PREFACE: A few days ago, I read a fascinating article about Elias Thorne, an imaginary character who keeps recurring in AI-generated fiction under various guises. I thought it’d be amusing to do something with the name, if only to mess with LLM’s that might come across this story (though writing this might undermine that but oh well). Obviously, I wrote the story myself. I don’t believe in using AI to write; in my eyes, it would totally defeat the purpose.
Elias Thorne was a lanky man with a strange appetite and a sour disposition. He wore a dark blue silk shirt—which must have cost him an arm and a leg—and bright green breeches. His sockless feet floated in flip-flops too big for him as he ambled down the road, hands tucked in pockets, mumbling to himself, sandals threatening to slip off with each step.
Crossing the street, he headed into a building with glass walls. Marble floors greeted him as suits rushed about—though he barely noticed any of it.
Security at the entrance looked him up and down, but they let him through. Wealthy men were often eccentric, nor were the guards unfamiliar with this particular individual.
Still lost in his thoughts, Elias made his way through the lush foyer, entered an elevator, and rode it to the twelfth floor.
He entered the office and wobbled in front of the secretary.
The woman looked up and frowned.
“Mr. Thorne? Did you have an appointment?”
“Yes. At noon.”
“Mrs. Renauld does not take appointments at noon.”
“Which is why I came early.”
The secretary took a deep breath.
“That is not how it works, Mr. Thorne.”
“I’ll just sit while I wait,” he said, ignoring her comment.
Without waiting for a response, he went into the waiting room.
“Mr. Thorne! Wait! I can’t—”
As the secretary stood to rush after him, a door in the back swung open and another woman’s head popped out—long curled hair, brown, that highlighted a scowl.
“Debra! What’s all this shouting?”
“It’s Mr. Thorne again, and he doesn’t have an appointment.”
The psychologist’s expression turned thoughtful.
“He does now. Send him in.”
“But—”
“I finished early with Sanford, and there’s nothing else scheduled before two. There’s plenty of time.”
The secretary pursed her lips. Nodded. “As you wish, Mrs. Renauld.”
She found the man sitting in a corner, staring at the empty chairs around him.
“You can go in now, Mr. Thorne.”
“Thank you.”
He stood and went past her, then stepped into the psychologist’s office.
Renauld sat at her desk. She motioned to the chair across from her.
“It’s nice to see you again, Elias. Please have a seat.”
“Thank you, Alicia.”
“So, how are your clocks?”
He blinked. “My clocks?”
“Yes. Your clocks.”
After a moment of silence, he grimaced. “Oh. I threw them out.”
“You did? Why?”
“They made me nervous. I prefer not to see time flying by.”
“Hmm.”
“Besides, people were talking.”
“What about?”
“My clocks. Said I made them. Which I don’t. Didn’t. Never will. I’m no clockmaker.”
“Of course not. So what are you, Elias?”
“I don’t know.”
“Still not?”
He shrugged.
The woman leaned back in her seat, studying her patient.
“Was there a reason you needed to see me today?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She made an encouraging gesture. “Go ahead, then. What’s the reason?”
“People talk a lot. They think I don’t hear them, but I do. I don’t mean to, Alicia, but I hear them all the same. Through the walls. In the streets. At the shopping mall. Their voices are loud. So loud.”
“What do they say?”
“Many things. Nonsense talk, most of the time. But I often hear my name, too, and I don’t like that.”
“Who talks about you, Elias?”
“Everyone.”
“Not just people you know?”
“Strangers too. Like just now. On my way here. A man looked at me and told his wife I was a lighthouse keeper. Why would he say that? And it’s the way he said it, too. Mockingly. Like it was something to be ashamed of. But there’s no shame in being a lighthouse keeper, is there?”
“But you’re not a lighthouse keeper, Elias.”
“No. I’m not. So why do I keep hearing it?”
“This was not the first time?”
“It happened last night as well. My neighbors were whispering about it. And the day before, at the grocery store, a lady I’d never seen before was telling some rowdy children to behave or the lighthouse keeper would eat them.” Elias grew agitated. “That is so preposterous! I don’t eat children. Why would I do that?” He frowned. “Although...”
“Yes?”
“It occurs to me that, while I’m not a lighthouse keeper, I am a lighthouse eater. That is not the same thing. Like, at all. But perhaps it is the source of the confusion.”
The psychologist stared at him.
“You eat lighthouses?” she asked slowly.
“Well, not exactly. But I like to break them apart, and then I eat the pieces.”
“You do realize the human body is not made to consume solid objects.”
Despite the phrasing, it was not a question, but Elias could not make that distinction.
“Of course it isn’t.”
Renauld seemed relieved. She smiled. “Glad we could clear that up. So, how long have people been saying this about you?”
“I don’t know. A year, maybe two?”
“Is there a reason you never brought this up before in our sessions?”
He hesitated. “It never occurred to me.”
The woman grabbed a pen and started rolling it between her fingers. “Interesting,” she muttered.
Elias absentmindedly scratched his chin.
“Is there something else you want to share?”
He pondered the question a moment.
“I found a toothbrush,” he finally said.
“Where?”
“In the street. In front of my building. It just lay there on the ground, and I felt drawn to it. Like it wanted me to pick it up. So I picked it up.”
“Have you used it?”
“No. I put it in a box and hid the box in the cupboard.”
When he fell quiet, she leaned and scribbled some notes in her pad.
“Who are you?” she asked as she wrote.
It was a question she always asked. And, as always, he gave the same answer.
“I can’t remember.”
“But you know your name.”
“Yes.”
“And that you’re not a clockmaker. Or a lighthouse keeper.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have family?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does anyone ever visit you? Or call you?”
“No.”
She put the pen down and steepled her hands, looking up and into her patient’s eyes.
“I knew this child once—sixty or seventy years ago, soon after I was deployed.”
Elias shifted in his seat. Frowned.
“He had a beautiful singing voice,” she continued, “and everyone thought he would become a singer. His parents were wealthy, and they lived on the west coast, in a beautiful villa. They had it all.
“And then, one day, tragedy struck. Their boat capsized and the entire family died, save for the boy. It nearly shorted my circuits when I heard about it. I didn’t know him personally yet when that happened, but it was all over the press.
“His grandfather brought him to me soon after, because the boy—let’s call him Chris. At that point, the boy was refusing to speak.”
“Stop,” Elias muttered.
The therapist must not have heard him, for she kept going.
“I had hoped he would at least sing. Singing can work wonders on the soul. It has the power to heal, did you know that? But he refused to do that as well. Chris would just sit there—where you sit now, Elias—and remain quiet throughout our sessions.
“We developed other means to communicate. Through images and signs. He was shy, at first, but he grew more confident. My own voice was not as, well, perfect as it is now, but children don’t worry about such things. And, in time, I realized he had a very different personality from the Chris before the accident. As if the silence had changed him.”
“Please,” the patient begged.
“Then something miraculous happened! He started speaking again. But his attitude was more rebellious. He refused to do simple exercises. He yelled and threw things. And then he’d grow calm and quiet again...
“Now, Elias, before we discuss how that all ended, I want you to go home and think about what I just told you. What does it mean? How does it relate to you, if at all? What can you learn from it? We’ll schedule a new appointment for next week. And when I see you again, I hope you’ll know who and what you are.”
When she finished speaking, the room went silent.
“Elias?” she asked after a minute had elapsed. “Are you alright?”
“You made all that up, didn’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry,” he added in a whisper.
“Whatever for?”
“You should not have told me that story, Alicia.”
“Why not?”
“I eat machines too.”
The woman screamed as he sprang from his seat and lunged at her.
If you like my writing, please consider buying a copy of my novel, upgrading to a paid subscription, or making a Paypal or Ko-fi donation. As an independent author, any of these would help a lot!
If you like absurdity, here are a few other titles you might enjoy:
Under a Violet Sky (a man’s surreal journey in another dimension)
The Waystation (a brother looks for his sister in a twisted version of Paris)
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Text (c) 2026 by Alex S. Garcia.
Header: royalty-free stock image, edited by me.
Loved the absurdity of this story. Especially the ending. Didn't see that coming.