Microstory 2369: Earth, September 6, 2179

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google ImageFX text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 3

Dear Corinthia,

I was trying to decide how to send this to you. I didn’t want it getting mixed up with the open letter I wrote to the whole base. I really should have sent this first, and the open letter the next day. So, sorry for the delay, and I’m sorry you’re feeling bad. I’m really hoping that you feel better by the time you get this. Actually, I’m hoping you felt better by the time I got your letter about it. I might know of a way to help. When I was still young—so young that I can’t entirely trust my memories of those days. The poisons had not yet destroyed the environment, but things were pretty bad already. I guess I’ve never really gotten into it, but the gases were kind of a breaking point for preexisting struggles all over the world. They were nowhere near the beginning of conflict. That was a hard time for us, but I was oblivious, because I was too young to understand. I was a little hungry some of the time, but not starving, and definitely not neglected. Dad did the best he could to provide for us during a difficult period in history, and that often meant spending time away from me to make money. Since he had to be away so much, a babysitter cared for me. We couldn’t afford much of course, but she must have been willing to do a lot for not very much money. She was so kind to me, I always thought she just enjoyed my company since I was a pretty cute kid. Thinking on it now, though, maybe there was something between them. Maybe she was never a babysitter at all, but a girlfriend. They didn’t tell me her last name, so I can’t look her up, and I’m afraid to ask. I have never otherwise known him to date. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s just that, I was having my own troubles during all that where I was getting sick kind of regularly, and in different ways. Man, maybe I really should ask dad about that to see what was going on. Was I terribly ill, with something concrete and diagnosable? No matter what was wrong, one thing that my caretaker did for me every single time was make me chicken noodle soup. Also looking back at that, I doubt it was even real chicken. However, I still have the recipe, and I’ve attached it here in case you have the right ingredients to supplement what isn’t available. Maybe you have nothing that works. Or maybe you have chicken noodle soup all the time, and I sound like a patronizing doofus. Just...I hope you’re feeling better, and that things are going okay with you, okay? How’s Bray? How was my letter received by your friends? When are you coming down to Earth for a visit?

Take care of yourself,

Condor

Microstory 2072: Turtles

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Workspace Labs text-to-image Duet AI software

Yesterday was a long one, wasn’t it? I usually find it harder to talk about myself than to write about fictional characters. I can always keep making things up about them, but it’s not so simple with my real life. But Nick, you claim that your stories are real, and you’re just relating them on your website. Yes, I did say that, didn’t I? It’s sort of a chicken or the egg situation. Except that there’s an obvious answer for that conundrum. A chicken can’t exist unless it was born from an egg, and an egg can’t exist unless it was laid by a chicken, right? That’s the whole thing, which of course ignores how evolution works. So all things being equal, the answer is that the chicken came first since a chicken can survive on its own, but an egg needs to be protected. That’s its advantage for the best answer. I came up with this when I was a little kid, and I’ve yet to hear anyone else make the same argument. Now, you may be wondering why the title of this post is Turtles when it appears to be more about chickens and eggs. That’s because I didn’t want to come up with a title for it, and I always use Turtle as a placeholder until I think of something else. You see, I write these in a word processor, so I can organize them how I like, and then copy each one over to my blog when it’s ready. I have to do a lot of formatting to make it look right, which takes nearly as much time as the writing itself. I tell you, it’s exhausting. Oh, why, do you ask, is Turtle the placeholder? It kind of sounds like the word title. Don’t overthink it. I’m not that complex. For the body of the story, until I’m ready to write it, I use Something.

Microstory 1568: By a Dog

< > Table of Contents

Prompt

Because of my horrible allergies, I have a poor sense of smell, but I can smell poop and popcorn, and I can’t tell the difference.

Botner

I thought there was popcorn in the seat of the grocery cart, but then I didn’t smell it. The smell was different, like rotten popcorn, but not quite. The smell disappeared about the same time as the smell of poop. He was leaning forward into the cart so he could see the screen and as soon as he heard me, he tried to hold his finger over his nose. I guess the dogs would be more sensitive to dog farts if they were in the cart with you. I’ve heard that border collies can smell out drugs but I wonder about different breeds. Does it depend on the breed? I was a black lab, lab retriever mix, but probably mixed with some other breed since we got her before we started breeding labs. My parents only got me when they already had three dogs, and I was somewhat self-sufficient. I had a job, but mostly I just kept to myself and did my own thing. I used to follow my parents around and go to their bed when they were asleep. I still do that sometimes, but they let me now. I went with them when they went to visit my granny and the park she lives near. I wanted to go home with them but they wouldn’t let me, so I waited for them at the house. I got my mom’s last bite of chicken. I...

Conclusion

...don’t normally get to eat human food, but they each sneak me some when the other isn’t looking. They don’t know that the other one does this, and think it’s just our little secret. That’s fine with me, I get more chicken this way. My friends around the neighborhood often ask me how my owners are, and what it’s like to be me. In fact, they ask me this question every single time that they see me, because they don’t have much in the way of memory. I don’t know why I’m different than the other dogs; why I’m so much smarter, but it is both a blessing, and a curse. My humans regularly walk around without any clothes on, which makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know why, I’m not wearing clothes either, but I guess my fur makes me feel less self-conscious about it if, at least it would if I were them. I sometimes catch myself dreaming of leaving the house, and going off on my own. I would be able to survive just about anything. It’s only my fingerless paws that would make things problematic. Though, I suppose I could teach the humans I meet to understand me, and help me out when I need it. Why would I do that, though? I love my humans. They give me food and water, a nice place to sleep (even if it’s my bed or cage, instead of theirs), and I don’t get as distracted by the crazy smells all over the yard as my friends do. No, I don’t think I would give up my life for anything, even if I do have a little more potential than the average pup.

Microstory 1291: The Rooster and the Wolf

< > Table of Contents

A wolf was walking through the woods when he came upon a farm. He was so hungry, and hadn’t found food in days, so he thought this was the perfect spot. Unfortunately, the farmer had placed traps on the edge of his property, and one of them caught the wolf before he was able to even get close. This was very early in the morning, so only the rooster was awake, patrolling the grounds. When the wolf saw him approach, he knew he had to come up with a story. If he freely admitted his intentions, the rooster would cause a ruckus, and the wolf would surely be done for. So he spun a lie about how he hadn’t even noticed the farm, that he was just passing by on his way to a watering hole, and that he had no plans to harm anyone there. As convincing as the wolf was, the rooster knew that he was lying. He did what he believed to be his job, and woke the whole farm, particularly the farmer. Well, the wolf, knowing this would be the end of him if he didn’t do something, focused all of his attention on the line he was tied up in, and gnawed it apart as quickly as he could. He didn’t make it into the treeline before the farmer managed to fire his shotgun, though, and hit him with a couple shots. It wasn’t enough to kill him, but it did damage his right ear enough to cause permanent hearing loss. And that was enough to anger him greatly. Yes, the wolf was indeed planning to invade the farm, and take some chickens. But he wasn’t going to be greedy about it. Now things were different. Now he had a vendetta, and he felt that he had no choice but to make things so much worse at the farm. At the time, he was a lone wolf, but that didn’t mean he was an omega, or that other wolves wouldn’t help him. So he gathered up all the others he could find in the area, and galvanized them into warriors. Then they attacked the farm together, and killed nearly everything there. But they left the rooster alive.

This story was inspired by, and revised from, an Aesop Fable called The Cock and the Fox.

Microstory 1290: The Fox and His Friends

< > Table of Contents

A dog and a chicken were bored of the farm where they had both lived their entire lives. They wanted to see the world, so they broke through the fence, and started their journey. They weren’t able to travel very fast, because the chicken couldn’t keep up with the dog, and the dog couldn’t move very fast when she had a chicken on her back. Still they continued, because it was important for them to see things they never had before, and to gain valuable experiences. As the hour grew late, they knew they had to find a place to sleep, so they settled on a nice, large tree. The lowest branch was high enough to keep the chicken away from danger, and the trunk was hollowed out, so the dog could crawl inside. When morning came, the chicken woke up with a start. For a second, she forgot where she was, and fell off the branch. She clucked louder than she ever had before. Had she still been at the farm, she would have awoken everyone else there. As it happened, only a fox was alerted to her presence. Fearful and worried, the chicken flew back up to the branch, and looked around for danger. The dog, meanwhile, ran off to patrol the area, to make sure her little chicken friend was safe. It was at this time that the fox glided up to the tree to see what the fuss was about. “Get away from me,” the chicken said to him. “I will not be your meal today!”

“Please do not be frightened.” The fox couldn’t remember where he had gone wrong in his life, or how he had generated such a terrible reputation, but he wanted to change that. Yes, this prey looked tasty, but he also desperately needed friends, and that had to be more important. “I promise that I am not here to hurt you.”

“My dog friend will return soon, and then you will be sorry.”

Then the fox got an idea. It wasn’t the best he ever had, but he felt he had to do something. He threw a grape into the air with his mouth, and then struck it with his tail. It flew up towards the trunk, and knocked the chicken from her roost. The fox then proceeded to sit there without hurting the chicken, so that when the dog returned, he could show them that he was telling the truth. Their friendship did not come easy, but over time, the fox was able to prove himself a better friend than an enemy.

This story was inspired by, and revised from, an Aesop Fable called The Dog, the Cock, and the Fox.

Microstory 1272: The Donkey and the Dog

< > Table of Contents

One evening, after supper, a farmer went out to bid his animals goodnight. The cows mooed graciously. The chickens clucked in delight. The pigs oinked with glee. But they all knew that they were not his favorites. The farmer could only allow himself to grow attached to the animals he would not one day slaughter, like the horses, the sheep, and the goats. But even they could not compare to the farmer’s love for his dog, and his donkey. The dog would hop around, and try to get the farmer to play, but the farmer was old and weary. The best he could do was sit on the milking stool, and let the dog rest in his lap. The donkey wanted to be part of this as well. He hopped around playfully, but could not match the dog’s agility. He tried to mimic the dog’s adorable barks and bays, but his voice only came out in screeches, irritating the other animals in the barn. But the donkey did not give up. He gently nudged the dog off of the farmer’s lap, and attempted to take her place. “No,” said the farmer. “You are too big for my lap. You would surely crush my legs, and break my knees.” So the sad donkey slinked off to stand alone in the corner. The farmer stood up from the stool, and followed his donkey over there. He gently petted the donkey. “I am too old to ride upon your back, and you are too big to sit upon my lap. But that does not mean I do not love you. The dog ran up and affectionately bit the donkey on his leg. “I love you both equally.”

This story was inspired by, and revised from, an Aesop Fable called The Ass and the Lapdog.

Microstory 1271: The Independent Woman and Her Milk

< > Table of Contents

After the cows were milked, and the market was soon to open, the farmer sent his young daughter into town to sell their milk. As she walked, she fantasized about what she and her family could do with the money they would get. After today, they should have saved up enough to buy a new cow, which will increase their yield, and make them even more money. With that, they could buy chickens, and fix the fence, and do all sorts of things to make their farm better and better. If they could make enough, she might even be able to afford the books she’ll need to go to school. As her mind was wandering, thinking about the amazing job she might get from having become educated, the pail slipped from her hand, and fell to the ground. All of the milk was wasted. When she returned home to confess to her parents what she had done, her father was saddened. He was not upset about the milk, but he realized how difficult this life must have been for his children. The next day, he sold the farmland, and all of its assets. He moved his family to a small apartment in the city, only a few blocks from the nearest school. His children received a great education, and even went on to college. The daughter chose to study agriculture, and ultimately became the founder of a vertical farming company, revolutionizing the way farmers tended to their crops. She eventually forgot about that fateful day when she foolishly spilled the milk. Her head was too full of interesting thoughts about how to make the world a better place.

This story was inspired by, and revised from, an Aesop Fable called The Milkmaid and Her Pail.

Microstory 948: Clean Meat

< > Table of Contents

I love meat. Meaty, meat, meat. Here it goes down; down into my belly. Mm-mm-mm. I love cow meat, and pig meat, and bird meat, and sea meat. When I was younger, I was willing to eat any kind of animal, as long as it wasn’t lamb or veal. Why those exceptions? Well, they’re babies, and I think eating babies is monstrous. But maybe that’s just me. Other than that, I was up for anything. Cow tongue, escargot, caviar; whatever, I’m a pretty adventurous guy. I never had any interest in becoming a vegetarian, but somehow at the same time, I always wanted to be a vegetarian. I never liked the fact that something had to die so that I could live, but I did it, because I needed the protein. Things are different now, though. I’m educated enough to know that there are vegetarian protein options, I’m living late enough in history for those options to be readily available, and now all I need is the money. I would love to go full vegetarian right now, but I just cannot afford the substitutes I would need to stay healthy. If I had better self-control, and wasn’t a recovering binge eater, I might be able to get away with it. After all, the majority of your diet is meant to be carbohydrates anyway. That doesn’t work, though, when the you can’t get full just from eating fruits and vegetables, and ended up eating thousands of calories a day to compensate.

A few months ago, one of my cousins was being celebrated for having graduated from college. Family from all over came to the area for a lunch, which was being catered by a local fried chicken place. They came in with this huge tin of dark chicken meat, and I wanted to throw up. My favorite food had always been chicken, but that looked so...Usonian (you would call it “American”). It was excessive and wasteful; it kind of opened up my eyes. I decided I wanted to change my lifestyle, but I knew I couldn’t just go cold turkey (pun well intended). Ironically, I’ve actually kept the chicken in my diet, along with other fowl. I also continue to eat seafood, though it’s fairly expensive in landlocked Kansas, so it’s mostly birds. Chicken. It’s mostly chicken. All I did was cut out the mammals, which is perhaps the easiest way to explain it. I’m saving up money so I can by a car, but once I have that, I’ll start saving...so I can adopt an older child. But maybe someday down the line, I’ll be able to afford—and consistently stomach—all those nuts, lentils, tofu, quinoa, and yogurt. Hopefully soon, though, I’ll have an even better option. They call it clean meat. You know me; I’m great at naming things. Seriously, using my linguistics resources to figure out how to name things is a special skill I have that’s surpassed by few others. I’m the one who came up with the term materianet, for anyone reading this in the future when it has finally replaced the ridiculously-sounding “internet of things”. Clean meat is an odd choice of words, and an entirely politco-marketing one. It’s not any cleaner than regular meat, but it is less cruel. What they do is extract a few cells from a living creature, let that creature continue to live, then engineer the sample to grow on its own. It’s a fascinating process that is presently still in its infancy, but it is showing real promise. Imagine the staunchest of carnivores capable of devouring any meat they’d like without having killed a single animal. Despite all those restaurants that make you wear use forks for soup—or whatever other crap they do—this really will revolutionize the food industry, and I’m extremely pleased with the prospect.

Microstory 818: Gum Up the Works

< > Table of Contents

I watched with curiosity as the man I worked for began to tie a wire around his own rooster’s leg. I had only been working on this farm for the last few days, and had learned a lot, but this one was new to me. I was born and raised in the city, but when the war began, the only safe places to live were in very rural areas. Sometimes not even small towns were safe enough from the danger. I knew I had to adapt, and figure out how people survive around here. He wasn’t trying to show me what he was doing, but he wasn’t hiding it either. I asked him to explain it to me, and he said it was a teaching tool. He said roosters are as intelligent as dogs and pigs—which I wasn’t convinced was true—and he wanted to teach his to do things for him. I pointed out that this would be virtually impractical, as birds don’t have hands, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He was sure that an army of roosters could protect his lands, and perform simple tasks autonomously. All he was concerned with right now was conditioning the animal to follow his commands. The teaching tool was, as you may have guessed, designed to send a small but painful current up the rooster’s leg. Negative reinforcement, my boss called it. He’d read about it in a book. I was horrified by what he was doing, but was too afraid to say anything, or try to stop him. I learned long ago to accept these people’s way of life, recognizing it to be wildly different than mine, and that I’m the stranger here. One of the other farmhands, however, was not so tolerant, nor did he fear losing his job, like I was. While the boss wasn’t looking, the other guy replaced the wire with his gum wrapper. This worked for a little while, but then the boss wised up to what was happening, and went about fixing the problem. I’m not sure why the farmhand thought that would work in the long-term. The question was whether he would live long enough to regret it. As soon as the boss replaced the the wire on the rooster’s leg, he sent a test shock to it. The farmhand shuddered in pain, which surprised us all. The boss tested his makeshift device again, and the same thing happened. While the rooster was indeed feeling pain, so was the farmhand. They had somehow become linked to one another, so that when one felt pain, so did the other. A twisted smirk fell upon our boss’ face, as his head started filling with all sorts of nasty thoughts. A shock was easy to take, but what were the farmhand’s limits, and how could the farmer exploit him? I grabbed the rooster with my bare hands, and deftly removed the shock wire. “Run!” I screamed. We’ve been hiding out ever since, doing everything we can to protect the rooster, and hoping to find a way to disconnect these two, so that the human doesn’t die when the animal does. If it’s the only way, we’ll even consider defecting to the enemy.

The Odds: Fifty-Six (Part IV)

Click here for the previous installment...
Click here for the entire story (so far).

Do you think it’s possible that the only reason I’m starting this sentence with a question is because, in order to set up formatting, I copy-pasted each installment beginning with ‘Have you ever wanted to write a story?’ and when I tried to highlight and overwrite it, I missed the question mark? No, it’s not.

Honestly, it would be rather difficult for me to remember exactly how I came to the conclusion that Fifty-Six should be my fourth number. The first three numbers in my list were a part of me. They were inherent to my understanding of how writing, and the world, works. It’s also a bit of a chicken or the egg thing with whether I thought to come up with numbers after watching LOST, or if I focused a lot on the LOST numbers because I had already found significance in my own. But as the old tangent goes, there’s a logical answer to the chicken or the egg “dilemma”. The problem here is that a chicken cannot be born but from an egg, and an egg cannot exist without being laid by a chicken. And so they seem equally likely and unlikely as each other, because one is wholly dependent on the other. But...ignoring all evolutionary concepts (read: reality) on the matter, one has an advantage over the other. Are you ready to have your minds blown? A chicken can live perfectly happily without an egg, but an egg cannot survive without a chicken to protect it from danger, following its creation. Somebody clean up this graymatter! You’re welcome!

Back to what I was saying, when you add up all the LOST numbers of 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42, you end up with the number 108. When I started adding up my three preexisting numbers, I somehow realized how easy it would be for them to reach 216; twice 108, of course. Without any more calculations, I determined that, in order to reach that sum, my last two numbers would have to be around 50 and 80. I tried a few different combinations. 55 + 84? I didn’t want Fifty-Five to intrude on Eleven’s purpose of being palindromic. It would have been an interesting choice since it’s a Fibonacci number, but since my first three preclude me from also using 89, it would have seemed like a waste anyway. 52 + 87? I didn’t want there to be a connection to playing cards, and I didn’t like my birth year being in there, because it’s too obvious. I tried a few more, and finally settled on Fifty-Six and Eighty-Three. Now this seems very inorganic and insincere, but the process itself is what makes these numbers relevant. Yes, by the time I got to them, I had already been looking to complete my collection, but that’s what makes it so cool. The effort I put into finding Fifty-Six in the first place is what imbued it with its power.

Other people have used Fifty-Six for their own reasons, all of which I read about just now, and did not consider when first coming up with it. The most fascinating one is that Shirley Temple’s mother always ensured that she wore 56 curls as a child. I can’t find any information as to why her mother chose that number (or why that number chose her mother), but it seemed to have worked. She was the archetype of the cute child; one that casting directors and modeling agents seem to look for even today. While the ideal “beautiful person” has changed over time, if you think about it, the most adorable children in advertising are determined by how closely they resemble her. I suppose the curls themselves have nothing to do with that, but still. Hey, I’m just spitballing here. Well...I mean, I’m not. That’s gross.

Speaking of numbers, when I started writing for my website, I went through some growing pains to try and figure out how long each installment would be. The early ones are all over the place, and show no level of continuity, in that regard. But then the microstories started being between 200 to 300 words each. I think. I would have to go back and look, but I’m pretty sure they were on the short side, just reaching into my memory. The weekend stories—which I first referred to as flash fiction, and now call mezzofiction (in order to maintain that continuity)—were shaping up to be longer. In fact, they were about five times as long, which meant that five microstories were equal to one longer story. But that’s dumb, because there are two days in a weekend. I continued to work on creating a site that you could count on. Literally. Instead of posting nanofiction stories as they popped into my head, I starting writing them out in a spreadsheet, with the intention of posting them every three hours, a pattern which is broken only by my afternoon story post, and my evening photo. Speaking of which, sorry about the lack of photos. They take more effort than you would think, I’ve run out of “things” in my house, and I don’t get out much. As my methods progressed, I came up with interrelated microstory series that would last for weeks, and were connected in some way, rather than just whatever I could come up with at the time. Lastly, I decided to decide on story arcs for The Advancement of Mateo Matic that would last a year/volume each, and I planned for future Saturday mezzofiction so that I would never again be caught with my pants down, like I was with the continuation of Mr. Muxley Meets Mediocrity. And that’s funny, because my pants fell down when I realized I had no idea what this very story you’re reading now would be about.

Things were falling into place as they should have. Microstory length increased to about 300 to 500, with the mode being rather close to the median. Mezzofiction story length still hovers around 1250 words, but I’m finding I need a little more for my more recent installments of The Advancement of Mateo Matic. It’s easy to go over my mark, but it’s hard for me to be under. I always feel like I’m cheating you out of something, or that I’m missing something and it’s incomplete. But I need to get over that. I don’t encounter Fifty-Six nearly as much as the other four. And that’s okay, because magic numbers aren’t real. When an installment is done, it needs to be done. And right now, I’m only at 1119 words, but it’s done. That is at least more than I thought there would be.

Oh, I forgot to mention that I only started posting my images alongside my stories because I noticed an uptick in clicks when I did so. Most of my traffic, I believe, comes from Facebook. And as you’re going through your feed, if you don’t see a picture, you don’t see it. It might as well not exist. I’m a word guy, I like words. Honestly, you guys are frustratingly simplistic, and I struggle to come up with images that match my words. I’ve even altered my stories in order to match with a picture I already have. Which is ridiculous, and not how writing should be done! Grrr! Anyway, here’s a picture of some penguins, because nothing else works with this story. This is what you have reduced me to. Are you happy? 1256 words. Hmm...

Click here for the next installment...

Microstory 80: Mob Psychologist

Most people were enamored with Tucker Everett because of his superpower. By it’s very nature, however, people were not capable of recognizing that he had a superpower in the first place; but they were certainly susceptible to it. He had the power of persuasion, but only at massive scales. He could not, for instance, convince an individual to act like a chicken. He could, however, run a promotional video for one of his company’s products, personally asking people to buy it. If enough people saw the advertisement, the majority of them would be compelled to make the purchase. The larger the crowd; the more successful his message would be. But nothing had a 100% success rate. Not only would any given message only ultimately capture a certain percentage of the crowd, but there were a select few who were apparently immune to his powers. Some of these people started noticing the strangely steady increase in Tucker’s followers. They formed a group of concerned citizens, led by a man named Erik Schuler who called Tucker the Mob Psychologist.

One night, Tucker infiltrated their meeting. He sat quietly throughout most of it before standing up and approaching the podium. The crowd screamed, and some even took out weapons. “Have no fear, my dear friends,” Tucker said. “You have already discovered that my ability does not work on you. But I would like to clear something up. I did not know I had this ability at all until a few years ago. I started realizing that too many people agreed with my words, and that the numbers did not add up. And it was for this reason, that I decided to use my power for good. This world is sick, and I can heal it. But I need your help. I need people who are capable of disagreeing with me, to make sure that we’re making the right choices. This man, Mr. Schuler, has been lying to you. He is like me. You see, even though you’re immune to my persuasion, you are vulnerable to his.” Tucker smiled to himself as the mob turned on their former leader, Erik. It turned out that they weren’t actually immune to Tucker’s powers. He just needed to get them all in one room.