60 years ago it was possible for a single income household to afford a small starter home mounted on giant chicken legs that would roam through the forest
and today my real estate agent says I can only afford a wooden raft mounted on a blanket of worms
It’s Friday and we all know what that means! We pile up all our tools from the work week and fling them out into the dark waters of the quarry. For the coming weekend, the bubbles stop rising up as whatever lives down there starts its own work, deepening the pit, lowering the water, and we can float near the water’s edge in peace until the work week starts again and our tools resurface, acrid but still sharp.
Don’t be ridiculous. There’s not a giant beating heart in the middle of the town square, suspended by strange ropy red cabling, powering the dark forces that have swept through the village. That’s ridiculous. How would that even work?
It’s obviously a metaphor. As such, it can be wrestled with symbolically, perhaps with wheat paste posters, but you absolutely shouldn’t fire a rocket launcher at it over the heads of the vampire lords who’ve replaced the local government.
1. Can of soda – Hold can of soda out front of you, don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself behind the soda can
2. Sheet – Crawl under a sheet. Don’t come out ’til November.
3. Frankenstein – Allow your breast to swell with unimaginable hubris. Truly believe that any you create puts you on par with the Creator, whom you intend to surpass.
4. Dracula – Bite someone. After being invited, of course.
The sound of a circus in the kitchen. A big top underneath the table. Ducking between the legs of grown-ups, towards the smell of sawdust and cotton candy.
Three rings down there, somehow. Eye contact with the ring leader who sends an assistant to take your hand, lead you to a spotlighted door.
Through the door and it latches behind with a click, a final click, and you’re in the Clown Room. The infinite space they dwell in until some reckless fool opens a clown car door.
Dracula [flipping through the letters he asked me to write so he can send them over a period of days and pretend he isn’t holding me hostage]: Why do each of these end with the “Like, Comment, and Subscribe” above your signature?
Me [eating a fly]: Algorithms, man.
twitter version:
I’ve signed this dumb ghost up for, like, at least three different Twitter accounts so far, but no, it prefers to write in blood on my wall.
I CAN’T RETWEET A BLOOD WALL, DUDE
mastodon version:
I’ve signed this dumb ghost up for, like, at least three different Mastodon accounts so far, but no, it prefers to write in blood on my wall.
No one can follow your blood wall, dude. It’s just me and a growing pile of blood-soaked paper towels.
Shout out to the sponsors of our illuminated manuscripts, Knights on Snailback. If you’ve got chivalric problems and you aren’t in any sort of hurry: Knights on Snailback can help! Enter discount code SLOW15 for 15% off on checkout. Okay, back to the manuscript!
The trap is no longer set. But for one fine day, I was distributing invitations to friends to join a Discord server called A Cask of Amontillado. The only text chat room was called #a-small-space-behind-a-brick-wall and the only emoji was a pile of bricks.
