Advisory on Recent Upgrades to Local Sea Life

The Ministry of Marine Matters (MMM) advises that several sea organisms caught by local fishermen are exhibiting what staff have termed “non-standard anatomical upgrades.” At this time, employees are reminded to log all sightings of glowing eyes, additional limbs, and tentacled appendages in Form 42-B. Do not attempt to feed, pet, or crack open these entities.

A full risk assessment will be scheduled pending availability of the Safety Team, who are currently investigating the McBarge wreckage. Further guidance will be issued once we have determined which incident reports are just AI-generated.

Field Report: Junior Marine Analyst (Unpaid Placement)

Per the MMM mandate, I conducted a visual survey of the McBarge Wreck Zone at 0900 hours. At 0912 hours, I observed a crustacean displaying an unusually enlarged carapace, distinctly shaped like a sesame-seed bun. At 0916 hours, it raised one engorged claw and began to “walk” toward me in a manner I would describe as deeply un-crablike.

Please advise whether time spent evading the creature qualifies for overtime.

Internal Communication: Brand Risk Prevention

McDonald’s prides itself on producing meals capable of withstanding any environmental condition. We remain committed to reducing food waste and continue developing innovative approaches to delicious meals. As a result, several menu items have survived the McBarge wreckage and remain intact on the ocean floor.

While certain deep-sea organisms have reportedly consumed these items, we emphasise that this only demonstrates the enduring quality of our products rather than any defect. Employees are reminded not to engage with the press until Legal finalises its position and completes the necessary contributions to relevant political parties.

Personal Log: Dr. Ren

Day 69. Another specimen arrived today. Its flesh is perfectly preserved, and its stomach still contains fully intact French fries. My colleagues insist the fries taste soggy, indistinguishable, they claim, from the average 3 a.m. drive-through. I’m choosing not to ask how they know.

Fisherman Statement (Unofficial)

Caught something this morning that shouldn’t move the way it did. It had the shape of a snapper, but its skin was a glossy yellow that didn’t belong on anything alive. When we cut it open, it smelled like fryer oil.

Told the officer at the dock. He said to fill out Form 42-B. We don’t have those forms.

Supplementary Addendum on Sea Life upgrades and containment.

Following recently submitted field reports, the MMM notes that several new marine organisms may now be present near the wreckage of the McBarge. Staff should not interpret this as “an outbreak,” or “infestation”. These terms are unhelpful and create unnecessary concern.

In an effort to demonstrate their continued participation in the community, the McDonald’s team has contributed to a “research fund,” earmarked for projects not directly related to the recent discoveries.

In the meantime, please continue submitting reports via Form 42-B.

The Orbit recently shared a post about the McBarge that really got my brain churning.

I can imagine a future where the remnants of capitalism bleed into the environment and create anomalies well suited to the world of Fallout monsters or Welcome to Night Vale and their community announcements. The latter has inspired me for so long. I’ve always enjoyed world building from the perspective of radio bulletins or newspaper articles. They add a real-world creepiness that allows the mind to concoct even more bizarre scenarios, the kind that never have concrete answers.

I hope you enjoy this completely different post.

And if a cruise liner stocked with burgers were to sink, how many BigMacs would it take to feed a blue whale?

There it sat, minding its own business, grass moving with the wind but never alone. All grass move as one, their neighbors part of a collective. Where blades meet, there is continuity. Where they do not, there is distance, but never silence.

The grass that sits beneath a tree feels the shade. Its warmth is not its own, but borrowed from its adjacent brethren, bathed in the sunlight it cannot touch for itself. This is how grass survives: unevenly but together.

Not all that’s shared is pleasant. There is also fear. It knows whats coming before it arrives. A moving shadow that carries a weight. Something above has noticed them.

The shadow does not fall all at once. It arrives in pieces, stealing warmth from some while leaving others briefly intact. Those at the edge feel it first, their borrowed light fading. The collective shifts, knowing what will come and powerless to do anything about it.

Then comes the pressure.

Blades that stood together moments ago are pressed into the soil. Some alive but barely. Some bend and do not return. Others are silenced entirely. The collective fractures as weight moves through it, unconcerned.

When the pressure lifts, the patch is quieter. Where there was once a seamless field, there are gaps. Not just empty patches, but places the warmth no longer reaches.

Think before you touch grass.

My first post of 2026 is about grass. I have more grass related content like the time I got addicted to the feeling of smoking grass.

If you feel like it, consider buying me a coffee.

☕ me if you'd like.

I’ve currently written a total of 81 posts and 63 current drafts. My subscriber count sits at somewhere close to 180 and my follower count is somewhere around 300. Some may consider this a success. Some may think it’s not enough and proceed to send me direct messages with offers on how to 10x my subscriber count.

A big part of my growth has come from Substack Notes and it wasn’t intentional. I found a home on Substack Notes because it was the place where I edited the least. If you’re anything like me, you have probably attempted to write a multitude of posts, only to give up after the 20th edit. The 63 current drafts I own have had a multitude of edits. So many that I doubt I will ever post them. They no longer have my voice but a carefully curated version of it, one fit for consumption but not connection.

And that’s why I appreciated Notes. I saw single-line statements without capitalization and without the nuance of grammar. Equally, I discovered prophetic statements that could easily belong on aged parchment. But most of all, I love the pictures. Those snow-covered photos of New York, mountain views of India and cats. Lots of cats.

A note also gave me something that I don’t think I really considered an aspect of Substack: community.

Here are the few people that I started to interact with, and some of whom I’ve even started conversations with.

RM Greta is quite possibly my Substack bestie. I honestly have no idea how I stumbled across her work, but it was definitely fiction-related. Possibly even fan fiction related. If you haven’t heard her work, I do urge you to. No one post is the same and I love her for it.

Pete Kemery writes like how I’d like to write and has lived adventures like how I’d like to live. I don’t know if my mental image of a bohemian rock climber is apt but until I meet him in the flesh, that’s what I’ll see.

odie with the sunset photos and sometimes a woofer.

Melissa Clements because I aspire to make a living while creating art.

✧ brooklyn 𓆏 channels my internet nostalgia. Also cat pics.

The Orbit because nostalgia once again. The 90’s and early 2000s were more colorful and their feed is proof of that.

kirby is a bright, enthusiastic bubble in my Notes feed. Also cat pics.

daneen <3 posted my favorite essay of the year and has the absolute worst comments thread thanks to it.

Eric Kowalczyk takes beautiful, beautiful, photos.

In Otter News because otters. Steve is a favorite of mine.

Real Japanese Aesthetics for their insights into life in Japan, beyond the nostalgic and fetishized filters of pop culture.

Phyllis Tulaszewski drops photos of her meals that make me reconsider my distaste for cooking.

gina hasn’t written a lot of posts but I’m still obsessed with the girl who never speaks and being labelled as sensitive made me numb.

There’s many others but I’m tired and I’ve eaten a bag of cookies. Also, I fear I’ll run out of memory if I open more browser tabs.

Follow these people, or don’t. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you find your voice on whatever platform you’re on, and don’t let anyone convince you it doesn’t belong there.

Be poetic.
Be plain.
Be both.
Be neither.

Be detailed.
Be vague.
Be exact.
Be enough.

Be structured.
Be scattered.
Be organized.
Be improvised.

Be original.
Be obvious.
Be new.
Be surprising.

Be loud.
Be quiet.
Be opinionated.
Be open.

Be neat.
Be messy.
Be careful.
Be careless.

Just write.

I won’t pretend to be an accomplished writer. In fact, I most likely have nothing new to say. A million monkeys with a million typewriters could do no worse. That’s the point. Mediocrity is my jumping-off point.

Too long have I labored on an idealized version of myself, as a writer, a connoisseur, a critic before a creator. But how can I possibly compare myself to those who have spent years in the craft, or those who simply have a talent beyond my current reach?

I don’t mean to sound dreary. I don’t mean to require pity. I simply mean to say: I stopped caring. You could, too.

The ute had been parked on the street the night before. Darcy was certain of that.

He stood on the footpath with his hands on his hips and looked up and down the road. The street was quiet. The neighbours’ cars sat exactly where they always did. A magpie watched him from a power line, considering mischief.

The ute was nowhere to be seen.

Darcy walked to the end of the street, then turned and walked back again. He checked behind the telephone pole, though he knew the ute would not fit there. Still, it paid to be thorough.

“It’s got to be here,” he muttered.

He returned to the house and stood in the driveway, frowning and playing with his nose ring.

“That’s odd,” he said aloud. “Very odd.”

Darcy walked into the cafe. The disheveled owner of the café greeted him with a loud “G’day!”. “Have you seen my ute?”, asked Darcy. After explaining what happened, the two men used their combined eyesight to look farther up and down the road.

“Did you check behind the telephone pole?”. Darcy looked at him and nodded. It was one of the obvious first places.

After a moment, Darcy reached for his phone. If anyone could make sense of this, it would be Baz and Dazza - local lads with a reputation for finding things.

They arrived promptly, hands in pockets, mullets blowing in the wind.

Baz surveyed the driveway. “Right,” he said. “First things first. The ute’s not here, is it?”

“No,” Darcy replied. “That’s the problem.”

Dazza nodded. “Not in the garage either.”

“No,” Darcy said, “We don’t have a garage”.

Baz scratched his chin. “You didn’t move it and forget?”

“I would remember that,” Darcy said, a little defensively. He’d only had two beers this morning.

Dazza walked to the front window and looked inside the house. “Just checking,” he said. “It’s not in the lounge room.”

“Of course it’s not.”

Baz wandered into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, glanced inside, then closed it. “Not in the fridge.”

“Why would it be in the fridge?” Darcy asked.

“Had to rule it out,” Baz said. “You’d be surprised.”

The three men stood in silence and looked at each other quizzically.

At that moment, Darcy’s daughter appeared in the doorway with her backpack and a half colored drawing book.

She looked at Baz and Dazza, then at her father.

“Daddy,” she said gently, “I think your ute was stolen.”

The words hung in the air.

“But by whom?” asked Baz and Dazza.

This absurdist attempt at a detective story is dedicated to the kids in the neighborhood: Ritchie and Nova.