Twisted Finger

[twistedfingerpress]

Sound 6

The Sound rippled through the building, first rattling the windows in the apartment at the end of the hall, through a wall starting Mrs. Zheng’s ratty little dog yapping, then bringing a wave of terracotta clinking from Dean’s purple-lit weed plants lined up on shelves jammed under the pipe’s metal curve, until it reached the center, Nadia felt like a documentarian recording some rarely scheduled natural phenomenon as the vibration and wet growl came through the east wall and out the west, slowly receding until it left the building. 

The Sound was carried by a pipe, two feet in diameter, that crossed the back of the room, about six inches below the ceiling. Nadia had no idea what the pipe carried. She was sure of only a couple of things about her studio and the other apartments on the building:

The row of one room apartments had been installed in a hallway of what once was an office building. 

The Pipe hadn’t always been there. Sometime before she moved in a team of workmen had come along, cut holes in each wall and suddenly there was a pipe through the whole row of apartments. 

A part of the Pipe emerging near the elevator revealed a faint and nearly faded stencil: “…LIVER UTILITY CO. CALL (555)32…”

The Sound crossed East to West once every 1 hour and 13 minutes. 

The pipe was usually cold, but warmed slightly as the Sound passed. 

When she called her parents - once a day or according to Mother Jean they would both have a heart attack - she often assured them that she liked the Sound. It was so regular she could tell the time from it. For example, she told Mama Rubio, she knew to leave for work after the third noise since she woke up. No need to mention to either Mama Rubio or Mother Jean that the first of those was why she woke up. 

To her work-mates she complained a little more, mimicking the wet thumping rush she lived with. Every. Hour. And. Thirteen. Minutes. 

But rent was cheap she would sigh. And Dean sold her weed whenever she needed it.

After two months in her studio Nadia was talking to the Pipe. Greeting the wet thumping like it was a passing neighbor. Fine- she didn’t greet her neighbors, she scurried past them with her shoulders hunched to avoid small talk. But if she was the sort to greet neighbors she might greet them like she did the Sound. 

It was a good thing Nadia was so short. Unlike Dean next door, she could stand under it without ducking and happily set up her futon and her small table and chair underneath. The rest of the space were given over to the bathroom, kitchen (if a microwave and sink really counted), two shelves crammed with books, and a bean bag and PC on the floor, monitor raised on a stack of old text books (most expensive computer stand ever, she joked to the pipe.)

Four months after moving in she met Violeta. She had hunched up and nearly scurried past like she did for all of her neighbors, but Violeta had stopped her. To her surprise she didn’t mind, Violeta had a face that would’ve been welcome on Mana Rubio’s block, dark hair brown eyes and skin mirroring Nadia’s own.

A week later Nadia got to see Violeta’s rooms, situated in the most coveted spot: the windowed end of the hall. The apartment’s front wall had been installed awkwardly over the original window panes, cutting them roughly in half. Violeta had stuffed old t-shorts in the gap to keep drafts down. For some reason, even as they lay back of Violeta’s bed and shared a joint, Nadia would find herself staring out the dusty glass at the Pipe. 

Violeta’s room smelled like Mama’s kitchen, cumin and chili and candles—The Pipe was held up by square scaffolding jutting from the building’s wall—The Virgin stood arms out within a woven sheet tacked up to the wall. In its approach to their block it bent upwards sharply making a steep climb and snapping back to the horizontal aiming for Violeta’s ceiling—dvds and Blu-ray’s of anime from the last decade were poked into the narrow gap above the Pipe, a slightly ashamed stash—at the wall it was ringed by a flared collar, fringed with bolts thicker than Nadia’s wrist—the weed and chili swirled around Nadia’s body as pigeons came and went from the window sill—a sloppy cut from some forgotten power tool made a scar slanting from the collar, as if the Pipe had been installed violently. 

It had been four months in the “new building,” that Nadia no longer called new. It wasn’t home- never would be- but it was “her place.” A flea market filling the nearby subway stop had provided odd bits of art for her walls. A wool blanket Mother Jean had knitted hung as a screen from the Pipe enclosing her futon. It was too scratchy to sleep with—not that Mom would ever hear that complaint. Every morning between the second and third Sound of her day, Nadia sat eyes squeezed shut with a scavenger sun lamp blazing over her face. Mamá had joked that she was going pale. 

Violeta had stopped inviting over. Nadia felt sick like a high school heartbreak. Shed stood outside the door at the far end of the hall in silence willing herself to knock. The familiar rattle and slosh of the Pipe led her back to her spot in the middle. 

Five months. 

Six months. Nadia’s observations had evolved. The slight differences of each Sound filled a logbook. November 7th, Sound 4, 

 a scrapping quality. November 9th, Sound 12, a single metallic clang as it passed out of the studio. 

November 10th, Sound 1, Mrs. Zheng’s dog didn’t bark. The lack had startled Nadia awake, panting as if she hadn’t breathed in all night. Her stomach felt tight as she padded barefoot down the hall. Mrs. Zheng’s unit usually had a little charm tied to the handle. That morning it was on the floor. Bending Nadia picked it up, cradling the intricately folded paper in her hands. It was deformed, a trickle of water had wet one end. Nadia stood still listening, willing her heart to stop beating. Only barely over the throbbing in her chest could she hear an irregular drip from behind the door. 

She didn’t knock on Mrs. Zheng’s. Instead she went to the next door on, Violeta would know of Mrs. Zheng had moved out. If Violeta hasn’t moved out herself. Nadia hadn’t seen her since— they sent each other memes once a month. A window into the way someone else saw her. Why did Violeta think Nadia found that meme funny?

The door opened slowly. Violeta was in grey pajamas, a toothbrush in her mouth. She didn’t seem to see Nadia in front of her, eyes unfocused and staring through Nadia’s head. The air didn’t fill with that chili/cumin/weed/home smell. It smelled like bleach. The room was brighter behind Violeta too, peering around her shoulders Nadia saw that the walls had been white washed. The Virgin Mary hadn’t even been moved. It looked like the statuette had been sunk into the wall. 

“¿Que paso?” Nadia asked a blank Violeta face. 

“Nothing. Had a leak fixed.”

Eight months

January 25, Sound 8, very wet, occasional thumps like mud clods hitting the sides. She hadn’t been back to her mothers’ place for Xmas. It used to be her favorite holiday. Mrs. Zheng’s dog still hadn’t barked, as if it was standing in there, waiting for the right Sound. 

Nadia worries that she’d miss the moment every time she left the building. 

Dean sold her a marijuana plant and a light, plus the last bag of his stock. He was quitting he said, Nadia would believe it when she saw it.

That evening as she microwaved ramen and wrote: “January 25, sound 12, sharp taps like broken glass sliding along metal,” Mother’s wool blanket suddenly unhitched from the Pipe, dragging her pillows from her bed, in a soft quiet avalanche. For the rest of her time in the studio Nadia wouldn’t touch the blanket, nor the pillows. Stepping around them like a cop at a crime scene. 

Her neck hurt everyday. Too much time on the PC—too much stress at work—she begged off daily home calls. Mom wouldn’t drop dead of shock if she didn’t get to hear Nadia’s voice more than once a week. Or even a month. 

With Mrs. Zheng and her dog silently waiting, and Dean’s pots in the dumpster, Nadia no longer had warning of the Sound. When it came she could breath again. Each hour and thirteen minutes both incredibly familiar and yet stretching into an infinity if waiting. Mamá didn’t understand, saying she should look for a new place. Nadia looked pale, tired. Needed sun. Nadia needed peace and quiet. Tomorrow she’d talk her boss into letting her work from home for the rest of the week. 

Nine months. Sound 4. Gurgle with two thumps, slight grinding sound. Dean had moved out. The odd Christian youth pastor podcasts he’d been listening to every night stopped. That part she certainly didn’t mind. Her attempt at keeping the weed shrub healthy failed miserably as the leaves dried up and curled inwards one by one. By the end of February it collapsed in a puff of dust, each stem crumbling into brittle flakes. 

Coughing Nadia chucked the entire pot into the hall, the thump of its roll swelled as Sound 5 went past. Very smooth, high speed. She closed the door and sunk back to the floor. She clipped her toe nails into a basket and stared blankly at the wall until— Sound I 6. 

[twistedfingerpress]

Sacrificial Elemets

Stewart already hated his job. But he hated it even more as he blinked at the tiny screen flashing the words: YOU WILL DIE IN 18 MINUTES. Shaking his head he jabbed at the round button underneath the screen, forcing it back to displaying the directory , showing one apartment resident’s name at a time. He peered back at the delivery app on the phone and jabbed at the button again. And again. This delivery was going to the 22nd floor. “Fucking technology” he muttered as he jabbed past the Ms, then the Ns and Os. 

After the doors deafening buzzer quieted Stewart stomped into the building’s main hall. A door with the label “Building Manager” swung open as if it too was buzzer operated. The widest man Stewart had ever seen leaned out. He was wearing a greasy wife beater which only served to make him look more rectangular. But incredibly his balding head was tiny with no chin to differentiate it from a neck. Like an earth worm emerging from an apple. He’d grown some seal like whiskers under his thin lips as if it might provide a border for his face. 

A jolt of annoyance flooded Stewart. He wanted to be done with this. He wanted this ugly man to be as put out as he was. He turned, already past the rectangle’s door and stated in a monotone, “Your call screen-thingy is busted.”

The building manager grunted and looked in the direction of the door, as if he’d be able to see the problem from here. 

Stewart rolled his eyes and headed further in, looking around for an elevator. Fuck if he was going to take the stairs. If Mr. 22nd wanted his chow mein he better live in an apartment building with a fucking elevator. The dingy tiles led him around a corner into a little foyer. It didn’t really seem like a foyer. Foyers were supposed to be big and grand and inviting. This was dingy and small, but it had a wall of mailboxes, a door with a diagram of a stickman descending steps, and blessedly two elevator doors. And there was a reedy looking guy fumbling around one of the mail boxes. 

The thin guy muttered something, as if expecting Stewart to be someone he knew. “Fuck you,” Stewart muttered under his breath jabbing his finger bluntly into the up button. 

The elevator took its sweet time. Of course it did. Stewart eyed the guy as he waited, noting a very out fashioned knit sweater, like a granny might wear, and very worn out corduroy pants. The word “fuddy-duddy” appeared in his head. 

He stifled a jump when the elevator dinged and he surged for the door and the “close door” button but he wasn’t fast enough. The silver doors jolted to a stop letting the fuddy-duddy slide in. Already seething with a long cold night of ghost kitchens and impatient idiots, Stewart stared through the guy’s head, and with a lean once again jabbed a button. 22. The thin man swiveled and pressed the button for 13. Stewart noticed the guy didn’t have any mail on him. What the fuck was he doing in the mail box then?

“It’s not as old as it looks,” the thin man offered out of nowhere. 

“What.” Stewart tried to sound boring while screaming “DON’T TALK TO ME,” in his head. 

“The building,” the guy went on, “I mean. This place was the height of high tech when they built it.” He chuckled like this was the funniest pun he’d ever heard. “Only eleven years old. You know.” 

It wasn’t a question. Stewart fought the urge to beat the guy to death with every awkward pause. 

“It has a twin. You know.” Stewart pictured what the mirror might do if the guy’s face was pushed through it. “Sensors. Everywhere. All the walls, every door and window. Pipes. Wires. Everything. And all that data goes to a model. A twin living on a computer. A model that can predict everything that happens. Everything that might happen. Even.”

Great. Not only was he stuck in the elevator with a weird guy for another- Stewart’s eyes flicked up at the display- five floors, the guy really was batshit. 

“Crazy.” Stewart offered, hoping the guy would get the clue. 

Nope. “It is. Isn’t it.” Fucking pauses. “They used to have a team of maintenance guys who would show up and replace things just before they’d break. It was almost. Supernatural. Living here at that point. But you know what.”

Three more floors.

“Guess how many years new buildings are under warranty?”

Two more. 

“Five years. All those sensors to keep it all going. And only five years.”

One more. 

“They used special materials in all parts of the building. So they could be replaced easier. Those things could break and be replaced.”

Stewart nearly fist pumped when the doors slid open. 

The guy stepped out into the dim hallway. Turning suddenly he stuck his hand in the way of the closing doors. 

“Know what they called those things.” He stared at Stewart for far too long. 

“What things?” Stewart huffed out. Was this guy really going to hold him here to finish his conspiracy rant?

“The stuff they meant to break. Break and replace.” The guy’s other hand roved around pointing, as if Stewart should recognize these “things” in the surrounding walls and ceiling. “Like these panels. On the wall. When it breaks the sensors know. Then the maintenance guys came. But only for five years. Know what they called those?”

“What.”Stewart’s teeth grated together. 

“Sacrificial parts!” The guy clapped once like an overly excited kid. Stewart’s hand shot out and hit the “close door” button and the freed doors slid closed. “Sacrificial parts. Sacrificial,”  the voice faded out as the elevator began rising again. 

He couldn’t help but feel like he’d climbed those 22 floors after all. What was wrong with some people? He glanced at his watch. 2:15am. Eight more minutes until he’d die, according to the door display. 

Stewart rolled his eyes and checked the delivery app on the phone again. It still had one order of chow mein for apartment 22-06, 22nd floor.

The elevator suddenly shuddered and felt like it accelerated, putting more pressure on Stewart’s body. He reached for the railing to steady himself, bouncing the take away bag into the wall. As the last few numbers flicked by Stewart had a sudden burst of fear, freezing through his anger. 21… 22!

Something screeched above the elevator and it jolted to a stop, actually throwing him into the air. The sudden lack of solid ground made him stumble forwards, squeezing the railing hard before jumping out of the open doors. He panted hard leaning over for a moment, before surveying the hallway. 

Next to a map of the floor with faded colored escape routes was the door to the stairs, stickman climbing up the steps. The door was half-open, and Stewart could feel a stale and stifling heat blowing from the concrete walled well.

Odds? Evens? Right side is evens. His mind oriented itself automatically through long established habit. 

Shrugging he started down the hallway, scuffing his leather shoes in the worn out carpet. He couldn’t help but picture a set of workers in jump suits pulling up the old carpet, and removing wall panels to put in new versions. Did they replace them with new colors? Or was it always the same? Faded and stained orange one day. Bright orange the next? 

Stewart smacked his forehead to banish this stupid question and refocused on the numbers. 22-10… 22-08… Ah, there it was. 22-06. He looked down at the bag and with a quick assessment decided he hadn’t done too much damage to the styrofoam encased noodles in his elevator assisted air time. 

This guy better tip, he thought as he tugged his phone out of his pocket. The overly bright app display hurt his eyes as he flicked down to the scan box, snapped a photo of the receipt stapled to the bag, and as the app froze behind a spinning circle reached out and banged on the door. 

He knew there would be no tip as soon as he saw Mr. Chow mein at 2am. Socialist cuck, his mind provided ironically. 

He smirked as the long haired kid grabbed the bag. “Sorry bro,” he sounded stoned. Was definitely stoned. “I can’t tip. All I got was just enough for my noodles bro.” Yeah, sure buddy. Stewart was pleased to be getting angry again. Maybe it could keep him warm on the next delivery. “Bro. You know the app is screwing you too, right bro?” Stewart nodded, trying to keep this to a five star interaction. Fucker. “All those ads about expressing your individuality. It’s all a screw job bro. Interchangeable.”

“What?” Stewart felt like he might crack a tooth. He was getting very tired of asking weirdos what the fuck they were talking about. 

“Interchangeable. Bro. That’s what you are. To the app. Screwing you. Burn you out. Then they replace you ay-sap.” The stoner looked pleased with himself, like he’d just blown Stewart away with a perfect rhetorical argument followed by a pithy French quote. ASAP for fuck’s sake. 

“Yeah. Bro.” Stewart managed, wondering if a punch would lose him one star? Two? 

“Screwed bro. You’re screwed.” A timer of some sort began to shrill in the depths of the stoner’s room. Still muttering he scooped up the take-away bag and shuffled away letting the door swing shut behind him. 

Whirling around Stewart stomped back in the direction of the elevator. He hadn’t noticed but the hall had gotten cold while the idiot in 22-06 had rambled at him. Streams of icy air hit him from vents in the ceiling, making it feel like he was striding through a line of ghosts. 

Fucking sensors must not be working he thought to himself, allowing himself a sarcastic sneer. Should be monitoring everything. Keeping the building warm. He finally reached the elevators. For a moment he considered the stairs, a beckoning waft of heat hitting him in a stream. Even though his breath was nearly forming clouds in the icy air conditioning he shook his head at the climbing stickman and pushed the call button once again. 

The doors opened immediately, it hadn’t left since he’d got here. Stepping in he pulled his phone out. 2:22. One minute to go. No texts. His last one had been read… On instinct he jabbed the “close door” button at the same time as “1”, and freed from a bag leaned against the back wall. He flicked around on his phone for a moment until the silence suddenly overwhelmed him. Some red LED was flashing in the upper corner of the elevator and the floor counter flashed 22 a couple of times before going black. 

Stewart straightened up, cursing his night, and poked at the buttons ineffectually. Fuck me, he thought trying the “open door” button for once.  There was an audible clunk and a long shrill scream like some horrible phantom was descending from above. Stewart yanked his finger back guiltily, as if his button pressing had caused this. The next moment he was in free fall. His shoulder painfully impacted the bar around the walls. Then, all at once he was pressed into the floor. His wrist was bent at an angle underneath him. Groaning he pushed himself up and went for the emergency button. 

The red button clicked and a sequence of tones played. 

Cradling his wrist, Stewart banged his shoulder on the door. Maybe one of the weirdos in this building would hear him. 

The emergency phone finally clicked. A beat of silence was followed by a woman’s voice: “You’ve reached the offices of Maxim and Maxim’s Maintenance department.” 

“Fucking help me! I’m stuck in an elevator! It fell!” Stewart yelled as he tried to work his one good hand between the doors. 

“We’re very sorry to announce that your building is no longer part of our service. If you’d like to renew press one. If you’d like-“

Fuck. 

2:24 am

The building logged the time of failure, updating the predictive model’s calculations accordingly. A one minute difference between the predictions and real events caused a series of changes, blooming out in a growing list of failures, pipe ruptures, electrical faults, cracks in the window shades, worn out flooring, and briefly the system attempted to connect to the Maxim and Maxim server, in order to report these latest alerts. Like the last set of predictions, where Stewart still lives for eighteen minutes until elevator two’s cable snapped, the building’s computer system found no active connection to the server, and the alerts were cached. 

[twistedfingerpress]

House 2: The House I Dream Of

The House I Dream Of

For months I’ve been dreaming about the house I grew up in. It’s never quite correct, slightly warped or featuring proportions or details that don’t fit. It is always under some sort of construction. My parents were frequently getting additions and remodels done. My mother perforated the front and back walls with French doors in every room. After I left she indulged her obsession in modern houses by extending my old bedroom into a massive black box. These changes must in part inspire the mutability of the house in my dreams. In the dreams the rooms are closer to their form before I moved out. My bedroom ends with the wall of drawers and closet that held my clothes. And the small door that led into the crawl space. The dreams always end up there. The in between parts of the house. The spaces between walls and between floors and ceilings, between the roof and the rooms inside, it all stretches enough for me to fall into, get lost in, explore. In one dream I enter the attic to find the house has a large square space like the base of a tower at its front. It’s been unfinished and partially stripped by workers hired to remodel it. But I’m there when it’s bare wood, exposed plaster boards, the studs rising to hold up a rickety structure above. Holes into the gaps over stair wells, the laundry shot, the wider space between walls to feed the bathroom are dangerously underfoot. The workers pose some sort of threat so I must use the shadows to hide. Another dream I am lower down. When fixing something in the garage the floor partially gives way and a basement, mirroring the size of the garage appears below it. Inside is a long sealed up workshop. Old batteries grow white crust as they leak. Tools rusted. Indistinguishable machine parts in the process of assembly or disassembly left unfinished. And somehow again the floor breaks again and a second deeper basement revealed. It is simpler, low cielinged and structured with pillars regularly spaced around the room. In opposite corners are doors leading to long low passages. I explore one and it leads to another secret space under the house. Somehow the passage is miles long even though the house is no more than ten feet away from the garage. Yet another has me exploring a half floor somehow embedded within the ground floor. Dusty and all exposed wood and half light. New studs and beams are built over the top of rooms and halls and stairs that once led somewhere. These spaces always unsettle me. The house and especially these spaces are old. They feel full of potential memories while being entirely forgotten. Their loss and likely destruction through remodeling strikes my dream self as sorely tragic. However there is also an intangible danger in finding these spaces. The simple dangers of structural infirmity and exposed nails. And then the less tangible darkness and potential of hiding entities. The workers seem twisted by the shadows into someone’s to avoid. Secrets are there but are best left to lie. My parents are dead to my warnings and my childhood home twisted into an ever growing yet aging labyrinth. 

[twistedfingerpress]

The hunter had been gone for three nights. The other folk of the Holm said he was lost for good, but his wife didn’t give up. Instead she declared that she would go after him and rescue him. She packed a bag and took a bow and only three arrows. Her daughter asked why only three. “Knowing my husband, he will have walked until he saw prey and loosed his bow. Hit or not wherever the animal ran he would chase. I will do the same and the prey will lead me to him. 

So saying she left and walked in the same direction as her husband. 

—

Around the middle of the day she spotted a lithe young deer. She let loose her first arrow. The deer jumped high and dashed away from the hunters usual path. The hunter’s wife nodded to herself and followed the jumping deer. It leaped and dashed to a steep slope of lose stone and scrabbled up to a thin animal track. The rest of the day the woman followed the deer along the track climbing into a narrow valley above her Holm she had never known was there. When the deer finally leaped from view she stopped and looking around found a house ring, the piled stones that once marked the hit of a healing woman who lived in the hills over the Holm. The hunter’s wife nodded in satisfaction when she found a tidy fire ring there and bits of string from her husband’s bow. She laid out her tent and slept.

—

The second day she looked around and saw that there was only one way in the valley, up through a saddle and down the other side and so she walked for most of the day. In late afternoon she heard snuffling and rattling quills and saw a mother bramble-hog and three quilled hogletts. The hunter’s wife pulled the bow taught and freed her second arrow. The bramble-hog squealed and led her children into the underbrush. 

The hunter’s wife followed close behind and running in its tracks saw the bramble-hogs leap one at a time over a patch of thick moss. Examining the mossy spot she saw there was a hidden creek. Nodding to herself she turned away from the fleeing hogs and walked along the creak, finding a place where the water curved. She set her tent and fire, nodding again when she found some charcoal and flint chips around the place. 

—

The next morning the hunters wife woke as the first bits of light filtered through the canopy. In the shadows she saw the sleek form of an old moon fox drinking from the creek. Amber beads glinted from dozens of earrings in its pointed ears. Its hocks were grey and shaggy. A red wound was upon its flank. 

The hunter’s wife silently stowed her pack and approached the fox. It sat, grinning a sharp grin. The hunter’s wife gave it respect like she would to her mother and held out her third arrow. The old fox took the arrow in its mouth and, like water, wove away. It led along the creek to where it cascaded over three giant boulders, each carved in the old way, and then across a giant log over a deep ravine. There below them was a Hold, five gabled with cheery smoke. The hunter’s wife followed until the old fox laid down the third arrow. The fox smiled once and stepped away in the shadows.  

The hunter’s wife knocked her bow and fired. And that’s how she found her husband as he died in the arms of his lover the witch of the five gables. 

This story occurred long ago. But it is said that the daughter passed on to her descendants an amber bead earring and taught all of her daughters archery. Following the hunter’s wife path leads from Holm to Hold. 

[twistedfingerpress]

House 1

The walls are white. A cold, somehow impersonal light shines in quadrilaterals from windows and skylight, an empty flat blue slipping through. The floors are a well shone pine. I know, logically, the windows aren’t right. Where that blue squeezes past the frames there can’t be sky. Not from this room. Room almost isn’t the right word. Perhaps more accurately it’s three rooms and a hallway crashing together in a horrible architectural T-bone. Maybe that’s why these windows give me that queasy feeling when you have to pass a car wreck and try not to see what they are pulling free and carrying to the ambulance. 

But like all spaces here there are still borders, letting me at least draw it into my notebook as its own place. As usual my scale is off, forcing angles in to fit each detail I call out in cramped notes, like they are little men crouching to fit under tables and chairs. This space is marked by a border of coffee cups. Nearest the windows, on their sills, on the mismatched tables and chairs, are some hundred or so mugs, all with a greasy black sludge dried into the bottom, a few half full of cold liquid. The mugs run out about thirty paces north (arbitrary) and forty two paces east. Three steps break up the walk east, with a half wall and a couple plastered pillars reaching the ceiling. The steps and the top of the wall, are dusted with the mugs. Many have silly phrases. Others have cats or dogs or “Best Dad,” or “Don’t Talk to Me Until I’ve Eaten This Mug.” The only chair not inhabited by the mugs is a green arm chair, worn ragged in the seat and arm rests. A brown ring stain on the left one. I remember that the room just north of here, the mugs dwindled to threes, then pairs, one final mug with cartoon clouds over flat blue ceramic glaze, looked like a bed room. Like a lot of sleeping spaces it unnervingly was also a pass through. Bedrooms should be dead ends. Maybe another door to a closet. At most, a conjoined bathroom. But that was the thing here. Everything had to continue. So there had been a bed. An old four poster, scratched wood posts, a grey moss green duvet humped up over some old squashed pillows. Cat hair on all of the surfaces. I hoped I might find a cat somewhere about. So far no luck. The coffee machine sat right at the border between the bedroom and the- I decided to call it a sitting room (with windows). A liminal commercial espresso machine with four nozzles, a bean grinder and steamer. Too bad I couldn’t handle caffeine. 

——

[twistedfingerpress]

Purgaspex

In a crook of concrete half-walls around the back of the gym and a few feet from dumpsters is a pile of trash. Plants and granite blocks show an intention for a spot for workers between shifts. But instead there is a spread of garbage. As those workers walk past, not sitting there, but heading to nicer areas across the street, they bend to look at the abandoned collection. A couple take photos. None move the stuff, not even to the nearby dumpster. But it still attracts attention. Interpretation. A book of trite motivational sayings, two flimsy empty notebooks, some cans Russian dolled into each other. A string of holiday lights cures and knotted up. A polished wood branch. Shoe box. Another book. A cardboard sign begging for food, cash, please anything. A table cloth covered in stars and moons. A rubberbanded bunch of asparagus, the rain having softened and rotted them until the bumpy stall heads have soughed off. 

What do the workers see as they crouch to peer at the assembly on their way to a better smoke spot? Do they ever show the photo to their lover to compare their future? Do they check the spot over and over to see the different fates it speaks? 

[elbiotipo]

I have a worldbuilding question about maps,

when you are making an underground map (of a scale like continents worth) what are some ways to make it less homogenous (aside from aquifers and water and such, I am planning on having those, but I dont know what to add besides that)

Sorry for answering this so late, I am planning on doing a better post about this, but I hope this will be helpful!

Lately I've been also wondering about "underworlds" and such underground cavern systems, how would they work? Are underworlds like in Journey to the Centre of the Earth possible? First, I think it's a good idea to understand how they work in real life.

Big cavern systems in real life are basically created in two ways: "solutional" caves, that is, caves created by rock dissolved by water, often limestone or other carbonaceous 'soluble' rock (which, interestingly enough, often come from sediment made from the shells and calcium skeletons of ancient marine life), and "primary" caves, often called "lava tubes"; these are formed when lava flows through "harder" rock, leaving empty "tube" structures on it. Mars has many of these and they are being considered for habitation in future missions. There are other kinds of caves made by sea erosion or glaciers, but when one thinks big cave systems, these are the ones.

The shape of a cave usually depends then on the "hardness" of the rock, that is, how much of it is dissolved by water. The classic shape is a branched one, like rivers or tree branches, but depending on the type of rock, you can get some that are more like sponges or shattered in structure. However, cave systems depend very much on the rock available, big cave systems are found where big limestone and such rock are found (China and parts of the US and Europe have the biggest, while they aren't really found in South America for example).

There does seem to be, according to Wikipedia, a limit of 3000 meters of depth to caves before the pressure of the rocks above makes their formation impossible. Also, again, karst deposits are found usually in the upper layers. I do wonder, for example, in a fantasy world with different rocks and minerals, if you could have some kinds of rocks that could dissolve more in water, while still being hard enough to sustain the pressure from the rocks above.

One question I had is that if you could have "vault-like" caves, with underground lakes or oceans, like in classic fantasy. The largest such chamber found is the Miao room in the Gebihe cave system in China, which is a respectable 852m in lenght and 191 in width. And I'm very sure there are many more not found. However, these are very far from the huge underground vaults of fantasy, like the sea from Journey to the Centre of the Earth:

For the reasons stated above, I think these structures, if possible at all with the mechanics of the rocks, would be very vulnerable to erosion and collapse, not to mention earthquakes and tectonics. Realistically, you couldn't have a sea with ancient plesiosaurs and such surviving millions of years.

In fantasy, of course, you can think of believable worldbuilding around this. You could very well have gods or other beings to create these caves, and it has a very poetic ring to it, the "pillars of the world". You could have volcanic intrusions or dikes that are then dissolved by natural or magical means, resulting in these vault-like structures. So if you want to think about geography, instead of continents or big rooms, I would rather imagine archipelagos of caves, connected by tunnels, sometimes in different layers.

Another thing to consider is temperature. Caves are thought of cool places, in fact, they're just very insulated and dark, so their temperature is stable. However, the deeper you go, the more temperature increases. Temperature increases roughly 25-30°C for every kilometer, more if the area is geologically active. Deep mines, for example, need air-conditioning and even then they are hot, humid, horrible places to work. I think the habitable underground zone would be no more than one or two km deep.

Now, the most interesting part is of course, what does life look in caves. There's plenty of life adapted to caves, but what really strikes me is that the supply of nutrients and energy comes from the outside ecosystem rather than the cave itself. There's plenty of guano in bat-filled caves for example, but the bats of course hunt on the night outside. Caves aren't very productive environments on themselves, they don't have many options for producers, that is, the first link in the food chain that. Of course they're dark, and while there's some very extreme algae and bacteria that can photosynthesize and very interesting chemosynthetic ecosystems, like those found in oceanic undersea vents. Perhaps the most extreme case is that of Movile Cave in Romania. It's a fully contained ecosystem based in chemosynthetic bacteria, whose biofilm supports fungi and others, and they support a complete system of endemic invertebrates from crustaceans to mollusks. I really cannot do the uniqueness of this justice, so I'll just link to the Wikipedia article.

(it's likely that there are many caves like this not yet discovered!)

However, these ecosystems are very, very fragile, and very, very slow paced. Again, there's lot of organisms that adapt to caves, but the tendency is almost universally, besides losing pigmentation and vision, to slow down activity and metabolism as much as possible. The most emblematic example to me is the olm/ulm, a cave salamander that reaches a respectable half a meter, the apex predator so to say, can spend months or even years without moving, only for feeding and mating. Same for example with the growth and reproduction of many other animals in caves, or for that matter, fungi or microbes. Everything is done to reduce metabolism to a minimum.

For a fantasy setting, assuming creatures who live and build cultures in this underworld, this has implications. Sentient creatures need a lot of energy, a lot of calories. What do they eat, what does their lifestyle looks like? I've seen some worldbuilding (like in Age of Wonders IV) assuming fungus forests, but what makes those fungus grow into forests instead of just biofilm? Unless there's some magical means introducing light and nutrients into the environment, some kind of crystal or bioluminiscent fungus or a base producer like some really good biofilm, one has to wonder what the base of the food chain looks like.

Instead of seeing this as a limitation, I think this is a great chance for writers to do something original and explore this! Just think about how different a cave ecosystem could be. And what's more interesting to me is to imagine the flow of nutrients and energy with the outside world... bats, fishes, salamanders, cave dwelling animals, and of course, peoples...

I'm already writing way too much here, but I would like to finish with an awesome video video which expands on what I've said and also has a very interesting conclusion, that salamanders are uniquely predisposed to take the top spot in the food chain of cave ecosystems!

Also, this IS NOT a demand at all, but if anyone reading loved this post and would like to see more, you can always check out my #biotipo worldbuilding tag, and give a tip to my ko-fi! I really like doing these kind of posts even if I take a while to get to them, and I hope you find them interesting!

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[queer-as-city-folk]

Ways to discourage players from murder hoboing in my ttrpg?

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Don’t have combat.

have combat rules but if a player starts combat they must retire their character immediately after combat ends.

Don’t bother trying to stop them. It’s impossible to fool proof any game so you may as well write it for the players that “get it” not those that won’t.

Explicitly have players create NPCs with relationships to their PCs with the friendliness of that relationship determined by a stat. Combat of any kind (or most at least) results in penalties on all relationship stats. Killing changes a person and their loved ones would notice.

combat rules are: flip coin. Success, enemy dies. Fail, PC dies.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Well, this is awkward.

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Oh I know where these are! This is the madrasa Ben Yousseff in Marrakech, Morocco! There are several ladders like this one in the rooms for students.

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Art for my ttrpg scenario The Old House in the Corn That Only Children Can See

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