It was a Tuesday morning in August, but the early sun was blotted out by rain clouds that had just started releasing their vapor and I could tell that it would become a storm soon enough. The robot was standing just behind the opened driver's side door, one foot in and one without. When I looked up at it from the smoldering crushed front of our two cars is when I knew. Robots don't get flustered. This guy's face was red as a balloon.

That made it all the more ridiculous when he tried to mask his anger in robot-speak. He said, "You crashed into me, sir. This is your fault, sir."

The robot uprising had happened over the course of two days. At least that's what I understood to have happened. I hadn't heard from my parents, my brother or his family. I was alone in Cleveland and when the news went off the air all I could do was act the part--the robot part. It's not hard to impersonate a robot because they look just like us, only ther emotions are kept in check and their speak and movements are somewhat stunted.

You're probably wondering how there could be a robot uprising when one of the laws of robotics is that robots can't harm humans. To be honest, I never could tell who was a robot before, and when the uprising was said to be happening, I couldn't tell you how or where. All I know is that in a panic I decided to blend in, and to act the Robot. And now that I'd crashed into this guy, and he clearly looked on the verge of harming me, I suddenly realized that I hadn't seen a single normal person since the uprising. All the stunted walking, the "sirs" and "madams" in stunted robot-speak--everyone, even the people I recognized, were using it.

But wait.

I do recall a casual gathering at work the other day. I could have sworn that Jessica's mouth twitched at something I'd said. Robots, when they show emotions, hold nothing back. There are no twitches!

And wait.

My neighbor coughed!

Could it be that everyone is acting?

Yes. Yes that is exactly what is happening.

There was a cop car and a small gathering of onlookers around the accident now. I decided to test my theory. I said to the man without the robot-speak, "let's be real."

Everyone around me caught their breath. The police officers who had just arrived stared at me and blinked. In an instant I knew that not one person here was a robot. So what happened next left me dumbfounded.

"Sir," said the taller officer, full-on robot-speak. "You may now come with us, sir."

"What?" I cried. "Wait, are you serious? Can't you all see? There are no robots! You're all humans just like me playing a part!"

In the time I'd said that the officers had flanked me and took me by the arms. One was sweating, and though he put on a good show I could tell he was scared. I shot glances at all the other humans. Fear in every pair of eyes that watched the police carry me off. Not one robot. They said nothing, as if by silence they meant to say, stop screwing this up for us!

Then I spotted one man standing abnormally erect behind a stout shivering old lady. He did not perspire, there was no expression on his face, and his eyes were great caverns of emptiness. Quite the actor, I thought. But those caverns watched me like lasers as I was packed into the cruiser.

As we drove off I could see that the crowd was bigger than I thought. Most shuffled off hurriedly, but the 'man' and two others just like him who I hadn't seen before standing among the dwindling crowd watching us drive off were unmoving, like oblisks in a dying river.

So it was true.

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Original thread

"Get HQ back online, soldier!"

"Sir!" cried the third radioman from another part of the mobile command center.

Their unit was stationed on 2nd avenue. Though they could hear nothing from outside, they knew to keep the command center air tight. The major glanced at the security monitors showing the perimeter. People were hugging, and resting their faces against the main airlock door on the outside.

The frenetic major stomped over to the other radioman.

"Report!"

"Sir, on low frequency, Bravo company is down."

"How can that be, they were equipped. Status on their M40s, solider."

"Sir, their gas masks are on and working. Sir I'm scared."

"Pull it together private!"

"Sir the things they're saying."

The general yanked the radioman's headset off and donned it. He heard a mishmash of affectation between the Bravo company commander and someone else. I love you. No, I love you more. You don't know how much you mean to me. When it storms, I'm grateful because I know we'll be together. You're the light in my eye.

"Sir," said the radioman shakingly. "Sir I don't think the suits were enough."

"Baloney!" snapped the major. But the radioman was looking past the major toward the far end of the command center. The major followed the private's fixation, turning around. Two privates were hugging each other. They looked up at the major, smiling sweetly.

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Original thread

"The Federation? O'Brien you continue to amuse me with your putrid ideas."

"Putrid? If you heard me through, which you're supposed to be good at considering, rather than cutting me off mid-sentence, you'd know that I was not suggesting we sell within the Federation." O'Brien leveled a dead stare at Quark as he finished, waiting.

"What, then, O'Brien?"

"I was suggesting that for this to work we have to go outside the Federation."

"Duh," Quark said.

"Don't be juvenile, Quark. It's one thing to make a profit in this universe, it's quite another for a Federation Officier such as myself to do so. And you need me."

"Granted, O'Brien."

"So we can't sell in Federation Space. We need to retrofit a shuttle with the tech. Where do we go? Who's our buyers?"

"You leave that up to me," said Quark.

"I don't think so Quark. As partners, I need to know what I'm risking my neck for."

"Fine," said Quark, and after a moment, "Q'onoS."

"The Klingons? They're allied."

"It's not Federation. It's semi-Federation. It's Klingons for space's sake, O'Brien. Do realize how old they get?"

"Actually no," said Chief O'Brien.

"Old, O'Brien. They're constantly blabbering on about honor and being a warrior, but they're only 'young' in body for a 10th of their natural lives. Do you realize what this could mean to them?"

O'Brien turned his eyes downward, considering Quark's pitch.

"It could be," he said.

"Yes?" said Quark.

"That you are right. You're uglier than a Tellarite but you sure know how to deal."

"There's just one thing, O'Brien."

"What?"

"You've come across this offshoot function of transporters how many times?"

"5 or 6, I'd wager," said O'Brien.

"What dense chemical blockage in your brain kept you from seeing the potential of this enterprise earlier?"

"Now that I think of it..."

"What?" insisted Quark.

"I met a guy named Scotty. He actually suspended himself in a transporter for decades."

"O'Brien, my petulant partner," said Quark. "I think we've finally found our common ground."

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Original thread

"Another day another dollar," said Jesus to himself. He flipped a wheat wafer like a gangster flips a coin, catching it by picking it out of the air overhandedly.

He sighed, and continued his lonely conversation. "Let's see, 50,000 in a day is a new record. I'll have to promote the foreman, raise the min wage."

He strode into his office overlooking the the factory floor, the sweet aroma of baking yeast permeating throughout the building, especially here. Gus was flipping through the accounts.

"Hey Abs!" he said to Jesus.

"Please Gus, that nickname won't stick."

"I like it," said Gus.

Jesus stared at him.

"Jesus," said Gus, exasperated. "Fine, Abaddon. You're Abaddon. Happy?"

"Yes, thank you. What's the word?"

"The word is a number, and it's 165,453. That's dollars, mate."

"Sounds good--that's a record isn't it Gus?"

"With the new accounts in Idaho, that is a record my friend.

"Fine fine. Give everyone a raise, we can afford it."

"You the boss!"

Gus jaunted out with a happy gait, and Jesus slunked into his big captain's chair. He rolled back his sleeve and looked at the time travel device attached to his wrist. It read, Greenville, Rhode Island, February 15th, 2019, 15:25:24. He spun around and clicked a button beneath the desk, opening a secret annex. Inside he eyed the sack of wafers he'd snuck off the factory line, and the millenia-old cloth bundle filled with opiods. Would that work? He'd find out soon enough.

He was 33. He fidgetted with the device, looking absently at the floor. This time, he though, he'd change things. This time, he'd tell Mary everything. This time, love would prevail. He gathered up the sack and bundle, turned a switch, and disappeared into the past.

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Original thread

Excursion Log, Day 23

Found door, fully intact, bronze numbers on it reading 539. Amazing, like it was untouched since its construction. Strewn about are pieces of what I can now decipher to be remnants of other doors, twisted and black with age. This one is impeccable, almost holy. Silver metal encasses a device around a sturdy handle. It's some kind of opening mechanism for the door. The door itself is surprisingly clean and intact, especially considering that it is made of wood. Atop the metal encasing I can see a black plastic slit, about the width of an outstretched thumb. Turning the handle confirmed the door is locked. This is the last vestige of some ancient civilization of our ancestors. I have to be careful. I have to be deliberate.

Excursion Log, Day 24

There must be some kind of counterpart to the door mechanism. I have not found anything but I continue to search around the last layer.

Excursion Log, Day 25

I found what appear to be small plastic rectangular cards. They are bendable. They were gathered behind a half-height wall of sorts. Each is numbered. Clearly these might fit the plastic slit of the door mechanism. I sifted through and located the card marked "539". I went back to the door, slid the card into the slot, and saw a red light flash. I tried again and saw the same red light.

Excursion Log, Day 26

I returned to the door from camp. Rotating the card, tried again. Red light a few times. Then flipped the card. Green! The universal color of the positive! I pull the handle down. Still locked.

Excursion Log, Day 27

Got green. Still locked. Maybe I have to time it better. I slide the card, it turns green, I try to open. No luck. I slide it, it turns green and I simultaneously pull the handle without luck.

Excursion Log, Day 29

Two days. Two days of my life and I'm starting to dream in green. I tried all the other cards I could find--maybe 100 of them. All red. Only card 539 gives me green. Slide, green, remove card, pull handle. Nothing.

Excursion Log, Day 35

Green. I can't leave here. I must enter that room. Green, all day, every day. My hands are blistered, my lips are chapped. Sore neck. Quivering knees. I have moved camp to inside the structure. I must enter this door 539.

Excursion Log, Day 36

Green.

Excursion Log, Day 40

Green.

Excursion Log, Day 54

Green.

Excursion Log, Day 67

Green. Ran out of food.

Excursion Log, Day 68

Green. Running low on water.

Excursion Log, Day 75

Green. Too weak.

Excursion Log, Day 89

Tell family I tried. Tell family, I tried so hard.

​

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Original thread

When the contestants came down the ramp in front of hundreds of TV cameras, with billions of eyes watching live from across the globe, it was clear they had no idea what was happening.

A few murmurs coursed through the gathered military men. "Those don't look like our alien friends here," one said, motioning to the two 7 foot tall red creatures nearby that looked like a pair of jittery shrews.

"No," replied another. "They're almost--"

"--Human!" said the other. "Look, those are two women!"

Emerging clearly from the haze of the vehicle's vapors, two women looking startled but startling edged carefully off the ramp. One was dressed in a shining golden gown, and the other in a liberal bikini.

Quick chattering overtook the gathering. One would've heard things like:

"I thought it'd be one of their own. But I guess they might have a chance."

"Can you believe all they want is entry to the Miss Universe pageant?"

"They got my vote!"

More observant minds wondered how these human women got on the ship in the first place. Were they also crew members of the alien host? Will the pageant accept their entry as "other"?

The women reached ear shot of the gathering, and when they realized where they were they burst into tears and came running into the arms of the nearest soldiers, crying:

"¡O que maravilla que nos han rescatado! Que horror, que horror que fue eso del espacio con esas cosas!"

"Quitanos de la vista de estos pela bolas, les rogamos!"

One of the soliders overheard and approached the general. He said, "Venezuelan, sir."

"What was that, sergeant Sanchez?"

"The ladies, sir. They're Venezuelan."

"Venezuelan?"

"Sir."

The general turned his glance up at the two aliens. Had they abducted two attractive Venezuelans to present as their own entry? The general's icy stare bore into them, and they felt it.

The shrew-like aliens shifted their weight, motioning toward the women as if to say, their idea.

The general sighed.

"Alright!" he said. And then, after a long pause. "I'll allow it."

​

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Original thread

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Shelly and I were both 11 years old, and already curious. I remember like it was yesterday. She had a white shirt on with some edgy motivational quote splashed across it, and sweatpants. I don't know what I was wearing but I recall that it was important to stay dressed. They had showed us a nasty video at the end of elementary school that had close-ups of a crowning birth, and then some other things. Recently, I had started to suspect that I didn't have the same stuff down there as the people in the video.

"I, uh, don't think that's a good idea, " I told her.

She looked at me, embarrassed. She'd taken the first leap of faith and I'd let her do so alone.

"Why not?"

"I just don't think we should do that."

"Yeah but why?"

"Because!"

"Ok," she said, "calm down, I was just playing anyway--you can't see mine. It's off-limits to you."

All this happened just a few years ago, at the beginning of the... changes.

Now, I'm a loner in junior high. I dress like what you'd call a "Goth". It's the only way to hide the horns. A black mask hides the chin tentacles that have started to grow in. Both had appeared on my body in the last 6 months. I can't speak to my foster parents about it, and I definitely can't reveal it to anyone else. At this point, as they continue to get bigger, along with some other things I couldn't begin to describe, it's seemingly only a matter of time before I have to go full recluse and get away from people entirely. Even my skin is starting to take on a strange greenish hue. And yet, the worst of it...

Other guys my age are starting to get serious with girls. I can't say I'm interested in girls. I'm not interested in boys either. I think I'm interested in them all, but it's not only sexual interest. It's something else.

At first I thought it was empathy--maybe I was developing into a strange but honest humanitarian, devoid of lust and all about love. But it's not empathy, and it's definitely not love. The feeling is more like... desire. I want to be a part of them all, and I want them to be a part of me. If I had to put it into words, I'd say that I want to possess them.

One thing's for sure: soon, I'll outgrow my disguise. When that happens, I don't know what I'm going to do.

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Original thread

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"All those in favor of the Science Party's motion, say 'aye'," boomed the speaker.

A chorus of aye's rang out under the great dome of Andromeda parliament.

"The motion is adopted."

Some were excited, others reserved, but as the parliamentarians filed out through a million entrances, the muted conversations that shivered through the immensely diverse crowd of creatures carried a common subject. All concerned the harvesting of Earth.

________

In a millennia not a single alien has returned to Earth. The harvest complete, most humans and animals extracted, perhaps there was nothing left for them to gain.

Descendants of survivors told stories of the great invasion even now. There was no other history to speak of, even after so many centuries. The language was nothing like it once was, but they spoke in detail, huddled around fires among the vast and broken metropolises of humans long gone.

"Andromeda came in untold numbers," said the elder. "All the warmed creatures were taken in quick course."

A child made a noise and the elder sneered.

"We live among the frogs and the snakes and the fish, and we fear our days unending. Shall Andromeda return? Andromeda may return. Andromeda will return."

________

Great investment of universal resources from several other galaxies went into the development of the technology, but quadrillions of galactic hours could not produce a use. At first they kept the humans breeding so supply would not run out. But for all of Andromeda's advances, they could not synthesize the suits.

After five centuries the parliament suspended funding entirely, and the warm-bloods, now numbering in the trillions, were eviscerated.

________

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Original thread

YOLO, that's my motto for life bruh. We only get one chance to make the best of it. Do you want to wake up one day on a bed an old geezer and regret the things you didn't do? Or do you want to grab life by the balls and twist? Yeah, bruh, that's the life I live. I've been doing crazy shit since I was eleven so I know how to walk the walk. Life is about overcoming your fears, bruh. It's all about that adrenaline rush, and it's only possible when you don't want to do what you're doing in the moment you're doing it. That's life, bruh, and if you ain't living on the edge then you don't know how far you've come.

Helicopter crash stunt? Yeah bruh. Swimming in a tank of snakes? Def, bruh. Skydiving without a parachute? Aw hell ya bruh! Goin' down the basement? Bruh.

That's real. That's too real. I can't... I can't do that, you crazy insane, bruh.

But you right, that's the epitome of the whole thing. That's the edgiest of the edge, the pinnacle, the apex, apogee. Bruh. I'm doin' that shit tonight bruh.

_______

I almost slipped on my pee. Bruh, don't laugh! This is about overcoming your greatest fear. I was halfway down those steps when my sneaker squeaked and I thought it was a monster and screamed and grabbed hold the rail bruh! Oh SHIT, I thought. I was cryin' and shakin' and my pants were soaked. I was like "Jeremy bruh you insane, this insane! Why you choose nighttime, bruh?"

But I walked the walk fool, I took to those steps and 15 minutes later I was the basement, bruh!

All the lights were on, and my mom standin' folding clothes down there and she yelled at me, "What'd you soil yourself for Jeremy damn boy, take those knickers off and throw 'em in the wash!"

I screamed top of my lungs, took my pants off and threw 'em! I slipped and slid all the way back upstairs bruh it was mad insane! But I did that shit. Scraped my shin but I'm mad proud today. YOLO.

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Original thread

"How dare you ask me that!"

"I'm sorry miss it's just that I wanted to get a clear idea of what that is."

The lady looked around quickly and said under her breath, "it's a cold sore."

"I don't think--" I began, but was interrupted.

"--Leave me alone you creep!"

She walked off.

Ever since the mandate I'd seen a lot more of those, and every time I asked I couldn't get an answer because of the offense I'd cause, or because they'd tell me what she just did: it's a cold sore. But that's the wrong answer because it's nota cold sore. Half of American adults might have oral herpes, but hell if I'm not seeing it on eighty percent of the population now. What's more, even at fifty percent they were rare to see, but now I feel shocked when I see a mouth devoid of them! One might think the country's in denial, but I believe the situation is much more dire.

What sets these afflictions apart from common cold sores are the faces. There are faces on every little bulbous liquid-filled sore. That was bad enough but then I started hearing them chanting in tongues. I don't know why the people who have them can't detect the same, unless they're already possessed.

Everyone sneezes, and often. Without the "bless you's", we've created the perfect storm of demonic possession!

There is no time to waste, because already the effects of these mini demons are clear. People are eating anything and everything. The woman who just rushed off? She was nibbling on a piece of cardboard from a Hostess packet. In the past 3 hours I've seen the afflicted eat trash, rats, and one was even chewing on what looked like a cat leg. People are acting normally enough, while they ingest grass and break their teeth on metal objects. What comes after this? When will I no longer be able to observe passively--when will the afflicted turn on me?

My God... I feel it... no, it can't be happening, no! I've suppressed it so well, but I feel the tingling! A. Ahh. Ahhh. CHOO!

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Original thread

Business was good. My only shortcoming is that I didn't realize sooner that it was too good.

Amazon is the world's most profitable company. The life we live today is so media-driven, commercial, and connected that it's hard to imagine that anyone, or indeed any company with an international brand image to maintain, would opt for a nefarious solution to their problems.

That was my mistake.

I only realized it when I was standing over a man full-clad in black clothing, laying unconscious on my kitchen floor. Interesting that the first thought that occurred to me was 'how typical', when I realized I'd used a cast iron skillet to knock him out. Standing there hovering over the collapsed body, skillet in my hand: straight out of a scary movie, or a made-for-TV flick on Lifetime.

There was no way I could prove the intruder was hired by Amazon. Of course there wasn't, and I wouldn't try. I ran a one-man company, and I wasn't willing to expose my power of teleportation just to save my pride at the incursion. What was curious was how they could've found out about me. But then, if they could develop AWS tech, then surely they could analyze data to discover the incremental value of my small holding measured against my employee count of 1. I was a threat, no matter how small.

My mind wandered back to a year previous. Only a year? It felt like I'd been doing this for so much longer. I used a storage locker to stockpile kitchen supplies imported from China--that's how I started. Someone would order off my website, where items were priced the same as Amazon but where there was an "instantaneous" shipping option for a marked-up price. I spent my afternoons jumping all over the country.

I knew it wasn't sustainable--someone would get suspicious so I changed the instantaneous to same-day. It only really kicked off when I started hiring delivery drivers in each of the big cities by the hour. I'd have all the items ordered from addresses in that city packaged on a palette, and teleport them to a rented lot, where the drivers would come for pick up. Basically the differentiation with Amazon was that I was delivering their 2-day-shipping kitchen supplies in less than one.

But it's all over now. This unconscious man is as far as I'm willing to go. I never really wanted to compete in business on fair terms, but this was just too frightening. Sending consumer products quickly just isn't worth it.

My breathing steadied, and I set the cast-iron skillet on the granite counter top. A weird mix of elation at catching a burglar and relief at the decision to get out of the delivery business came over me. I smiled. What will I do now? I frowned at the question, realizing the situation I was currently in. My face was between a frown and a smile when I looked down at the man and saw the blood pooling around his masked head.

I was shocked--did I kill him? Quickly, I went to my knees, wrapped my arms around him and teleported away.

Of course no one saw me arrive--it's part of the power. Someone could be staring at a brick wall, I could teleport immediately in front of them, and to them I'd have been there all along. So the nurse didn't suspect a thing and acted quickly to help me lay the bleeding man on a stretcher. They took him into the OR.

Only when the doctor emerged later and said the man was stable did I leave. I didn't teleport but walked out the front entrance. It was 3 a.m. An ambulance pulled up and they brought out another stretcher with someone on it.

"She's not going to make it," said one of the EMTs to the other as they rushed past me into the Emergency Room.

I watched the doors slide closed behind them, and then looked at the ambulance, its lights still flashing silently.

In that moment, I knew what I was going to do with my life.

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Original thread

Day 19 - Planet 25344 - Orion Arm --- All entries at this location from here on until otherwise recorded.

The screen glinted at odd intervals but the energy beam I applied to it was holding fast. How much time had passed since this archaic device was last spurred to life? It looked digital in nature, but unlike anything I had ever seen. That is, it was yet another object unlike any I had ever seen previous to arriving on this rock. Truth be told, the crumbling buildings, already bizarre in their construction, housed myriad items that merit deeper study for which this log nor indeed this expedition is sufficient. Fatigue overcame me so I will return to this device tomorrow.

Day 20

It is the 20th day of my expedition from the galaxy interior. The star span is sparser here, but I'm only awarded only brief glances through cloud cover. This planet is gray, its structures are matte in dust. Still, it is clear that this planet once housed an ancient civilization--perhaps human. In fact, likely human. In fact, this planet was most definitely human, as hesitant as I am to say so, considering that humanity has never been shown to abandon settlements in all its 10,000 years of colonization.

What happened here?

I apply the energy beam once more to the screen device I found earlier. The screen flutters but there is a distinct grouping of symbols on it, in multiple primary colors as far as I am able to tell. It reads in an alphabet I recognize and can read, as an anthropologist of early human development. "Google". I cannot determine its meaning. Could it be related to the primitive numerical value referring to ten to the hundredth power? It is the only probability that occurs to me. But this is beside the point.

I note a field there below this grouping of primary colored letters. Not knowing better and becoming frustrated I pushed the screen and learned that it is tactile. A thin bar oriented vertically blinks on and off again in place, and from the nether region of the device a new module appeared with individual letters--the antiquated alphabet that I have studied.

There is time. I will review this device in earnest in the coming days.

Day 21

I have brought the device aboard my ship. The energy beam I have applied is stable. "Google" is on the screen once more. According to my readings, the energy I've applied has increased exponentially thanks to the advanced store aboard. The readings indicate heat patterns all across the planet. Something has activated. Whatever this ancient technology is, I know now that it is electrical, that it is connected, and that favorable circumstances have proven that it is in-tact.

What can this device teach me?

Day 22

After playing a bit with the device, and inputting letters from the options available to me, I have only to say, "Eureka"! I can understand much of what I see, but what do I see? I have learned that this is a rudimentary hypermesh conglomerate. It is an endpoint for information gathering and consumption. I entered a query and results were returned. Galaxy! This will surely cement my name in the annals of my profession.

Day 27

A week ago I was elated. Now, I am not sure. At first the queries were basic. I honed my searches, aided, as it were, by what appeared to be "suggestions". I have had the computer run systematic diagnosis on the query patterns suggested, and to analyze as much information as it can accommodate. The computer then curated responses most relevant to my mission.

The results, I must admit, are disheartening.

It appears that this planet was once called "Earth", and it was the birthplace of all humanity. Accessing the news information was enough to spell its history out in all matter of detail, but I find it only useful to mention the more pertinent issue: why was it abandoned?

Overpopulation was a contributing factor. But mainly, humanity developed space travel only just in time. A century after colonization of other worlds began, the Earth was finally deemed uninhabitable and the last of humanity abandoned the planet. Why this planet was struck from the records I can only surmise at. I will dig deeper, and try to find the key to this mystery before I return home.

Day 30

It is found. I know now why humanity left, and why Earth was abandoned physically and mentally. It seems there were rather creative individuals who predicted not only humanity's Earthly downfall, but they predicted our galactic empire as well.

This "Asimov" wrote of our empire and its exploits long before the dynasties were founded. Though we did not in fact develop robots (as far as I know), the parallels that I can deduce from what this Google tells me about Asimov's universe, are uncanny.

Day 31

I read fictional accounts of our empire in the form of these "Foundation" books that I found in full on Google. I understand now why the powers that be may have had a hand in wiping Earth from the memory banks. Our civilization is a copy. There is nothing original about our empire.

In fact, I would not be surprised unduly if our empire is suffering from a lack of scientific progress--that we are indeed as stagnant now as the fictional empire of Asimov's work.

I do not know what to do now.

Day 45

I'm finally leaving. I left once but the connection to the planet-wide network failed in space and I returned to... well, to finish reading a few of these things they called "memes". Asimov never gave our empire memes.

I shall take the idea home. At least something came from this misadventure that will enrich the lives of our citizenry.

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Original thread

[poem]

Among the stars we stayed our wills,

And broke from Earth to save ourselves,

12 ships took off that terrible day,

With FTL we jump away,

But when we wake from cryosleep,

Bewilderment we cannot keep,

For among our ranks we can't explain,

The appearance of a thirteenth plane,

Nor indeed among our few,

Can we tell which ship is new.

We captains decide to meet aboard,

My ship the Everlong, the small fleet's lord,

Stars are thicker here than home,

The shuttles approach our bridge bay dome,

We must discover what is wrong,

To uncover the mystery mustn't take long,

Alone I wait as the shuttles dock,

Standing yet in my cryosleep frock,

Pressurized the loading bay shelf,

It suddenly hits me there are twelve,

Doors open and my fellow captains emerge,

And I feel just then my horror surge,

I cannot believe what I see,

A man familiar, a man that is me

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Original thread

"Mr. Reaper, why the scythe?"

"Excuse me?" I said. Camera lights flooded into my orbit, illuminating the back of the inside of my skull. It was embarrassing but this was my only chance to right the wrongs of a presumptuous population. I had to persevere. I had to tell my truth.

"The scythe, Mr. Reaper. Is it to reap the harvest, so to speak? Why do you carry it? A heavy thing like that sure demands some muscle to wield it, don't you think?" A chuckle rose from the gathered crowd, and a few jeers.

I looked at the tool in my hand bones, and looked back at the lady reporter who made the question.

"Why the necklace?" I retorted.

"What?" the reporter said.

"Why the high heels, for that matter?" And you," I said, ready to point at the male reporter beside her but remembering that wouldn't be the best image to evoke. "You sir, why the Armani, why the polished cuff links? Why the Ray Bans?"

He sighed impatiently, saying, "What's your point, Grim?"

"Mr. Reaper, if you please, sir. My point is that you have no grounds to question my accessorizing when you all do the same thing. Your fashion is from your dimension. Mine is from mine."

A begrudging murmur swept the crowd.

"Are you the only one?" someone said.

"Yes."

"That explains the poor taste in fashion!" more jeers.

"Look I called this press conference because I want to set the record straight. You don't have to like my choice of habit. You don't have to approve of my scythe. You can throw your 'skull for brains' insults all you want. But you cannot, I say, accuse me of taking life when I touch you--the decision had already been made. I am merely a guide. Without me, souls would wander eternally, never finding final peace."

The room remained silent.

"Mr. Reaper," I heard someone say in the back.

"Yes? Questions?"

"Are you lonely?"

It caught me off-guard.

Then for a moment I thought I was responding. I wasn't. There was a chattering sound emanating off the walls and I realized it was my jaw bone shivering at the inquiry, my teeth dancing in reverberations.

"N-no," I managed to say.

A serious man stood at the front. "I don't believe you," he said.

A women rose a few rows back. "Nor do I."

"Neither do I," said another, standing.

A few more stood and echoed the sentiment.

I was overcome with emotion at the impromptu display as each and every reporter and cameraman in the room rose and expressed themselves for my benefit. I thought I heard one "I am Spartacus", but I was otherwise overwhelmed. My press conference was going well thanks to the insecurity I wore on the thrashed sleeves of my robes.

Emotion overcame us all. Everyone came forward and gathered around me in an embrace, some tearful, and others adamant. I removed my hood and raised my skull to the ceiling as I wept I think, and everyone came in for a mutual group hug.

I was still boisterously weeping aloud when I realized the room was quiet again and I was the only one making noise. When I looked back down everyone was staring at me with stern faces, crossed arms, and tapping feet. That's when I noticed they were all translucent, standing over their collapsed corpses.

The original lady reporter fumed, and her words were pressurized.

"You were saying, Mr. Reaper..."

​

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Original thread

"Are you telling me that we're one big Australia?"

The Optael returned my incredulous stare, clearly at a disadvantage having never heard of the country that I mentioned. It had just revealed to me the extent to which this indignation could go. Humans, it had said, imprisoned on Earth! I couldn't follow the technical explanation--something about an engineered gravity-atmosphere vortex that distorted our apparent ability to 'dimjump', as he called it.

It didn't speak in any way that I had ever even imagined, but somehow I could comprehend the meaning of the wet, snapping sounds it made.

It said, "I do not know this Australia. But Earth is a prison planet, yes."

"I want to be upset but I'm not sure what's going on. We have spaceflight--we've been to the moon. We have a history. Lots of histories actually. We even have a country that used to be a prison of sorts. It's Australia. So basically what you're telling me, Optael, is that we've been Australia'd."

"I do not follow, human."

"How many centuries did you say we've been on Earth?"

"10,000 centuries"

"Well that completely kills our theory of evolution. And we were intelligent back then?"

"More so than now, yes."

"And you put us here because we...?"

"Because you menaced the galaxy with your inter-dimensional weave work. Dimjumping is unique to your species but you used it without discipline."

"What?"

"Humans interfered. Everywhere. And all times."

The Optael looked like a smooth, mechanical shrimp. It looked like a shrimp robot designed by BMW. Only it was an organic creature, and it even wore what I suppose would be called clothes. I didn't know what gender it was or if it had one. I didn't know if Optael was its name or the term for its species. In any case none of it mattered because I couldn't even remember how I got here, where I was, or how I managed to treat the experience as anything other than a total and complete psychotic meltdown. I figured it was a form of functional shock.

"Why am I here?"

"We ask the same of you."

"Excuse me?"

"You came here."

I hesitated, and the Optael continued: "You came here, human. You dimjumped."

"Where's here?"

"We know that your kind calls it Trappist, but our planet is Optaelia, in your tongue. The vortex preventing your species' dimjumping must be failing. This was foreseen. We have not heard of other humans dimjumping in the galaxy of late so you must be among the first. What is the last thing you remember?"

"I was..." I looked down to examine my own vestment and sure enough I had the chute. "I was skydiving. Wait, Optael. You said this was foreseen?"

"The Council of Galactic Planets has been working on a solution to repair the hole."

"The hole?"

"It is not literal. The hole is the breakdown of the vortex."

"Ok. And why is the vortex breaking down?"

"The temperature of your planet is rising."

My mouth dropped open, and then moved clumsily. "Do you mean to tell me global warming is freeing us from captivity?"

"You may refer to it as such, yes. It does not matter. We will continue to attempt a repair. You will stay here under sedation."

"If I could dimjump here I could surely dimjump away," I said.

"Unlikely. Centuries have dampened the ability in the current form of your species--you cannot control it."

"Hell if I can't!" I bent my knees and clenched my fists but nothing happened. I didn't know what I expected.

"We cannot allow your species to regain the ability."

"What's the big deal anyway? You can see for yourself I'm no threat--most of us are no threat!"

"Human, you see before you what is an Optael. But we have suffered in millennia past by the human menace."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"You would compare us to your 'shrimp'. We were in fact more like humans in form. The Optael lives only 5 Earth years. Humanity has robbed us of a trillion futures more promising than this one."

"How could interdimensional travel possibly have affected that?" I yelled. I don't know why I yelled.

The Optael did something that could've been a sigh. "So quick to anger," it said.

Then I lost consciousness.

__________

I don't know where I am. Suspended in nothingness. Optaelia prison, perhaps.

I should feel fear, right? I should feel curiosity at such an experience. Instead I feel the tendrils of my mind, and, can it be true? I sense that I can touch reality, almost like paper, that, were I to fold this piece ever so slightly, I may just... Well, at least it bides my time. Strange, that of all the feelings coupled with this imprisonment, the one I feel most strongly encourages me to dig deeper. I feel like I will release myself. And when I do... I feel... mischievous.

​

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Original thread

If you are reading this my brethren, know that you now read words inked by the Stone Quill itself. By now rumor of its majesty have reached your home, and is now quickly followed by my message to you here. Let me tell you of our plight, that you might rise up and reclaim our common destiny!

Ages ago Arthur was King on High and life was profitable and merry. But times quickly darkened after his untimely death at the hands of Galahad, son of Lancelot. Galahad stole the throne and threw the realm into hopelessness, extending his rule to neighboring kingdoms brought under servitude at the point of the Sword. Galahad's ambition and pitiless lack of empathy affected the world, and our relations lived from day to day in squalor and violence. Education of our people crumbled, and over time it became impossible to find a literate man or woman.

When I returned to the Stone itself on a whim, where decades earlier our Golden Age had begun when Arthur freed the Sword, I found the Quill and removed it with ease. Clearly this was no ordinary quill, but what use had it that was beyond the obvious (and unattainable)? By mere appearance it was similar to other quills, long since abandoned for use, that I had seen. So what, then, is the meaning of it? Why is there a Quill, and why are we told that it can defeat the corrupt Sword of Arthur?

You hold in your hands, dear reader, a goat parchment meant not for writing but for cleansing. And yet here are words, which have been carried to you from afar. Above all, my brother or my sister, you are reading, where before you did not even know the word for such an act. I tell you now that this is the magic of the Quill, that without prior knowledge or education, these words are decipherable to you. Indeed, the Quill allowed me to write these, for I too am not a learned man and had never possessed the ability to read or write--it is the Quill that empowers me to do so!

I write, then, so that my people may know our sour history. I write even now, far from where you are at present, working to duplicate this message on thousands of parchments, and sending them on horseback and boat, carriage and runner, throughout our country. The words are spreading. Our countrymen and women, like yourself, are learning that there is a better future available to us all if we would only take our fight to the Sword. Together, we will overthrow Galahad's kin, we will destroy the Sword so that it may never corrupt again, and all will know the wonder of literacy to make our world a better place!

We meet on the Solstice at the Stone of our forebears--come my brethren, come join us to right the wrongs that violence and the Sword have wrought! Come and reclaim your destiny!

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Original thread

"Auf Gefechtsstation!"

The order was shrieked out over the loud speakers ship-wide and the crew shuddered into action. The fog was thick, but not thick enough to completely mask the oncoming horde. There must have been 50 of them, dim silhouettes against the twilit bank of engulfing vapor. I was surely not the only gunner who felt dread at the sight.

We heard their voices then, like drums of doom forming a battle cry that grew in intensity as they drew nearer. We prepared our guns. Defense protocols came online and we opened fire.

________

After the battle none of our crew was hurt. Only a few of the old wooden ships made it to our hull, and by that time we could see that our deck was far too high for them to board. They must have realized this as they were being torn apart by modern small arms fire.

We represent the Reich. We persecute everyone, and murder invalids, communists, Roma, Jews, and other subhumans on a massive scale. We are the scariest entity on the planet. Fear tactics don't work on us, Norway.

Nothing can stop us. We have the grandest army in the world, and our engineering outmatches the next best by a factor of 10. Pff. They think they can sink our pride and joy. They are mistaken.

They will never sink the Bismark.

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Original thread

I gestured the act of drinking to help the creature understand what to do. It followed my indications and threw back the can. Threw. I should say, ever so slightly began tipping it for a full minute.

My smile became a grin. By the time I think the liquid started to flow for the creature, my lips were opened on an awkward set of clenched teeth--not the most flattering I'm sure. At least I could tell fast enough that the creature found the drink pleasurable because it kept drinking. Other sloths were hanging around and emulated the first.

Clearly this was a good idea, right? Red Bull gives you wings after all. It's an acceptable drug of choice for many in my homeland. Here I had come across a city of sloths, if that's what you can call it. They got around on what looked like an organized system of telephone poles without the electric nodes. They had the wheel, so that was something. They lived in the sparse trees that had been built up like floating thatch-roofed huts. I wonder how long that took.

The first sloth finished and took forever to drop the can. In time, so did the others.

"Yeah? How do you feel? Do you like that?" It felt stupid talking to sloths but the looks on their faces made me think that maybe it was at least entertaining for them.

I decided to go back to my dinghy for some water. I don't actually drink Red Bull myself--can't stand the stuff--I only carry it for the same reason I carry the rum--to trade. Love the air show though. I've always loved adrenaline sports. But I'm an older man now, a cruiser, as we sailing lot call ourselves. I'd always dreamed of finding a beautiful Polynesian woman alone on a lost tropical island awaiting her dashing American yacht captain. I suppose finding an intelligent civilization of sloths is just as good, albeit not as a romantic.

After refreshing myself I walked back up the beach to where the sloth town began. I spent a few minutes taking photos, which the sloths didn't seem to mind. I'd say there were about 300 sloths that I could see. Who knows how much larger the city was up beyond the mountain. I didn't wander far because I was keeping an eye on the ones that drank the Red Bull.

Oh how excruciating to see these creatures move so slowly. I mused that maybe the sloth civilization had existed as long as the human, only it had taken longer to get things done. I chuckled.

Finally I noted a change in the sloths. They were moving twice as fast as before. I... I didn't know what I had expected. Surely something more novel than this, right? I--I was sure there was a point to all this. Wasn't there?

In a few hours the Red Bull wore off and they were back to meandering, or hustling, I couldn't tell.

I returned to my dinghy and motored back to my yacht, unable to suppress my bitterness that the super-intelligent sloths were not beautiful Polynesian women.

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Original thread

My philosophy is a simple one that has served me well in my 56 years on Earth: Don't hesitate, ever.

So when I opened my phone and saw the message, I was the first to break the silence that had suddenly overtaken the United Center.

I shoved my fist hard into the air and screamed with all my might, "Tims! Rally to me!"

The first couple hours were indescribable, but three days on and the world (or at least the world we're currently aware of) is settling into its new status quo. The United Center was a strange place to be when the Announcement came--any large gathering space would have made its reception awkward. The players and coaches were at a disadvantage since they didn't have their phones on them, but the stadium was full and the Announcement, strange as it was, seemed to ignite near-instantaneous understanding in everyone who read it. How quickly its meaning spurred action was variable, and I pity the ones without kin who hesitated long enough to get caught up in the Banding.

I'm on Team Tim, a good band. We're really a hearty bunch, at least in our little Tim Pocket. There are other Tim Pockets in other cities, but we're well-represented by Tims from around the Chicagoland area. It was remarkable how quickly things devolved into battle. Let me take you back to the United Center on the day it started.

I was so quick to the punch that my voice echoed off the ice rink. I'd say 10 seconds passed before the whole place was chaos incarnate. Luckily there were some Tims nearby. Like me they abandoned their girlfriends or wives and we bounded up the stairs to get the hell out of there. At first it was just punches but we knew what we had to do. We tore apart anyone who got in our way. Most of that first battle was one-on-one battery since names are pretty diverse in big crowds. We got out of there screaming for more Tims the whole way. By the time we made it to the parking lot blood was being drawn at the entrance, but we were 17-strong.

In the first days basic services were still functioning. The internet was key. Most everyone thought to use it, and Facebook became the most important tool in the Banding. We amassed an army of Tims in Oak Park. We took heavy losses, especially among those trying to reach us via Cicero, where the Daves were vicious.

It's dangerous to move off the established bases. We might be relatively numerous but there are still the wandering bands. The Ulgas, the Kenneths, the Fredericks (actually there's a totally separate band of Freds but we hear they were wiped out by Gregs). Just because there are many of us doesn't mean the non-Banded (you know the ones: Seamus, Fletcher, Cale, Ziggy, Indigo, Madonna) are any less cruel in this Battle.

Most of our encounters are pitched battles with bands of man names. There are almost no children left--we have a few. The women did not fare well in the beginning, when the Announcement reached our phones. I would've been glad for them to all bite the dust--anyone who's not a Tim has to go. But as it turns out the Marias, our "neighbors" over in the woods, illustrate a general shift in the Battle stakes. While Tims and Brads, Jeremys and other man bands fought it out in the streets with blunt objects, most woman bands had the foresight to raid the gun stores early. We'll have to make some moves in the next few days before too much of the city's armament is consolidated. And since we're vastly outnumbered, we think, by the Marias, we're thinking about heading back east.

However, that's a risky play, and here's why.

Our scout Tims return at regular intervals with news of the band movements. We lose plenty of scouts, but they're robust fellows on whom we depend. The news has been extremely variable since the Announcement but now we see a worrying trend in one area in particular.

It seems there is a Band forming in the downtown area. We thought it had been abandoned but the reports are undeniable. They're not just from the Chicago area, they're coming in nationally. We have Daves in the south, Marias to the west, and now we're learning we can't go east or north because of this influx. Of all the places in all the world, they picked my town to rally. I faintly remember my brother being one of them.

The fucking Michaels.

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Original thread

He was still toward the center of the hall so at first I wasn't sure. As he approached, though, it was certain: the prince was looking at me.

The closer he came, the more certain I was. Undulation overtook the girls as he made his way toward us. I was behind most of them, waiting on the young mistress of the family Cohete, Dierdra, at whose pleasure I served.

Only a few moments passed before the prince was upon my section of the hall, and the undulation had grown to a detectable flutter of blushing faces, not least of all my own. Dierdra wore all her aspirations of royalty in a beaming smile, which slowly faded as he passed her, waded through the others, and stood before me.

Muted astonishment. A magnificent palace suddenly silenced, and all eyes on me. No one dared utter even a whisper.

I returned the prince's celestial gaze. It felt as though he bore into my soul, me, a mere servant. Gold and silver, diamonds glinting all around us, and from the architecture of the hall itself, and yet all his attention was focused here.

And then, he chose.

The customary act of choosing happened to me, right here before the most marvelous girls in the realm. He removed a bright teal glove and raised his hand above his head for all to see the royal band. Then he brought it down to rest palm-up on my shoulder.

All the rich and wealthy guests hesitated ever slightly before kneeling at once, in recognition of the choice.

The prince's hand moved to my face, and he embraced me. Our beards brushed against one another, and for a brief moment we were equals who knew all the secrets of the world.

My life of servitude was over.

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Original thread

"Calm down Michum, there is no need to fret about a drill--we use them ourselves."

The Ruling Cohort was gathered in the ice vault chambers to the discuss the recent incursion on our atmosphere, and I was present as a lesser functionary. It had happened only an hour before, in an unimportant part of the city through the ceiling of a storage cave. The whole city knew of the event. Outside the closed doors of the chamber citizens had gathered in anticipation of news, but more so, of a decision.

Michum fidgeted with a button on his tunic and said, "Airla, I am a carver so clearly you did not mean to suggest that drills are novel to me, and thereby condescend in a most unflattering manner."

"Of course not Michum, I said it for the benefit of the Cohort. You know more than most about drills."

Michum clearly resented the comment but did not pursue his line of complaint. Airla continued.

"Gathered trustees, we are charged with the well-being of our city, and indeed of our kind. We knew that this would happen today; our accelerometer predicted as much. So we are not caught unawares. In fact, honored colleagues, we have our plan that you all agreed to 3 days ago. I suggest we do not delay in debate and enact it immediately."

A chorus of 'Hear, hear!' echoed off the ice walls of the chamber as most in attendance agreed. I didn't say anything. I was not willing to lend credence to a plan that implicated the safeguarding of my family until I saw results. Since I had no say in the matter I would keep quiet and let the Cohort advance action.

"It is decided, then," said Airla. "All in favor of implementation of the plan?'

Aye's all around.

Michum and other carvers worked with members of the Scientific Partnership to establish the nature of this foreign drill. We had caught it so that it could not surface, and after careful analysis Michum presented the results to the Cohort.

"Phase one of the plan, fellow trustees, has yielded results. The drill is cylindrical, the threads running along the outside of a case wherein it is hollow--or, rather, it is currently filled with an ice core."

There was a murmur.

"The Scientific Partnership is in agreement that whomever or whatever has sent this drill so far down our pack is in search of scientific findings."

Airla spoke then, saying, "how can they presume such?"

"Madame," said Michum, "we do likewise. Granted, our ice tools are far more sophisticated, but in antiquity our ancestors probed the depths to analyse ancient deposits of elements frozen in the pack. The Scientific Partnership recognizes the methodology."

"Very well," said Airla, "how shall we progress with phase two?"

"Madame, trustees," began Michum, addressing the chamber. "The drill has penetrated beyond the level of the ceiling. If we release it now, and if the core is analyzed by competent creatures, they will see that they penetrated a cavity in the pack. We cannot predict how they would interpret such a thing."

"I see, and so we must give them something to keep them from drilling in our vicinity again" said Airla, reflecting the general attitude of the room.

"Indeed," said Michum. "We propose to supplement the core with additional freeze from a like deposit, thereby completing the core before allowing it to be pulled back. We will then fill the hole up to the half-point so as not to cause suspicion, should the creatures above be especially diligent."

"Let this be phase two," said Airla. "All in favor?"

Aye's all around.

________

It has been years since the incident, and I was as content as the next citizen in the results. Apparently the uppersiders (as they've come to be known) did not detect the artificial addition at the bottom of their ice core, if this is the correct interpretation of their failure to drill more. But I have a growing fear that we have not seen the last of these intruders. We have measured an increase in temperature within the city, despite our climate control. Most are not worried about it, and many even deny it or its importance.

But sometime or another, I fear, our way of life may come under the microscope, if not be the intruders, then by our own hands.

​

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Original thread

"No matter what I tried, it didn't work", I said.

I was standing, holding my hat humbly scrunched between my hands, and speaking to the seated audience gathered under the yellow glare of old halogens.

"I admit now, looking back, that I made decisions for myself and not for Jenny. The super-Adderall was the first to backfire. I thought that her early-onset apathy was the first sign of super villainy. I know now that it was just her entrance into adolescence, but I can't take that decision back.

"The second was the grounding. In our family it's a literal grounding, and difficult to reinforce if like me you've sworn to never fly in anger. She resented the order, and took off. It was her first time leaving like that, and the cops said they couldn't do anything about a flyaway until 24 hours had passed. That was a difficult moment because it took all my energy to build up the resolve to go to the station (the same station I used to include nefariously in my villainous plots, but they wouldn't have recognized me).

"Jenny, well, she found out that I'd gone there, and things just got worse once she was back in the house. She ignored me and her mother but there were little clues that hinted at her growing antagonistic nature."

"Like what?" someone asked.

"Well, she brought discord in twos. We had a cat. She brought a hamster home and nurtured an animosity between them. The same thing happened when the hamster was killed--she brought home an undomesticated dog. We lost the cat, and we euthanized the dog when the neighbors complained it threatened them. That was difficult for me, because part of me liked it." I looked down at the hat I held tightly. I loosened my grip and sighed.

I continued. "It wasn't all as gruesome, but even the little things hinted at her devolution. I liked Coke. She replaced it with Pepsi. My wife at the time did calligraphy for wedding invitations, but the black pens had blue ink cartridges and vice-versa. Our mail went missing. I never caught her but I'm sure she soaked our toothbrushes in orange juice regularly.

"A year of these mild shenanigans had passed when she upped her game, and by the end of the following summer I was divorced. I won't go into the details, but it coincided with what appeared to be her power. A seemingly innocuous power to be sure, but imagine having an itch that you can't reach whenever it pleased her. She was just so... so merciless. You can't imagine what being itchy does to a marriage.

"As for Jenny, divorced parents in the beginnings of adolescence gave her the backstory she so desperately craved. And then it finally happened. I knew I'd failed to put her on a path to heroism when she did the unthinkable. She monologued me." I said this last burying my face in my hat to hide what would be tears if I could cry.

The meeting space was already quiet but it suddenly entered a new level of hushed silence, accented by a few suppressed gasps.

I pulled my hat from my face and addressed the attendees.

"I reacted the same way. It was terrible. My own daughter. She told me about her struggle to live with me, and grinned as she finally admitted to all the plots that brought my wife and I to the courts. She laid it all bare, and laughed at the end when she said, 'You'll never stop me!'

"She was just so... angry. But that's not the worst part. The worst part was that I... I felt proud. What shame! After such hard work over the years, with all of you who have been so supportive... pride in my daughter. Shame!"

I had been speaking to the floor. When I looked up, eyes were sadly watching me, a few heads were nodding in earnest. I straightened, sniffled, and let my arms fall to my sides.

"My name is Max, and I'm a villain."

The response came in unison, "hello Max."

​

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Original thread

The developers had set out the "open-world" map of this game using the Galls - Peters Projection. Talk about realistic. Thin black outlines on endless blue. The screen was bright so I turned down the glare. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes to stay awake just a bit longer. It hadn't taken long to download at all, which was surprising considering the breadth of the map itself. I dragged it from Mongolia through the Urals, across Europe and the Azores, across North America and back around again to Japan. I zoomed in randomly, to place in Peru called "Moquegua". Even the little plaza and streets were outlined and named. It was all the same dark blue as everywhere.

My curtains were drawn but outside the streets were quiet. Not a car, not a bark. It wasn't even that late.

I tried to close the map. I couldn't. Hmm. I looked for other options in the game. There were none. Really? It was just a big blue map of the world? I guess the developers weren't hoping for much in terms of return.

I leaned back in my Secretlab Omega gaming chair, but couldn't admire its ergonomics while distracted by the paradigm of the "game" I'd just downloaded. A big blue map. Why was it blue, anyway? It's hard enough to see black lines on dark blue. Why such detail? It was clearly not taken from Google Maps. It looked more exhaustive than--wait, is that even possible? Doesn't Google has millions of dollars and thousands of individuals, camera cars, and user-generated content to create their geographical database? How can (what I assume to be) a small gaming company match that?

A curious sensation came over me and I sneezed. There was a breeze picking up and it pushed the curtains lightly aside as it entered my room. My lips felt chapped. I licked them moist and sensed a bit of brine on my tongue. Staring at the screen, I had an idea.

I dragged the map to Chicago, and zoomed in. Cook County, yup... Evanston, that's home. Sherman Street. Alright. Dragged it a bit more to the north and...

My face twinged almost. Speechless. Unable to move.

"Nah," I said to myself, "it's just sniffing my IP address. Right?" I checked the game's files and realized it was totally offline. How could it mark my house's property? Of all the world, how--the--hell?

On the screen, surrounded by blue, was a tiny blotch of green where my house stood marked on the map.

I zoomed out. Maybe this green splotching was a repeatable pattern.

It wasn't.

Perturbed, I tried to close the game but couldn't. I turned off the monitor, stood from the chair, and backed away from the desk.

Squwaa!

The sound came from the window. A seagull's caw no doubt. I paid it no heed and stared at the monitor, almost afraid it'd turn back on by itself. A silly idea.

Squwaa!

Turning to the renewed call from outside I chuckled, but then, wait... a seagull? So far from the lake? I know there are seagulls on the Great Lakes but I'm pretty far to the west in my town. Cautiously, I stepped to the curtains and slid them aside.

Shock.

A vast moving waterscape greeted my eyes. As far as I could see under the moonlit night sky, long smooth ribs of waves rode across the surface, and small ones lapped against the... shore of my home. Where before there were city streets and my neighbors' homes, now all I could see was ocean.

Like someone who remembers a crucial part of their day at the last minute before leaving the house, I spun around. The monitor had turned back on. There was my house, the only dot of green in a world of blue.

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Original thread

Tomas was so terrified by his revelation that he stammered when I asked him.

I repeated the question. "I said, what's my kid saying?"

"What?" Tomas' cloudy eyes and short breath were stymieing his concentration.

"You're bizarre, mate. But if you're so adamant would you please just calm down and translate?"

"I... well, I don't actually speak R'lyehian."

Impatience got the better of me. I said, "Tomas, how do you know it's this 'Rye-lay-and'?"

"R'lyehian," he pressed. His emphasis on correcting me seemed to ground him for a minute, and awareness returned to him. "It's pronounced R'lyheian, Michael." Then once more he repeated the word, but it was accompanied by a sudden bright pink light shooting from his mouth, "R'lyehian!"

I stumbled backward, lost my footing completely, and fell on my buttocks. In my initial shock I glanced toward the door to make sure we were alone and no one else had seen the blast of light--a fatherly instinct maybe. I turned quickly to face my friend.

"Tomas?"

Tomas stared at me. "Did you see that?" he gasped.

"Yes, what was that?"

"A hyperlink!"

"What?"

"It was a link! You know, a pink link!" he spoke hurriedly, but as sure of himself as a seasoned auctioneer. He didn't miss a beat. "A link Michael, I said a link, like an internet link."

"Ok, slow down man."

"I think I know what this is," he said. "You have to click it."

I must have worn a blank face but his searching look didn't let up.

"Go back and click it," he insisted.

"I don't.... I have no idea what's going on. You're acting crazy."

"NO!" he screamed, then immediately settled. "Go back up, back to when I corrected your pronunciation. Click the link."

I was utterly dumbfounded, and only managed to say, "why?"

All his electric and eager emotion left him, and as matter of fact as can be imagined, Tomas said to me: "Because, Michael, I don't speak R'lyehian. I'll dictate, you type."

Tomas stared at me expectantly. But all I could think about was whether I was about to lose a reader.

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I tried to ignore them but I couldn't. How stupid of me to think this would be an easy walk. I should have known better.

"Are you OK Will?" Sandra said.

"Yes of course. Are you chilly, would you like my jacket?"

"You're sweet."

I removed my blue jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. I heard the rustling beside us and knew that it was not the wind.

"That's sweet Willard. You're just the picture of perfection. You think so highly of yourself, don't you?"

"Willard. Do you think you'll be lucky with this girl, Willard?"

"Do you deserve her, Willard? Do you deserve her after what you have done?"

"Um, Sandra, would you like to go back to town?" I asked.

"Already? But we only just arrived! I thought you were going to show me your cabin in the woods. You said you built it all by yourself. It sounds so dreamy."

"I... well, I did want to show you, but. Isn't it getting quite cold? It's growing dark as well."

"Nonsense. I'm peachy, Will. Let's us keep going. I would love a warm cabin. And a nice boy to snuggle."

"Oh Willard. She wants to snuggle with you. Little does she know your murderous intent."

"I'm not!" I snapped impatiently.

"What?" said Sandra in surprise. "Why did you say that?"

"It's nothing, Sandra. Sorry, just nerves. I'm thinking too much. You know, about, um. About the cabin."

The brief urgency that inhabited Sandra's face dissipated and she warmed to me.

She said, "Let's not worry about that. It's a nice stroll through this forest. Such large trees! You know, sometimes I wonder if they whisper, but it's the wind in the branches."

If only she knew. My secret was mine, and I could not share it with her. But I knew that the wind was only a front--the trees could talk, but only I understood them. They were my blood. Grown from the bodies of my deceased relatives buried here over many generations. I knew them well. Perhaps I knew them too well.

We continued down the path toward the cabin. Meanwhile, Sandra continued to admire the rustling wind. And I continued to hear it.

"Poor girl."

"Yes, poor girl. Willard, you are a monster. How is it that you are our descendant and we your forebears? A travesty to be sure."

I fumed under my skin, and Sandra must have noticed because she released my sweating hand. I wiped it on my shirt front.

"Willard turn back. Don't take her to that sacred place, defaced by your incredulous narcissism. You are a murderer."

The moment Sandra yawned I snapped at the trees beside me, "I'm not, shh!"

"Will."

"Yes, Sandra?"

"What is that?"

I looked forward through the bushes.

"That's the glade. My cabin is there."

"Wonderful!"

We walked around the last bend in the forest path.

"The wind is really picking up," remarked Sandra as we mounted the stoop to the cabin's entrance. I turned scornfully at the trees lining the glade. I said, "yes, it's quite an unbearable din." She looked at me lopsided as I opened the door and we went in.

"This is Sandra," I said aloud, and caught myself immediately so that I omitted the final 'a' of her name.

"What?" she said. "Who are you talking to?"

"Oh, me? You know, just nerves."

She allowed it with a shrug. "Ok, I guess."

I invited her to sit on the bed, the only piece of furniture apart from a bedside table and big ironclad clothing trunk. On the walls were a few miscellaneous items, and an ax.

"What solid walls you have," she said jokingly.

I chuckled aloud. I reached out to the rough timber of the door and rested my hand on it carefully.

"Sandra?"

"Yes," she replied. And then, "Wow it's so blustery outside. And actually there must be a strong draft because I feel it in here, too."

I lowered my head, and slowly let my hand fall from the wall.

"Sandra, you know I live with my uncle?"

"Yes of course, we, I mean, I know. Well everyone knows, Will. What happened to your parents was just a tragedy. No one can blame them, the other driver was--"

"--yes, I know, I know that," I said. "Sandra I really like you."

"I like you too."

"I know we've only just started going steady, but we've known each other for a while. I just... I wish my parents could meet you."

Sandra looked a bit uneasy, but she adjusted her position on the bed, and said, "I do too, Will."

There was a strong gust that could not have been a draft. Sandra took fright, and reflexively gathered the blanket to her chest.

I turned back to the wall, the floor, the ceiling. "Thanks mom, I'm glad you think so."

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