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- [00:01]
Podcast Advertiser
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- [00:23]
Narrator
plus@onepelaton.com On June 18, 2023, OceanGate's Titan submersible imploded during an expedition dive to the Titanic, killing all five on board, including OceanGate founder and CEO Stockton Rush. Numerous industry experts and employees from within Oceangate itself had warned Rush of impending doom, citing safety concerns and a lack of testing. His hubris, ego and reckless desire for innovation over all else cost him his life and that of four others. The catastrophic destruction of the Titan submersible sent shockwaves through the ocean exploration industry that are still being felt today. The Oceangate Titan Submersible A Preventable Tragedy. A two part series available now on Shipwrecks and Sea Dogs. Listen wherever you get your podcasts.
- [01:42]
Wil Wheaton
Hi friends, it's Will. I'm so glad you're here. It's story time. There are billions of people on planet Earth. The number is so huge only a few of us can truly grasp its enormity. I am not one of those people, but I am one who beat the odds and found my person at the same moment she found hers. The one in a billion chance for a perfect match. We have built an incredible life together and I am grateful for it every single day. When two people love each other the way we do, a connection is formed and an unspoken promise is made. I will always be here for you, no matter what happens. That is the most precious gift we give and receive. This week I will tell you a story about two of these rare and lucky humans at the moment in their life when it happens and a promise is kept. We will weather one another somehow. We will weather one another somehow. By Christina 10 Originally published in Diabolical Plots Number 76B. When Benj comes home, I swear his hands are smaller than before and thinned out in the spaces between the knuckles, the points of contact. If someone were to lace their fingers with his, it's a millimeters difference. Maybe less, maybe half. But then I've gotten used to these reduced units of measurement. When I find the dust in the cuffs of his jacket, I'm sure Benj is 34 years old, has been in my life for two he is reliable and even tempered. A good listener, easy to love. Lots of people call him their rock. I called him that too, before I knew. He says he can't pinpoint when it started his erosion. Of course I know. Watch the videos in grade school. Earth science. Same as everyone. That it's one of those things that happens gradually over a long period of time. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing. Nothing. Then one day in the foreign angle of a changing room mirror, a deep gully down the center of his back from where the shower water hit for 10 straight minutes every day since he was a boy. I let my fingers hover over the gully, a flock of birds caught in the wind, but I don't touch down. He is limestone, vulnerable, soft, sedimentary. I dare not contribute. Meanwhile, Benj takes his eroding as a fact of life. Hereditary. His dad, when he shows me old family photos, I recognize it immediately. Limbs narrow around the bone from continuous exposure. The fuck is this is how I found out, turning to look over my shoulder at his bathroom mirror, wiping long streaks of gray pink dust from the back of my dress. A little drunk, both of us. Hiccups, laughter. We'd been out dancing, still new then, and I had been showing off. He told me, answered my questions, met my incredulity with patience. Gradually, yes, like buttes and canyons and river valleys, but much faster than those, proportional to his size. Wait. Parabolically proportional? No, it doesn't hurt. Later, lying there next to him, I didn't know what to believe, finding all parts of him just as they should be, warm and present and braced so sturdily, I thought, by blood like mine. I remember hooking my hand onto the ledge of his collarbone, my legs draped over his so irresponsibly. I asked about his dimples. Au naturel, he replied. The words naturally occurring mean something different to Benj. So do the words worn out. One thing that wears Benj out the way most people mean phone calls from his mother, who's back in Kansas, tornado proofing her now, too. Big house and putting fresh flowers on Benj's dad's grave. She sprung for a granite headstone, erosion resistant, made to last. I hear one end of their conversations. Ma, please, we've been over this a thousand times. Yes, I am, I am. His face screws up and he turns away, his voice dropping to a near whisper. A suit of armor. Ma. Jesus, what year is it? Where would you even get something like that? It's limited for everyone. Everybody's on their way out. What did dad used to say as soon as a story starts, it's already ending. A long pause. He shakes his head. I'm sorry. You're right. I'm sorry. I know. Okay. But I'm not wearing the armor. Okay? Okay. He keeps the phone to his ear, waiting for her to hang up before he turns around. I look up from whatever book I haven't been reading and smile brightly, try to be easy, pretend I heard nothing. That me and his mom, we're nothing alike. I'm no geologist, but I've always had a head for formulas. There's a logic to them. Follow the rules and you know things will come out alright. And sometimes I think I could sit down and do the math, figure out based on the progression to date, give or take, how much time we had left. If I had more courage and a good calculator. If I wasn't so afraid, if I didn't find myself on windy days positioning my body in front of his at the bus stop, a head shorter than him and in more ways than that, an ineffective shield. If he didn't tickle the spot on my ankle that only he knows about. If I didn't have to remind myself not to tickle him back. If he didn't joke, not joke, that he's made of weaker stuff Hey, I want to talk directly to all of you who listen to It's Storytime as your bedtime story. Let's talk about luxury bedding. My very first podcast sponsor, Quince, has come back. I'm really excited about that and we are going to talk a little bit more about the bedding that they offer. Luxury bedding is one of those things that we never really understand until we sleep in it. And that was exactly my experience with quints. The softness, the weight, the quality of the materials was a difference I noticed right away. Organic cotton that feel luxurious, breathable bamboo that stays cool all night and it's so soft. Plus quilts, comforters, duvet inserts, everything you need to make your bed the best part of your day. And they have new seasonal colors and patterns for spring, like stripes, florals. They have a limited edition butter yellow. If you were like, what I really need to do is make my bed look like toast with butter on it. If you do that, please send me a picture. I thought my old sheets were fine until I tried Quince and then I was like my old sheets really sucked. Hitting the snooze button has become a lifestyle choice right now. You can get free shipping on your order and 365 day returns when you go to quince.com storytime so you get like a whole year to decide if you really like it or not. And if you don't, at the end of a year you can send it back, but you won't because you are going to love it. And these are now available in Canada too. Don't wait on it. Go to q u I n c-e.com storytime for free shipping and 365 day returns. That's quince.com/storytime the Gen Xer who lives inside me wants to be very like dry and kind of cynical about reading ads. But the person I am now thinks it's so cool that companies I actually like want to sponsor the podcast so that I can keep telling you stories. And I'm real excited that HelloFresh is back again to help you make your meals and have an incredible experience in the kitchen. I love to cook that quiet time alone in the kitchen, pulling all the ingredients together, filling my home with the aroma of something wonderful just brings me so much simple joy. I love that HelloFresh sends me exactly what I need. It's all portioned out, it's all ready to go with extremely easy instructions that I just follow. HelloFresh offers more than 35 high protein recipes every week. They would like me to remind you that you can impress your guests or treat yourself with new grass fed Steak Ribeyes. I am a true believer about grass fed beef. It tastes so much better than the alternative and these ribeyes. Dude. Dude. The Federal Trade Commission would like it very much if I said to you that I use this and you should too because that is in fact a true statement. Go to hellofresh.com storytime10fm to get 10 free meals plus a freeze willing knife a $144.99 value on your third box offer valid while supplies last free meals applied as discount on first box. New subscribers varies by plan, I.e. hellofresh.com storytime10fm high interest debt can be
- [12:21]
Podcast Advertiser
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- [12:58]
Wil Wheaton
The most common causes of erosion are water, wind, glaciers, people. Benj is social for someone who'd be better off if he wasn't. We go to what feels like the same party every weekend. Same people, same half empty bowl of party mix on a fold out table combed through for the good stuff. I chew the inside of my cheeks as he greets everyone individually, enthusiastic slaps on shoulders, special handshakes with intricate steps. The ones who hug him bear hug hard, and over time this has left shallow depressions hidden by T shirts in the middle of his chest, the tops of his arms. The ones who kiss him do it the French way, one cheek, then the other, and they are supposed to be air kisses, but now his face tapers above the jawline as if shaved away. I'm the only one who observes the dust falling off Benj onto the discolored carpet, sucked up by a vacuum in the morning and no one the wiser. Of course they don't see it. They aren't the ones who bring him home. Home. Our apartment, our shoes all mixed up together in the Caddy by the front door, both our last names on the small laminated label on the mailbox downstairs. When we moved in, Benj insisted on a plus sign between our names, not a slash said that we should be an and not an or. Living with Benj is like living inside an hourglass, one of those two minute timers you used to get at the dentist. The fine dust of him collects all around us, proof that he is cell by cell, sloughing away a sick gray tinged with pink, ground down skin, muscle, bone, though he has learned to shower more carefully with most of his body out of the stream. Though he has trained himself not to roll around in his sleep, he still leaves it behind when he walks his most traveled paths from bed to fridge to computer, chair and back again. I wonder which room he'll be in when the world, after shaping him for so long, decides he has had enough. He thinks it's morbid that I won't get rid of it, that I sweep the dust into loose mounds in the corners of rooms. But what else am I supposed to do with something that's part of him? You don't throw out your loved one's ashes, I argue. Sometimes you do. Actually. A lot of times you do. Well, I don't. You would if the will said to. I roll my eyes. This is the thing I worry about most lately, wasting dwindling time on conversations we've already had. Does it matter if I would or not? You'd be gone. And who would check up on it anyway? He looks down. His eyelashes are crusted with dust and the beginnings of crying. I'm not dead yet, you know. My mind jumps to flat prairies transformed into basins, hiking passes carved into mountains by ice. When Benj isn't around, I go to the piles and make a bowl with my hands and scoop up the dust. I pretend I'm a gymnast reaching into a tub of chalk and a big meat, pretend my team is counting on me and the dust. It helps me with my grip. Benja rode fastest in the place is touched most often, so I try not to touch the parts of him I'd like to stick around. The way the tip of his nose turns up at the very last second as if it's been waiting to surprise you. The spot on his right earlobe where I swore I saw a freckle once. Only Benj is no good at keeping freckles. As soon as he gets the right amount of sun, a rush of wind polishes them down. Loving Benj is an exercise in restraint. He hates that I kiss him so gently, says what good will holding back do in the long run? I say it's all about the long run. He says he doesn't like this side of me, this just like everyone elseness, this being more concerned with longevity than depth. When he says depth, he presses his thumb against the gates of my teeth, daring me to open, to let him in, and I'm a goner. I forget myself, grab hold of him desperately. There's the all too real sensation of him slipping through my fingers. The next morning I slide my arms out of the fresh rills that cross his stomach, notice the crumbling around the teeth marks on his neck, but Bench hasn't had fingerprints as long as I've known him. I can't pretend the pads were worn down by me. He tells me that we are more solid than ever and not to conflate things. We are not what is deteriorating. He tells me that he is grateful that whatever time we have for him, it is enough. But I am greedy, greedy, greedy. I want to put him in a glass box like they do in cemeteries with the stone busts of children when the families do not want the likenesses to ever decay. At these times when I am at my most selfish and delusional, I know I am the weak one between us. Which is why when the worst comes, I'm the one to crack. Close your eyes, exhale Feel your body
- [19:06]
Podcast Advertiser
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- [19:19]
Wil Wheaton
And breathe. Oh, sorry.
- [19:21]
Podcast Advertiser
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- [19:31]
Wil Wheaton
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- [19:33]
LifeLock Advertiser
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- [20:12]
Wil Wheaton
Benj goes grocery shopping and tries to carry all the bags from the car in one go. The plastic handles sink inches into his forearms, cut through him like wire, almost clear through to the other side. Afterwards, we stop going to the parties that are all the same. By now his legs are so eroded and his back so concave he finds it difficult to walk. Then we develop bad coughs as the piles of dust in the apartment grow steadily taller. We ignore the coughing for a while, blame it on something going around the building, until eventually Benj orders a reusable particle mask for me. Just the one I noticed. Not a pair. Then Benj declares he's going to the Archways. The Archways is a national preserve a couple of states over, in which Benj has previously expressed no interest. For one thing, it's a full day's drive. For another, it's known for its sandstorms. Now Benge leaves the tourism website up on his computer all the time. The photographs show striated rock the color of sweet dried oranges. Hard packed earth is punctuated by otherworldly formations, a natural bridge between two cliffs, spindly pedestals rising hundreds of feet like a giant's game of Jenga, and the namesake arches chiseled away over millennia and toothpick, delicate, forming opened mouth O's in the landscape, frames for whatever lies beyond. Do you know how many people die every day just commuting to work? This again? The particle mask hides my expression. No, do you? All I'm saying is that the same people who refuse to get on airplanes. They're the ones who will step out into the crosswalk one day at the wrong time and just. I get it. Do you? I recite so he doesn't have to. We're all dying, 100% of us. 100% of the time. We're dying from the day we're born. He nods. Listen, I need to have a say with my dad. We assumed he had more time. He was still doing work on the house, picking up shifts at the yard. Freak Dusk devil got him. Little unremarkable one, too. I feel like I'm suffocating, not sure if the mask's too tight or if it's something else. He grabs my hands firmly and I instinctively shoot him a look of warning. I want you to come with me, he says. He told me it doesn't hurt. He was wrong. I try to be tough, strong, metamorphic, the granite of a headstone, the diamond of a promise ring. As I drive, I stare at a fixed point on the horizon, certain that if I turn my gaze toward him, it will bore a hole right through a frame for everything that lies beyond him, which, as far as I can tell, is nothing at all. The car's stuffy and too quiet as I try to figure what would do less harm. Roll the windows down and let the air blow against him, or leave them up and risk the sweat dissolving wavy lines into his skin. Doesn't matter. Neither of us expects him to be in that passenger seat on the way back. Even in the stillness, the dust of him swirls lightly, landing on my hair, his jeans, the lids of our sodas, empty chip bags in the footwell, the red buckle of his latched seatbelt. I ask why he bothered with the seatbelt. He takes his chance. Hey, you think I have a death wish? And though it's not funny, it feels better on the other side of silence. When we pull in, the view from the visitor's lot is depressing. Back home we have coverage, densely packed trees, important for minimizing erosion. Here the vegetation is sparse, and the way it doesn't touch fills me with regret. Low shrubs spaced so far apart you get the feeling they want nothing to do with each other. The rock formations, though, are beautiful in person, in the way of things that were not made all at once with a singular vision but by many invisible hands, unhurriedly, over time. Already the wind is howling. Then these things in quick succession. I put the car in park. The wind shakes it violently. Panic strikes me, knocks something loose Stay, I blurt out. I hate the beg in my voice. Say it anyway. Please stay. Through eyes blurring with tears, I think I can see his body responding. He is filling out at the edges, widening where he was narrow, coming back to sense, to me. When I blink, my vision clears and the brief burst of hope is gone. In its place is Benj, looking sad but resolute. He pulls his shoes and socks off slowly, left, then right foot, then tugs his T shirt over his head. He's not being careful now as he pushes his jeans down. The denim drags and I watch the dust fall. He folds his clothes methodically on the center console. When he's done, he turns and finally looks me in the eye. Benj leans over and kisses me so hard I have to reach up and check my lips. I'm so sure it's a piece of me that's broken away. He takes a series of fast breaths. In, out, in, out, in. Then he throws the door open and goes. Immediately the wind begins the vicious work of whittling him down. One gust three fingers off his left hand, the next a chunk of his thigh. Fragments of him strike the windshield like hail while I sit frozen. A crack forms down the middle of the glass, the space between his seat and mine. Has he always been this decisive, this stupid, this brave? People change of course, imperceptibly then, plain as day. I can't watch, but I can't not watch either. I am here to be here. So I force myself out of the car and race to Benj. As far as he has managed to get, running on thin limbs and his own conviction. How quickly he dissolves as we walk together, sideways in the wind to one of the larger arches. He points forward, onward with the index finger of his good hand. The sandstorm comes from everywhere, stinging, and I don't try to shelter him from its blows. When we reach the base of the arch, a thought burrows into me, painful and invasive. It makes me think of some wedding backdrops I've seen clean smelling flower wrapped pagodas, a place for ceremony. At first Benj's gray pink dust stands out, pale against the surrounding red rock once the wind hits blood, though, I can't tell the difference. It doesn't hurt, I ask, yell over the storm. Close up I can't see the whole of him, only brown eyes, a little less domed than mine, looking back at me without fear. Not the way you think. When the next gust shears off his smile, I think finally I know what he means. How does it hurt? It hurts like wishing hard won't help you like being good won't help you like there is no formula. You could have behaved completely differently and still we are insignificant and seen mostly at the surface, if we're lucky, seen deeper by some the dust of binge hits me sharp and sudden, mixed with sand, and quickly I am bleeding. I squeeze my eyes shut against it. I shout into the unfairness though I knew it was coming, and I swear I can hear Ben shouting back, though the air is thick enough to blind and I'm sure he is mostly bodiless now in my useless mouth. I try to catch him, hold him there and earn for my beloved. Try not to let him dissolve on my tongue. Something like safekeeping When I open my eyes again, unsure of how much time has passed, the air is unnervingly still. Would it really have been easier not to have known? I am red, raw and pin pricked. Dust sticks in ornate patterns atop the wetness of my tears or sweat or blood, like glitter to glue on art projects when I was a kid. And it's true, I feel decorated. I remember glitter being impossible to get rid of. I walk back to the car thinking that later I'll have to pick out the particles with tweezers one by one. Or maybe not. Maybe let it get infected, maybe stay evidence of how great an impact one person can have, how much of them you can then carry with you. Embedded a burial under the SK. Christina ten is a Russian American writer with work in Lightspeed, Black Static, Weird Horror, AE Science Fiction, and elsewhere. She is a graduate of Clarion West Writers Workshop and a current MFA candidate at the University of Colorado, Boulder, where she also teaches Creative Writing. You can find her@christinaten.com if you've come this far, perhaps you would be willing to do us a solid. It makes all the difference in the world to rate, review and recommend us wherever you get your podcasts. I know every creator says this and the reason we say it is because it is true. The algorithm is an evil monster and the way that we attempt to slay it is by liking, reviewing, rating and recommending the things that we like. Thank you in advance. I and everyone who makes this show possible really deeply appreciate you. It's Storytime with Ho Wheaton was produced in 2026 by Traveler Enterprises Incorporated, who holds the copyright. Our producer is Harris Lane. Our story producer and director is Gabrielle Decur. Our Content editor is Michael Thomas. Our podcast is edited, mixed and mastered by Alex Barton of Phase Shift av. Very special thanks to Wes Stevens and Christopher Black. It's Story Time with Bill Wheaton is recorded at Skyboat Media in the magnificent oh how you you wish you lived here. San Fernando Valley in beautiful, gorgeous Southern California. If you would like an ad free experience and access to behind the scenes information, these reflections on the stories that I do every week and our really lovely growing community of people who are book and story nerds just like we are, check out patreon.com/storytime. You can hop in there for as little as $5 a month. I am Wil Wheaton. I am your host. I am so grateful that you are here. It is a pleasure and a privilege to tell you these stories week after week. You can find me and everything you ever wanted to know about me@wilwheaton.net Thanks a lot everybody. Until next time, take care of yourselves and take care of each other. Bye Sam.