sidequestobserver

[sidequestobserver]

"I took my mentor's advice and picked something cool for my call sign. Turns out David meant the other type of cool. Anyway, my call sign is Liquid Nitrogen."

You're a hot shot air force pilot, complete with a cool call sign that you're embarrassed by. Today, you're having to explain your call sign to the rookie, and why you hate it so much.

[sidequestobserver]

Wasanka, second princess of Porreg, stifled a grin. "I did not realize that royal visitors would be subject to a weapon declaration and search as well." She unlaced the band on her left arm. Flipping the gold studded leather armband open, she toss it atop the pile of swords, daggers, and myriad weapons threatening to spill from the guard's arms. The inside of the leather was stitched with rows of small sheathes, each holding a small dart.

"Be careful with those," Wasanka said, "They've been dipped in a paralytic."

As the guard spluttered, Wasanka pulled up the skirt of her dress. Her knight escort Brundwin, who had been watching the process with an air of amused exasperation, shielded her eyes and said, "Your highness, Madame Bessel's one request for you this trip was to avoid undressing in public." Madame Bessel was Wasanka's etiquette instructor.

"Win, I am wearing pants underneath. It's winter. I am not exposing any skin that was not already visible to the masses."

"I will be sure to tell her that after she writes demanding to know what the press is talking about." Brundwin replied, nodding at the photographer standing at the parapet overlooking the checkpoint.

The princess pulled a slingshot from a pocket at her thigh, produced a small metal ball from her bodice, and shot at the wall. The photographer jumped back as the lens of his camera shattered. As the photographer's curses came wafting over, she dropped the slingshot into the pile of weapons, which was now at the guard's feet.

"Please recall that Clause 17 of the Treaty of Easthaven dictates that royal personages may not be photographed without advance notice and approval." Wasanka called to the man on the wall. "If I hear of any images of mine circulating, I will hold you accountable."

The border guard, whose jaw had been gaping at the lightning fast shot, came to attention. She turned to the other guard standing at the entrance of the de-weaponing courtyard and yelled, "Get that photographer's information. They aren't ever allowed on the top again." The guard turned back to the princess, who had continued her weapon extraction efforts and was now pulling a steel-woven rope from the hem of her petticoat. "Apologies your highness. Photographers are allowed on most days, but we should have kicked them out when you arrived. I will personally ensure any photos they have taken of you are destroyed."

"Thank you, Guardswoman--?"

"Pinsa, your highness."

Wasanka nodded and unstrapped a collapsible crossbow from her thigh. Guardswoman Pinsa decided to grab a chair. The princess unloaded weapons for another half-hour.

As a Princess visiting another Country, you obviously came prepared. And it takes you quite a while to take out all your hidden weapons at the Border. "How the fuck did you even fit that much under your Dress!?" The Border Guard asks baffled, while holding your growing stash, now in both hands.

[sidequestobserver]

Opening shifts are the worst. Percival parked his car in the alley behind the cafe. After checking the wheels were within the hastily spray painted “Employees Only” rectangle, he unlocked the back door and headed in.

Percival, or Purse to his friends, took his time starting brewing machines, checking the stock of brown paper to-go cups, and pulling chairs off tables. He hummed as he worked. Scarborough fair was stuck in his head. He deliberately ignored the constant thump of hands on the front door.

Half an hour later, the cafe was neatly arranged and Percival could stall no longer. He turned to the glass front door. His eyes were greeted by a pile of bodies.

The “zombie apocalypse” had started two years ago. Well. Perhaps apocalypse isn’t the right word. Certainly it was terrifying when cemeteries suddenly lost the majority of their lifetime—or rather, death time—customers. Seeing Grandma crawling around like a drowning centipede, flesh gone but sporting her favorite tweed jacket (polyester takes forever to decompose), isn’t something people typically want. But unlike in zombie propaganda, as those movies were called now, newly revived Grandma did not eat brains or flesh. Nor did she boast of superhuman strength.

Zombies did not eat. Scientists were trying to figure out how they function, hoping to harness a new power source. They were weak. Whatever invisible force had replaced muscles and tendons of old were woefully insufficient. Zombies could not open doors, could barely carry themselves, and moved like a turtle whose shell had turned to lead. It was a miracle they manage to crawl out of the grave.

The city set up a zombie collection unit, but like many municipal functions, it was understaffed and struggling. The cat trap, neuter, release program had better organization and more people. People have an aversion to the dead for some reason; cats were preferable. Zombies were rounded up and returned to cemeteries, now with newly constructed zombie jails. Despite their struggles, the zombie collection unit was doing fairly well and the city was mostly clear of zombies.

Which brings us back to Percival. Who worked in a cafe. A cafe on the edge of Fairwood Cemetery. Fairwood Cemetery. The city’s largest unfenced cemetery, where the body count was so high some plots held three occupants, stacked like the world’s least appetizing sandwich. Every night, new zombies emerged from the ground and started to crawl. There was too much ground to cover, too many zombies to stop, too many headstones to trip over in the dark. Cemetery and city decided it was safer to deal with the newly risen in the daytime.

One thing about zombies not yet covered. They love light. Yep. These stumbling little corpses crave light, flocking toward it like moths. During the day, that’s fine, the Sun is there. The zombies are happy to stumble about in the sunlight. During the night, however, the Sun is gone. And the only light source in the area is the bright neon words “Sugar Fairy Cafe” at front door, which Percival’s manager refused to take down or turn off. All the other businesses were smart enough to turn off the lights.

Percival unlocked the front door. Putting his back into it, he shoved. The lump of bodies shifted slightly. Zombies at the outermost edges had started to wander, the Sun luring them away. The rest were trapped under their comrades, as of yet unable to leave. Percival sighed. He grabbed a pair of rubber gloves from the kitchen sink, exited the back door, and walked around to the front. Ignoring those already free and walking, he grabbed a zombie wearing a brown suit and unsightly lime green tie. Pulling it out from under another zombie wearing a floral dress, he swung around and sent Green Tie flying into the street. Luckily, Percival had been a hammer thrower in high school and hadn’t lost his muscles yet. He targeted another leg. Grab. Fling. Grab. Fling. The zombies didn’t resist. Grab. Fling. Sweat dripped down Percival’s cheek. Grab. Fling.

Opening shifts are the worst.

It's the zombie... not so much apocalypse, as mild to moderate inconvenience.

[sidequestobserver]

Lay down and write stories in your dreams.

To pick up the pen or go to bed at a reasonable(ish) hour?

That is the question.

[sidequestobserver]

Ah yes, the 3 genders. Male, female, and “what the fuck are you, a cop?”

[sidequestobserver]

A red head of hair supporting an emerald green hat popped out of the bush. A leprechaun. You felt the barest twinge of shock; the pot of gold had taken the majority of the day’s surprise budget.

The leprechaun strolled over and peered into the pot. “You didn’t take any,” he said.

“No, of course not,” you replied, hiding a sigh of relief. If you’d been caught, the leprechaun probably would have beat you up or something.

The leprechaun glared. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded.

He seemed mad. Why was he mad?

“Are you an eejit?” The green-clad man inquired. His head cocked to one side to look up at you.

“No?”

That was the wrong response. “So you’re saying there’s something wrong with my gold!” The leprechaun jabbed a finger into your chest. Ow.

“Your gold looks great! I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with your gold. I didn’t take it because it’s wrong to steal.”

The leprechaun stared with such dumbfounded ness you felt the need to continue.

“This is your hard-earned gold. I’m sure you worked hard for it and I would feel bad taking from you when you weren’t looking. It would be against my morals.”

“And those morals serve you well, in that mortal world of yours?” The leprechaun asked.

You hesitated.

The leprechaun spun you around and yanked your backpack open. You felt the pack get heavier as he shoveled gold in with his hands.

“Go put my gold into the economy, you eejit.”

One day you follow a rainbow and find a pot of gold at the end. After marveling at it, you eventually resist the urge to take any because you aren’t a thief. The leprechaun who owns it wasn’t expecting that.

[sidequestobserver]

Day 11642 of my silly aroace brain not fathoming how "friendzoning" is supposed to be bad

[sidequestobserver]

I want to be lost in a city that will never know my name.

— Joan Didion

[sidequestobserver]

Unnoticed

Sometimes, we go through life thinking we’re doing good. I don’t think I’m a horrible person, people seem to be fine with what I’m doing. We just keep going through daily life, not realizing the consequences of what we do.

Usually it’s not the friends that we hurt. It’s not the stranger we pass in the street, nor the people we bump into entering a room. It’s those that are always there, but not a true part of our lives that we hurt. Unlike friends, who are willing to accept the mistakes, and are sometimes happy to help, these are the people that have to deal with the consequences of our actions, but don’t factor into our considerations.

We see them all the time, but don’t really interact. But they deal with the constant mistakes we make, even though they didn’t ask for it. And we make assumptions that it’s okay, because they don’t say anything. We know it annoys them, on a subconscious level, but we don’t record the burdens we place on them because it’s not something we think about.

But eventually it builds up. Eventually we do it one too many times, drop the last drop of water in the reservoir that breaks the dam. And then we realize the true effects of what we have done.

We aren’t a part of their lives, so we don’t see the ripples of what we saw as a minor annoyance. We don’t see them losing patience, don’t see the sleep they lose. But then they break. And we realize…

We’ve mistreated them. We’ve been inconsiderate. We should have seen the problem with our actions, but didn’t take action to stop making those mistakes. And then the guilt comes.

And we wonder. What else have we done? What other things have they been keeping in, trying not to comment upon.

Being considerate takes effort. Every action must be analyzed, every habit noted, or else small actions build up and destroy friendly relations. So watch what we do, avoid the same mistakes, and always apologize when we have done something. Just because they helped once doesn’t mean they want to.

It does no good to let something fester until it is unrepairable.

Small things build up over time. They don’t go away.

[sidequestobserver]

Sandwich

Sometimes it takes an upheaval, a break, to realize what you’re doing wrong. Life is crowded and busy; we forget, or willfully ignore, what we don’t want to deal with. Especially if we aren’t the ones feeling the consequences of our actions.

We see something that needs to be changed, we think, maybe we should do something about that. But then we put it off. Do it later, it doesn’t matter. And we do this constantly, until there is a long, long list of issues, each one minor on its own, but slowly stacking into a monolith.

And then it does matter. One day, one of those things tips over, falls off the monolith. And this monolith has grown so tall that it doesn’t feel small anymore. A book doesn’t do that much damage when it falls off a shelf just above your head. But a book dropping off the Eiffel Tower will probably kill you.

But it’s worse than that. At least, if the book falls, the Eiffel Tower stays upright. But the monolith you have constructed isn’t a steady structure of rigid steel bars. It’s a teetering stack of problems, and the fall of one problem will unbalance it all. And then you’re buried.

Now you have to sort through the issues, deal with them one by one. It’s a flood that takes time to stop. But you don’t have time. Life will go on. It doesn’t care if you’re drowning.

So pick up those pieces. Don’t stack them. We don’t want to make a sandwich. This one’s not edible.

[sidequestobserver]

Nothing

Some days, I just want to do nothing. 

I want to sit and stare at a screen, let a lighthearted show drivel away as the clock ticks by. 

I want to lay on the carpet, stare at the ceiling, not a thought in my head. 

I want the world to keep turning, but myself to stay still.

Just for a while.

[sidequestobserver]

Let the world fall to pieces

You know the feeling you get when you think someone is doing too much and you fear for their mental sanity, but you can’t tell them to stop because you’re both working on something really important and if they stop working everything may explode?

I want to tell them to take a break. But I can’t (or perhaps I won’t). How can I tell them to let it go when other people’s efforts are driving towards the same thing. I could take the workload from them and try to make them take the break. I don’t think I can handle that burden again.

I’ve done it before.

I took on so much. I don’t know why. It’s like having a wagon full of hardwood, looking at the quicksand in the path in front of you, then seeing the lumberjacks pile on more wood. I just set myself up to sink.

I don’t want others to do the same. I wish I could force them to take the break and let the world fall to pieces.

The world doesn’t deserve that. 

But neither do they.

[sidequestobserver]

Weight

Some days, you feel the weight of everything. Some days, it feels like you’re being filled with lead from the bottom up. Some days, you feel like a balloon being inflated past it’s breaking point. Some days, you feel like you are about to break.

You want to shatter. You want to explode. You want to crack to all the weight, all the pressure, can seep out the crevices threating to break through. You are a sealed bottle filled with dry ice: a pipe bomb about to burst.

But you can’t. You won’t. You keep trudging along the path of life, going through the motions.

Every little mishap, every little task on your to-do list, feels like another anvil on your lungs. Every frustration that you let go in the past few days comes back in full force, like a thousand released rubber bands, all anchored to you. Every breath is a sigh, and every sigh the start of a cry for help.

But you don’t ask for help. How do you tell someone that getting through the day is harder than escaping a pool of foam cubes wearing a backpack of bricks?

[sidequestobserver]

Callings

People sometimes say “I found my calling”. 

This makes it sound like everyone has one specific calling, something they *have* to find. So-and-so was born to be a basketball player, someone-or-other was meant to be a chef, someone could be nothing other than a mathematician.

Sounds a bit suffocating.

Sometimes I’m thinking, am I missing out on what I am meant to do? Sometimes I think, I should find my calling. I should do a soul-searching journey, find that *one* thing. 

But now I think, it’s not that people found their one calling, it’s that they answered a call. 

People are called all throughout their lives. When you find that random post about mushroom foraging and think “that’s neat”, you have been called. When you watch a documentary about geckos sticking to vertical surfaces, fascinated, you have been called. When your teacher tells you to go find some volunteer work, that’s literally a call to action. 

Choosing to answer that call, then choosing to follow that voice back to it’s source and build a foundation where you have journeyed to, is what makes something a calling. When you tend to something, dedicating energy, dedicating feeling, when you decide to make something part of your life, that thing grows. It grows roots that worm their way through the depths of your being and refuse to let go. They settle and hold you, and sometimes it feels like there’s no way you could have done anything else. Then you say, you found your calling. But you didn’t find it. You built it.

[sidequestobserver]

“How did math lead you to nihilism” A response

[sidequestobserver]

Do I care about the things I am doing or am I just afraid to fail? Sometimes it's hard to tell. I lean toward the latter answer when I'm in crisis about my life, or stressed, or overworked.

[sidequestobserver]

I love preparing. I love spending the early hour of the morning, cooking breakfast, packing lunch, grabbing all the things I need for the day. Doing random tasks, listening to music, feeling busy without the pressure of harsh deadlines.

Waking early, no one is around. No one is asking what my plans are, no one is pulling me into one of their plans, no one is observing. No one wants to schedule something early in the morning, so there is no sense of urgency, nor the feeling that something needs to be done. 

I love making schedules, making lists, planning weeks and months ahead.

It’s the feeling of anticipation, the comfort of having a plan of attack, and the mindlessness of fitting calendar entries in each day like the world’s simplest game of Tetris. It puts some part of my mind at rest knowing that, at least on paper, I have the time.

I hate the execution.

I have plans, I have ideas, sometimes I even have a full-fledged schedule. But carrying out these plans, committing to ideas, enforcing my schedule, is an action that troubles me. I make excuses.

“Is that really how you should be spending your time”

“That costs money”

“What about that other [responsibility], you could do that now”

“Don’t bother other people with your plan, they’re busy”

And like nails dropped onto a cloud of balloons, my enthusiasm is killed, not with a giant bang, but with hundreds of tiny pops.

That is how I realized I need friends to re-inflate balloons, to buoy my enthusiasm. I need the positive echo chamber, the “yeee let’s do it” of companions as crazy as or crazier than I am, to convince me to commit.