to ask you—” she paused and cocked her head. The shop stereo had been playing a track by U2 when she’d walked in, but now it flipped over to an obscure Nick Cave number. Her eyes widened. “What are you listening to?”

I stepped back into the back room and grabbed the CD case, presenting it to her. I’d bought it a few days previously at the indie record store around the corner. The soundtrack to the film Until the End of the World by Wim Wenders. Her jaw dropped. “No way. You’ve seen the movie?”

“Yeah, it’s fantastic,” I replied. She looked skeptical, so I quoted a few lines from the opening monologue, Eugene talking about loving Claire, self-destructive faults and all. She looked at me like I’d just done some kind of magic trick. “Super weird, kind of self-indulgent, but so beautiful.”

“And sad,” she agreed, handing back the case. “I love that film. I don’t know anyone else who does.”

“Well, now you do,” I said, grinning again. “So what can I do for you? I can cut you a great deal on some second-hand pogs.” She laughed, shaking her head, and I noticed everyone clocking the conversation. Not only was there an attractive woman in the shop, she was talking to Murphy and he was making her laugh. Definitely the End Times.

She seemed to remember why she was there. “I need to ask you a favor.”

“Shoot,” I replied.

“The guy I’m dating just dumped me, and I need to see the ocean.” She named two of our friends who were already on board and asked me if I’d come too.

“Sure,” I said. “When?”

“Now,” she replied with an impish grin.

I laughed. Then: “Uh, right now?”

She nodded.

I gestured at the shop helplessly. “I’m kind of at work.”

She looked mildly disappointed. “When do you get off?”

“6:00?”

“I’ll come back and get you at 6:00,” she said.

(I’d later learn that she’d steered him into dumping her with the dye job. He wasn’t a fan of her more mercurial tendencies and apparently felt threatened by her sudden adoption of a gaggle of nerdy guys; she’d done her hair in the hopes it would be the last straw and he’d storm out. It had worked.)

I take one, one, one ‘cause you left me

Hours later we were rocketing south on the interstate. I was piled into the bomber with three people who I’d met a few weeks previous, and none of us knew each other’s real names. The driver was deejaying, flipping CDs and keeping the volume high enough to overwhelm the wind whipping through the open windows. We’d just gotten through the Violent Femmes’ self-titled album, and he followed it up with the Enigma debut that consisted of Gregorian chants layered under techno beats. It seemed absolutely perfect for the dark night around us as we flew far from home in the dark interstitials between towns.

Someone had said something funny—I’d like to think it was me, but probably not—and Sid was laughing wildly, turning away. She glanced out the window, then did a sudden double-take. I watched as she leaned far out, shouting something that was lost to the slipstream. She ducked back in, wild-eyed, and said, “Holy shit, Murph, you’ve got to see this!” She then leaned even further out, nearly sitting on the door, looking up into the sky.

I leaned out myself, glancing up, and all of a sudden, I lost my breath. I was staring up into the wildest night sky I’d ever seen. This far from civilization, it was dark enough that every star stood out, with the glowing clouds of the Milky Way sprawling above us. I gaped at the brilliance, my wit utterly failing me. I met her gaze and she smiled at me across the roof of the car, her hair whipping wildly, before we returned to marveling at the sight.

The guy in the passenger seat leaned out to look, swore impressively, and goggled up at the stars with us.

Then the driver did the same.

Everyone screamed at him at once to keep his eyes on the road.

Somehow we made it to the beach.

My favorite dreams of you still wash ashore

We were sitting out on the water, a few hours before dawn, while our friends slept off the drive. Sid and I were night owls, and we were talking and sharing while a tropical low that didn’t quite make it into a depression slid northwards towards us. The clouds were beginning to build, but the storm wouldn’t properly arrive and drive us inside until daybreak. We were occupying a pair of wooden lounges halfway between the seawall and the surf, her with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

I wish I could remember everything we talked about. We were learning about all the commonalities we shared, and there were a lot of them. I’d said something witty—she had a way of closing her eyes and smiling when something particularly amused her, a long, slow double-blink almost like the thing cats do when they really like you. As she stubbed out her smoke and took a sip of her drink, she spotted a break in the growing clouds above us and pointed.

“See those stars? Those three, in a line?” she asked.

I was enough of a space nerd to recognize the belt of Orion, and named the mythological hunter. She grinned at me. I’d clearly passed another test.

“If you’re ever feeling lost or lonely, find Orion, and know that I’m looking up at those same stars. And you’ll know you’re not alone.”

She hit me with the pinball smile, and I nearly blew everything. I’ve been compelled; I’ve been impelled. I’ve felt a power upon me. I’ve done dumb shit that I couldn’t fathom doing mere moments after I’d done it. But in that moment I nearly fucked up so bad. It would’ve been the worst fuckup I’ve ever made, and friends, I’ve been married. Twice.

I nearly branded myself forever atop the list of guys who’d fucked up their friendship with her by making a clumsy pass. The only defense I can muster is I was caught up in one hell of a moment with a pretty girl who’d just said something beautiful. I opened my mouth, and I’m not sure what dumbass line would’ve marched out of it with mind-meltingly inappropriate confidence, because I bit down on the words with Herculean effort. They skidded to a stop in my throat so abruptly I felt like I could taste smoke. The willpower that it took to bear down on whatever idiotic attempt I was about to make has got to be legendary. If there’s ever any need for somebody to pick up a Green Lantern ring, I’m your man. I’ll whip Sinestro’s ass.

I noticed her looking at me quizzically, and I realized the silence had spun out a bit while I tried to reboot my language center. I tried to come up with a quip and utterly failed. I tried to think of something, anything to say, and my brain was just in vapor-lock. I forgot every single word of English I knew. I took a sip of my own drink to try to cover and lamely pointed out at the storm clouds miles and miles to the south of us. She turned to follow my gesture.

And the goddess loves a fool, because right at that moment the biggest blast of lightning I’ve ever seen spread out across the southern sky. It was a beautiful, arcing display that seemed to reach all the way to the shoreline and lit up the heavens, painting all the dark clouds in stark relief. It was the second most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and the thunder rolled and echoed for what seemed like minutes.

I finally glanced back at her. She met my gaze, wide-eyed, silent and smiling. I’d been a Discordian long enough to never look a gift coincidence in the mouth, and I was enough of a showman to realize when I’ve been handed a moment. I smirked and dropped her a wink.

She threw her head back and the sound of her laughter is something I’ll never forget if I live to the century mark. And in that moment, one of the most enduring pieces of my own personal mythos was born. From that point on, I’d always be linked with storms in her mind. (I still have the rain stick she gave me later that year.) We stayed out on the beach and talked for hours, until the dawn and the rising winds finally sent us inside to get some rest.

(Sid later told me that she’d stolen the Orion line from somebody. I told her it was okay, all the greatest artists steal.)

And if that day comes, I know we can win; I wonder if I’ll ever see you again

Happy birthday, Sid. Miss you something fierce.

This is the second important date that’s rolled around since I found out, and somehow I’m still functional. The first was the anniversary of her passing, and I was absolutely planning for a self-destructive spiral. I’d bought a bottle of applejack—my third choice, as I chickened out of the 151 or the Goldschlager that both had historical meaning—and I was prepared to do myself some mischief with it. A couple days before, though, I ended up in the hospital for a weekend stay due to a minor injury deciding to have a go at trying to kill me.

As I was sitting in the ER on a snowy Saturday morning having a nurse perforate me, we got to discussing the Rian Johnson movie Wake Up Dead Man and what amazing cinematography it contained. She stepped out after running my IV, and I thought to myself how Sid would’ve absolutely rolled her eyes at one of my favorite things about the film, Johnson’s heavy-handed but amazing use of light. And as if on cue, the sun broke out from behind a snow cloud and filled the triage room with precisely the same golden light from Benoit Blanc’s Damascus moment at the end.

“Now you’re just showin’ off,” I muttered.

I was released a few days later, a year to the day of her passing. I got to go home on the same day she didn’t. (Or I didn’t get to go home on the same day she did, if you want to look at it that way.) I couldn’t touch the bottle due to the meds I was on, so it sat in my pantry as I healed up.

Closing on Sid’s birthday, though, I figured this was the time I was going to properly fuck up. I’d begged off of a couple of after-work get togethers, because I figured the odds were good that if you put me in a room with drink I’d have a Byronesque depressive fit and end up saying something morbid and creepifying about the transient nature of existence and really ruin everyone’s evening. I’d planned to come home tonight and black myself out, and roll into work tomorrow with the mater and pater of all hangovers.

But then I got word that it was going to rain to beat the band today. And I realized that if I were a less rational man, a more superstitious man, a more sentimental man, I’d have to acknowledge the fact that she absolutely shared a love of storms and dreary weather with me, and she’d know that this would’ve been one of the few things that might keep me on an even keel on a really bad day. It rained heavily and gloriously, and my coworkers couldn’t figure out why I was so happy about it. And the bottle remains unemptied, and I remain unwrecked.

Now, am I honestly of the belief that my city got a day of soaking, nigh-tropical rain because one of the most-beloved of all my many ghosts is looking out for me and wants me to be happy?

Of course not. It would be utter lunacy to suggest that were the case.

But if it were…

Wouldn’t that be a hell of a thing?

And the light that you left, it helps me to see

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On losing my anchor being.

Posted on August 28, 2026 by murphy

(Originally posted 6/03/26)

So stay with me, and I’ll have it made

When I was a much younger man, I met an amazing woman. She was brilliant, funny, and fearless. She was beautiful, but didn’t think she was. She had a smile like the sun breaking through clouds, and if you could make her laugh, her face lit up like a pinball machine when you when a free game. (Yes, I stole that from Grant Naylor. No, I’m not going to apologize.)

And for some reason, she liked me. We had the same taste in almost everything. I’d mention loving an obscure movie, and it was one of her favorites. She’d make a deep-cut literary reference and I’d be the only person in the room who got it. I made her laugh, and she loved the stories I told. I loved merely being in her presence. We were both part of the online scene, so we introduced ourselves by our nicknames—she was Sidian (a character from a book she loved) and I was Murphy (from Murphy’s Law). I always called her Sid, and she always called me Murph. It took us months to learn each other’s real names.

Early on, I came to a realization. I was fucking terrible at relationships. (So was she.) I really enjoyed being around her, though, so I came to an absolutely insane decision: I wasn’t going to try to make a pass at her, I was going to try to be her friend. (It helped that she was so far out of my league the distance could be measured in parsecs.) I just loved being in her presence so much that I didn’t want to fuck it up, and I knew I couldn’t help but fuck it up.

You didn’t have much to say, but you were beautiful anyway

Somehow, it worked. The fact that I’d never made a ham-fisted attempt to convert “geek girl” into “geek girlfriend” like 97% of the guys in her arc earned me a measure of her respect. We became close friends. I would’ve taken a bullet for her—and while that’s usually just a figure of speech, once I very nearly actually did. A guy she broke up with went over the high side, threatened to firebomb her house, and through a series of ill-advised events, I came within about ten seconds of getting mag-dumped by a police officer and would’ve died with a hilariously stupid expression on my face. It’s a ridiculous story I might share eventually, and certainly one where the news clippings would’ve been passed around on the Internet for people to laugh at. But if she hadn’t put her hand on my arm at the very last moment, I would’ve absolutely gotten jumped by Mr. Dead, as the Tribe Who Stayed would put it.

For years, we were partners in crime. But time passes, and things change. We both got involved with other people; we both ended up moving away. I moved across the country to be with a woman, who, it turns out, only wanted my assistance in trying to beat her younger golden-child sister to the husband/house/baby trifecta. When her sister won the race, I was surplus to requirements and was cast aside. Sid got married and had a daughter, and then her husband died. We both moved back home within the same week out of the blue, and our friends took it as some kind of herald of the End Times.

This time I’ll try to be more beautiful and more amusing

Everything shifted back into a familiar groove for a while. It was like we’d never left. But we were older, and life started doing its thing. The group eventually drifted apart, and we began to be in touch less and less frequently. I got wound up in my own problems, caring for a parent who was disabled, and had precious little time and energy to spend on my own happiness. Sid ended up moving back across the country to be with her family. Weeks between contacts became months, became years.

She eventually wrote a couple of books and sent them to me. I think she was trying to prod me to take a real swing at my own creative endeavors, which I’d been hoarding like jewels, never showing to anyone a la George McFly. I never did get around to putting my works out there, but it did spur me to write more. Even though we’d grown distant, I thought of her often, and knowing she was in the world was one of the (fewer and fewer) things I still liked about it.

Just yesterday morning, they let me know you were gone

One day last year, I started getting spammed with attempts to log into my Facebook account, which I’d deactivated and abandoned when I got sick of political shit. I finally decided to open it back up and change the password and lock it down. When I did so, a notification popped up from a mutual friend. It said, “I just found out Sid passed away.” And my whole world depressurized.

Nobody knew she was sick. She’d kind of dropped off everyone’s radar, and hadn’t reached out to let any of us know. I like to think she just didn’t want to burden any of us; there’s a tiny part of me that worries maybe she thought it had been so long, we wouldn’t care.

If I’d known, I would’ve dropped everything and headed for her bedside in a moment. Maybe that’s one of the reasons she didn’t reach out; she didn’t want muggins here uprooting his entire life in some tiresome gesture of adoration to her.

In some loyal heart, is your memory enshrined

I went on tilt for a very long time. Frankly, I can’t say I’m not still on tilt. I got blackout drunk for the first time in my life; I sobered up and felt miserable, then I did it again. Barely held it together for the first week. Then that Friday I was driving home, and the YouTube Music algorithm decided to kick me in the teeth. It threw me “Fire and Rain” by James Taylor (I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend / but I always thought that I’d see you again) and then “Blister in the Sun” by the Violent Femmes, which had been the anthem for a late-night road trip a few weeks after we’d met. While our friends slept off the drive, we’d sat out on the beach while a pre-dawn storm rolled in, talking and sharing. She pointed out the stars of Orion’s belt in the sky above us and told me if I ever felt lost or lonely, to find those stars and know she was looking up at them too. (I so very nearly blew the “don’t make a pass at her” rule before I came to my senses. To this day I keep one of those star apps on my phone so I can find Orion at any moment, even if it’s cloudy or he’s on the other side of the world.)

And then I pulled up at a light, and the algorithm went for the throat. “No Rain” by Blind Melon. The night we met, I ran a gaming session for her and what would become our circle of friends, and she and I stayed up past dawn talking about philosophy. She pulled out the CD, which she’d bought earlier that day on the strength of the single and put it on. And she absolutely hated every other track, getting more and more annoyed as she kept skipping. She griped about it for days. And from then on, I’d always associate the single with her in my head. I still think of her every time I hear it, and I know she’d punch me in the arm for that.

So there I was, about to completely break down in my car, when a flash of light caught my attention. It was city council election season, and a bunch of roadside signs were reflecting the setting sun at me. And one of the candidates was a man named Derrick Murphy. And the light reflecting off the sign obscured the last letter, so I just saw, “Murph.” I can count the number of people who called me that on one hand, and nobody ever said it with as much affection as she did.

And I felt for a moment like maybe she wasn’t completely gone. I could almost hear her laughing in my ear, telling me to get over it.

And I laugh at myself while the tears rain down

So it’s been sixteen months since she left. And I’m getting by. I’m still moving, but things have changed. To put it succinctly, I just no longer feel like I have a dog in any given fight anymore. Events just sort of wash over me; I feel like I’m a curious observer rather than a participant. Good news, bad news, it doesn’t really matter to me, because I just feel disconnected. The only person I ever really loved unconditionally and the last person who really knew me is gone; now I feel like I’m just marking time until it’s my turn to come home from the circus.

Please don’t get me wrong— I’m in no way suicidal, nor do I feel depressed. I still get a great amount of enjoyment out of life. I’ve always focused on the small, simple things instead of what other people would consider life goals. An afternoon thunderstorm or an encounter with random wildlife will fill me with an enormous sense of well-being. I have plans; I’m going back to school in order to further my career. I look forward to things in the future. I’m actually writing again, too. I started self-therapy by putting down the stories of our times together and my memories of her, and eventually it morphed into a work of fiction, where I’m cringe-makingly basing characters and events loosely on my own past. I love life enough that when it’s time for my ticket to get punched, they’re going to have to bring up the house lights and the music and probably even break out the big Vaudeville hook to pull me off the stage.

And besides, if I pulled the ripcord just because I was sad, she would never let me hear the end of it. So I’ll keep passing the open windows. Like the third gambler in the story, I shall finish the game.

But when it is my time, I’m not going to be precious about it. I don’t particularly fear the end of the story, because I know one of two things is going to happen. Either I’m going to get to see someone again who I love dearly and intensely miss… or I’m going to stop missing her.

And if I can’t have the one, I for damn sure want the other.

Love is love, and not fade away

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A few preliminaries.

Posted on August 27, 2026 by murphy

This project was originally going to start many moons ago. Way back when, I bought this domain as kind of a gag—my joke was that if I ever started a band, I would call it “Small Shiny Objects” so the college reviewers could be snarky and say “the crowd was not mesmerized by Small Shiny Objects.” The plan was to use this as a portfolio for copywriting and also a repository for fiction and personal essays, but it never got off the ground. Eventually I let it lapse, and someone bought the domain and tried to use it for e-commerce.

More recently, I’ve done a fair bit of writing online, and for some reason people seem to like what I create. After hearing enough people say I should write a book (I’m working on two) or that they wanted to read more, hubris mode kicked in and I decided to see about putting up a site. I looked at the domains I currently maintained and wasn’t super happy about using any of them, and then out of curiosity punched smallshinyobjects.com into a domain search engine and wouldn’t you know, it was available again.

Swept along by the relentless tide of history.

So this site is going to serve as a home for the things I write. Primarily, it will be a place for me to post snippets of the fiction I’m working on, as well as a place to tell stories from my life. I’ll also undoubtedly use this to comment on things I love or hate, random pop culture musings, you name it. I’ll use this to collect things I’ve written in the past as well as showcase my ongoing writings.

A word about content: I have a very bleak sense of humor and melancholy is kind of my “Free Bird.” I’ll go into some more detail on this subject in upcoming posts, but just be prepared for the occasional post that might have you thinking, “hey, buddy, you okay over there?” I assure you I am. I’m a big believer in the fact that life contains both light and darkness, and without one or the other, you lose context. So if you’re the type of person who always wants things to be sunny and cheerful, this might not be your cup of tea.

I will however attempt to stay well the fuck clear of politics here. Primarily because when I talk politics, I tend to piss everybody off. (No, I’m not a “centrist.” I’m so left-wing neither of the parties in this country can see me from where they’re standing.) If you want to put me in a frame, consider me a devout Carlinist. Saint George is my spirit animal.

And I’ll promise you this right now: no fucking LLMs. You might have seen an em-dash earlier; rest assured that comes from the fact that I’ve been stacking words on top of each other since I was a child and generally know what the little dots and lines and squiggles mean. I don’t even like grammar checking, which will probably become evident due to my overuse of semicolons and run-on sentences. So you can rest assured this nonsense I spew isn’t the kind of nonsense that comes from an algorithm. Some of us just write good.

(Yes, that’s a joke. It’s depressing how many times I’ve made that comment elsewhere and people didn’t get it and immediately swarmed to “gotcha” me. C’mon, son.)

So, I’m sure I’ve forgotten something, but that’s the important stuff, I feel. So with those ground rules in place, let’s see what happens.

Welcome back, my friends, to the show that never ends

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Raison d’etre.

Posted on August 27, 2026 by murphy

Like so many things, it begins with a girl.

(There’s also a boy, but he’s much less important. He’s only the teller of tales, a word-style hero who has occasional flashes of being better than he has any right to be. Let’s just get it out of the way, the boy is me. I’m just here to narrate.)

So, a girl, and a boy. Also to get it out of the way, this isn’t a story where the boy gets the girl, or the girl gets the boy. If that’s the kind of happy ending you need, to quote the Man in Black, get used to disappointment.

Don’t get me wrong—the boy cared about the girl very, very much. And he was pretty sure she cared for him, as well. At the very least, she let him stick around while casting off so many others who had become tiresome or predictable. They loved most of the same things, and always got each other’s obscure references. He made her laugh. And sometimes, when he said something particularly clever or charming, she had a way of smiling at him that lit up her whole face and made her, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

They were friends for a long time. She became the most important constellation in his sky. He’d have taken a bullet for her, and very nearly did once. She played a key role in him becoming the person he is today.

They fell out of touch eventually, but the echo of her presence in his life was something he always treasured.

And then one day, he found out she was gone.

And that made him feel a certain kind of a way about a great many things.

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Dedication.

Posted on August 27, 2026 by murphy

For Sid, who always made me want to be better than I was.

And for Ransom, who always made me feel like I was already better.

For some reason, the two of you really loved the stories I told. My greatest regret is that I didn’t tell you more of them before you had to leave.

And for the Usual Suspects.

You know who you are.

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