Perfect family, stable income, and her dream vacation on alien worlds just in sight.

Promised the trip of a lifetime, she studied the brochure of her holiday destination for the tenth time. Alien beaches, beautiful coastline—she ought to be there with her family tomorrow.

Her husband had already departed with their daughter. She travelled a few days later with their son, who had fallen ill and had to recover. It was no big deal. The anticipation of the voyage outweighed the worry.

Then it all vanished within minutes.

She still clutched the brochure when the creature dragged her paralysed body down the gangway, through the breach in the hull where the intruders had entered the shuttle.

With a jolt, the clean, sleek interior of the shuttle gave way to a dark corridor. If her muscles had responded, she would have screamed.

There was nothing else to do but to observe them.

Tall, clad in leathery robes, some upright, some crouched low, limbs folding one joint too many.

Deprived of the ability to move, Smela’s thoughts raced, too fast to keep up.

The creature dragged her further into the alien ship. Where it gripped her, her skin felt tense, though there was no pain. Where it touched the floor, it felt cold and damp.

Suddenly, it slung her into a pit, like a bag of refuse. When the vertigo of the impact faded, she found herself not alone. Smela recognised a passenger among other paralysed beings. She couldn’t see beyond the body beneath her.

Every fibre of her body strained to turn, to find her son. He had been right behind her in the corridor. He must have been there. She cried curses but her tongue remained still.

Another body landed on top of her. Its weight pressed all the air out of her lungs.

Her vision went black.

When she woke again, there was nothing but pain. Her muscles were cramping, her head hammering awfully loud, and the taste of blood filled her mouth.

She was cold, naked, and suspended in the air by something in her neck. Something tugged on her skull when she tried to move it more than a fraction. A foreign body. It stopped her.

Smela could only make out vague lights on an even darker backdrop. The migraine blurred everything.

Whatever it was that crept down her spine, it curled when she tried to move. As if sensing her will to escape, lifting her up and turning her over.

A warmth swept through her body, slowly spreading through every vessel of her flesh. Her muscles relaxed, her heartbeat slowed. It was almost like a hug.

Smela felt it dig deeper, pulling her closer to something vast until her shoulder blades touched it.

Pain again, sharp and precise this time. One nerve at a time, vertebrae by vertebrae, fusing her to a being much greater than everything she could imagine. When it reached her occiput, the blinding migraine ceased instantly.

Blinking away the blurriness was difficult, and when the shapes before her eyes slowly sharpened, she wished she hadn’t.

Across a deep rift hung countless bodies, racked just like her, into columns as far as her field of vision allowed her to see. To her left and right, the rows continued into what one could only call a dark abyss.

Nothing here felt accidental. Was there a purpose?

What broke Smela was the sight that hung in the alcove right opposite:

Her son, blinking just like her.

The warmth left her.

Pain returned, forcing her eyes closed.

Possibly forever.

“Ugh! How many times do I have to tell you not to litter in the cockpit?” she said, snatching the piece of plastic from the air.

“Relax.” Davis replied with his usual, so-called charm. “A candy wrapper isn’t going to go ballistic when shit hits the fan.”

Pointing to the overhead displays, she noted. “Yeah, you’re right. But your pen will”.

Davis glanced up, saw the pen tumbling above them, and plucked it out of the air. With a smirk, he slid it into the sleeve pocket of his flight suit and gave her kind of a condescending smile. Kelly just gave him a flat look and then turned back to her screens.

With a polite chime, the computer voice announced that the field generator calibrations were complete.

“Finally,” Davis said and scooted forward in his seat. He reached for the intercom mic and keyed it on. “Captain DeWitt, calibrations are finished, waiting for your order to execute the subspace jump.”

There was static. Then the captain’s voice crackled back through the speaker: “Get to it already.”

“Straightforward as ever,” Kelly muttered and entered the jump sequence. She paused with her finger hovering over the execute button, then cleared her throat meaningfully. Davis blinked, then caught on.

“Oh. Right.” He grabbed the mic again. “All hands, code blue confirmed, code blue confirmed.”

The ship’s manoeuvring thrusters flared as it rotated toward the plotted vector. A moment later, the inertial readings levelled out. She reached to her right and pushed a control lever forward in a slow, deliberate motion. The hum of the coil arrays winding up began to reverberate through the bulkheads.

The ship shuddered lightly as it crossed the first frequency threshold. Kelly felt the usual flutter in her stomach—a faint wave of vertigo that came with the acceleration curve.

“Approaching max load, field stable,” Davis read out from his display and a minute later: “Max load passed. All systems nominal.”

Kelly reached over again, this time to throttle back the ion engines to idle. Now that the ship was fully immersed in subspace, they didn’t need conventional thrust.

“ETA at Aibreskeen: 102 hours, 14 minutes and 52 seconds, 51 seconds, 50 seconds, 49…” Davis grinned.

“Shut up,” Kelly said and gave him a solid thumb on the arm. He just chuckled.

She reminded herself that it was only one more hour or so until they reached the target frequency. Once the generator switched to conservation mode, they’d finally have the power to turn gravity back on. Then, with code blue lifted, Davis could monitor the flight for a few hours, and she could finally get some rest.

Eventually, the blue lights shut off, and gravity returned gradually to avoid any injuries from a sudden fall. Kelly unstrapped herself, giving Davis the usual instructions on her way out. She stretched and enjoyed the feeling of her own weight for a moment before leaving the cockpit behind.

Status displays in the corridor showed 1.2 G. Captain DeWitt always liked the gravity onboard a little higher than standard. Said it “compensated for all the time spent weightless.”

Questionable or not, Kelly had long since given up fighting her on it.

She made her way to the mess hall. The Emilia Volante hadn’t been designed as a passenger ship. When they’d converted a few cargo bays into quarters, there was no space to add a dedicated crew mess. Kelly didn’t mind. She liked seeing the people she ferried from planet to planet. It gave her a sense of usefulness she never found hauling grain or rocks.

Since it was outside dining hours, she grabbed a pre-packed sandwich and a hot cup of coffee from the machine. She slid into a seat and brought up her terminal to continue her novel. That’s when she noticed a boy—maybe ten years old—who was previously running up and down the aisles, staring at the pilot’s patch on her coverall.

“Are you… a real pilot?” he finally asked, his voice cautious but curious.

“Yep,” Kelly replied with a smile, tapping off her terminal. She could see the questions lining up from a klick away.

“Whoa, cool!” The boy paused, then frowned. “But wait… who’s flying the ship then?”

Kelly smiled again. “Good question. I’m one of four pilots on board. Right now, my co-pilot is monitoring the controls. But we’re in subspace, and the ship’s flying itself on autopilot.”

The boy stepped forward, climbing onto the chair opposite her.

“Do you know what subspace is?” she asked, leaning in with an engaging tone.

“My dad says it’s like a swimming pool. Moving is easier here, just like swimming.”

He glanced over to a man across the room who was probably the father, cradling a baby while trying to sip something hot.

“Exactly!” Kelly said. “It’s almost like floating in water and pushing yourself away from a wall. Just imagine you’re the spaceship, and the wall is a star—like Meridian.”

The boy nodded thoughtfully.

“And what do you have to do so you don’t sink to the bottom?” she asked.

“Swim!” he exclaimed

“Right! And that’s what our field generators are doing: swimming, so we stay in subspace.”

Kelly had always liked that analogy. It reminded her of the stories and bits of knowledge that first got her hooked on physics, and later, flying.

The boy started to wriggle around on the chair.

“You know the old space shuttles?” she asked. “The really ancient ones on Earth?”

He nodded, tilting his head with interest.

Kelly reached over and pulled a napkin from the dispenser. “Then watch closely.”

With practiced hands, she folded it corner to corner, then lengthwise. She flipped it, creased the edges sharply with a fingernail, and worked each fold with care. Finally, she took her pen and scribbled a single word on the side: Discovery.

“Thank you!” the boy said, his eyes wide as she handed him the miniature paper shuttle. He ran back to his table, waving it through the air with dramatic spaceship noises. His father, still juggling the baby, gave her a grateful smile and mouthed the words “thank you”.

She returned the gesture, with a smile of her own.

After finishing the coffee and sandwich, Kelly made her way to her bunk with the goal to finish the book she was reading before she had to get back at the helm in a couple of hours. She met Namaras—the pilot of the first flight team and first officer of the Volante—in the crew corridor, coming out of his co-pilot’s quarters, half-naked and towel slung over his shoulder. He just grinned stupidly. Everyone knew the two had an affair.

“Very professional,” Kelly thought and wondered how Namaras has gotten into this position in the first place. As leader of the second flight team, Kelly was technically the Volantes second officer. But in practice this didn’t matter that much, except for her pulling the occasional “rank card” on Davis, who then usually replied with his “Yes, Ma’am” shtick and a dramatic salute.

Back on her previous post, on the “Freightgood Cervantes”, Kelly had actually gotten some command experience. Since different from passenger ships, cargo vessels didn’t require a second flight crew, so she had been the senior pilot.

Instead of doubting her career choices and the qualifications of her superiors, or really the lack thereof, she lay down on her bed and began reading on her terminal. But the soft rumble of the coil arrays soon let her doze off—just a little.

An unfamiliar shudder woke her up. She fumbled for her terminal, when she noticed that gravity had failed. She pushed herself up from her bunk, floating towards the door and out into the corridor.

“What’s happened?” asked one of the pursers, poking her head out of her quarters. Kelly only managed to shrug while manoeuvring her body through the weightlessness. The ship shook again, multiple times, as the deep hum of the coil arrays ended abruptly. For less than a second, the high-pitched sound of the conservation-cycle catalyst (effectively the subspace field fail-safe) drowned out every other noise on the ship, while preventing the hull from being torn apart by the imminent field collapse.

She was mid-drift down the corridor after kicking off a bulkhead, when the gravity re-engaged all at once, slamming her hard into the floor. Pain and nausea exploded in her head. She couldn’t tell whether this came from the hard impact or the rapid shift out of subspace. Kelly tried to shake it off, literally. That made it worse. Still, she managed to pull herself to her feet and continued for the cockpit.

“The hell is going on?” Kelly demanded the moment she entered the flight deck. Davis sat dazed in his chair, backlit by a wall of warning messages—seemingly overwhelmed by the cacophony of alerts, the harsh drop out of subspace or both.

Kelly dropped into the pilot’s chair, trying to decipher the onslaught of warnings and alerts. She was sure there were colours the instruments couldn’t normally display.

After a moment, Davis caught himself and just shook his head. “I have no idea.”

He took a breath but still wasn’t quite coherent. “The fields collapsed, we dropped out. CCC was firing.”

Then suddenly, a new, very prominent alert joined the many others on their displays.

“Proximity alert? We’re in the middle of freaking nowhere,” Davis cursed.

“Probably just a glitch,” she muttered.

But not even a second later the ship hit something—or rather something hit them, since they were stationary coming out of subspace. It didn’t matter. The impact sent a hard jolt through the ship, followed by a scream of metal-on-metal.

“Okay… not a glitch,” Kelly groaned.

“A brace warning would’ve been great,” Namaras’ voice came, as he entered the flight deck.

“We’re seeing shit… Sir,” Davis replied, clearly not in the need for sarcastic commentary right now.

Kelly had to dismiss a dozen alerts just to reach the external camera feeds. There was nothing recognisable, as she flipped through the camera angles. Most were dark or heavily corrupted.

“Well, there has to be…” the first officer began but was cut off, way too cheerfully by the computer voice. “Attention! Airlock #2 is cycling.”

Namaras’ facial expressions went flat. “Pirates!” He reached over Davis shoulder, grabbing the intercom. “Intruder alert, all hands. Airlock #2, now!”

Kelly switched to the internal feeds on the lower deck in time. The airlock just opened.

“What the hell is that?” Davis shouted in terror. The three officers stared at the screen where dark, distorted figures crawled down the airlock corridor before the feed broke off.

DeWitt’s voice snapped though the speaker. “Namaras! Get down here and bring the rifles.”

“Watch the feed and guard the deck,” he ordered, sealing the bulkhead door behind him. Davis and Kelly exchanged a worried look.

“I… I’ll get the guns,” Davis said, unstrapping to reach the emergency locker. He handed Kelly the side arm from the compartment and kept the flare gun to himself.

They tried to follow the situation on the camera feeds. Not only was it all over the place, but the feeds also failed one after another. Davis reached for the intercom to warn the others when the computer announced that airlock #1 was also cycling, but comm system was dead.

Kelly felt removed from reality like she was overhearing a nightmare on the radio. The distant thuds and shots vibrated through the ship. She clutched her handgun tightly, turning her knuckles pale.

The chaos lasted maybe five minutes. Silence followed. Eventually, the airlocks cycled again multiple times, and metallic shrieking boded the intruder’s departure. The feeds stayed dark.

Both pilots hadn’t spoken a word, holding their breath, even as the danger was implicitly over. Kelly cried.

Her soul left her body, when there was a knock on the bulkhead door.

“What… do we do?” the young co-pilot asked, voice dry.

“You open it, I shoot,” laid Kelly out.

She aimed at the door with trembling hands. Kelly knew her aim was bad, so she was ready to unload the entire magazine into that general direction if needed.

Davis counted to three and hit the door control. A slim figure in a tight uniform appeared, hands raised from knocking. It was the purser, crying, with mascara running down her face. Kelly exhaled and lowered the gun. The woman collapsed to her knees.

“They’re gone,” she whispered, over and over. Davis helped her up.

“We have to check on the others,” Kelly said, and Davis nodded.

Without thinking too much about it, Kelly walked into the corridor, gun ready. She had to move quickly so her brain couldn’t catch up with overthinking. Better to get over with it.

The crew corridor was uncomfortably empty. There were no signs of entry here. It made sense, that the trouble appeared so distant now. She found the door to the mess hall still sealed. The intruders must have moved the other way.

Overriding the lock, the mess hall revealed a very different sight. Furniture scattered, bullet dents all over the walls and the emergency lights casting long flickering shadows. There were blood stains, as well as pools of a pungent, tar-like substance. Kelly edged around it widely. And then she saw it.

“Oh no,” she said quietly, crouching to pick up the napkin folded into the small space shuttle. The thought of the boy in the midst of this chaos brought tears to her eyes, again.

“Miss pilot?” the weak voice echoed from the far side of the hall. Kelly felt relieved and dreaded at the same time.

“Yeah, it’s me,” she answered, and the boy emerged from behind the counter, cradling the baby. Kelly took them in for a hug. The infant seemed fine and so did the boy.

“It’s gonna be alright,” she whispered, not sure if she meant it for him or herself.

It took a day and a half for the rescue ship to arrive. Kelly was glad they stranded so early into their journey and between two populated worlds. It could have been a Terminal Alpha run to the edge of known space and a week waiting for help.

Along with the rescue team came two investigators of the Cooperative Investigations Office who looked like the textbook image of interstellar bureaucracy, both in style and empathy.

“They took twenty-four passengers,” Kelly told them in the cramped meeting room next to the captain’s office. “Which is all of them except for the child and the infant. And seven crewmembers, including Captain DeWitt and First Officer Namaras.”

“Who exactly was not captured?” the taller investigator asked while the other—a stubby man—typed notes on a tablet.

“Well, us,” Kelly motioned to Davis who was sitting next to her. “The purser, Saria Raméz, chief engineer Adebayo and her technical staff. They were sealed off on the lower deck.”

“And you and Miss Raméz were sealed off in the crew section?” the taller one enquired. Both pilots nodded.

“So, these ‘pirates’ focussed mainly on the passenger compartments,” the shorter one spoke. “Is there any inventory missing?”

“None that we know of,” Kelly replied. The man then typed again.

“Strange,” the tall one remarked to his colleague. “Rare for pirates to be that selective.”

“Or they just took what they needed and left,” the stubby one concluded, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m telling you, they weren’t pirates,” Davis said sharply. “Don’t know what they were, they weren’t human. For sure!”

Kelly stared at the table. She didn’t know what to make of this herself. She saw it on the feed. The recordings were right there on the tablet. But when they reviewed the footage from the airlock, the two officers were vaguely dismissive. They had ignored Davis earlier comment and did so now.

Resting his curled index finger on his chin thoughtfully, the tall man continued his questions. “Do you have exterior footage of the attacking ship?”

“Just a mass signature,” Kelly answered. “It was fairly small, but we didn’t get any visuals.”

“The sensors went down when the gravitic field collapsed,” Davis added.

“How convenient,” the stubby one muttered under his breath. Davis shifted forward on his seat and Kelly gave him the don’t do it look; but he was already doing it.

“What do you mean—convenient?” he snapped. “You really think some pirate punks could drag us out of subspace, shut down all our systems and then cycle our airlocks—from the outside? There are 31 people missing, dammit!”

“Well, Mister… Davis,” said the taller one with a pause, having to look up the name on his partner’s notes. “Right now, this seems all just a little bit too convenient. No missing inventory, parts of the crew sealed away just at the right time and place, no footage of the ship or of the aggressors…”

“You get the gist,” the stubby one said flatly.

“But the footage is right there!” the co-pilot shoved the tablet toward them.

“This,” the tall officer said while poking at the screen, “is clearly badly corrupted. Or faked.”

It was Kelly’s turn to finally snap. “Are you saying we had something to do with this? Are you serious?”

“We are simply considering the evidence. And right now—captain—they seem sketchy, to say the least,” the tall one noted.

Bringing up the fact, that she was technically captain of the Volante now, had to be some sort of cheap psychological tactic. Kelly was sure of it.

Davis had enough of this. Fists slamming on the table, he got up and stormed out. Kelly was about to follow him when the two investigators beat her to the conclusion.

“That’s all for now,” the shorter one announced. Kelly stood up and went for the door.

“And captain,” the tall one called after her, “let us do our job and we will let you do whatever is yours. If you’re innocent.”

As soon as the door closed shut, Kelly muttered to herself: “Assholes.”

Whatever the things were that attacked them… they weren’t pirates.

Davis sat on a cargo crate in the main hold well away from the trouble when Kelly finally found him. He sipped on a can of booze he had probably stashed somewhere for occasions like this.

“Hey,” Kelly called softly from what she believed was a reasonable distance to not startle him.

“Hey,” he replied.

She sat down on the floor next to him, back against a barrel. “Those bastards…” she started but still hadn’t found the right words to express what she was feeling.

He handed her the can, and she took a good swig. They just sat in silence for a moment.

“I saved it,” Davis said. “All of it.”

Kelly, who stared into the open can—lightly swirling it around—turned her head. “The footage?”

“The sensor data, too. Right here.” He showed her a data slate on a lanyard around his neck, then pulled another one from his pocket and handed it to her.

“What for?” Kelly asked as she examined the slate.

“Because no one will believe us without this. And if they really wanna pin this on us, we need all the evidence we can get,” Davis explained and gestured her for the can. She handed it back.

“I think no one will believe us even with the evidence,” Kelly remarked.

“It’s just not right, Kelly. It’s—” He trailed off, throwing his head back in frustration. They sat there in silence for a while longer. Their thoughts were spinning, but neither of them could express them yet; let alone comprehend the full extent of what had happened.

Meanwhile on the upper deck in the passenger quarters, Saria buried her face in her palms.

“Boo!” she said, revealing her face with a silly grimace. Much to the amousement of the baby—whose name was Arie, she was told.

Arie giggled and squeakd. She looked so innocent, Saria thought, playfully tilting her head mimicking the girl’s delighted wiggles.

She had agreed to watch the children in their quartes, while the rest of the ship was examined and cleaned. This was a welcome change, after her interview by two very rude investigators earlier. And somehow, she felt responsible for the two siblings. She wondered if either of them realised what had happenend to their dad. Well, at least Costo—the boy—who was considerably older than his sister. He seemed phisically fine, sitting on the bed drawing on a tablet, but something felt off. A silence that did not fit a child of his age.

Saria scooped Arie out of the crib, gently swaying her in her arms. She walked over to Costo and sat on the mattress beside him.

“Hey, what’cha drawing?” she asked the boy, who was focused on his tablet.

“Them,” he said and tilted the tablet to her. Her heart skipped a beat, whe Saria realised who he meant by ‘them’.

She hadn’t seen the intruders herself since she was hunkered down in her cabin during the attack. But she had seen the surveillance footage and that was enough to recognise the looming shape from the drawing.

“Did… you see them?” Saria asked, even though she wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do.

Costo nodded and went back to colouring the shapes black.

“Did they hurt you?” she continued cautiously.

The boy shook his head. “They didn’t want us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Me and my sister. They didn’t want us,” the boy repeated still deep within his drawing.

Saria decided not to press it. She rose to but the baby back in the crib. Arie had grown sleepy, her little fists curled against Saria’s collar as she drifted off.

From the corner of her eyes, Saria saw Costo hop off the bed and rush to his backpack by the door. He pulled out a fist full of white crumpled napkins and brought it over to the table.

“They left this,” he said, unwrapping the tissue carefully. A handfull of small black objects tumbled onto the table.

Spiky, two-tipped darts that almost resembled claws of a crustacean. Some of them had broken-off tips, revealing that they were hollow. There was residue of the black gooey substance inside, although it had turned hard and crusty.

Saria had to ask. “Where did you get these?”

She twisted one between her thumb and index finger. They were hard and cold.

“Mess hall… They came from their guns,” Costo told her and went back for his tablet to start a new drawing.

Saria started at the darts, trying to make sense of them. She felt the rumble of the engines igniting. There was a tug, and the Emilia Volante began moving again, heading back to Adrenna.

She had a faint feeling that whatever this attack was, it could only have been the beginning.

Still savouring his recent kill, the high lord deemed the ritual he had just performed one of his best in months.

He took a sip of soup from a modest mudware bowl and watched the servants clean the blood and entrails from the altar across the chamber. Although he was one of the Great Incursors, he groomed a humble image. The choice of crockery was one of its the more subtle hints.

Right on time, when the servants had left along with their cleaning utensils, his aide returned with another gaunt creature in tow.

A kick to the back of their knees forced the pale-skinned humanoid to the ground.

“What is that,” Tarâkêl asked, slowly circling the naked, trembling being.

“We encountered their kind in the far reaches of the Veil, my lord,” his aide explained. “As for what species—were not certain.”

Tarâkêl nodded curiously. “Interesting. Almost like a Lukkut… perhaps a Dranari from its physique.”

“Yes, my lord, but internally quite different. We have captured thirty-one, travelling in primitive spacecraft,” his aide elaborated.

The high lord studied the alien. It was shaking, either from fear or cold. Maybe both.

Secretions oozed from its nostrils and eyes. A common reaction Tarâkêl observed with beings put in front of him. Meeting a new species was always the most instructive.

It muttered in a language Tarâkêl had no intention of deciphering, but he could sense it’s meaning quite clearly.

He reached out and placed a hand upon its head where it grew short, dark hair.

With the touch the creatures ending revealed itself. Fragmented, directionless.

A sequence of images flickered before Tarâkêl’s inner eye, until he found what he was looking for: the being’s last flame.

It lacked a clear shape, though, swaying chaotically in the way entropy intended. It was time to adjust it.

“You persist without awareness,” Tarâkêl said quietly, letting the rumble of his voice carry the meaning rather than the words itself. The being wouldn’t understand the ancient dialect anyway.

“Your kind expands too quickly. Without completion.”

The alien screamed as the high lord dragged it over to the altar.

“A pity, that you cannot grasp the meaning of cosmic entropy. Let’s relieve you of this burden, then.”

Their screams turned from panic to resistance and finally into something closer to resolve.

Tarâkêl performed his work carefully. Doing what was necessary to mould the flame before it would fade.

The high lord paused. He could extend the suffering. Or refine the flame further and trying to draw something greater from the inner chaos. But that would have been indulgence.

“No,” he murmured to himself. “Clarity is sufficient.”

Tarâkêl felt the creatures mind align with his adjustments while fear gave way to something quieter. He released it, and the flame went out.

Silence returned to the chamber.

Dark blood traced across his hands and his robes as he stepped back from the altar, observing the still form.

He remained still for a moment, too.

Witnessing the fading of a flame was exhilarating. He let it pass. The gift of clarity weighed more than pleasure.

Before long, even his name would be relinquished, elevating him into entropy’s inner circle, whatever blessings or curses it might entail.

Tarâkêl was certain: it was demanded.

He turned away.

Another one was needed.

welcome to my new website.

To be frank, I have no clear idea where this is going. It all started with an unhealthy obsession to secure cool website domains, and the urge to make something with it.

The idea of the Xenos Social Club is possibly much larger than a simple website, but you have to start somewhere. Ever since I was a kid, I dreamed of an immersive, real life Sci-Fi hangout. Probably like every kid once had.

Growing up on many different Sci-Fi franchises, I dreamt of having my own cantina, bar or hobby space, where people could gather and escape into another reality for a while. Alas, that dream might have been a little too ambitious, so I filed the idea away for some other time — many times.

What had stuck though, was my love for science fiction stories across different media; Star Wars, Star Trek, StarCraft, Stargate… all were fuelling my desire to build my own worlds, make up my own stories and bring my creative brain to actually do something for once.

I started my creative writing journey in sixth grade, when my mom forced me to go to a “Schreibwerkstatt” or writing workshop with a friend of mine. And although it took me a while to find my passion for it, it gave me the chance to put all the ideas I had in my mind to paper.

Since then, for well over fifteen years now, I have been writing mainly for myself with varying intensity and interests. Besides a couple of stories from my early days at “Schreibwerkstatt” and a few magazine articles on my other passion (public transportation), not much has ever been published.

That brings me around to why I decided to start a website right now: I want to change that.

So, at the evening of the 3rd of April 2026, I got on YouTube and GitHub to try myself at building a simple website to publish some of my writing, my worldbuilding, and maybe some other project I’ve been working on — even if no one is realistically going to see it.

Do I nurture my escapism with it, instead of going outside: definitely.

Is that necessarily a bad thing in these increasingly turbulent times: I don’t think so.

For more about me, visit the about page here

For now, may the fourth be with you, live long and prosper, and holy shit is that a wormho~