Microstory 2398: Vacuus, May 13, 2182

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Dear Pascal,

Thank you for your letter. I have shared this development with Velia, but we’re not telling anyone else, at least not for now. We were so excited when the researchers told us that the Valkyries were moving on, and we would suffer under their harsh rule no longer. It never occurred to us that Condor wouldn’t be there when we got to the other side of the unfortunate blackout. We talked about him often, wondering what became of him with his new job, and what fun new people he would have met over the last two years. I can’t believe he’s gone, and I’m frustrated at how unfair it is that we were separated from each other for so long. We finally reconnected, only to be ripped away once more, like some cruel cosmic joke. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. You got to know him fully. You watched him grow up. You’ve seen his laugh. He sent a few photos of himself to me and Velia, and one video to Velia. He wasn’t really much of a smiler, but we don’t have very many examples, do we? I sure would have liked to see that face again. Since we can’t tell him, Velia wants me to let you know that she waited for him. She knew she would never get the chance to meet him in person, but still, she hasn’t met anyone else. She hasn’t tried, and she hasn’t let it happen. But...I think it probably needs to happen now. Condor wouldn’t want her pining for someone who can’t even write to her from across the void, would he? No, I knew him well enough to know that. Anyway, I’ll let you go. There’s nothing to say about the blackout. Most of our lives didn’t change on a day-to-day basis. For the most part, it has no effect on our internal communications. My job is a bit different, but as the saying goes, it’s nothing to write home about. I’m still doing what I’ve been doing forever. Maybe that’s how I could honor Condor in my way, by doing something brave, and making a change in my life. I’ll think about it. Thanks again for replying. The anticipation was making me sick to my stomach. At least now I know the truth.

Your loving daughter,

Corinthia

Microstory 2325: Earth, November 10, 2178

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Dear Corinthia,

I had a dream last night, instead of responding to your letter in a reasonable amount of time. All that happened in this dream was that I sat on my computer to write a message to my father. It’s been frustrating, anticipating his return. You may be okay with waiting for answers, or even never getting them, but I don’t think I can do that. I appreciate your plea to not leave the dome, and I promise that I won’t go try to intercept him. I suppose my brain was trying to reconcile that, so it came up with a fantasy scenario where I got to tell him off anyway, and express how I really feel about what he may or may have done to us. I don’t normally write or read in dreams, but now that you and I are connecting almost every week, my mind is getting used to the concept on a subconscious level. The dream felt so real, and even does now that I’m awake. If I had been flying over the oceans, or fighting off giant monsters, my waking self would acknowledge that that couldn’t have happened, and been able to move on. But this, the way that it was so mundane, and something that I actually could have done, I can’t let it go. What’s even more annoying is that I can’t even remember what was in the letter! I keep sitting down to rewrite it in the real world, but nothing comes out. I will never get it back, which is a shame, because it was so perfect. That’s how it seemed anyway. I know that it wasn’t real, but it feels like I spent a lot of time crafting a perfect speech, and now, not only is it gone, but it probably wasn’t all that relevant. It was most likely total nonsense. And I still need to come up with something good. I need to write him something for real, whether it’s as amazingly pointed as the fake original or not. On top of this whole ordeal, I didn’t get very much sleep. Or rather I didn’t wake up well-rested. So maybe I should wait to write it either way. Maybe I should delete what I’ve written to you here, and start over with your letter too. What do you think? Give me your thoughts on this message right away, so I can write you a new one tomorrow if I need to. Lol, I’m joking, but I really should get some sleep, because it almost feels like breaking the laws of physics makes sense as an idea.

Your catfish,

Condor

Microstory 2236: Stop Sending Me Messages

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We’re running into the same problem with the FBI that we had with the jail. No one has my contact information, so they’re reaching out to the only entity that they know is already in contact with me. They had to hire a temp to sift through all the letters and emails. It may actually be a team, I don’t really know. But I’m sure it’s a stressful job, because it includes death threats. Well, in truth, I don’t know that there are any death threats, because if true, part of the temp’s job would be to filter them out, so I don’t have to see them. But let’s face it, there are. No one should be sending anything like that, but I don’t really want anything anyway; good or bad. I don’t want your love letters, propositions, or proposals. I don’t want you to publish a book about my life, or cast me in a romcom. I won’t go on a date with you, or father your child, or give you my blood. It’s not a healing elixir; we know as much. Just stop. Not too long ago, Kelly suggested that we might consider hiring a publicist to handle all this stuff. They have the infrastructure and hiring practices to handle this sort of thing, not that I want anyone to have to deal with this stuff. I would rather it just stop altogether. Back in my younger days, I wished that I would be famous, and I guess I always knew that it came with drawbacks, but knowing about them, and experiencing them, are two different things. So please just calm down. As I’ve tried to explain, my blood cannot heal you. Doctors have been studying it for weeks—even longer than that when you consider the fact that I was a former immortal before I even came to your world. That’s the thing about your universe, it dampens my abilities, which is of course, what opens me up to all those death threats. God, I just can’t get away from the strife. Please just stop sending me messages. I’m sorry, but I’m not reading most of them. I don’t know what I’m going to do with the rest of my life, but I can tell you that it will be on my terms. The more you beg me to follow your lead, or listen to your ideas, the more I’m going to pull away. That’s just who I am. If you really wanna stay in the loop, simply read my website and socials. Personal connection isn’t a thing; not with me. I have all the friends I need.

Microstory 2235: Constant Federal Supervision

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This is Nick. The FBI has developed a way for me to write my posts, and have them published on my website without actually having to access the internet myself, and risk giving away my current location. I’ve been asked not to place myself in that risk in other ways, such as describing where we’re living, or anything, but other than that, I don’t have to run anything by them. There’s no approval process here. It’s just me, printing a copy of what I want to say, and sending it to the agent who has access to the right web accounts. I will tell you that I’m granted brief, monitored, and heavily secured access to the internet to make sure it looks the way I want it, but other than that, we entertain ourselves with physical media, like books and DVDs. They’re not that interesting to me, but the other two don’t seem to have any issues with it. I’m getting back into writing, because I think this world needs more compelling stories, so that takes up a lot of my time. God knows there’s nothing else to do stuck in this safehouse at 221B Baker Street in foggy Londontown. Ha! Fooled you! That is a reference from my homeworld. It’s not really where we are, you chumps. Anyway, my new stories have given me an idea of how I might get back to my friends, but it’s going to take help from viewers like you. I’ll have the details later—I just remembered this cosmic trick yesterday—but basically, if I put on a production of a particular stage musical, there’s a chance that a universe-hopper will come and get me out of here. I know that sounds bizarre and random, but it does make sense once you know the full story. Again, these are only the early stages. I’m still in protective custody, so if I want to take it one step at a time—which I should—carving a new life out for myself without the need for constant federal supervision would be the first one. So don’t ask me when auditions are. It’s not time yet. There’s a strong chance that it wouldn’t even work. Joseph is very...critical of people’s interpretations. I’ll give you more information at a later date if I decide to move forward with this plan.

Microstory 2098: Where I was Living

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I was going to crack a joke about being born “at a young age” but it seems that joke has already been made. Or maybe it wasn’t a joke, but written by someone incredibly, incredibly dumb. Either way, it’s as true for me as anyone. My family lived in a small town called Derby, Kansas, which was a suburb of Wichita, which is where the hospital was. I’ve asked my mother multiple times where else exactly we lived after that, but I don’t think I wrote everything down, and besides, I don’t have that information with me, do I? But I know that we moved around a little before I was old enough to retain memories. I was three years old when I first became self-aware. I recall playing in the leaves at my house in Springfield, Missouri, which was where we lived for about five years. My father’s time as a teacher was ending, so we moved back to Kansas. I learned years later that he was applying to jobs in both Topeka and Kansas City, so we lived in Lawrence for a year while we waited to find out which it would be. Once his employment was settled, we moved to Overland Park, and we stayed in that area up until the day I disappeared, though not always in the same house. Overland Park is probably the largest suburb of KC, and they’re all sort of mixed together. You can drive on the highway for less than half an hour, and pass eight different cities without realizing it. This has all complicated my education history, and been complicated by it, but I reckon that I’ve lived in eleven places. That’s not even counting the two months I volunteered on a farm in California, the five different dorms and apartments I was in during college, or the two months that I house-sat for my aunt in Michigan.

I didn’t always get that most people don’t move around this much. As adults, they can return to their childhood bedrooms to find them just as they were. The last room I slept in before leaving the nest is my dad’s home office now. I never stopped moving. Once I was making enough money at work, I moved to a studio apartment.A year later, my parents invested in rental property, and I was their first tenant. It was a two-bedroom house with a yard for a future dog, though it was never a great setup, because the only way to the backyard was through the garage, or from the side yard. So I moved again, this time to a four-bedroom house. That’s where I was living when I got my dog, Daisy. Since I’m a temporal alternate, I’ll just tell you that my other self lives in yet another house now. It only has two bedrooms, but the den (living room) has a door that leads to the backyard, which is perfect for Daisy. She hangs out right by the door, and never dirties up the rest of the house, which is important, because we’re allergic to animal dander, and we have OCD. This is only about my original life, so I won’t even get into all the different worlds I’ve visited since becoming a bulk traveler, but that’s all added a lot too. As I mentioned, I moved schools a lot too, and not always because I moved houses, but won’t get into that until tomorrow. Here’s a list of other states that I’ve visited, in the order that I remember them: Michigan, Colorado, Illinois, Arkansas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Florida, Ohio, Minnesota, Indiana, California, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Iowa, Tennessee, Washington, Alaska, New York, and Hawaii. Here’s a list of other countries that I’ve visited, in definite chronological order: Japan, France, Canada, Egypt, Panama, and Peru.

Microstory 2057: Precision of Language

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The interview went about as well as it could. He didn’t seem to have a problem with the fact that I didn’t have a résumé. I spent so much time traveling the bulk, and dealing with all sorts of wildly different people, I almost forgot how unusual I am. I’m neurodivergent, which doesn’t mean much in the extreme diversity of the multiverse, but it matters here. The reason I’ve been saying this planet is boring is not just because the headlines are pussycat tame compared to the kind I’m used to, but people seem to be mostly humorless too. At least when people back home would make absolutely dreadful approximations of jokes, I knew that they were trying. They wanted to be funny, they just weren’t very good at it. Metaphor, simile, analogy, hyperbole; these all go over these people’s heads. By that I mean, you failed to comprehend it, not that an object moved over your physical head. I told the interviewer that I’ve been to a thousand parks in my day, and he wanted to see my log of them, which he assumed I would need in order to come to such a precise figure. He didn’t understand that I didn’t mean it literally. I’ve just been to a lot, but probably still under a hundred, I don’t know. When I explained as much, he understood, so these people are not like Drax in the Guardians of the Galaxy franchise. They don’t have to take things literally, but it’s not intuitive for them to pick up on things like sarcasm and emotional nuance, and they have to think about it for a moment once you clarify. Fortunately, they also don’t seem perturbed about it, like the society in The Giver, which emphasizes something called precision of language. Listen to me, making pop culture references that you don’t get, because these stories don’t exist here. I guess that’s what I’ll do with my time. You do have fiction here, but it’s got to be different than the kind in other worlds if they’re more about just telling the story, and less about the poetry. Hopefully I hear back from the garden soon. I’m ready to get my hands dirty. Just so you understand, getting one’s hands dirty is an idiomatic expression that usually means being able to put in the work to accomplish something, rather than just sitting by and letting others do it. It can sometimes mean doing something bad, but it doesn’t have to. In my case, it’s to be taken seriously, though, so don’t worry. Gardening is dirty work.

Microstory 2025: Mississippi

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After working at the Auxiliary Support Branch shelter for hurricane Katrina survivors for three weeks, my papa was required to take a day off. He and the other volunteers would usually only get five or six hours of sleep every night, and the people in charge were worried about it becoming unsafe. He had made some friends there, but they had already taken their required time off. He was part of a group of holdouts, which means he resisted doing this, but the bosses weren’t going to allow him to stay any longer. He got into a car with four other people who decided to drive along the coast. They couldn’t think of anything better to do. The hurricane had destroyed so much, companies weren’t showing movies, or doing county fairs, or anything like that. Driving was the only activity. They ended up driving so much that they crossed into two other states. The first stop they made was in Mississippi, where they had lunch outside. He couldn’t remember where they ate, but I remember him telling me that he thought he had a burrito sandwich, which I guess would be a little burrito between two slices of bread? He laughed when he told me this story, like maybe he just made that part up. Once they were done, they were going to just drive back to drive back to Slidell, Louisiana, but they decided to keep going. It was kind of cool that he got to see Alabama. Remember that he was born there, but his family lived in Montana at the time, so he didn’t have any real memories of it. They saw a lot of destruction during this part of the trip; more than they had in the shelter, and it really saddened them. It does sound very sad.

Microstory 1931: Great Limerick’s Fists

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Leonard: Hey. Is someone over there? [...] I heard you moving around. It sounds like a very faint stringed musical instrument, or a chirp. Are you a cricket? [...] Oh, now you’re being all quiet, expecting me to think that I was just imagining things. I’ve been in here for a few hours, I’ve not started hallucinating quite yet. I am hungry, though. Are you hungry? Hey, if you want to reply, I heard the chirping better from this corner where the sink drains into the floor. Hey. Hey. I put my mouth a little closer, can you hear me now? Can you hear me now? Oh, you wouldn’t get the joke. They don’t have commercials in your home universe. They do in your universe of origin, but not where you’re probably from. I didn’t tell them your species originated in a different place than they live now. Or they may know now. Is there a camera in your cell? I looked all around, no cameras on this side. But I can’t see through the wall. Can Ochivari see through walls? Hey. Hey. Why won’t you answer me? It’s the human you talked to the other day. I’m Leonard, remember? I’m from a separate universe. It doesn’t have a name, though, like Salmonverse, or...I don’t know the one you were living in before you came here. Does it have a name? Hey. Hey.

Ochivar: Great Limerick’s Fists! Please stop blabbering on! We can talk if you just tone it down a little. You don’t have to be so...enthusiastic.

Leonard: That’s the second time you’ve used that word. What, or who, is Limerick?

Ochivar: He is the reason we can cross universes. He is our ancestor.

Leonard: I see. From what I understand, if you want to do that, you need at least one other Ochivar, but only one of you will survive. The other will explode.

Ochivar: They don’t explode. They become trapped in the void, and yes, they die.

Leonard: Sounds risky. Why would anyone bother trying?

Ochivar: You, who does not know what it is like to be called to service. You would not understand why we do what we do. You value life above all, regardless of what that life is doing to the world that it is on. You waste, you destroy, you kill, you take, you ruin. We are the ones who stop you. I am but the vanguard. More will come, and doom these people to the hell where they belong. And then, when it’s over, they’ll move on to another. Perhaps your world will be next.

Leonard: You know, there are Ochivari out there who do not feel the same as you.

Ochivar: The Betrayers. They believe as we do, but they put too much effort into a fruitless endeavor. They think they can help the peoples of the multiverse repair their worlds. But we know better. We know that there is no hope for your kind. But we are not cruel, and we are not unjust. We do not kill. We let you live your lives. You just won’t have any more children. That is a gift we are not required to give. Consider yourselves lucky. I know I would if I were you.

Leonard: If your species evolved to have the family unit, you may consider what you do to the populations of the worlds you invade more cruel than you do now. Humans need to care for others, and they need to know that they’ll go on after they die. My question to you is, why? You spend so much time on this, is there no room for joy for an Ochivar?

Ochivar: Joy is for the weak. You’ll see. [...] You’ll see.

Microstory 1340: Focus Group

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Focus Group Moderator: I’m Focus Group Moderator, but you can just call me Mod. I want to thank you all for coming in today to get a first look at our brand new series, Ya Basic.

Teen 1: Ya basic.

[Laughter]

Teen 1: Sorry, I didn’t mean you, specifically. I was talking more about the garbage people who wrote this.

Mod: Oh, I’m saddened to hear that.

Teen 1: Well, they can’t all be winners, can they?

Mod: I guess not. ‘Kay, so—

Teen 2: CHEESE!

Mod: I’m sorry?

Teen 2: You said queso. I felt it was my duty to translate for everyone in the room who does not speak Spanish.

[Laughter]

Mod: Okay. Well, thanks. The first thing I want to do is get everyone’s general impression of the TV show they just watched.

Teen 3: I didn’t understand it.

Mod: All right, so it was a little confusing.

Teen 3: I wouldn’t say that. I could follow just fine, but the story didn’t make any sense. Why was the sister doing his homework? She was established as the dumber of the two, and they never explained her motivation, or his, for that matter.

Teen 4: Yeah, and the dumb things she said didn’t make sense either. It felt like all her lines were written for a boy, but then a network executive came in and said they should gender-swap it in order to be edgy and woke.

Mod: I can neither confirm, nor deny, the network’s direct involvement in creative decisions. But this is good, it’s very good. Would you characterize this show as woke?

Teen 5: Absolutely not. Her character was just as offensive as it would be had she been a boy. And just because the kids roll their eyes at their racist uncle, doesn’t mean the writers understand why it is his racism would be a bad thing in real life.

Teen 4: It felt like the uncle was supposed to be loveable and sympathetic, but the things he was saying weren’t even relatable.

Teen 6: A lot of random, made up stereotypes.

Teen Collective: [moderately in unison] Yeah, yeah...

Teen 7: All Asians are gay?

Teen 4: Yeah, what was that? Did a producer hear the word gaysian, and extrapolate too much from it?

Teen 3: Racism aside, I didn’t get why it was called Ya Basic. Who’s basic? It’s not the sister. That word doesn’t mean low intelligence, and I actually otherwise found her rather interesting.

Teen 5: I didn’t think she was interesting. I thought the whole thing was stupid, and I had a hard time paying attention to it. It was built like a sitcom, but it’s an hour long. It didn’t need to be. Half the time a character learned something, they repeated it again a few minutes later, as if you thought we’d forget.

Teen 1: Was there any significance to the banana? The character—and, thusly, the camera—stared at it for, like, thirty seconds.

Teen 2: Banana, banana!

[Laughter]

Teen 6: Teen 2 is right; that was a reference to a completely different franchise, made by a different production company. I looked it up. And that one was for kids.

Teen 4: Was this one not for kids? I certainly felt too old for it.

Teen 7: I felt too young for it. Didn’t anyone else think the banana was a phallic symbol? The kid cracked a joke about his stamina right after that.

Teen 3: Oh, yeah, probably.

Mod: Okay, perfect. Thank you so much for your answers to these survey questions. This will greatly inform how we proceed with this production.

Teen 1: By proceed, do you mean stop?

[Laughter]

Microstory 1309: Fish Feet

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Celebrity Interviewer: First of all, I am a huge fan of your work.

Seasoned Actor: Thank you very much.

Celebrity Interviewer: I mean, your performance in Severe was phenomenal; absolutely breathtaking.

Seasoned Actor: I appreciate you saying that.

Celebrity Interviewer: But that’s not why you’re here, is it?

Seasoned Actor: No.

Celebrity Interviewer: You wanna talk about your new project. It’s a pretty big departure from the kinds of things you normally do, correct?

Seasoned Actor: That’s right. It’s called Fish Feet.

Celebrity Interviewer: [Giggles]

Seasoned Actor: [Clears throat] It’s about a fish who dreams of walking on land. One day, he meets The Urchin Wizard, who grants him his wish by making him grow legs. So he goes out to explore the world with his best friend, who’s a crab. It’s delightful.

Celebrity Interviewer: That is not a word I’m seeing in the reviews.

Seasoned Actor: Well, there are millions of words, soo...

Celebrity Interviewer: A critic called it, quote, “unabashedly the worst thing I’ve ever been forced to watch in its entirety. If it weren’t my job, I would have stopped playback after ten minutes. I almost quit the paper because of this.”

Seasoned Actor: Well, that’s just one man’s opinion, from some blog site, I’m sure.

Celebrity Interviewer: It’s from the New York Times.

Seasoned Actor: Look, like you said, it’s a departure from my other work, but that doesn’t mean it’s good—I mean, not good. It doesn’t mean it’s not good.

Celebrity Interviewer: Another critique reads, “the fish’ new legs are probably about two meters in length, so he can walk alongside the humans he meets, but way too skinny. They made me really uncomfortable, and traumatized my four-year-old daughter. For some context, she laughed when that anthropomorphic peanut died. She made me turn Fish Feet off so we could watch Watership Down again. That’s why this article is a day late.”

Seasoned Actor: Okay, yes. I’ve heard these criticisms, but I’m just here to tell everybody that I loved working on this film. The director was amazing; it felt like I had known her for years. It’s supposed to be fun and silly. They made his legs ridiculous on purpose, to make kids laugh, and I think they succeeded.

Celebrity Interviewer: Apparently, there are two separate jokes about pedophilia?

Seasoned Actor: Oh my God, I’m sick of hearing about this. It’s a pun...because the fish has feet?

Celebrity Interviewer: No, no, no, yeah, we get it. That doesn’t make it okay.

Seasoned Actor: We’re done here. I thought you were going to take this seriously.

Celebrity Interviewer: I was to understand the point was that you wanted to stop having to be so serious. But I am sorry. Let’s talk about the movie. Please don’t leave.

Seasoned Actor: No, it’s done. Get this goddamn thing off my neck! We went off the record, by the way. I better not see this footage on the internet later, or your lawyers are gonna wish they had gone to medical school, where it’s less stressful.

Microstory 1276: The Dingo and the Crane

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Years ago, a dingo and a crane were drinking from the same watering hole, and got to talking. As different as they were as animals, and as unrelatable as their lifestyles should have been to each other, it turned out they had a lot in common. The dingo even agreed to limit her meals to rodents and lizards, which didn’t bother the crane at all. Birds were out of bounds, though, and the dingo was fine with this. One thing they did both enjoy, however, was a tasty fish stew. For one evening, the dingo decided to play a prank on the crane. She invited him over for dinner, like she had so many times, but the crane soon realized that he would not be able to eat the stew. She had placed it on an only moderately deep platter. The dingo was perfectly capable of lapping up the stew herself, but the crane couldn’t manage to get any into his beak. The dingo apologized for this, claiming that none of her other dishes was clean at the moment. A couple of days later, the crane invited the dingo over, so that he could host his own meal. They would have fish stew again, because it was easy, and agreeable for both. The dingo knew that the crane was planning on getting her back, likely by giving her a long jar in the same way that she had given him a platter. But she was wrong. The crane recognized that what the dingo had done was nothing more than a joke. He was able to find some fish on his way home the other day, and since he was not the vengeful type, he didn’t need to get her back. They remained friends, and one day laughed together about the silly platter prank.

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

Microstory 1048: Herbert

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Everybody just calls me Air Bear—because that’s how my name is pronounced in a French accent—which isn’t as original as you may think, but I kind of like it. It’s become kind of a running joke around town. The guy who ran the paper before you got here used to write these articles with funny little headlines that refer to me, but ultimately have nothing to do with me. You can go back in the archives to find such greats as Air Bear’s Parent’s Share Their Spare Hair. It’s about a real club at school where students coordinate hair donations. He also wrote Air Bear Cares About Pears, which is about our annual canned food drive, and Air Bear Dares Cher to Marry a Fairy in Town Square. That one sounds homophobic, but Cher and Beulah were the first kids from their graduating class to get married, the latter of which is infamous from having actually dressed as a fairy for Halloween every year. And they really did hold the ceremony in the town’s square. Again, I didn’t actually have anything to do with these things, but it was really important to Lester that he include me precisely once in every paper he released. The journalism teacher, and the rest of the administration, didn’t care for his headline fibs, but his aunt personally funded a renovation of the library, so they couldn’t really do anything about it. I know, I’ve talked a lot about me and Lester, so I’ll get on point now. Viola and I were on friendly terms, but I always hated her clique, and I never understood why she hung out with them. I’m telling you, they had more to do with her death than they’re saying. I’m not claiming there’s this big conspiracy to murder her, but they’re definitely lying about what happened that day by the river. She was a helper. She went all over town, fixing things for people, even those who didn’t know they needed any help. The truth about her so-called friends is starting to come out, and I’m thinking that’s why she was with them in the first place. You’re here to finish this for her, Alma. You have to figure out who those people really are, and what they were doing at Masters Creek. I don’t have any specific story to tell you about an experience I had with Viola, but what I can do is encourage you to pursue this with all vigor. Justice must be served, and if the police can’t do it, you’re going to have to do it for them. That’s what Lester would have done. Say what you will about the man, but he knew how to get to the bottom of a story.

Microstory 974: Weird Twitter

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A few years ago, I was trying to publish my book. Well honestly, I’ve been trying to publish my book since forever, but constantly fail, and frequently give up. During this particular attempt, an agent actually responded to my submission for representation with advice. They said that I basically already had to be famous before agents would even bother considering me. In the olden days, this meant getting published in little-read magazines, and slowly gathering a base, until you’re (inter)nationally recognized. It’s kind of like how a band has to start out playing in small town bars, because Madison Square Garden isn’t going to call them out of the blue. While the internet has changed how we access content, the dynamic has remained roughly the same. I can’t make any money at what I do until I prove I can do it without making any money. Before I had a website, I  only had two avenues for releasing my work. I started posting my microstories on Facebook, and I set up an entirely new Twitter account for fiction. The plan was to tweet extremely short stories, which sounded good on paper, but every time I attempted to write one, it just came off as humorous. Or at least it was in the comedy genre. As far as whether any of my tweets are funny, you’re going to have to decide for yourself. It took more than two years before I made any true nanofiction, and it lasted that entire year. I’m doing something similar for 2019, and then reshaping my whole schedule for 2020. Yes, I’m that far ahead with my plans. Anyway, as I was saying, what I later learned is that these “jokes” had their own special name. They’re apparently called Weird Twitter. Understand that these aren’t just one-liners like you would hear Mitch Hedberg say. His jokes were just as absurd, and often didn’t come with context, but what makes Weird Twitter so different is that they’re usually unrelatable. I have a few running gags that you would only notice if you were really paying attention. I often joke about the present condition of the hit series Breaking Bad, as if the number of seasons it had, or when it premiered, was ever in question, which it isn’t. The joke is that there is no joke, because I chose it at random, and could have chosen any other show to express the same absurdity. I also post fake conversations with my parole officer, which would make sense if he existed, or if say, there was a rumor I was an ex-con. The fact that I’m so far removed from that life is what makes it less of a joke, and more just, well...weird. I love that Weird Twitter, and other humors accounts are out there, like this one I just discovered called Tess as Goats. Look it up, it’s hilarious, and Tess-approved. I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t follow any other Weird Twitter accounts personally. My nanofiction account does, but I don’t check that feed, unless I have notifications. I only hope that other people aren’t doing the same thing, and are actually reading my stuff, because that’s why I create it. I certainly don’t do it for my health. That would be weird.

Microstory 961: Sassy Compassionate People

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If you wanted me to describe the perfect person for me, it would be really easy to come up with the surface characteristics. I prefer shorter, lighter-skinned girls with dark hair. I like a bit of asymmetry, with as few flaws as possible. What attracts me to a man is a bit harder to codify, but I know it when I see it (on a scale from John Barrowman to Channing Tatum, they should be somewhere on that scale, and that’s rare). Obviously, personality is more important than superficial features, which is why I would never rule out falling in love with say, an extraterrestrial alien, or someone with some kind of so-called deformation. But what is a good personality for me? Would I want them to be really outgoing, or be quiet like I am? Should they struggle with self-confidence? Be into science fiction? Should they be just like me, or my complete opposite? When it comes down to it, the people I find myself liking the most share two common traits, which may seem contradictory to one another. I like people with attitude and snark, and also compassion. I like when they look at the world from multiple perspectives simultaneously, and are capable of judging fairly what they see, while also being able to play devil’s advocate. They should enjoy cracking jokes, but only in a playful and harmless way. These jokes should not be mean-spirited, or have a negative impact on the progress of the human condition. I care about the world, and the people in it. And when I say that, I mean everyone. I don’t just mean my family, my country, or even my continent. If I had the power to change society on a massive scale, I would use that power to equalize everyone; get rid of money and suffering, and instil a sense of loyalty and love amongst all Earthans. I prefer to surround myself with people who possess the same crazy dreams of a better world. This mix of sass and compassion is important, because I do not believe either one fairs well without the other. A sassy person who doesn’t care about others is really just inconsiderate, callous, and negative. They quickly devolve into a spiteful and vindictive, cynical misanthrope who manipulates others to their own gain. You would think compassionate people are fine enough, and for the most part, that’s true. But I’ve personally found really nice people to often be hesitant to help others grow. In a world where no one can do wrong, and everyone is perfect the way they are, people can’t improve themselves, or learn to fail. It’s not inevitable, but compassion plus sass gives an individual the edge they need to truly understand what others are going through, because there’s a difference between compassion and empathy. Empathy is a prerequisite for any decent human being, so if you don’t have it, you don’t matter to me in the slightest. Regardless of how you feel about flaws, if you’re incapable of seeing them in the first place, you’ll never be able to relate to most people, because most people can see those flaws. So please, be nice, but also be interesting.

Microstory 737: Credos, Convention Nine: Commitment, Chapter Two

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For a long time, the girl was embarrassed of her shameful jalaxian harmony bowl performance. She immediately gave it up, and fell into a depression, spending her days in self-pity and remorse. Her father decided that she needed to get out of her own way, and stay busy. If she couldn’t play the jalaxian harmony bowl, then maybe she needed to help other people play it. Though he was not known for designing the bowls himself, he was an accomplished metal worker, and knew he could figure out how to do it. He brought her on board for a new department in his small business, where they learned to make harmony bowls together. She took to the trade quite well, enjoying the tediousness and focus that metalwork forced her to adopt. She was starting to think that she should go into the family business permanently once she was finished with her general studies. Meanwhile, her infamous recital piece was uploaded to the global network so that anyone and everyone could see it, and make fun of her. Some of the comments on her video were offensive, but many were more playful. A not insignificant number of people were actually suggesting that she become a comedian. Those closest to her made their own remarks, saying that what she lacked in talent for the harmony bowl, she made up for in her stage presence, and comedic timing. When she wasn’t in school, or building harmony bowls with her father, she was practicing her comedy act at local establishments. This was becoming difficult to manage, however. She never had time to sleep. Her studies faltered, her work at the factory was subpar, and her comedy routines were rather weak. She asked her mother, “what am I to do? I cannot handle all this at once. But I must study to earn my degree, and I have an obligation to the factory, and comedy is my passion.” The mother sat down and spoke. “You are trying to do too much. You cannot divide your attention to so many things at once. If you want to be good at any one of them, you must devote all of your time to it.” “But what will happen to the other two things?” the girl asked. Her mother answered, “you will not be able to do all three. You must decide what is most important to you.” “I don’t know what that is,” the girl said, “they’re all important.” “I cannot choose for you.” So the girl made the decision on her own. She stopped working at the factory, and started concentrating most substantially on her education. She continued to work on her comedy, but only when she had extra time, for no matter what she ended up doing with her life, she would need her degree to fall back on. When she grew up, she refocused her efforts back on comedy, committing to her skill with vigor. She utilized what she learned in school to make her jokes more meaningful and thought-provoking, able to make references to history and pop culture she would not have been able to without a well-rounded education. She even incorporated a little manufacturing into her routines, building her own custom-made props to accentuate the skits. And she became one of the most famous comedians in her world.

Microstory 495: Architect

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The Architect has a knack for solving problems, which I know, seems like something everybody around here can do. He’s always preferred to work alone but has recently become more engaged with others in an attempt to be a better person. He is often found with The Composer and The Crafter; two other quiet people who just sort of get him. Together they carry out special projects and missions, sometimes without speaking a word, each one understanding what the others are thinking by their actions. He acts as a conduit between these two and the rest; able to kind of translate what they mean by something. He can be a little over-critical, but he always has everyone’s best interests in mind. He has a level of secrecy, but unlike The Promoter—who has legitimate reasons to keep everyone in the dark—The Architect is really just trying to protect himself. Yet he can’t help himself when it comes to his interactions with other people. A lot of people know his secrets. What none of them knows, however, is all of his secrets. This level of compartmentalization serves as a subtle hint as to how the new organization should operate. Independent departments are created, inspired by The Architect’s theories of cooperation, each one tasked with taking care of a different aspect of oversight. But that is not his only legacy...

Microstory 494: Promoter

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A great deal of mystery surrounds The Promoter. He claims to be from a planet that no one has ever heard of. Nor can he tell anyone exactly where it is. A few theories are indeed floating around about planets spinning somewhere in the galaxy that have not yet connected with everyone else, or have lost contact, and been forgotten by history. The most recent of these was Rinen Rinen, but that was a special circumstance, because its settlers were traveling at relativistic speeds. Since its discovery, scholars and scientists have pored through the records, looking for any evidence of secret planets, but have come up with nothing, not even the Promoter’s home. Just the same, he assimilates into society perfectly. He and The Mastermind are best friends with much in common. Both are spontaneous and ever-present, but while the Mastermind tends to be more independent, the Promoter prefers to use his easy-going attitude to lighten the mood for others. He is always game for a good joke, or an intriguing story. He is an excellent problem-solver, and could probably work well alone, but chooses to help others around him find the answer at their own pace. He is a strong advocate for both self-reliance and communal assistance. He is often seen eating literally, or biting off more than he can chew on a new project. He has no apparent education—which only adds to his mystery—but likes to get his hands dirty and try new things. He’s always asking questions, and it’s hard to tell whether he wants to know the answer, or if he already does, and is just testing you. Because of how mindful he is of the present, he can often lose focus on the future, and stresses too much about immediate results. He also likes to disappear with no explana