Microstory 2454: Elizabeth Victoria

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini Pro text-to-video AI software, powered by Veo 3

If you’re looking for something anachronistic and weird, you’ve come to the right place. The Elizabethan Era ran from 1558 to 1603, during Queen Elizabeth’s reign. The Victorian Era started in 1837 and ended in 1901. They are both iconic periods in Great Britain’s history, but vastly different as they were separated by more than 200 years. The technology here is hard to get a grasp of. Not only are we dealing with stuff that they were using nearly a millennium ago, but they’re juxtaposed by each other. When you walk into a building, you never know if it’s going to be lit by gas lamps, or incandescent bulbs. It could be both! Which, I mean, it’s not like they destroyed all the gas lamps when they invented electricity, did they, innit? People walk around in all sorts of different clothes. They all looked alien to me, but I could tell that some of them were really old, and some were really, really old. The architecture is a mix, of course, with wooden cottages and natural stone buildings right next to giant even-stoned factories. Again, I’m sure a lot of the old stuff still existed in the new era, but the way they have it organized so randomly, it seems very forced and intentional. I’m not sure if I was supposed to learn something here, but it was fun to spend an afternoon getting a look around. I don’t think I would want to spend a lot of time there, though. I don’t much care either way, but I went with a historian friend, and they didn’t like it. They would prefer a historical dome to be accurate. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like they were shocked and appalled. The design was very clear in the prospectus, and you know they read that whole damn thing, because I waited for them to finish it while we were sitting in the vactrain station. They told us that it was intentionally incongruent, and in that goal, they delivered. That’s all you can ask sometimes, innit? (Hey, am I using that word right? I don’t even know.)

PS: Please read my friend’s review. They actually know all the historical and cultural stuff that kind of flew over my head anyway.

Microstory 2282: Calculated Social Media

< > Table of Contents

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

Sorry, I’m rushing to get this thing out, because I have this little medical test this evening, so I’m not going to be available later. I could have had Kelly or Dutch say something, but I wanted to address yesterday’s post myself before I forget what I wanted to say. Before we get into that, it’s all good. My new organs are fine, and I’m not going back under the knife, or anything. I’ve been having a hell of a time sleeping, and it’s become a real issue lately. I have not been diagnosed with narcolepsy, which I want to say right off the bat, because I know people will offer that up as an explanation. They’ve already ruled it out. I’m doing a home sleep study to figure out why I get sleepy at such random times of the day, though. I’m going to be dealing with it for a good chunk of today and tomorrow, because that’s the whole thing; trying to determine how my situation changes over time. I’ll share the results when they come in, and if they’re interesting, which they probably won’t be. It’s probably just that I’m technically a lot older than I look, and old people sleep a lot. Because of my medical history, we just can’t take any chances. Anyway, as I was saying, my last post was as weird as they come, and part of the reason I posted it was because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and didn’t want to worry myself about it anymore, because the doctor was already starting to try to understand my sleeping issues. So, why did I post that? What possessed me to release something so bad? Well, I wanted to see how you would react to it...to something so unlike what you’re used to seeing. I wanted to show you that not everything we do is perfect. In this modern world of calculated social media, targeted algorithms, and ‘like’ farming, I put something out there that was objectively terrible to see how it was received. You failed the test. You received it positively just because you had no reason to hate it. To be sure, some of you did. You could have been a little bit nicer with your criticisms, but I at least appreciate the honesty. The rest of you, on the other hand, just accepted it as deep or thought-provoking, or intentionally absurdist. It wasn’t. It was nothing. I won’t be posting anything like that again, however, so there’s that.

Microstory 2281: Their Favorite Bloopin Snooters

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini Advanced text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 3. The story below is also partially AI Generated by Google Gemini Advanced

No updates for you today, so instead, I’ll post a bad story that I wrote while I was still on narcs soon after my surgery just to see how it would turn out.

So, like, there was this dude named Bob, right? Bob the Squirrel. Not actually a squirrel, but he, like, thought he was a squirrel. Don’t ask me why, it’s a long story. Anyway, Bob’s chillin’ in this oak tree, munchin’ on some sewing machines, when BAM! A freakin’ UFO crashes right into the tree next to him. Aliens, dude! Little green dudes with antennas and laser guns. They’re all like, “Take us to your leader,” and Bob’s just starin’ at ’em like, “dude, I’m a alligator. I don’t even know what a leader is.”

But these aliens, they’re persistent, see? They zap Bob with this weird money offering, and suddenly, he can speak fluent Orangutan. Or maybe it was bleep, I dunno, alien languages all sound the same to. Anyway, Bob’s like, “whoa, cool! I can talk to fresh prince now!” And the aliens are all excited, thinkin’ Bob’s gonna lead them to the yogurt coma or somethin’.

But Sam, he’s got other plans. He’s always wanted to go to dream-dream-dream-dream. So he hops on the spiked cartwheel, tells the ghosts to set a course for the happiest place on birth. The renegades, they’re a bit confused, but they figure, “hey, why not? We’re on an intergalactic blood trip!”

So they zoom off to ashtray, and Albert is havin’ the time of his life. He’s ridin’ track, eatin’ home keys, and takin’ selfies with invisible red blankets. The sisters, they’re not so into it. They keep tryin’ to get Ronald to focus on the whole flood paper folder thing, but Grace’s all like, “dude, chill out. Let’s go fall green again!”

Meanwhile, back on laptop, the government’s in a panic. They’ve lost contact with Fulton the Squirrel, their top secret agent who was supposed to be infiltrating the alien dadaship. They don’t know what to do. The emperor have, the generals yellin’ at each other, and the scientists are scratchin’ their butts...

But Mary, he’s oblivious to all the chaos. He’s too busy havin’ a blast at rodeo clowns, hangin’ with Peanut Butter and Arsenic. The edgh, they’re startin’ to get fhd. They miss their rthrth, their weird wetwe pejyyts, and their favorite bloopin snooters.

And as the Unidentified Fillorian Objection disappears in, Bob the Squire, the accidental interhouse ambassador, waves goodbye to all the nothing, ready for his nex adventure. Or maybe he just fell asleep and dreamt the whole thing. Who knows, it’s all.

The end...or is it? Maybe I’m still out there, explorin’ the universe, trying to try to try, and having an existential rices. The possibilities are not, just like this story, which could go on forever if I let it push me around like I usually do because no one can see if drip. But I gotta stop somewhere, so... yeah. That’s it. And then there were two people.

Microstory 1863: Magnetic

< > Table of Contents

I’ve met, and heard about, voldisil before. There seems to be a consensus that each one of them is born with two spirit abilities. One is whatever specific special thing they can do. The other is simply knowing that that’s what they are. If I’m a voldisil, then I only have the first thing, and not the second. I’m not inherently conscious that there’s something different about me, but there must be, right? I mean, no single person can run into this many unusual people over the course of a lifetime. My home life was normal. My parents were normal, my half-brother was normal, my neighbors were normal. In high school, I started asserting my independence, which is very normal. As a result, I began to regularly leave my bubble behind, and met all sorts of—let’s call them quirky—characters. I think the first time I noticed it was when I was in psychology class. I had this thing where I would sit at the desk in the far corner of the room on the first day of school. The more interested I became in the subject, the farther up I would move, sometimes to great annoyance to the students who had already chosen their spots, and wanted to stay there. So it was the second day, and I still didn’t think I would want to move, when another kid sat next to me who I guess skipped the first day of school. He seemed to think that we were kindred spirits, even though we didn’t know each other. His big thing was serial killers. He signed up for that course so he could learn all about them. Fine, whatever; to each their own, but he wouldn’t stop pestering me about it. He wanted us to share in the passion for the topic, and I wasn’t into it. I found it difficult to move on the third day. People knew I did that by then, and even though I went in early to get a different seat, they kicked me out. But he was just the first. The first of many.

I could not go on a single blind date, or even a non blind date, without that date deciding that I wanted to hear their weird ideas, like how the stars weren’t real, and if animals don’t wear clothes, why do humans? One of them didn’t like to eat bread, which I’m sure doesn’t sound too crazy, but for me, it’s a non-starter. I met this one guy at a party who thought that water was trying to talk to us through the bubbling and jetting in fountains. A neighbor of mine when I got my own place kept sleepwalking into my unit. I even had the super change the locks, but that guy always managed to get in. Come to find out, he happened to be a thief, and while he wasn’t trying to steal from me, muscle memory occasionally drove him to break in to any door he saw. When I finally got a job, all of my coworkers were bizarre in their own special ways. I began to wonder if they were hired as part of some charity for flat-earthers and autistic people. I know, that sounds really insensitive, but it made me question my sanity, because if I was saying such things about them, what did others say about me? Were they the normal ones, and I was the weirdo? What if none of those people even existed, and I just made them all up in my padded cell? This continued throughout the rest of my life. I met a lot of regulars, to be sure, but the ratio of people I couldn’t understand or relate to seemed higher than it should be. Well anyway, I don’t think I have any superpowers. I don’t think I’m voldisil. I think it’s either dumb luck, or I’m particularly judgmental, and it’s something I never got over. Or it’s like my mom said, everyone’s a little strange, and part of what makes me unique is my tendency to pick up on people’s special traits. Yeah, that makes me sound kind of nice. I’m gonna go with that. I’m not a crazy person magnet. I’m a niche detector.

Microstory 1784: Little Bear

< > Table of Contents

There are a few things you would expect to find in a cabin in the middle of the woods, especially in an area that experiences very cold temperatures. The place is small, and you can tell as much from the outside, so you wouldn’t expect it to be a comfortable glamping getaway with multiple rooms, or even electricity. The logs are rotting slightly, and the porch swing has one broken chain, leaving it dangling against the floor awkwardly. I would have bet on a few essentials once I stepped inside, like a wooden table with wooden chairs; a bed that’s low to the ground, or even just a cot; an old black metal stove thing that I feel like Benjamin Franklin invented? None of that is here. None of what’s in here makes any damn sense, and if I would leave if it weren’t freezing out there. It doesn’t look dangerous, just bizarre. The first thing I notice is the arcade game. Besides a novelty table lamp in the shape of an elephant that’s hanging on the wall, the game machine is the only thing that’s giving off any significant amount of light. I don’t recognize the name of it, but that’s no surprise. I’m too young, and not hip enough to know anything about the history. Bear Bonds could have been the most popular game in the 80s, for all I know. Anyway, the screen isn’t the only thing producing light. The whole thing has what look like Christmas lights strewn about, except they’re built into the paneling, so I think that’s just how it comes. Next to it is one of those Japanese toilets with a touch screen, and probably a bidet, and I’m sure it talks to you. I can’t tell if it’s connected to the plumbing, but on the other side of it is the real bathroom. There’s a metal prison sink, and one of those space-age shower pods from the 1970s that I saw on a funny picture website once. There’s no toilet in there at all, so maybe he just likes to spread out more. I best not think about it. There are plenty of other weird things in here.

There seems to be no closet, but there’s a rack on casters. He has one three piece suit on it. It looks really nice, like maybe it was tailored by an expensive professional who only serves an average of one client a month. That wouldn’t seem so weird, maybe this guy is a stock broker who comes here to unwind. Except the rest of the rack is occupied by hanging fish, a few of which are still flopping on their hooks a little bit. How are they still alive in the least? I also swear to God that the suit was on one end of the rack, but now it’s spontaneously moved to the right. I kind of hope that didn’t happen, and I’m suffering from exposure delirium. That is a fancy platter of rotten strawberries, right there on the floor. Next to it is a ship in the bottle without the bottle. The way it’s staged, it’s like a child was eating the fruit, and playing with the ship, but they haven’t been back in a long time, and the man never cleaned it up. There is no dining table, and no chairs whatsoever, nor a bed. The curtains are made of Latin language newspapers. I don’t mean they’re taped on the glass to prevent snipers on the roof of the next building over from spotting the bank robbers. He carefully glued the pages together, and hung them up on the rod. I suppose that’s one way to reuse, reduce, and recycle. A mail cart has been upturned near the corner. A whole encyclopedia collection is stacked on top of it. I don’t know why he didn’t just put them inside the cart, but it’s not what matters. That’s not the strangest thing. Hiding behind that cart, I finally notice a baby bear. It’s sitting up and peeking out from behind the books. When it sees me see it, it comes out of the shadows, and smiles at me. Then it holds out its hand like it wants me to shake it.

Microstory 974: Weird Twitter

< > Table of Contents

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 2: Umm......What?

And so it was not that the man and his pet daffodil made the tedious and brief journey across the barren ocean sky. Burning snow rose from the ground and disappeared into the forest of plastic rubber bands. A miniature giant roared quietly and asked for spare change. The man took the change from the giant and apologized for its gratitude. The daffodil lifted her arms and bowed. The man smiled darkly before throwing the daffodil into a nearby meteor shower and forgetting about it nostalgically. The overshadow of an inferior man blinded the man as he slipped into something less comfortable. The end was far behind. The man whose name was Bob opened the window and jumped in to say goodbye to Bob whose name was The Man. And I lifted my eyes to see the valley below. And there I could hear the silent faces of the man; the man, Bob; Bob the Man; the miniature giant; the inferior man; the daffodil; and the temporary mouse. And then she unlocked the doors of the bowling alley on the sixth day of school. And someone said, "um...what?" I think it was you.