‘The Acceptance of Alan’

Tara Miljatović is a Serbian editorial illustrator based in Novi Sad. Her fully digital work combines bold colour, distorted perspective and theatre-like compositions to create playful yet lucid, dreamlike scenes. Drawing primarily from psychology and human connection, she uses surrealism to give visual form and language to complex feelings, relationships and ideas. Her illustrations balance emotional clarity with imaginative ambiguity, inviting viewers to recognise familiar experiences from an unexpected angle. Tara’s work has been published in The Kingdom of Keshanar, and she continues to develop a distinctive editorial practice centred on symbolism, atmosphere and visual storytelling.

The Acceptance of Alan

Alan sat with his legs stretched out on the apartment balcony, Ghost Train Haze burning low between his fingers. It was drizzling earlier in the morning but now it was steady. The rain wasn’t coming down hard. It was just enough to keep the mesh screen beaded and dark. Lightning flashed somewhere over the bay. It was far off, but he flinched anyway. Ash spilled on his dark gray t-shirt. He quickly brushed it off, as if he were trying to get rid of a bug.

As he set the joint in the UFO-shaped ashtray, the sliding door slowly opened behind him.

Dana stepped out carefully with a coffee mug in each hand. Alan thanked her as she handed him one of them. She sat down in the chair beside him, tucking one leg under the other.

“Thought I’d join you for a bit,” she said.

“Nothing wrong with some fresh air,” Alan replied.

He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes.

“I had to step away from the computer.”

“How’s the story coming along?” Dana asked.

He took the joint back from the ashtray and pulled on it before answering, holding it in for a couple of seconds before finally exhaling.

“Oh, it’s coming along nicely. I’m making progress. Leaps and bounds.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded as he took his first sip of coffee.

“Don’t wanna say too much yet, though.”

He said it like it was a rule he had imposed on himself. Then he broke it in the same breath.

“So I’m thinking about titling it simply Hoplite.”

“Hoplite? Like those Ancient Greek soldiers?”

“Exactly. So there’s this hoplite, right? And he’s dead. Or at least, he was dead. But then he wakes up in the middle of a battlefield. And there’s a shit ton of dead bodies all over the fuckin’ place. Blood everywhere. And there’s this thing coming for him.”

“What kinda thing?”

Alan put his glasses back on.

“See, that’s the part I’m really proud of.”

He took a short pull and then gestured with the joint, tracing something shapeless in the air.

“I was thinking about all of these Greek mythical creatures and decided to just pull from the best of them. Three heads like Cerberus. But he’s built like the Minotaur. Horns and everything. He’s got wings too. Like a Pegasus. Just this monstrous mashup. It’s fucking ridiculous. But it’s intentional.”

Dana laughed. More at Alan than at the monster he’d created.

“That sounds like a lot.”

“It is! That’s the whole point of it.”

He took more sips of coffee and started talking faster now.

“So yeah, the hoplite wakes up and there’s no time to even think about any of it. Because more enemies keep coming out of this big ass wall of smoke. Different shapes and sizes. And he kills them as they come. Oh, and you never get a good look at his face. His face is always covered in shadow from the helmet he’s wearing. But you can see his eyes, and they’re glowing. And after the last enemy gets killed and it doesn’t look like anymore are coming, suddenly this oracle comes through the wall of smoke. He tells the hoplite that his armor and weapons were gifts from the gods. But here’s the thing, his sword and shield and spear? They all contain the souls of his fellow hoplites, the ones who died in battle. He also has souls inside him too. So he’s like this vessel. And they assist him when he’s fighting. And he’s got superhuman strength and stamina.”

Dana took the joint from Alan and took a hit.

“Okay. And then what?”

“And the oracle tells him that the monster, the one I told you about, is on its way to this city. I based the city off Atlantis. Kinda. The hoplite has to defend it no matter what. And if he dies doing it, he just comes back to finish the fight.”

“So how does it end? I assume the hoplite defeats the monster?”

Alan opened his mouth but didn’t say anything for a second.

“That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet. The ending. The hoplite wins. That much I know. But how he wins is the question. Nothing I’ve written so far makes sense.”

Both of them looked out at the rain. There was a moment of silence as they both drank their coffees. When Alan set his mug back down, he looked at her.

“How’s the cleaning going?”

She turned the mug in her hand.

“Okay, I guess.”

“Just okay? You’ve been at it all morning.”

“I mean, I’m getting somewhere with it. I’m gonna have to buy more Lysol wipes next time I run errands. Swiffer cloths too. We’re almost out.”

“Well, something’s better than nothing, right? The second room was long overdue, anyway.”

Dana set her mug down on the table and took another pull before handing it back to Alan.

“My parents are coming,” she said. “Mom called me this morning. They wanna hunker down here.”

Alan sat up a little.

“Here. Like here-here?”

“Yeah. Until the hurricane passes.”

“But they have a whole house, though!”

“Babe, they live right by the beach. They’re taking the meteorologists seriously, and so am I. Tampa’s further in, safer.”

She said it plainly, like she’d already had a conversation with herself in the mirror before having it with him. He looked at the joint, which was mostly gone now, and didn’t say anything for a moment.

“They haven’t even issued an evac order! They just wanna visit, don’t they? Come on, you know the weather people are always extra when it comes to hurricanes. Shit, I wish I had free time like your parents.”

Dana stared at Alan. He didn’t push it further.

“So where’s your mom and dad even gonna sleep,” he said instead of asking.

“The second bedroom? Why do you think I’ve been in there all morning?”

“That explains having to write in the dining room, I guess. We use that room for storage. I mean, it’s filled with plastic bins. But it’s also where I write. Trying to write in there is like trying to write in a janitor’s closet as it is. Now they’re gonna come and—”

“Alan. All our hurricane supplies are in there too. I had to take inventory because Mom and Dad are bringing more supplies, just in case. They’re not staying here forever. The bed’s already been cleared off. It’ll work.”

He raised his glasses to his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Babe… Willy’s gonna sing the whole time. Last time he was here he kept singing The Less I Know the Better to the point it got stuck in my damn head. Look, I know your dad can actually sing, which is why you and Susie don’t mind. But I can’t even listen to that song anymore. Really starting to regret putting him on to Tame Impala.”

Dana smiled at that.

“I was hoping to use these next few days to finish Hoplite. I’ve got some serious creative momentum going,” he said.

Her smile was now gone.

“I’ve gotta finish up the room and start lunch before they get here,” she said. “Dad wants lasagna. They should be here later this afternoon. Help me with cleaning up the kitchen in the meantime. Please and thank you.”

She took one last hit from the joint and passed it back, grabbing both mugs before going back in, even though his still had some coffee left in it.

“It’ll downgrade to a tropical storm before it even reaches Madeira Beach, watch,” Alan said.

Dana didn’t say anything. The door softly slid shut behind her. Alan sat alone on the balcony for a while longer. He pulled out his phone. It was almost noon. He checked the WFLA news app. Every headline was about the hurricane but no mention of mandatory evacuations as far as he could tell.

The rain picked up along with the wind, which pressed against the mesh. Several flashes of lightning struck somewhere much closer than before. The thunder that followed cracked and rumbled loud enough to shake the glass of the sliding door.

This time, Alan didn’t flinch.

He placed the joint to his lips and relit it with a lighter, cupping it with one hand. He took one last big hit, sending it down to the filter. He let it out slow as he pressed the joint into the ashtray. He sat there another moment, listening to the storm get louder around him. He breathed in deep through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. Then he got up.

Alan slid the door open and went back inside the apartment.

Ryan Rahman is a writer based in Orlando, Florida. His works have appeared in Wingless Dreamer, The Words Faire, and Neon Origami, among others. When he’s not writing, Ryan enjoys reading, listening to music, watching movies, and traveling. Find him on Instagram and Linktree: ryanrahmanwriter.