The Golden Report

You crashed your car on a Tuesday.

Nothing more than a fender bender.

Only internal damage.

You couldn’t tell from the outside.

We watched it happen.

We grabbed the number of the woman you hit.

We felt the rapid onset of a migraine as you drove away.

We also know it continued into next morning.

You inserted silicon earbuds into your eyes on a Friday.

Fully embedded, you looked like a bug.

Pretty difficult to remove.

You could no longer blink.

We do not understand why you did this.

We asked you to search your house for pliers

We washed your eyes with saline.

We chose to ignore the postman at the door.

You were stalked by a figure wearing red on a Sunday.

You were cornered in an alleyway.

You attempted to run, but were shot three times.

Twice in the right calf, once in your lower back.

We saw you keel over and start to cry.

We clawed for the green exit sign.

We heard her whisper this is not a game.

We don’t know why this keeps happening.

You wake up at seven am to a sound that should not be audible. A disembodied groan or croak or whine that greatly increases in volume and than just stops. You can’t pinpoint the sound. It is not produced by you. And yet still, you are the only one left. 

Is this why you sleep with the radio on? Endless white noise to cover up silence that no longer wants to remain silent. Either way, you forget what you’ve been dreaming about and go back to sleep.

You’re at the grocery store, staring at which frozen dinner will be your meal tonight. None of them look appetizing anymore. It’s been awhile since you had the energy to make real food.

Staring too long, you begin to notice a ghostly hand emerging from the icy glass. So naturally, you open the door and follow it’s direction down a winding pathway into the next pocket dimension where you will be tested in a game of wits with some eldritch master of reality.

These memories won’t last forever. You wander the perimeter of your parents’ upstairs attic. Or some cabin in the middle of the woods. Dusty pictures. Rotting boxes. Did you like to read comic books when you were young? Bright colors now fade.

Strapping your seatbelt in a bus that launches to the sky. Mesmerizing color shifting fractal diamonds in the clouds. The bus does not stop. The bus does not have a destination in mind. This is what it means to be a drifter.

A tap on the shoulder. Crashing back down to Earth. You’ve lost track of your turn in a game of Old Julian with people who might be strangers.Sitting on a patch of dust just three miles away from a glistening lake that most consider to be the crowned jewel of this campground.

You stare at the cards like they could tell you a story. Somebody to your right lets out a long, creaking, guttural groan. You weren’t paying attention. So you don’t know what to do. And you recently broke your ankle, but we can’t tell you when that would have happened.

Are you in pain?

Are you even listening?

Disinfect your wounds with rubbing alcohol. 

The beach is glistening.

Everyone wants to be here.

Spend a day away at the cost of your psychological well being.

Everyone is so effortlessly cool here.

But you are sat in the shadows of cafeteria connective tissue.

The one somewhat safe place.

To find shelter from the the shine...

A monumental task.

You are alone.

Watching them on the shoreline.

They look like stone carvings.

Chiseled to perfection.

And they love to laugh.

In that saturated sound.

Sometimes you feel the need to plug your ears.

You understand the interdimensional danger of resorts.

Red 40 and Yellow 10 are the leaders.

There is a deeper sparkle in their eyes.

Borderline hypnosis.

That’s why you stay in the dark.

Your pocket of safety.

Your derelict piece of tile.

Everyone is so unreal here.

Not sure who’s at home or who’s just visiting.

It’s hard to tell the difference.

This is a factory for making people like them.

You start to feel your body sway.

The art of circuit domination.

Kick your feet up and overwhelm the senses.

Lean back and forget what you’re here for.

Two silhouettes.

Such a short walk from the sunlight.

They are coming.

WARNING!

PLEASE READ IN ITS ENTIRETY. YOUR SAFETY IS AT AN IMMINENT RISK.

The criminal mastermind, known as Penguin Man, has resurfaced once again. And likely cannot be stopped this time. Penguin Man, who was once Dr. Marco Parson, famously doused his face in a modified version of battery acid four years ago, altering his face and his brain chemistry. White rings formed deep around his eyes. His mouth elongated to a point and turned yellow, resembling a beak. With little understanding of the exact compound of the acid, somehow he has also developed the ability to change the fabric of reality.

He was last seen scaling the windows of a hotel in Eastern Sun, sporting a handmade shirt of black feathers that had been glued to his skin. Remi James tells the story of her family staying in room 1512. 

“We were here on holiday.” She said. “The last night was a long one so we were all pretty much rotting in bed.”

James was scrolling on her phone, when her brother asked her if she’d seen the Penguin Man video.

“Of course, I’d seen it.” Her voice quivering. “It was all over social media. This wild guy with glowing eyes just grinning at a security camera before flashing out like a light. He just disappeared. I don’t know how he did it and I was about to tell my brother…until we both looked out the window.”

There he was. Hopping between windowsills like it was some child’s game at recess. Clinging to the building with hands like claws. A relatively new modification.

“My mother rushed to lock the door.” James continued. “We all just sat there in silence. I didn’t even wanna breathe.”

Unfortunately, a locked door was more of an invitation than a true blockade.

“Two loud knocks. I thought I couldn’t breathe before, but I was suffocating now.” She said. “And we all sat there like deer in headlights, watching this vicuous metallic fluid seep in under the door. I didn’t have to look. I knew it was him.”

Remi remembers closing her eyes and plugging her ears, but that did little to mask the squelching. It’s not exact as to what happened to her parents, but after opening her eyes, it looked as if a paint bomb had gone off. And her parents were nowhere to be seen.

Remi and her brother fled the scene and were intercepted by two Golden Report officials who had come to investigate. They were taken into our custody and are currently safe in one of our underground bunkers. At least, as safe as they can be.

Your TV is definitely watching you.

Did you know that? 

When you come home from work and traffic was super busy and your boss was trying to shove a mystery pill down your throat so all you’d really like is to forget all that with a little bit of rest and relaxation and so you turn on the television and the hit network show SUBJECT BURIAL is on, did you know that the characters on screen are acutely aware of your presence?

Do you like to watch television? Did you know it’s not safe anymore?

The fourth wall does not protect you. They continue to reach out and grasp and pull. Someone by the name of Helen Marks told us her experience of this new reality behind the screen.

“A pane of glass does little to nothing!” she screamed in a microphone. “I was watching one of my favorite detective dramas and suddenly, I’m struggling to breathe in the deep thralls of a neo-noir New York City while scientific big wigs want to make the whole town into something other than human.”

And later added, “This is not the first time this has happened.”

In case you were wondering, the show that Marks mentioned is called The Others. A classic sci-fi detective story set in a futuristic apocalypse where most of the air is too toxic to breathe. And so you either have the money to pay for what little clean air is left or you sell your body to the conglomerate and become an Other. Someone who can survive with oxygen but is totally without a mind of their own. Creepy.

Do you suppose they get tired of your passiveness?

Marks described ashy, spindly fingers reaching out past the television screen. There was nothing to separate her from them. A milky, white eye met her gaze with a sick, but curious contempt. The fingers wrapped around her hand…gingerly at first. 

She was frozen. Could not even think about trying to move away. And in a blink, the fingers had her hand in a vice grip, dragging her…violently out of her own living room and into oblivion.

Next, she found herself in the midst of putting on a yellow hazmat suit. Her superior sauntered in. and asked if she was ready. Ready for what exactly?

“There was a small crowd outside the gateway. They’d been waitlisted for a chance at clean oxygen. I was instructed to dispose of the whole lot..” Marks broke into a sob. “I was instructed to watch the light in their faces die out while I pulled the lever that would make them…”

Someone you are not.

These people from other stories. Other worlds. They want us to switch roles. They want to dissolve the divide. They want us to play monsters. 

Be aware of their influence. Study the signs. And lock up your television.

You work for a clothes shop. You spend the majority of your work day folding t-shirts. They say odd things on them like “DROWN IN BLUE PAINT!” and “LIGHT BERRY”. But that’s the least of your concerns. Because your company also makes this pill. A pill they wish everyone would take. And when you’re not folding t shirts, you are selling or…trying to sell this pill.

You haven’t tried it, so you can’t speak to it’s effects. Your company says it’ll take you to strange worlds. You’ll smell things that don’t exist. Mistake the fridge for the microwave. Peel back the corners of reality. See in ultraviolet light. Plus it tastes great with a big glass of orange juice.

All this is printed word for word in neon yellow lettering outside the storefront. One time fee for a lifetime of benefits. 

It’s a fine pill and it seems to bring a lot of good to a lot of people. Even makes shopping here easier. Somehow. But you just can’t see why the company is so obsessed. And why they're jumping down your throat about it half the time.

The bottle of pills jangles around in your breast pocket. Every staff member is required to have some on hand. You mention the pill with every customer you meet. You ask if they’ve taken the pill before. If they have, you give them one for their brother back home. If they haven’t, you give them one to take now. Or later.

You work at a clothing shop. This is the only form of medication or drug you’re forced to sell. You know you could be doing better. But you'd rather focus on the t-shirts.

A bell rings in your ear.

It’s time for your quarterly conversation.

A man in dark shades appears in the jacket section behind you. This is your manager. He’s definitely taken the pill.

You follow him through a locked red door. Down a ribbed metallic hallway. And finally through a glass door to the outdoors where you sit together at a picnic table.

“So how are you?” He says. His smile is plastic.

“Fine.” You say, repositioning on the bench.

“So this is about your merit based increase, it’s…not fantastic. You’re full time, so I do expect you to be leading the pack in regards to pill sales. This year has been a slow start for you. Some associates are already selling in the hundred. Are you doing okay?”

“I’m doing fine.” You look for an escape.

“I know you can do it. I’ve seen your potential. I just have to wonder if something happened here. Or elsewhere. That made you like working here less. Have you lost your enthusiasm?”

“I mean, yeah kinda? Friends leaving, organizational issues, and…other things.” You’re backed into a corner now.

“The pill is a perfectly safe and perfectly useful product with no side effects. Plus it tastes GREAT with orange juice. We need to figure this sales stuff out. I expect you to be talking with everyone about the pill. Anyone you come in contact with. I hope you still believe in it’s benefits.”

You do not think there are real eyes behind those shades. 

“Use me. Use me. Whatever I can do to be of assistance. Trips, tricks, hovering over your customer interactions. I am here to help!”

You think about protesting and decide it would ultimately be a waste of your breath.

“You’ve taken the pill yourself, right?”

The doomed citizens of Lorn, a district of Northern Sun, have been trapped in an airport hangar for nearly 1100 days. It is unclear how they have managed to survive for so long, but surveillance tells us shadowy shapes can be seen flickering in the frosted windows. So we are pretty sure everyone is still alive. As for how they all got in there, outside sources say it was a dream. We asked the outside source to elaborate. They had this to add:

“They thought they were going somewhere. They thought they had a destination. A voice from the ceiling told them to stand in silence. To link arms and hold themselves upright. Someone would come by and take them away. They didn’t care where. Just as long as they had somewhere to go.”

Inside, a woman shivers, pulling her arms close into her hoodie. She stares at the falling snow outside the tarmac. Empty oblivion. But it hasn’t been all bad. She’s made a few friends. One of them even had a pack of cards. And that’s how the time passes. But she doesn’t know how many more rounds of Rummy she can take.

She was willing to wait out the first snow. It was a reasonable setback at the time. Inclimate weather. Not safe to fly. No wonder there were no planes taking off. She’d wait for a week tops and then they’d all be on their way. That’s…not how it happened. First snow melted into spring and then to the blistering heat of summer. And then to the second snow. And now to the third. Not going anywhere.

She wonders if there have been any efforts to make a rescue. Or have they been forgotten.

Or have they already arrived?

This is it?

A child taps her on the shoulder. No older than seven years old. He’s bundled up in his father’s scarf wrapped four times around his small body. The woman turns from the window.

“Look what I found!”

In his hand, a glass marble. Milky blue with a very slight amber tint. It glistens, even in the harsh overhead lights. And unusually warm to the touch. The woman’s face cracks into a smile.

“You can have it if you like!” He says, loud and brilliant.

The woman takes it. Rubs it in between her fingers. Smooth. Comforting.

“Thank you.” She says. The boy scampers away, giggling. Quickly disappearing into the crowd of huddled people.

You step into the expanse…bone dry and desolate. A quiet breeze rustles the hairs on your neck. Not much is here. Exactly how you remember it. Exactly what you were hoping to find. You peruse the husks, marveling at their barren insides. Oggling outside the store window.

One husk catches your eye. A clothing store by the name of Glam Fam, except it’s sign is missing about half the letters. You step inside, ignoring the pungent smell of dust and mildew. Light barely reaches the back. Scattered hangers on the floor amidst clusters of dead flies. Wrinkled skirts and ripped leather jackets. The most exquisite of mid 2000s fashion.

There’s a red fedora left on the top shelf by the register. Scarlet felt with a wine purple ribbon around the base. You dreamed of this hat. It’s the one your older sister always wore out with friends. Which somehow made it cooler. There’s no price tag. There’s no one to check you out at the register.

“On lunch. Be back soon!”

A note reads on the counter. Faded ink and coffee stains.

It’s too hot. You wonder when management will turn on the AC. It’s summer time after all. The heat creeps into everything. Only one store and you’re already tired. Where’s the food court? Maybe a bite to eat?

You pick a direction. Head across the expanse. It is wide and long. Everything is more or less the same for miles. Tech stations. Makeup shops. Smoothie stands. Hollowed out and washed in grey. 

“Attention all shoppers! We hope you’re enjoying this FUN Friday! Stop by Kiosk #121_[undetermined value] for a free gift!”

A voice barks over the intercom. Crackled and lifeless. 

You pass the place where kids can play. You played there once when you were really small. And you loved to climb on the life sized caterpillar statue. It’s big, friendly, yellow eyes are now white. The paint worn away by too many little hands. You wish you had the time today.

Your nose is hit with the overwhelming smell of baked pretzels and cheese sauce. A flickering store up by your left. There's a body. Dressed in stripes and a red apron. Slumped over the counter. 

His stiffened finger barely moves to punch in your order. The only part of him left alive. The register dings and an oiled stained paper bag appears on the counter. You reach in to take a bite. The pretzel burns the roof of your mouth. The pretzel is burned black.

You sit on the ground surrounded by endless, monochrome tile. Enjoying your pretzel. Your growling stomach fulfilled. Your taste-buds smothered in salt. It would be nice to have something to wash it down.

It would be nice.

Can you hit one more store on the way out? Can you walk one more mile? Where’s the map they kept telling you about? Or maybe it would be best to just go straight home, lay in your bed and rest. It’s been a long day, hasn’t it? 

Do you remember how you got here?

Do you remember where you came from?

Do you remember what exit you should take?

“...are you recording?”

“Yeah.”

“Lyness was telling me he saw lights in the window, north wall I think.”

“Lyness sees all sorts of things…”

-

“Did you hear the song?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“I’d have expected more.”

-

“Which entrance?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What?! How we ‘sposed to get in here?”

“This place’s been abandoned for years, all the doors are probably locked anyways. I guess I’m just looking for an opportunity!”

“...get down!”

-

“Go, go, go!”

“Hold on, wait up!”

-

 “What were you thinking?!”

“I saw an opportunity and I took it.”

“It’s so cold in here.”

“Observant.”

“Shut up.”

“Come on, I think they went this way.”

“Ah yes, follow the hooded children, I love that.”

-

“You, the uninitiated, the uninformed. Do you have the elasticity to see what is beyond and bend the very nature of this physical realm?”

“They aren’t real, Miss Scorvo.”

“Yeah, we caught them lost in the third apex”

“I’ll be the one who decides. If they are lost, they will learn. Relinquish your holds.”

“Aghh! …shit!”

“Get up.”

-

“The basics of mentalism lie in the power to operate form. Please watch closely.”

“How are there so many of you?”

“The light brings, whom the light brings.”

“Woah. Hey! Please, you don’t need to do that.”

“Then do not interrupt me...”

-

“This is absolutely batshit insane.”

“I’ve been planning our escape.”

“Why would you do that for?”

“I-uh…um. I wasn’t talking to you.”

“I mean you can leave when school’s out.”

“When is that?”

“Tomorrow. Are you gonna use that scrap? I’d like to practice my lifting.”

-

“You’re trying too hard, that’s why nothing’s happening.”

“I don’t think I’m psychic.”

“Psychics don’t exist, at least not the ones you think of. Get that word out of your brain. This is something different. Something everyone can tap into.”

“Mentalism…right.”

“Think without thinking.”

-

“So how did you guys…get started?”

“We heard the song. They were the first.”

“You mean the song that hasn’t stopped playing.”

“That’s the one. It’s a great reminder to stay focused on what’s important.”

“And what’s that?”

“Terrace is changing his face again. Would you like to come see?”

-

“I can teach you to be your own glitch. An insult to reality.”

“That’s…cool.”

-

“Where’s the exit? How long has it been?!”

“Woah, woah, woah, now what is the matter? I can’t have you wandering the halls alone like this. You’ll miss your next class.”

“The song…won’t…stop. What are you doing to us?”

“Darling, I am your teacher. Not your warden. There is a difference.”

“Come on, Molly. Levitation’s gonna be so much fun!

-

“I’ve never felt so light. I…I…think I did this in a dream once.”

“You probably did. There are strange truths in dreams.”

“This is incredible.”

“Don’t go too high now.”

-

“Thank you for being so willing.”

“It’s been hard, but we’ve learned so much.”

“Yeah, my brain is definitely…unlocked or something.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Will I see you both tomorrow?”

“Of course! Of course.”

“Of course!”

I visited the worst hotel in our city.

Only the worst in the eyes of public opinion

We wanted to develop our thoughts on the matter.

There is a charm to places like this.

Haunted by the staff who work there.

Could we stay there for the night?

Or be chased out by catastrophes beyond comprehension.

We checked in at a quarter past seven.

Myself, my partner and his camera man.

There was no one behind the desk of the lobby.

Lined with bright wooden floors, steel blue walls with white trim.

And a portrait of a women.

Her face blown to gargantuan size.

Eyes, an unnaturally dark, cobalt blue.

Head cocked, resting between her knees.

Staring deeply and intently beneath you.

We grabbed our keys.

Left for us in a little blackbox on the counter.

Soon to find out that the portrait was the sole piece of décor.

Nowhere to escape her gaze.

Nowhere to be hidden and safe.

Despite this, we went to our rooms and got settled.

Building our camera rig and checking the shower for ghosts.

Your reflection does not work at the Powder Dome.

No, all you see in that damned portrait.

My partner left the room to go do something.

I was not aware of the camera man also missing at this point.

Like we forgot of his existence somehow.

My sister appeared out of thin air.

She warned me not to go to the conference rooms.

My hands grew moist and clammy from the rising anxiety.

My partner had not come back for some time.

There was water running from the shower faucet.

My sister walked through the door with her own key.

Like she had always been here.

She said we were late for our main event session.

Starting inn conference room 104B.

I don’t remember much of what happened after that.

There was lots of singing.

Lines and lyrics from a different realm.

About confusion.

About delirium.

And a portrait of that woman.

Examining us.

Learning us.

We admit it’s been awhile.

Stuck with our heads tied to the underbelly of disconnected telephone lines. The dream - we only could see as fragmented and mishapened. 

It was hard to read the visuals and make sense of what has happened.

We were frightened for sure. Unable to imagine or conceptualize the words. The world kept tossing and turning. We kept fighting in our sleep.

We are back…however long it’s been. Refreshed. Renewed. Reformed.

There is a psychological process, so we found out, that is used to combat the effects of degradation on your inner compass. A thought exercise that can clear out mental clutter and allow you to recalibrate focus. It is highly effective and has been made mandatory for all of our writers. 

It was discovered by one of our writers who (while on hiatus) attended a secret underground exhibition in the Lemon Wastes (without our permission).

Despite the lapse in behavior, we appreciate the knowledge they were able to share. And so we’d like to share it with you now:

Close your eyes.

What is the first thing you see? 

Our staff answers:

A bluebird escaping the stretchy skin of a disembodied face.

Tie dye sandals with incomprehensible words written across the top.

A silver rollercoaster spiraling off into an infinite vortex.

Glass eye embedded in vines.

Spotted lizard’s tail discarded upon my mother’s basement carpet.

Write it down without hesitation.

Hold that image in your mind for at least 10 minutes.

How does that make you feel?

Our staff answers:

Desperate

Physically ill

Lost

Understood

Overjoyed

If that feeling was a person, what would they ask you to do?

Our staff answers:

Let out a sudden and guttural yell.

Teach my friends how to speak in a code of my own creation.

Wander to the shore at midnight and let the ocean decide where to take me.

Take pictures of everything I possibly could be.

Go home.

Write it down.

Read it out loud.

Decide for yourself if following the command will make you feel better.

Continue with your day as far as normality allows.

Take note of everything that has changed.

Now is the time to give up on real fear. 

If you are anything like 86.934 percent of the general populus, you’ve gone completely callous to it. We know we aren’t escaping the labrythine rules and regulations of the Blind Eye. Or we’re oblivious. Or we’re indifferent. Deception runs the same above ground as it does below.

The doors of the black room are always open. One in every five of us have experienced a lockdown in there. And subsequent reprogramming. Panic has lost it’s meaning. Who still feels that familiar sense of existential dread? That frantic palpitation of the heart in crisis? 

No, a mind in submission does not see the need to raise blood pressure for what’s now become extremely commonplace. But what if you wanted it? What if you feel too dull without it? What about the adrenaline rush? The thrill of the hunt? The brain breaking mysteries of symbols you can’t understand? What about fabricated fear?

Scientists and researchers are tapping into our collective unconscious. A shared mental space between all of humanity. This space is segmented and categorized by our preferred neuronic types. For those who wish to remember what fear feels like, look no further than behind the swirling haze of the Smoke Screen. 

A chamber within the collective unconscious, newly constructed and open 24/7 for your viewing pleasure. As with all chambers, it is only accessible while asleep and dreaming. Close your eyes and visualize this number: L052T*** At which point, operators within the Blind Eye’s somnium department will be able to transfer you over. 

The first thing you’ll notice upon entry is the cold concrete floor beneath your bare feet. A moderately sized, hexagon shaped room enveloped in their patented grey fog. From here, sit back and enjoy the tangling of your senses as faces emerge from the dark. Exploding eyes. Pale hands. Distorted strangers. Unidentified gory mass. You name it. They’ve got it.

There are no limits to how long you can stay under. Every experience is tailored to the dreamer and it’s completely free! If you don’t feel like braving it solo, invite your friends for a slumber party and see how their inner horror affects yours.

Make friends of strangers and strangers of your friends.

You may have stumbled across this game in your earlier years. Popular at most sleepovers or overnight school parties. We didn't like who we were back then. We all craved transformation at the most fundamental level.

How thrilling is it to look in the mirror and not recognize who you see? To relearn your likes and dislikes. To be a stranger...

Collect your friends together with you inside a dark room. Your parents' basement will suffice...or any underground bunker. Each should be provided with a white sheet.

Light a candle in the middle of the floor. You will watch it burn and melt and finally go out. This is symbolic of the coming change. A death of character and your eventual rebirth.

While you watch, do not speak. Only stare at the faces that are still familiar to you. Flickering and unsteady. Will you miss them?

And when the flame dies and you are plunged into the mystery of darkness, throw the sheet over your head. There it will stay for at least a week.

Ask your group to exit the room. When they have gone, you may turn on the lights.

The week after will be isolating. Remain hidden under your sheet and keep your words few. You may encounter curiosity, confusion or fear. That is normal. Do not be provoked into removing the sheet too soon. Consequences could be disastrous.

At the end of the week, you will meet them again in the same dark room. You will light the candle and remove your sheets. And you will speak with new voices. And marvel at unfamiliar faces. And wonder at the extent of your renewed mind.

It's not just a parlor trick. It's real.

Real permanent.

We regret to inform that you are trapped

inside of last night’s dream

of spindly neon webs and barren white walls.

You hitched trains, stumbled through fairgrounds,

and slipped through crowds

in a massive attempt to disappear.

To not be found by them.

And now you and the rest of your group are

seated around a black-stone table,

hiding out in this blank room

to discuss your next move.

But you haven’t moved in exactly

21 hours, 34 minutes, and 17 seconds.

And what do you suppose that time has given you?

Yes, the walls appear to be more transparent, don’t they?

And what of those shadowy ghosts outside?

The ones with glowing eyes that swirl.

Oh, there’s nowhere to go.

You thought it best to play dark games

in your parents’ basement.

Like at a sleepover when you were kids.

Scanning dead channels on the radio

for alien sounds.

Well now they are listening.

They are aware of your location.

They are already here.

Your heart pounds,

reminding you to breathe.

The walls are paper thin.

One fingernail could tear a gaping hole 

right through to the sanctum,

your nest of delusion.

She watches you with uncaring eyes.

The figures dance ever close

to the ticking of an eternal clock.

Are you going to stand up?

Aren't you going to do something?

Come now.

Haptic dream regression is a treatable condition.

Do not worry for the miasmic pit inside your mind.

An associate has been sent to assist you.

Your case has been logged in our system.

Normal programming to resume by the following week.

Let us think for a second

if there is a world we can remember

other than this one.

A nagging feeling that

we lost everything

and now we exist in a difference

between reality

and memory.

Is it a flickering image of a face

we see just before we fall asleep?

Is it the timbre of the wind chimes outside,

the notes of a song our father sang?

Did he even sing?

I remember a world where

I could change my voice.

My look.

My mind.

All in the span of a single click.

We danced mad in the streets.

We splattered paint on our houses.

We traveled around from place to place.

A future fantasy.

And I could not cry.

Not like I do now.

We built another you entirely.

A recycled blank slate personality.

A lifetime upon lifetimes.

Until…

something happened.

Something always happens.

Because time stops for no one.

We drop off like flies.

The system become a shell of itself.

And you wake up here.

So where is here?

Who are we?

And what is our objective?

No one will tell us.

And yet,

On March 3rd, 3287 at approximately 4:39 am, they made contact…

An UFO has landed on the shores of Impression Cove, a non-descript, relatively undiscovered beach off the furthest reaches of Priorvane in Southern Moon. The door hangs ajar, dense smoke pouring out and a pulsing green glow emanating from within. As if to to act as an invitation. 

Have you ever been struck with a terrible urge to enter a strange vehicle? Well, now is your opportunity. However, if this idea makes you queasy, don’t worry. We sent in a researcher on your behalf. Here is what you may have seen if you were them.

…

It is a dreary day in March. Fifty degrees and cloudy with a wind that bites through whatever jacket you put on. There stands the UFO that everyone has been talking about. Arrived last week so they say. The waves lap around it’s disk like structure, washing over the entry dock and receding back again. You gaze around at the other reporters, huddled behind their cameras. Shaking…whether for the cold or their fear.

You step up to the open door, a few gasps let out as you do. You shrug, as it’s just part of the job, and step across the line. You half expect the door close shut and swallow you inside, but it doesn’t. And you’re a little more at ease for it. So you make your descent deeper into the ship

The hallway you face is lined with glowing wire, amost like a ribcage. You admire the craftsmanship of the etchings in steel blue metal. Though you don’t know what they mean. Soon there is a crossroads, left or right. As your approach this decision, a figure appears from around the corner. She steps back. You yelp. Surprised to be staring at a mirror image of yourself.

She understands your horror and morphs into someone you think is a stranger. A human nonetheless. You jot down in your notes: they can shapeshift.

She introduces herself as Kyr, coming from a troupe of performers who tour across the known universe. They are in the middle of producing a new show. One she hopes we will all come see. Kyr asks if you’d like to see more of the ship. Since you are committed to the cause of modern journalism, you happily oblige.

She takes you left to their research room, a large ovular space that features television screens on every inch of the walls. Five other members of the troupe sit at the long desk, eyes glued to a saturday morning cartoon on one screen or a late night sitcom on the other. This is how they learn specific entertainment styles. From there, they can design a show that is tailored for whichever world they land on.

To the right are the bunk rooms, where the performers sleep and get ready, as is the mess hall. Both of which were off limits to the public. Kyr says you wouldn’t wanna see them anyway and leads you through a pair of double doors to their grand auditorium. Not in comparison to this, she adds.

You’re inclined to agree. It is sleek and pristine, lined with over three hundred seats. Actors and stagehands bustle around the stage, which seems to glow from within. Washing the room in a bright purple hue.

Kyr invites you to sit down and watch a little of rehearsal. You do not refuse, highly curious to see an alien’s interpretation of our modern entertainment. The director claps for lights. The actors take their places. And the scene begins.

A life-size newt with a guitar and a robot made out of recycled parts rise from a trapdoor in the stage. Your jaw drops. A memory unlocks. You know this show. You used to love watching it with your parents Thursday evenings after school. And not only that, you know the staff writer who was permanently disfigured into one of this show’s side characters. 

It is none other than Subject Burial.

Kyr wants to know what you think. You stumble through your words, saying something about how much the show meant to you and how’d you land on this one.

She smiles and says it’s not hard to choose. The numbers speak for themselves. But that also, finding and present a planet’s special thing is important to them. It’s a connection point for the audience. They aren’t here to abduct anyone or plan an invasion. They just want to exhilerate us. They just want to put on a show and would love it if anyone attends.

…

So there it is.

An open invitation to the UFO. A time to rediscover what you’ve lost on the shores of that silent beach. Be it a feeling, a memory, your favorite TV show. It could do us all some good.

And to be clear.

Our researcher was NOT abducted AND made it back to us in one piece AND gave us a raving review of the show.