blue light
short story
Brand new short story this week…
Thanks to all who have joined me here. We have a lot of new people. It’ll remain free to subscribe — indefinitely.
I’ve been posting short fiction once a week for a few months now. “blue light” might be the last for a while. I’m gonna have to take a break at some point. And with my new management team, we’re gonna focus on selling the available ones for film and TV.
But the conversation about the short-story-to-film pipeline will continue, as will updates about the projects, and some creative ways to keep bringing you entertaining reads. So please stay tuned and thanks for your support. Excited to share “blue light”…
The fight ended when I called him an Emailsexual.
That was the mic drop.
I mean, here we are. In the desert. Joshua Tree National Park no less. And my workaholic husband is sitting up in bed, pounding out emails, the blue light of his iPhone blasting him in the corneas. Furiously tapping. Desperate to hit the self-imposed magic number 100 email in his stupid draft box — ready to send out next week after whatever the fuck Jewish holiday it is.
“This is not happening!” I say from the dark side of the bed.
“What?” he says. “What!?!”
“You’re not doing what I think you’re doing!”
“Yes. I am.”
The audacity only a man can have.
“It’s not like I’m looking at porn!” he says.
“Worse! Work emails? YUCK!”
He sighs. “I promised I would be ‘grounded’ and ‘present’ with you. ‘In the moment.’ During the day. On our hikes. In the desert. But the sun’s down. It’s the middle of the night! You should be sleeping.”
This is textbook weaponized incompetence — a common tactic employed by men in the Year of Our Lord 2025. (Saw it on a YouTube explainer.) He wants to pretend he doesn’t understand the rules.
Fucking exasperating.
So, I call him a goddamn emailsexual and storm out to the pool.
Hey, it’s been a rough year.
It’s not every holiday weekend, Jewish or otherwise, we have an AirBNB with a pool.
Must be three in the morning. We were supposed to get skin-to-skin and have actual sex tonight. I’m ovulating! Instead?
Emails.
Just shoot me in the head right now.
I’m fidgeting by the pool alone like a tweaker insomniac — thinking about how much I hate it when we fight.
And we fight a lot.
I promised not to hammer him this month. No Hammer September. I promised I was gonna relax. That I want to live in loving kindness with my husband from now on. I promised to be more gentle and kind and understanding. And more devotional.
Focus on my wifely duties — you follow?
But Pascal just really fucking grinds my gears sometimes. It’s like he can’t help it. He’s just a man who inspires rage.
Still, I tell myself: our marriage is far from a dumpster fire. We might have differences, but they’re reconcilable differences. Our love is requited.
I light up a Birdie indica pre-roll and give a ten thousand-yard stare out into the universe.
That’s when I see the blue light.
Not the nefarious iPhone blue light.
No. Something much more profound.
Otherworldly.
Spiraling across the desert sky, in smaller and smaller concentric circles, searing a retina memory in my eye — until, like a bullseye, it burns blue over a cluster of boulders a hundred yards away.
The glowing blue pulse sends a heartbeat of light waves back up into the stars.
Hear me out: this is not normal.
I really need to sit down. Grab a pool chair.
What’s happening here?
Well, I did have a couple edibles. That much is true.
We forgot to hit up Euphoros in East L.A. before we drove out. So, we wound up in some weird-ass dispensary somewhere in the Inland Empire. The place felt out of time — like it existed in a world before weed was legal in California. I remember a big burly ginger guy in a cowboy hat behind scratched bulletproof glass buzzing me through security. He was flanked by what appeared to be a fourteen-year-old blonde with a crop-top and belly button ring — blowing pink bubblegum bubbles. Apparently her job was to handle the money. ‘Cuz that makes total sense.
When I asked about edibles, she stuck a pinky out to the corner of the room. All they had left was a single plastic container of THC-infused Froot Loops called “Loopy Froots.”
No equivalent of a nutrition label. No stats on how many milligrams in each “Froot.” Nothing.
In other words: Shady AF.
Now I shake the half-empty package.
“Goddamn! What’s in these Loopy Froots?” I ask the desert.
There’s no response.
But suddenly I find myself standing up, pretty much involuntarily. I’m not suspended in the air. My feet are on the ground, but something feels odd. I shut the pool light off. Now in total darkness, the boulder keeps palpitating with blue glow.
I’m not a brave person. I’m not a “badass.” I hate that overused phrase, applied to every woman who’s not a total wallflower. I’m no action hero. No “Female John Wick.” But I am a country girl. I did grow up on a farm. So, the thought of waking up my man, my city slicker emailsexual husband Pascal — never occurs to me. Not for a split second.
Let’s face facts: He’s more of a pussy than I am about this kind of thing.
So, against all better judgment (or maybe my judgment has been somehow shut off?) I find myself walking a straight line toward the blue light. Alone. I don’t think twice about crossing into the back yard of our neighbors.
Ah, our lovely neighbors.
The local yokels.
I couldn’t tell earlier in the day if they were just ogling my ass through the broken chain link fence, or doing reconnaissance before calling ICE on my husband.
Pascal’s the type of Mexican who wears a Rolex and Ferragamos. Some people think he’s Indian — but we all know — it’s all the same to these clowns. He’s brown.
And they have all the cultural signifiers: The lifted Ford Super Duty with Punisher decals. Carhartt hats with the curved bills. Under Armour tees with the black-barred American flags. Over-the-knee cargo shorts with a million pockets. Oakley wraparounds.
And flying over their busted-up ramshackle house? The Thin Blue Line flag — and of course, the yellow fucking “Don’t Tread on Me” flag.
Boy howdy, they’re really sending a message. But probably not the one they think.
To me? They might as well have a pink neon sign over the house: Tiny Penises Found Here
Meth is too classy for these illiterates. Wouldn’t be surprised if they huff duster. You know? Sniff keyboard cleaner for kicks?
But at least I’m safe for now.
Must have chugged one too many cans of Hamm’s. There’s no sign of life at their opioid-den-of-a-house other than one of the “cousins” snoring buzzsaws on the ripped-up yard couch next to the fire pit and Beer Bottle Mountain in the dirt.
I walk right past Cousin #1.
Leave “civilization” behind.
Straight line toward the blue.
For being only two hours from downtown Los Angeles, Joshua Tree is incredibly isolated, harsh terrain. Like being on the surface of Mars. And there’s no light pollution out here. The stars shine bright. So, I can see it all: Jagged rocks. Spiky cacti. And a whole lotta nothing for miles on end. So many people die out here every year. Heat stroke. Dehydration. Rattlesnakes.
…or they simply disappear. Never to be seen again.
My eyes just focus on the blue light.
Simply can’t help myself. I’m mesmerized.
Making bolder and bolder strides, I’m like a step-marching soldier in my Birkenstocks. The moonlight’s shadowed by the blur of the crooked silhouettes of passing Joshua Trees.
You know, the thought’s not lost on me:
Of course I’m seeing a strange light out here in this particular desert.
A UFO in Joshua Tree?
You’re kidding, right?
From the Integratron in Yucca Valley, to Skull Rock, to the Noah Purifoy Outdoor Art museum — weird vibes abound around here.
The landscape’s haunted with stories of strange sightings, littered with strange people. Freaks. Survivalists. Cults. Believers. “Experiencers.” Abductees. So-called “Frequent Flyers.”
Tonight almost feels inevitable, really.
Predestined by the universe.
And that thought is somehow calming: This was always gonna happen. I’m simply playing my role.
Somehow, it makes it much less of big deal.
Inevitable.
I never even consider turning back. Only watch the blue light grow bigger and bigger while I try not to step on a cholla cactus.
“Living my best life!” I say to myself, for some dumb reason.
I think about the San-Bernardino-Cowboy-Ed-Sheeran and his little Lolita back at the weed store. What might they have laced the Loopy Froots with? And why? The whole container was twelve bucks. So, nothing fancy. Maybe low-grade acid? Not something I know dick about.
By the time I make it to the boulder, I gird my mental loins.
Try to prepare myself for what to expect. Probably not little green men. Not the Greys.
Odds are? Just one of the neighbors. One of those Boogaloo Bois playing with a new drone they bought online, or some shit.
Fuckin’ dopes.
For a second, I think about the Ancient Aliens meme. You know, the guy with the hair? The pyramids were built by aliens! The Roman Coliseum? Aliens. Everything: “ALIENS!”
Find a penny on the ground? Fossilized alien nipple!
Georgio Tsoukalos. That’s his name. Sidebar, I met him once at ComicCon. He had a young bimbo “assistant” and he was hawking purple panties with his name on it, autographed photos of himself signed “Always reach for the stars! Galactically, yours. —Georgio.”
Well, not even Georgio himself can prepare me for what I actually see out there in the desert.
There’s no flying saucer.
No Xenomorph probing anal cavities.
Sitting on the boulder, silhouetted by the blue light, is... me.
At least a version of me.
Starin’ right back at me.
And here’s the thing: she’s wearing my old t-shirt.
The one I bought after moving to L.A. as a kind of joke. A troll. I wanted to make light of the fact that I was embracing the California lifestyle: Green juice! Paddle boarding! Electric cars! Sugarfish! The Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Smoothie at Erewhon!
A plain white tee. Clean black letters. New Courier font:
transcendental meditation™️
Haven’t seen that shirt in years. One day, it vanished.
Of all the weird things about running into myself in Joshua Tree at three in the morning, that shirt is by far the creepiest part.
It’s sick.
Transcendental meditation? Why? What the actual fuck?
I take a step back, shield my eyes from the blue light.
“Nice shirt,” I say to myself.
Not to “myself” as you would normally mean it. But to... myself. The other me. The chick sitting on the boulder staring back at me. Also: apparently sipping a brand of drink that went out of circulation over a decade ago. A drink that’s gone the way of Tab. AKA the way of the Dodo.
She holds a second bottle out to me.
“Want some Zima?” she says.
“Oh, hell no,” I say.
At this point, I’m bugging the fuck out!
I make a dash for it in the opposite direction.
FUCK this!
Soon, I’m tearing through the desert, swerving around cacti like the motherfuckin’ Roadrunner.
I’d rather go back and hang with the groypers. Maybe it’ll be like Independence Day movie. You know, where it takes something fucked up and alien to stop all of our Earthly conflict, bring humanity together, recognize our commonality?
I think about shaking Cletus or whoever the fuck awake from his shitty yard couch.
Somebody’s gotta see this! Witness it.
But when I get to the yard couch, it’s Pascal sleeping on it.
That’s weird — to say the least.
I shake him awake.
“Pascal, what are you doing out here?”
He looks at me bleary-eyed. “I was looking for you… I guess I gave up and fell asleep.”
“It’s not safe. You know: the neighbors?”
“Not scared of them. They’re more interested in you anyway.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Everybody knows Grindr crashed at the Charlie Kirk memorial. You better watch your Bubble Butt.”
He smiles. “I’ll be fine.”
“Can I ask what the fuck was in those Loopy Fruits? You super stoned or what?”
He shrugs. “I feel pretty good.” He squints at me. “You look like you just saw a ghost, though.”
“No ghost, dude. Pretty sure it was an alien.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why you so obsessed with aliens?”
“I’m serious. It was an extraterrestrial. My theory anyway.”
He yawns. “Pretty sure it can all be explained. You read that book Biocentrism, right? Everything in the universe only exists because of our individual consciousness of it. There are no distant stars. There’s only our perception of them.”
“Oh God, you are super stoned.”
“It’s all in your head!”
“You don’t see that blue light!?!”
I turn around to show him, but instead: it’s one of the neighbors. Proud Boy. Trumpanzee. Whatever. Just standing there with a sawed-off shotgun.
And a shit eating grin.
Like, two teeth total.
He can’t believe his luck. Christmas has come early: an interracial couple trespassing on his property!
“What are you looking at, bitch?” Pascal says.
Men!
When Gomer shoots, it’s like God has been watching the whole scene and hits rewind.
Bullets burst out — but then fly back into his gun.
I start talking backwards, then running backwards, reversing through all the motions my body just did — Ace Ventura-in-a-tutu-style — only much faster. This is no VHS rewind bullshit. It feels like the space-time continuum warps!
And we’re back.
Almost instantly.
Boom.
“You want some Zima?” she says, all casual.
Or, *I* say.
The me sitting on the boulder says to the me I think I am.
Or, whatever the fuck.
Mind you, it’s not like the other me is saying it again.
She’s saying it for the first time.
Everything totally rewound!
And I’m pretty sure everything that rewound has now… never happened.
I feel utterly insane.
Like: I’m gonna need to take a mental health day for the next three weeks!
Something tells me if I run again? I’ll rewind again. So, this time I just go for it.
“Sure,” I say. “Zima. Why the hell not?”
The other me pats a spot on the boulder, motioning for me to sit down cattywumpus to her.
I guess I want to hang out with myself.
A little *me time.*
“What are we toasting to?” I ask, sitting down, trying to sneak a peak behind the boulder where the blue light’s coming from.
“We’re toasting to the biggest night of our life.”
Our life?
Right.
A strange feeling comes over me as I take a sip.
I remember Zima. The first alcohol I ever tasted. Freshman year in high school. My first party in the woods. And the stuff I’m drinking now? Tastes exactly the same. The genuine article. The real stuff…
...that no longer exists.
Suddenly I need to throw up.
“I need to throw up,” I say. Just like I did back in high school.
I jump up and heave into the crevasse.
Afterward, I look up at myself, the one with the transcendental meditation™️ shirt.
“What are you?” I say, wiping my mouth.
“Doesn’t that Zima bring back good memories? I thought it might be comfort food.”
“No. Okay? If you’re an extraterrestrial who’s taken my form to be...like...familiar? To communicate with me without freaking me the fuck out? I can promise you it’s not working.”
The other me shrugs and takes another sip of Zima. “If you need to externalize it and think of me as an alien in order to wrap your mind around all this? Well – you do you.”
“Externalize? So, this is all internal? Like inside my head? So, Pascal is right? The whole physical universe is ultimately inside my head? Biocentrism? Is that it? I manifested that shit? I manifested you?”
The other me squints her eyes...“Um...kind of sort of...?”
“I’m sorry. That just seems so dumb!” I say.
Then I remember:
“Fuck, I gotta go back!” I say. “That white trash incel is gonna shoot Pascal!”
“No,” the other me says. “That is never happening.”
Suddenly I notice the tiny little pods. The little balls of chola cactus that litter the desert floor have all risen up, floating in the air, like a whirlwind, spinning around me slowly, as if in a state of anti-gravity. But threatening. At any moment all of the chola cactus bits can slam down on top of me, turning me into a human pin cushion.
“What the fuck is happening?”
The other me smiles. “I think you know what this is all about.”
“I need a smoke.”
I reach for my pocket, pull out another Birdie pre-roll and light up.
“This is about your journey!” the other me tells me.
“My journey? My fucking journey? I may reside in Los Angeles — temporarily — but I don’t do the ‘journey’ thing.”
A memory flash. One day at Highly Likely in Highland Park, a pretty teenage girl is sitting next to our table. Pascal turns to me and says: “She looks like our future daughter.”
Weirdly, he seems exactly right.
Somehow we both know our future daughter will look exactly like that girl.
It becomes a running joke between us. We even give her a name: Havana.
Why is Havana flashing through my mind right now?
Pascal and I haven’t talked about her in a long time.
I stub my Birdie out on the boulder.
“Are you the one putting Havana in my head?” I ask myself.
“Who me?” the other me smiles mischievously.
“Yeah. You, me, whatever.”
“Maybe you’re manifesting.”
“Why is it that you aliens are always obsessed with, you know, breeding and stuff?” I say. “Is it always about sex with you guys? Always probing orifices and whatnot!”
The other me laughs. “You’re really stuck on this alien thing, huh?”
I stare back at my other self, silhouetted by the blue light.
Wait, I’m starting to get it.
“So, me and Pascal don’t get shot by white nationalists tonight. We’re actually just supposed to fuck? We’re gonna get pregnant? That’s what this is? This whole Loopy Fruit mystical nonsense experience? I’m just supposed to go fuck now? That’s the big message from the universe?”
I am ovulating!
I smile back at me silently.
“Wait, I know. Does Havana become President? Or defeat the robot uprising of the future?” I ask.
“You need to stop going to Comic Con so much.”
I nod. The other me has a point.
“I’m here to help,” she says.
“Help with what?”
“Well first, you’re gonna go over there and save your future Baby Daddy from the...you know...those gentlemen.”
“I wouldn’t call them gentlemen,” I say. “They’re the bad guys, right? We can call them that? It’s not like ‘Poor guys! They’re suffering from the Male Loneliness Epidemic!’ They’re fucking losers. We can all agree they’re losers and they’re the bad guys?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, good. So, I think I get it now.”
The other me claps her hands together. “Glad to hear it.”
“You’re gonna tell me how to navigate the Cosmic Lattice, the Infinite Tapestry, right? So I can defeat those freaks and get my freak on with Pascal. Like a video game. I gotta beat the NPCs. If I win, we fuck?”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Unfortunately, they’re a lot more dangerous than NPCs.”
“Well, I’m the smartest bitch you know,” I say. “I got this.”
“Do you?” The other me makes some real quality eye contact with me. Kind of unsettling. Scoping me from head to toe.
“You sure you can run in those Birkenstocks?” she finally says.
“I can do anything in these! Birks are the ideal human footwear. Think about it. Jesus wore the same thing! Basically…”
The other me looks unconvinced — but she allows it.
“Well, first you’re gonna need to stretch your hamstrings,” she says.
My next run will be the first of many.
I book it breathlessly back to the yard couch as fast as humanly possible, slap Pascal awake, tell him I love him, and yank him behind Beer Bottle Mountain.
Bullets ring out.
Shattered glass flies in our face.
We take shards in the cheek.
Collateral damage, yes — but no bullets.
I tug Pascal toward the driveway.
We make a break for their Tiny-Dickmobile.
The lifted truck.
But Fuck.
Another Oath Keeper pops out from behind the house and sprays us with an AR-15.
Sick.
REWIND:
“You want some Zima?”
“You got anything stronger?” I say. My hands on my hips now. “This is gonna be harder than I thought.”
If you like this story you will like:
©️ 2025 max winter
For rights information contact: chris@winterlightpictures.com
You had me at "emailsexual."
I love the details that create a strong sense of place, both for Los Angeles and then for Joshua Tree. The details brought to mind Bryan Washington in a UNO workshop and his story set in Houston which became part of his first book "Lot." In both instances, seeing the place helped create a sense of the characters, not just their appearances but their inner driving forces. Thanks for sharing this.