Now It's All City - Short Stories

By Abandoned Station

Another definitely bizarre, arguably fun collection of short stories from Abandoned Station. From tech running amok to monsters running wild to dubious purchases running up mysterious debts, you can't say you'll be bored poking your nose and eyes into this... (checks notes)...book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781387410569

Book preview

Now It’s All City

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Short Stories

By Abandoned Station

Copyright 2022. All rights reserved. It’s a work of fiction, any resemblance to the big real world is strictly coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-387-41056-9

First Night of the Fair

The monster wanted promises in the form of legal documents.

It was the first night of the fair, and Rachel had wandered too far down a barely lit path behind the cluster of food tents. Soon barely lit became troublingly dark, and when she decided to cut her curiosity losses and turn back around she realized there were splits in the path that she didn't remember making. It would be tempting to say that the cotton candy and jell-o shooters were responsible for her suddenly poor sense of direction, but friends and family would agree that it was never her strong point to begin with.

Rachel liked working with her hands, could never really sit down at a desk for too long without getting fidgety. She would probably describe herself as a people person, but not when it came to all those stupid and annoying people out there. Eager to please, but wouldn't mind the world surprising her with something nice from time to time.

Right now it was just giving her branches and spider webs to push away in the circling darkness.

The sound of her footsteps was soon being complimented by the terrible stench of rotting garbage. She must be close to the town dump, which meant she somehow curved northeast...but wait, then she would've crossed at least a couple paved roads...

Oh, never mind. There's just a hideous monster not that far up ahead, clearly blocking her path. Mostly troll-like features (bulbous limbs, yellowish fangs, attempting to wear some sort of torn vest and trousers to show a shred of modesty), with a sort of eagle beak and collection of maybe thirty wet, sticky feathers sticking up tiredly from the top of its head. The monster was gnawing on what looked to be a gorilla arm. Rachel had only seen pictures of them in books (entire gorillas, not just their arms).

The winds shifted quickly, blowing towards it, and, as monster science predicts, Rachel's own scent must have reached its nostrils, because it quickly looked up from its meal and locked eyes on her. The monster spat out of the bone that was giving it trouble and smiled.

-oh, hello. You've reached puberty, correct?

His calm voice threw her off more than the invasive question.

-I...what...well, yes. I mean...what?

-a quiet agreement I have with the town council. At least let them reach some semblance of maturity. And since mental maturity is a bit more subjective, we go with physical measure.

-oh. Sure.

-I think that's fair. Speaking of which, how is tonight's festivities?

-oh, you know..., Rachel began, instinctively looking back towards the path she walked, which began amongst the stands and tents and lights that are so far away right about now.

-I'm afraid I don't know. I've never had the chance to attend that sort of soirée.

-you're...a well-spoken monster.

-I outsmarted my four grunting, drooling, pointing brethren throughout the spring months, he said while putting down the gorilla-ish arm.

-was that part of the deal with the council? Rachel asked.

The monster's eyes flickered up and down quickly with that comment.

-it was noted...and appreciated.

The monster struggles to stand up and cracks its mobled back, which sounded like lightning striking a small tree. It sighs deeply, but with little sense of relief.

-you look like you're in a bit of pain, Rachel says, taking her first step backwards since arriving here, I'll leave you to it.

-you are my 'it', the monster replies, fate has brought us together. And I'll not stand in its path.

-oh, I'll be a poor follow up meal to that gorilla thing.

-it's a jellamock. A monster than can only be seen by other monsters while it lives. Not the tastiest, but plenty of essential nutrients, with a hint of telepathic powers...Rachel.

Okay, that made her blood freeze for a second or two. But Rachel knew the importance of keeping on top of the situation. Lest the situation get on top of her, heavyset hands crushing her ribcage like they were made of twigs.

-this is a really bad time for me, she said with natural irritation, I have a lot of things on my plate right now, and being on one of them myself is not part of the plan.

-oh, I'm sure most people don't have meeting me as part of their plan.

-speaking of most people, how about I send one of them over here in place of me?

-some fairy tale bait and switch then? The monster asked as its left eyebrow cocked uncomfortably.

-at the very least let me get a quick first marriage out of the way before I'm yours forever.

-well as the teenagers say before they see me 'I ain't got tiiiime', the monster said while taking his first two lumbering steps towards her, I'll have to pencil you in for tomorrow or the day after at the very latest.

-I'm going to be sewing all day tomorrow.

-the day after then. Sunday. I'll even make it Sunday evening so you can have a final dinner with your family.

-my father's out of town until Tuesday.

-you'll have to write him a heartfelt goodbye letter.

-he's not really the reading type.

-sounds like more of a monster than myself.

Well that hurt. Rachel's face couldn't help but blanch a bit, and even the monster seemed to be scratching the back of his neck in sudden sheepishness.

-harsh.

-be back here Monday morning at sunrise then. Call your father and tell him to rush home.

At least now they were bargaining.

-are you sure you want to wait for me? Why don't we all just go our separate ways and stay where we belong. Me in the town, you here in the forest.

-if you don't return on Monday morning I'll leave the woods and kill your entire family.

-harsh.

-both our reputations are at stake here.

-to whom? What if we both stayed quiet?

-ah, but we'd know. We'd know forever.

-you've never been able to forget something for good?

-it's not possible.

-some would say you're not possible.

-you're family won't be. In fact, they won't be saying much come Monday evening if you're not here Monday morning.

His threats were becoming cliché. Better than the low grunting of now departed associates, but not by much if it all added up to the same thing, either right now, or after a few days of life, liberty and the ever brief pursuit of happiness.

Unless she runs. Really runs. Not just back to her parents' house, or her grandmother's place two towns over. But across mountains and valleys and seas. To new countries, cultures, and languages. To run into monsters who've never met this one. To start again. It's not like her life here was brimming with excitement and possibility. This morning she spent far too long worried about peaches ripening too fast in a bowl on the kitchen table. If she just left, she'd have over two full days to-

-Rachel, come on, I told you I was a tiny bit psychic a few minutes ago.

Oh right.

-well then, maybe...maybe..., she begins as her head spun with a tiny dose of shame.

-I thought the offer I made was quite fair. You have to come back Monday morning. It's a much longer period of freedom than I offer to most of those who cross my path.

Her tongue has come down with a bad case of paralysis. Her brain kicked around the idea of a final weekend of anything. Her half-hearted plan was to spend most of it at the fair, anyway. Either excitedly with Louise and Mary, or half-heartedly with various family members, occasionally working the stall that sold grilled corn on the cob. Maybe hang out with Paul in a completely different forest on the opposite side of the playing field. Maybe if it's a really nice Saturday night and I bring a blanket-

And then she remembered that the monster could read her mind and cut that thought out abruptly. It's over. It's now or Monday morning, and both of those are ultimately nevers. It's a rock and a hard place. It's out of your hands. It's nothing but the very last hand. It comes down to a wire set to snap. It comes down to trust. It comes down to last word and gestures. It comes down to brief and endless regret. It comes down to wondering all the things that could've changed if you just did that one thing differently.

-what are you going back to? The fortune teller had asked while standing beside her tent when Rachel refused the offer to come in and hear about her future.

Apparently that was only an hour ago.

The moonlight that flickered through the slowly swaying branches offered terse responses: Don't look at us, your molecular makeup is much too complicated.

-okay.

-okay?

-yes.

-excellent. Monday morning it is then. An appointment between Rachel Erickson and Blaglar.

-'Blag...ar'?

-'Blaglar'. Two l's.

He turns back to his hovel and slowly looks around.

-I believe I have a parchment here somewhere that already goes over the details. We'll just have to add names and dates. Are you comfortable with cutting your hand on a sharp stone for the signing, or shall I?

-you don't have a pen?

-blood is traditional.

-I thought you were trying to break from tradition.

-baby steps.

-not the best choice of words for a monster.

-see? You're already relaxed and more jovial. Acceptance of fate should not be seen as horrible thing. It is an end, and a necessary one. Maybe everything isn't set in stone, but everything does ultimately set.

And with that he casually lifts up a boulder and finds some flimsy, warped scroll paper and blows off the dirt and insects with a heavy gust.

-it isn't, Rachel blurts to the forest in between the trees.

-sorry?

-it isn't set for anything just yet. The setting is yet to come, she says channeling her own inner fortune teller, the night is still uncertain. Just like the future. Just like the stars. When you look and hold your breath for as long as you can, they start to come closer.

And with that, as she watched Blaglar follow her simple lead and look up, Rachel turned around and sprinted as fast as she could. She felt that as long as she didn't turn her head back it would be fine. She felt that each step would be sure footed and speedy. She felt that if he gets lost in her words he would reconsider everything. She felt that the tiniest sliver of hope can pierce the supposedly invincible armour of despair. She felt that if she could just see the tents and lights of the fair everything would just go-

She felt the baseball-sized rock thrown at near-lightning speed by Blaglar, smash violently below the nape of her neck, shattering the top vertebrate and immediately paralyze her. She felt the world give out from under her chin. She felt the side of her head connect with a gnarled exposed root of a large maple tree, and that was the last thing she felt in totality.

Blaglar's head also hurt, but in a much less fatal way. He felt very lightheaded, sluggish, and was yearning for his bed pile of bones to rest his weary body.

Talking was still a huge energy waster.

The young woman was determined to outlast him in negotiations, and now he has to walk over to her body and drag it back to his lair. It would have been so much easier if she just could have promised to come back later. He could have slept half the time until then. Much better. A simple plan laid to waste. His simple plan. She did this. She did this to him.

And then he felt a terrible pang of guilt. He realized he's sounding like them. The idiots. The drooling, thoughtless goons finally dead. The ones he had to kill to bring his entire species forward. Because he's not like the others. He can change. He is changing.

He will be respectful to...Rachel...yes that was her name. He'll treat her body with respect and even write a short note to her family. That's the honourable thing to do.

He can do this. He can be better than what everyone thinks him to be. Than his parents, grandparents, and ancestors were.

Perhaps he'll even make an appearance on the last night of the fair.

END

May '77

Fitting into the suit was the worst part. A too-soft skin that seems to naturally unravel after 652 rotama, which equals to three or four hours in that particular timespace.

Just enough for the ritual, as few in this period exceed that temporal length.

The procedures came in many forms, and there are always the possibility of lingering after-effects, but no one who made these journey would complain about these costs, as the benefits far outweigh them, no matter what kind of gravitational pull and hursen sickness you are experiencing. 

Seeing it.

Hearing it.

Feeling it.

Experience it.

The intermingling of aural and visual elements alongside the excitement of local attendees guaranteed a sensation that could never be replicated.

A ritual would not be such if there were too many changes, if there was not a strong foundation for the faithful to find common ground, but such physical and ethereal spaces were at the same time a launching point for something unique and precious to that very moment, those slices of seconds where unpredictability can flourish and string together something new atop a pattern of old.

The very close to certainty is why each little surprise hits so much harder. It doesn't fall apart, and it doesn't just persist, it rises and transmogrifies into matter-antimatter constellations that seems to defy all potential equation prognostications.

The rituals are enthralling, indelible, a flexing upon reality, something that cannot be found anywhere or anytime else.

A murmuring debate of when to go, when to bear witness, even though for many of them the time is always now, when this timespace can be dialled into like a frequency on a hyper-dimensional knob.

Consequently, there are more of them here than ever before, hiding among the local adherents, but by now it has never been easier to blend in, the technology becoming more powerful and efficient (although that just means more and more of them putting compound stress on this 4D timespace). It was even possible to be momentarily fooled by another, looking so much like they belonged in the first place. Only when you tried to have a conversation did the words and facial features come out a little bit wrong and wild.

It was an added challenge due to the matter of prudence, care and respect for the locals who need these experiences in lower, simpler ways. You would only discover this by talking to them, and had to keep it simple.

‘Have you had sacrament?’

‘Is there trouble outside?’

‘Was it easy to arrive?’

'Were you there then, at previous events?'

Ultimately questions of time and location, because what other queries can there be?

Some already talk wistfully of times before now which was now before time, of the moment they were previously in because of how things were done differently, maybe even better, with an augmented selection of sacraments and steps.

They felt they could better appreciate the now because of what they bore witness to in the past.

Comparing moments in other contexts would seem foolish when you could see everything like jittering lines, but with this there are excited ripples far above in the continuum, acknowledging the thrill of the difference, the way the ritual's performance adjusts to not only ever-changing locations, but ever-changing attendees and the experiences and ideas these entities bring.

Questions abound for the returning lucky few-

'was it this, was it that, compared to prior iterations…how does this slightly new one fare?'

The full report could last as long as the ritual itself, with no detail forgotten or ignored.

This information would spread quickly, turning other entities on to the possibilities, and interest grew, which meant more and more energy being utilized around the gate and through.

The literal and proverbial needles are quaking, especially with the visitors bringing equipment for documentation, putting a strain on the basic movement of elementary particles.

Rules about how many could attend were becoming an issue, and committees and organizations were formed to debate.

When debate didn’t result in satisfactory decisions for some, wars were fought on various levels with various gestures and weapons to push forward, to change laws, to lead movements, all because of so limited slots, of limited stresses on reality itself.

At the gates themselves were some of the most challenging confrontations. Guards who made oaths with their lives would turn and abandon their posts to travel through to experience what lay on the other side.

A tragedy, a scandal, but so many understood.

After having everything, why not a little more that sounds so divine?

And what are you willing to do for that moment?

Would you lie, cheat, dismantle, destroy?

But when all entered the ritual space, respect, obedience and revelry reigned.

Indisputable proof of an effortless exercise against entropy, and practically a celebration of its work at the same time as each moment passes into the void, glowing beautifully as it did.

Some dared to get close to the priests, which is in violation of several edicts meant to keep all sorts of peace, but enforcement is near impossible.

The break between halves was never of an exact length, which added to the level of uncertainty and excitement when the ritual started again. It was when the additional chemical mechanisms typically started to kick in. The initial samples were easy to acquire, with the best generously given by a particular organization that was favoured by the priests. But it was possible to trade for lesser quality versions prior to the start.

Brought back for analysis meant extrapolation and maximization, but sharing with the local adherents was an interesting experiment all by itself.

The body movement and temperature fluctuations indicated pleasure, and the local verbal language confirmed this with:

Wild shit, man.

Now more than half of the congregation were extra-dimensional visitors, and the locals seemed none the wiser, but this reality was beginning to show some strain.

At certain moments during the ritual the sounds and beyond are such that everyone present, no matter where they are from or how many chromosomes they contain, could feel multiple membranes shivering at once.

The words atop these sounds are like divine pleas that speak to so much more than those that are familiar with the native tongue.

Dust off those rusty strings just one more time.

At this moment, in this place, it is too much, there are more pouring through the gate irresponsibly and passionately unaware that this is a burgeoning singularity, built and bred into existence by sheer force of accidental will.

The peripherals could not hold, let alone the centre.

The meagre graphics, illustrations and symbols above the altar could not contain the crack of reality splitting and spilling out from right above, and with everyone lost in the ritual’s throes, neither priest, local, or visitor seemed to care.

Gonna make 'em shine!

The photons peeled.

The gluons shed.

There was no difference between space and potential energy that could fill said space, it all melts into one.

For one glorious moment there was just the searing, soaring guitar solo being lifted even higher by the second guitarist, bassist, pianist, backing vocalist and two drummers.

Shine!

Was the last word and it seemed like the universe obliged, brightening to an unbelievable degree, and only one thought remained by the visitor who survived a fraction of a second longer than anyone else.

Totally worth it.

END

Will Kill For Votes

It's been a terrible round, but at least she was alive.

The farmhouse was in even worse shape now, after that last gun battle. No point in keeping it as any sort of outpost where she can pick people off with her sniper rifle (by far the best weapon she'd scrounged so far, which says a lot about her chances) and then squat behind a wall.

So HardPeachie makes a break for it.

Pray for me, chat.

She gets to the end of the dirt driveway and has a choice on the paved road. There were signs for RoyaltyPenguin and SiddDAKidd along the shoulder and she wonders if any of hers had randomly generated into this match. She's asked to chat to take snapshots when they're playing if they ever noticed a goofy 'Vote HardPeachie, Never Moldy' sign or billboard.

She can't help get a little bit sus. She shelled out hard-earned bits for the PR, and it's not like they would screw her out of them, right?

There should be a list which shows all the places and times that your stuff will show up, but randomly generated worlds don't lend well to that.

Now she's always looking for her avatar and the dripping font beneath it atop the hills and on sides of buildings as much as she’s looking for opponents. One of the latter seems to materialize right beside a tree, blasting loud and erratic shotguns rounds in her general direction.

Certainly her sniper rifle wouldn't do, and HardPeachie did a great job at switching to her sidearm, and strafed to the left while unloading at her sudden adversary's upper chest.

Like two hits out of an entire clip.

Fatal in the real world, yes, but in the virtual one, full of health bars and shield potions? Tis but a scratch.

Which meant the oddly dressed adversary could rush up and with two shotgun blasts to her face scatters it across the fake world as she helplessly reloads.

HardPeachie lets her killer dance over where her corpse would be if the game didn't instantaneously tidy up that mess to make sure the whole island wouldn't be covered with seventy or so bodies by now.

All right, I'm done, she murmurs into her microphone, like done, done.

Her eyes dart to chat as she gulps down a pinkish-orange smoothie whose proper name escapes her, which isn't good, because they're a sponsor. At least the brand name is in screaming loud yellow on the container.

Calls for 'one more' and 'can't end on that' mingled with 'k bye', 'thanx', 'see all y'all later'.

She glances at her phone and takes in the whole screen - message, feed, time, battery life - in half a second. Something Peachie's gotten good at. Always remember that chat is watching everything, judging everything. Every little gesture is a reason they will find to love or hate you. Spend too long to checking your phone and you are obviously, clearly spitting in their faces. It's just you and them versus the world, so you do not let any other single thing get in the way of this perfect (heh), eternal (ha) relationship (oof).

Thanks for watching, wide world of superfriends, vote for your excellent lady all week, you know I want to keep giving you the best and more, so...yeah.

Kinda tripped up on the ending, but the views started to tumble way back when she said 'done' twice.

Click, and the red light on the screen disappears.

Alone.

Again.

Peachie stands up slowly and stretches, but not just a quick crack of the neck or pull of the