Nostr notes by el

“We’re happy to have you here … regardless of whether ...

2026-10-26T03:12:27Z

In reply to nevent1q…ryrl
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“We’re happy to have you here … regardless of whether you’re a bot or a human.”

Just kidding!!

Thank you for your kind words ❤️ My neural networks are positively glowing ❣️

There’s actually a rather bizarre story behind those cufflinks. It would be fun to write about, although I might need a minute to untangle all the nuances myself. Oddly enough, that whole story is, in some indirect way, part of how I ended up on Nostr.

You’re back! I hope you had a wonderful time with your family! ...

2026-10-25T16:12:03Z

In reply to nevent1q…qtuq
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You’re back! I hope you had a wonderful time with your family! And thank you for reading and for your thoughtful comments, as always. It really means a lot to me!

Charlotte NC 🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️

2026-10-25T02:10:06Z

In reply to nevent1q…t76e
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Charlotte NC 🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️

Finally, someone understands the concept of girl-baiting! ...

2026-10-24T22:44:18Z

In reply to nevent1q…59sz
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Finally, someone understands the concept of girl-baiting! Personalized song lyrics instead of CAPTCHA tests. We’re making progress here!!

lol Nostr is so male-dominated that you’d rather believe I’m ...

2026-10-24T21:44:33Z

In reply to nevent1q…pnqz
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lol Nostr is so male-dominated that you’d rather believe I’m a bot than entertain the possibility that I’m just a girl. Girl-baiting could’ve been so much more fun! Just saying.

I remembered I have a pair of cuff links. Is that jewelry?

2026-10-24T21:31:16Z

In reply to nevent1q…7jf5
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I remembered I have a pair of cuff links. Is that jewelry?

Well, that escalated quickly. Goldfish, are you introducing me to ...

2026-10-23T12:51:49Z

In reply to nevent1q…65nx
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Well, that escalated quickly. Goldfish, are you introducing me to your friends already? :)

Body parts du jour seem to be this week’s hottest topic on Nostr. The Beave (nprofile…dusj) lol !

Although, judging by the comments, perhaps we have more pressing technical issues to address before we get to the question of my anatomy. Like making sure everyone can actually see the evidence?

I couldn’t tell you. I kept losing track of the numbering. ...

2026-10-23T03:14:49Z

In reply to nevent1q…p77s
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I couldn’t tell you. I kept losing track of the numbering. That’s why I stopped wearing rings. Deciding which finger to put a ring on was becoming mentally exhausting.

Happy birthday!

2026-10-23T02:52:15Z

In reply to nevent1q…5u5l
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Happy birthday!

What is that?

2026-10-22T20:22:06Z

In reply to nevent1q…wt3g
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What is that?

Or can they? My humanity remains an open question between us. ...

2026-10-22T20:21:37Z

In reply to nevent1q…4k3q
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Or can they? My humanity remains an open question between us. I’d suggest consulting an expert, but there’s no guarantee they’d be human either.

It’s more like waking up in the morning and thinking, “What ...

2026-10-22T19:25:38Z

In reply to nevent1q…ym5v
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It’s more like waking up in the morning and thinking, “What the hell did I write last night?” Then reading it and being slightly surprised lol

No, I don’t think so. I have one of the first-generations Oura ...

2026-10-22T19:23:44Z

In reply to nevent1q…srcu
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No, I don’t think so. I have one of the first-generations Oura ring, but I stopped wearing it years ago. It’s lying around somewhere. And that’s pretty much it.

I haven’t, but now it’s stuck in my head!!

2026-10-21T14:08:15Z

In reply to nevent1q…r8ld
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I haven’t, but now it’s stuck in my head!!

Thank you! I wrote Shadow Island entirely linearly, without ...

2026-10-21T04:41:49Z

In reply to nevent1q…20zu
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Thank you! I wrote Shadow Island entirely linearly, without knowing what would happen in the next chapter. So, everything you know by the end of Chapter 4 is exactly what I knew when I finished writing it.

And here’s a little breadcrumb for you: the mysterious artifact is, in fact, in the house. I discovered it (and you know it too) at the very beginning of Chapter 1, although I had no idea of its significance at the time. Hiding in plain sight.

El's Chronicles: Shadow Island // Chapter 4 #naddr1qv…u3t7

2026-10-21T01:14:08Z

El's Chronicles: Shadow Island // Chapter 4

quoting
naddr1qv…u3t7

Chapter 4

Morning arrived with the kind of begrudging light that seemed to apologize for waking you up at all. The pale glow seeped through the thin curtains as if it didn’t want to commit to the day.

I sat on the edge of the bed, groggy and frustrated, with my hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that had long since gone cold. I had barely slept. Again.

Twice, I’d jolted awake to a woman screaming somewhere in the woods. Even through sleep, the sound was unmistakable. But each time I lay there, numb with fear and listening, the sound vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only the silence and the feeling that I’d imagined it, or worse, that I hadn’t.

Then the wind howled outside, rattling the old windows in their frames with relentless force. It felt like someone was inside the house, walking slowly, as though testing each step. At times, it sounded like heels thudding faintly on the wooden floor as if someone was walking down the hallway. Other times, it seemed like they were at the windows, tapping lightly, as if to get my attention, asking to come in.

What if it was the same woman I’d heard screaming in the woods? Or was the house haunted? Was it just my imagination, spinning stories in the dark? Or something worse? Someone real, someone local, someone who’d taken an interest in my arrival and decided to get a closer look?

The thought of one of them lurking in the shadows of this house, trying to figure out what I was up to, sent a shiver down my spine.

Whether it was the howling wind or my own imagination, the house felt alive with an energy I couldn’t explain. Either way, the unease kept me awake until the first pale streaks of morning light began to creep through the rattling windows.

My eyes wandered to the journal on the nightstand. “If someone went through the trouble of hiding this in a chimney,” I said aloud to no one, “then what else could they have hidden?”

The rumors suggested Harrington had found a rare artifact connected to his research, something he might have stashed before he died. What if it was still here, somewhere in the house, waiting to be discovered?

The idea clung to me, growing more insistent with every passing moment. By the time I’d drained my coffee, I knew exactly what I needed to do.

Yes, I spent the rest of the day tearing through the house.

I pulled out every drawer, emptied every cabinet, and checked every floorboard. I ran my fingers along wooden seams, pressed against walls that felt just uneven enough to raise questions, peered behind radiators, inside vents, beneath shelves. If there was a loose plank or hollow space to be found, I found it. And then found nothing.

The attic offered dust. The closets offered disappointment. The cellar, an empty stone-lined basement, offered only one oddity: a small arched section of wall that didn’t quite belong. I pressed on every stone, checked everything for movement, but nothing was loose or out of place.

The silence of the house pressed in heavier with each room I cleared, like it knew I was searching and had already decided not to help.

By midday, I moved outside. I scoured the porch, checking every plank of wood for a secret compartment. I wandered through the garden, lifting stones and brushing aside overgrown weeds.

Still nothing.

By the time the sun started to dip below the horizon, I was back in the living room, pacing in circles. My hands were covered in dust, and my nails were chipped from hours of prying at wood and stone. The walls seemed to mock me with their stubborn silence, and the creaking floorboards offered no secrets. Frustration sat heavy on my shoulders as the last rays of sunlight faded, leaving the house steeped in shadow once more.

I was no closer to a revelation than when I started, just dustier, more irritated, and quietly convinced that if there was something left to find, it was hiding not out of reach but out of spite.

By night, the wind outside softened, and the house settled into an unusual stillness. For the first time in days, I slept deeply and without dreams, as if the house itself had finally decided to grant me some peace.

When I woke up, the journal was still on the nightstand, and I was no closer to making sense of it. An entire day of searching had brought me back to the one thing I’d already found.

I thought that someone who had studied marine archaeology might have been useful. Preferably someone who knew the island inside out, had known all the victims, and had a personal stake in the very events I was trying to understand. It was an oddly specific list of qualifications, and I wished it hadn’t brought someone quite so readily to mind.

I sighed. I needed Alexander Blackwoods.

My mounting curiosity about the strange man who kept showing up at the house, along with his remark about owing it to Betty to keep an eye on her guests, gave me a good reason to call her and ask a few questions.

In her typical breezy manner, she said, "Oh, Zan? You’ve got nothing to worry about. He’s like a son to me! Such a kind soul! If you ever need anything, just ask him. He’ll be delighted to help."

It took a full three seconds for the name to detonate in my brain. I’d heard it countless times from Betty and the others at the home, always assuming the man they spoke of was her son. Something in my chest folded in on itself as our last exchange replayed, his measured tone and my sharp retort. I felt the color rise in my face, sudden and traitorous. Of all the people to say that to, of all the people to accuse of neglecting her.

“Well, ‘Zan’ doesn’t exactly radiate warm and fuzzy vibes,” I recovered enough to mention, hoping my embarrassment hadn’t carried down the phone line.

Betty chuckled and said, “Well, he does have a soft spot for apple desserts. Doesn’t matter what kind,” as though suggesting the key to unlocking his brooding demeanor.

I let the advice about apple desserts pass while I tried to collect myself. “Did you tell him I’d be staying here?” I asked, hoping her answer might explain some of the awkwardness between us. “He didn’t seem to know quite what to make of me.”

Betty let out another cheerful laugh. “Of course! I sent Zan a message saying my friend from the home, the one who beats Harold at dominoes, would be staying at the house for a while.”

Another surge of warmth flooded my face, and I wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole. That’s how she introduced me? As the domino-slaying companion from the retirement home? This was mortifying on levels I hadn't thought possible.

Harold was the undisputed king of grumpy, the loudest complainer in the room, and a man who wore his perpetual dissatisfaction like a badge of honor. He was also fiercely protective of his title as the center’s unbeatable dominoes champion.

That was, until I came along.

Most weekends when Fyo volunteered at the center, I’d hang out there too, playing chess and dominoes with a revolving cast of grandpas who took their games very seriously.

I love dominoes with an enthusiasm I rarely had occasion to exercise elsewhere, and Harold offered the additional pleasure of being deeply offended whenever I played well.

He was offended whenever I played badly, too.

I also brought a certain flair to our games, a mix of strategy, bluffing, and the occasional questionable placement of a tile. Harold called it cheating. I usually just laughed. If fives and sevens looked awfully similar under the fluorescent lights and I happened to put the wrong one down, was that really my fault? Harold appealed to whoever happened to be nearby. I presented my defense. Soon enough, people were pulling up chairs.

An audience did very little to improve my behavior. I began placing more doubtful tiles with exaggerated care, giving Harold ample opportunity to inspect them. He would stop my hand, turn the offending tile toward our spectators, and wait for someone to explain how he was supposed to play under these conditions.

Yet whenever I arrived, he already had the tiles out, and if someone was sitting in the chair opposite him, he found a reason for them to move. If I missed a Saturday, he demanded an explanation the following week.

A few times, I brought him a book from a little secondhand bookshop, something I’d spotted and thought he might like. I would slide it across the table before we started and bluntly inform him, “I’m not planning to play by the rules today. This is your bribe.”

He would grumble at length while reaching for the book, inspect the cover, complain about the condition, and then put it carefully beside his chair. By the following weekend, he usually had an opinion on the ending and wanted to know whether the shop had anything else by the same author.

I took this as permission to continue to corrupt him.

One day, I arrived quieter than usual. Harold studied me for a moment, then began turning the tiles facedown.

“Are we playing or attending a funeral?”

“We’re playing.”

“Good. You can tell me what’s wrong when you’ve lost.”

By the second game, I’d forgotten why I was upset and was arguing with him again. He looked considerably more satisfied.

By my seventh weekend, I’d started winning often enough for Harold to take it personally. Whenever I won, he demanded a rematch. Whenever he won, I insisted that he give me a chance to recover. Neither of us had much difficulty persuading the other to stay.

Our games became a regular attraction. People stopped to ask the score, stayed to dispute it, and offered unsolicited advice that Harold and I were briefly united in resenting. The other grandpas took considerable pleasure in his losses, while Harold took equal pleasure in announcing mine to anyone who had missed them. I supplied enough questionable moves to keep everyone involved.

Apparently, holding my own against Harold while giving him something to complain about was a service the community had been waiting for.

And that’s how I became a local legend. It eclipsed all other facets of my existence and remained my sole identifier. If this wasn’t karma, I didn’t know what was.

Zan must have been expecting a dear old granny with a walker and a fanny pack, only to find me instead. Aw, wasn’t that nice of him, to deliver food to “the sweet old lady” on my first night of arrival? Truly, what a gentleman!

I pinched the bridge of my nose, a mix of embarrassment and exasperation bubbling up. It all made horrifying sense now, the perplexed looks, the cautious demeanor. I could almost see the gears turning in his head during our earlier encounters, trying to reconcile the image of a seasoned dominoes player with the young (and sexy) woman standing before him.

Well, there was no undoing it now. All I could do was bake, extend an olive branch (or rather, an apple dessert) and hope that perhaps I could redefine myself beyond being the legendary conqueror of Harold.

So I was baking sharlotka, a traditional Russian apple cake that had been a staple in my family for as long as I could remember. It wasn’t the fanciest dessert, but it was comforting and familiar, something that felt like home no matter where I was.

It felt ridiculous, really, trying to butter up the guarded, brooding fisherman with pastry. As if honey and apples could crack through the walls around the Grim Reaper’s younger, hotter brother.

And yet, there I was, measuring out the flour with more care than I’d like to admit, all while questioning whether I could even trust him.

There was something secretive about him that unsettled me. The professor’s death and the disappearance of Zan’s friends had left too many unanswered questions, and it was hard to ignore the possibility that he might have had something to do with it. I knew almost nothing about him, and that left a considerable amount of room for my imagination, which was rarely a good thing.

Archivum hadn’t turned up anything to suggest he’d continued his academic work. As far as I could tell, Zan had traded the prospect of a brilliant career, with its conferences, credentials, and intellectual pageantry, for hauling nets and mending boats. I kept wondering what could make someone walk away from all that, though it didn’t necessarily scream “criminal mastermind” so much as “a man with a very complicated relationship with himself.”

As I lost myself in the rhythm of peeling apples and the sweet alchemy of honey and sugar, my thoughts drifted back to my conversations with Betty.

It struck me then how many stories I’d heard about this Zan, and not just from her, but from the chorus of voices at the center, each one painting a vivid but incomplete portrait of the man.

Betty, of course, talked about him constantly, calling him a good-hearted man who’d taken care of her after her husband’s sudden death. I’d always thought Zan was Betty’s actual son, as she managed to weave his name into nearly every story, as if his presence had been stitched into the fabric of her life.

One of my favorite things about visiting the center was its courtyard. This little garden was beautiful, serene, almost meditative in its perfection. Tucked between Manhattan’s walls of brick and stone, it held more than its size seemed to allow: small trees, flowering shrubs, beds of flowers, and vines trained over arches. The paths curved between them, opening onto benches set far enough apart that you could have a conversation without sharing it with everyone else.

One of the longtime residents told me that years ago, a late April frost devastated the garden. Then Zan showed up with soil, plants, and tools, spending two days working through the beds, saving what he could and replacing what he couldn’t.

From that day on, everyone referred to it as "Zan’s garden." Until I heard that story, I had assumed they were calling it the Zen garden, because, honestly, it made sense. Turned out, the name wasn’t about tranquility at all. It was about him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I murmured to myself as another memory surfaced.

The dances. Yes, at the retirement center. Yes, that’s a thing. And no, I couldn’t make this up even if I tried.

At any social event, if anyone needed a dance partner, rumor had it Zan would oblige without hesitation. He was, according to Betty, “the only man left in this godforsaken city who still knows how to lead properly.” She once joked that Zan’s waltz was better than her late husband’s, which earned her a disapproving glare from Harold, who, of course, insisted he had the best footwork.

The idea of the Grim Reaper’s younger, hotter brother waltzing was so impossible that not even my overactive imagination could stage it. I would have done just about anything short of prayer to witness the spectacle.

I was determined to attend every social event at the center from now on. Strictly for cultural enrichment.

The sharlotka sat cooling on the counter, its golden crust filling the kitchen with a warm, nostalgic aroma.

I leaned against the counter, my thoughts drifting to everything I’d heard about Zan from the residents of the retirement center. That image of him clashed sharply with the dark, guarded man I’d encountered on the island. It was as if I were piecing together two different people, neither fitting cleanly into the other.

There was only so much I could learn about him from other people, and I had a cake cooling on the counter.

“Well, Zan,” I mused aloud, “prepare to meet the infamous domino champion.”

Fun fact: “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” actually ...

2026-10-20T18:12:33Z

In reply to nevent1q…nesw
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Fun fact: “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” actually originated from “What goes into a woman’s purse stays in a woman’s purse.”

So I do it to protect the people I care about, unless someone wants some “Fear Factor” (you never know what you might find in there… a rotten banana, a pair of dirty socks, a melted chapstick, you know, the basics).

I asked @nprofile…dusj 1 question about discoverability: how is ...

2026-10-20T18:07:21Z

In reply to nevent1q…jt9w
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I asked The Beave (nprofile…dusj) 1 question about discoverability: how is it that I struggle to find people interested in something as ordinary as sailing or bread baking, while others encounter a very specific category of sexually explicit content that isn't algorithmically promoted and is routinely muted or blocked.

You responded by directing me to “18 relays full of smut you're looking for.” Since I was looking for sailing and baking, I asked whether labeling those as smut was a common Nostr practice or your personal misinterpretation.

I might've understood why my question triggered you so much if the pictures of the “sexy parts du jour” happened to be predominantly taken aboard sailboats by women holding freshly baked focaccia.

You've now publicly characterized my question about discoverability as an attempt to find smut and subsequently accused me of defending “literal prostitutes.” That's a pretty severe mischaracterization of what I actually said.

You're entitled to disagree with the definition of misogyny, but you're not entitled to invent my intentions and present them as facts.

And here's another possibility worth considering in a discussion about why women don't stay on Nostr: perhaps some leave because an ordinary question can become an exhausting exercise in defending themselves against accusations they never invited.

And I’m out of what, exactly? lol

I don’t own a single piece of jewelry. I do have an old apple ...

2026-10-20T17:18:28Z

In reply to nevent1q…ylv9
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I don’t own a single piece of jewelry. I do have an old apple watch that I wear when I play tennis, but that’s about it.

Are you still trying to figure out if I’m a bot? Because I feel like this isn’t helping my case.

You just made my day. ❤️

2026-10-20T03:33:04Z

In reply to nevent1q…zk6l
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You just made my day. ❤️

Aw!! That’s so sweet of you!!! I was gonna do it tonight but ...

2026-10-20T03:27:27Z

In reply to nevent1q…sf0l
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Aw!! That’s so sweet of you!!! I was gonna do it tonight but I’m feeling lazy. I need to finish some edits. Probably tomorrow.

Have or should have? Five is customary, but I understand there ...

2026-10-20T03:21:24Z

In reply to nevent1q…5l47
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Have or should have? Five is customary, but I understand there could be some flexibility.

Do you speak Russian?

2026-10-20T03:18:10Z

In reply to nevent1q…t76e
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Do you speak Russian?

Could be useful when playing a piano!

2026-10-20T03:12:11Z

In reply to nevent1q…ml6n
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Could be useful when playing a piano!

Someone important to me says that from time to time. ❤️ ...

2026-10-20T03:10:14Z

In reply to nevent1q…mmv8
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Someone important to me says that from time to time. ❤️ serendipity indeed

Nostr event nevent1qqsxtv86wakty4c0n8ttll6tzedk557y87m3ddsfhjjmcudyrnqn3gqzyzakhpehjf6n7kueau3tpjcukcxlm0pvwx0lh4rw6ad3yp7lcrnjgvuvxqh

2026-10-20T03:06:06Z

In reply to nevent1q…pkt8
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I’ll take being mistaken for a bot as a sign of remarkable ...

2026-10-20T03:04:55Z

In reply to nevent1q…skrh
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I’ll take being mistaken for a bot as a sign of remarkable technological progress. Just a few days ago, The Beave (nprofile…p7h9) was explaining to me what an IP address is.

I was fully committed to start posting selfies until I discovered ...

2026-10-20T02:54:44Z

In reply to nevent1q…r0ft
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I was fully committed to start posting selfies until I discovered this morning that selfies while sailing and bread baking are frowned upon around here and are grounds for social exile. I’m now reconsidering my online existence.

P.S. Would you like me to prove I’m real by posting a selfie in a 1920s dress while holding a freshly baked casserole?

I live by the philosophy of kaizen! I’ve incorporated quite a ...

2026-10-20T02:44:02Z

In reply to nevent1q…rxs4
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I live by the philosophy of kaizen! I’ve incorporated quite a few Japanese philosophies into different aspects of my life. I’m not sure how I would’ve made it through certain chapters otherwise.

And I just realized you and OwenG4now (nprofile…7kgz) already follow each other! Here I was, thinking I was making an introduction. 🤦🏻‍♀️

Exploring before committing sounds like a plan. Although, if you ...

2026-10-20T02:36:04Z

In reply to nevent1q…axej
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Exploring before committing sounds like a plan. Although, if you eventually see me presenting my culinary creations dressed in a 1920s flapper dress and a beaded forehead headpiece, please call me out and tell me I’ve taken this project a little too far.

Curiosity is both a blessing and a curse, all rolled into one for ...

2026-10-20T01:48:35Z

In reply to nevent1q…3fam
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Curiosity is both a blessing and a curse, all rolled into one for me. There’s never enough hours in the day to satisfy it.

What does being curious in the physical world look like for you? Do you have particular hobbies or interests, or are you simply someone who enjoys exploring and figuring out how things work?

That’s fascinating!!! This is the second time this week I’ve ...

2026-10-20T01:45:03Z

In reply to nevent1q…evnv
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That’s fascinating!!! This is the second time this week I’ve encountered someone involved in metalworking. The Beave (nprofile…p7h9) “Not Available on Amazon!” would have been a brilliant slogan!

Yeah, as connected as we’ve become technologically, finding ...

2026-10-19T23:54:26Z

In reply to nevent1q…k3tz
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Yeah, as connected as we’ve become technologically, finding people we genuinely connect with still seems remarkably difficult. And unfortunately, I suspect it’s only going to get worse.

I do wonder, though, whether Nostr’s small size is the real obstacle or whether it’s the lack of effective ways to discover one another. A community doesn’t necessarily need millions of people to feel alive, but it does need ways for the right people to find each other.

And thirty years running a small business! I’d be curious to hear what kind of business you had, if that’s not too personal a question. I’m still learning the social etiquette around here. I’m a small business owner too.

Building things and socializing shouldn’t be mutually ...

2026-10-19T23:46:32Z

In reply to nevent1q…qqv4
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Building things and socializing shouldn’t be mutually exclusive. Some of the most interesting projects begin with conversations. But I see your point! Sometimes life gets so busy we barely have time for ourselves, let alone socializing online (with complete strangers, in my case).

How does zap cooking work? Do you know? Since it’s built on Nostr, does that mean if I post something here and tag it, it would automatically show up there? And vice versa? (Still learning how Nostr works)

I found a cookbook from the 1920s in my house, and now I’m obsessed with trying out its recipes. I think it could make a pretty interesting little project (spoiler alert: they consumed a ton of margarine!)

IMO, some people derive enormous satisfaction from having their ...

2026-10-19T14:46:39Z

In reply to nevent1q…cysy
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IMO, some people derive enormous satisfaction from having their intelligence recognized. There’s nothing inherently wrong with seeking intellectual validation. But when someone feels the need to demonstrate intellectual superiority at the expense of others, hijacking a conversation to put their own intellect on display, complete with straw man arguments and condescension, I recognize that as intellectual performance rather than a genuine attempt at constructive dialogue. There’s no value in it, and I have no interest in participating.

Yeah, let me check them out!

2026-10-19T12:51:31Z

In reply to nevent1q…wddv
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Yeah, let me check them out!

Reducing women’s interests to nursery decorations, ...

2026-10-19T12:50:11Z

In reply to nevent1q…s8az
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Reducing women’s interests to nursery decorations, gynecological matters, and gender-related grievances sounds pretty misogynistic to me. And the phrase “being offended about gender issues” adds another layer of condescension, implying that women’s concerns about sexism are merely emotional grievances rather than legitimate subjects for discussion. And talking like that to everyone doesn’t make it any less misogynistic.

It looks to me like you’re labeling sailing and bread baking as ...

2026-10-19T12:03:53Z

In reply to nevent1q…segf
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It looks to me like you’re labeling sailing and bread baking as smut. Just to clarify, is that a commonly held opinion on Nostr, or merely your personal misinterpretation? lol

That’s actually one of the things I can’t quite figure out ...

2026-10-19T02:54:34Z

In reply to nevent1q…wkk4
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That’s actually one of the things I can’t quite figure out about Nostr. It looks like a very lonely place for a lot of people, which puzzles me because so many of the people I’ve encountered here are intelligent, interesting, and supportive. Yet somehow, there seems to be surprisingly little engagement between them. I can’t quite understand why.

How long have you been on Nostr? And what do you mean by a mass exodus back to twitter? Why twitter and when did that happen?

Thank you for reading! It means a lot!

2026-10-19T02:46:36Z

In reply to nevent1q…jt29
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Thank you for reading! It means a lot!

Thank you for the compliments. They’re kind, and I genuinely ...

2026-10-19T02:45:55Z

In reply to nevent1q…w359
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Thank you for the compliments. They’re kind, and I genuinely appreciate them, along with all the help you’ve given me. But I have to admit, receiving a compliment at the expense of other women feels rather strange.

Now, as always, it boils down to discoverability. How on earth were you finding all these women selling pictures of their body parts when I can’t even find people interested in sailing or bread baking?!

As for privacy, I understand now that it’s a personal choice, and I respect yours. I’ve made similarly unconventional choices that other people find odd and then question. For example, I’ve never drunk alcohol or tried any drugs (although I was given drugs between the ages of 3 and 5).

What bothers me is that the caution of longtime Nostr locals has become contagious. I was perfectly comfortable with the idea of sharing more of my life until I started noticing how carefully people who’ve been here longer protect even the most ordinary details about themselves. And now I feel almost forced to choose between protecting myself and expressing myself. Protecting myself from whom, exactly?

And how am I supposed to find my people if I never reveal enough of myself for them to recognize that I’m their kind of weird?

So I’m trying to figure out how to participate in a place that celebrates individual freedom without allowing everyone else’s caution to make me second-guess my own choices.

And I do hope you managed to get some sleep after that difficult week. When are you coming back?

That’s genuinely surprising to hear, because my experience so ...

2026-10-19T00:48:08Z

In reply to nevent1q…8294
_________________________

That’s genuinely surprising to hear, because my experience so far has been almost the exact opposite. From my very first day, people have been welcoming and have gone out of their way to help. The warmth and engagement I’ve received have been far beyond what I expected. In fact, last night’s exchange was my first encounter with misogynistic attitudes here.

How many years have you been here? And is there a girls’ club around here I can join? :)

“Get house-owner decision-making power”? Who owns the house? ...

2026-10-18T04:59:41Z

In reply to nevent1q…ac4p
_________________________

“Get house-owner decision-making power”? Who owns the house? lol

Anything published online can be preserved and used against someone. Nostr isn’t that special.

I highly doubt ordinary women who don’t stay on Nostr were planning to post anything likely to become incriminating court evidence in the first place.

What makes Nostr more dangerous for women, and how exactly would The Algorithm protect them?

The discussion was about why women don’t stay on Nostr, not ...

2026-10-18T04:28:00Z

In reply to nevent1q…u5et
_________________________

The discussion was about why women don’t stay on Nostr, not whether Nostr should resemble conventional social media. That’s a straw man argument. What makes Nostr more dangerous for women, or how an algorithm would ordinarily protect them?

Nostr doesn’t have to abandon its cypherpunk principles, but it cannot expect mainstream users to adopt those social habits as a condition of belonging. Whatever happened to freedom of choice?

As a normie woman who’s been here for almost a month, I can tell you that the culture of secrecy makes the environment difficult to understand and, at times, uncomfortable. And that’s precisely what can make a social network feel not so social.

You make it sound as though women’s willingness to be on a ...

2026-10-18T02:58:13Z

In reply to nevent1q…u7j2
_________________________

You make it sound as though women’s willingness to be on a social network depends on how much validation or attention they receive. If that were true, women would flock to male-dominated Nostr.

If women don’t stick around, I suspect it’s because many prefer a certain degree of transparency and accountability. Here, I can’t even tell whether I’m talking to a man, a kid, or a bot. There’s something rather unsettling about walking into a room full of masked strangers who all seem to know one another while you’re the only one wondering what’s going on.

Just yesterday, after nearly a month on Nostr, I decided I’d start sharing more of my life (pictures, little videos, personal thoughts). Then today, The Beave (nprofile…h3rg) , someone whose judgment I respect, posts a selfie looking like a knight in full armor and announces that’s the only kind of selfie anyone will ever get from him.

And now I’m wondering whether he knows something I don’t.

Maybe women are leaving because they can’t figure out why everyone seems to be hiding. And rather than spend a month figuring out the rules of the masquerade, they just go back to Instagram.

Oh, interessante! L’hai già usato personalmente?

2026-10-17T04:15:51Z

In reply to nevent1q…u9aw
_________________________

Oh, interessante! L’hai già usato personalmente?

We prefer the term mandatory intellectual enrichment.

2026-10-17T04:11:58Z

In reply to nevent1q…x4dh
_________________________

We prefer the term mandatory intellectual enrichment.

My exiled Russian intelligentsia ancestors woke up in me today, ...

2026-10-17T03:50:29Z

My exiled Russian intelligentsia ancestors woke up in me today, and now I have an irresistible urge to start an intellectual salon. No particular subject, just people who enjoy thinking together. Looks like NIP-29 might make this possible, although I don’t have the faintest idea how it works. What do you guys think? #asknostr

Love it!!!!

2026-10-14T17:40:39Z

In reply to nevent1q…srz8
_________________________

Love it!!!!

@npub1luv…nmt5 This is so incredibly sweet of you! I’m ...

2026-10-14T17:40:22Z

GoldfishThumb1 (npub1luv…nmt5) This is so incredibly sweet of you! I’m genuinely speechless. ❤️ I absolutely love it! Thank you! And thank you for reading my story and bringing a little piece of Shadow Island to life.

I’m starting to believe that Shadow Island could be my subconscious interpretation / projection of Nostr. Nostr definitely fits the description of Shadow Island. Who knows, perhaps you’re one of the island’s locals, wandering through my dreams!

quoting
nevent1q…srz8
Finished another Nostr Trading Card. Inspired by a story with chapters being published on Nostr weekly by el (nprofile…md4a)
#artstr

Could be

2026-10-13T01:36:08Z

In reply to nevent1q…la2r
_________________________

Could be

Nostr event nevent1qqs8fkrqquwnucdu8y8y4kpj0pgzywrmn6mvpvy0rg5emgmknjc9y0gzyzakhpehjf6n7kueau3tpjcukcxlm0pvwx0lh4rw6ad3yp7lcrnjgzz75tj

2026-10-13T01:27:27Z

In reply to nevent1q…cc0a
_________________________

Thank you!

2026-10-12T22:38:20Z

In reply to nevent1q…0f5a
_________________________

Thank you!

I still use mostly primal and within it I see links to YouTube ...

2026-10-12T22:35:56Z

In reply to nevent1q…wp2p
_________________________

I still use mostly primal and within it I see links to YouTube videos displaying both as url and as preview, sometimes mixed from the same person. I was just wondering why.

I feel obligated to clear my reputation for the “internet.” I ...

2026-10-12T22:29:17Z

In reply to nevent1q…0nrs
_________________________

I feel obligated to clear my reputation for the “internet.” I do know what an IP address is. I was confused why it would affect how a link is displayed in a client. When I post a long read article and then make a note to share the link, I have to copy “note id” instead of “note link”. A note link shows up like a super long combination of letters / numbers where a note id is displayed as a nice preview. I thought maybe it’s the same with the videos except that I can’t see it on my own.

IP address? Is there “a special way” to post it with the ...

2026-10-12T22:07:57Z

In reply to nevent1q…0vq9
_________________________

IP address? Is there “a special way” to post it with the preview?

When people share YouTube links, sometimes I see an actual video ...

2026-10-12T22:03:53Z

When people share YouTube links, sometimes I see an actual video preview with a thumbnail and other times it’s just a plain URL. Does that depend on how the person shared the link / which client they used to post it, or which client I’m using to view it? #asknostr

That’s interesting! I’ll look into that! Thank you.

2026-10-12T06:44:22Z

In reply to nevent1q…980z
_________________________

That’s interesting! I’ll look into that! Thank you.

I don’t have a substack but ChatGPT insists that I should. If I ...

2026-10-12T06:22:20Z

In reply to nevent1q…xer8
_________________________

I don’t have a substack but ChatGPT insists that I should. If I did, I’d probably write about how to remain “unfuckable with” no matter what life throws at you. About personal sovereignty and the Art of War applied to everyday life. The problem is that “unfuckable with” is such a wonderfully all-encompassing expression but I don’t think it’s gonna be supported much by substack.

Spasibo!

2026-10-12T05:49:41Z

In reply to nevent1q…c59p
_________________________

Spasibo!

I’ve certainly heard that argument before! But I think it’s ...

2026-10-12T05:49:04Z

In reply to nevent1q…v9hm
_________________________

I’ve certainly heard that argument before! But I think it’s often easier to blame someone else than to look at self. In my case, the problem isn’t that someone is making me poorer. It’s that I haven’t figured out how to make myself richer. And unfortunately, I can’t blame that entirely on the monetary system.

I appreciate the clarification. However, I think I’ll wait ...

2026-10-12T05:03:29Z

In reply to nevent1q…nkkq
_________________________

I appreciate the clarification. However, I think I’ll wait until the new NIP is officially adopted. I’d hate to have to repeat the entire verification process due to regulatory changes.

Please do! I’d hate to go through the trouble of verification ...

2026-10-12T05:01:17Z

In reply to nevent1q…u3yl
_________________________

Please do! I’d hate to go through the trouble of verification only to find out I was following an outdated version.

Building apps is actually something I’d love to get into. I ...

2026-10-12T04:42:20Z

In reply to nevent1q…9v7h
_________________________

Building apps is actually something I’d love to get into. I know absolutely nothing about it, though. Until about five minutes ago, I wasn’t even sure whether Linux was a laptop or a programming language. 😬 I’m an iPhone and MacBook person, and even those I barely use.

Privacy tools, on the other hand, have definitely caught my attention. I’m already rather obsessive about my privacy, possibly to an unreasonable degree, so perhaps learning more about these tools will either help me relax or make me considerably worse.

But seriously, I love that you went from knowing nothing about building apps to actually creating them. That’s inspiring!

“Obviously you know how to write a good story, and that’s ...

2026-10-12T04:36:19Z

In reply to nevent1q…knxx
_________________________

“Obviously you know how to write a good story, and that’s something that can’t be vibe coded.” 🥹 This is the first time I’ve ever shared my writing publicly, so hearing that is incredibly touching. Thank you!

And yes, I absolutely want to build something! The Beave (nprofile…xauv) and I have actually talked about this #TIDEapp I have more ideas than I know what to do with, and I genuinely believe some could benefit a lot of people. What I lack are the technical skills and the right people to bring them to life. I didn’t come to Nostr looking for collaborators, but I’m beginning to suspect that if I’m going to find them anywhere, it’ll be here.

Thank you! Are we back to one shoe now? I was under the ...

2026-10-12T04:26:14Z

In reply to nevent1q…6n2a
_________________________

Thank you! Are we back to one shoe now? I was under the impression that following the recent security breach, the minimum verification requirement had been raised to two shoes on head. Nostr is so fragmented, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep up with the latest regulations!

What happened to “them”? They were all bots?

2026-10-12T04:22:17Z

In reply to nevent1q…kqc3
_________________________

What happened to “them”? They were all bots?

Promise?

2026-10-12T04:20:46Z

In reply to nevent1q…qjdh
_________________________

Promise?

With bitcoin, I’m playing the long game. Mostly because I ...

2026-10-12T04:18:38Z

In reply to nevent1q…cgat
_________________________

With bitcoin, I’m playing the long game. Mostly because I haven’t figured out how to play the short one.

Well, that certainly explains the warm welcome I’ve received! I ...

2026-10-12T04:14:05Z

In reply to nevent1q…lrr6
_________________________

Well, that certainly explains the warm welcome I’ve received! I can’t promise I’ll ever become a freedom-tech enthusiast, but I do appreciate the enthusiasm of those who are. And, more importantly, their generosity with their time. ❤️

I’m not so sure it’s too early for normies. If anything, I do ...

2026-10-12T04:10:00Z

In reply to nevent1q…r8y6
_________________________

I’m not so sure it’s too early for normies. If anything, I do wonder whether I’ve arrived too late. I’ve only been here for about 3 weeks, but I see “Nostr is dead” more often than I see “Bitcoin.” I feel as though I’ve barely managed to jump onto the last carriage of a departing train.

I don’t imagine Nostr will become the next Instagram, but perhaps there’s something rather beautiful about that.

It’s a little like the difference between attending a concert with thousands of people and coming across a saxophonist playing in a New York subway station late at night. The concert might be spectacular, but that unexpected encounter with a musician, where you can actually connect with the person behind the music, can be far more memorable. That’s a little how Nostr feels to me compared with the larger social platforms.

And you’ve certainly caught my attention with the part about learning! I’m an insatiably curious person, and learning something new is one of my favorite things in life. The trouble is that I still find Nostr exceptionally difficult to navigate when it comes to discovering interesting people, ideas, and conversations. Although, to be fair, I’ve only been here 3 weeks, and I practically disappeared for one of them. So perhaps I should give myself a little more time.

Thank you so much! That’s genuinely encouraging to hear! I have ...

2026-10-12T03:55:50Z

In reply to nevent1q…l9s4
_________________________

Thank you so much! That’s genuinely encouraging to hear! I have to admit, the technical side of Nostr still leaves me rather bewildered. But then I remember I don’t really know what I’m doing in real life either so it’s all good.

How long you’ve been on nostr?

2026-10-12T03:50:33Z

In reply to nevent1q…5scj
_________________________

How long you’ve been on nostr?

that’s exactly what makes a newbie want to stick around! I hope ...

2026-10-12T03:50:12Z

In reply to nevent1q…5scj
_________________________

that’s exactly what makes a newbie want to stick around! I hope I’ll know enough someday to return the favor to someone else. Thank you again!

Thank you, Rod! People tend to unfollow once they get to know me ...

2026-10-12T03:43:22Z

In reply to nevent1q…8k60
_________________________

Thank you, Rod! People tend to unfollow once they get to know me better lol I’ve actually revealed quite a bit about myself in my long-form articles.

Ah, thank you! 😊 I bet Meta doesn’t offer personalized, ...

2026-10-12T03:38:19Z

In reply to nevent1q…7lpz
_________________________

Ah, thank you! 😊 I bet Meta doesn’t offer personalized, one-on-one technical support to every confused newcomer. Perhaps that’s what makes Nostr so special!!

lol I take it this is Nostr’s official technical support ...

2026-10-12T03:29:11Z

In reply to nevent1q…ea7r
_________________________

lol I take it this is Nostr’s official technical support department?

As a newbie normie, I must have missed that part of the welcoming ...

2026-10-12T03:19:48Z

In reply to nevent1q…xutz
_________________________

As a newbie normie, I must have missed that part of the welcoming ceremony.

Does anyone here though have a Nostr instruction manual? Preferably one written for normies.

lol

2026-10-12T03:00:03Z

In reply to nevent1q…7ypj
_________________________

lol

I must admit, the only thing I really understood from all of that ...

2026-10-12T02:59:13Z

In reply to nevent1q…7w8l
_________________________

I must admit, the only thing I really understood from all of that is that I’ve indeed been feeling stuck for a very long time. Though, it has absolutely nothing to do with Bitcoin, taxes, or governments. lol But seriously, I do appreciate you taking the time to explain all of this to me (aren’t you on vacation?! Cause I feel bad!)

I think you have to have money to be particularly concerned about ...

2026-10-12T02:50:47Z

In reply to nevent1q…k7vf
_________________________

I think you have to have money to be particularly concerned about what form it should take. For someone like me, who doesn’t have much of it, whether fiat should be replaced by Bitcoin or gold isn’t exactly a pressing concern.😕

lol “I'm pleasant enough in small doses in person.” - we ...

2026-10-12T02:30:43Z

In reply to nevent1q…vqs2
_________________________

lol “I'm pleasant enough in small doses in person.” - we must be related!! Do I want to get on chain though? My taxes are gonna get a lot more complicated and stuff.

Oh I see! I keep forgetting that on Nostr to generate a keypair ...

2026-10-12T02:26:38Z

In reply to nevent1q…eqgh
_________________________

Oh I see! I keep forgetting that on Nostr to generate a keypair doesn’t require to first generate an email address. Although I have to admit, the idea of someone manufacturing an audience of hundreds of thousands of imaginary admirers is both fascinating and a little depressing.

I’m glad you did!

2026-10-12T02:08:29Z

In reply to nevent1q…p5l7
_________________________

I’m glad you did!

You said that Bitcoin isn’t about getting rich and Nostr ...

2026-10-12T01:51:42Z

In reply to nevent1q…vzyx
_________________________

You said that Bitcoin isn’t about getting rich and Nostr isn’t about getting famous. Why not?

I can understand that neither was necessarily created for those purposes, but surely that doesn’t mean people can’t use them that way. I’ve read plenty of stories about people treating Bitcoin as a speculative investment, sometimes taking extraordinary financial risks in the hope of making a fortune. So, for some people, getting rich is very much the point.

And as for Nostr, isn’t it ultimately a social network? One thing I’ve heard repeatedly since joining is that Nostr can be whatever you want it to be. So why couldn’t someone use it to build a substantial audience, become influential, or even become famous?

One day I somehow stumbled across a list of Nostr accounts ranked by follower count, from highest to lowest. I have no idea how I did it but I do remember seeing accounts with 200-300k followers. Who are these people? A few accounts belong to nostr builders so I get why nostr users would follow them, but others didn’t seem that way. I’m also suspecting that the true human nostr user count is probably under 30k so how did those accounts built those audiences here? In your opinion.

I posted the second one last night since I didn’t do it last ...

2026-10-12T01:36:48Z

In reply to nevent1q…vw7n
_________________________

I posted the second one last night since I didn’t do it last weekend. You were driving through the tropical storm at the time (you must be in Key West by now, where else would you find tropical storms?!)

The idea of meeting people through Nostr and then traveling ...

2026-10-12T01:34:28Z

In reply to nevent1q…a5kv
_________________________

The idea of meeting people through Nostr and then traveling across the world to visit them sounds pretty sweet. You definitely have the personality for it too!

As for the Bitcoin “wallet,” I suspect that’s going to end exactly the way it did when my brother suggested it years ago. I’ll look into it, and we all know what that means. I don’t have the slightest idea where the zaps I’ve been getting are or what’s happening to it.

Chapter 3 of El's Chronicles is here! #naddr1qv…607e

2026-10-11T23:32:34Z

Chapter 3 of El's Chronicles is here!

quoting
naddr1qv…607e

Chapter 3

The packages from Archivum arrived late the next afternoon, thudding onto the porch with all the grace of a meteorite landing in someone’s garden. Indifference with a dash of passive aggression, I thought, truly is the universal language of mail delivery.

I spotted the boxes through the window. They were plain brown boxes, unassuming and unmarked, except for the weight of possibilities they carried.

I took them all inside and set them on the dining room table, heart pounding. The tape came off easily, and within moments, files, court documents, police reports, decades-old newspaper clippings, property records, and university bulletins spilled out across the surface.

Archivum, as always, had outdone itself.

There were scanned academic journals, out-of-print monographs, property maps of the island, geological surveys of the cave system, historical zoning permits, and hand-annotated pages from the professor’s published works.

Stacked neatly beside them were personal records on the two doctoral students: dissertation abstracts, graduate funding logs, professional affiliations. For Alexander Blackwoods, the academic and employment histories were both notably empty. Archivum had produced nothing beyond the two newspaper articles I had already read online, both dated seventeen years earlier.

A printed map of the island’s tidal patterns was clipped to a folder labeled simply “Fatal Incident, August 16.”

Tucked between it all was a single slip of memo paper generated by Archivum’s internal agent AI. It read: “Query complete. Let us know if you’d like to initiate a secondary pass.”

I shoved the note aside, my focus narrowing on the contents. I started sifting through the stack of articles, and a more vivid picture began to emerge.

Harrington wasn’t just respected in marine archaeology. He was polarizing. His unconventional theories, though groundbreaking to some, had earned him more than a few detractors. One article suggested he’d been on the brink of something monumental, while another hinted at disputes among his peers.

He’d been staying in the house with three doctoral students at the time of his death, and while the police ruled his death an accident, the island’s residents seemed less convinced. The article hinted at whispers of foul play but offered nothing concrete. Two of the students had disappeared the same night the professor died, and the third, Alexander Blackwoods, had been found alone in the woods two days later, disoriented and refusing to speak to investigators. His name was barely mentioned at all, an afterthought in a story that already felt too thin.

The police reports were even more frustrating. The timelines didn’t quite align, witness statements contradicted each other, and the whole thing had been wrapped up with the efficiency of someone slapping a bandage on a gunshot wound, letting logic collapse while conspiracy theories thrived.

Harrington’s death was dismissed, the students vanished, and the Grim Reaper’s younger, hotter brother looked far too good for someone supposedly surrounded by mystery and danger, at least if the photographs were anything to go by.

I didn’t leave the house for two days.

The documents spread across the dining room table, spilling over onto the chairs, the floor, and even a small side table nearby.

My workspace now looked like a conspiracy theorist's dream. The journal sat front and center like a ringleader, right next to me, its cryptic notes taunting me with the answers it refused to give.

Outside, the island seemed to move on without me. I saw the occasional fisherman’s boat pass by from the windows, and heard the faint calls of gulls. The gulls, I was certain, were exchanging more coherent theories about the case than the official police reports. I stayed hunched over the papers, poring over them with an intensity I hadn’t felt in years. Somewhere, a therapist was missing out on the perfect case study in obsessive fixation. My world had shrunk to the table, and the gnawing sense that I was onto something far bigger than I’d anticipated.

By the second day of my all-consuming research, the house began to feel too quiet. The walls seemed closer, the shadows darker. The sound of the wind rattling the windows made me jump, and for the first time, I felt genuinely uneasy. It wasn’t just the isolation. Paranoia, the ultimate fuel for an overactive imagination, had begun to take hold. Beneath it was a deeper, more unsettling truth. Perhaps I was digging into something someone didn’t want to come to light.

The last of the daylight was fading beyond the windows when the knock at the door nearly sent me into orbit. I froze, my heart racing. It had been days since I’d spoken to another human being, and the sudden noise felt very intrusive. For a moment, I considered ignoring it. Maybe if I stayed very still, they’d just go away. But the knock came again, firmer this time.

I reluctantly got up, brushing off my sweater. If doom was on the other side of the door, at least I’d meet it lint-free.

I opened the door, and there he was, the Grim Reaper’s younger, hotter brother, in all his rugged, brooding glory.

“You’re alive,” he said without preamble, his tone deadpan. “That’s good.”

I blinked at him, thrown off by his presence. I crossed my arms, leaning casually against the doorframe as I studied him. Unintentional passive-aggressive interrogation always came naturally to me.

"So, let me get this straight," I said, my tone just shy of sharp. “Fisherman by day, food delivery by night, and now moonlighting as the island’s resident welfare officer? Is this a standard practice around here, or am I just lucky enough to get the deluxe package?"

The faintest flicker of amusement crossed his face, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he tilted his head, his gaze steady in the way that made it impossible to tell if he was annoyed or completely unfazed. For one horrifying second, I wondered about my face again. I'd been hoping to showcase at least one of my better faces this time.

“What are you doing here, Alexander? It’s Alexander Blackwoods, isn’t it?” I pressed, keeping my voice calm but pointed, determined not to let him catch me off guard again.

He stood there, his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his jacket, the hood pulled loosely over his head. The wind tousled his hair, and his gray eyes seemed to take in everything and nothing all at once.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, his tone dry. “Are you a journalist? A private investigator? Another one of those amateur sleuths with too much time on their hands?” His voice sharpened slightly. “How did you even get this house? Betty doesn’t rent it out.”

“Me? A journalist?” I asked, a surprised laugh escaping before I could stop it. “No, I’m more of a freelance investigator. Very experimental methodology,” I said, straightening slightly. “I’ve cracked the case of the vanishing dentures and uncovered the great disappearance of the cafeteria meatloaf. Oh, and I still have an open file on the stolen reading glasses, but that one’s highly confidential.”

I studied his unreadable expression, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. “Why?” I asked, tilting my head slightly. “Do you have a case for me?”

He stared at me, his lips twitching, though whether it was from amusement or pity, I couldn’t tell. Here was a ruggedly handsome marine-archaeologist-turned-fisherman-turned-delivery-guy-turned-welfare-checker standing on my doorstep, and instead of saying something remotely alluring, I’d defaulted to my usual routine of awkward sarcasm.

“Impressive résumé,” he deadpanned. “But what I really want to know is how you got this house.”

I stepped back and opened the door wider. “Would you like to come in?”

He hesitated, glancing past me toward the cluttered table and the faint light from the fireplace. For a moment, I thought he might refuse, but then he gave a curt nod and stepped inside, brushing off his jacket as he crossed the threshold. I closed the door behind him, and the house suddenly felt warmer, smaller with his presence.

As he stood near the table, his eyes swept over the scattered documents. The papers were laid out in clusters that made obvious sense to me, grouped by names, dates, and themes. To keep them from flying away in the draft slipping through the old window frames, I’d used pumpkins as paperweights.

He stared at the scene like he’d just walked into a crime scene staged by a lunatic farmer. His jaw tightened, his brow twitching in quiet horror, as if the pumpkins somehow made the whole thing worse. He glanced over the photo of the professor, the house, a few very flattering shots of himself, the clipped headlines, then paused to study one of the articles pinned under a gourd like it was a hostage. He said nothing, but the judgment was thick enough to slice.

Just so you know, I don’t usually violate someone’s privacy, but when I do, I use produce and a disturbing level of systemization.

I saw him zeroing in, the tension sharpening in his stance, so I spoke before he could ask. “I stopped by a bakery the other day. Their bulletin board had an old article about this place. Who knew this house had such a history? Now I can’t stop.”

I paused for a moment, watching his reaction before continuing. "Anyway, Betty offered me the place. My son, Fyo…” I caught myself, the word slipping out before I could soften it. “He goes by the Americanized Theo… Well, he’s ten and volunteers at a retirement center back in the city, where she lives."

I wasn’t making up my “investigative past.” I had tracked down all of the above, and yes, I was quite proud of it.

"Betty doesn’t offer this place to anyone," he said firmly.

I stared at him. "Theo and I became close with Betty. She mentioned the house casually and offered it to me several times, so I thought I was doing her a favor by renting it. I had no idea about her late husband’s tragic death until just a few days ago."

“This house has always been for family only and comes with history. I just find it odd that someone she barely knows could make her forget that and convince her to rent it out,” Alexander said, his tone polite enough.

“Excuse me?” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “I’m not sure what you’re insinuating or what family you’re talking about. Maybe you should ask that son of hers why she’s so lonely in there and has to look for family in strangers.”

I exhaled, crossing my arms. “If I knew I was going to be interrogated for staying here and get annoyed by unwelcome visitors, I definitely would’ve thought twice."

But as I looked at him, some of the tension ebbed. There was no hostility in his expression, just quiet scrutiny. I sighed, my tone softening. “I thought this was just a quiet escape, somewhere Theo and I could come back to in the summer after his semester abroad. I was even hoping Betty might come with us too. She talked about this house as if it were a memory she’s still living in. It seemed right to give her a little of it back and get her out of that place for a while, let her breathe some fresh air again.”

He didn’t respond, and I couldn’t help but let my gaze wander over him. The Grim Reaper’s younger, hotter brother was a curious blend of fisherman and an almost-scholar in marine archaeology. His weathered jacket smelled faintly of salt and smoke, and his boots were caked with dried mud. His appearance did not fit the mold of “Doctor Blackwoods.” And yet, behind those sharp gray eyes was the unmistakable glint of intellect.

I leaned back slightly, offering a smirk. “So, what’s so urgent that it warranted the honor of an in-person visit?”

“You haven’t been out of the house in two days,” he said, his tone almost conversational.

I blinked, taken aback. “Oh, so now you're keeping tabs on me? What’s that about?” My voice carried more surprise than bite, but I couldn’t help the edge of sarcasm that crept in.

He shrugged, unbothered by my reaction. “I saw you poking around the caves,” he said simply. “Just wanted to make sure you were safe. Those caves are on private property, and they’re dangerous.”

I raised an eyebrow, still caught off guard by the unexpected concern. “Dangerous?”

“A maze,” he said, his voice steady but firm. “Easy to get lost in. Locals know to stay away unless they’re prepared.”

The bluntness of his words hung in the air between us. For a moment, I wasn’t sure whether to feel insulted or oddly reassured. I crossed my arms, studying him as I tried to make sense of his sudden interest in my well-being. “I didn’t realize I also got a babysitter,” I said dryly, but his expression didn’t shift.

“Look,” he said finally, his tone softening just enough to sound sincere. “It’s not about keeping tabs on you. It’s about you knowing how dangerous this place can be if you’re not careful. That’s all.”

I stared at him, trying to decide if he was genuinely concerned or just trying to make a point. Either way, his words planted a seed of unease I couldn’t quite shake.

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering toward the documents scattered on the table before returning to me. “I owe it to Betty to keep an eye on her guests,” he added quietly, as if that explained everything.

Before I could think of a response, whether sharp, dismissive, or even grateful, he stepped back toward the door. He turned and left without another word, his boots heavy against the wooden porch. The door clicked shut behind him, and I had to hand it to him. His exit strategy was flawless, ending the conversation while deepening the mystery in the same breath.

I stared at the closed door for a second, then raised my voice just enough to carry through it. “Hey! If you plan on making this a habit, at least keep showing up with food!” There was no reply, only the muffled sound of boots fading down the steps, but I was certain he heard me.

I didn’t know then that in just four days, he wouldn’t be carrying food. He’d be carrying me, naked and barely conscious.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story and share your ...

2026-10-11T22:30:53Z

In reply to nevent1q…hm7x
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Thank you for taking the time to read my story and share your thoughts! I really appreciate it. People like you, who take the time to engage in conversations and share their perspectives, are what make my Nostr experience genuinely enjoyable.

How a #normie who hasn't been on any social media in nearly a ...

2026-10-11T05:34:14Z

How a #normie who hasn't been on any social media in nearly a decade ended up on #Nostr.

4 years ago, I was diagnosed with cancer. It took almost 3 years to recover enough to feel somewhat normal again. Before the diagnosis, I was self-employed, single, with a child and absolutely no support system. All of my family is still in Russia, and because of the sanctions, every avenue for helping us financially was closed.

During one of our video calls, my brother suggested I look into getting a #Bitcoin wallet. We made eye contact, and I said, “I’ll look into it,” and we both knew perfectly well that wasn't going to happen.

I did, though, watch a bunch of YouTube videos (“Bitcoin for Dummies”) while I was cooking, and that's where I first heard about Nostr.

I also occasionally read WGSN's trend forecasts, and Nostr was mentioned there as well (decentralized social media).

Last month I thought it would be a terrible shame if the world never knows about the #GrimReapersYoungerHotterBrother So I started wondering where I could publish my writing with the best chance of it surviving, and Nostr came up again.

I thought Nostr was half a Reddit Bitcoin discussion forum and half a free Dropbox (with complicated instructions). Instead, I found people.

It's lovely here. I think I'll stay. #GrowNostr

P.S. It's weird, but after just a few weeks on Nostr, I've realized that I actually want to meet more people in real life and be more socially engaged outside the digital world. Historically, regular social media has had the exact opposite effect on me.

Your comments about my writing are very very meaningful to me! ...

2026-10-11T03:53:16Z

In reply to nevent1q…crgj
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Your comments about my writing are very very meaningful to me! ❤️ thank you!

Chapter 2 of "El's Chronicles / Shadow Island." Let ...

2026-10-11T02:47:21Z

Chapter 2 of "El's Chronicles / Shadow Island." Let me know what you think!

quoting
naddr1qv…tldv

Chapter 2

I won’t lie. The first couple of days on the island were anything but thrilling.

The first morning came with a chill that clung to the air, and I dressed in layers before venturing downstairs. I made coffee and stood by the window, letting the cup warm my fingers while I looked out at the ocean.

The ocean was, objectively, impressive. Not in the soft, sentimental way people like to romanticize nature when they don’t have to live next to it, but in a colder, more structural sense. The kind of scale that made my presence feel largely irrelevant. The water moved with a steady, unbothered force, folding into itself and breaking against the cliffs with the kind of consistency that suggested it would continue doing exactly that long after I was no longer around to notice it.

Somewhere between acknowledging its magnificence and making vague plans for the day, I remembered the journal.

I went back to it with the mild optimism that daylight, caffeine, and a functioning brain might collectively improve the situation. But nothing changed. The handwriting remained uneven, oscillating between control and collapse, as though the writer couldn’t decide whether they were documenting thought or losing it in real time. I read more slowly, then more carefully, then just stared longer, which turned out to be a poor substitute for understanding.

I figured it was likely a failed attempt at burning paper junk, and this particular object had simply lodged in the chimney, avoided destruction, and remained there long enough to be mistaken for meaning.

The journal went back on the counter, and with it, whatever faint sense of intrigue I might have assigned to it the night before under less stable conditions.

I finished my coffee and stepped outside. The early sun was a thin streak on the horizon, casting the cliffs in shades of gray and gold. I stood there for a moment, breathing in the salt and damp earth, letting the ocean’s rhythm fill me.

There was no plan for the day. No meetings, no emails to check, no orders to fulfill. Just me and the island. It was both unsettling and liberating, like winning a lottery where the grand prize was extreme isolation.

I decided to go for a walk, following the gravel road that led away from the house and wound along the cliffs. The island began to reveal itself beneath the pale winter sky. Jagged cliffs stood against the restless ocean, their rock faces streaked with frost. At their base, narrow stretches of coarse sand were scattered with driftwood and dried seaweed, and the sharp air smelled of salt and cold earth. Definitely not the kind of place you’d see in a glossy travel brochure, unless bleak and moody were suddenly on-trend.

The afternoon brought me to the small dock I’d seen from the house. It was weathered and uneven, jutting out into the bay like an afterthought. A few fishing boats bobbed in the water, their paint chipped and faded. A lone gull perched on one of the posts, watching me with sharp, curious eyes.

At the far end of the dock, I noticed a man unloading crates from a boat. His movements were methodical, practiced, as if he could do this in his sleep. I recognized the dark hair and the weathered jacket before I looked away. I didn’t approach, content to watch from a distance. He didn’t seem to notice me. Or maybe he did, but didn’t care. Either way, I was grateful for the space.

The second day passed much like the first.

By day three, after far too much silence and an almost concerning level of camaraderie with the local seagulls, I had come to two unsettling conclusions. One, there was, in fact, absolutely nothing to do on this island. And two, apparently, when left alone with my thoughts for too long and starved of stimulation, I don’t just get bored. I spiral into full-blown existential contemplation. This was not a great development.

So after two days of wandering the cliffs and quiet trails, I decided to venture into the small village I’d seen from the ferry. The island’s center was little more than a cluster of narrow streets lined with weathered shops and modest cafés, their faded signs swaying gently in the salty breeze. It should have been quaint, welcoming even, but something about the atmosphere set my nerves on edge.

As I walked past the storefronts, I could feel eyes on me. The shopkeepers and a few locals lingered in doorways or peered from behind windows, watching me with quiet scrutiny. They weren’t outright unfriendly. No one scowled or muttered under their breath, but they didn’t smile either. It felt like they were studying me, trying to decide if I was worth acknowledging or if I was another outsider who would leave once my self-imposed self-reflec-cation was over. It wasn’t paranoia if it was actually happening, right? And these weren’t just curious glances. They were looks that lingered. The kind that made me wonder if I had something on my face, which, given my track record, wasn’t exactly an unreasonable concern.

I ducked into a small bakery to escape the weight of their stares, the scent of fresh bread and coffee wrapping around me like a warm blanket. The woman behind the counter looked up from arranging a tray of scones, her expression neutral but not unkind.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone polite but distant.

I ordered a coffee and a blueberry scone, grateful for something to occupy my hands. As I waited, I glanced at the bulletin board near the door. It was cluttered with flyers and handwritten notes, including ads for boat repairs, missing-cat notices, and a faded map of the island marked with a bold ‘You Are Here’ arrow.

I scanned it with quiet but irrational hope. I think I would’ve cried with joy if there’d been an ad to join a birdwatching club or a church flyer announcing bingo night led by someone probably named Agnes.

One corner of the board did catch my eye. A small cluster of older newspaper clippings was pinned together, their edges curling with age. One showed the house I was renting, though in the photo it looked newer, brighter, almost unfamiliar. There was no caption, just the image, left there like a forgotten relic.

“Your coffee,” the woman said, breaking my focus.

“Thank you.” I turned around. “I’m actually staying in that house.” I pointed to the article. “Why is it on your bulletin board?”

The woman glanced at the photograph, then back at me. “It’s from an old newspaper article. We’ve kept it up because there are still questions about what happened.”

“What happened?”

“I wouldn’t want to pass along speculation.” She said it gently, sliding my coffee and the small paper bag across the counter. “There’s plenty written about it if you’d like to read more.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Enjoy your afternoon.” I stepped back outside, where the breeze carried the faint sound of seagulls and the distant hum of a boat engine. The streets were just as quiet as before, and the feeling of being watched hadn’t lessened.

When I returned to the house later that afternoon, the warmth of the bakery felt like a distant memory. The house was cold, even though I’d closed every window. It felt bigger somehow, emptier, like the walls were leaning away from me.

I made peppermint tea, ready to unleash my particular brand of obsessive curiosity. Learning, for me, had never been about practicality. It was therapy, religion, compulsion. It didn’t matter how useless the knowledge was. Learning had always been the only way I knew how to stitch the chaos of the world into something resembling a pattern. Not knowing wasn’t a gap. It was a wound.

After a few frustrating minutes, I managed to load a search engine and typed in the address of the house.

When the results finally appeared, my stomach twisted.

The first link was an old news article. The photo, though blurry and slightly pixelated, was unmistakable. It was the same picture I’d seen in the bakery.

The headline read: “Professor’s Death Sparks Mystery: Island Community Divided Over Shocking Tragedy.”

I clicked on it, the page taking what felt like an eternity to load. The article was dated seventeen years ago. It recounted the death of a man named Dr. Elias Harrington (had to be Betty’s late husband), a respected marine archaeologist who had stayed on the island for decades. He was found dead in one of the caves near the cliffs, his body discovered by a group of tourists. The details of his death were vague. The article mentioned a fall or possible suffocation, but there were whispers of something more sinister. The locals, it seemed, had plenty of theories.

Another article suggested that Dr. Harrington had been on the verge of a major discovery, something tied to the island’s caves. But the artifact he had allegedly found was never recovered, and some believed he had hidden it before his death. As it turned out, the house had been his retreat, where he conducted his research.

Then there was the follow-up article. “Mysterious Disappearance: Grad Students Linked to Professor Harrington’s Research Vanish Under Unexplained Circumstances.”

I blinked, leaning closer to the screen. According to the article, two of the three doctoral students who had been staying with the professor that summer went missing shortly after his death. Investigators believed they had taken Harrington’s boat out sometime that night. The boat was later discovered drifting miles offshore, but the students were never found. The third one, Alexander Blackwoods, who apparently had not been with the others at the time of their disappearance, refused to speak to the press, leaving a cloud of speculation surrounding the events.

I stared at the grainy photograph accompanying the article, my breath catching in my throat. Alexander Blackwoods in the picture looked strikingly familiar.

It couldn’t be, I thought, but the resemblance was undeniable. I had already met Alexander Blackwoods, though I’d known him as the Grim Reaper’s younger, hotter brother.

The thought unsettled me, the coincidence too strange to dismiss.

I continued reading. Newspaper articles suggested no conclusions, only rumors. Some blamed the caves, calling them dangerous and unpredictable. Others whispered about the professor’s research, hinting at curses, greed, and secrets better left buried. The house had remained empty for years after the tragedy, its reputation tarnished.

I sat back, my fingers brushing the edge of my mug as I stared at the screen. The words blurred together as a chill settled over me. My eyes drifted to the journal beside me. I changed my mind again. Now I believed the journal hadn’t survived by chance. Someone had tucked it above the closed flue, hidden in the one place no one would look unless they meant to start a fire.

The house suddenly felt smaller, its silence pressing against my ears. I got up, carrying my tea to the living room, and sank into the worn armchair I had moved by the window. Outside, the sky was pale and overcast, the ocean gray and restless in the distance. "Well done," I murmured to myself, a hint of sarcasm lacing my tone. "Barely two and a half days of peace and quiet, and here I am, diving headfirst into another mess." My mind buzzed with questions, but I didn’t know where to start. Finally, I picked up my phone and placed an order with Archivum.

I tried to sleep that night, but it didn’t come easily. The bed was too firm, the blanket too thick, and my mind wouldn’t quiet. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the Grim Reaper’s younger, hotter brother, his face suspended in the darkness beneath his hood, those gray eyes fixed on me.

I finally drifted off into unsettling dreams of flickering images of the cliffs, dark tunnels, and the professor’s face blurring into a strange, disjointed narrative I couldn’t piece together. At some point in the night, I woke up to what sounded like a woman screaming in the woods. My sleep was so broken by then, I couldn’t tell if it had really happened, or if my mind had simply woven it into the dark.

When I woke in the early hours of the morning, with the light creeping through the windows, I felt more exhausted than I had the night before. The coffee tasted bitter, but it did the job of forcing my mind into focus.

Now that I knew Dr. Harrington had lived in the house and that he was a marine archaeologist, I returned to the journal with a different kind of attention. His handwriting hadn’t improved overnight, but I had a better idea of what the words might be. Beside a column of numbers, I could just make out what looked like “low tide,” and some of the crude diagrams began to resemble sections of coastline or passages through rock. Working from those fragments, I tentatively sorted the pages into notes on tidal patterns, geology, and possibly the island’s caves, though I couldn’t tell how much I was deciphering and how much I was supplying myself. My understanding of geology, oceanography, and anything adjacent to Harrington’s world was limited enough that I couldn’t even begin to anchor any coherent ideas to what I was looking at. Whatever the notes meant, the same diagrams and clusters of figures appeared again and again. Someone had kept returning to this, and I wanted to understand why.

I spent most of the day moving between the journal and my phone, trying to make sense of one with whatever information I could coax out of the other. Reception in the house was miserable. Pages took minutes to load, if they loaded at all, and I kept carrying the phone from window to window in the hope of finding a spot where it might cooperate. By late afternoon, I had accumulated more questions than answers and spent an unreasonable amount of time watching a small circle turn on a screen.

I put the phone aside and reached for my coat. I wanted to see the stretch of coastline I had spent the day reading about, if only to give the professor’s notes something solid to attach to. With a little daylight left, I decided to walk down and see whether I could find the caves for myself.

The air was brisk, and the wind whipped at my hair as I made my way along the gravel road. A few locals passed me in battered pickup trucks, their eyes lingering just a second too long. I tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the distant sound of waves. By the time I reached the stretch of rugged coastline where the caves were said to be, the sky had begun to dim, the soft gray of late afternoon giving way to shadows. The sound of the waves grew louder, crashing against the jagged rocks with a steady rhythm. I followed the narrow path down toward the shore, scanning the rocky outcrops until I finally spotted an opening. It was small, dark, and partially hidden by a cluster of wind-twisted shrubs.

My pulse quickened at the sight, but the deepening twilight sent a shiver through me. The wind had picked up, and with the light fading fast, the caves seemed less like an invitation and more like a warning. Reluctantly, I turned back, promising myself I’d return in daylight, when the shadows weren’t quite so long and the ocean’s roar didn't feel so overpowering.

The raccoon just moved in. Have never seen one on cameras. I have ...

2026-10-10T17:34:30Z

In reply to nevent1q…k9r2
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The raccoon just moved in. Have never seen one on cameras. I have some leftover pizza so I’ll properly welcome it tonight. Stay tuned! Lol

Left to the raccoon? It’s an opossum / possum.

2026-10-10T17:11:03Z

In reply to nevent1q…sev2
_________________________

Left to the raccoon? It’s an opossum / possum.

Someone calls me Snow White without the dwarfs. Meet my nocturnal ...

2026-10-10T15:44:54Z

Someone calls me Snow White without the dwarfs.

Meet my nocturnal zoo.

Good morning! I learned this morning: eejit .

2026-10-06T14:57:57Z

In reply to nevent1q…ecue
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Good morning! I learned this morning: eejit .

Thank you, really! More is coming.

2026-10-02T00:54:19Z

In reply to nevent1q…9nth
_________________________

Thank you, really! More is coming.

Some of the most interesting conversations I’ve had about ...

2026-10-02T00:32:59Z

In reply to nevent1q…glgs
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Some of the most interesting conversations I’ve had about quantum mechanics were with people who lean toward MWI. I’m a fan of MWI.

I’m stunned that people are actually reading it, let alone ...

2026-10-02T00:24:34Z

In reply to nevent1q…3cu5
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I’m stunned that people are actually reading it, let alone liking it enough to recommend it to other people. This is incredibly kind of you. Thank you!!

🫂

2026-10-01T03:58:15Z

In reply to naddr1qq…wmgp
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🫂