The hitchhiker held out his thumb, walking along the Temporal Highway.
A man on horseback materialized.“When you headed?”
“Revolutionary War.”
The man nodded. “I’m heading to the Post-Oil Era, but I’ll drop you off on the way.”
“But that’s the future.”
“And the future needs you, General. Hop on.”
Rachel stormed into the spa and found Stone. She lunged across the counter and grabbed his scarf. “I was here last week for the Harmony Retreat. That ‘open your third eye’ meditation you did… Fix it! Close my eye again!”
He blinked. “…What? Why?”
“Because I can see them now. The watchers!”
Stone looked around. “You’re being watched? By who?”
She released him, folding her arms. “It’s like a gap opened up in the ceiling. I can see a bright light, and silhouettes of figures. They’re watching us, judging our deeds.”
He huffed. “That’s not your third eye. What are you on? Mushrooms? LSD?”
Far above them, in a metareality, the Multiversal Emperor sighed. “I grow tired of this universe. Change it!”
The Eternal Jester nodded, his bells jingling. “Yes, sire. Shall I take the human universe and the tentacle mouth universe and shuffle them together?”
He clapped, suddenly giddy. “Oh, yes! How delightful!”
“Oh wise and powerful Internet Guru, how do I find happiness?”
“Simple. Discover a way to acquire a billion dollars.”
“Annnnd… how do I do that, exactly?”
“Easy. Just generate $5000 a day in passive income.”
“Okay, glossing over the near-impossibility there, do you have any idea how long that would take?”
“Well, it can’t be that long, that’s so much money-”
“547 years.”
“…what?”
“Five Hundred and Forty-Seven Years.”
“That can’t possibly be true.”
“It is, unfortunately.”
“…i feel sick.”
“Yeah, math’ll do that.”
The empty were former humans, reduced to faceless, featureless nothings. The emptying procedure was controversial, but the scientists had unlimited volunteers, all signing up knowingly.
No distinguishing features also meant no emotions, no goals, no expectations. If people couldn’t be happy, they would settle for blank.
Story:
When a village’s luck is stolen overnight, crops fail, fires spread, and one unlikely hero must track the thief through enchanted crossroads.
« Il y a parmi les plus importantes distinctions que nous devons faire la différence entre les processus de responsabilisation menés par les survivant·es et ceux centrés autour de ces dernier·ères. J’ai déjà vu des situations dans lesquelles les gens semblaient incapables de se détacher de l’idée que c’étaient les survivant·es qui devaient mener les processus de responsabilisation en lien avec leurs propres histoires. Iels essayaient de faire tout ce que lesdit·es survivant·es demandaient, et ce même si cela impliquait de s’engager dans des actions extrêmes que tous·tes finiraient plus tard par regretter. Avec le temps, j’en suis venue à croire que les processus de responsabilisation menés par les survivant·es pouvaient non pas seulement causer davantage de tort qu’ils n’entendaient en réparer, mais également qu’ils pouvaient se révéler très injustes vis-à-vis des survivant·es elleux-mêmes. (…) S’agissant de la responsabilisation communautaire, la militante adrienne maree brown, également autrice de Emergent Strategy, écrit : « Tu as le droit de raconter ton histoire […] Tu n’as pas le droit de traumatiser les personnes qui ont eu des comportements abusifs, de les attaquer en public ou de saboter la santé de quiconque ». Aussi, quand quelqu’un·e paraît vouloir faire en sorte que tout le monde sache qu’iel va se charger de punir, isoler ou bannir de la communauté une autre personne en se servant d’une histoire qui ne lui appartient pas, j’ai tendance pour ma part à m’interroger très fortement quant à ses intentions véritables. »
Faire communauté? Gestion des conflits et des agressions dans les milieux queer, 2019
« Se tromper inconsciemment de pronom n’est pas aussi violent qu’un viol avec voie de faits graves. Dire à une personne vivant avec le VIH qu’on a peur du sida n’est pas aussi violent qu’un coup de poing dans la gueule ou dire à une femme trans qu’elle n’est pas une vraie femme. Tuer un moustique ne vaut pas génocide. Un consentement biaisé ou des remords d’avoir consenti ne valent pas un non consentement ou une absence de consentement claire. En refusant de hiérarchiser les violences et de considérer les circonstances (atténuantes/aggravantes), de dénier leur incorporation subjective, on les réduit toutes au silence, et on disqualifie le concept même de survivance : pour survivre, il faut d’abord vivre quelque chose, et survivre à quelque chose. On peut mourir d’un viol collectif, on ne meurt pas d’une main aux fesses. La banalisation du concept de survivance pour qualifier n’importe quels types de violences et d’émotions négatives est non seulement une imposture éthique, mais est surtout contre-productif. »
Justice transformatrice : la justice de qui et de quoi?, 2015
« Nous aimons penser que nos punitions sont humaines, c’est-à-dire que nous aimons les considérer comme pas-vraiment-des-punitions. La punition fait du bien sur le moment, mais elle nous fait aussi culpabiliser. Les courants de gauche en particulier n’aiment pas se voir comme responsables de cycles de violence car nous affirmons détester la violence. On remarque cependant que le complexe industriel carcéral et la justice pénale eux aussi affirment la vertu morale de leur usage de la punition. (…) Dans la justice communautaire, la prise de responsabilité est imposée par l’humiliation publique et l’exclusion, qui, souvent, n’a pas de date de fin et continue à impacter la réputation et le statut social de la personne même longtemps après que l’acte de responsabilisation/réparation soit accompli. Nous ne disposons pas de mesures collectives d’évaluation de l’efficacité des processus de responsabilisation et du degré d’imposition nécessaire, en fait certaines personnes dans les communautés pratiquant la justice sociale ont l’air de préférer un bombardement interminable de dénonciations sur internet plutôt que la résolution de conflits. La dignité humaine de la personne qui a fait quelque chose de “problématique” passe au second plan dans le meilleur des cas et, dans le pire des cas, est complètement piétinée. »
J’espère qu’on choisira l’amour, Remarques sur la mise en application de la justice, 2018
« Je ne veux plus contribuer à fabriquer un système de merde où on cherche autorisations et approbation des auto-proclamé-es et mouvant-es puissant-es du milieu avant d’oser penser. Je ne parle même pas de dire ou de faire, simplement de penser. Je n’ai pas envie de me rendre compte dans dix ou vingt ans que j’ai activement participé à l’élaboration d’un monde que je déteste, gouverné par une police de la pensée et de la parole qui prend des airs innocents et glisse comme une anguille à chaque fois qu’elle est prise en faute. Je ne veux pas connaître la sensation éprouvée par ces vieux et vieilles communistes français-es qui ont compris trop tard qu’ils et elles avaient soutenu en toute bonne foi un système totalitaire, en suivant avec une naïveté absolue la ligne du parti sans (se) poser de questions. »
Chroniques au bord de l’amer, 2012
The voice was small, echoing, and overly friendly. “Hi! Can you take me to the mall, please?”
Sam looked around, but didn’t see anyone. “Who is that?” he asked the empty room, feeling silly.
“I’m in your head,” the voice said. “Remember the wild-eyed pizza delivery guy? That was me. Well, sort of.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m an alien without a body. I needed a ride, so I hopped from the pizza guy’s head and into yours. Just think of me as a psychic hitchhiker.”
He rubbed his brow. “Well, I didn’t agree to pick you up. Whatever you are, get the hell out.”
“Glad to!” the voice chirped. “Just as soon as you take me to the mall.”
“But why?” Sam asked. Hopefully this was just a hallucination, and not actually an an invisible alien invasion.
“I told you, I need a ride. Take me to the mall and I’ll hop in someone else’s head and leave you alone.”
“But why do you… What do I call you, anyway?”
“Greg.”
Sam frowned. “Are you for real? You’re a disembodied psychic alien hitchhiker… called Greg?”
“What’s wrong with that?” he asked, sounding a little hurt.
“Oh, nothing. It’s a fine name. What’s the plan? What happens after you hop in someone else’s mind, Greg?”
He laughed. “A washed up movie star is at the mall doing a store opening. He’ll give me a ride to a bigger star, and that star to an even bigger star, and so on, until I take over an influential but weak-minded Hollywood executive. All those sci-fi movies are filled with pro-free will bias. I’m going to fix that.”
“I’m not helping you make mind control propaganda films!” Sam gasped. He tapped his temple. “I’m going to keep you safely locked up right here in my brain.”
Greg mumbled something obscene. “I’ll just hop into the next head that comes along.”
“Good luck with that,” Sam said, laughing. “No family, no friends. I haven’t even left the house since 2018.”
There was a long pause. “…So what do you do with all your free time, you antisocial butterfly?” Greg asked at last.
“Mostly I watch reruns on the Home Shopping Channel. I like seeing how cheap things used to be.”
The alien groaned. “Being in your brain is going to be just loads of fun.”
Jay and Finesse drew their guns as the crazed reptilian approached. “We thought this was a junkyard!” Jay said.
“It’s my garden!” the reptilian hollered, his thick tail snapping like a bullwhip.
“And a lovely one it is!” Finesse said, hoping she sounded sincere. “Who needs flowers when you can have oil puddles and grimy spaceship parts, right?”
The reptilian paused, his scowl changing into a half smile. “You know, that’s what I said to my wife, but she just doesn’t understand my landscaping style.”
Sharon, the ferrywoman of the river separating life from death, asked if I had brought a boat engine.
“I have the coins they put on my eyes to pay you.”
“The ferry is subdivided by the realm of death, and I’m a public servant. We care for you. And none of you care enough to buy me an engine. You’d rather let me paddle.”
“Very nice of you.”
“Get in the boat!”
I obliged.
“Welcome aboard the Styx River ferry. Do not rock the boat. Do not sing sailor songs, or I will throw you into the Styx.”
“And die a second time?”
“You can die only once.”
“So nothing to fear?”
“There’s always something to fear.”
“Row, row, row your boat…”
Sharon slapped the top of my head with her paddle. We finished the ride in dead silence.
Some failed eldritch horror decided to be a writer rather than annoy someone into madness, and I’m its muse.
It lives in the apartment next door. Every night, a green glow shines through the door, and every morning there’s a new page of writing about my life on my front door.
Well, when life gives you demons…
“Your last chapter is shit! The post flopped!”
A sound beyond human comprehension came from behind the door.
“You shouldn’t become a writer if you can’t take criticism.”
It responded with the sound of a thousand screeching demons.
“Then post it yourself! Oh, right , seeing you leads to madness… Anyway, I got you your bucket of fish heads.”
It whispered the soft, buzzing song of a thousand insects.
“Yeah, finding an ethical sponsor is already hard. So one who sends you fish heads…”
Concept: A healer and a cursed immortal fall in love knowing every cure shortens the healer’s own life.
Dialogue: “You deserve someone better.” “I deserve someone honest,” she replied. “And that is you.”
Added to new group chat
Name: Sorry
Number of people: 17,639
Admin pinned post.
“Sorry for smiting you today. As an apology, one of you may ask me one question. Just one question, one person. You have 24 hours before this chat closes, and I will open another for the people I smite tomorrow.(No, it won’t be any of you in the future.)“
GOD
Sam32 : "Why?”
God : “Why what?”
Sam32 : “Why did you smite us? Shouldn’t you either not intervene or do that to evil people? Like you have one job.”
God : “No, I used to have one Job. Been a long time, the guy is long gone.”
Sam32 : “Then why haven’t you stopped then?”
God : “Because I got better. Look how many I can multitask now!”
“I was like, ‘You should totally do it!’ And they were all, ‘I’m not sure a Cocktail-Making Clown is really appropriate.”
“Well, it is a 3-year-old’s birthday party.”
“So! We’re gonna be there too. He squirts gin out of a little flower!”
“How was Good Vibes Gregor, the Positive Fortune Teller?”
“I don’t know, fine I guess. He kept making this face though. Like part Kevin-McCallister, part pitying-an-orphan…”
“Huh… Well, what did he say?”
“That I’d have a sandwich on Tuesday… Said it was the best he could do.”
“…i’m sure it’s nothing…”
