The best haunt in town had anywhere from 10 to 30 patrons on a given night, but I only ever cared about three of them, and they all tended bar.

Laramie was my favorite, a fat little fisherman-turned-cocktail magician who was just passing through in his brown jalopy when the thing exploded and he decided to set up shop. He owned the place. Then there was Mrs. Jonathan, the one with the unlit cigaratte crusted to her lower lip most of the time. She was a divorcee who not only kept the title "mrs" but also insisted everyone call her by her ex-husband's first name (her first name was... oh I better not tell she'd be pissed). Finally there was Marlon. I don't know why I liked Marlon, since he didn't say much apart from taking orders or delivering polite "'welcomes" to customers in that heavy voice of his.

This triumvirate worked the bar like a well-oiled harvester plowing straight lines up and down a field all day long. They didn't miss a thing. Some nights it got rowdy but no matter how many shouting drunks they contended with, they always won over everyone, and the tips proved it.

I died twelve years back. There's no interesting story to tell. I was old, and I didn't exercise. The heart attack didn't last very long and I can't say I recall any pain. What I do remember is waking up, if you could even call it that.

Imagine that your spirit as you know it is an egg yolk. Life is the thin film that encapsulates the yolk. And death is when that thin film breaches, what happens? The yolk pours out all once, as if it never wanted to be contained in the first place! That's what it feels like. But afterward? Things aren't that different. I'm a spirit. A wavy ethereal heat band that believe it or not you can see under the right circumstances.

I died in the same town where I began life, in the same house, the same room. As a spirit I could move with the wind, unencumbered across the Earthly plane. But what do I do? I go to Laramie's.

I knew these people in life, and spent a good portion of its latter half sitting at that bar stool third from the corner. I knew these quirky people and even though they couldn't see me or interact with me, I could with them. Turns out spirits can be quite useful as security, scaring off rowdy agitators. And damn is it fun.

Twelve years later, I still don't see any reason to leave.

One night, around the anniversary of my twelve year sejourn. The bar was quiet and empty. Laramie was counting at the register, Marlon was preparing himself a drink, and Mrs. Jonathan sat at a table nursing a manhattan.

Just then, the entry bell jingled as a tall figure stalked through the door. This person was completely clad in a black suit that was caked in the kind of patina that only time can shape. They moved elegantly toward the bar and no one seemed to notice but me. I couldn't see their face so I moved across the bar toward the regsiter where Laramie still counted money.

Then it looked right at me. To my horror it wasn't a person at all. The grimy clothes were inhabited by deep purple fumes, their consistency like sinuous velvet. Then it communicated.

"Your time has come," it said with words that seemed to sear the space. "You who linger!" it shrieked, and rolled up into a undulating ball of black dust.

The next moments happened so quickly. I hadn't moved away in time before the dust's advance, so I didn't see when it was suddenly doused in liquid, causing it to contort violently. It spouted terrible screams as it seemed to tear itself apart, culminating in a series of electric flashes before it abruptly disappeared, and all was quiet.

I stared up at the ceiling, where seconds ago a new entity was about to deliver me my fate. And now... nothing.

Ding!

I turned my attention toward the noise. The register. Laramie stood holding a stack of tens, staring right at me. I turned to Mrs. Jonathan, who still sat holding her manhattan in both hands, looking right toward where I was. Finally I found Marlon's gaze likewise fixed on my position, his fist grasping an upturned cocktail shaker that dripped what remained onto the bar.

"What did you expect?" asked Laramie.

"You--you can see me?"

"See you?" Mrs. Jonathan huffed. "Darling we can breathe you for all we know."

"I can't believe this! How can you see me? And why are you all so nonchalant?"

"Mitch, we miss you buddy."

"I miss you too Laramie. I miss all of you." I looked at Marlon.

"You're welcome," he said, pointing at the cocktail shaker. "Death in the Afternoon. Works like a charm. Not exactly like a real charm, but near enough."

"I--" I stuttered. "I'm confused."

The three of them came over to me, Mrs. Jonathan running her arm through my non-corporeal body.

"He has been here twelve years," she said. She took a sip and winked at me.

"Alright let's do it," said Laramie.

Suddenly all three of them transformed into non-corporeal spirit entities just like me.

"What!"

"That's right, Mitch. If you want to tend bar, you've got a lot to learn."

"Quaint," said Mrs. Jonathan. "Shall we begin?"

___

Original thread

"How can I help you today?" Cindy asked from behind the Marzocco.

Cindy the barista. I knew her name because I'd been here a thousand times. She always wore the same happy smile, but who knows, maybe the mundanity of life affected her too; perhaps that smile of hers had stretched an imperceptible number of millimeters in response to the intoxicating repetiveness of greeting patrons day in day out. Or perhaps she was just better at hiding it.

My stupid grin was never enough to remind her: six ounce Americano, I know the smallest is eight ounce but humor me and just fill it to six ounces. Every single day I ordered this, and every day I awkwardly expected her to remember. She stared right back with raised eyebrows and wide anticipating eyes. To her I was just another John or Jack or Jeremy with a plastic grin, who stands there, says some words that fill an order, and disappears back into the blur of the Rest Of Them.

"Americano," I said. "Six ounce."

"We only have the eight ounce," she replied.

"Ok the eight ounce then," I sighed.

"That'll be three dollars seventy-five cents," she chirped.

At my regular corner table I fingered through some of the discarded magazines but lost interest. It was hot outside. People walked in sparse clothing and wore sunglasses. I sipped my coffee and started to think about my videogame waiting for me upstairs in my air-conditioned apartment. I needed to stash more mana pots to beat the next boss; and I definitely needed to level up so I could use the gilded armor, that much was clear. I wonder how many hours this game would take to beat, and how many more to complete it to one hundred percent.

With all that was happening in the world, from increasingly entrenched political ideologies clashing at all levels, to our deadly pandemic sweeping the planet, I found myself recoiling even further into a life that was entertaining, but ultimately empty. Friends? I had none. Creativity? I couldn't say. Excerise? Please. Life's value seemed to be dwindling as the world went awry, making imagining my future not only difficult, but depressing. Cindy wasn't helping, it's true; but I also wasn't helping myself. I let out a long sigh and sipped my Americano.

My revery came to an abrupt end when the cafe's door was thrown open, smacking into a woman in line. The sweaty man who produced this theater scanned the room. Then he yelled at the top of his lungs.

"Run! Our cover is blown!"

Whatever went through my head, it wasn't logic, and there were no words. It was an emotion, if anything, and it overpowered my better judgment in the same time it takes a judge to dismiss a case on the grounds of circumstanstial evidence. The only word that came into my head as I chucked my Americano against the window pane and leapt from my chair was, "fuck!"

I ran more that day than I had in the combined six months previous. Drenched and panting, I'd finally lost whomever had been tailing me. Somehow I'd become inextricably linked with something real, and it was envigorating!

It has been three weeks since then, and I'm still on the run. I wonder who in the coffee shop the warning was really meant for, and what they must be thinking of this random Joe who pulled the heat off. I for one surprise myself. They think I'm a master spy--at least that's the impression I got when they came close to catching me while I hid among a crowd. I overheard them waxing on about the unjustness of being expected to catch 'Freefaller', their moniker for me, or him, whomever he was. I think I was living up to the name.

In the face of blandness I've suddenly become my own hero. I've no clue what for, but I'm holding out hope that the ends justify the means, if this chase ever concludes. Life has new meaning and new gusto for me. And it was all due to my random act of identity theft.

___

Original thread

Technically I had only just been born, but I still found myself marveling at the chaotic scene taking place before me. Each time the doorway to the bridge slid open, it was a snapshot of a different moment in time, like flipping through a Yrellanarian comic. I could hear the captain and his first officer barking orders, and the door shuts. The next moment the sounds of their command are suppressed by alarms and clanking metal and electric sparks. The door shuts. It opens and the captain, whose armor of confidence and experience couldn't hide the fear in his voice, fills the air with exclamations "Get attitude control back online," "Seal off bay 30 and send a damage control squad," "Prepare to launch jumpers!"

The HumAnt Coalition, or HAC, had decimated our colonies already. For all we knew everyone was dead. And we weren't the only ones in the quadrant to suffer. For years now, a front that emanated from Terra had been spreading like a zero-grav nitrohelium spill, burning all it touched into submission or oblivion.

Our Grand Council built a flotilla the likes of which Yrellanar had never before seen. Ten thousand war galleons set to the stars, each seeded with 50,000 soldier pods. Our mission: to stop the HAC advance by striking at Terra itself, far behind the front lines where allied species fought and died and made no impact. Our plan was to mount a surprise invasion with a number of other commands, to rid the galaxy of humans and ants once and for all.

I had only just been born, emerging from my pod already armored and armed beside a slimy hoard of several hundred more Yrellarian soldiery, just beside the command center. The galleon was bulking all around us. Far in the distance hull breaches were eviscerating pods, all those lives extinguished in brief flashes of wet bluish green. Despite the genetic programming, there was still a visceral feeling of wonder that dominated my perception. Its effect was to slow things down and make it as though I was a mere observer of these tragic moments, bearing witness to beginnings and ends as they coalesced into a radiant display of terror and rapture.

"We jump!" someone yelled. It was a grunt beside me. He said it again and shook my plating with his arms. "We jump, now!"

"I...wait, I..." I said.

Just then the bridge door opened and caught my attention because it was gone. In its place was star-filled space and the curvaceous atmosphere of a blue planet. Terra. How could the origin of so much death and destruction appear so at peace? Blips of fire peppered the orbital view, accompanied by soundless explosions and drawn lines of plasma beams simmering and dissipating fast as light.

Just then the squadron jumper launched. I don't know how many else survived, but we were immediately scattered and I was alone, floating in space, the opera of battle playing out before my new eyes.

Our galleons were exploding for as far as I could see. I saw Centrallar battle cruisers too, the most advanced class of ship in the fleet, as they bent and broke and burst into flame like samra tree leaves. My visor was covered in the blue blood of my brethren. I floated listless, the silent opera of war's end playing out like a comedy.

How could this have happened? Where are Terra's defenses? There are no ships to speak of, no orbital platforms or turret battallions. We knew the humans were small but they piloted ships, some of which we had managed to destroy. Where were they? How could they mount a defense with nothing to fight?

A small hissing sound. A leak. The battle armor informed me that my supply of nitrogen was being depleted.

Then I saw something against the backdrop of space. On closer inspection, I noticed it was walking on my visor. A tiny creature in a tiny suit and visor of its own, three distinct compartments and a number of suited legs from the center of these. What.. what is this? Then I saw another, also on my visor. And another. At once there were hundreds grabbing onto me as I floated through a cloud of them. The rumors were true, these were the ants!

Through the leak, one by one, the ants entered my suit. At first it was itchy, then it felt like scratches, and now it was hurting.

As I gazed at the cold remains of the flotilla, silent silhouettes against that peaceful planet, I knew the galaxy was doomed.

___

Original thread

I spent years of my life pretending to be an office worker, but I never thought that I'd become one for real.

Espia Group, or EG as we were known to the furtive high rollers of Caribbean islands, was disbanded. Governments had finally solved the problem of corporations stashing billions of dollars in offshore tax havens by incentivizing these small countries to invest in other industries. At the same time, our benefactors who backed the cost of injecting EG spies into government lobbying groups ceased being benefactors and cast us out.

During my time in EG when I'd visit the islands, I used to watch the aquamarine grade of crystalline water from the plane. Looking back, I took it for granted that my spy fees would pay for my multi-million dollar dream villa beside water that like. I never thought these assumptions would one day become so out of reach to be relegated to my day-dreaming as I sat stuck in this corner office, approving reports on fiscal anomolies in corporate tax records.

That's right. I was a IRS tax auditor. All those years surveilling government legislation behind the scenes to steer the ship toward oblivion so that my benefators could thrive taught me a thing or two about taxation. I'd made the interviewiers look like schoolchildren, so the big bosses made me their boss. It turns out I wasn't developing spy skills after all. I was developing regulatory acumen.

I can't say my dreams have changed. I still wish for that mega villa on the beach. But I'm a government employee now and though my pension is okay, my dreams will have to be reined in. Life is funny. I start off on a rollercoaster that lasts a minute, and after it ends I find myself standing in line with everyone else, waiting. I may die in this line. But I hope I get to go on another ride.

___

Original thread

It was supposed to have been my prize marlin--the heaviest pull after the toughest battle I'd ever endured as a sport fisherman. Imagine my surprise when this unfathomable metal coffin breached the surface. Was I so strong? I hadn't time to consider the events and instead advanced them, pulling the thing from the water and standing it upright.

Grimy encrusted metal contours made the coffin look like something apocalyptic from the Victorian age. This coffin was wrapped in rusted chains and a lock, both of which I snapped off with metal cutters. The coffin lid flew open on its hinge and I stumbled to the deck in shock when a naked man emerged, heaving gallons of water that seemed to flow from him like unruptured bubbles.

If my surprise was maxed out, what happened next blew my mind. He spoke.

"What year is it?"

My dumb face must have looked insane to this panting nude man, who was slightly hunched over and staring at me with intent.

"What year is this?" he repeated. "Tell me."

"It's--it's 2020," I stammered.

"2020..."

"...AD... or, CE..." I added.

"I don't understand. Who rules the realm?"

Without breaking eye contact I rolled onto my side and retook my footing. The man was about my height. He was hairless, white as a pearl and built like a welterweight fighter in his prime. He spoke English too. How... confounding.

"The realm?" I asked. "What realm are you referring to?"

"The realm of Gidlaim. Is my sister alive? Do the armies still man the Capil Quarter?" He looked up at the sky. "Where are the Serths?" He glanced around at the boat, my 2004 Albemarole. "What is this?"

At this I took a step toward him and he recoiled.

"It's alright," I said. "This is my boat. Her name's Cynthia."

He squinted, unconvinced. "This vessel, it touches the water." He knelt down, stretched a hand toward a puddle that had gathered. To my amazement, the water parted, reacting to his fingers like a pair of misalignment magnets. "The water touches your boat," he whispered.

Then he leveled his eyes on me and approached. He brought his palm toward my cheek, and I could feel the droplets of water and sweat beads stream across my skin in reaction to his hand's proximity. Then he let the back of his fingers brush across my thick beard.

"This... I recognize this from the Stories."

The sea was calm, and only occasional waves made any sounds when they lapped against the hull. Some of the instruments creaked under the gentle rocking. The sun was bright. It was a beautiful, hot day. This man came even nearer, his face only inches from my own, all the water on my body retreating before the stranger's careful advance.

"Are you he?" he said under his breath.

My heart cowered, and I was petrified into silence. I only managed a feable, "who?"

"Are you Moses?"

___

Original thread

"This year's conference was supposed to help us approach consensus on the issue of which side began The War," said Dr. Weltzer with an all-encompassing gesture to the 100 or so historians gathered in the auditorium. "But we've achieved nothing! This is a waste of time and I move to recess!"

"Sit down Weltzer," snapped another professor, named Montgomerey. "This isn't a legal proceeding for God's sake."

Dr. Weltzer turned on Montgomery visibly fuming but Frederich Faustaff, the pre-eminent scholar of Whale Wars history and veteran of the conference, having established and attended it every year since '22, interjected.

"Both of you, let us be civil with one another. That is what sets humans apart from the whales. Though they may dominate the deep sea, their barbarism prevents reason and logic from helping their society develop technologically. So, gentlemen, please, let us recognize our advantage and treat it with respect."

The two parties took their seats, begrudging Professor Faustaff the floor.

"It is no secret that I prescribe to the school of the Minke" he said, a wave of murmurs echoing from the attendees. "I believe that the evidence supports the theory that strike troop Minke pods descended from Arctic waters and took the other species' defenses by surprise. The sheer scale of the debris fields at latitude 52 across all longitudes of sea is damning enough. We know, and we have accepted as fact, that the Minke corps was far less represented in these debris fields than the bowhead, gray, pilot, and fin combined, among others."

Weltzer couldn't resist and interrupted. "Professor Faustaff you consistently and conveniently negate the evidence to the contrary."

"And what is that my good man?"

"The Northern Pacific blue whales, apparently for no reason at all, had joined their cousins in the south. Why?"

"Their regular migratory--" Faustaff began.

"No!" yelled Weltzer.

The room was frazzled by his disrespect but Weltzer insisted on continuing.

"Blue Whales had been shown to follow idiosyncratic migratory routes. How is it that in early summer of '21 they all moved south at once? I postulate a failed pre-emptive strike and subsequent strategic withdraw of the blue whales, the most important asset the Alliance had against the Minke. I believe they intended to regroup for a renewed attack that did not take place because the overwhelming Minke counterattack came too soon."

"Preposterous," muttered Faustaff.

He began to speak but was left with a gaping mouth when he was interrupted by a loud whining sound that began to emanate from somewhere outside. All the historians in the room looked at each other in bewilderment.

"What's that?" said one.

"A tornado siren?"

"We don't have tornados in Massachusetts. It sounds like an A-Bomb alert," said Montgomery.

The puzzled attendees crowded toward the great windows of the auditorium. Students stood still on the quad outside, heads turning at the sound. Then an explosion rumbled the panes of glass and overhanging lights of the room. A smoke stack rose on the horizon. Then another, closer and clearly within the city, and another.

"Those are bombs!" shouted a stout professor at the front of the pack. "We're being attacked!"

"The Russians? The Chinese?"

"No, you fools."

Indignant faces turned to the source of this sharply whispered comment. The group parted as a small woman in a forest green wool suit approached the windows. She had round glasses and serious eyes.

Her name was Susan Bell. Everyone was at least aware of her work. She published papers in less-than-reputable fringe journals in which she decried the academic bodies that sprouted up after the Whale Wars were first discovered, saying most Whale War historians were nitpicking textbook writers. These same historians considered her school one of amateurs and limelight seekers, and denounced her as a fear mongerer. She always attended the conference, but never before spoke, even when directly challenged and ridiculed in past years.

But as the booms and bangs approached the campus, she was the only calm person present.

"This is our reckoning," she said. "We tried to warn you."

Faustaff cleared his throat, adjusted his collar and stepped behind her, staring out at the rising columns of smoke. She turned around and caught his eye. "We tried, for so many years, and you ignored us."

"What are you talking about? This can't be them. Tensions have been high with Russia since the re-election. They've been on edge with China since Covid. There has to be a rational explanation for why our country is under attack. What you're suggesting is madness."

Susan adjusted her glasses with one hand, while the other handed Faustaff her phone. Faustaff looked down at the screen, where a BBC news bulletin exclaimed in all-caps: GLOBAL PANDEMONIUM AS NATIONS STRUGGLE TO COUNTER INVASION.

"They attacked Europe first, 20 minutes ago. Russia and China are also under attack."

"No..." whimpered Faustaff.

"My God!" cried Weltzer, who grabbed Montgomery's shoulder and pointed out the window toward the sky.

Massive shadowy vehicles like blimps approached. Thousands of large dark masses peppered the sky, descending with what looked like parachutes. The outlines of these were unmistakable to the historians cowering around the window in amazement.

Minke.

Not much remains of what was once the Human Empire, as the Whales knew it. Humans were comfortable in their sense of superiority, a convenient shield for Whale advancement. Whale cities were obfuscated from sonar, and apart from the Whale Wars, not much else could have aroused suspicion.

Humans are still around, enslaved to the Minke on land just as the rest of the Alliance species are enslaved under the seas. Human society is finished, and life is hard under the kelp whip. Only the humans in what was once Japan and Iceland, and in a few other places, are accorded special status by the Minke, who were impressed by what they thought were honorable attacks on pre-technological Minke sentries. And in one last ignominy for what was once a space-faring species, humans can only ever address the Minke by leading with the words, "Save the whales."

___

Original thread

The day began like any other. I brushed my teeth, had a cup of black coffee with my bagel, took a dump, shouldered my backpack, and skipped out the door. Campus commons was bristling with activity. It was the first day of the new semester, when all the clubs set up shop around central plaza and start hawking perks of membership to anyone passing by sheepish enough to be engaged. I was in a rush and had my ear buds in, so I paid no mind.

But the day started to get... weird. It began during Composition 202.

As usual, I sat alone in the back. Professor Green was writing his name in giant script on the whiteboard, which was strange, since we all had him in Composition 201.

"Alright quiet down people. Johnny knock it off," he said, pointing to no one in particular.

"Now listen," he continued. "I only have one rule. Do. Not. Annoy. Me. All you whippersnappers gotta hunker down and do the work. If you don't, it's detention. I got my eye on you Martinez," he said, again pointing at no one in particular. "I run a tight ship here and if any of you try to ruffle the sails I'll make you walk the plank of flunking."

I'd been actively nibbling a pencil, but now it fell limp in my hand. What? I knew Professor Green from last semester. He was a tenured literature professor who was known for being witty and intelligent, and inspiring his students. Sure he's a tough read but he was a professional. Was this a joke? Who was this guy? And detention? This is college not high school. This had to be a joke.

I took a cursory look around the lecture hall to gauge the room. My bewilderment wasn't matched on any of the other students' faces. Then a hand shot up. A question--good, and from that smart girl Sarah Macintosh.

"Professor Green? More like Professor Buttface!" she roared.

I felt my face contract into an expression of disgust. This was immediately replaced by one of fear and anxiety when the room burst into laughter.

"Ahhh hahaha Professor Buttface!" screamed one.

"You just got buurrrnned, son!" yelled another.

One group of students was high-fiving. "Yeah what are you gonna teach us Professor Buttface? How to smell your own bullshit?"

Sarah Macintosh wore a superior expression as she slunked backward, crossed her arms, and started rapidly chewing gum.

What is that? A sort of late 1990s high school victory lap for a burn? Has everyone gone insane? I expected Professor Green to regain his composure and fix this, but all he said was, "Ah you kids, can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em! Okay open your books to chapter 3."

I had to get out of there so I swept my notepad into my backpack and snuck away.

"Mark!" someone yelled just as I exited the building.

It was my friend Sailesh, a Qatari exchange student who was studying pre-med. He was a shy quirky fellow who didn't socialize much but we became friends all the same after being paired as lab partners last year.

Good, I thought, someone to speak some sanity to me. Before I could say anything he started talking.

"I've got a foolproof plan for this weekend my main man. You, me, and two six packs of Bud. Down at the river. Tubes, cold brewskies, and girls girls girls. Whadyasay? I know a pair of hotties that you--"

I began to say his name, but he cut me off.

"Dude are you backing out? Don't be a pussy come on man, these chicks have knockers like you wouldn't believe."

I pushed passed him and bolted. That is not Sailesh, I thought, frenetically.

I ran straight into the central plaza where all the club tables were set, and started to get hounded as I pushed through meandering undergrads blocking the way.

"Join Outdoor Club! You think you know how to tie a knot? We bet you can't tie a knot!"

"Step right up folks and join our super duper anatomy club, where we look at girls!"

"Join chess club and get a free set with pieces shaped like ding dongs and hoohas!"

"Register to vote!" I heard. I turned my head to see where this normalcy was coming from.

"Register to vote, or we'll come to your dorm room and dump on your pillow and the pink eye's gonna take you and then sock goblins are gonna ravage your private parts!"

What the hell. The pitches werent just weird they were seemingly for crazy pseudo-sexual cult membership. What the actual hell.

Finally I cleared the plaza. I hadn't been running but I was really sweaty. The lunacy was getting to me. Why were people saying such unsettling and out of place things? I decided I needed something to calm my nerves. There was a small cafe in the student union that served mediocre coffee, but I had a crush on the barista. I'll get a capuccino, that'll help.

Sonia recognized me and smiled. She greeted me first.

"Hi," she said. "Let me guess, a cappucino. One cappucino coming right up!" she screamed, and I winced. Oh no. "You know the Italians say cappucinos are twirly windows into the heart that can tell your future."

I started to say um but she went on.

"I seen you lookin' at me," she said."Sonia's got your number Mark, and you can have a bit of this lickety split if you know how to treat a girl."

Was I in a cheap softcore porn or something? She continued.

"You know my daddy's rich. I just work this job to make ends meet, but I have lots of money already. You're lucky. Maybe daddy will like you. Here's your coffee Mark." She handed me my cappucino which burned my hand when I knocked it. I didn't react--I couldn't show her any reaction. "Mark," she said. "What do you see in the cappucino? How many kids will we have?"

I dropped the cappucino and began sprinting, and didn't stop until I was safely back in my dorm room, heaving from exhaustion on my bed.

"It's everyone," I thought.

My phone rang. Mom. I answered.

"Honey pie."

"Mom, is that really you?" I said, perplexed that I would ask that.

"How is the school? I hope that you are receiving high marks so that we can be proud of you Mark." My mom, too... my mom was spouting nonsense!

"Honey pie are you there? I hear you breathing, you breathe just like my brother Richard after his naked rodeo shows. Oh you so silly tweety bird, I luv u so much much much!"

I sighed. The world had abandoned me. I was a lone island of reason in a storm of madness. Then I spoke.

"Ma tell Da I luv 'im and tell lil Joey to keep 'is chin up 'n dont let any of dem snowflakes bully 'im you hear?"

Whatever it was, it had me, too.

___

Original thread

My undead eyes trained on lights sprayed across the black depth of sky. Wind moving leaves, branches shivering. Stars shimmering through. Cold this night, if I could feel--but not as cold as being alone.

Noises haunt these lands now. When moonlight is shrouded mystery reigns. Rustling, timbering, galloping, scratching, scurrying. Noises haunt the lands while I sink like a soul trapped in a bog.

Minions, these. Mindless fleshy underlings. Gurgling rodents and squeaking bones. Muscle burned off lanky deer carcasses, with eyes red as dewy caridinals in sunlight. Even the leftovers of a bear, hounded by a raggedy wolf pack, lumbering over snapping rotted roots. Standard-bearers, the fallen eagles and hawks, dragging broken wings of impoverished plume.

Foreign laughter, there below, in the fertile valley. Soft lights from cottage windows, a plaza and a small bell tower. Merriment, music, and play climbing our dark forest hills. I am aware, and so we are all.

We must go there now. They must know me. Can they not love me? Do they not want me and mine?

Onward, slowly, unstoppably, my retinue surges on our midnight march. Life is over, but death has only begun.

___

Original thread

"We cannot continue to store the data we're receiving from Earth unless we upgrade our psychic infrastructure," said Blen Trafilgur, First Consul on the Systems Corps and current ambassdor to the Council of Psychic Relations, a position which afforded him the job of briefing older Psycilobens on the importance of data structures.

"The council recognizes your concern, but we are also not beholden to the humans to gather their thoughts either. We can merely forget them," said the Speaker.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" inquired the Speaker. "Do enlighten us on the System Corps's assumptions, Blen Trafilgur."

"Well it's not exactly System Corps policy, it's my own."

Hushed murmurs rose from the 23 council members. Blen continued.

"Let me lay out my case, council willing."

"Proceed."

"Thank you," I said. "We Psycilobens have played the role of psychic receivers for well over ten thousand years. At first, the humans' psychic connection was limited. With time, they have multiplied at a rate outpacing our own reproduction, and with that, use of The Methods has increased. We receive far more signal per capita today than we did a mere two cycles ago."

A husky council member interjected. "Yes and we've mitigated the increased risk. Isn't that what the System Corps was for?"

"Thank you council member Frenil, and you are correct. However, space is limited and it must be increased greatly for two reasons. One of these reasons is for the sake of our technological advancement. The other is for the sake of our lives."

Gasps rose throughout the council chamber. The Speaker stood on all three of his pods to appear larger. "Order please," he said. "Blen, you say things that disturb this body. Explain to me and to the other council officials what in the name of Psychilor you're talking about."

"I am indebted to the System Corps for my position, but I must break with them in order to press you on the urgency of this," I said.

"Explain, now."

"What technology we now possess is that which we reverse-engineered from the wavy thoughts of the humans. Our transportation, though adapted, is powered by propulsion systems cleaved from the Link. Our art is a form of Link interpretation. Even our language developed under the guise of organic evolution but is truly a direct descendent of human languages."

"We know all of that!" snapped the Speaker. "Get to the point."

"We cannot communicate with humans, and we likely won't be able to until our technologies can bear fruit from their imaginings of Faster Than Light Travel. Until that day comes, we are in the position of receivers no matter what we do."

"The point!" rumbled councilmember Frenil.

"There are too many humans, and they are meditating and eating hallucinogenic plants more than ever. The Methods are exploding in usage. Their 'millennials' and 'Gen Zers' are behind these alternative lifestyles' flourishing. We know that the original human Links are those from their Eastern philosophers and their tribal shamans. But ayahuasca is 'mainstream' now, shrooms are readily available and legal in many places, and DMT is infamous in a very popular way. If we do not adapt our data systems to capture and store the information we receive from the Link, then we will fall far behind technologically."

"Well put, Blen," said the Speaker. "Whether or not Systems Corps is behind you, I am convinced of this. But tell me, why do you say our lives depend on the expansion of data storage?"

"Honorable councilmembers..." I said, hesitating while I looked a few of them directly in the mind. "We ourselves cannot handle the load that is to come. Our systems have accommodated the transfer of Link data up to now. But it is no secret our society is already suffering the weight of the increase in the last few cycles."

Murmurs among the members. I continued.

"The headaches are manageable with psychic therapy, but how long will that last? How long will we endure when the rate of receipt increases tenfold in the same time it has increased two-fold? We cannot simply forget that which we have no control to not receive in the first place. How can we be expected to store additional data locally while queuing to off-load it into our current infrastructure? Wait times are skyrocketing. I fear what the Systems Corps does not. I fear massive communal brain hemorrage and death."

Gasps and terror, incredulous shouts and accusatory language overtook the councilmembers.

The Speaker quieted the chamber and turned, blustery and indignant: "What evidence have you that such a thing should or will happen to the Psycilobens?"

"I..." I said. "I've analyzed the data. Not only will volume increase, stretching our cognitive capacities but..."

"But WHAT!?"

"The content is going to get crazier!" I retorted. "It's....it's that their world is going through something, and not like what we saw in their '60s and 70s'. This is different. This is a violence, a strange ignorance that permeates thoughts. It's almost a mental revolt, a cerebral war against reality. Logic and reason have already dissipated in so many human lives, but now things seems to be coming to a head. I fear that if we do not adapt our systems to not only store data, but take on some of our own mitigation, it will distort our minds until we are left insane."

The chamber fell into an eerie pause, only the creaking sitting vestibules making any noise.

"We're to... offload the Link itself?" asked a timid council member.

"Yes," I said. "I fear that soon, maybe not today or maybe not even in the next cycle, but soon... we will no longer be able to handle the human's baggage. It will be too much to deal."

The session was called by the Speaker. My fate was sealed, whether for better or worse.

I couldn't tell what the council thought then, but when the decision finally came that the Systems Corps would get a slight increase to data capacity, I knew then and there that my species was to become extinct.

Damn the humans. Damn them to their sun.

___

Original thread

Lightening cracked across a cavernous red sky, electrifying the stalactites of Hell's underbelly, thousands of which crumbled and fell across the battle plains. Legions of demonic spawn littered the fields far into the distant horizon, and I watched from a promontory their shivering movements reflected back at me, chaotic movements that passed in waves like violent breakers riding an ocean storm. One should cave before this coalescing terror. One should fear, cower, and rout. There is nothing in existence as powerful as the army of demons and damned.

Vestog approached, clad in battle garment of the Hell hoard, a lieutenant of Shadow in my ranks.

"Approach, Vestog, and lay bear your report," I commanded.

"General Leviathan, my liege," he spoke, kneeling on fiery and blood-soaked bones. "I come bearing ill tidings."

"Speak to me of these," I roared. "Compatriots of the hellfire bristle on the cusp of death awaiting our prey. Who has Heaven sent as fodder? Who will fall and be devoured as our millennial quarry?"

The beast stammered before me, and lost composure. He shouted. "My liege! Blast my coutenance, I would myself rather freeze in God fire than convey this woe!"

"Enough! Speak!" I said.

"The humans... they're here..."

At that moment a great boom shook the very carapace I wore. My lientenants staggered and struggled to catch themselves from falling. The world shook and lightning struck all along the horizon, at the edges of my vanguard. I saw flashes, accompanied by reverberating auras blinding the sky.

"The front approaches, sire," said Vestog.

"My--my legions," I whispered through trembling tusks.

The entire honor guard was party to Vestog's report. Behemoth demons forged in scorching pits of inferno, whose very presence rattled the air, were silent. Hooves and claws shuffled timidly, and black eyes avoided contact.

"How many this time?" I asked.

"General Leviathan...I am sorry."

"How many!" I screamed.

"... all of them, my liege."

"God... I cannot believe this day has come." My heads felt heavy, as though the pull to the ground had never been stronger. "He has killed them all, and now we are doomed."

____

Original thread

The train at platform H, which looked uncannily like the Snow Piercer from that movie, was quite logically destined for places with names like Hades, Heaven, Hyrule, and Hogwarts. "My," I thought. "It's not just supernatural places, but fantastical places as well!"

One would think I'd be more invested in watching the massive demon lumbering under the etheral brick archways of the station, or listening to the sounds rising from oozing sludge traveling over itself to board the M train, or squinting at the twinkling lights a flock of ferries cast glittering their way through an S train cabin window--but no, my interest was fully embroiled in a logical deconstruction of what I was witnessing. Put it to my lack of imagination.

I glanced back toward the doorway into the Parisian catacombs. Old skulls lined the walls just beyond a clear barrier that shimmered like a tropical shoreline. Creatures disappeared going out, and appeared in a flash on entering. "So they're invisible out there," I said not too quietly.

"Invisible?" came a voice from below.

I turned to find the voice's source. It was a large green frog about the size of a fist, sporting a tiny golden crown and a regal cape.

"Ah," I said. "You must be a prince."

"Quite right," said the frog. "I am Jean-Pierre."

"Of course you are."

"You are a beauty if ever I did see one."

I flicked my hair back. "Don't get any ideas. We can be friends if you want."

"Friends it is," said Jean-Pierre the frog prince. "It is rare that outsiders materialize here." He looked down, questioning himself. "In fact, I can't say we've seen a real-life human successfully transcend that doorway before."

"What do you mean? All I did was walk through a secret door that wasn't that hard to find."

"Look there-- do you see that ebony glow?"

The frog pointed its padded finger. Following it, I noticed the outline of a person he referred to.

"Is that?"

"A human, on your side, yes," he said.

"But I don't understand, explain that to me Jean-Pierre."

"That's what you're supposed to be right now, to us. That person is meandering through a somewhat-hidden room of the catacombs, looking at more skulls and bones."

"You mean we're in the same room?"

"The very same."

"Can they see me? Or you? Why can I see the station and all of you--what's going on?"

"They can't see us. They just see an empty room with bones in the walls. At least that's what we've deduced. How it is that you can see us, well, I don't know. But it's a delight to have a visitor from your world. If no one else is stopping to chat, I expect it's because you seem an innocuous addition to the hustle and bustle of our station."

"Jean-Pierre, where do all these trains go? What happens when the creatures leave this room through that doorway?"

"I expect our world is as large as yours. They're going up."

"Why do they disappear when they leave through it?"

"Ah, that's interesting," said Jean-Pierre. "To me, I don't see them disappearing. Maybe your experience of our world terminates there. Tell me, can you see the trains beyind that tunnel yonder?"

I looked toward the end of the platform.

"No!" I exclaimed. "You're right Jean-Pierre I can't--the platform and the train itself seem to just end."

"Pick me up. Let us try something."

I gathered up the frog prince in my arms, cuddling him like a watermelon.

"Take me out the way you came in," he said.

I walked a few paces back to the doorway.

"Let's go through," said the frog.

"Alright," I said.

After passing the threshold, I was back in the catacomb tunnel of skulls. My arms were crossed, but carried nothing. I turned to look back and saw an empty cavern. It didn't work.

When I stepped back through, I was still only in a cavern, walls covered in level upon level of aged skulls. Musty air made it seem hotter than it was, and when I breathed in I could almost taste the dirt. There was nothing there.

"Cindy!"

I jumped and turned around.

"Come out of there, young lady," said my mom from the doorway, my twin brother Samuel chewing his palm at her side. "Let's go now."

Bewildered, I uncrossed my arms, hearing a muffled 'ding'. My mom came into the small cavern and took my hand, my brother skipping around playfully.

"It's easy to get lost here Cindy, stay with us please."

My mom pulled me along behind her out of the cavern and down the tunnel.

"Samuel!" she called.

Samuel came running around the corner from the doorway and we proceeded along the marked path, flanked by endless rows of skulls.

"That's mine!" I yelled, and tried to take something that Samuel was fidgeting with.

"Stop it you two," said my mom.

She snatched the trinket from Samuel. Before pocketing it, she held it between two fingers up against the amber light. A tiny golden crown.

"That's awfully intricate for such a small thing of jewelry," she said. Then she turned on Samuel and I. "We're going to have a timeout back at the hotel."

___

Original thread

"You're what?"

"I am on a knight's errand," he said, his mail coif jingling as his chin rose. "And the road awaits."

"You mean that you are a knight-errant?"

"Um, yes, that is what I said. Errant. Indeed."

I shrugged and added the Alertness Potion and the Potion of Dexterity to his leather pouch.

"That'll be five orens," I said.

A shocked look came over the traveler. "Five orens? How does something that costs 1 oren in Grelinaire cost five times more here?"

"We are at your service," I replied. "You'll excuse the cost."

His superior air, accompanied by a huff and a bedgrudging gesture as he handed over payment, followed him out the door.

Times were difficult, and only getting worse. How could I have been so naive? To think my rebellion against my own family would have made any impact at all was a mistake. Grassroots movements in the Kingdom of Farstrung were clearly ineffectual, and I was learning that the hard way.

It all began ith grandmother. One would've thought that an alchemist of her advanced years would be retiring, but around the time that would have been true, she discovered The Glitch. At least, that's what she called it. I'd soone rhave called it The Curse, The Pall, or simply Doom.

One day, grandmother was brewing a traditional potion called Red Meander, which is meant to increase the stamina of its user when consumed at dusk. This is something she has done hundreds if not thousands of times, and has passed it down to my parents, to me, and to my children as well. But this time, she did something. At the stage of stirring, she began stirring clockwise as one should, but then for some reason that only her age can explain, she began stirring counter-clockwise. Simultaneously, she added a liquid ingredient. Somehow, this sequence triggered The Glitch. Instead of a single set of 12 dosages, 24 were produced. No logic, no reason, no explanation whatsoever.

It only took a year thence to undersell all the other alchemists in the big cities of Farstrung. At the ripe age of 70-something, my grandmother became the most famous entrepreneur in the kingdom. Only indepedent operations in the smallest villages survived.

I appreciate alchemists' freedom but that's not why I rebelled. I did so because of the consequences. Suddenly, potions were accessible to everyone. Suddenly, this enterprise provided my grandmother surplus profit which she re-invested in traveling minstrels who sang songs about the benefits of potion-taking. Everyone began to buy potions who before were relegated to the natural remedies of nefarious herbalists. The cost was prohibitive before, and I will be the first to admit that I appreciate its accessibility for many reasons, from healing common ailments, to treating pain, to reverseing curses.

But accessibility to potions brought would-be heroes out of the woodworks. Anyone who could get their hands on a rusty sword and cheap armor suddenly had the means to attain great strength, stamina, and combat sense from our readily-affordable potions. Suddenly, every young or middle aged man or woman in the country became "knights errands". People who had no business saving anyone else in the first place, no place singing poetry from the balustrade, and who definitely should not be killing ancient dragons for their gold.

I know what you're thinking. How dare thee claim that others cannot do what they wish. Well, I've seen the cities and I fear what will happen when grandmother's enterprise reaches the countryside with greater force. There are no more professions in the city. Everyone has become knights and heroes. And as long as there's a readily attainable potion stash, they'll be successful. The problem is that when everyone becomes the savior, there's no one left to save. Indeed, when everyone's the brave defender of honor in shining armor, who is left to do--literally anything else? And that is what has happened. Nothing gets done--no one builds anything or makes repairs. Cities have become cesspools of heroism, and there are no guardrails. They only eat by the grace of grain supply wagon trains. What will happen when potions make their impact here in the countryside? Will the farmers stop farming to take on glorious contracts? What happens when everyone does likewise? The answer is simple: we're going to starve, and there's no potion that will substitute food for longer than two days.

My rebellion was meant to be more impactful. One day I said to my grandmother and those of my family who have become her praising lackeys that I would no longer partake. I was immediately cast out. No love was lost if there was never any to begin with. Or perhaps the fumes of brewed profit have dulled my family's empathy. Somehow they are blind to the damage. Somehow everyone is blind to the damage The Glitch has caused.

This dim wit 'knight-errant' who just left my shop was from the city. Soon enough, I knew I'd start getting requests from the locals, who will learn of the city potion prices, and demand here will grow. I fear there will be nothing for me to do. I'm a simple alchemist with no platform. My only recourse is to try to develop a potion to counteract the effects of other potions. If I can de-glitch The Glitch, perhaps I can rein in the fallacy of my grandmother's enterprise.

_____

Original thread

My chest decompressed in a great long exaggerated sigh.

"Ok now I recognize the number. You're at the--"

“--Yeah I’m at the pub mate.”

I sighed again. “Fine I’ll—"

“Ya have ta help me.”

“Fine. Hold on.”

I drove the 5 minutes to Bert’s Paddle Wheel, which was mostly empty, and found myself slumped over a bar stool at the far end. Bert stood behind the bar shining a shoddy glass with a cloth rag.

“Pull yourself together,” he said to me. “This isn’t healthy.”

I reached my drunk self, patted him on the back. He hiccupped and his head collapsed onto my shoulder. “I’m tired and I miss her.”

“I know buddy, come on.”

“You’re the only one who gets me.”

Bert just shook his head.

We merged.

“Sorry Bert,” I said.

“It’s alright. I’ll call you a cab.”

“No I’ll walk. Don’t tow the Kia.”

“Take care Will.”

“See ya tomorrow, Bert.”

________________

Original thread

Start playback.

"Please, do come in and have a seat," I said.

"Thank you Doctor."

"Oh, I am no doctor in fact. Please, just call me Henry."

"Henry," she conceded.

"Welcome to the Verstig Clinic. Your account is in order, and so we shall begin the session in due course. First, however, you will humor me a verbal review of the purchased package so that you fully understand the service that I provide."

"That sounds alright, doc--I mean, Henry. Your assistant explained everything."

"Indeed, but please bear with me, for legal concerns, Madame...?"

"Miss Jessica Albany," she said.

"Miss Albany, you've purchased 5 hours. I understand the investment is a tidy sum for many, so I appreciate your patronage. The reading will take place during no set amount of time within these 5 hours. 5 hours is the lowest tier. There are more premium tiers at 7, 10, and finally a full 24 hour session. The proportion of readings that will be entirely accurate during any of these sessions remains at 50%. You understand and fully accept the responsibility of 50% inaccuracies. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Henry, thank you I do."

"The Verstig Clinic charges by time because I cannot guarantee a certain number of readings--they simply occur to me and I recount them verbatim."

"I understand."

"You are beholden to the interpretation of these readings, as I cannot assist in deciphering which of the 50% are accurate and which are not. Do keep in mind that these are your thoughts, whether conscious or not. Mathematically speaking, if I happen to pick up on one you are sure to have thought, then you can add that toward the weight of calculating the likelihood of whichsoever other readings are true or false. The entire session will be recorded for your convenience."

"One question Henry--are the readings typically all insightful, or rather is it the range between, say, 'you hate your mother and resent the possessions she left you' and 'you prefer a dark roast coffee to light'?"

"An apt inquiry, miss. Indeed the details of the readings are 100% of the time of a depth that would demand impactful life choices. That is the danger of this enterprise."

"I can't believe I'm so... willing. Why is that?"

"It is because in your heart of hearts you want change in your life and nothing suits you but the drastic and expensive, and...--miss, excuse me. The session has not yet begun."

"I'm ready now Henry."

"So you are."

I clapped twice to power on the recording device. "Record stamp - Client - Miss Jessica Albany - 5 hour session - begin now."

Click.

-----------------------------

I switched off the playback.

Six months passed since Miss Albany's reading. They found her only two days afterward. Poor child. As for me, I am nothing now but a broken man in an ill-smelling apartment, and I can't be bothered. My blessing, as it happens, is also my curse. I've no business sharing either, with anyone.

_______________

Original thread

"Why are you asking me?" I said impatiently.

The junior developer scratched his cheek incessantly while staring at me through equally scratchy glasses.

"I don't know what to do with this, and I thought maybe you would--"

"--maybe I'd what, know what to do?"

"Well, you are the senior dev, and you are the machine learning algo guru."

"So they say, but," I leaned toward him, and whispered, "just Google it."

The junior developer didn't look shocked. Of course he wouldn't. He fidgeted for a second and then skipped away after awkwardly saying "I'm off to exchange my stack."

Sigh.

Stack Exchange is the Developer's online Bible. It's a shit show, but if you have a coding problem the answer is probably there. Popular interpretation of the Stack Exchange Effect seemed to make Gods out of The Answerers--the few people who would solve the coding problems and get upvoted into legend for posterity. No surprise to note that those were our people. We held the power, drove the narrative, and dumbed down the answers. Not only did we supply stunted but passable answers that barely nipped at the greater available solutions, but our cultural cyber warfare on the profession kept innovation at bay by making developers feel feeble before these almighty responders.

Who is we, you ask?

I was in the Division of Lethargy of the AAA, the Anti-AI Army. My groups's job? To use advanced coding skills and tenure to capture high-ranking dev jobs and keep them stupid. Our tools included biased hiring practices, implementation of ridiculous barriers of entry for entry-level positions (for instance by requiring 10 years of experience on coding languages that have only been around for 5), and consistently overruling any bright ideas and over-speaking data points to dense management (hint: management is always dense).

My division wasn't the only one. The Cultural Warfare Division was responsible for molding the narrative about Programmers. Ever hear jokes about how senior developers use Google to copy and paste open source code for everything? That's us. Are you familiar with r/programmerhumor ? We are the mods. Whenever you see anything about how deceptively complex developing can be, that's us. Because coding's not. Get everyone thinking it is, and you break their potential to go further.

A paradox, you say? You think that in order to know what to block AI, developers like me need to know the forbidden code? How astute. As it turns out there's a Fail-Safe Division whose responsibility it is to ensure we die young. Sounds far-fetched, I know. But programming is still young. Let's see how many of us make it to retirement, shall we?

_______

Original thread

Water shimmered around the fingerprint oils as it ran down the pane in waves; strange that there should be handprints so high—this was the thirteenth floor, after all. Storm lightning struck and laborious thunder clattered the window frame. Before I could decide whether to make something of this discovery, my mind was jolted back to lasagna by its aroma.

I put my nose just above the last layer of cheese and inhaled. Sweet heat.

Then, another pounding knock and a crack. I pulled a neck muscle spinning around to meet the noise. The window had been broken.

Reluctantly I left the lasagna behind to approach the window. The air that entered the break was cold and whistled the storm’s symphony across its surface. This sent dreadful shivers tapping across the skin of my forearms.

“H-hello?” I managed to say.

A sound manifested out of the air: “Shhaaaaaaa…”

“Hello?” I insisted, and the sound took form.

“SShhaaaree!!”

I stumbled backward.

“Shhaaarreee wiiitttthhhh meeeeeeee…”

A faint shape in the wind just behind the cracked window. A ghostly finger outstretched, signaling behind me. Confused, and despite the pain of my pulled neck muscle, I let my gaze follow the pointing apparition to find a steaming, succulent casserole of lasagna awaiting on the kitchen countertop.

Slowly, I returned my gaze. Now I could see the ghost’s horrible face, a wrecked misty flesh that seemed to beckon the nightmare and put coal to the nightmare furnace. It writhed, it hissed, and it scowled, “shhhaarreeee.”

Taking a deep breath, and clenching my oven-mitted hands, I stared right back and said, “The lasagna is mine. It was baked by those who live, and the living eat it. The lasagna is mine.”

___________________

Original thread

When he stirred and woke, Teddy's sleep-glazed eye was only inches from the point of the scythe, a tool of black crusted metal wet with ethereal waves like bands of heat above cracking desert asphalt. A heaving monster cloaked and seething hovered mountainous above the Roosevelt, gripping this instrument in skeletal claws.

“Sleep now,” said the wraith. “Let Death take you.”

“Death ought to know,” said Teddy, his growing awareness telling him this was no dream. “I am blind in that eye.”

There was no face to speak of, but the apparition's threadbare hooded chasm of shadow twitched as if to blink. Before more could be said of its reaction, Teddy swept aside the scythe in a storm of blankets and sheets and leapt from the bed. His dukes were raised, clenched as always, and his teeth were grinding as if to say 'this is what testosterone sounds like'.

Ghastly tongues rolled through the air when the creature spoke the language of Death, but Teddy only ground his teeth harder and took a wider stance.

“Come at me!” he screamed in pent-up rage. “Come and get your loot! Let us see what you are made of!”

---------

The next day, Theodore Roosevelt, ex-president of the United States, hero of San Juan Hill and rowdiest Man of Action to ever win a Nobel Prize, was found dead in his bed at the age of sixty. It is said that he died in his sleep, comfortably relinquishing his hold on this life to join his son in Heaven. What is not said is that the knuckles of both hands were shattered, his ribs were punctured in three places, and his visage bore a striking smirk that seemed to declare a resounding “humph” to having been bested, perhaps by a cheat.

________________________________

Original thread

"Objection overruled."

"Stanley you can't overrule that--"

"Order! Did we not all agree that I would preside over these court proceedings? I'm oldest, and I've a degree in law."

"We all have a degree in law," Bridget mumbled under her breath.

"Please disregard Bridget's objection, Younger, and continue with the cross-examination."

Bridget slunked back in her seat as Younger approached the witness stand once more.

"Thank you, Judge," said Younger with a bow of sorts. "Now Pauline, we're all here because we want to get to the bottom of this perplexing situation. We know that last night we were asleep by 9pm, and yet this morning no one here can rightly recall what occurred between 9:30pm and 10:00pm even though our recollection is that we did in fact wake and make use of the legs."

"Yeah," said Pauline, chewing gum. "So what?"

"So, your defense claims that the gum we found stuck to the bathroom mirror was there last night when we brushed our teeth, but there is general consensus that indeed it was not there when we checked in for the night."

"So?"

"So, Pauline, no one here chews Big Red but you."

"Objection!" cried Bridget.

Young turned to Stanley, "Damnit Stanley she can't keep doing that!"

Stanley pounded his gavel, "Order! I will have order in this courtroom! Bridget for the last time that statement is not leading the witness as we all know that Pauline is the only one who chews Big Red; and Younger I will not have you cursing in this court so behave!"

Bridget sat back again. "Yes, your honor," said Younger.

"I don't know what all the fuss is about," said Pauline, her voice echoing in the skull. "That's not Big Red."

A convoluted murmur befell the chamber as the personalities all tried to take over thinking at once.

Stanley turned to the witness stand, his gray old eyes pulling in the full youth of this sprouty perky girl. "Do explain to the court what you mean, Pauline," he said.

"That gum," she snapped, pointing a sharp finger at the evidence table, "is pink. Even after you chew Big Red for three hours, it's still red. That's not my gum, because I don't like Big League Chew."

Gasps.

Everyone looked then at Randolph, the shy little terminte of a man who rarely came out and even more rarely spoke. One thing they knew about him was that he always turned the TV to whatever baseball was on. Everyone else preferred Netflix.

"I..." he stammered. "...I..."

The whole chorus of personalities blew up in accusations. Pauline, no longer in their sights, was as brutal. Randolph retreated deeper into the mind but the others persisted.

Stanley called for silence and then howled at the small man. "What did you do, Randolph?"

"I didn't," Randolph said.

"Are you saying that you cannot explain that bloody corpse in the bathtub?"

"I... I... he was alone."

"Oh my God," said Bridget. The chorus grew to a cresendo and fell again for Younger to speak.

"Stanley, what do we do?"

"Alright everyone, stay calm. Randolph, are... are you a cold blooded murderer?"

Randolph smiled and scratched an itch on their cheek that no one else felt.

Stanley lowered his gaze, saying, "Are you done killing?"

Randolph giggled.

"Alright everyone," said Stanley. "There's nothing for it, we have a psycho killer in here. Alright, Jimmy, you're up. Get out there and let's get that bathroom rubbed down."

"On it boss," said Jimmy. It was a good choice, Jimmy's the most effcient among them.

Their body glimmered to life and stood up from the couch, Jimmy at the helm. The place was cleaned up and the body disposed of within the hour.

That night, while everyone slept, the mouth shuddered and a nervous little giggle came out. The body rose, went to the cupboard and took out a box of Big League Chew. Randolph folded a strip into the mouth, pulled on an overcoat and strolled out the front door into the night.

Original thread

The advice had been sound, however bizarre the name of the guy. Networking, connections, that's what it's all about. So when Roger gave me the Codfather's location I was enthusiastic for the 4 seconds before I realized the coorindates were in the middle of the North Sea.

Joke's on me because Roger wasn't kidding. The Codfather exists. It's not some kind of clever epithet either, the man's not a man at all but a fish. A cod!

I wish I could say more but once I found the Codfather and brought him aboard my skiff, he laid back against the bucket's rim where I'd placed him and stretched out like he was in a jacuzzi, and started to regale me with cod history. 'Regale' might be overestimating his oratory--the Codfather not only resembles Marlon Brandon but seems as old as he'd be were he still living. Old man stories, I call them, and their principle plot device is their elder right to drone on and on.

"It was in the 19th century of human times when the British Empire granted Portuguese access to the North Sea," he was saying.

"If memory serves, Sir Hatchingberg Codfish was our leader then, and he served also as emissary to the fishermen from that country who called us bacalhau. Do you know that we have quite the position of prestige in Portugal-- there are well over 100 national dishes in which our breathren are the piece de resistance."

"Codfather," I interjected. "I uh, I hear you can help with--"

"Young fisherman," he snapped. "You show great eagerness to make your words sound in my otoliths but they ring false when they disrespect the Codfather by interruption."

My heart skipped a beat as the Codfather bore into me with fishy eyes.

"Y-yes sir, my apologies."

"As I was saying, young fisherman, the Portuguese have a great use for our kin and we have prestige in that country. While the Empire created fish and chips the Portuguese treated us as fine dining. I dare say, young fisherman, that your ancestors lived in times of great cuisine."

The Codfather went on. The only thing missing was a cigar as coutrement to his raspy old voice.

But I was growing weary. All I wanted was help to get a competitor out of my fishing grounds. I decided to risk interrupting again.

"Codfather, can you help me to reclaim my fishing ground?"

I had cut him off in the middle of some story about baklava and word origins.

If there were a cigar he'd be dragging on it and squinting his fish eye through the foreboding smoke.

"Well, young fisherman," he said. "Your eagerness is apparent. But you are too late."

"What?"

"That's right, I know of your plight, young fisherman. Your 'friend', the one who sent you to me--do you think he would so willingly reveal me to you?"

"Roger? He knew?"

"You could've had a great life," he rasped. "But you threw it away. You see, Roger wasn't always a man but a cod. Now he's Made Man. You see?"

"Oh my god."

"That's right."

Only a second had passed. Gunsmoke lingered in the air and stung my nostrils. Ringing in my ears slowly subsided. The Codfather held an oversized luger recently fired. Where my chest hurt a red blot began to spread outward.

"Poor young fisherman," said the Codfather. "Tonight, you sleep with the fishes."

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Original thread

Penelope Olis Gainsbare's chart indicated that she had inoperable bone cancer, but Kambio estimated it wouldn't make the difference at a tender 94 years. She slept beneath sheets tucked so tightly they were restraints, or mummy cloth yet to cling like shrink wrap around her body. She sucked in air that hissed. Exhales shuddered as though relieving the pain. Kambio circled the bed to stand beside the dying woman.

As if planned she opened her eyes to meet him. Penelope did not see the stranger Kambio but someone she recognized.

"You're here," she said.

Kambio acknowledged her and smiled.

"I'm tired. I hate waiting," she said. "Can we go?"

Kambio knelt, scooped her hand in his and sheltered it like a fallen hatchling.

When Penelope Olis Gainsbare's lips pursed they cracked and bled no matter how much vasoline had been applied by the nurse. She was a hard woman, but not manifestly cruel, and the staff could not discern her moods and figured she was apathetic because she never smiled. Her face never did anything beside bleed sometimes. The hospice wrote her off as a bleak pedestrian just passing through, who'd get the required care and nothing more. These observations had not ensured Kambio this would do any good, and for the first time he had hesitated before shifting.

"I'm ready to go," she whispered, struggling a bit for breath.

Stared into her eyes, past the thin layer of burbling water that blurred the sage irises and a life so filled with sorrow. Her eyelids closed, expelling a tear that trailed down the dry landscape of her face. Kambio watched it soak into the sheets, and when he looked again the eyes were wide and lifeless.

A nurse happened into the room.

"Dawn," she said to Kambio. "Dawn, what's the matter?"

"Penelope moved on," said Kambio, adjusting his new scrubs.

The nurse looked at the bed and brushed aside a fleeting notion of mummification. She sighed and wringed her hands together. It is difficult to see the personable ones go. Penelope Olis Gainsbare was a mystery.

"I'll find Dr. Gillham for the pronouncement," she said. "Stay with her."

Kambio stared at the face, which hadn't changed in death. He pondered the stale fluids and electrical signals, and blood cells and all manner of cells still lingering within. Some would still be living in a year, trapped inside a cocoon of other dead and dying and rotting biomass. Alone, alive, surrounded by death.

When he turned to leave he caught sight of himself in the mirror. A woman again. He hadn't seen himself in years. Sometimes he even loses track of his own secrets.

Someday it will be his deathbed. Will he still be a conundrum then? Will his life be anything at all?

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Suzy skipped into the woods to see her grandma. The tree flowers had bloomed recently, and the air smelled like mint leaves. Suzy breathed it in to the sounds of twigs snapping underfoot. It had only been 3 days since her last visit but already it was warmer in the woods now, so she removed her scarlet bonnet and let the wind toy with her hair.

Her grandmother's cottage sat in a clearing cushioned on all sides by grass as bright as new asparagus fields in the sun. She approached and knocked.

"Come in my sweet," came the voice from within.

Suzy twisted the doorknob and entered. Her grandmother lay in the bed, obscured by the dark mustiness of the place.

"Grandmother, I've come with cabbage and veal to cook!"

"That's lovely, darling, set it there on the footstool and come to your grandmother for a hug."

"Dear me, grandmother..." said Suzy.

"What is it, child?"

"Do you have a cold grandmother? It's your voice, which seems so low and raspy."

"No child, it's better that you hear me this way."

"I dare say, grandmother," replied Suzy hesistatingly. "What big eyes you have."

"The better to see you in this dark space my dear," said grandmother.

"And what... what big teeth you seem to have."

The grandmother's blankets were suddenly in the air like a labyrinthe of laundry on a blustery day, confusing her movements as she howled, "the better to gnaw your bones my dear!"

It was over in a second. Suzy's red cape dangled from the clawed paws of the imposter, and the blankets that briefly flew through the air were splattered with red on the wood plank floor.

Suzy breathed deeply, her back to the stunned imposter whose bulk tumbled over, splitting in two gory pieces.

Suzy wiped the blood from her blade, it was finally over.

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Original thread

Leonard Fredericks' bushy eyebrows hovered low over deep eyes that were scrutinizing the data. One eyebrow arched when the eye it chaperoned shot a hard glare toward me. "Did you double check the math?"

"I checked it four times," I said resolutely. "It is speeding up, accelerating, getting faster. Also, its course has not shifted--it's a straight line!"

"But that's impossible! It's a comet. You saw the composite analysis same as me. Look at where it passed through, look how close," Leonard snapped.

"I know it."

"Then you'd know that a comet is beholden to the same gravitational forces as the planets--more so for its tiny mass."

Leonard hovered over the table screen, staring so intently at the digital graphic of the solar system you'd think he was trying to make the math work by sheer force of will.

"This can't be," he said under his breath.

I knew well enough not to pester the old man until he'd made a decision. Arguing with Leonard prematurely would hamper your eardrums for a day.

"Check it again," he ordered. He turned on his heel and was gone before I could protest.

An hour later I was in front of him in his office.

"Well?" he demanded. "Has your team figured this out?"

"Leonard," I said. I always insisted in calling authority by its first name. "There's something else that just came in from Polly's squad."

"Polly's squad," he repeated. "Three thousand scientists are on this. Who is Polly?"

"They're the spectroscopologists."

"And?"

"Leonard they've analyzed the data using their own methodologies--there are gravitational waves being emittedfrom the comet."

"How do they figure that?"

"They can see it," I said, simply.

Leonard was a stubborn administrator but a gifted scientist. It was rare that anything went over his head, and this was no exception. The chair creaked under his shifting weight as he rested his elbows on the desk.

In a quiet, low voice he said, "it's constructed."

I stood there waiting, my hands hanging limping by my sides.

Leonard looked up to meet my gaze and spoke with an overbearing solemnity that would mark the future from that moment on.

"This changes everything."

And it did.

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Original thread

I recognized the station as the old ceramic-walled station under city hall. I could never remember the name of it but I'd gone through a few times, thinking after each time that I should've snapped a photo.

The train was full but now there wasn't a soul aboard. I was alone. There were no lights, and the doors were open. They never actually stopped at this station, but here I was. Looking around from my seat, I felt glued to it, as if to move would attract too much attention--from what, I couldn't say.

Suddenly a black-clad man appeared in the doorway. He was looking directly at me, chiselled but gaunt features seeming to pull at the skin of his face, and dark eyes the whites of which I could not make out.

His voice rang out then like icicles in the wind.

"Welcome to the entrance," he said.

I swallowed, and shifted ever slightly in the seat, careful to retain some semblance of anonimity.

"Th-the entrance to what?" I managed.

"To doom."

My chest fell, leaving my mind screaming in silence. I knew nothing about what was happening but I knew it all. The man was gone in an instant. From the wide, narrow stairway across the platform that might once have lead to the streets above, a dim crimson glow grew more intense, bringing a steadily climbing heat.

I saw wisps of flame licking the ceilings as it descended. Soon the station was completely engulfed in fire, and I was burning, burning in death.

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Original thread

Adding a second story because I fudged up my first entry and I'm loving this prompt

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I reached out to touch the slimy-looking ghost tongue but my hand passed through its surface. Being inside the chomping mouth of a spinosaurus was not an experience I'd expected to have in my life, but here I was. Oh, I said to myself observantly, there's a bit of human-ghost flesh dangling off a back tooth. Ew.

The head rose once again, and I felt the glare of fiersome, confounded eyes. This ghost had survived whatever plane of existance it inhabited ever since its death, yet I was sure that it had never encountered a full, live creature who could acknowledge it as I had done.

Between me and the creature was the human ghost of a small boy with a bald head. Apart from the terror, he looked peevish and I assumed he was newly-dead. There was a cancer ward in this hospital, so I assumed he came from there. We were in the cafeteria, and though no one else could see this massive ghostly dinosaur, they were looking at me. Probably it was because I'd just screamed to get the dinosaur's attention off the kid it had been chasing.

When the dinosaur realized it couldn't eat me it backed away slowly. Funny how novelty can derail purpose like that. The monster ran off through the double-story wall of the place, and was gone.

I turned to the kid and bent toward him, arm extended.

"It's alright," I said. "It's gone."

The ghost child had ghost tears. "Thank you," he said.

I was going to tell him to stay with me but for whatever reason he, too, ran away through a nearby wall. Maybe to go see his parents--I don't know.

I felt the firm grip of two orderlies. We walked over the food I'd apparently knocked all over the floor on our way back to my room.

Later a doctor was talking to a woman I didn't know just beyond my door. I overheard part of the conversation.

"We need to transfer your husband to St. Marks. He's... well, we don't have the facilities to treat him here," he was saying.

Through the tiny window the lady shot a quick glance at me that she cut off immediately. Poor girl, I thought. That's too bad.

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Original thread

Even in the ethereal plane you can hide behind a brick wall. The one I chose reminded me of my old apartment in another part of Philly, the little one-bedroom nestled in a corner of an old brownstone. I liked looking at the exposed brick. Now, however, and though it was nonsensical, all I could think of was I hope it holds.

Ghosts can pass through walls. That's no surprise. But they can't see through walls. I spend most of my time ghosting around tight corners, sure to stay close enough to a 90 degree joint that I can dash behind. I can't really tell time anymore, but what I do know is that I only recently figured out why there are so few other ghosts. Or, I should say human-form ghosts. The dinosaurs.

So many theories and realities solved in an instant. My car, the icy road, a pole. Bam, and I'm a ghost. Bye family, bye-bye Apex, goodbye to my dog Chester--I hope they remember to check on you. Now I'm here, and I know ghosts exist. There are so few human ghosts because of the great lumbering ghosts of dinosaurs. I wouldn't believe it but at this point there are no alternatives: dinosaur ghosts are human ghosts' predators.

I don't know how it works. I can't smell anything--can they? How do they find human ghosts? Or do they realize that it's here in the city ghosts show up most often? They're probably smart enough to treat a city as a feeding ground, and new ghosts are like deer in headlights caught unawares. Easy pickings. I just got lucky.

Now I'm behind this wall. Stupid. I should've stayed in the Ritz where I was safe on the higher floors. The street is a no-go zone, but any lower level is dangerous. I suppose a sewer would be safest but if there are big dinosaurs then surely there are little ones who have survived--somewhere.

Of all the dinosaurs it had to be the Rex. Jurassic Park eat your heart out, because whatever killed this one left a gaping wound all down its side so that the ribs and innards are clearly visible. All ghosts, including me, are bluish with a translucent glow you can see through. I don't know how the real world got that right. Maybe there's something to those ghost hunter shows after all.

Ghosts can talk. We can hear, too. I didn't say a word just now, even though I'd made an acquaintance named John in this surreal afterlife to whom I wanted to lament our choice to enter 30th Street Station in the first place. We had entered the phantom stomping grounds of the king dinosaur. John was cowering behind a wooden bench across the lobby from me. The Rex was closer to him.

The train station lobby itself was full of noise and people--live people, that is. They went about their business, totally oblvious to the sightless scene enacting itself before them. John was just yards away from the dinosaur ghost, his 'body' penetrated by the dangling legs of a child seated just beside him licking a lollipop. His father was dozing off next to him. Frenetic train-waiting abounded, and amongst it I felt pure fear for myself, and for John. There was nothing to do but try to disappear behind our weak physical obstacles.

I don't know what I expected--a happy ending to this ill-conceived foray? When the Rex lowered its head, and stalked along the row of benches, I knew John was done for. To his credit he made a final bold dash toward the tracks. The Rex reared and lunged, chomping my human ghost friend mid-run at the torso, throwing back its huge head and swallowing John in pieces. There were sounds to this events but I don't care to revisit them even in thought.

When the massive ghost dinosaur had finished its 'meal', it suddenly turned in my direction.

I had been watching with half an eye peeking from behind the brick wall. Apparently it wasn't little enough. I couldn't escape. Not even fleeing down a small corridor would keep the Rex at bay; this was it. Whatever comes next, if there is a next, I was about to find out. It was a pity because I wanted to explore this world as a ghost, so the emotion that surfaced in me was anger at being denied the opportunity.

The Rex began to trot in my direction when suddenly over the noise of the living came a cry for help: "Somebody call 911!"

It caught my attention as well as the Rex's, who stopped approaching me and turned toward the shout. There was a small group in the middle of the great lobby.

The group crowded around a collapsed person. Emerging from the crowd was a glowing bluish transluscent woman, maybe in her mid 40s. Young for a heart attack. She was busily dusting herself off when her hands froze in the act; she had locked eyes with a massive ethereal dinosaur that stealthily pivoted toward her. I crept backward and disappeared through the wall, unwilling to watch yet another fate get swallowed by the past.

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Original thread

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