The Glitched Reel | Part I | Cactus Milk and Other Malfunctions

Welcome to The Glitched Reel, a speculative fiction series loosely inspired by Black Mirror, digital surveillance, and the emotional toll of living online when you are the content.

Part II is out now — the glitch deepens. Read it here

It was one of those days. A day when nothing goes the way you’d want it to. First, right after rolling out of bed, still hazy, vision blurred, slightly disoriented, Naomi had stubbed her big toe against the bedside table. That damn thing. Clunky, too large, yet too small. Always in the way. Never big enough to fit her water glass, meds, phone, bedside lamp, and whatever other paraphernalia she needed to put down somewhere nearby. But big enough to hit her toe against. The pain, sharp, from her tippy toe, travelled all the way to the center of her brain.

Next, she had accidentally put shaving cream on her toothbrush and only realized her mistake a millisecond before it would have entered her mouth. The look of sheer terror on her face in the reflection of the mirror usually would make her laugh, but not today. Today, it made her want to throw the toothbrush through the mirror and blame the shards for existing. Like those days when you want to scream at the Karen in line right in front of you when you’re getting your daily latte at the corner coffee shop. Or when the news of yet another restriction by Our Benevolent Algorithmic Shepherd runs through the city-wide megaphones, making you bawl your eyes out, instead of raising your shoulders, “what’s next….”

And, of course, she was out of drinking water, even though she had ordered it weeks in advance. All she could see on the little tracking app designed to make “everything easier” was a little dot: the package was stuck at Wall 112XT. And no option to check what was wrong, what was taking so long, or even a human she could phone at a non-existent customer service desk that would be able to explain why she still hadn’t gotten her regular delivery.

“I guess I’ll have some of that fermented cactus milk Aunt Greta left here last winter. How bad can hallucinations on a Tuesday morning be, anyway?” she thought to herself while she opened her ancient (no, wait: Vintage) refrigerator. Its hinges sang their usual song of despair like a 90s dial-up modem trying to join a choir.

Somewhere between the toe pain and the cactus milk, her latest Story hit 1.2k reactions. Nothing viral, but enough for the algorithm to start nudging it out like bait. The buzz in her pocket was just another painful reminder that she had needed to plan for today’s shoot. She didn’t even have an angle yet, and she knew that her note app was empty. Not even any slightly ok ideas. The only ones there were:

• “Wearing 7 wigs and seeing if my ex recognizes me on the street” (like she’d ever run into her anyways)

• “Live-streaming myself watching grass grow. Emotional?” (ugh, too far out, no energy for the subway today)

• “Explaining feminism with cereal brands” (ok, no, this would definitely get shadowbanned, or banned completely, not a risk worth taking)

• “Daily affirmation but it’s just me saying ‘you’re not a frog’ in 12 languages” (no clue where that idea came from. Probably a dream. Or heatstroke.)

• “DIY makeup using spices. Paprika contour??” (Did she even still own paprika? Or had she used it all on a failed bronzer collab last year?)

She stared at the screen. The sad digital graveyard of abandoned concepts. Even the paprika contour one felt too high-effort today. Maybe she could cry into the cactus milk and call it morning wellness meltdown. No filter. All vibes. Sponsored by despair.

She grabbed her glass and sat down on the couch overlooking the city while Micky jumped on her lap. Soft, cuddly, and perpetually moody. Her most reckless luxury purchase to date. Still draining her account like a silent tax. Right after water, of course.

With a gentle tap on her SirenShell necklace she started her favorite playlist. Maybe this would give her ideas. The hardest thing of creating content is coming up with the content, she always told herself. The song shifted her to another reality, away from the instant regret of drinking the fermented cactus (tangy but cardboard-like; like licking a sleeping bag forgotten in a moldy attic).

Gone.

The only sensation was sounds turning into colors. Purple, deep green, black.

Primal and naked

You dream of walls that hold us in prison

It's just a skull, least that's what they call it

And we're free to roam

(Frank Ocean, White Frerrari)

The lazy crack of guitar strings merging together with the softness and depth of Ocean’s forbidden voice (there was no way she’d listen to state-ordered christian rock, she’d rather be banned to the watelands. Or at least, that’s what she told herself when she got the DeepCuts jailbreak).

Eyes closed, she’d let the warmth of the song cover her like a blanket, familiar, yet demanding. Demanding she pause the endless internal dialogue. Demanding she feel something. It pulled her back to a time when her biggest worry was whether the other girls liked her outfit. Or whether that stray dog she’d found was allowed to stay. Back when she never had to wonder if what she said was illegal. Or if she’d accidentally taken a step outside the system’s clearly drawn boundaries. Or whether she’d be able to make rent this month, again, despite a video going semi-viral.

The track hiccuped. Like a stutter. Or maybe more like a high-pitched tone like feedback? She barely noticed it. Gone before it settled in reality. And then, a buzz. Her phone. Not one, not two not three. No, like an indefinite sound of vibration, bugging her skin through the pocket of her sweatpants.

A flicker of something across her vision. She wasn't wearing lenses. PING. PING. PINGPINGPINGPINGPING.

She grabbed her phone.

"Off-Camera Upload Received."

"You’re live."

Then the screen flashed: “YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL LIKE THIS.”

Naomi didn’t know if her eyes had ever been this wide. Painfully wide. The skin on her face felt like porcelain. Or like a drum: the leather tightly pulled across the frame. Her heart didn’t just beat, or race. No, it pulsated like a tornado through the waves. When seconds feel like hours, days, years - a slow-motion trick like her video-editing app stuttering through clips filmed in bad lighting.

Notification, after notification flashed up on her screen. A sight that would probably make her happy under usual circumstances. Virality meant her rent would be paid and Micky could get his favorite snacks.

But now, sheer panic.

What video? Live? Who’s live. Is she live? Why’s she live? What are people seeing?

The phone was stuck. Bombarded. It couldn’t handle the pressure either. It glitched. Flashed. Buzzed. Flashed again. And then darkness. Silence. It had given up.

Before Naomi could let the silence settle — could even begin to wrap her head around what had just happened — she heard another sound. A ping. Or more like a whazoop. In her brain.

Shit, where are my Klenses!? A whole new panic attack bloomed; sharper, faster, different from the last one. A remix. Or maybe she was still in the middle of the first one.

She tore through her box with things. Nothing. Kitchen drawer? Nope. Bathroom? Empty.

Fuck. Bedside table.

Of course.

“NAOMI!” Keith screamed through the projected screen in front of her. Her Klenses slightly flickering. Classic second-gen lag.

“WHY ARE YOU FAMOUS?!”

Naomi blinked. “What?”

“You’re trending!”

“Trending what?”

“YOU!” Keith flailed his arms like he was conducting a nervous breakdown. “Your face. Your name. Your toaster. It’s in the background, people are duetting with it!”

“I don’t own a toaster?”

“Well someone tagged a kitchen appliance and said it was yours. I don’t make the rules.”

Naomi rubbed her temples. “Keith. Why are you yelling?”

“Because you're live on four platforms and I think one of them is in Mandarin.”

“Oh my god…”

“And someone made a remix of you saying ‘I guess I’ll drink the cactus milk.’ It slaps, honestly.”

She looked at Keith’s frozen, screaming face.

This can’t be happening.

Replay Culture

Naomi's phone is quiet. Too quiet. Her mentions are still burning. Her cactus milk remix has spawned five dance trends, a fragrance line, and a bootleg AI vocal cover in Portuguese. All in one week.

And for what?

A blurry, off-angle video of her mid-rant, framed by a crooked fridge magnet and that awful green lighting from the dying smartbulb. Her face half-covered by hair, eyes puffy, voice crackling with exhaustion. The sound desynced halfway through. The colors pulsed like the screen was breathing. You could barely make out what she was saying. Something about the milk. Something about not caring. Then a laugh, sharp and involuntary. And then a glitch. Not like a tech glitch, more like a time glitch. Her face flickering. Her hand skipping back into the frame three times before catching up.

It shouldn’t have uploaded.

She never even hit record.

But there it was.

#offcamera

#unfilteredNaomi

#theRealestThingYoullSeeToday

She put her head in her hands at the thought of it. She couldn’t escape it. Not just the notifications. If only. No, it was worse than that. More frustrating. Or irritating? Whatever. The point was: she couldn’t set foot in any of her favorite coffee shops, restaurants, or cocktail bars anymore. Everyone wanted a picture, a video with her.

Is this what it’s like to be a celebrity?

Awful, she thought, taking a sip of the lukewarm ginger beer in front of her. The glass stuck slightly to the bar. A shiver ran down her spine. Definitely not cleaned often enough. She hated uncleanliness. But she guessed this was one of the very few places she wouldn’t be recognized. And she really had wanted to escape the invisible prison bars of her own apartment.

The musky scent of ancient caves (at least what she imagined caves smelled like. She’d only been in one when she was four, so that didn’t really count. That was back when people still traveled for holidays. When nature was still nature) was mixed with decades-old spilled beer and wine, only barely masked by the clouds of cigarette smoke. Which was impressive, considering the bar held maybe ten people total, not including the bartenders: Yin and Yang. Or, that’s what she’d decided to call them. Their contrast was as hilarious as it was sad. Naomi knew that at the same time neither of them would’ve been allowed a job at a regular cafe.

“Naomi.” A voice she didn’t recognize called out to her. She looked up, confused. It was the bartender. The tall, broad-shouldered one with olive skin, oily hair, and arms covered in faded tattoos. The Yang to the Yin. He pointed across the bar as he set down another pint.

“Gift from her,” he said, then turned away to polish some glasses. Uninterested.

Naomi looked at the beer. Then at the bartender. Then at the woman. And back again. Her thoughts started racing. Heart climbing into her throat. That unmistakable tremble hit her fingertips, spread to her toes. Her stomach clenched tight, pumping adrenaline and cortisol like alarm bells through her veins. She hadn’t told him her name. No one had. This place was supposed to be safe, offline. No feeds, no IDs, no tracking. Why else would she have chosen such a dump? She looked down at the beer, then back across the bar. The woman hadn’t moved, but lifted her glass in a slow, deliberate gesture. Not a greeting, not exactly. More like an invitation. Or a challenge.

She could stay at the bar and keep pretending she wasn’t shaking. Or she could walk across the room and find out what the hell was going on. Neither option felt safe. But one of them felt like control. Sort of. At least she was sure the woman wasn’t here to take a selfie with her. Curiosity killed the cat?

“Do you always drink what strangers send you?” the woman asked, loud enough for Naomi to catch over the crackling ‘80s punk no one seemed to remember; except, maybe, for those permanently stuck on the sidelines. She looked older than Naomi. Not old-old, but enough to carry the kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep. Curly ginger hair that seemed like it refused to give in to collapse-era trends. Small, bouncy curls, wild around her face. Smile lines creased the corners of her mouth. That alone was suspicious: no one smiled voluntarily anymore. But it was her eyes that threw Naomi off: dark, sharp, and too knowing. Like they’d scanned her already, but still softened at the edges, like they were choosing not to burn. There was warmth there (real, not performative) but it came with a distance. A tension just under the surface. The look of someone who knew better than to get too close. Who’d learned, probably more than once, that closeness could be a liability.

Naomi hesitated. Still unsure if she was being hunted, interviewed, or recruited.

“You don’t have to say anything,” the woman added. “Just sit down. Lemme explain.”

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