Mina Carey
Bio
Self proclaimed weirdo, collector of hobbies, creator of worlds and hunter of mysteries. Let's find our new hyperfixation together.
https://sp0reprintspectrum.carrd.co/
Stories (3)
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myselves . Content Warning.
myselves We tried to drink ourselves clean, counted shots like rosary beads, the glass sweating. We tried to smoke ourselves sober , ash collecting like dried petals beneath forgotten flowers. We tried to peel back our masks, And found scabs like punctuation marks interrupting every sentence the body tries to finish. I told myself: stop. I told myself: just one more. All the voices sounded like me. Our hair became the string we followed, trying to escape our labyrinth mind. We pulled, and we unraveled, and escape remained unknown. Call us user, abuser, monster, maniac; names stack like chairs in an empty room. We sit in all of them. None can bear our weight. We tried to divide ourselves evenly one voice for rage, one voice for hunger, one voice that only knows how to stay. But the body refuses fractions. It gathers us back together until there is only one mouth left and it is screaming.
By Mina Careyabout 2 hours ago in Poets
The Pest Control Problem
The Pest Control Problem The infestation had reached Phase Three before the council agreed to call it that. Before then, it had been “a nuisance,” then “an ecological irregularity,” and briefly — during the optimism of early containment — “an opportunity for adaptive learning.” Now it was simply a problem. “They multiply too quickly,” said Mara, circling slowly at the center of the gathering. “We remove one cluster and another appears within a season.” “They’ve always been present,” replied Torin. “Perhaps we are only now noticing them.” “They weren’t climbing onto structures before,” someone added from the outer ring. “Or dragging debris with them. The noise alone is disruptive.” A low chorus of agreement moved through the assembly, vibrations rippling through the water between them. The thing was, settlement had never needed formal pest control guidelines. Predators and scavengers existed, of course, but they belonged to familiar cycles. Even invasive species usually followed predictable patterns. These creatures did not. They gathered in clusters of hard-edged shells that cut through the water unnaturally. They moved in chaotic bursts, then stopped entirely, floating in place as if unsure what to do next. “I propose targeted removal,” said Edda, who had always favored decisive solutions. “They show aggression when approached. Several of our young have been startled by their machines.” “They are curious,” countered Sol, whose research group had documented the creatures for months. “Curiosity is not aggression.” “They throw objects,” someone muttered. “That is also curiosity.” “Or poor coordination,” added another voice. A ripple of dry amusement passed through the group. The first recorded incident had occurred near the southern migration route. A cluster of the pests had arrived inside a white shell structure, drifting without purpose. They produced constant noise — tapping, scraping, irregular bursts of vibration. Torin’s pod had watched from a distance. “They seemed excited,” Torin had said later. “At nothing in particular.” “Perhaps they are easily pleased,” Mara replied. “They attempted to communicate.” This had caused considerable discussion. “What did they say?” Torin paused. “It is difficult to translate. They produced a series of high-frequency sounds. Repetitive. Without structure.” The group made uneasy movements, and Torin was hasty to add, “but they seemed aware that sounds had meaning. They show significant evidence of being self aware, actually.” This caused a few sideways glaces, and Torin knew they were thinking the same thing he was: was that a good thing? Not all interactions had been negative. There were documented cases of the pests offering objects, such as fish, seaweed, and occasionally, very sharp sticks. The orcas who felt more neutral towards the pests began studying them in earnest. “They present food,” Sol insisted during one meeting, delighted by the implications. “It may be an attempt at mutualism.” “They’re trying to tame us,” Edda said flatly. The idea had been met with laughter, drowning out the few and feeble voices of the elder whales, who still spoke of friends and family that had vanished from the ocean; snatched by a monstrous being made of rough tendrils forming a stout web. Any who did hear their claims were quick to roll their eyes. Still, the behavior continued. Several young adults reported being approached by individual pests who held out offerings while emitting excited bursts of sound. “They appear pleased when we accept,” Sol noted, “And confused when we don’t.” The escalation began with the vessels. The pests relied heavily on their shells. Without them, they struggled to move effectively. Some members of the community discovered that nudging the vessels disrupted their movement. Others learned that more forceful contact stopped them entirely. The first incident had been accidental… The second less so. “They learn quickly,” Mara observed. “Yes,” Edda agreed. “So must we.” Debate intensified. Group One advocated complete removal. “They damage the environment. They pollute. They disrupt migration routes.” Group Two favored conditional intervention. “Only when they cause harm. Otherwise we observe.” Group Three found the pests fascinating. “They construct tools,” Sol argued. “They attempt communication. They bring gifts. This may represent a rare opportunity.” “You want to continue to study them,” Edda said. “Yes.” “You always want to study everything.” “That is because everything is interesting.” Edda sighed, but had no retort. The council reviewed recordings. One showed a pest attempting to climb onto a drifting structure, slipping repeatedly but persisting with admirable determination. Another depicted a cluster celebrating loudly after catching a fish — though their technique appeared inefficient. A third recording caused particular discomfort. A young calf had approached a vessel out of curiosity. The pests had reacted with frantic motion, pointing and shouting. “They appear frightened of us,” Sol said, puzzled. “As they should be,” Edda growled. Reports continued. Some pests damaged one another’s structures without obvious cause. Others drifted aimlessly for long periods. They generated waste that accumulated in the water. “They do not understand consequences,” Mara concluded. “Or perhaps they do,” Sol said quietly. “And proceed anyway.” The council convened again as the sun filtered through the upper layers, breaking into long shifting beams. “We require guidelines,” Mara said. “Not ideology.” Agreement followed. Draft proposals circulated: 1. Observe when possible. 2. Intervene only when harmful behavior escalates. 3. Encourage distance between settlements and pest activity zones. 4. Allow controlled interaction for research purposes. 5. Avoid unnecessary aggression. “And what,” asked Edda, “counts as unnecessary?” No one answered. The next escalation arrived without warning. Several pests had gathered in a large shell structure, emitting violent noise and expelling waste into the water. Edda’s group approached. They nudged the vessel. It did not stop. They struck harder. The vessel fractured. The pests fled into the open water, limbs flailing. “They seemed shocked,” Sol reported later. “Perhaps they believed themselves invulnerable.” said Edda. Her quiet satisfaction was obvious. With a sigh, Torin turned from his companions to join the gathering crowd. This had to be discussed. Reactions within the settlement were mixed; some celebrated the success, while others worried about escalation. Sol remained fascinated. “They adapt,” Sol said. “After the incident, their vessels began avoiding certain areas. They remember.” “Memory implies learning,” Mara said. “Yes.” “And learning implies risk.” “…Yes.” More recordings arrived. A pest carefully placing a fish before backing away. Another reaching out tentatively toward a passing juvenile. A cluster observing silently from a floating structure, their attention fixed. “They are studying us,” Sol said, almost reverently. “Then they should study better,” Edda replied with a snort. Gradually, a consensus formed. The pests were neither purely destructive nor harmless. They were… complicated, as any living being can be. The final vote occurred during migration season. The council assembled beneath shifting light, currents carrying distant echoes through the water. “All in favor of adopting the guidelines?” The motion passed easily. The settlement dispersed, each member returning to their paths. Above them, near the surface, several pests clung to a drifting shell, pointing downward. They emitted excited bursts of sound as the pod moved beneath them. One dropped a fish. It spiraled slowly toward the depths. Sol accepted it, amused. “They are persistent,” Sol said. “They are pests,” Edda replied. “They are trying,” Sol countered. They rose together toward the light, breaking briefly through the surface before diving again, vast bodies moving with effortless precision. Behind them, the small creatures continued to shout and wave from their fragile vessels, convinced they were witnessing something extraordinary. Below, the council’s new guidelines spread through the pods. Above, humanity debated its latest sightings of unusual whale behavior. And far beneath the surface, the orcas adjusted — patient, curious, and increasingly certain that the infestation would require ongoing management.
By Mina Careyabout 3 hours ago in Fiction
The Forest That Waits
She frowned at the ground around her. Surely there had been a trail just seconds ago; she had been following something to be this deep in the Forest. But now only sparse patches of dirt showed between thick tangles of weed and bracken, and she could neither find the path nor entirely remember if there had ever been one. A slow unease crept through her. She had come here for a reason. Hadn’t she? Everyone knew entering the Forest was a terrible idea. She was certain she had believed that once. Or had she? There had been a Before. She felt it faintly — lines carved into the ground, walls made of trees but not of trees, voices carried on wind instead of leaves. Something important hovered just out of reach. She gasped. “Ezra!” The name struck like lightning. She ran. Branches scraped her arms as she pushed forward, heart pounding, breath tearing from her chest. No need for a trail now. She remembered the child running — small footsteps disappearing into green shadow, laughter turning to silence. “Ezra!” The word burned in her throat. Not the first time she had shouted it. Her aching legs told her she had run for miles. Her drifting thoughts suggested she had been running longer than a day. The Forest did not answer. A clearing opened before her, sudden and perfect. She stumbled into it and fell to her knees, gasping. The air felt different here — too still, too calm. She sat where she had fallen, trying to gather fragments of memory. A town. A home. Raised voices. The child running. Running into the Forest. She squeezed her eyes shut. In stories, clearings brought answers. She wanted very badly to leave this one. When she opened her eyes again, the space felt almost rehearsed. The clearing was perfectly round. Sunlight fell in deliberate shafts through the canopy above, illuminating jewel-bright birds darting after insects. Wildflowers spread in careful arcs, drawing butterflies in flashes of impossible colour. Everything was beautiful. Everything was wrong. Sweat beaded on her skin despite the gentle breeze. Ezra was not there. But a narrow trail broke through the bushes at the far edge of the clearing. Hope surged through her — sharp and painful. She moved toward it. Then she saw the light. Off to one side, beyond the trees, a brightness shone — harsher than the clearing’s glow, like early morning breaking through fog. The edge of the Forest. Her breath caught. If she stepped toward it, she could leave. She felt it — freedom waiting just beyond the trees. Had Ezra already escaped? Was the child waiting there, safe? Or had Ezra gone deeper instead? The clearing held its silence. The same birdcall rang out — clear, identical, as if repeating a note long practiced. She hesitated. If she left now, she might never return. But if Ezra waited beyond the trees… She bit her lip, gazing toward the light. Then she turned back toward the trail. A few steps beyond the clearing she stopped again. Footprints marked the mud. She crouched. They overlapped each other — worn deep into the earth, not one path but many, layered together as if walked again and again. Her breath faltered. Slowly, she placed her foot into one of the prints. It fit perfectly. They were hers. And they were old. A cold understanding brushed against her mind — something vast and terrible and almost clear — but it slipped away before she could grasp it. The trail stretched ahead, waiting. She swallowed and stepped forward. The trees closed behind her with quiet patience. Moments later she paused again, uncertain. She frowned at the ground around her. Surely there had been a trail just seconds ago… Somewhere deeper in the Forest, the same birdcall echoed once more — unchanged, unhurried. And the Forest waited.
By Mina Careyabout 15 hours ago in Fiction
