#ragsywrites

[ragsy]

The Hole to Nowhere in Your Kitchen Floor (2nd Edition)

This morning, you find a hole.

It's not huge-- about the size of your fist, punched straight through the kitchen's yellowed vinyl tile and underlying subfloor. It's dark inside this hole; a dense, viscous black that suppresses any chance of seeing the bottom. Loose crumbs from the floor, nudged into the gap, make no sound when they drop. Especially curious, given that you're pretty sure there should be another apartment below you.

You add it to your growing pile of concerns: Dishes. Food. Rent. Medical bills. The hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.

You kick a rug over the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor and finish getting dressed. In a flurry of shoelaces, jangling keys, and slammed car doors, it is forgotten.

But later, at work, your mind wanders to the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Was it there yesterday? Was it something you did wrong? Did it happen on its own? Will it get bigger? Are you going to get billed for this?

You had only given it a cursory glance. Maybe you were mistaken. It's probably not even a hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor, it's just a a hole to your downstairs neighbor's kitchen ceiling. This wouldn't be the first time they've had a reason to complain about you. It probably won't be the last.

Suddenly it's six in the evening. You barely remember the drive home.

Inside your apartment, you kick off your shoes and toe away the rug over the hole to nowhere in the kitchen floor. You stare into it. You sit next to it. You trace it with your finger. It could almost be a natural, like an animal burrow or a knothole in a tree. You think about measuring it, telling people about it, you want to drop small objects down its throat. What would happen? Doesn't everyone want to know? You want to know.

Your cat winds around your ankles. She touches her paws to the edges of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor; You swat her away and conceal it with the rug again. Somehow, it's after midnight. Your stomach churns. You don't sleep. You resolve that tomorrow, you'll tell your landlord about the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.

In the morning, you find the rug heaped in a rough pile at the opposite end of the room. The hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor lies naked. Is it bigger?

A warm, humid breeze wafts out of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. You text your landlord. Mold problem, you suggest.

The vinyl flooring curls away from the edges of the cavity in tiny waves. The hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor sits stoic, silent, and empty. You want it gone. You want to be part of it. Is it bigger? You could probably fit your head inside it now. You should eat. A firm headbutt from the cat reminds you that she should eat too.

You pour her some kibble. You resume your place by the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Maybe it's hungry too?

You blink. That's stupid. It's just a hole. You haul yourself to your feet.

You search in vain for the rug, and with an unceremonious clunk drop a baking sheet over the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.

You go to work.

You come home.

You go to bed.

Once again, you don't sleep.

At dawn, you find yourself crouched at the precipice. Is it bigger? The emptiness inside it smells just as warm and wet as it did yesterday. You could definitely shimmy your aching body in there now.

You nudge one of your shoes over the edge. You watch as the darkness swallows it whole. You wait for the echoing impact that will never come. For good measure, you prod the other shoe in after it. Hate to waste one of a pair.

You drop more objects into the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor: a spatula, a lamp, a family-size bottle of ibuprofen, canned goods from your pantry. You imagine the rush they would feel as they fall. You're beyond embarrassment of your envy of that can of peas.

It's two in the morning, and you drag yourself to bed. Has your stomach ever hurt this badly? Did the cat even bother you for her dinner?

You don't sleep. Your sheets are saturated with cold sweat. A rumble echoes through your apartment.

As objects around your room vibrate themselves from their shelves, a chorus of crashes and shatters and sweet farewells accompany the thrumming.

In the morning, the hole to nowhere in the kitchen floor is waiting for you. You pour a dustpan full of broken figurines into its mouth. Breakfast.

You pull up a chair and sit in its company. Does anyone else have a hole to nowhere in their kitchen floor? You perish the thought. You never get to feel special.

Later, your fatigue draws you from your seat and onto the ground. Later still, you lie, face against the sticky vinyl, next to the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. It's only a little wider than you are tall. You could slide inside it with little effort. You still can't see its bottom. Maybe it's rude to be looking for one. You close your eyes.

The rumbling, like a monstrous purr, soothes your body. Occasionally, the ground quakes. Somewhere in your apartment, a framed picture crashes from the wall.

The day passes. Crawling to bed, you collapse just inside your bedroom door. For once, you're blessed with sleep.

When you stir, the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor meets you at the threshold of your bedroom; its yawning gullet now having consumed your fridge, your stove, your pots and pans. Water gushes from severed plumbing, jetting out gallon after gallon that glitters in the morning sun before dropping silently into the void below. Your tongue is dry on your cracked lips.

Now, you seat yourself on the edge of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. You dangle your feet into darkness. You can just barely make out the tips of your toes; everything beyond them falls away from view. You note the set of small, frantic claw scratches that are trenched into the floor along the edge. She's fine, you tell yourself. There's no bottom, after all.

A knock at the door, and your attention returns in a snap. Your muscles and joints are sore. How many hours have you been sitting there for? When did the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor swallow your dinner table? Just as well, you hadn't needed it recently anyway.

There's that knock again. You wait for it to go away. The ground before your door crumbles, and you watch as the doormat slides helplessly into the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.

You hear the rattle of a key entering the lock, and then the clack of the deadbolt. When the door swings open, your landlord is silhouetted against the hall lights outside your apartment. What is he yelling about? Why is he here, again? He should just leave. Can't he see you're busy?

The floor beneath you tremors. You lock eyes with him. He's saying something to you. He's reaching for you. Your lips move, but your words are lost to your ears. The color drains from your landlord's face, and he takes a step backward in fear. His footing slips. Arms flailing, key ring launched from his grip: From the edge of the crumbling floor, he topples headfirst into the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. His scream is cut short as he is engulfed. It's like he was never here.

You release your held breath. Lucky bastard. Maybe your cat will bother him for kibble as they fall together.

Alone again, you lie down next to the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Your body trembles and your limbs are leaden. The ground convulses violently beneath you. Across the chasm, your living room wall has just fallen in.

You fill your chest with the warm, humid air. You extend a hand toward the ink-black brink of nothing.

Meanwhile, our couch is consumed, followed by your TV. Your coffee table tips over the edge after them.

You inch your body toward the precipice of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. The rolling growl chatters your teeth. Your heart skips several beats.

Your front door collapses. Long tongues of hallway carpet dangle into the opening, soon joined by toppling chunks of drywall.

You close your eyes.

You slide yourself forward, past its jagged incisors, down, down, into its embrace, into nothing, into everything.

If there's a bottom, there's nothing left of you when you find it.

[ragsy]

"Left it on my nightstand" | 369 words

Sloane explains what happened to her arm.

~~~~~~~~~

"Wild hogs got it."

"You know how on roller coasters they always warn you to keep your arms inside the ride?"

"I'm really bad with knives."

It was practically a rite of passage in working with Sloane: The latest bushy-tailed same-faced rookie, fresh from their second successful mission, emboldened to ask what happened to her arm. Most of them received a disdainful look, a tap of ash from her cigarette, the contempt of a weathered guard dog, tormented by nipping milk teeth.

Most of them would vacate their positions as a smear of blood and viscera on someone else's wall. Some of the lucky ones had enough remains for a closed casket funeral.

The ones who survived long enough might eventually get an answer.

"Hibachi grill incident."

"Just came loose one day."

"Lost it in the divorce."

It was always bullshit, and she refused credit to those who could smell it. Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer. The ones who balked or apologized got reclassified: working with them was babysitting duty. The ones who laughed, though? Saw through her bluff, with a smirking *Yeah, right, good one.* Somehow, she thought, they just might make it.

"I got real hungry."

"Well, when I said my car cost an arm and a leg--"

"Dishonorably discharged."

There was something different about her newest team. Sebastian was plenty capable; she'd admit under duress that his methodical nature balanced well with her belligerence. He had experience. He'd avoided the dead-before-you-can-blink bottleneck. He was careful.

The kid, though. He was a bag of bones in an oversized cotton Hanes, an endless stream of rash decisions, a fraying snarl of insecurities and severed connections. But how could she blame him? When she was-- how old was he? Fourteen? Christ, it was like looking in a mirror.

It was the work of several miracles that she'd made it past forty.

She ground her molars to dust, the long hours meant for sleeping filled by endless visions of her team's demise. God, she'd lay down anything for their survival.

If either of them ever asked, she would have to tell them the truth. They deserved the real story.

She prayed they would make it that long.

[ragsy]

"Arguments best heard through the wall of a neighboring apartment" | ~1,700 words

Exploring some of the tension between Kenny and his daughter Emily, aka "guess who just got yeeeeelled aaaaaaat"! This takes place a few weeks after Alice beats the shit out of him and destroys the cursed tape recorder.

--------------------------------------------------

"You can't be serious."

Emily had slipped her glasses off at the sight of her father's apartment, massaging the bridge of her nose, tightening her lips in defeated acceptance. Her worry lines etched themselves ever deeper between her brows.

Kenneth said nothing. Her reaction was justified. The place was a disaster.

At least he'd had the forethought to hide most of the clutter away in his bedroom: gutted cassettes and tape players, patents, schematics, repair manuals. But, the scribbled impressions of other worlds still papered his walls in slapdash rows. His cabinets and doors sat in unhinged stacks on his floor. A sheet was slung over his vanity mirror. There was still blood in his carpet.

All the same, she stepped across the threshold and shut the door behind herself. She was here for a reason.

"Sorry for the mess," he tried. A wary step onto sheet ice. His voice crackled a little. "Can I, ah, can I make you some tea?"

Emily sighed, swept a lock of hair behind her ear, crossed her arms.

"It's-... Fine." She shook her head. "Yeah. Sure, thanks."

Well, it wasn't a condemnation. It was barely even a critique. He might have considered that a win if it weren't for the edge of pity in her voice, a sharp prick that might not bleed, but still itched in the back of his mind for hours.

Kenneth busied himself in the kitchen, starting the kettle and fishing the last clean mug from the depths of his door-less cupboard. This was another area of his apartment that had descended into chaos, but at least mounds of dirty dishes in the sink were a completely mundane sort of disarray.

"So, then," Emily began, brushing an invisible crumb from the cushion of his sofa and seating herself. "I'm here. What's so urgent?"

Urgent? He rolled back their last phone call in his head. Had he sounded urgent?

"Oh, no, it wasn't-... I had just heard that you were in the area."

Emily frowned.

"For a work conference," she said curtly. She folded her hands in her lap. "An hour away."

"I-... Yes," he faltered. "Yes, I know that, but..."

Emily took a long, deep breath, and Kenneth swallowed the rest of his words.

"But?" she prodded.

"W-well, listen, it's almost the holidays. And I haven't seen you since the Las Vegas trip." He hadn't seen much of anyone since then. He kept that fact to himself.

She began to speak, and instead turned her head to contemplate the sketches pinned to the wall near her: An imposing ziggurat, constructed brick by brick with lovingly rendered grandfather clocks. Next to it, a dark and serpentine hallway. Next to that, a perfectly normal bowling alley. Across from that, the artist himself, nervously fumbling open a tea bag.

She studied him. The keen eye of a critic, picking apart his performance, his affectation, his presence. He was a far cry from the tidy, even-tempered man who had raised her. To her, he still had yet to earn back the role of Kenneth Song.

"Since the Las Vegas trip," Emily echoed. "Yeah." If she still thought about what she had seen there, she never mentioned it to anyone.

Then, after another breath, "That's all? You just wanted to say 'hi'?"

"No, not-... I mean, not necessarily—"

"Then what am I here for?"

"It's... Nice to see you occasionally. Is that so wrong?"

The room grew achingly silent, underscored by thudding upstairs-neighbor footfalls and the occasional jangle of keys in the hallway. A dog barked. A door slammed. From somewhere in the bowels of the apartment complex, a one-man shower opera reverberated through the plumbing. But here, in Kenneth's apartment, the world stood still.

Finally, a chipper little jingle from the kettle pierced the stillness as it signaled its job well done. Kenneth filled Emily's mug and set it on the coffee table. She sighed a small "Thanks," though the drink remained untouched.

There was room for him beside her on the couch. Even so, he pulled up a chair and seated himself opposite her.

She furrowed her brow, smoothing out a wrinkle from her shirt sleeve. "Okay, I'll bite. What happened?" A snake striking from the grass.

Kenneth choked and stared back at her. "I-... E-excuse me? What do you mean?"

She gestured toward the brightly colored cast that encased his wrist.

"To your arm. What happened?"

"My-... Oh." A tiny sigh of relief as the focus of her interrogation narrowed. His other hand drifted over the course plaster, his palm resting over its curvature, as if to shield it. He took a breath, a futile attempt at calming his racing pulse. "It was a-... It was an accident."

Emily's gaze bored into him, hunting him for information, a tell, a flinch.

"Of course it was an accident. Who breaks their arm on purpose?" She laughed a little, though it carried a lilt of frustration. "But what happened?"

"I-... Well. It doesn't matter. It will heal." Kenneth waved the thought away, and dared to meet her eyes. Beneath her fierce expression, they were the same warm brown as his. "Now, how have things been with you? How is your fiancé? Matthew?"

"Did you fall? What happened to your cane?" Emily plowed forward. She always preferred a take-no-prisoners approach. "You didn't have it with you in Vegas, either."

"Sweetheart, please. Can we change the subject?" Futile. Bargaining with his daughter had only ever been successful once, when it was a matter of convincing a seven-year-old to eat broccoli.

"God, you do this every time. You don't want to tell me. Is that it?"

"No, no, I-... It's-..."

"Look, if you need help, you have to say so. I'm not a mind reader. When was the last time you saw a doctor?"

"I'm doing fine." Spoken through clenched molars. Why did this feel so familiar?

Emily narrowed her eyes, brushing away another lock of hair. There was an unignorable glint of silver at her temples.

"Does it have anything to do with your—" Emily began. Kenneth braced himself as she trailed off, searching for the right word. "—paranormal friends?"

It was one of the nicer ways she could have put it. He winced anyway.

"There was a.... Disagreement. I-... m-made a mistake. And I broke my wrist."

"So they were involved?" She leaned forward, fingers steepled.

"Emily, please," he begged. There was a waver in his voice. "Can't we just have a pleasant conversation? Why don't you tell me about work?"

"Talk. Or I'm leaving."

Kenneth drew a sharp breath, then sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. He wouldn't look at her.

"You won't believe the full story."

"I'll be the judge of that." And jury. And executioner.

"You didn't believe me the last time I tried explaining it."

"I didn't believe you because you weren't telling the truth."

"Not telling the— Emily, honey, I have never lied to you!"

"Never?"

"I swear!"

"Then talk. You invited me here, and something is clearly wr-... Going on with you." She was standing now, with her hands on her hips. She was not a woman of stature, but she loomed over him like a thunderhead. "I need you to stop dodging my questions and tell me what's happening."

Kenneth's head spun. He was on the back foot, and she was out for blood.

"I don't know how to explain it to you."

"Tell me what's happening."

"Emily, please."

"TELL ME. WHAT'S HAPPENING."

"Alright! Fine! The truth! Nothing but the truth! Just like you want it!" He rose from his seat now, his arms thrown into the air in exasperation. "I took something I shouldn't have, and it changed— It changed everything. I ruined everything."

He swallowed, and let the room fill with silence. In that moment, every breath in the building was held.

"There are things in the world, things that are-- Oh, Emily, things I could never in a million years explain. But that song-- It was so beautiful. It was magic. Don't you understand? Magic, Emily. "

"No," said Emily, through bared teeth. "No, we've been through this."

"You've seen it. All around you. At the casino, when Charlie— A-and that entire side of the family— And when I was gone— And when I came back—"

He paced the length of the room, trembling hands running through his hair, gesturing wildly, grasping at air.

"It's right in front of you; why don't you see it? How can I make you understand?"

"Stop."

Now he was facing her. For a split second, he might have seen a flash of horror across her face.

"That song— That tape recorder— It's broken, I've been trying to fix it, maybe if I fix it--"

"Let go."

"You wanted the truth. Look at me. Magic is real. I can show you. You can learn. I can teach you— Just like your mother taught me!"

"Let. Go."

"Let go of what—" No sooner than the words left his mouth, he looked down. There was his hand: clenched in a vice grip around her forearm. There was her face, livid with fear and rage. There was his heart, pounding in his throat. He pried his grasp open and staggered backwards. His foot caught the leg of the abandoned chair, and he crashed to the floor.

He gasped. "I'm sorr—"

"Don't."

Emily rubbed her eyes in denial of the tears that had welled there, though her voice remained steady.

"I'm done. I'm not doing this again." She brushed herself off and strode toward the door.

"I don't understand— I'm sorry—" A fruitless attempt at picking himself up from the ground.

"Oh my god." Her hand was on the doorknob. "You seriously don't remember, do you?"

"I—"

"We've had this fight before."

"Emily—"

"It was the last time I talked to you before you disappeared." The door was open.

"Sweetheart, please, listen to me—"

"Bye, dad."

She latched the door behind her. It was a soft, unassuming punctuation. The next time they spoke was still too soon. At least they could agree on that.

[ragsy]

@entropyking don't worry, i'm still planning on doing the other guy, but dogmark first!

I never really gave up on Breaking out of this two-star town I got the green light, I got a little fight I'm gonna turn this thing around (Read My Mind - The Killers)

And so, you walk. Miles since your feet began to blister, and countless miles yet to go. The severed ends of what once tied you home tangle and snarl behind you: caught in the fences you jump, the rides you hitch, snared around your ankles. 

You've only been this far west once; you were ten, crammed in the back seat between your brother and the family's suitcases.

Here, your father's favorite radio station had long drowned, gasping beneath swells of static and unfamiliar mattress ads. Billboards and all the the respite they promised sailed past you, their siren's call totally lost on the captain of your family's four-door. Your jacket still carried a faint scent of home. You clutched it like a lifeline.

Here, you craned your neck until it ached, just for a glimpse out the window. Just to see the hills and bluffs you once knew, as they settled into ripples, into plains. For the first time, you could see the whole horizon. For the first time, you understood how small you were. Never again would you discount the safety of a roof and four walls, no matter who you shared them with. 

No matter what it took to tear you away from them.

No matter what you lost as they crumbled behind you.

Tonight, you spend a third night beneath an overpass.

The stars might be pretty, if you could convince yourself to look. Instead, the heavy sky of concrete and steel, the thunder of traffic above. The night is warm, at least. You can rest. 

But tomorrow, you will return to your feet. You will continue to walk, each step a further distance from the smoking crater you left behind. And countless miles yet to go.

[ragsy]

🎵 also let’s get a mags in there

Bathe my skin in water cool and cleansing

And feel, feel what it's like to be new

(Soul Meets Body - Death Cab for Cutie)

The first thing was the rain.

Thick, heavy drops pounded MAG's armor, soaked its maille, ran down its limbs, pooled at its feet. There was the hiss and clamor of the downpour, the gurgle of the gutters. There was the grime and mud on its body, washed away in little rivers that had formed between the cobblestones.

Street patrol would always be subject to the occasional rainstorm. Keep your grip on your weapon, watch your footing on slick ground. View distance is diminished. Oxidation risk is high. The sensations were familiar enough.

But this was the first time it had noticed.

It raised a hand to eye level. Eyes like curious sparks watched each trembling bead of water, gathered at each fingertip, plummeting to the ground in a glittering spectacle.

It followed their descent, their splash into the puddle beneath it, the ripples that played across the surface and lapped at the stones.

It caught its reflection, gazing back upwards.

It looked up.

There was the city that MAG and its siblings served. There were the streets it had always known, the shapes it knew better than itself. There were the people it was built to guard.

And there was MAG, seeing it all for the first time.

[ragsy]

"20230823-EHA-TD-01" | ~1,800 words

I like writing fake official documents and I wanted to expand on Kenny's time immediately after re-appearing in the world. So I made them both happen in the same fic. ENJOY 👇

CONFIDENTIAL

PARANATURAL AND TRANSDIMENSIONAL INVESTIGATION ADMINISTRATION

ANOMALY 20230823-EHA-TD-01

ANOMALY INTERACTIONS VOICE TRANSCRIPTION: ROOM 145H

INTRODUCTION:

This is the transcription of the Anomaly Interactions Voice Recording from the Anomaly 20230823-EHA-TD-01 investigation. The automated system records continually while the assigned room (145H) is occupied by a registered anomaly. Periods of time where no audible speech was recorded have been omitted from this record.

20230823-EHA-TD-01 was admitted to Prairie Skies Hospital (Bridgeport) on Sunday, August 20, 2023 after appearing on a local's doorstep the previous morning. Medical staff reported disorientation, confusion, aphasia, and possible dissociation. Results of physical examination were within normal parameters for patient's apparent age (estimated 60-70 years old). Arthritis, hypertension, and poor vision without corrective lenses noted. Patient's identity was not able to be determined upon admission, and comparison to local missing persons databases remains inconclusive. Patient was reclassified as anomaly and transferred to PTIA facility on August 23, 2023 after blood panels revealed high levels of xenoparticulates, typical of TD-type anomalies.

Communicators in the text may be identified according to the following list.

A01 | Anomaly | "John Doe"

DG | Assigned Research Assistant | Deepa Ghosh

RH | Resident Nurse (Night shift) | Rebecca Horn

TA | Resident Nurse (Day shift) | Tomas Ares

A series of three dots (...) is used to designate portions of the recording that could not be transcribed. One dash (-) is used to indicate a speaker's pause or a self-interruption and subsequent completion of a thought. Two dashes (--) are used to indicate an interruption by another speaker or a point at which a recording was terminated abruptly.

TAPE 1

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT:

2023-08-23

23:36

RH: I just can't fucking believe--

DG: You should know that everything you say in here is recorded.

RH: Oh, shit. Sorry. I mean- (unintelligible) I don't mean to be--

DG: Ms. Horn.

RH: Okay. Sorry. I just- Why did the hospital sedate him? He wasn't combative. He was barely even lucid.

DG: If we ever want to discharge him, he can't know how to find out where we are again.

RH: (grunts) But how am I supposed to do his intake?

23:37

DG: Just take his vitals. The interview is my job anyway.

RH: Right. Okay. Um...

23:42

RH: 110 over 70. 97.7 degrees. Pulse and respiration are low, 60 and 12 respectively. That's-

DG: Sedative.

RH: Right. It'll be awhile before that wears off.

DG: You're on standby until it does.

23:43

RH: Sure, ever since I was a little girl, I always knew I wanted to watch strange old men sleep.

DG: Ms. Horn.

RH: Sorry. I'll page you when he wakes up, Dr. Ghosh.

DG: Thank you.

(door shuts)

23:48

RH: God damn.

2023-08-24

02:02

A01: (groan)

RH: Oh, shit-

02:04

RH: Oh, no, Mr. Doe, we don't need to be- Let's stay put, okay? That's it, okay, we can sit you up- There. See? It's okay. It's okay.

02:04

RH: No, no- Oh, you really want to be moving, huh? (laughing) Well, sorry, I'm not going to let you beef it onto the floor. There. Now stay. Please. For thirty seconds while I page Dr. Ghosh.

02:05

RH: Thank you.

02:07

A01: (coughing)

RH: Oh, let me get you some- Here, drink- That's it. Okay. No? That's it? We're going to have to reclassify you as a raisin if you don't have some damn water. Just keep- Yeah, sure, you can hang onto that. It's just a styrofoam cup.

02:08

A01: (unintelligible)

RH: Hm? What's that?

02:10

(knocking on door)

RH: Oh, that's- Come in.

(door opens)

A01: (startled yelp)

(door shuts)

RH: Hey, shh, settle. Let me take your cup-

A01: No-

(water splashing)

RH: Oh.

02:11

RH: That's fine, that spot needed to be mopped anyway.

(chair moving)

DG: Good morning, Mr. Doe. I'm sorry to have disturbed you.

RH: You could hardly say two A.M. is morning--

DG: I'm Dr. Ghosh. Can you answer some questions for me?

RH: He's only been awake for ten minutes!

DG: Can you understand me?

RH: Dr. Ghosh.

02:12

DG: Can you tell me your name?

A01: I-

02:13

DG: Can you tell me the current year?

02:14

DG: Can you tell me where you are?

A01: H-

RH: It's okay hon, you can take your time.

A01: Hospital-

DG: Excellent. That is technically not correct, but not the matter at hand. What's important is that you've also just answered my first question.

(paper rustling) (pencil scratching)

02:15

DG: Okay- Can you tell me where you live?

DG: Is there anyone who might be looking for you?

02:16

DG: Where have you been recently?

A01: My-

DG: Oh?

02:17

DG: Hm.

(pencil scratching) (paper rustling)

DG: We can complete there rest of the interview at a later date. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Doe.

A01: Ah-

DG: I will see you again in the morning.

RH: The actual--

DG: The actual morning, yes.

(door opens)

A01: Wait-

DG: Oh?

A01: Don't-

02:17

RH: Shh. Hey. She'll be back. It's okay, hey, stay there.

DG: I'll be back, Mr. Doe.

(door closes)

RH: You did great, you did so good. We'll get you sorted out.

A01: My-

RH: What's that?

A01: Na--

PLAYBACK ERROR. PLEASE CONTACT ADMINISTRATOR.

\\\\

2023-09-15

14:24

(knocking on door)

A01: Yes.

(door opens)

DG: Good afternoon, Mr. Doe.

(door shuts)

DG: Is now a good time to continue our work?

A01: Yes.

DG: Excellent. You seem like you've been making great progress. Ms. Horn told me that you beat her in a game of cards last night. I'm glad to hear it.

A01: Thank you.

14:25

DG: Still not eating?

A01: No.

DG: Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable?

A01: No.

DG: Hm. Okay. Well, that's hard to argue with.

A01: (coughing)

DG: Carrying on. I have some more difficult questions for you now.

(papers rustling)

DG: Do you remember anything from before you woke up in this room?

14:26

DG: Please, take your time.

A01: Hospital. Car.

(pencil scratching)

DG: Mm-hm.

A01: Sin--

DG: Oh?

A01: Cinnamon.

DG: Ah. Hm.

14:27

(pencil scratching)

A01: Fall.

DG: As in the season? Autumn?

A01: No.

DG: As in falling down?

A01: Yes.

DG: Can you tell me more about how you fell?

A01: I-

14:28

A01: Don't know.

DG: You remember falling, but not what caused you to fall?

A01: I don't- Yes.

DG: Do you remember where you fell from?

A01: No.

DG: Do you remember where you landed?

A01: Stairs. House.

DG: And you're sure you didn't just fall from the st- No. I'm sorry. That's a leading question. Is there anything else you remember?

14:29

A01: (unintelligible)

DG: Who? Can you elaborate on that?

A01: Where- I-

DG: Mr. Doe?

A01: I don't-

DG: Mr. Doe, please, who is Franklin?--

TAPE 1 END TRANSCRIPT

TAPE 2

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT:

FILE READ ERROR

TAPE 3

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT:

2023-09-17

04:01

A01: I don't- I don't know. I don't know. I can't. I don't. I don't know. I don't know.

PLAYBACK ERROR. PLEASE CONTACT ADMINISTRATOR.

\\

TAPE 4

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT:

2023-09-30

18:30

TA: Oh, Rebecca's here. I'll see you again during dayshift, okay? If you need me. They're putting you on as-needed care soon, I heard.

A01: Oh- Right, thank you.

TA: Anything else I can do before I go?

A01: Crack my brain open and figure out what's going on up here?

TA: I literally can't do that.

A01: Just thought I'd try.

TA: (laughing) You sound like Rebecca. She's rubbing off on you.

(door opens)

RH: I'm rubbing what?

TA: Anyway. See you tomorrow, Mr. Doe.

18:31

PLAYBACK ERROR. PLEASE CONTACT ADMINISTRATOR.

\\\\

2023-10-03

10:55

DG: You have a--

10:56

DG: I must admit, I'm speechless.

A01: Was it- Ah- Did I say something wrong?

DG: No, no- Not at all. That is extremely useful information.

(pencil scratching)

DG: And- Her name? Can you remember her name?

A01: It's-

10:57

A01: Her name- Her name is Emily.

(papers rustling) (chair moving)

DG: I must make some phone calls.

(door opens)

A01: Oh-

DG: As always, thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Doe.

(door closes)

11:01

A01: Oh, god.

11:02

A01: Oh my god. Oh my god.

A01: No, no, no, no- Emily--

PLAYBACK ERROR. PLEASE CONTACT ADMINISTRATOR.

\\\\\

2023-10-05

09:44

DG: Well?

09:45

(papers rustling)

A01: I suppose he might look a little like me.

DG: A bit? The physical resemblance is striking. He's the right age. He has a daughter with the same name as yours. He vanished without a trace. Of all the missing persons files I've looked through, this man is the closest anyone has gotten to finding a match.

A01: That's true, but--

DG: Once the DNA analysis results have arrived, we can know for certain whether or not he's you.

09:46

DG: Is something the matter?

A01: It's nothing, it's nothing.

DG: I thought you might be more excited.

A01: I'm-

09:47

DG: Maybe his photos can jog your memory.

A01: That's- (unintelligible)

DG: Pardon?

A01: Nothing. I'm sorry, can- Can we cut our work short today?

DG: Of course. But I'll let you know as soon as the DNA results are in.

A01: Sure. Thank- Thank you.

(chair moving) (papers rustling)

DG: No, no, keep the file with you. It's just a copy. I will be back tomorrow.

09:48

(door opens)

(door closes)

09:52

A01: (sobbing)

2023-10-05

11:51

A01: (unintelligible)

(sink running)

(water splashing)

A01: (unintelligible)

2023-10-06

09:00

(knocking on door)

A01: Come in.

(door opens)

(door closes)

DG: Good morning, Mr. Doe. How are you feeling?

09:01

A01: Could be better.

DG: Hm.

A01: I read- I looked at the file.

DG: And how do you feel about it?

A01: I- I still don't know.

DG: That's unfortunate. If it's any consolation, I have the DNA results.

09:02

A01: Oh.

DG: Shall I tell you the answer?

DG: Mr. Doe?

A01: Yes. Alright.

09:03

DG: It's a match.

(papers rustling)

DG: He's you.

09:04

DG: I'm sorry if it comes as a shock to you. But this is tremendous news, we- Do you understand? We know who you are now, we know where you're from, we can finally-

09:05

DG: Don't you want to piece together where you've been? Don't you want to finally understand what happened to you?

A01: I- I suppose.

DG: We can't waste any more time. I will put in the request to have you transferred out of containment- Your file will need to be updated, I need to request your records and history from surveillance--

09:06

A01: Stop.

DG: I--

A01: Please.

DG: I'm sorry. This is just very exciting. The real work on your case can finally begin.

09:07

DG: I can give you some time to process, if you would prefer.

A01: I would.

DG: Yes, of- Yes, of course.

A01: Thank you.

DG: We will speak again this afternoon.

(door opens)

DG: It will be wonderful to finally meet you, Mr. Song.

(door closes)

END TRANSCRIPT

COMMUNICATOR IDENTIFICATION: A01 | Anomaly | "John Doe" UPDATED TO: KS | Anomaly | "Kenneth Song"

[ragsy]

"Olive Branch Unlimited Pasta Pass"

A less-than friendly encounter between Dogmark and Kenneth. 993 words. Read under the cut 👇

---

Mark grimaced at the jangle of the shop bell. It was ten minutes to closing; surely nobody needed taxidermy services this urgently. He was going to have to fucking sweep again, and why can't these people ever just put the dead cat in the damn freezer for the night?

He was halfway through his Customer Service Greeting-- a dry and listless "Hi, let me know if you need anything" with an implied "I hope you don't," when--

"Oh. Uh. Hi Kenneth," Mark coughed.

Kenneth, as it were, stepped into the Tucksidermy shop, taking in the many display shelves of magician squirrels, burlesque raccoons, and deer with hats, before finally catching Mark's attention. He smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "Ah! Mark! Working hard?"

Kenneth let the shop door swing shut behind him; he held a large tupperware container tucked under one elbow, and his other hand gripped something in his pocket. For a man who had walked with a cane for as long as Mark knew him, Kenneth was moving with awfully fluid, easy strides.

Mark eyed the container with heavy suspicion. If there was someone's dearly departed family pet in there, he just might scream.

"Just. Uh. Closing up for the night," he said, setting his broom aside.

"Fantastic!" grinned the older man. "Then I hope you don't mind me asking: is Tuck in?"

Mark's pointed ears flicked.

Tuck had been different since coming back from the last mission. They hadn't told him everything that had happened, and the wedge between them and Kenneth remained vague handwaves and omissions. But still, holes in a story still leave behind the shape of some great and unspeakable thing.

And, if he was being honest, Mark was kinda creeped out by the way that guy was always so chipper. If he had more than a measly ounce of candor, he wouldn't have minded telling the old man to fuck off.

Mark slipped his glasses off and polished them on the front of his shirt.

"Tuck's not here," he lied.

Kenneth's face fell. "Oh! Are they, ah, are they alright?"

"Just-... Busy. I dunno."

This was, at least partially, the truth. The usual signs of Tuck is Working were present: Muffled FM radio pulsing through the wall. A hovering scent of blood and chemicals. A bearing in the workshop vent fan that squeaked at a frequency only dog ears could hear.

Kenneth furrowed his brow. "Oh. Hm."

That was another thing-- In the days since the mission to that facility, everyone had returned drained, bedraggled, frightened, or pissed off.

Everyone, that was, except Kenneth.

Kenneth, who Mark had seen take up jogging. Kenneth, whose familiar lines and wrinkles had begun to fade. Kenneth, whose sharpened eyes and revitalized wits now studied Mark, searching him for answers.

It all made Mark's skin crawl. Even as a grown-ass adult, he couldn't avoid feeling like a kid caught in a fib by a teacher. What the hell else was he supposed to say?Desperate for a break in eye contact, he replaced his glasses, grabbed the broom, and resumed sweeping.

Kenneth cleared his throat.

"Well, then, in any case, can I leave this here?" He was hoisting the container aloft in both hands. At Mark's skeptical stare at the plastic lid, he cracked open a corner, revealing a mess of pasta, tomatoes, and cheese.

Kenneth mistook Mark's sigh of relief for gratitude.

"Lasagna. I thought you both might appreciate some leftovers from dinner at Alice's house last night. So-- Ah, so sorry you had to miss it again!" The smile returned to his face. Uneasy. Apologetic.

Sorry. Right. Maybe they stayed home for a reason. Maybe they didn't want to be there with him. Maybe Tuck would have gone if he would just get rid of that fucking tape recorder. Mark's fingers twitched. Maybe he could take it from him the hard way.

He bit his tongue and swallowed his words.

"Um. Great," he said finally. He set down the broom and picked up the dustpan, dumping its contents unceremoniously in the trash.

"Ah," said Kenneth, crestfallen. Heavy silence fell over the two of them.

Once it was clear that Mark would make no move to accept the offering, Kenneth crossed the room and placed the container on the register counter. He patted the lid conclusively.

"Well, ah, I-... I hope you enjoy it!" A glimmer of hope clung to the edges of his words with desperation.

Once again, Mark said nothing. Folding his arms, his gaze darted from the tupperware, to the clock above it, to Kenneth. He sighed and swiped a hand down his face.

"Please go."

"Wh— Pardon?"

"We're closed."

Kenneth blinked. "O-oh, so soon?"

He swept his eyes across the shop. "Will, ah, will Tuck be back soon then, maybe?"

Mark thrust a clawed finger towards the door. "Get. Out," he growled, his human mask vaporized in an instant. A snarl curled up his snout, and his hackles bristled. Enough was enough.

The older man staggered backwards, eyes wide in terror. He raised his hands in submission and, without another word, fumbled open the door and slunk outside.

Mark slammed the shop door behind him and twisted the deadbolt shut. He glanced at the clock again. Five til was probably close enough.

Seething, he finished his chores and stalked out the back door.

Later, he rapped his knuckles on the doorframe to Tuck's workshop.

"Hey, we're all closed up now. I'm gonna get going." His voice shook a little, but he had at least managed to hide the dog back away.

Tuck looked up from its workbench. "Oh, heya Mark," it drawled. "Customers give ya any trouble today?"

"No. All good. See you tomorrow."

He hoisted the shop trash bag on his way out the door and slung it into the dumpster. It landed against the metal bottom with a heavy thud.

Kenneth's olive branch would be left there to rot until pickup day.

[ragsy]

This morning, you find a hole in your kitchen floor. It's not huge-- about the size of your fist, as if punched straight through the yellowed vinyl tile and underlying subfloor. It's dark inside; a dense, viscous black that obscures the bottom, if it even has one. Loose crumbs from the floor, nudged into the gap, make no sound when they drop. Your cat pays it no mind. You don't blame her. You're used to doing all the worrying of the household. There's a hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.

You kick a rug over the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor and finish getting dressed. In a flurry of shoelaces, jangling keys, and slammed car doors, it is forgotten.

But at work, you find it hard to concentrate. You can't stop thinking about the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Why is there a hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor? Was it there yesterday? Did you cause it? Did it happen on its own? Will it get bigger? Are you going to get charged for this? You only looked at it briefly as you were brushing your teeth this morning. Maybe you were mistaken. It's probably not even a hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor, it's more likely to be a hole to your downstairs neighbor's kitchen ceiling in your kitchen floor. But why—...?

Suddenly it's six in the evening. You barely remember the drive home.

When you get back inside, you kick off your shoes and toe away the rug that hides the hole to nowhere in the kitchen floor. You stare at it. You sit next to it. You trace it with your finger. You want to measure it, you want to tell people about it, you want to drop small objects down its throat. Is it bigger? You'll deal with this later. You conceal it with the rug again and go to bed, skipping dinner. You don't sleep. You resolve tomorrow to tell your landlord about the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.

In the morning, you find the rug heaped roughly at the opposite end of the room. The hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor lies bare. Is it bigger?

You text your landlord. Mold problem, you suggest. A warm, humid breeze wafts out of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. The vinyl flooring curls away from the edges of the cavity in tiny waves. The hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor sits solidly, silently, and emptily. You want it gone. You want to be part of it. Is it bigger? You could probably fit your head in there now. You should eat. A firm headbutt from the cat reminds you that she should eat too.

You pour her some kibble. You sit back down. You wonder if the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor is hungry too--

You shake off the thought. That's stupid. It's just a hole.

You search in vain for the rug, and instead unceremoniously drop a baking sheet over the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. You go to bed. Once again, you don't sleep.

At dawn, you find yourself crouched by the precipice of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Is it bigger? You could definitely shimmy your body in there now, and the emptiness of the inside smells just as warmly and wetly as it did yesterday.

You nudge one of your shoes over the edge, and watch as the darkness swallows it whole. You're not sure why you still expect to hear it hit a bottom. You prod the other shoe in after it, for good measure. You drop more objects into the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. You wonder what it would feel like to fall in.

You can't recall how it got to be two in the morning, and you drag yourself to bed. You don't understand why your stomach hurts so badly. You wonder why the cat didn't bother you for her dinner.

You don't sleep. A deep rumble permeates everything in your apartment. You have a strong hunch where it's coming from.

In the morning, the hole to nowhere in the kitchen floor is waiting for you. You pull up a chair and sit in its company. You wonder if anyone else has a hole to nowhere in their kitchen floor. You hope they don't. You like to feel special.

Later, your fatigue draws you from your seat and onto the ground. Later still, you lie, face against the sticky vinyl, next to the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. It's only a bit wider than you are tall. You could slide inside it with little effort.

You close your eyes. The deep rumble, like a monstrous purr, soothes your body. Occasionally, the ground quakes. Somewhere in your apartment, a framed picture crashes from the wall.

The day passes. Crawling to bed, you collapse just inside your bedroom door.

When you stir, the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor meets you at the threshold of your living room, its enormous maw having also consumed your fridge, your stove, your pots and pans. Water gushes by the gallon from severed plumbing, jetting out liquid gems that glitter in the morning sun before dropping silently into the void below. You realize how thirsty you are.

Now seated on the edge of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor, you dangle your feet into darkness. You can just barely make out the tips of your toes; everything beyond that falls away from view.

You note the set of small, frantic claw scratches trenched into the floor on the edge. She's fine, you tell yourself. There's no bottom, after all.

You think you hear a knock at the door, and your attention returns in a snap. Your body is sore; you must have been sitting there for hours. When did the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor swallow your dinner table? Just as well, you had been eating in front of the TV anyway.

There's that knock again. You wait. The ground under your doormat crumbles and it slides into the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.

There's the rattle of a key entering the lock, and the clack of the deadbolt. When the door swings open, your landlord is silhouetted against the lights outside your apartment. What is he yelling about? What did you text him for? He should just leave. Why can't he be this prompt on problems you actually wanted him to solve? Can't he see you're busy? The floor beneath you tremors. You lock eyes with him. Your lips move, but your words are lost to you. The color drains from your landlord's face, and he takes a hesitant step. His footing slips from the edge and he topples headfirst into the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. His yell is cut short as he is engulfed.

You let out your held breath. He'll probably be fine too. Maybe your cat will bother him for kibble as they fall together.

You lie down next to the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Your body feels leaden, and the ground beneath you convulses violently. Across the chasm, your living room wall has just fallen in.

You take a breath of warm, humid air. You extend a hand toward the ink-black brink of nothingness.

Your couch is consumed, followed by your TV and your coffee table.

Heavily, you inch your body toward the precipice of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Your front door collapses. Long tongues of hallway carpet dangle into the opening, soon greeted by chunks of drywall. Is it bigger?

The floor buckles. You close your eyes.

Are you falling? Are you screaming? Your throat is raw, but you hear nothing.

You embrace the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.

You wish it was smaller, actually.

[ragsy]

"Seven Flames" | ~500 words

Something quick and rough I wrote to recontextualize an old dnd character into a new setting. Also this is somehow the first thing I've ever actually written for Arji in the seven years I've been playing him?

Read under the cut 👇

1. The Hearth

It warmed the house, his back, his mother's face, as she balanced him on her knee. Bright yellow eyes watched her in rapt attention, drinking in her tales of the sea: stories of krakens, pirates, typhoons, and sirens, all come to life under the dancing amber glow of the fireplace.

His father would call the whole thing a waste of time. Stories like those turn hard workers into wistful layabouts. But, until spring, while the sheet ice locked his mother's adventuring soul inland, Arjibi could taste a world beyond his family's little farm.

2. The Spark

At the age when his siblings learned to bellow flames from their jaws, his fire arrived with delicate fingers and sparkling eyes. The magic of dragons is not to be trifled with, but, in the body of a child born to barren root cellars and empty coffers, the power to light a candle with the flourish of a hand is nothing short of a miracle.

3. The Campfire

That twinkling beacon calling to him through the woods— how could he resist? There were eight other siblings in the house, no one would notice if just one slipped out at night.

The bardic caravan and its drivers, their plucky strings and merry bells, offered him a seat by their fire and a belly full of stew.

"How can I pay you back?" he asked.

"With a song," they replied.

"But I don't know any," said Arjibi.

"Then let us teach you," said the bards.

4. The Housefire

It wasn't his fault. Accidents happen.

There was a wealthy family in the next town over, looking for dinner entertainment. The sack of gold promised to him at the end of the night would help rebuild the farm.

He couldn't afford to have any more mistakes in his routine. He would do everything right this time.

But, again.

Accidents happen.

5. The Torch

Great things begin in humble places. Every grand adventurer gets their start crawling around abandoned mines, slaying giant rats with a handful of complete strangers. The torch clutched in his fist cast a spluttering light over the prophecy carved in the walls.

His companions would, eventually escape their fate.

Only gods would know if he could be so lucky.

6. The Oil Lamp

Late nights in Grengear's study were often underscored by the scribbling of his quill and the patter of autumn rain on the windows. Stacks of schematics, his latest inventions, breathlessly explained to a fascinated audience of one. A secret project, obscured under a tarp, to be revealed when Arjibi returned from his upcoming mission.

He wished he'd peeked. Just once.

7. The Candle

Even under the harsh electric lighting and the stench of cleaning chemicals, the little pillar of wax and wick still glowed like he remembered.

Even under new gods, there would always be fire.

[ragsy]

"The Cost of Rebuilding" | 2.2k words

I am wholly unaware of the social conventions of sharing writing on tumblr, but here is a Kenneth fic I finished today that I've been picking away at for the past week, OK thank you for reading my story about my funny dad guy love you bye

[ragsy]

Tee hee hee can I ask for an Everett and a Dogmark (or just Dogmark if Everett is still a little vague on account of not having a campaign. Yet.)

Dogmark:

Little Dark Age by MGMT

Breathing in the dark, lying on its side The ruins of the day painted with a scar And the more I straighten out, the less it wants to try The feelings start to rot, one wink at a time

(Putting this one under a readmore for Content reasons. CW: implied cannibalism, vomit)

____________________

That was it. It was over.

It was over, and he was alone.

He was alone, and his skin cracked with dry blood.

God, there had been blood everywhere.

Whether it was presence of mind or pure dumb luck, he had managed to escape the scene before the authorities arrived. There had hardly been a trace if him there before it happened. Animal attack, the coroner would decide. Nothing else to be done about it, the beast had long since fled. Her scattered remains barely filled half the body bag.

As for the rest of her--

He retched, eyes streaming, fingers digging into the muddy riverbank. Stomach contents: Cheap whiskey. Coagulated blood and partially digested meat. Splintered bone. Washed away in the current.

He coughed and spat. Ragged breathing accompanied his jackhammer heart. Another bout of heaving.

There was nothing left.

It would hurt less in the coming days; eventually, he would rise from the mud, wash himself in the river. His wounds would heal. He would sleep.

Her name would never cross his tongue again.

But the taste, oh, the taste.

That would linger there forever.

[ragsy]

ANOTHER JOINS MY EVIL GAME

Kenny + 🎵 Unless somebody else already asked for uncle in which case gimme Maggie

Daydream / Wetdream / Nightmare by Saint Motel

Find the time to be the man That you like to talk to In dreams, it seems that I can be Anyone you want me to, oh

___________________________

It was below freezing, it was two in the morning, and they both had class tomorrow. His mouth was dry, his fingers were numb, and his sneakers were soaked with meltwater.

And none of that mattered to him.

They walked, hands clasped, carving parallel meandering rivers through the fallen snow, the street lights a beacon on her fiery hair, the pink in her cheeks.

Their footsteps were muffled. The city was still.

And they talked.

About what, he doesn't remember. They were eighteen, they were in love, they could have talked forever about anything. They could have talked forever about nothing.

And he still would have given anything for a lifetime more of it.

Time makes fools of us all.

[ragsy]

Arjibi 🎵

Have fun!!

Goliath by Woodkid

Where are you going, boy? When did you get so lost? How could you be so blind? How could you be so blind?

______________________

The hooded figure shook the pouch again.

"Seriously, kid. Seventy platinum. Take the deal, or I find someone else who wants it more."

Arjibi gulped. That fist-sized leather sack contained more money than he'd ever seen in his life.

How much of the farm could that even rebuild? What had burned down had been paid for in generations, not coins. The names of his grandparents' grandparents, etched into the bones of the house. Children, whose bodies had grown old there, their voices still echoing in the rafters.

All of it, destroyed in an instant. One simple accident.

He had to make things right.

And, more importantly, no one had ever taught him not to take jobs from strangers in dark alleyways.

"Okay. I'll do it," he said at last.

The figure grinned, and the money disappeared back into their heavy coat.

"Fantastic. Payment due at the end of the performance, of course."

"And," they began. They lifted their eyes, studying Arjibi's sweet, ingenuous face. "And I trust you'll make this evening unforgettable for the Nailo family."

Arjibi nodded. Of course he would. What a silly thing to say.

And, besides. After this, everything would go back to normal.

[ragsy]

This is still technically a WIP, but I may as well share this little morsel of Kenneth Writings while I'm still fully obsessed with him.

__________________

Stepping through the fifty-seventh Door (since he had started counting) in the third year (as far as he could tell) of his internment in the barren Other Place, Kenneth found a Room.

It was erroneous to call it a room exactly, as was the case with most of the previous Rooms. However, that was all he could think to call them. The only common features between any of the Rooms were: 1. They were a space beyond a Door, and 2. They often contained Objects. That was where the similarities ended.

The Room he had just left behind (the fifty-sixth Room since he had started counting) had been a claustrophobic labyrinth of wood-paneled corridors, curling linoleum tile, and cigarette smoke. Before that, the fifty-fifth had been a roaring ocean of acrid water and dead salmon. The fifty-fourth, an infinite stretch of salt flats under a desolate black sky.

The Doors, too, evaded description. They were a way to get from one Room to the next, and that was it. He had been through tunnels, black holes, pits, revolving doors, mouths, portals, and drains. He had been swallowed, shoved, swept, sunk, pushed, placed, and expelled. More than a few of the Doors had been inexplicably wet.

Kenneth often regretted not having a notebook with him when he had stumbled into the first Room; he would have been able to keep much more accurate and detailed notes of the scenery than his aging memory would allow him. At least, when he escaped this endless world of Rooms and Doors, he could recount his experience to--

To-...

...

Just one more Door. Then he would be free. Right?

Kenneth stepped across the fifty-seventh Threshold. The Door behind him (a rusted submarine hatch, coated in a clear, sticky layer of mystery fluid) groaned shut and latched itself. They always locked after closing— he gave it a light tug, just in case it didn't this time. He wiped the stain of mystery fluid onto the leg of his slacks.

The fifty-seventh Room was vast, solid, and angular. Huge stone bricks, each the size of three of him, stacked hundreds high, formed enormous square walls around him that echoed his footsteps into the lockstep of an invisible parade around him. The air was cool, stale, and dry. His tracks left craters in the pristine layer of dust blanketing the floor.

At the center of the Room, a lone brick sat indifferently under the dust. Its massive square shape was marred by cracks and chips, and the beam of harsh crimson light casting through a gap in the surrounding wall betrayed the brick's origin.

Kenneth seated himself upon it.

It had been many Doors since a Room had offered him a place to rest, and his arthritic knees rejoiced at their long-deserved leave. He never needed to eat or drink while he was in the Other Place, but right now, he would kill for a bottle of ibuprofen.

Tipping backwards, he laid himself flat on the brick, hands folded behind his head. The Other Place also denied him the need for sleep, but he stubbornly kept the ritual. Eyes closed, body still, breath slowed.

The time will pass anyway.

[ragsy]

Kennyyyyyyy

Speed the Collapse by Metric

Pushed away, I'm pulled toward A comedown of revolving doors Every warning we ignored Drifting in from distant shores

___________________________

I should run, he thought, milliseconds too late. The enormous brick plummeted down on top of him like-... Well. Goes without saying.

It crushed him. He died.

Badly.

At least, he assumed he had.

With a gasp and a racing pulse, he awoke on the floor of the next Room. Sticky linoleum and stale air. Sickly white fluorescent lighting. The taste of metal on his tongue.

He peeled himself from the tile and tested his limbs. Nothing broken, as far as he could tell. The scrapes on his elbow from a previous fall were mysteriously absent. And hadn't he lost a shoe several Rooms back? Hadn't his beard been longer? What happened to the tear in his shirt?

Regardless, he could stand. He could walk.

What was this, the fifth time this had happened? A misstep over a bottomless chasm. A winding hallway that constricted around him. A doorless train car that had flooded with water. All quick, none permanent.

Surely, there had been more, but the Rooms and Doors were beginning to blur together. He had long since stopped counting those.

What did definitive numbers mean in the face of infinity?

What did near-death experiences mean when this Place wouldn't let him die?

A movement caught his eye, a flutter under the tiles and a drop in air pressure.

I should move, he thought, milliseconds too late. The floor beneath him opened up and swallowed him whole.

He awoke on the floor of the next Room.