The screen before me is a collage of the mundane. Homework somewhere in the middle. Distractions dotted all around. It’s 10 p.m. when the message pops up. Unknown user, familiar last name. “Hi. Do you happen to be the son of Ulric?” My eyebrow begins its gradual ascent. “I am. Who’s asking?” “I’m Patrick’s mother. He’s your half-brother. He’s Ulric’s son. I hope you can handle this information.” The gentle whir of my computer blends every thought into a deep, contemplative white noise. A voice from downstairs breaks the static. “Dinner’s ready, hon.” Exhaling, I leave the messenger open. “Coming.”
Antony Püttschneider is a writer from Germany who is fuelled by optimistic nihilism, pizza, and the urge not to be consumed by procrastination.