Category: issue 8

You begin this dream in the middle, as always, knowing that the merchant is named Nihtcargast and sells nightmares. He runs a claw through the porcupine-like quills on the top of his head. “Nightmares are burnt soft-boiled eggs, you see.”

It doesn’t exist. Not the Codex; of course it exists. Why else would I be floating over your head? I mean the perfect relationship. Even a perfect relationship is inherently flawed. You ask me why? Because humans are just that way. Give them everything on a platter and they begin to… well, abuse its value.

These strange and wondrous events took place in ancient times, long ago, when the stars went rogue and the Caliphate was almost torn apart from the Oxus to the Nile.

Military Intergalactic Recon and Response Ship, or MIRRS for short, was getting anxious. Or rather, as anxious as a retired military warship could be. This largely manifested as running propulsion system scans every 8.2 seconds as opposed to every 15 seconds, as she typically would in alert standby mode. She also ran a series of probability outcomes; not that she was asked to. They weren’t even the type of computations her system was designed to excel at. At 22 solar cycles, her processors were nearly obsolete. Certainly a newer AI could have run the numbers faster. But she never let pride get in the way of duty.

The shop only appears at midnight, when the curfew begins and the day ends. The streets are empty, save for the imperial soldiers. None of them approach the shop. Anyone in uniform gets turned away. Not by the shopkeeper, for it has none. That’s right. The shop has no keeper. As if by itself, every night it appears.

Holy tits, Brisdor, you are heavier than I could ever have imagined. I always thought of you as my scrawny little sister, but

The last Historian slips from between the pages of reality—a professional smile on their lips, one limb outstretched in welcome. “Hi,” they say, “I’m the Visiting Historian, here for the acquisition of the offered narrative. Could you please confirm your ticket…?”

The first time I start a life with my act together—and there were a lot of lives before this one; I just didn’t keep track because of all the existential panic—I’m in a coffeeshop. The details are, as always, exquisite: the earthy undertones of espresso-smell mellow out the warm-sour steamed milk, and the sticky film left by old sanitizer collects a layer of dust and fuzz over the wooden table’s varnish. The latest fully-realized magical universe of just, like, a buttload of romantic comedy worlds created by accident and coincidentally calibrated to torture me personally.

“Papa,” the little girl asked him, “why is the ocean sideways?”

“They’re ready for you, Captain,” says the voice interface of the Orbiting Transfer Station. The glass in front of me is opaque, and I can’t see into the holding room. My heart sprouts wings and beats them wildly in my chest, but I steady my hand, and tap to open the door. The floor under my feet creaks as the station lists from the force of the invisible matter outside. I feel the change in a surge of queasiness. The station finds itself and is still, but the swell stays in my stomach.