tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58686771700573333292024-03-19T02:38:49.895-07:00The Rest of Your MiceToday is the first day.sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.comBlogger284125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-28771738346216172102018-05-17T12:09:00.000-07:002018-05-21T14:14:34.240-07:00Story 253: A Shot at RedemptionColton took a fourth unlabeled bottle down from the shelf, this one filled with a golden liquid. "You’re right," he said, "I’ve never had that particular request before. But before you break your arm patting yourself on the back I should point out that pretty much all of my orders are unique."<br />
<br />
He was standing behind the bar, wearing a pristine white apron over his tailored suit. There was nobody else in the bar, just Colton and Isaac, though the distant sounds of a busy night club came from three stories above. Colton’s bar was always empty other than whichever client he had decided to allow inside, despite having seating for at least a hundred.<br />
<br />
"So the question, as always, is how do I mix this drink?" He stared intently into one of the other bottles he had gotten down, a thing of thick green glass that - to Isaac at least - appeared to be empty. Isaac knew the question had been rhetorical but it he answered anyway out of nervousness.<br />
"Well - heh - hopefully no tongue of bat or anything, right?"<br />
<br />
Colton smiled, and slowly looked up. "No. No bat for you, friend. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll have to put some... obscure... ingredients in there. It’s magic you want, after all. But no wool of bat, no eye of newt, nothing like that. I think, in your case... a martini."<br />
Isaac felt his muscles relax. A martini. That sounded familiar, safe. "Sure, sure. Thanks mister Colton. Good old gin and vermouth, and a little of your... your thing."<br />
<br />
"Maybe," Colton said, putting one of the bottles back on the shelf and taking three more down. "I have some very special gin that will be perfect for this, and a few types of vermouth that might tie in with the right binding ingredients. But I have other options too, the martini has some variants that are still close enough to earn the name."<br />
"Does that matter?" Isaac asked as he squinted at the thousands of bottles still on the shelves.<br />
"Oh, certainly. The name is all part of it, magic works partly on its own merits but partly on how the local culture demands. Thus, in times where magic is largely considered fiction it can actually be better to disguise the crafting of potions as something people do believe in - mixing drinks. But then the drinks themselves must follow, and so we care very much about the connotations. Martinis are sophisticated, a bit celebratory. As with any alcohol you can drink them when you’re depressed but that’s not really what they’re associated with."<br />
<br />
Celebratory. Isaac rolled the word around in his head, and couldn’t make it apply. "I don’t know that celebratory is the thing, really. Not to question your work, mister Colton, it’s just that I worry you’ve misunderstood."<br />
Colton smiled. "Not at all, but as I was saying there are variants. A martini is our base, we’ll be close enough to the martini to get some of the good connotations we need but with a slightly different twist. Pardon the pun. Yes. Add some vodka, swap the olive out for a twist of lemon peel... yes, this will do." Colton yet again re-arranged the bottles, replacing some and pulling one more down. He pulled a lemon out from under the bar and cut it in half, revealing black pulp under the yellow rind. Isaac stared at it, watching the juice run down onto the bar and change from pitch black to bright red as it spread out in a puddle. "That’s a lemon?" he asked, but Colton just carved a thin slice off and set it aside.<br />
<br />
He began to measure out the alcohol, some of it seeming to pour in slow motion. "There’s still the question of the glass. Martinis are traditionally served in a modified cocktail glass, but this type should be in a champagne coupe." Rather than ice, Coulton dropped some clear crystals into the container. They didn’t look cold, but almost instantly condensation appeared on the glass. "Of course what I really am using this for is the name, because the other connotations are more related to... subterfuge, gambling, womanizing. All related to your predicament, I suppose, but the name is the thing. Vesper. Roman version of Hesperus, also known as the evening star. Hesperus and Phosphorus are two sides of the same coin, brothers but also the same person - Phosphorus being the morning star. Sound familiar, Isaac?"<br />
<br />
Isaac shook his head and Colton began to stir, a faint light flickering in the drink as the crystals clinked. "It’s where the name Lucifer comes from, Isaac. Lucifer is the morning star, the light bringer. The devil. And what would be the other version of Lucifer, his metaphorical brother? The left hand of God, the angel before the fall. And then of course in the plural we have Vespers, which I’m sure you know is a type of Catholic mass." Colton set the stirring rod aside, the twisted length of metal steaming as if hot even though the mixing glass looked ice cold. "And that circles around to my choice of glass. As I said a moment ago, a champagne coupe is traditional but that’s a sort of goblet and I have a custom-made goblet that’s close enough and is... extremely appropriate."<br />
<br />
Colton placed a goblet on the table, made of stained glass, and poured the drink through a strainer into it. He set the strainer aside, crystals now clouded, and placed the twist of lemon into the drink. The liquid was glowing, casting bright shapes of color onto the bar. Colton turned the glass idly, admiring it, and Isaac found himself trying to make the shapes in the stained glass form something. Shouldn’t it form a picture? But the pieces were too large, some tiny fragment of an image too big to see. Isaac reached out and lifted the glass in his hand.<br />
<br />
"Who am I," he asked, "to argue with God? If the almighty wills that I be damned, then... and I did it. I betrayed her, and I let her die. I’m bound for perdition, and no fucking martini can change that."<br />
Colton nodded. "Maybe. It’s a tall order. But this Vesper doesn’t overturn the will of God, Isaac. It’s... a reminder. An acknowledgement of sin, a reminder of a past glory, and a request for dignity and future hope. Make a toast, Isaac."<br />
<br />
He lifted the stained glass goblet to his lips, felt the liquid starlight flow into him and bridge a divide he didn’t know was there. And Isaac laughed.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-43379189188645757952018-05-17T12:06:00.000-07:002018-05-21T13:42:58.320-07:00Story 252: The Queen's GardenSharon hesitated, trying to figure out the best way to extricate her foot from the snarl of undergrowth she had tangled it in without falling on her ass. For the hundredth time she chastised herself for not wearing proper footwear, shoes she could lace tight or boots that went up to her knees or something. Instead she had impulsively headed into the forest wearing Mary Janes that were almost immediately ruined and had been pulled off her feet twice, each time eliciting a string of curses that would have quite scandalized most of Sharon’s real life acquaintances who didn’t know that she swore like a sailor when she was alone or on the internet.<br />
<br />
The man in the pub had said Castle Nurgül was just a fifteen minute walk away, and Sharon had imagined a lovely stroll through the woods because she was, she had to admit, totally clueless about nature. Oh sure, she knew in theory that nature was filled with brambles and mud and biting insects but that had all been very abstract an hour ago. An hour. Fifteen minutes was probably the estimate for someone wearing the right sort of shoes, someone who hadn’t spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to find a way up a muddy slope that wouldn’t ruin her dress before not only ruining it but sliding down to the bottom of the hill anyway in a cloud of "fuck"s.<br />
<br />
It would be worth it though, she was certain of it. Anyway if it wasn’t she was damn well going to pretend it was, because she couldn’t bear to admit she could waste this much time and energy. But then, how could it not be worth it? The ruins of a cursed castle, abandoned in the woods? Not in the guidebook, known only to the little village nearby? That was the stuff of legends. Literally. Even if it was just a couple of tumbled down stones it would be worth it just to say she had been there.<br />
<br />
Giving a decisive yank that somehow didn’t cause her shoe to fly off, Sharon got her foot free. She was psyching herself up again, raising her spirits by their bootstraps - her spirits, at least, had metaphorical boots on apparently. "I’m going to see a cursed motherfucking castle in the woods,complete with the ghost an an old queen," she said out loud to further excite herself, "And also I’m not lost and I’m not going to wander off and die out here." She noted the position of the sun again, and headed onwards. She didn’t need to go far.<br />
<br />
It rose up from the woods suddenly, like an optical illusion snapping into focus. The green shapes ahead abruptly resolved into ivy-covered stone, much larger than Sharon had dared to hope for. She pulled out her phone and took some pictures, but reluctantly put it back into her bag rather than starting up a video - the battery wasn’t as full as she would like and the last thing she needed was to get lost on her way back, probably within spitting distance of the village’s cell tower but with no way to call anyone.<br />
<br />
Most of the walls were just long mounds, but there was still a bit of the central structure. The man in the pub had been appropriately dramatic about it, telling her "The old queen is there, holding court still. Best to stay away, but if you look just be sure not to enter. And don’t touch her garden," although of course the whole place was practically a garden since the forest har reclaimed it. Not a very good garden - most of the flowers were actually thistles and obviously there was no rhyme or reason beyond the rough borders created by ancient walls.<br />
<br />
Sharon stepped into the center of the structure, no ceiling above but with stone steps still visible in the corner leading to nowhere. She could imagine a throne at one end of the room, and felt a sudden urge to curtsy to the old queen. She rolled her eyes at herself instead, and risked her phone battery to take a few more pictures. There was a sound, like a murmur on the air, people talking or humming in the distance - but when she paused to listen there was nothing. As she reached the end of the room she heard it again, and realized it was coming from a small gap in the wall that led out to where something colorful was waving slightly in the late spring air...<br />
<br />
Roses. Hundreds of them, on bushes in straight rows. The gnarled roots climbed over everything so that it was actually just as tricky to navigate as the woods outside the ruins, but those rows were still somehow visible. The roses were orange and yellow, spaced out in ones and twos but still in such numbers that Sharon felt almost disoriented. "What the everloving fuck?" she muttered, and for just a moment felt a flash of annoyance. Strange. The sound faded in again for a moment, just long enough for the humming voice to draw her attention to the far end of the courtyard.<br />
<br />
She picked her way along the center where the gap between rows was widest, heading to a shaded corner in the back where she could see something moving. There was a stone, long and narrow, propped up at an angle - and some trick of the light was making it look like it was moving. "This had better not be an actual fucking ghost," Sharon said to herself, and felt that flash of annoyance again. It was just like a smell or a taste, but emotion instead. She was sure it was her imagination, but it was unnerving. Still she found herself walking forward.<br />
<br />
It was a coffin. No, a... what was the word? Sarcophagus. A human form, so worn by time that the face was gone, was still just barely visible carved into the top. A woman, and some carvings of roses or some other flower around her. The sarcophagus was open slightly, and Sharon could finally see what had been moving. Bees. Hundreds of them were climbing in and out of the sarcophagus - they had turned it into their home. The humming sound returned - not humming, but buzzing. Still, it did seem so much like a voice.<br />
<br />
"That explains it," Sharon said as if trying to convince herself, "people hear the buzzing and it sounds like a voice, and they see the sarcophagus, and... yeah. Instant ghost story. Man. I have to get a video. Fuck my battery."<br />
<br />
It was stronger this time, and with it came a voice. Not words, not really, but the humming surged in time with a foreign thought in her head that said, essentially "rude". Or... disrespectful. Sharon stumbled back, shocked, and felt her Mary Janes snag on a root. The traitorous shoe popped off and she fell backwards into one of the rose bushes, snapping a dozen stems and scoring her arms with the thorns. "Fucking fucker!" she screamed reflexively as she felt her skin tear, and then the air was filled with bees in a maelstrom around her.<br />
<br />
Sharon tried to apologize, for her language and for damaging the roses and for trespassing and for existing at all but her mouth was suddenly bone dry and the weight of the psychic fury around her chased every word from her mind. By the time she caught her breath it was too late, bees swarming into her throat and all along her skin and stinging her. She couldn’t even scream. And inside the sarcophagus, inside the beehive, the old queen went back to sleep.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-39127820689707294062018-05-09T12:02:00.000-07:002018-05-21T13:42:44.858-07:00Story 251 (Creepypasta): The Department on the Fifth Floor"Humor me for a second," Jessie said as she perched herself on the corner of my desk. "Tell me everything you know about the people on the fifth floor." That's what's burned into my head, that moment. She was wearing this fuzzy sweater, a bubblegum-pink eyesore that should have looked terrible but somehow came across as almost classy on her. It was no wonder most of the guys in the office had asked her out - which was probably why she hung out with me all the time. I was safe. I had a serious girlfriend (now my wife) and wouldn't have hit on a coworker anyway. My girlfriend never met Jessie, but always referred to her as my "work wife". She kinda was, it was platonic but also just... very familiar. I miss it a lot. Now I just have that moment that replays itself in my head, Jessie asking me to humor her and reflexively brushing a hand past her ear as if to tuck back the long brown hair that she had cut short a week before. Smiling, happy and a little excited, wanting to know about the fifth floor.<br />
<br />
And I didn't know anything. Fifth floor was marketing overflow on the northeast corner, but the rest was behind a badge reader. I leaned back, trying to think, and Jessie's smile got bigger - it was clear this was the entertainment for the day (actually doing our jobs required a fraction of our attention). I knew I could ask someone higher up in the company, but that would ruin the game so I pulled up an org chart instead. One by one I went through the departments - HR on sixth, treasury on third - checking them off. Nobody - other than the aforementioned corner with a few undesirables from Marketing - was on the fifth floor. "Maybe it's leased out like that suite on the first floor, or maybe it's vacant?"<br />
"It's not leased out," she said as she leaned back and looked around to see if anyone was listening, "because it's past the outer doors which means you have to be an employee here to get in. And it's not vacant. There are desks in there."<br />
I hadn't even considered that she had already been inside, but it turned out she had come into the office just after four in the morning that day ("long story involving my engine catching on fire, I'll tell you about it later" she said - though of course she never did) and she got off the elevator at the wrong floor. The cleaning people were just leaving that area, and being a bit impulsive she had ducked in. Jessie hadn't looked around long, not wanting to get in trouble, but on her way out she had left a ball of paper in the stairwell door so it wouldn't latch.<br />
<br />
So that was what we did with ourselves to avoid work. We waited until the stairwell was clear, pulled the door open, and pocketed the ball of paper as it fell out of the doorframe. I remember that I held the door open and gestured for her to go in first, making an exaggerated sweeping motion with my arm. She nodded and even mimed a curtsy before heading in. We thought we were so fucking cute. We were partially hidden by a fake plant and the desk closest to the stairwell was completely empty, no computer or anything, so we felt safe taking a look around. We could see down an aisle of cubicles - they were the same kind that had been on the third floor before the big remodel, beige fabric walls and grey desktops with little whiteboards and rolling file cabinets. There wasn't anyone sitting at any of the desks, but we could hear voices somewhere nearby.<br />
<br />
Jessie looked nervous and wanted to head right for the main exit, just looking at whatever she could spot on her way by, but I felt confident we wouldn't get caught and wouldn't be in much trouble if we were so I wanted to snoop some. We compromised, making a wide loop around the main block of cubicles. I could still hear voices, the usual background murmurs of an office. Talking, typing, the occasional laugh. A phone ringing. But it was all at the other end of the office, with the cubes near us abandoned - not like the empty one by the stairwell, they had personal items and plants and things - but the computers were a bit outdated, with the big chunky monitors, and the calendars I spotted were from 1997 even though at this point it was May of 2004. It was like a corporate archaeological site, a preserved snapshot of the past. Nothing was so old that it was crazy to see it there - other than the calendars - but it was all just old enough to be strange.<br />
<br />
By the time our loop reached the far side of the office, over near a tiny break room, something was bothering me. We stopped, silent for a moment, and then we realized what the problem was and I got goosebumps down my arms. I don't remember if one of us actually asked the other out loud, but we both knew the question - where were the people we could hear talking? All those little noises were coming from somewhere, but we had circled the area without seeing anyone and now all those sounds seemed to be in the direction we had come from. I cut across the middle of the room, not waiting for Jessie, and mid-way there I could hear talking on all sides of me. Like before it was muffled, just too far away to make out words. I turned, looking in all directions. "Hello?" I called, "Is anyone here? Hello?" There was no response.<br />
<br />
I turned to call to Jessie, but I didn't see her. Jessie wasn't tall and the older style cubicles had higher walls than the new ones, but I still should have been able to see her head over the tops. I called out to her, walked along looking down every aisle, looked into the break room. I thought she might have gone out through the main door, but decided that she had done it to mess with me and so I went to leave by the stairwell instead - I pictured her lurking out front, laughing because she knew I was spooked, and I didn't want to give her the satisfaction. When I got to the stairwell door I took one last look over the mysterious department - I hadn't actually figured out which department it was supposed to be - and noticed something.<br />
<br />
That desk, the one that I was certain was empty just minutes earlier when we arrived, had a computer and personal items on it. And a pink sweater draped over the chair. I looked closer and there was a picture pinned to the cubicle wall of Jessie holding a slice of birthday cake, surrounded by smiling people. It was clearly taken right there on the 5th floor and I didn't recognize any of the people as working at our company - I almost didn't recognize Jessie either, since her hair was longer than it had been even before her recent haircut. There were some other items, similar but not quite the same as the ones on her real desk. The calendar (October 1997) had her handwriting on it, as did a notepad sitting next to the keyboard. I felt like I should be laughing. It seemed so absurd, that she would somehow go to all that trouble to play a prank on me. But it didn't feel like a prank, and I couldn't bring myself to laugh. Instead I just stood there, straining to hear her voice in that distant murmur.<br />
<br />
I left after a moment, went back to my desk and stared at my inbox for the rest of the day. I wiggled the mouse just often enough to keep the computer from going to sleep but otherwise I did nothing. I went home in a trance, told my girlfriend not to come over because I wasn't feeling well (which almost backfired, since she wanted to come and make me soup and pamper me) and crashed in my bed almost immediately. The next morning it all felt like a dream. When I got to work Jessie's desk was cleaned out, and my boss said he was told she had to transfer to another location due to "family issues". I couldn't get any more information about it, and despite how close we were at work I didn't know any of her friends or family to follow up on it. I quit a few months later, without having gone back to the fifth floor. Every few years I try to look her up, on Facebook or LinkedIn or whatever. I never have found her, but on the other hand I've never seen a missing person story pop up either.<br />
<br />
So I tell myself it's fine, that it was an elaborate prank. I picture her, from that morning, sliding onto my desk and saying "Humor me for a second" and ask myself if she could have planned it, if she could have somehow gotten the help she would have needed to pull that off. I remember her in that terrible sweater, smiling, asking me about the fifth floor like this was all a great game - and I hope to god that that's what it was. I just don't believe it.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-74220892227182603172018-05-07T11:50:00.000-07:002018-05-21T13:42:34.500-07:00Story 250: Change of PlansThe flash of light nearly gave me a heart attack - I'd been working on my invention for nine hours straight and if there had been an electrical short that fried anything I would have cried. Instead, a strange man was standing there.<br />
"Pleasure to meet you, Robert. You're quite famous in 2018."<br />
"Um. No, I'm not."<br />
The man looked confused. "Excuse me?"<br />
"It's... it's 2018 right now, nearly halfway over actually, and I'm not famous at all."<br />
<br />
He pulled off his goggles and sighed. "Right, no. I mean, here in 2018 you're... I mean you will be, before I came back to 2018, where you're... going to... shit. Look I said it wrong, okay? I didn't mean to say you're famous in 2018. Hang on. Can I get a do-over? I mean of course I can, I'm a fucking time traveler. Okay this won't have happened in just a second. Let me just..." He started tapping at some sort of device on his wrist, but was interrupted by a flash of light and another version of himself arriving.<br />
"Pleasure to meet you, Robert. You're quite famous in 2093. I... fuck. Shit, wait, why am I still here?"<br />
<br />
"I haven't left yet, asshole. You came back too late."<br />
"You mean early. Because you're still here."<br />
"No, late. Because you're supposed to go back to before I even arrive."<br />
"Right. That's what I meant. Wait, then why did you say 'still here'? You should have said 'here already' or something."<br />
"Jesus, seriously? You're the one that said that. Anyway, look, you have to... erase yourself or something."<br />
"Fuck that, you do it."<br />
"I was here first!"<br />
"Right. I'm older, that means you're the leftover one."<br />
I couldn't take it anymore. "Both of you, shut up. You, the one that got here first. What exactly am I famous for?"<br />
"The time machine you're building."<br />
<br />
"Oh. Huh. Well, let me show that to you, I guess. Come here." The two came closer, and I went to my toolbox. I pulled out my gun and managed to shoot them both before they could do anything, then dragged the bodies over to the drain in the floor so they wouldn't make too much of a mess. Pulling off the strange devices on their wrists, I walked back to my workbench. "Sorry fellas, but up until now I was working on a food delivery drone." But hey, who am I to mess with history? If I'm going to be famous for time travel I might as well get to work reverse-engineering it.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-21113290650133305662018-04-23T11:13:00.000-07:002018-05-21T13:42:24.151-07:00Story 249: You'll Regret This in the MorningWhen you've got Chrono-dysplasia you lose track of time a lot, but based on my personal notes I think it's been almost four years since I last screwed up. Or, rather, it was four years before last night. God damn it. The rules for not screwing up are pretty simple to understand - do the temporal awareness exercises so that you only lose control when you sleep, and then find somewhere to sleep with clear temporal boundaries. Like, when I found myself too far into the future I snuck into the Grandview Heights Motel the day before it was going to be demolished and slept there, in a filthy room covered in graffiti. I got a few spider bites and had to drug myself to actually fall asleep, but when I did I had nowhere to go but backward. Chrono-dysplasia won't ever move you to somewhere that you'll be up in the air or embedded in a wall or anything. Likewise, if you want to make sure you move forward you pick a place that was just built.<br />
<br />
For me, for the past four years, that's been my house. I bought it with a lot of help from my family, and I was the first tenant. I appear in different years but always the same bedroom. Sometimes - mainly if it's after 2024 - the door is on the opposite side of the room with external stairs leading down because someone else is living in the rest of the house, but that's okay. Usually I have clean clothes waiting for me, my sorted newsfeed ready to prep me for the world outside, everything I could ask for. And then last night I had to go and ruin everything.<br />
<br />
Four years of really limited bouncing, keeping things under control, and then I get cocky and decide I should fly to Las Vegas - just for the day, right? After all, it's been so long that I've stayed in one spot. I told myself I could stay awake the whole time, and I almost did. Then I was there, on the plane, and I figured... well, I can't travel from a plane. Right? This power, obnoxious as it may be, would never drop me from forty thousand feet. And what are the odds of another plane being right here in the very spot I was as I slept? Well I guess the odds - whatever they are - aren't zero. Now it's 2002 - the very height of the terrorism panic over September 11th, and well before anyone knew what Chrono-dysplasia was. They don't take kindly to people showing up mysteriously on airplanes with a fake-looking ID and a mysterious device implanted in their neck (yes, fine, I know it's tacky but you would want a hands-free phone implant too if you never knew what year you were going to wake up in).<br />
<br />
"One last time," the government spook says, "how did you get on that plane?"<br />
I can wait it out, fall asleep here somewhere. This will be okay. The cavity search was unpleasant, having my implant cut out was traumatic, and this whole ordeal is embarrassing - but I can make it. I just need to get them to let me sleep. Another suit comes in, hands a file to the one that has been questioning me. The spook's eyebrows go up like elevators. Are they learning the implant was advanced technology from their point of view? Did they find little two-year-old me in Cincinnati?<br />
"Well, well, well. We've found our record on your twin brother. Did you think we wouldn't find out?"<br />
"I don't have a twin brother."<br />
"No," the man says, "not anymore. Is that why you were sneaking onto airplanes with strange devices? Are you trying to get revenge?"<br />
"I have literally no idea what you're talking about. Look, can I just... get some rest? I'll tell you anything you want in the morning."<br />
The man shakes his head. "Fine. We'll do this the hard way." He leads me to a cell and shoves me inside, locking the door. "In the morning, you'll tell us about yourself and about your brother."<br />
"I already told you, I don't have a brother."<br />
"You know, this is the very cell he was shot in? Why someone would break into a government facility and then hide in an empty cell is still a mystery to us. One that you will soon be solving."<br />
<br />
Oh, shit. Shit. "No. Wait. Don't go. I'll explain everything, you just can't let me fall asleep here. I have a condition, it sounds crazy but you have to believe me!"<br />
<br />
"Good night, mister Doe. We'll see you soon."<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-47476474026538520282018-04-11T11:12:00.000-07:002018-05-21T13:42:14.112-07:00Story 248 (Creepypasta): Sometimes I'm Somewhere ElseI'm writing this on my phone, hunched over a table in a Nebraska Starbucks, so please forgive me for any typos. My laptop is about a thousand miles away right now so I don't have a lot of options. I'll probably have to get a room at the Quality Inn right outside, so I guess I could use their business center.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry I'm rambling. I don't really want to get to the point, it's going to make me sound like a crazy person. It's possible I really am crazy of course, though I don't think so. And it's possible that my problem - the most immediate part of the problem anyway - will just fix itself. That's why I'm at a Starbucks, actually.<br />
<br />
Here goes: I don't have any fucking idea how I got here. This started a long time ago I think, back when I was maybe eight. I remember we went to a restaurant and I got up to use the bathroom, but when I came back out everything was different. Different tables, different customers, different decorations. I just stood there and stared for a bit, then walked outside. Across the parking lot I could see the correct restaurant, with my mom's old station wagon parked out front. I ran over and found my family and didn't tell anyone. What would I have said?<br />
<br />
There were other times. I got onto the correct bus at the end of the day once during my sophomore year but after a while realized it was on a different route, and when I looked around I saw blue eagles on the school jackets and folders the kids had. I wasn't just on the wrong bus, it was a bus from the wrong school entirely. Again, I didn't tell anyone. I had minor incidents, ones that might have been my imagination. I would go for a walk and end up too far away from home. I would turn down an aisle 9 in the grocery store even though I had just left aisle 23. One time I got drunk and ended up in the wrong bar. Those ones were all easy to shrug off.<br />
<br />
The thing that was always the same, that it took me a little time to notice since it didn't happen very often, is that I was always tired afterwards. I would get "lost" and then feel weary, like I had just worked out. After I noticed I got paranoid, and whenever I suddenly felt tired I would look around in a panic. There were plenty of times I hadn't moved, though. I decided I was just seeing patterns where there were none, and went on ignoring the "glitches" as I thought of them. I almost posted to Reddit about this once before, but had one of those sudden feelings of exhaustion right in the middle of it and lost my train of thought so I just went to bed instead - and then in the light of morning it seemed too crazy. I deleted it all.<br />
<br />
I've been tired a lot, lately, even though as far as I can tell I've only glitched out a few times. I ended up on the wrong level of the parking garage last week, and left a different conference room than I had entered a bit before that. Nothing extreme. But I was tired all the time, and I got a few comments on it. My coworkers told me to get more sleep, and Ian - who is particularly blunt - told me to go shower and shave. He wasn't wrong, it was like I had stayed up all night in my office even though I had actually only been there for forty-five minutes.<br />
<br />
All this I could handle. It was worse than when I was a kid, gets a little worse every year, but it's not the end of the world. But then about an hour ago I got on the elevator at work and as the doors shut I noticed it was all wrong. The elevator was dingy, and it only had buttons for two floors. I assumed I was somehow in an elevator in a parking garage, but when I pushed the door open button I found myself at a Quality Inn somewhere in North Platte Nebraska. My work is in Phoenix Arizona.<br />
<br />
It's never been this bad. Never. I've moved maybe a hundred feet most times - a few were probably further but even then it couldn't have been more than a few miles. This was at least a thousand. My phone was dead somehow, but that's been happening a lot lately so I had a recharger. I got it started back up and called my boss, let him know I wasn't feeling well and left early. He was surprised since he had just been talking to me and I seemed fine - as far as he's concerned he spoke to me right before my noon meeting which means either I hallucinated that phone call or I'm not crazy. It's not physically possible to get this far that fast, not even on a plane.<br />
<br />
I came to the Starbucks partly because it was right outside the Quality Inn, and partly because I had the thought that with Starbucks all looking the same it might be easier for me to get back. I mean, I go from a bathroom to another bathroom - a hospital room to another hospital room (don't ask), a bus to a bus. If it's going to happen anywhere a place like this should be the easiest. The thing is, I've never done it on purpose before and the more I think about it the more I think I don't want to. I used the bathroom right after I got here, and I've got a good three days’ worth of stubble on my face (I don't grow beards well so that's not as much as you might be picturing). I'm not just tired but almost ready to collapse, and my feet feel like they have blisters. When I connected to the Starbucks wifi, my phone said it was backing up my photos - I looked and there's just a picture of a long dark tunnel (I can upload it if you need but it doesn't really show much of anything). It says it was taken at 4:37pm today, but it's not that late yet.<br />
<br />
So I'm thinking maybe it only seems like I just around instantly. Maybe I'm actually going somewhere, spending time there, and then returning - and it's just that I don't always come back to the right place. Why else would my phone keep suddenly being out of charge? Why do I need to shave? Why am I so tired? I think that photo was taken about three and a half hours after I vanished out of an elevator at work, and then I was there long enough for the battery to finish dying. Maybe much longer than that. Days, probably. I don't feel hungry, I could use a shower but I don't think I smell bad enough for it to be that long. It doesn't totally add up.<br />
<br />
I don't really care about that part though. Mainly what I'm worried about is the question of what happens to my memories of that place. If I'm right, if I'm going somewhere, do I forget afterwards? Or am I not aware in the first place? Is someone - something - in control of me? And yet, I have to hope it happens again and takes me home. Maybe I'll crash at the Quality Inn instead, then rent a car in the morning and start driving. I don't know what I'll do if this keeps happening. Will it keep getting worse? Will I appear on the wrong side of the planet, with grey hair and tattered clothes? I think there's nothing I can do but hope it all turns out okay somehow.<br />
<br />
I just did it again. I had finished this post, everything up to the paragraph above, and was trying to decide if I really should submit it. Once I put this out there it's admitting that I'm probably crazy, or worse - if I'm not crazy that something that can't be understood is happening to me. I was stalling, and got up to buy one of those muffins that always look so much better than they actually are. I paid the barista, and then when I turned to go to my table I was at the far end of the Starbucks. The barista didn't seem to notice. I was still holding the muffin but it's moldy and crushed, like I clenched it in my fist. My wallet had been in my other hand and was gone, so I reached into my pocket and it was there along with something else - a torn sheet of thick yellow paper, with a few words written in what I hope is ink but smells like the inside of an abandoned sushi restaurant. 'DONT TALK ABOUT IT' is all it says, no explanation or even punctuation.<br />
<br />
So maybe I shouldn't post this. I'm thinking about the other time I was going to post this, where I glitched out and then felt too tired to keep going. Was that a coincidence, or was something trying to make me change my mind? But that photo of the tunnel, and the thick black 'ink' on that paper - both fill me with dread somehow, the same feeling as that time I found bloody tooth in my jacket pocket. I haven't thought about that in a decade, but now I'm wondering again where it came from. Fuck it. This is something I have to do. If whatever is behind this is evil, so be it. Better to get my story out there. And if I'm crazy, or if I wrote the note myself... I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. I just can't think about this anymore, not by myself. Wish me luck.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-63572565838656211542018-01-12T11:11:00.000-07:002018-05-21T13:42:03.197-07:00Story 247 (Creepypasta): The Tunnel Behind the WallA little background: Pretty much as soon as I turned eighteen I started saving up for a house, I guess just because it was a thing I felt like I was supposed to do to count as an actual adult. But the prices just kept going up and up, faster than I could save money, and eventually I gave up and spent it all on other things. That's why when the housing market finally crashed I still couldn't get the kind of house I wanted. I had to settle for a smaller, older, fixer-upper way outside of Phoenix. Still, it was a nice property and the house backed right into what a lot of us here in the Phoenix area call mountains but reasonable people in the rest of the country would probably call a pointy hill.<br />
<br />
The house was two stories, which isn't common for older places in Arizona and especially not for out in the desert, and the lower level was partially underground due to the slope of the "mountain". That meant it stayed much cooler than it otherwise would have but I also think it was to blame for the scorpion infestation. The walls were covered in that awful dark faux-wood paneling that I associate with 1970s rec rooms for some reason, and when one of the panels popped out a bit I wasn't sad because I thought that might give me the needed motivation to replace it all. I tried to press it down but could feel that there was damage of some sort. Pulling it away, it was clear that the drywall behind it had pushed into the room, and through the hole I could see a void. Now I was worried that some wild animal had made a den in some crawlspace between my house and the mountain and was scratching at the wall.<br />
<br />
I cleared that side of the room and pulled off the paneling, then cut a section of drywall off so I could get a better look at the space behind. First thing I saw was a metal bar, and then as I pointed a light in I could see it was a concrete tube. It looked like some sort of huge drainage pipe, though I couldn't for the life of me think of why there would be a drainage line - especially one big enough for me to walk down (or at the very least kinda crouch and waddle down) leading into or out of the mountain. I called the city and eventually got through to someone who told me very authoritatively that it wasn't a city works thing and had to have been put in place by a private party who had owned the land.<br />
<br />
The house had been foreclosed on so I bought it from the bank after the foreclosure auction didn't get an acceptable bid. My realtor said the person that had it before the bank hadn't actually lived there and had intended to flip it, so that meant the last actual owners were a few steps back. I figured I could go through the title for the house and see if I could get names, I know in theory it's all out there to find but it seemed like a lot of work and my immediate issue was the hole I had left in the wall. I could have repaired the drywall pretty quickly, but in a fit of curiosity I made the hole bigger instead. I borrowed some bolt cutters and removed the padlock and chain that was holding the bars shut and opened the thing up.<br />
<br />
There was a layer of dried mud and grass on the bottom, but no actual moisture and no smell. I crouched down and headed inside, flashlight making the concrete walls around me very bright and yet still leaving a circle of total blackness in front of me. I wasn't too spooked yet, and was kinda enjoying the adventure of it. Eventually I came to a fork, and headed to the left where I quickly hit a dead end. There was a circular concrete room, about ten feet across and totally covered by a nest. Dry grass or hay, a shredded blanket, some other bits and pieces I couldn't identify. There was a stuffed animal or maybe a dog toy - a blue bear clearly without any stuffing in it. Just like before, everything seemed dry and there was no smell. I heard something behind me and nearly jumped out of my skin, but when I spun around there was nothing there and I started to wonder if I had imagined it.<br />
<br />
Still, there was that other fork to investigate so I headed down it - but that, too, stopped at a circular concrete room. No nest in this one which let me see that the floor was slightly indented towards a tiny little drain in the center which was almost comically small considering the size of the tunnel and room; it wasn't any bigger than a sink drain. There were also some random bits of debris. Some rocks, about one beer bottle's worth of green glass, and a pile of what I thought at first were little white pebbles. I leaned down and got a closer look, and when I saw they were teeth I felt a sense of absolute panic overtake me. I stopped thinking at all, and if I could have run I would have but instead had to settle for a frantic shuffle - banging my head into the top of the tunnel repeatedly.<br />
<br />
When I got out, the room was trashed. The television was on the ground, papers from my desk were everywhere, and the door was open. I called the sheriff’s department and a deputy came out, and he looked at me like he had seen a ghost. He walked right past me into the house and looked around like he owned the place, and only snapped out of it once I tapped him on the shoulder. He apologized and said that he hadn't heard anyone bought the house, and I got the distinct feeling that he thought it should have remained vacant but I can't promise that was anything other than my imagination which I think you can imagine was running wild at that point. I told him my whole story, and when I got to the part about the teeth I realized they hadn’t been bloody or anything. They looked like baby teeth that had just fallen out naturally, which was somehow both better and worse than the alternative. The deputy headed into the tunnel and came back later with red-rimmed eyes and a blank expression. "Allergies," he said, but I swear to god he had been crying. He told me to seal it up, and said I must have left the door open and let a coyote in while I was in the tunnel.<br />
<br />
I wanted to object to that, but honestly it was the best explanation. Sure, something could have been in there and passed me while I was in the other side of the fork - but the tunnel had no food, no water, and had been closed up for years. There was simply no way there could have been anything living in that tunnel. The deputy left, and as he got into his car I saw something fuzzy and blue peeking out from his pocket. I can't say if it was the stuffed animal for sure because I couldn't bring myself to go back into the tunnel to see if it was still there. I found a padlock I used at the gym and re-chained the entrance, and as fast as I could I put the drywall back up - I even put the hideous faux-wood paneling back on so I could be done faster. I sold the house at a slight loss but nothing too terrible, and tried not to think of it again.<br />
<br />
But the part that haunts me is that when I was cleaning up the mess, after the deputy had left and while I was still trying to convince myself everything was fine, I lifted that television off the ground and uncovered a dusty human footprint on the floor.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-44619162042313648472018-01-05T10:42:00.000-07:002018-05-21T14:02:13.678-07:00Story 246: Understudy"Hello, Jack."<br />
It's me. Maybe from the future? I look a little heavier, a little more worn somehow. It has to be a prank. Time travel isn't real, and nobody would make a clone that looks worse than the original. It has to be a clever makeup job that's part of some joke that... oh, Harold. It has to be that douchebag Harold.<br />
"Nice mask, dumbass. Don't think I forgot that bet. The fake IRS call didn't get me and this isn't going to either."<br />
<br />
I put my satchel down and pour myself a drink. Harold looks confused, or maybe a little bit amused. He's probably going to keep trying this gag for a minute or two.<br />
"No, Jack. I'm you. Well, I'm the real you. You're just a clone."<br />
Oh that's clever. That's actually way better than what I was expecting. "I like it! Yeah, get that existential dread thing going. Nice one, Harold!"<br />
"I'm not that prick Harold. I'm... you know what? Fuck it. Quartermellon."<br />
Quartermellon? What does that even...<br />
<br />
I'm paralyzed. I can blink, and breathe, and... that's about it.<br />
"There, you see? I came to thank you for working so hard these past two years. You've made me a lot of money. I was going to do it the right way, work my way up the ladder and kiss everyone's ass, but after Diana left and Karl took the job I wanted I... needed a break. So thank you. Really."<br />
This is impossible. I'm me. I've always been me. I remember... things. Right? It's... shit, I mean I don't remember a lot about my childhood but that's normal. Right? Nobody remembers much of what happened before they turned thirty.<br />
"All good things must end, I'm afraid, and now that you've fixed my finances and obtained my dream job I really should step back in."<br />
<br />
I have to say something. I try to talk, but I can't quite form words. He can tell I'm attempting to communicate though.<br />
"I shouldn't do this, but... I'm going to trust you. Don't try anything. Quartermellon."<br />
I almost drop my drink, but recover. I take a sip, trying to relax. "Thanks. There's a problem with your plan, though."<br />
"Oh?" Now he looks amused for sure. He's not buying it.<br />
"Yeah. You can't possibly be me. You've been - what, on vacation? For two years? Lounging on some beach, drinking, catching whatever STDs the locals have on hand? Your fiancée left you and you didn't get a job and you lost it. Almost lost everything. Now you think you can come back and operate at an even higher level? Do you have any idea how many projects I'm working on right now? You'd be clueless, you wouldn't know where to start. You don't know the people, the policies, the background. You're rusty from sitting on your ass and you want to just jump right into the lion's den?"<br />
He looks mad, I may have overdone it. But I'm not wrong, and I need him to think about this, to realize how hard it's going to be.<br />
<br />
"I could... I'll figure it out." He doesn't sound convinced. Good, now I can offer him an alternative. Offer to keep living 'his' life and... fund his beach vacation, I suppose. Until I can figure out how to get rid of him.<br />
"Listen, I can -"<br />
"Quartermellon! You've said enough. Maybe you're right, maybe I'm worthless. Maybe I can't come back. But at least I'm not a slab of vat-grown meat! I... Jesus, I need a drink."<br />
He storms out, door slamming. Slowly I watch the sun dip below the horizon, unable to move. At some point I fall asleep, and when I wake up he's still not back. I think he's never coming back. I pass out occasionally, and wake to a ringing phone or a knock at the door. I can feel myself dying. Come on, you asshole. Come and take your life back.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-13287641510536899422018-01-04T10:19:00.000-07:002018-05-21T13:50:59.410-07:00Story 245: Once More Unto the Breach"Going behind enemy lines" is what we called it. My squad and I arrived together, with no supplies or weapons. Last I remembered we had been fighting a platoon of demons up at the outer ring, and then something fiery shrieked down out of the sky and exploded.<br />
<br />
Killed every last one of us, but that's a minor setback. "Regroup!" the squad leader yells, and we line up. There's a constant flow of people here, getting herded into different groups by genuine pitchfork-wielding devils. Those guys are practically just accountants though. Where are the heavies?<br />
"Men, it's an honor to go behind enemy lines with you," our leader says, "and I will remind you that we are fighting not just for the liberation of these damned souls but for our own immortality. It's all or nothing, hellfire or eternal life. I have orders to follow, in this particular situation. We are not to try and escape or cause general mayhem, but to quickly and efficiently secure this area. Do you understand?"<br />
<br />
We all shout, and start planning. It makes sense; if we can get organized here where the dead arrive in Hell then we may be able to fight this war from both sides. And the lack of heavy Demons might mean we're already wearing them thin, so this could be enough to tilt things in our favor. One day this cavern will be cleaned up and air conditioned, it'll look like Grand Central Station instead of a volcano's asshole.<br />
<br />
Soon we make our move, and start taking out devils. We suffer heavy losses, including myself - but it's not that much of a loss. The trident skewers me and I feel the worst pain I've ever experienced burn through me, but a few minutes later I'm picking myself up off the ground good as new. Rumor has it they've got pits of acid where they shove soldiers so that you can't ever get back on your feet, but I don't plan on letting them drag me to one.<br />
<br />
Finally, when almost all of us are armed with stolen weapons and the remaining devils are running for it, a heavy shows up. It's not even a type I've seen before, it towers over everything like a colossus. Shit. Jenkins charges in and manages to stab at it's Achilles tendon, but it's like threatening an elephant with a toothpick. The beast stomps on Jenkins and he's gone, flattened and burning. Presumably he'll recover eventually but...<br />
<br />
One by one we try to hurt it and fail. I manage to avoid being stomped but my trident is gone, and I'm out of ideas. This thing is unkillable.<br />
<br />
Then the others start charging. The regular folks, old men and little girls and all the other confused and tormented souls waiting to be sorted. They start climbing it, and there's so many of them the thing doesn't even seem to know what to do. They're hitting it, ineffectually, with their fists and feet. Some have rocks, and one or two have even picked up tridents. It's not enough to kill the thing, but the demon is clearly feeling overwhelmed. It brushes a hundred people off, but they scramble right back. The ones that are too smashed to move are replaced by new souls, even some that are just now arriving.<br />
<br />
I grab the trident I had dropped and start climbing. The mass of screaming, naked bodies should be horrifying but all I can feel is hope and inspiration. Reaching the thing's head, I swing out in front of it on a curved horn and slam my weapon right into its eye. The beast howls and falls, crushing hundreds below it. I roll free and by the time I stand I see some others from my squad are on top of it, stabbing its other eye. The whole cavern shakes, and then gets deathly silent.<br />
<br />
The thing isn't moving, at all.<br />
<br />
The human souls cheer, and some make a run for it. We start to try and wrangle the rest, organize them so we can secure the entrances and exits. We've got a beachhead now. Hell will have us to pay.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-56470109021272538402017-12-29T10:11:00.000-07:002018-05-21T13:48:02.334-07:00Story 244: Welcome to the Club"It's just a little... undignified," he says. I nod, not really to agree but just to fill the gap in the conversation. I don't know how to respond. This dude and his buddies kidnap me and bring me into what looks like some sort of super creepy cult meeting and now they're telling me they're worried about me hurting their reputation by... being immortal the wrong way?<br />
<br />
"There's also the question of the evidence it leaves behind," another says. I was a bit distracted when I came in, especially with the hood over my head, and so I didn't pay a lot of attention to their names. I think this guy said he's an immortal through reincarnation, and I know the first dude said he was an 'ageless one' whatever that is. There's one who says he drank an elixir of immortality, and one who says she can choose to age in reverse whenever she gets too old. So that's pretty cool. I realize they're all staring at me. I guess I should say something?<br />
<br />
"Uh, yup. Yeah. That's a tough one. I usually just... eat it though. I mean, it's simple and I'm hungry and... yeah. I know it sounds strange but like... two birds with one stone, right?"<br />
Yeah they think I'm nuts. They're looking back and forth at each other, nodding. I think they're about to kill me. And if they're actually a bunch of immortals they'll know a way to do it. Lock me in an airtight box and bury me? Shoot me into space? I mean even if those don't kill me they'll be a huge inconvenience. The enormous no-neck guard at the door pulls a gun which... I mean that's no biggie.<br />
<br />
"Sorry for this inconvenience," dude number one says, and my ears ring for just a second before they stop working. Seems like a lot of damage was done, my whole body is shutting down fast. I feel my muscles contract and heave and there's that trippy moment where my perception shifts and I'm suddenly surrounded by my old body, being pushed out. Tearing and ripping I force my way out of my ribcage and stand, dripping, on my corpse. They're sighing, and looking both disgusted and resigned. I guess they had to see it for themselves. Well, like I warned them I'm starving and I'm only going to get hungrier as I grow back to my usual six-foot self over the next few hours, even after I reabsorb my tail and extra arms, so...<br />
<br />
"Oh gods, he's doing it. He's eating his own corpse. Will someone... can we get him a meat and cheese platter or something? And a mop?"<br />
There's some arguing, and talk of voting on something. I can feel myself getting bigger as I crunch my old bones, feel my body growing into its usual youthful human form.<br />
"I'm out. Meeting adjourned. He can join but I don't want to ever be in the room for that again, understood?"<br />
Sorry it's not dignified, folks. Maybe you'll get used to it.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-80523328071293382372017-12-20T10:06:00.000-07:002018-05-21T13:41:14.613-07:00Story 243: Life CoachGary's finger hovered over the 'send' button, but didn't click. Could he do it?<br />
"Send it," the Voice said, "The reward is worth the risk. You hate this job anyway." He hit send, and felt his whole body relax. It would all be okay.<br />
<br />
The Voice had never steered him wrong. Every big decision in Gary's life had been accompanied by the Voice, usually giving him some specific course of action but occasionally just dispensing vague encouragement. Gary had occasionally wondered if he was crazy, but it wasn't like the voice ever told him to do anything bad or yelled at him or anything. He assumed it was technically a mental illness but if it was one that helped him sort his life out then what could be the point of getting it treated?<br />
<br />
"That should put him on track to get the job at Century One," the Voice said, followed by some sort of background murmuring. That had never happened before. "No," it continued, "a nice desk job. Management. That'll keep him away from anything related to design and still satisfy his desire for authority." The background murmur returned, and Gary strained to listen but couldn't make out actual words. "That's one way, sure, and I almost took that opportunity. Actually my last guy I didn't even need it, I just made sure his dad wore a condom and it was all sorted out. But this one is too old, I got to him at... what, thirteen? So I'm taking the Ross strategy out for a spin."<br />
<br />
Gary logged out of his computer and headed into the break room. He couldn't concentrate, but suddenly felt certain it would be a mistake to let the Voice know he could hear it. That meant he had to do something simple, so he pulled his lunch box out of the refrigerator and started to make a sandwich.<br />
"Well that's the problem, yeah. You try something too big and they snap back into place like history is trying to preserve itself. That's why you have to be gentle. Little nudges. Like, Gary here, no matter what I did he was going into the tech industry. I couldn't have stopped him no matter what. But now that I've kept him happy and heading up the ladder he'll be a useless middle manager and he won't invent shit."<br />
<br />
Keep calm, Gary thought. He spread the mayonnaise on and started layering lunchmeat as the background voice droned on. Eventually the Voice returned. "Well sure, but I like to think it's worth it. It's more work but a happy guy doesn't exterminate most of Europe, right? Nobody with a fulfilling life gets up one morning and says 'hey, just for a change, let's invent a swarm of nanobots I can use to take over the world' or anything. They just feel a little dissatisfied and get a new car." Gary started eating the sandwich, not tasting anything. He stared straight ahead, remembering the things the Voice had said to him. Things that pointed him away from politics, away from engineering.<br />
<br />
It had helped him though, right? Certainly it felt like his life was going well. If the Voice had steered him away from his side projects in the garage and towards time with his family, if it had gotten him involved in community service projects that kept him busy and scratched his itch for leadership, well... that was fine. Right?<br />
"No, that would be too forceful. Gary would have rejected that immediately. Trust me, some part of him is looking for any excuse. If I push too hard he'll just turn around and do the opposite. Hell, he might even get himself put on paliperidone which would cut off communication. Trust me, I've been working with this guy for a long time. If he felt like he was being manipulated we'd be back to Emperor Gary in no time. Baby steps, Ester. That's the key."<br />
<br />
But had it all been helpful? What had it been preventing? Emperor Gary? Emperor? And why keep him doing little things, local things? The Voice wanted him happy, but in a cage. Content and insignificant. Of course.<br />
"But I mean... oh shit, my mic is on."<br />
And who the hell was it working for? Gary had assumed it was his own mental voice, or some sort of guardian angel. But this was an employee, working for someone with an agenda. Who was to say their agenda was the right one?<br />
"Gary, you're probably very confused right now."<br />
Gary stood up, threw his lunch in the trash.<br />
"Gary? I need you to listen to me, to trust me."<br />
The more he thought about it the more he felt anger bubbling deep inside his chest. The anger management class, that had been the Voice too.<br />
"This is... I want what's best for you Gary. Best for everyone."<br />
They would have kept him from ever being born if they could, he had heard it. They, whoever they are, were working to deny him his destiny.<br />
"Please listen, Gary."<br />
Gary thought again of all the projects he had started to design, the classes he had meant to take, the innovations he had been thinking of fleshing out before the Voice had encouraged him to do something... fuzzy. Something that felt good in the moment but accomplished nothing of true import.<br />
<br />
He pulled up a web search for paliperidone, and heard the Voice swear before it cut out entirely. Now there was just murmuring, multiple Voices deep in the background arguing about something. He imagined a headset left dangling off the edge of a desk in a panic. Yes, he thought, panic. You don't get to feel like you're in control anymore.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-47196866687770401152017-12-19T13:40:00.000-07:002018-05-21T13:40:59.154-07:00Story 242: But Do You RecallSanta Claus paused just outside the Residence as Jingles talked to an elf in the small stables. After a moment the other elf - Snook? - nodded and stood at the corner of the building, huddling against the freezing wind. Snook lifted an arm over his head and held out three fingers.<br />
"Okay, sir," Jingles said, "let's proceed."<br />
Santa had a hunch as to why his second in command had asked Snook to stand outside with his fingers up, but he was skeptical - nobody would be able to see the little elf from any kind of distance.<br />
<br />
The problem was this storm - it was enormous, and covered the entire North Pole. The air was nearly solid snow, just a fuzzy mass of white that you could barely press through. His sleigh could handle the winds, but it couldn't get high enough to be over the clouds and the mountain passes were far too dangerous to attempt blind. Whatever Jingles had planned would have to be a miracle.<br />
<br />
They arrived at a hut finally, and lifted the leather flap over the entry. Inside there was a single reindeer, smaller than most. His eyes were closed, and - Santa stopped in place, frozen not by the frigid air but by terror. Its eyes weren't closed at all, but missing. Smooth fur covered the place where the eyes should have been, and the beast's nose was swollen and grotesque as if one of its organs had grown on its face rather than tucked away safely behind a ribcage. The mutant lifted its head and the pulsating nose began to glow a deep red, like blood. As the light washed over them, Jingles spoke.<br />
"Hello, Rudolph."<br />
"Hello Jingles. Hello Santa."<br />
<br />
Santa hesitated. "You... can see me?"<br />
"By the light of my nose, your highness."<br />
Santa nodded. It wasn't any stranger than he had expected, really.<br />
"Sir, are you here to help me or... or to kill me? Though I suppose either one would be help after a fashion."<br />
In fact, mutants were typically killed as soon as they were born. The old magic was powerful, but not always precise - over the years Santa had needed to put down a number of reindeer, most of which were a danger to themselves or others. It was for the best.<br />
"Santa sir," Jingles said, "Rudolph is referring to the fact that the other reindeer are... unkind to him. He has made several complaints. I didn't see the point in bothering you with them."<br />
"Yes, of course." There wasn't anything to say about that, really. Jingles had been right not to bother him, and Rudolph's parents should have known when they begged for him to be spared that he would have to deal with some ridicule.<br />
<br />
"Well Rudolph, I'm not here about that. You'll... have to just have a thick skin about it. But if you're able to help me with something, I think it's safe to say that most of the other reindeer will be much, much nicer to you. Come outside, will you?"<br />
As soon as they stepped back out into the gale the whole world turned red. The light reflecting off the ice crystals in the air surrounded them in a radiant haze - but did nothing to improve the visibility.<br />
"Jingles, I could have told you this would happen. Look, we can still hardly see our own noses! If light was the issue I would just mount some more lanterns on the sleigh."<br />
"Sir, if you'll give me a moment... Rudolph, look at the residence and tell me what you see."<br />
<br />
Rudolph turned his head and moved his nose in tiny circles as he spoke. "I see the building, of course. The doors and windows are all closed against the storm. An elf - I don't know his name - is standing at the corner of the building urinating on a log. He's also holding up three fingers."<br />
Jingles looked mildly annoyed at the idea of Snook being caught with his pants down, but recovered quickly. "You see? It's not just the visible light. Some part of it extends right through snow! He can be put at the lead position and guide us through the passes!"<br />
"Rudolph. You can fly?"<br />
"Yes sir," the mutant said, "very well sir."<br />
Santa sighed. He didn't like relying on perversions of magic, but if Christmas was going to come on time he had no choice. "Rudolph... I need you to guide my sleigh tonight."<br />
<br />
Five hours later they were all ready to take flight. Santa had held out hope that the storm would clear, but it was time to get moving - he would have to trust in the freak's ability. The other reindeer weren't happy about it either, and Santa saw them biting and shoving Rudolph as they got into position.<br />
"Okay team! To attention!" The reindeer straightened up, but continued to glare at Rudolph. "Look, I know you're not happy. Trust me, I wouldn't be working with a mutant if I had any other choice - but for tonight Rudolph is part of the team, and an important one! Without him we would have to cancel Christmas entirely, and... well, I don't have to explain how bad that would be. So be professional, put your disgust aside, and after we return... well I can't force you to be nice, but at least be appreciative. Are we understood?"<br />
There was a chorus of grunts. Good enough.<br />
<br />
The takeoff was a little rocky, with the additional untrained reindeer and the hesitant main team. They didn't like that they couldn't see, but once they were in the air and the compound had vanished below them they got into the rhythm of it and relaxed. Santa tried to estimate the direction and time, and just as he was wondering why they weren't in the mountains yet he saw them looming up out of the foggy wind. Sheer cliffs of stone on either side, passing in the darkness like ghosts.<br />
<br />
They turned and adjusted over and over, seeking the best route. Santa had some rough sketches of where the passes were, but Rudolph had trouble making out anything but the parchment itself and anyway it probably wouldn't have helped. They had never needed a particularly accurate map. Suddenly they picked up speed, going faster and faster. Were they through the pass already? Why was Rudolph speeding up? Santa reached for the reigns, but then froze as a red light flashed past him.<br />
<br />
It happened so quickly, he could hardly understand. Some part of his brain, grasping in shock for an explanation, wondered if Rudolph's nose had somehow fallen off like a piece of over-ripe fruit. But no, that wasn't it. Less than a second had passed, his mind still reeling, before he turned forward and knew the truth. Rudolph had slipped free from the harness somehow, just before...<br />
<br />
The wall of stone appeared too fast for Santa to do anything about it. The reindeer in front tried to stop, but the ones behind them reacted slower and caused a pile-up that only got worse as the sleigh itself - loaded up with a full night's delivery - pushed the tangled heap of animals forward into the cliff face where a nightmare chorus of snapping bones and jingling bells and shattering wood all blurred into a single discordant note.<br />
<br />
Santa bounced off of one of the reindeer and felt hot blood splashing across his face before freezing in the howling wind as he plummeted. He didn't know how far down the ground was, but he knew it would be far enough; even if his magic kept him alive he was likely to be crushed by the sleigh, and if he survived that he would be in no shape to get home. Wind rushing in his ears drowned out almost everything, and yet he thought he could hear the faint sound of Rudolph's voice.<br />
<br />
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-90223375483002412982017-08-31T08:46:00.000-07:002018-05-18T09:42:15.401-07:00Story 241: SymbiosisIt started as a spot on my arm, a whitehead that felt far too solid when I tried to pop it. I've had bug bites that felt like that, like there was some sort of lump under the surface, so I decided that was what had happened. A bug, that's all.<br />
<br />
The next day the skin had broken, and I could see a metallic object underneath. Thin lines were extending out of it just under my skin like veins - or roots. I poked at it, picked at it, but it was clear that trying to remove it would cause a lot of damage. I knew that I needed an actual doctor but I don't have insurance and even in the best case scenario I knew it would cost me thousands of dollars to get the thing looked at. I didn't even have a hundred bucks in my account, so I tried home remedies.<br />
<br />
I put a hot compress on it, I treated it with vinegar, anything the internet terminal at the library told me to do. Of course nothing online was for some sort of metal thing growing under your skin. The closest I found to that were rumors, news stories on disreputable sites about some kind of inorganic spores released from the Kilnmast Air Force Base. I know the one, it's maybe five miles away.<br />
<br />
By the end of the week it was covering most of the skin on my arm, and I could feel those roots spreading all through me. It didn't hurt and I hadn't lost any of my range of motion - that arm was a bit numb, but I can live with a strange metallic arm better than I can live with a mountain of medical debt. I stopped leaving the apartment except to go to the construction site, where I wore long sleeves and gloves the whole day. Coming home one afternoon I saw one of my neighbors being dragged into a black van. Could have been debt collectors or something, but I couldn't help but remember that it was his library card I used to look up stuff about this condition online.<br />
<br />
Maybe I'm being paranoid.<br />
<br />
The next week it had covered my whole arm and my collarbone too, and I was starting to see changes. Lines were appearing, and a little thing that looked like an indicator light although it didn't light up. Soon the lines had deepened, and my new metallic skin had retracted from around my tendons to reveal delicate pneumatics. Everything organic was being replaced. I started to be able to feel things in that arm again, not like I used to but close enough. That arm wasn't hot or cold, but it was aware of the temperature. It couldn't feel, exactly, but it could sense pressure. It was strange, to the extent that that word even meant anything anymore.<br />
<br />
After that there was the accident at the job site. A beam fell, and was about to land on Jamal. He was wearing a helmet but that wouldn't have mattered; the thing was almost a thousand pounds and falling fast. I shouldered him out of the way, and raised that arm above me almost like I was uppercutting the beam. It rang like a gong, and I felt the pressure go through my arm, through the supports in my collarbone, through the spiderweb of other bits growing inside me that I hadn't even been aware of. I felt my spine buckle and bend sideways, and then the beam was rolling off my fist. It glanced off my skull before hitting the ground, and I felt a trickle of blood dripping down past my eyes.<br />
<br />
Everyone was staring. Of course they were. I just stood there, wondering why I barely ached. After a moment my spine popped itself back into shape and I realized that this thing, whatever it is, must have already taken over all my bones. I ran, leaving everyone behind. I couldn't have answered their questions. Paranoid or not, I didn't want to go home either and so I went to one of the old buildings I helped raise. The top floor of the Narmorra Tower has roof access if you know the code, and they never changed it once the job was finished.<br />
<br />
Sitting above the city is relaxing. I don't know what I'm going to do next, but the more I think about it the more I don't want to go back to what I was. It feels right, somehow, feels like I'm better this way. I reach up to dab more blood off of my head, and for a second my finger accidentally slides into the cut from the I beam. I feel metal. It must be almost everywhere. I roll up my sleeve and look at the arm, the most complete part of whatever transformation has been happening. It has all sorts of features now, panels and things that I can't get to open. Metal-sleeved tubes of some sort. That light, which has - maybe just now - finally started blinking. It's green. Green. Ready.<br />
<br />
It's ready.<br />
<br />
Like I've done it a thousand times, I relax and allow the hatch on my upper shoulder to open. slowly at first, but then expanding into a great cloud, spores begin to emerge and drift out over the city.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-28053943844249380852017-08-28T09:45:00.000-07:002018-05-18T09:49:40.787-07:00Story 240: Point Of Entry"Great and powerful Nuuk'ta! Go forth, and crush the unbelievers!"<br />
I look around me at the symbols. It's pretty clearly a summoning circle which I had already guessed, but I'm trying to read the details. Looks like they were trying to summon a god, give him a physical form, and make sure he understood thier language. A pretty common package. The language thing has worked fine, I'm vaguely aware that they're not really speaking English. That's not something I would have expected them to bother with for a god - wouldn't they just figure he'd already know it?<br />
<br />
That thing they just said, too - it was more of a command than a request. Hmm. I look at the circle again, and see what they were going for. They screwed it up, but the attempt at least makes sense.<br />
"Ah. You're binding me to speak your language so that I don't curse you. I get it. And you're binding me to your will, so you can sic me on people. That's... ballsy."<br />
I wonder what "ballsy" translates as in thier language. Saying it felt pretty normal, there's probably a similar term. They're looking nervous.<br />
<br />
"No curse, Great one... we were told your divine language would kill mere mortals with the very sound of it?" I nod, hoping that's enough, and the head cultist continues. "Great and powerful Nuuk'ta, we seek only to live by your ideals. Conquest, dominance... um..."<br />
It was going great until the 'um' part. Okay, so this is some sort of hyper-violent diety that they thought would appreciate the effort to play by his rules. Maybe they're even right.<br />
<br />
I crouch down, still ignoring them. There's something that still doesn't add up... ah. They got the syntax a little wrong. That's usually what it is, actually. So they pulled someone with a physical form, rather than granting a physical form. I was probably just chosen because I was all powered up in my laboratory. All that magical energy made it easy to pull me over, and magic is a bit lazy when it comes down to it. Okay, so then how to get back to Michigan?<br />
<br />
"For your boldness, I will spare your lives!" I yell, doing my best 'angry god' face. "Who are the unbelievers you refer to?"<br />
They stammer out a tale, sometimes getting so worked up they're spitting a bit. Short answer seems to be 'everyone in the city but us'. They're oppressed, nobody likes that thier version of 'spreading the gospel' involves lots and lots of hitting people until they convert. Gee, I wonder why. And so they've called me from my 'throne of skulls' to smite everyone. Sure, fine. Let's do some smiting.<br />
<br />
I step out of the circle, and feel only a slight tingle. I sieze on it and draw the magic in, causing the circle to flicker and fade. It's not a lot. Still, unlike all these stupid cultists I'm from a technologically advanced society with things like medical school. I know thier own physiology better than they could ever hope to. Everyone on Earth - my Earth - keeps wards up to protect from this kind of attack but I'm guessing that these tools have never encountered truly nuanced magic combined with detailed anatomical knowledge. Just a trickle of power, and...<br />
<br />
Aneurisms all around. That was easy. Now I just need to figure out how to get the coordinates for my home dimension, and I can... um... something is wrong. There's a buzzing...<br />
"THAT WAS A VERY CLEVER TRICK, HUMAN." The voice is in my head. It's deep, and powerful, and all I can picture is a towering throne of skulls. Hmm. It's possible that the spell grabbed me to use as a physical form, but was still successful at summoning the god. Into... my head?<br />
"LET US GO TO THIS PLACE CALLED MICHIGAN YOU ARE THINKING OF. WE WILL SPREAD MY RELIGION TO THIS NEW LAND THROUGH BLOOD AND CONQUEST."<br />
Ah, crap. Nothing is ever easy.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-9415869216534997202017-06-19T21:55:00.002-07:002017-06-19T21:55:46.346-07:00Story 239: Ruining Friendships Since 1992When they pick a crew for a trip to Mars, one of the main things the International Space Exploration Foundation is looking for is psychological stability. The ship is cramped, the trip is long, and the opportunities for conflict are endless. So the eight of us were hand-picked as the least likely to go stir crazy and the least likely to piss each other off.<br />
<br />
And now we're practically trying to kill each other.<br />
<br />
Honestly I wonder if we should have just aborted the mission when we got hit. The issue is that the damage was extremely localized - whatever that thing was, it punched a neat hole through one of our hard drives and nothing else. We didn't lose anything vital and we were all worried that if we stopped the mission we'd never get another chance. Also, just a quick physics lesson: once you're well on your way to getting up to speed for a trip to Mars it takes a really long time to stop. We weren't yet to the point where we couldn't do it, but it would have been an enormous waste of time and energy.<br />
<br />
And hey, we only lost the optional stuff. Books, music, games. Entertainment. We're a bunch of nerds, we thought, we can make our own entertainment! If nothing else several of us could whip up a homebrew role playing game. We also assumed that Earth would be able to send us replacements for some of our entertainment files because the books in particular don't take up a lot of space. But a combination of equipment malfunctions, political maneuvering, budget arguments, and other factors too idiotic to mention meant we got almost nothing from ISEF command. Oh, and the RPGs went badly. Very badly.<br />
<br />
If we had nothing, maybe it would have gone better. Maybe we would have withdrawn into our own heads and had a miserable but silent journey. Instead there's a game console on board, just the one, with a single game. Mario Kart. As the sole source of entertainment, we've all become obsessed with it. Every waking moment not spent going over diagnostics and microgravity experiments is spent on those damn tracks, four of us playing at a time and screaming at each other at the top of our lungs.<br />
<br />
It will be fine. We're the best of the best. The most stable, the most sane. We can do this - and when we get to Mars there will be more room and more people and backups of all the entertainment we lost. Just one more month. I really hope we make it. Karen is banging on the airlock, probably yelling at me to let her back inside. I can't hear her though, which is a really nice change. Still, I should check in on her. I reach over and press the intercom button.<br />
"Karen... are you ready to say it?" She lets loose a string of obscenities that really show how smart you have to be to become an astronaut. Some of those verb-noun combinations are ingenious. "No, that's not what I'm looking for Karen. You can say it. It's just six words." Seven if you count the contraction as two, I guess. Karen is too mad to be picky though. "Come on, Karen. Say it: I'm sorry about the blue shell."<br />
<br />
I release the intercom button, and the banging intensifies. My hand drifts towards the button to open the outer airlock doors, but... no. That would be taking it a little too far. Leaving her there, I unclip my wrench and make sure I have a nice firm grip on it. It's time for my turn, and Gary may need a little convincing.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-28599922335943561742017-06-16T13:44:00.002-07:002017-06-16T13:44:58.988-07:00Story 238: Save PointThe pine door swings shut silently, and vanishes. The scene is as I remember it, a frozen tableau in the woods outside the ruins - the only difference being my absence. I don't ask where the body goes, I trust that there's a system and it's all neatly taken care of - that there's no mass grave full of identical clerics in identical blue cloaks. I step up to the spot where I had been standing and the world seems to exhale. Jane and August go from still-life to full motion and if I blur slightly, if I'm standing in a different position than I should have been, they don't notice. I want to get this over with, so I step between them and motion them to silence.<br />
<br />
"You're both wrong," I say. "If we head back it will catch us at the pass, and if we go into the ruins it will corner us. A direct assault won't gain us anything, and we don't have time to set up a proper trap. We can sit here and discuss for about five minutes before it gets our scent again, at which point we'll have no choice but to fight it and die."<br />
August looks like he's going to argue, but as always he thinks better of it. "So then what? What do we need to do?" he asks.<br />
And I don't know. I'm out of ideas, and exhausted, and these two will only be able to suggest the same losing strategies that I've already heard and attempted. This all has to be me.<br />
<br />
I went insane, for a while. Somewhere around attempt twelve hundred, I just snapped. I slapped August for no reason or stripped naked and ran through the woods laughing. I killed myself, I killed Jane, I told my companions that I had a plan and then when they leaned close to listen I belched as loud as I could into their faces. A month later - or no time at all, depending on how you want to look at it - I was just as suddenly sane again. Jane and August were both being torn to shreds, which didn't bother me because I've long ago become accustomed to that sound, and I saw clear as day how I could escape.<br />
<br />
It took me another thousand tries to get it right, but I did eventually get away. Covered in blood, missing most of my left foot, and probably still being tracked by the beast - but out of those cursed woods. It was so tempting to meditate again, to connect with the Goddess of Fate and renew my energy... but then I would be locking that timeline in. The death of my friends, and in all likelihood my own death as well - just slightly deferred. And so I crawled to the edge of the cliff and tipped myself over. Since then, I've been back to my original plan. Try everything, and get all three of us out alive. I've got to be getting close to eight thousand cycles by now, I think the record is twelve thousand and fifty-seven by Archbishop Boulan.<br />
<br />
"...then I'll stab it from behind," Jane is saying. Right on schedule. I've wasted the last few tries saying variations on 'no' or 'I don't know' and it's time to do something stupid instead. I tell August and Jane to climb two separate trees, and they scramble up just as the beast gets close enough for me to hear. It sees me and I start to run, avoiding every hidden rock and log in the drifts of leaves. I know just where to weave through the trees to make my path as short as possible while making the beast go around. I've tried this before, of course, but there are always tiny differences. I started running later, so it didn't shake the others out of their trees before coming at me. The beast tried to smash through a branch that turned out to be a tad too large, so it was slowed down. Everyone thinks that those who worship the Goddess of Fate don't believe in luck, but they misunderstand how the world works. Of course there is luck. It is through luck, through those tiny differences and variables, that Fate can be changed or fulfilled.<br />
<br />
And so, somehow, I make it to the ruins. It's very rare for me to make it this far unless I start running before it sees me. That means I almost never get here while my friends are alive except when we all come together. Maybe, just maybe, if they run the opposite direction they'll get away. Maybe they'll make it to the pass, and once they're beyond that the beast will have a harder time catching them. That is, if they run at all. No matter how many times I've begged them to abandon me they've never done it.<br />
<br />
It's right behind me. I can nearly feel its breath. I dodge to the side at the last second, and feel an enormous claw tear the edge of my cloak. Scrambling through a window, I climb upwards. I'm in a large stone building - a church, maybe - half of which is collapsed and open to the sky. The beast doesn't fit through the window but it is enraged at being so close to me and missing, so rather than circle around through the missing wall it just tears the stones in front of it away. There's nowhere else for me to go, I'm dangling from the rotted rafters of a bell tower. The bell itself is down below, slowly being absorbed by the forest that is retaking this ancient town. The beast leaps, and barely misses my leg.<br />
<br />
I can see August and Jane. Those fools have followed me, want to save me. I might as well let myself die now and try again; once they make it to this building the beast will kill us all anyway. If only I had known there was no way out I wouldn't have stopped to pray. I wouldn't have sealed my Fate, and I could have stepped back to the camp we made before entering the thing's tomb. August has his sword out, Jane her twin daggers. They've seen me through the holes in the walls, and they're approaching cautiously. Unlike me, they haven't truly seen what this creature is capable of. They'll know soon enough.<br />
<br />
Snorting and hacking, I build up a reserve of mucus and spit it downwards onto the monster. Not very cleric-like, certainly, but if I'm about to die I might as well. The shot is perfect, and hits an open eye. The beast roars, enraged. Good. If I can't kill you making you angry will have to suffice. The thing lunges again, and when it fails once more to grab my leg it starts to climb the wall just as I did. The stones shift as its huge frame moves closer to me. Oh, Goddess. It's too heavy. I look upwards and can see the remains of the bell tower swaying like a grass in a storm - and then, in an instant, thousands of pounds of building collapses on both of us.<br />
<br />
The pine door swings open. August is frozen, pulling Jane away from the still-falling rubble. Their eyes are wide, and bits of stone are hanging in the air around them - one looks like it's about to give August a nasty cut on his cheek. I step through the ruins, looking for the beast. I find my own corpse, or at least my hand sticking out of the debris. Finally I see the thing, see a heavy stone has partially collapsed its head. Looking up, I can see several more that will probably hit it as well. Is it dead? Probably not. But it's badly injured, and it's trapped, and my friends are alive and armed... this is what I've been waiting for.<br />
<br />
I lean down close to the beast. "I wish I could see what happens next," I whisper. Heading back to August and Jane I kiss them both on the cheek and pray to the Goddess that they'll feel it somehow. I step through into darkness for the final time, and the pine door swings shut silently.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-7920141448926146502017-06-15T09:06:00.000-07:002018-05-18T09:27:20.522-07:00Story 97 Reboot: Reading Between the LinesThere was a Reddit writing prompt that Story 97 fit right into, so I re-wrote it from scratch. I think this version is a bit better. Sadly the way the page layout and fonts here are if I want it to line up right I need to make it teeny. Instead I'm going to... not... and you'll just have to paste it into somewhere else if you want to see the lines match up properly.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Dearest Janet, I'm sorry I didn't write you sooner. Please know that I'm doing so much better now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">When I had those dark thoughts, those waking nightmares, I worried that I would never again know joy</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">but now it is all I know - I had hoped against hope that this retreat would help me find some peace</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">and I was right. I've had some time to meet the staff and to look around the grounds, and I've found</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">that this is possibly the best-run facility in the country. Something wonderful is in the air here,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">something that surrounds us every waking moment and curls around us like a heavy blanket when we sleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">A comforting presence created by the beauty of the gardens, the kindness of the staff. Happiness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It takes my breath away. When I had those nightmares before I imagined that a monster followed me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">but now it is love and support. I know you love me as well but in my despair I couldn't see that;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">now I can see it as clear as day. The staff here have been taking myself and others into regular</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">therapy sessions, where through simple discussion and mutual affirmation we grow. So much better than</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">experiments and inhumane treatments - shock therapy, lobotomies, even more dark and obscure means</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">followed by lesser physicians and less reputable facilities. Where I used to honestly believe something</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">meant to harm my very soul, drive me insane, or worse - and I know some of the other patients here</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">believed the same - I now can look at each person I meet and see the goodness, the kindness. If I</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">vanished and never returned, without saying goodbye or being seen by the staff and patients here again</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">they would be heartbroken, such is the sense of family and community in this place. Still, I know that</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I must leave. When you come to get me it will be difficult to go, difficult to walk out of this place.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Maybe I should stay a bit longer, if for no other reason than to bask in my newfound joy. No need to</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">come right away, to steal me out of here like a thief in the night. You could bring me something though,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">maybe a photograph of your beautiful face. It is the only thing I miss. The city can keep its filth, its</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">guns. I would resolve to be done with it forever, to ensure I never again set eyes on the horrid shape of</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">the city skyline. Maybe we could live out here in the countryside? Here, where I see flowers and not</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">that monster. I shouldn't write about that. I wouldn't want someone to read this and get the idea that</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I still suffer from my delusion. I assure you, I'm cured and happy once more - even if it seems like</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">every second thing I say is just nonsense. I trust that you, dearest one, will understand me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It's time to go now. Thank you again, this place has saved me. The doctors here are angels, sent to</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">deliver me from the darkest depths. I love you. I hope I will hear from you soon. It's almost my turn</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">to go horseback riding, so I will end this letter here. If only you were here this place would be perfect</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">and I might never return home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">-- Alfred</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-14082155481913810582017-06-14T12:51:00.001-07:002017-06-14T12:56:15.117-07:00Story 237: Ready Player Two"Well, he shouldn't have been kicking chickens. Those belong to old man Greery, and the last thing that poor old bastard needs is someone brutalizing his livestock."<br />
Nobody responds, they're all just staring at the corpse. The chosen one. I'm so fired. "Look, just... think about if it had been literally anyone else. A strange man comes into our town and starts punting our poultry all over, you absolutely would have asked me to detain him. I'm the town guard, that's my entire job description! And then, and then he starts swinging this massive sword at me -"<br />
"You mean the legendary sword of Holy Light?" the mayor asks.<br />
"Um. I suppose?"<br />
"The one that we've got no less than four murals of? That one?"<br />
I think I see where this is going. "You know, I'm not really a big art lover..."<br />
"The one that you maybe should have recognized as the emblem of the ONE TRUE HERO SENT TO DELIVER US FROM LORD BLOODWORM?"<br />
The yelling seems unnecessary. I'm standing right here. "Okay well yes, but when it's coming right at your face it's hard to take a minute and compare it to the murals, you know?"<br />
<br />
Farmer Richards scoffs. Actually scoffs! "You don't look like you've got a scratch on you, boy."<br />
Well he's not wrong. It was the first thing I noticed after killing the... ugh, the chosen one.<br />
The mayor nods. "Yes, that's because he was never in any danger. The sword of Holy Light only kills those with evil in their hearts, not incompetence and stupidity."<br />
"Okay first of all ouch. That's... that's really harsh. I was doing my job. Second, that just proves I'm not evil and it was an honest mistake. And third, I still want to know why he was laying boot to old man Greery's chickens!"<br />
"Who cares!" farmer Richards yells, "It's hero stuff. Why, he came onto my farm the other day and smashed most of my pottery. You'll notice I didn't kill him for it."<br />
There's a murmuring in the crowd, now. Jean, the brewmistress, raises a hand. "Hang on. He came to my shop, as well. Drank some beer without paying, and smashed all the empty barrels."<br />
Carol the weaver nods. "Came right into my house. Didn't knock or announce himself, just dug through my cabinets. He took my last rupee, as well as the apple I was going to have with lunch."<br />
More and more are nodding and whispering.<br />
<br />
The mayor finally calls for silence. "Everyone! Okay, it seems the chosen one was exhibiting a lot of... strange and seemingly un-heroic behavior. That's rather beside the point now, however. we need to deal with the fact that captain enthusiasm here murdered him."<br />
"Manslaughter, at the worst."<br />
"Shut up."<br />
"Yessir."<br />
The townsfolk start yelling out suggestions. It starts with calls for my execution, but soon it becomes clear that nobody really wants to admit that our town had anything to do with this. They're talking about covering it up.<br />
"I mean," Carol says, "hero-ing is dangerous work. Who's to say he didn't get eaten by a giant spider?"<br />
"I have a spot we can bury him," Farmer Richards volunteers, "and the guard as well if we're still executing him."<br />
The mayor is considering it. "Hmm. Yes, it would be bad for tourism indeed. Well, let's move the body for now. The fewer people see this the better."<br />
A few people grab the body and start dragging it away. The mayor tries to pick up the sword, but his hand passes right through it. Everyone freezes.<br />
"Hey everyone, the mayor isn't worthy to lift the sword!" someone in the back yells.<br />
"I know that was you, Errol! I'd like to see you do better!"<br />
<br />
One by one the townsfolk try, but nobody can do more than make it wiggle. Finally there's nobody left but me. Might as well...<br />
<br />
The cold metal seems to send energy up into my arms. For a moment the skies part and allow a glimpse into a universe beyond my understanding, filled with radiant beings singing.<br />
"Oh, shit." the mayor says. There's a general grumbling from the crowd that seems to agree. At least I guess I'm not going to get executed.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-71942513455720391102017-06-12T21:41:00.000-07:002017-06-14T12:56:15.126-07:00Story 236: I Wish I Thought This ThroughSomeone is knocking on the door again. I ran in here rather suddenly, they probably think I'm puking my brains out. I wonder how long I can ignore them before they kick the door in to check on me? After all, they must be at least a little worried that someone has poisoned me. I'm sure people try that all the time. God, I just can't believe I'm Hitler - I really should have worded that wish better. I thought that since it wasn't something selfish the genie would take it easy on me. Although... I guess it was a little selfish. I wanted the glory. I wanted to be the one that prevented the holocaust, prevented world war. Instead I get to be Hitler. Well played, douche.<br />
<br />
The calendar on the wall is thankfully one of those that just shows the current day - so it's almost certainly September 27th, 1940. I don't know why that specific date... I guess maybe I should have prepared for this a little more. What the hell happened on September 27th? The war started in like '38 or '39, right? God, I don't even know that. This was a really bad idea. Still, I'm here now. So. I could kill myself, or run away somewhere? But the war is already going. I may not remember dates, but I remember names - and Hitler isn't the only problem so if I go they'll just replace me - him - whatever. From what I've read Hitler was a nut who actually held Germany back in a lot of ways, which means if I take off now the replacement might be more competent. They could actually win this war. So I stay. I could... I could let the war happen, but sabotage it? And maybe make sure we skip the concentration camps part? Or has that already started?<br />
<br />
Either way. Okay. I can do this. I can take over as Hitler, make Germany less evil, maybe cripple my own side. I can't stop the war entirely but maybe I can get Goebbels and Himmler killed, so that it's more of a regular war. I'll still be vilified. I'll probably be assassinated or executed or something. But... it's something. It's still a much better history than the one I came from. It feels good to have a plan. Tonight is it, tonight is the turning point in World War Two where Germany goes off the rails and prevents the Holocaust.<br />
<br />
They've given up on knocking - there's a rattle as someone unlocks the door from the other side. It's showtime. I straighten up, adjust my coat. Deep breaths, get in character... I can do this... The door opens, and someone really serious looking raises an eyebrow at me. He says something in German. I have no idea what. Well, shit.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-55480666009903732992017-06-09T13:00:00.000-07:002017-06-14T12:56:15.122-07:00Story 235: Trial and Error"Okay, one more time. What were his exact words?"<br />
<br />
Arthur thought about doing an impression of the White Mage's voice, but it seemed just a tad disrespectful with the man's still-fresh corpse not twenty feet away. "Use the orb, it is the only way. Um. Then he called me some rather nasty names, and then he said... open it now, and be sure to."<br />
"And that was it?" Taran looked at the brass sphere in his hand. It didn't look like it could open.<br />
"Yes, that was it. Be sure to, and then he coughed blood all over me and died."<br />
Taran tapped the orb and listened, just in case. "Arthur, you left out the part where you dropped him."<br />
"He coughed blood at me! Right in my face! I was leaning in to listen, and - you would have dropped him too!"<br />
<br />
Taran was pretty sure he wouldn't have dropped the legendary White Mage, just as he was sure he wouldn't have accidentally stabbed him in the first place.<br />
"You know, Arthur, this is the second person that you've killed."<br />
"Sardon wasn't my fault."<br />
Taran squeezed the orb. "Well you stabbed him and he died. So."<br />
"It's!" Arthur gestured wildly, not managing to indicate anything in particular.<br />
This wasn't the first, or even the hundredth time Taran had brought up Sardon's death. Every time Arthur got just a little bit less articulate. Finally he took a deep breath, and lifted the Sword of Courage from the floor where he had tossed it.<br />
"Fine, Taran. Fine. You're just jealous because you wanted to be the chosen one and you're not." Arthur held the sword out to Taran, who jumped backwards melodramatically.<br />
"Don't point that thing at me, you're a menace!"<br />
"No. Take it. That's what you want. You want to be me, fine. You can be the chosen one now. I'd give you the birthmark too if I could!"<br />
Taran grinned as he idly spun the sphere on a workbench. "Keep waving that thing around and you're bound..."<br />
<br />
Arthur hesitated. He liked to treat Taran as his servant, but more and more as they traveled together Arthur was learning that between the two of them Arthur was the dead weight. And when Taran passed up the chance to finish an insult it could only mean he was having an important thought.<br />
"Arthur, take the orb. It has to be you, probably. Look, the sword is what you're supposed to use to kill the Dark One. So this must... I don't know, activate it or something."<br />
He took it, and tried to concentrate on it opening. It remained stubbornly in one piece. He tapped it against the blade. He put down the sword, and rested the orb on the hilt. "Um. I could, like, try to chop it open?"<br />
Taran shook his head. "No. No, because then it'll turn out that you're wrong but the stupid thing will be broken. Maybe it's not for the sword. Maybe it's for the armor?"<br />
"But we don't have the armor. Willis stole it, and probably sold it."<br />
Taran sighed. "You're so, so bad at this. Just... give me the orb. Let's get the hell out of here before anyone finds out we killed another legendary hero."<br />
<br />
The two marched out and slammed the door behind them. Unnoticed, a brass and silver sphere sat in a nook that had been hidden by the open door - candlelight gleaming across its finely crafted hinges.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-12285385730515138852017-06-07T09:36:00.000-07:002017-06-14T12:56:15.112-07:00Story 234: Thinking of YouI finish cutting the crusts off of Toby's peanut butter and jelly sandwich and drop a handful of baby carrots onto the plate. Perfect. I look at the finished meal, and concentrate on it - forming a vivid image in my head.<br />
<br />
I hear Toby's footsteps on the stairs. <br />
<br />
He comes around the corner at top speed, radiating gratitude at me. He's such a good boy. Still, a little privacy is good for both of us so I put on my helmet - I only wear it when we're in the same room, but poor Toby has to wear his all the time. He looks up from his already half-eaten meal and smiles, peanut butter smeared at the corners of his mouth. I would have thought that his helmet couldn't have fit any more stickers, but it looks like he found a spot for a new one - a dinosaur on a skateboard.<br />
"Okay kiddo, after this is naptime, and then the rest of the afternoon is yours. What do you want to do?"<br />
The response is muted, muffled first by his helmet and then by mine, so I get something that's almost a regular sentence rather than a full sensory experience. He wants to go to the zoo. Oh boy.<br />
"Buddy, you remember what happened last time?"<br />
He nods, and I can feel his sadness. It wasn't his fault, and nobody was hurt, but having all the primates freeze in place and stare in Toby's direction - regardless of the concrete walls in the way - freaked out the zookeepers pretty bad. They had asked, politely, if I could keep him away after that.<br />
"How about a hike? Get out in nature? That's kind of like a zoo."<br />
<br />
He agrees to a nice quiet nature walk once I promise some ice cream will be waiting at the end. With minimal whining he heads upstairs to take his nap, and I settle into my recliner. He can't sleep with the helmet on, so I focus on soothing images that won't keep him awake. The beach, mostly. Waves, gently sweeping across the sand. A sunset glowing red on the water. Sleep. Sleep. I can feel it as he passes out, like a slight pressure has lifted off of me. The weight of his thoughts that can be felt throughout the house. I take my helmet off and recline the chair, waiting. It should be any minute now that the show starts. While I wait, I think about the facility we used to live at. Those horrible days of tests and needles and... but that's over now. Toby made sure of that. He was so young, but even then he was gentle with them. He could have killed them once I broke out of my cell and pulled Toby's helmet off. Could have utterly destroyed them. Instead, my sweet baby just made them all forget. They all smiled and helped us pack, helped us delete files, helped us burn the facility to the ground. And then, minds blank as children, they wandered away.<br />
<br />
It's starting. He's all the way asleep now.<br />
<br />
The walls seem to melt, sunlight streaming in. Fields of grass and flowers sway in an unfelt breeze, and what appear to be tigers fly smoothly through the clouds. I relax, and recline further - it doesn't look like there will be any nightmares today. Swaddled in my son's dreams, I begin to drift off myself.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-54727256360793233692017-06-05T08:42:00.000-07:002017-06-08T08:44:02.266-07:00Story 233: Reasonable Adults"Mom!" Alex's voice echoed down the hallway, "Something is happening! The house is haunted!"<br />
Internally, Jane was ready to scream. She was just sick and tired of her son freaking out about every aspect of their move - the color of the house, the school they were next to, the lack of a Wawa in walking distance, the shape of his room - and while she had never struck him and felt certain she never would there had been quite a few times in the last three days where she visualized it in excruciating detail. Externally, she stood up and smiled so that her voice wouldn't sound too annoyed.<br />
"It's fine, Alex. There's no such thing as ghosts."<br />
<br />
Jane ran into him coming the other way as she left her bedroom. He was pale, and his eyes were wide. Something had genuinely spooked him. He pointed towards the kitchen with a shaking hand. "The... it... it wants to talk to you."<br />
Goosebumps swarmed over Jane's arms despite her firm disbelief in the supernatural. Picking her way around the boxes she had yet to unpack, she walked into the kitchen. She was half expecting to see an intruder and was trying to remember if she had unpacked the knife block yet, but... there was no one there.<br />
"Alex? Kiddo? There's nothing here."<br />
He slipped around her and nervously pointed to the game of Scrabble that was dumped out on the kitchen table.<br />
"That's... seriously? That's what this is about? I told you that I would play with you later. Did you really think that this would work? Pretend to be scared and I'll just... look. I'll still play with you after dinner but you need to give me five minutes to myself."<br />
"No, mom. Look. Look at it."<br />
<br />
CALL YOUR MOM, the tiles said. She was about to tell Alex that, A for effort and all, but she was still going back to her room... when they moved. Tiles slid around each other until the table now said SORRY FOR THE SCARE.<br />
"Alex? Go play in your room."<br />
Jane sank into a chair and stared at the tiles as they started moving again. Magnets? No, the table and the pieces were all wood. Some sort of... air powered... but the thought wouldn't go any further.<br />
BE OUT OF YOUR HAIR SHORTL it said, and then kept spinning tiles.<br />
"We lost the other Y," Jane said, "and it only had the two to begin with."<br />
A blank tile slid into place after 'SHORTL' and then the whole phrase disassembled itself.<br />
GHOST HERE NEED JUSTICE<br />
"Oh. Okay. What do you need?"<br />
BODY UNDER SHED<br />
She flinched at the thought, but part of her had been expecting it. "You want me to dig you up, I assume. Well, thanks for telling me before I unpack things into the shed I guess."<br />
NO PROBLEM<br />
"And do you need me to tell the police who killed you?"<br />
NOT HOLD UP IN COURT<br />
"I suppose not."<br />
COPS WILL FIGURE OUT<br />
<br />
Jane stood up. This was going to be yet another difficult chore, but she certainly wasn't going to leave a corpse in her back yard. "Well. I'll get to work on that. If I have to tear the shed down I don't know what to do with the pieces, and then... I'll tell the police I was..."<br />
GARDENING<br />
"Yeah. Making a garden. Sure. Anyway what I'm saying is it might be a few days."<br />
NO RUSH THANKS<br />
"No, thank you. I mean, for not... no bleeding walls or moaning or throwing things."<br />
I HATE DRAMA<br />
Jane nodded. It was a relief to hear from such a reasonable spirit, it seemed to bode well for the afterlife. "Well. Listen, if you have any trouble 'moving on' or 'passing over' or whatever once this is done... I'm sure we could work out something. Roommates, kind of. You know."<br />
APPRECIATED GOOD TO HAVE OPTIONS<br />
Jane thought about going to the hardware store, but she had a landscaper coming the next day anyway that might be able to move the shed in one piece and besides, that headache was still lurking in the corners of her brain waiting to come back.<br />
"Alex? Everything is fine, it's... everything is fine. Go play outside while I get a nap."<br />
Alex, seemingly recovered from his brush with the paranormal, thundered past towards the back yard.<br />
"Oh, but... just stay away from the shed for now, okay?"<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
 -=- 
 
Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-18986734874874299302017-06-02T11:07:00.000-07:002017-06-08T09:15:33.092-07:00Story 232: Limited Contract<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Chad woke up a little, sometimes. They had told him that might happen.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">As if in a dream, he would look out from his eyes as he stood at his workstation and typed. It would fade to numb darkness soon enough, leaving only the faint impression of a huge room filled with identical computers and nearly identical workers. Later - though it was impossible to tell how long later - he would see the curved ceiling of his sleeping tube inches from his face, or the nutrition dispenser dropping a pre-wrapped bar into his hand.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In these short glimpses, Chad tried to look for dates. How far into his five year service was he? A week? Six months? Three years? Once he saw that he was in the gym, and was sure the calendar on the wall said August. He didn't see a year though, so that wasn't a lot of help. It didn't matter. They were clearly keeping up their end of the bargain, maintaining his body as it worked around the clock for them.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then there was the one where he was walking down a dark hallway. In the distance, an emergency light was flashing. A fire drill? A power outage? It was gone before he could tell. After that it was his workstation, and everything seemed fine. The workstations on either side of him appeared to be empty, but he couldn't turn his head to see for sure. They were empty the next time, certainly.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">He was in the gym, and the treadmill wasn't working. He watched his hand press on the button over and over, trying to make it start. He was in the sleeping tube, and someone somewhere was yelling. Angry. He was at his workstation, but the screen was blank. He was typing anyway. The lights started to be off more often than on, but he never felt hungry so at least the nutrition dispenser seemed to be okay.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The calendar in the gym said October, but the ink was streaked as if water had dripped down it at some point. Chad started to notice mildew spots on the walls.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">His monitor had fallen over, and he could see the rest of the massive room. Only two other workstations had people at them, out of hundreds.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">A dark hallway, with someone screaming in the distance. Screaming, and screaming, and screaming, and then silence that was somehow even louder.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">He stood in front of the nutrition dispenser, hand outstretched. Nothing fell into it.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">His sleep tube. Something smelled very wrong.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gym. Marching in place on the broken treadmill. Hungry.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pain. Someone had just slapped him. Chad tried to make out the words they were saying. "...awake? Snap out of it! This whole place is..." as the vision faded, he tried to focus. It was a teenage boy, filthy, wearing a beanie and holding a baseball bat. Nobody he knew.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Workstation. Not hungry anymore. Typing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gym. It was darker than anything before, not even emergency lights. He could just barely see his reflection in the mirror as he walked towards the treadmill. His jumpsuit was disgusting and torn. Something was smeared all over it. He had a beard. The hair on his head looked strange, but he didn't get a good enough look. It might have been a hat of some sort.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Workstation. The keyboard had fallen, or something. He was drumming his fingers on the dusty countertop. He was so, so hungry. There was nobody else in the room, that he could see. A single emergency light was on, but his eyes must have adjusted because that was enough to get a pretty good look. Surprised, Chad realized he was turning his head. He was in control. Had it been five years, or had the device just failed?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">He reached up with a trembling hand and felt his beard. It was thick, matted. Numbly he wandered through the center, but didn't see anyone else alive. There were a few bodies, and some parts of bodies. The water was still running in the break room for some reason, which didn't seem right considering the state of everything else. He used it to wash himself as best he could, and then pulled on a fresh jumpsuit that he liberated from someone else's sleeping tube. His own tube looked terrible and smelled worse.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The nutrition dispenser was empty, but he found a pallet of the bars in a back room and ate until he felt sick. The calendar in the Gym still said October, in that smeared ink. He nodded. It could be October. Who was here to say otherwise? He headed back to the main lobby, almost tripping over something in the dark hallway that clattered against the wall with a wooden sound. The exit was barricaded, but one side had been knocked inwards. He considered it for a moment as if it was a puzzle, a riddle in a language he couldn't understand.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Turning, Chad walked back to his workstation. He picked up a keyboard from his neighbor's unused spot, and began to type.</span></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
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Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-20537118697343053172017-05-31T09:51:00.000-07:002017-06-07T09:52:39.946-07:00Story 231: A Quick ErrandGail hated shopping at Zip Grocery, but the nearest actual chain store was ten miles away and the bus schedules had just been getting more and more labyrinthine. With all the twists and turns and transfers, it would take her almost two hours each way.<br />
<br />
The bell on the door jingled as she walked in, and Gail took a basket. As always, her goal was to shop as quickly as possible. Everything about Zip Grocery was the opposite of the big chain places - the aisles were narrow, so that as many shelves as possible would fit. The lights were dim and flickery, giving off a muted yellow glow rather than the stark white of new fluorescents. The brands were often strange, companies Gail had never heard of or boxes labeled in other languages. Still, she had never had a problem with the actual food.<br />
<br />
As she passed the counter a ghostly form became faintly visible, like a mirage. "Still looking!" Gail said, and the figure vanished. That was really the worst part about Zip Grocery. The water marks on the ceiling, the dusty shelves, the radio playing mostly static with just a few recognizable fragments of music - all of these Gail could ignore for convenience. But the ghosts were usually too much, and would have been again today if she hadn't overcooked dinner.<br />
<br />
As if reading her thoughts, a voice came over the speakers and drowned out the static. "You have a date?"<br />
"Yes, Mrs. Habbash." She had given up asking them not to eavesdrop. It didn't seem to be intentional, sometimes they just picked up a signal.<br />
"Who is the lucky boy? Anyone I know?"<br />
Gail dropped a box of what she hoped was cornbread mix into her basket after failing to decipher the Korean(?) on the front. "Um. Yeah, I guess maybe. Eric? Eric Swift."<br />
The static returned, and Gail sped up. Chili wasn't a very good meal for a date, but it was fast and easy and she didn't have time to do much from scratch. It would be better than the bone-dry and rock hard pork roast she had somehow created. If there was something wrong with her oven she doubted the landlord would get around to fixing it in the next year.<br />
<br />
She looked down at her basket. Two types of beans, shredded cheese, chili powder, tomato sauce, some withered limes, and the cornbread mix. She had the rest at home other than beef, which Zip Grocery didn't carry anyway. There was a tiny carniceria down the street she could hit on her way home. Abruptly, the static stopped.<br />
"Hello, dear. So sorry about your date."<br />
"Hasn't happened yet, Mrs. Habbash."<br />
"Oh. Oh! I must have gotten distracted. Of course."<br />
"Wait. Why are you sorry?"<br />
But the radio was just static again, interspersed with tiny fragments of La Bamba.<br />
<br />
Gail placed all her items on the counter, and then put her basket away while the old shade of Mr. Habbash rung her up. He had died right there behind the counter, if the stories were to be believed. Heart attack or something. They had found his wife dead in the little apartment above Zip Grocery the next day - presumably she had wanted to be with her husband, and had succeeded.<br />
"Shame about that Kelly girl," Mr. Habbash said.<br />
"Kelly?"<br />
"Lived on 34th, I believe."<br />
The speakers gave out a burst of loud static.<br />
"Right, right," he corrected, "43rd. Correct as always, dear."<br />
Mr. Habbash finished ringing Gail up and gave her her change. She hesitated, wondering if she should ask about this Kelly person. She hated ghosts. Hated being in the room with them, having to interact with them, having to smile and be polite around them. But she was also just so curious.<br />
"So... what happened to Kelly?"<br />
<br />
Mr. Habbash turned and looked at her, his eyes suddenly looking extremely solid as if they could at any moment fall through his ethereal body and land with a wet sound on the counter. A blue light wavered inside them, seemingly a long way off.<br />
"She passed on a few months back. Spoke to us in passing, about her boyfriend. Well. Enjoy your chili, young lady."<br />
The speakers crackled slightly before Mrs. Habbash spoke up, "And don't be such a stranger. We've always liked you, dear."<br />
<br />
The oven did in fact turn out to be broken, which meant even with close supervision the cornbread wasn't quite right. The chili turned out to be delicious, which was fortunate because there were a lot of leftovers; Eric never showed. She called but got voicemail, texted but never got a reply. Later, after even the leftovers were long gone, she heard that he had abruptly moved out of state. Probably some sort of family emergency, though nobody seemed to know details. For reasons she couldn't quite put into words Gail felt relieved.<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
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Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868677170057333329.post-42445624543613515292017-05-29T23:29:00.000-07:002017-05-29T23:29:17.956-07:00Story 230: What Hath Man WroughtAs if nature itself was enraged at Dr. Rykloff's experiment, lightning tore through the sky over and over again. The dome of the laboratory was hammered by waves of rain, making the already featureless landscape fade into even more of a brown and grey blur.<br />
<br />
"You're mad!" Clarice yelled, in what was honestly a bit of unnecessary theatrics. She pulled against her restraints again, accomplishing nothing other than making her wrists sore. "You can't bring them back!"<br />
"Oh but I can! I can and I have!" Rykloff gestured to the large metal cubes at one end of the dome, and as if on cue the doors set into one rattled. "You and the council... and my lawyer... and... well, a lot of people. You all say I can't bring them back, can't return a lost species to life. None of you seem to care about when I brought back rabbits!"<br />
Clarice rolled her eyes. "Rabbits are different. These things are responsible for the destruction of our environment!"<br />
"Bah! So what if they are? It's ruined now, what difference does it make?"<br />
"But the use of resources..."<br />
<br />
"No!" Rykloff yelled, and threw an oversized switch. The doors on the cubes started to swing open. "I'll not hear of your precious resources. I was there, Clarice! I was alive back when we could live outside! You think I don't know what happened? But I can still remember... and I will have it again."<br />
One by one the great beasts stepped out, larger than any animal living in the sealed colony. One of them turned a rolling, crazy eye towards Clarice. "Moo," it said.<br />
"I will have steak again, Clarice."<div class="blogger-post-footer">
 
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Read More: http://therestofyourmice.blogspot.com/</div>sodhnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00401977288481675599noreply@blogger.com0