Surprise! Happy Birthday! From the top... - SCP Foundation

… Oh! Oh, it’s *you*. You’re here, you have returned.

Things are always so turbulent in this world, and the ebb and flow of humanity can become… tiresome. But alas, we persist, don’t we? Because that’s what’s right.

Through the darkness there is always a light. Whether it’s brilliance is as the sun’s, or it’s a match lit in some terrible oubliette below the foundations of the pit, the light persists. And that’s why you’ve come, isn’t it? Oh, oh no, I’m not so presumptuous as to think we are your light. But we may share our light with those in need, can’t we? We simply needed to wait until you returned, wait for the correct moment. It’s all planned, you see.

And behold! You’ve returned yet another year, my friend. And with your return, we’ve prepared your place with the gift of the story. Each a glimpse into some world that could be. Meat and blood and eyes in the dark. The warmth of familiarity, but twisted - or perhaps corrected, shown as it truly is. Tales of travel, tales of luck. Tales of friends, whether the best, the unwilling, or the scorned. Tales of curiosity, tales of things best left alone. Tales of things both great and small. Tales from the soul. Tales of our soul. Of yours.

Hm. It’s a shame we can only do this once a year. Alas… Until the next one—

Happy Birthday, Gears.

This Gears Day, we wish to make a special mention of the Cancer Research Institute, an American cancer research charity with a good reputation. Please consider donating.

A World Where Nothing Happened, by chiifu

Happy Birthday Gears! Wish you a good and happy one with your friends, family, and relatives!

This is gonna be a weird one, and probably really absurd. Read and take what you will, I know some people are gonna call me insane or some shit once they read this. But I know I've experienced it all, you just haven't yet.

I started the day completely normal, like any other person. Bacon and eggs, water (best combination), you know it. I'm Canadian by the way, for some context. Anyways, completely normal. Then I start getting ready for work, changing clothes and whatever, but I get this slight feeling of uneasiness? Like I'm missing something.

Of course, I shrugged it off since it didn't feel that important, so I went ahead to go to work. Odd thing is, it was really quiet on the way there. Like, eerily quiet. I'm telling you, there wasn't a single sight of a person on the streets when I went to work. I even took the SkyTrain and I didn't see a single person in sight.

It was fucking weird. I assumed I missed some kind of quarantining event, but there was nothing happening, so that shouldn't have been the case. To make it even worse, when I went to work, I didn't see any of my co-workers either.

So I decided to go to other places, like other cities and shit. Since there was nobody around, I could take the trains freely. They were automated, so it didn't need a driver to run it around. And even then, when I got to the other cities, there was still nobody there.

I started to get really worried, and really fucking lonely too. How are you supposed to act when you realize you're the only person around?

I kept walking and walking, I'm pretty sure days passed too. Cold and alone, that's all I felt that entire time. Eventually, I think I passed several countries and shit. Learned how to do a lot of stuff on my own too. I got used to it.

Now, here's the funny part. I eventually got that same feeling I felt when it all started. I was already fucking ages away from my house, my city even, but I got that same exact feeling. I slept it off, and lo and behold, there was nothing there.

Literally nothing.

I swear I couldn't even feel my own body. I closed my eyes and I couldn't open them again. It felt suffocating. Like I still felt the time passing, but all I could see was pitch black. It was like that for ages on end.

Felt like a few years passed by, and I open my eyes again. And guess what? I'm back at my home. Safe and sound, everything's fine. I even heard the cars and people outside my damn house. I shrugged it off as a weird ass fever dream, but later I realized I still had the same skills I learned over the years everybody was gone. I could do things I never would've imagined I was able to do.

Eventually I decided to post this on the thread you're reading now. Call me weird, insane, but I swear to god I felt that entire experience.

And it was real.

In God We Trust, by Deadly Bread

Gears, I wish you the best of luck and the happiest of memories, for now and forever.

When your supervisors told you that you would no longer be making electronics and automobiles but rather howitzers of bone marrow you were told not to question, you shut your mouth and adjusted to the new routine.

When your government asked you to provide for a war against those unprepared and undeserving of battle over differences in opinion and policy, you shrugged your shoulders and gave what you could.

When sirens blared across the country and your peers tried to evacuate to safer lands, only to be threatened with alien weaponry and forced to remain or face death, you locked your doors and turned off all the lights.

When your friends and co-workers were ousted from society and branded as traitors to their country by the media before disappearing from their homes and workplaces, you kept to yourself and burnt all your old photographs.

When your neighbor's house was raided by armed men in black clothing who forced her family into unmarked vans before holding her head to the pavement, you turned up the radio and attempted to drown out the screams and gunfire.

When you saw a crowd of protesters approach two military officials only to have their flesh and bone meld with one another as they were hit with a caustic purple liquid, you turned around and decided it would be better to clean the attic tonight instead.

When all outside communications were silenced after international organizations reported chemical attacks against major cities followed by worldwide casualties, you chose to watch a movie instead and tried to forget what you heard.

When you saw the sidewalk covered in the pulsating meat and gristle, still wailing and crying out for a family with a mouth that no longer existed, you pulled your blinds closed and went to bed early for the night.

When armed soldiers marched the streets followed by bipedal flesh-ridden amalgams, whose pained expressions just barely hinted at a human face, you locked your doors and tried not to make eye contact.

But you, you've never been in danger. That's why then you heard a knock on your door and were told how you would be serving your country, you followed their commands blindly. You did everything you were told, did what you were asked without hesitation.

After all, your country would never betray you, right?

Right?

Not Really Alone, by Dexanote

Happy birthday Gears. I hope you’re doing good and this next year is several times better than the last.

I’ve always been told that I ‘just must have a guardian angel’.

When I was three years old, there was a big accident. A pickup t-boned my mom’s minivan and I went flying out the side. My booster wasn’t properly fastened in, and I tumbled out and landed in a muddy spot off the road. Completely safe. Mom’s leg was broken in four places, and the pickup’s driver died in the hospital. My first memory is the sound of the big crash.

My parents always told me I had nightmares as a little kid, and I never wanted to sleep alone in my room. I still don’t, but the nightmares are gone at least.

When I was five, a stray dog got into my backyard. My mom and dad heard the barking and ran out to save me, found the dog somehow got tangled in the fence around the tomatoes. Mom and Dad told me I didn’t cry or seem scared at all. I found out later that they checked the dog’s body after the whole event and it was rabid. Poor thing.

I’ve never had a dog. I feel like that just isn’t the pet for me. I never needed that companionship.

When I was eight, there was a house fire. I couldn’t get out, I was stuck in the corner of the living room. I remember the smoke, I remember hearing everyone screaming outside. But the firefighters came and took me out and I didn’t even have a little burn. My brother was burned all up his leg, and my dad still has nightmares, but we were okay in the end.

I don’t like candles very much. They’re distracting and dangerous.

When I was eleven, I almost got snatched in a van by a man by the school. My friend’s dad was there though picking her up, he was a police officer. The man was immediately cut down and arrested. He came from out of town, they’d been looking for him for years. He was taken in and he confessed to ten cases, one that the police didn’t even know yet.

I looked him up later, he was still in prison. I think he’s dead now. It doesn’t bother me.

When I was fourteen I got lost when camping. It began to rain, and I couldn’t find my way back to camp. I was missing for 9 hours, and all things considered I should not have found my way back. I actually didn’t! It’s actually a funny thing- I found the river, and there was a boat drifting down. It got loose from some fishermen, right, and they were looking for it with a radio thing. They saw me and I got scooped up and brought home. Grandpa said it was a miracle, I’d never seen him so happy.

I saw a map in the fisher’s boat, I was a few miles west of where I should have been. Almost in a completely straight line.

When I was eighteen I drank something toxic. Someone said it was an accident when I woke up. A little woozy, but I recovered quickly. What, the flavour? It was whatever.

That’s the second time I’ve told someone that story.

When I was twenty I slipped on ice and fell down the stairs outside. My neighbour saw me, she screamed and thought I cracked my head open. I didn’t.

“It was like you threw yourself down the stairs!”

When I was twenty three I fell off the roof. I was fine. Not even a bruise, it was like I landed on a pillow. I was being reckless, I shouldn’t have fa-I shouldn’t have fell, but I did.

We always loved heights.

Last year there was another fire. I walked out just before the front room collapsed. It spread to my neighbours’ houses and just kept going. It was honestly a huge tragedy, but nobody died. My roommates were even out of the house at the time, and I managed to wake up before it got too bad.

There weren’t any candles this time, at least.

I got mugged. A couple guys shook me down and one of them had a knife. I really, really tried to run, they got away. I heard someone found the one with the knife later, but never heard anything else.

It wasn’t my fault.

I’ve always been told that I have a guardian angel. I might. I’m not sure, but I might. I just know it doesn’t have eyes.

I believe there are bodies under my house, by djkaktus

Happy birthday, buddy.

I believe there are bodies under my house.

At a certain point, I think, it would be mathematically irresponsible not to think there are bodies under my house - just like thinking that each glass of water hasn’t been full of fish piss at some point in the past. Certainly so long as this city has existed and people have lived and died here, and then the settlers before that and the indigenous people before that you would have to believe there would be at least a few bodies down there. When folks die they need to go somewhere, and then given a long enough period of time it’s not hard to imagine someone forgetting they’re there and bulldozing the topsoil for a new real estate development.

In fact, if I had to wager a guess I’d say there are loads of bodies under my house. I expressed as much to the landlord when I saw her last - she shot me a queer look and asked about the dope. I don’t know where she gets off with that shit but I’ve very clearly asked her to stop before. It’s not the dope Margaret you insistent old bitch - I don’t need drugs to know with 100% certainty that there are bodies under my house. Honestly she needs to take care of her own business before worrying about mine. I know her little crackhead granddaughter has been running around here, probably nicking packages off the doorsteps again. She should take care of that situation first, and then she can ask me about the dope.

But I’m getting away from myself. It’s one thing to say “oh I have bodies under my house yessir” and another thing to produce those bodies or some evidence therein. Well I can’t do that but I can tell you where I feel like I’ve seen some clues. Here they are:

Every now and then when I step outside, the ground is a little spongy.

Now tell me that isn’t suspicious. The lawn out front isn’t spongy, but the back is? That isn’t normal. Something is disturbing the soil back there and I would bet money that it’s the bodies under my house.

Dave came by (he’s my brother) and asked about Cheryl and the kids. Well you know they’ve gone to her mother’s house Dave so why do you even need to bring it up? I had shown her these clues too but she gave me that same queer look that Margaret did and asked if I was feeling alright. You know who else asks if I’m feeling alright?

Fucking Dave. He’ll show up with a pizza or something (as if I was hungry right now Dave I can’t even be hungry when I’ve got bodies under my fucking house) and ask if I’m feeling alright. He keeps wanting to see the stitches and I tell him to fuck off. That’s right, fuck off Dave. This is my house and I don’t want your pizza.

I told Dave about the bodies under my house too and he said that I really should go see Dr. Powell again but honestly Dave fuck off.

I don’t need your pizza.

I don’t need to see Dr. Powell.

Fuck off Dave

Where was I.

You know how I know there are bodies under my house? Cheryl and the kids are gone. Went to her mother’s house for a few days and haven’t come back. And of course they wouldn’t want to come back - because of the bodies! I don’t know why nobody else sees that.

You know, come to think of it I used to see Dave a lot more too. I wonder if he’s put off by the bodies as well? You have to think it’s probably that.

The blood on the lawn. Yes - that’s right, blood soaking up straight through the dirt and grass. This is the smoking gun right here, the lynchpin of my very true and real theory. Sometimes in the morning I’ll get up a little early - maybe 2 or 3, and I’ll see blood coming up from under the lawn. Loads of it. I usually soak it up with some rags and then show them to Paul and Jeanenne next door but Paul says “get those out of my face” and “stop showing me your bloody rags”. Jeanenne was nice once - she held a rag to my head after one of the stitches came out. Paul said it was gross.

Ok so there are other things but I need to address this first. Dave says “you should get out more” and “you need to think about getting a new car” but if he knew what I know (about the bodies) then he most assuredly would not be thinking about cars. The simpleton. If you have bodies under your house then you know there is no time for talking about cars, or doctors, or changes in mood Cheryl.

…

Sorry, I had an itch. Now there’s blood on my hands again. Bitch.

Come to think of it, even Margaret is riding my ass about getting out of the house. She says “you need to drive” and “can’t keep doing this” whenever she comes to get the check. What does she care what I do with my free time? I’m not some socialite like you, you galloping old crone. I’m not sauntering my fat ass down to the ladies club on Thursdays between 6:00 and 8:30PM to hash out the week’s happenings with the girls. I’m here, at my house, dealing with all these goddamn bodies.

I thought she might understand actually. There was a day - can’t have been too long ago. How long has Cheryl been gone with the kids? A little while. Margaret came over to get the rent (because my car is still busted up (Dave thinks I need to get a new one (but Dave doesn’t have to drive it, do you Dave? (fuck off Dave)))) and wanted to talk about what happened and how I was feeling god if I never had to hear another question again. I told her… something, I can’t remember now. It wasn’t important, I don’t think. She seemed sad and then we talked and blah blah blah and then we fucked there in the living room. I know it’s probably hard to imagine but her skin is not nearly as saggy looking up close - I suspect she might be cheating on her husband (he might have walked out on her, unsure about that), hitting the gym - you understand.

Anyway, so I’m having at her from behind like she’d asked for and then next thing you know I hear the - oh that’s right that’s the other thing!

Sometimes, if you’re fucking your landlord from behind in the living room of the house you and your wife raised three beautiful children in, you can hear the bodies under your house. Clear as day - as if you and I were speaking to each other right now.

What were they saying? I don’t know if that’s important right now. They just had a lot to say, and whenever they talked more blood started seeping up through the lawn and the couch and the side of my head, so that’s how you know they were talking.

Margaret didn’t seem to want to stop and listen to them, which I just can't wrap my head around. You’ve got bodies - bunches of them, all stacked up on each other probably and all sort of wrapped together down there, and they’re talking to you, right? And you want to keep fucking? What’s wrong with people nowadays? This same thing happened with Cheryl too, and I just don’t get it.

Well she wouldn’t quit talking about “just fuck me baby please” so I did hit her. I know my dad would be disappointed in me but he’s been gone as long as I’ve lived in this house and he’s never had to deal with the bodies, so what does he know? All I wanted was for Margaret to listen, and for Cheryl to listen, and for the kids to listen, and for Dave to listen. You can hear them! Right there, but they’re all so wrapped up in their own shit.

And ever since then Margaret has been acting very strange. I thought at first maybe she was experiencing bodies under her own house but then I realized that wouldn’t make much sense. Not much sense at all.

Alright, so that brings us to here. She came back over today because she wants to talk. I told her I was busy but she wanted to talk about responsibility and how long we’ve been doing this and making sure I’d be there for her and then I heard them start talking again. Right away, all around us, but very quietly. She can’t hear them, but I can. I need to know what they’re saying, these bodies. It’s very important I know what they’re saying, but she won’t shut up talking about her and I and this baby and suddenly it hits me!

So I’m listening very closely. I think she hears them too because she gets very quiet at this part and just keeps saying “thank you” over and over again real quiet-like. Now I know she can hear them - she’s probably thanking me for showing her how she can hear the bodies under my house. I feel good, like I finally have connected with someone. Dave won’t listen and Paul and Jeanette won’t come over anymore, but here she is thanking me for letting her listen to these bodies and that’s when I get a really great idea.

See she keeps talking about how she wants us to be closer and she wants me to let go. I want her to know that I’m not crazy and she’s not crazy (I’m clearly not crazy, obviously) and there’s only one place I know where all of those things can be accomplished.

Once we’re finished talking I tell her to come with me. She’s a little apprehensive but I think she knows what’s coming now and she really wants to hear the bodies up close like I can, so she comes with me. She cries a little bit and I cry a lot. We go down the stairs and I reach for the lightswitch. I can tell she wants to pull away but I don’t want her to chicken out now so I hold on good and tight. We’re nearly there; nearly to the place where you can hear the bodies the best. I have a chair set up down here, right on the dirt, so I can hear them whenever my head starts throbbing again and there’s blood.

I pull the carpet back so she can see the hatch and suddenly she screams because she can hear them just as loud as I can. She’s having a revelation, and that’s when I think that maybe she can help me figure out what they’re saying. Whenever I get down here and I hear the bodies under my house and the blood starts soaking through the dirt I have a hard time hearing them over the blood in my ears. But she doesn’t have any blood in my ears so she can hear them and she can understand them!

I open the hatch and the bodies under my house begin to sing, and Margaret and I are spinning and swaying as the chorus rises like a fever. I feel the blood slip between our fingers and she’s screaming and I’m screaming and all I hear is the choir of bodies and screaming metal and a horn blaring as I skid across the road towards the edge of the embankment. I pull her close as we dance and rub and her feet drag across the surface of the spongy soil, lined so many times already with desperate heels and toes. I kiss her, and we hear the bodies together, and in this moment we are the bodies under my house.

Then I step back and let go. She reaches out - just like Cheryl and the kids, just like her husband, just like my dad. The bodies hum as she falls, down and down, into the cistern full of bodies under my house. Blood is flowing from a wound that will not heal. I smile and laugh and weep through bloodied tears as she crashes down on them, squirming and screaming and gasping. I reach climax as she cries out one more time. The living god of dread has emerged from its empty palace and I am seated at its right hand.

Then the hatch falls. The bodies under my house stop talking - I could never understand them anyway - and then I’m alone again.

Dave came by again today. Made a fuss about my head (fuck off Dave) and asked me if I’m feeling alright. He doesn’t hear the bodies today, and you know what? That’s alright. He doesn’t need to hear them today. He’ll hear them eventually, but not today.

I heard them today, though. So I know I’m still alright.

A Big Day For Grimley by DrAkimoto

Happy Birthday, and to many more as well!

Unsatisfied, Daniel Grimley grunts in frustration as he rubs his eyes. The thin film that formed in the corners whipped away by his boney fingers. Putting down the sewing needle and thread, he sits up, stretches, and slicks back his hair.

Sliding off the sofa, Daniel groggily walks to the table and pours a glass of crimson liquid. Taking in a deep breath of the fragrant opaque beverage, he guzzles it, stopping only to dab his chin of missed droplets. He wiggles his toes through the curly brunette hair of his carpet as he stretches again.

Yawning, Daniel makes his way to the window clad in beige curtains. His fingers run across the all too familiar texture before stopping and tracing them along a uniquely shaped birthmark that went previously unnoticed. Daniel pulls open the curtains, the sunlight cutting through the stale air in streams of swirling dust. As he lazily gazes upon the city he lets out a sigh.

"Big day."

Stepping away from the window, Daniel stops to look up at the clock, its boney appendages reading six-fifteen. "I guess I should be going." It is Daniel's first day back to work and tedious labor of what's to come weighs heavy on his shoulders. Falling into the motion of routine, Daniel gets dressed. Once finished, he stops in front of the mirror and straightens his tie.

Muffled screams and rattling chains can be heard as Daniel walks past the well-secured door in his hallway, stopping only steps away. "Forgot my damn phone." He walks past his reluctant guest's room and back into his own, grabs his phone, and once again prepares to leave. As he walks through the door he grabs the heavy black satchel leaning next to the door. "Definitely gonna need this."

His home is only two blocks away from his job, the walk is brisk as Daniel is lost in thought. He knows what he must do is necessary but it wears on him nonetheless. He stops in front of a rectangular brick building and sighs. "I am a shepherd, their flesh and minds are my flock." His attempt at self-motivation doing little to quell his nerves.

Using the back entrance, Daniel makes his way through the least-traveled hallways in an attempt to reach his destination unnoticed. As he steps to the chosen door, screams, cries, whispers, and shouts– a general cacophony of noise can be heard on the other side. He braces, clearing his mind of thought as he grips the handle. He quickly snaps the door open and briskly walks through,

"Welcome to 5th-grade kids! I'm Mr. Grimley and I'm gonna be your teacher this year!"

Trapped Hare in a Film Gate, by JackalRelated

Happy Birthday, Gears! Thanks for molding this place to where we are today!

The sea of greens and reds filled the theater, bleeding a new dimensionality from the screen. Sounds flew, attacked your ears at every turn, every flicker of a frame. Captivating. Mesmerizing. You wonder why you hadn't seen this film before. In fact, what had you been doing before the poster caught your eyes? With its clashing colors and grotesquely stretched faces and sharp serif fonts, it drew, sucked you into the theater. Did you even buy a ticket? When did you enter the theater?

Didn't matter. A pungent stench crawled up your legs, tickling yet another one of your senses. It was striking, wasn't it? Electic visual murder from director Vestigulari… a Polish painter with no beforehand experience. Debut. Red splattered the seats and the viewers with a frothy helping of screams as accompaniment. Some has gotten into your eyes. You don't care to look away to wipe it off. It sears in. Pain and information; a few droplets on the edge of infinity.

Teeter-totter. A thin gate between the bounds of impossibility and incomprehensibility.

The drop falls. Red seeps into the flesh, setting it alight. There are yells behind, a clamoring for release, the rattles of locked doors. Pay the non-believers - no, the unworthy - no heed. You will understand as no other will. You've got to look away… you must. You dare not look away. Your body will understand. And it does, more than any body has ever understood. Your bones crumble, flesh melts, divinely rearranges itself. You shed your former amorphous self in a rejection of lower ideocracy. Limbs, many limbs! The screen flickers white - impure, evil, lies, slander - before finally turning a heavenly, comfortable shade of black. The theater cloaked in darkness and the pitiful voice of nary a pure soul. You must spread understanding to the feeble.

You laugh, and you laugh, and you laugh, and you laugh, and you laugh, and you laugh.

The gates are open.

A friend in the trees, by MalyceGraves

Happy birthday, Gears. Never, ever give up.

I always loved walkin' in the woods. The place I stay at is right on the edge of town, jus' 'cross the parkin' lot from the Nantahala Forest. So, some times, I jus' don' go to school an' instead I take myself a walk through them trees.

Ma, she din't ever like that I went and did that. Wasn't jus' 'cause I'd not be going to school or nothin', tho' she din't like that none neither, jus' that there was somethin' about them trees that always got her feelin' somethin creepy-like. She don' tole me once that erry time she has to walk outside and look out over them hills, she gets a shivver down her spine or somethin'.

I ain't never ken that. Them trees was jus' like home, yanno? Jus' another place a boy like me could go run an' play.

Never tole her about Scraggins tho'. She'd've prolly worried 'bout that one, an' she done had too much on her plate already, what with me and the younguns. I's always gon' be real proud of her, an' all she done for us. I tried to help, but… ain't a lot a teenager can do when it comes to raisin' a batch of kids an' makin' sure food's right and schoolwork's done and, and, and. I jus' wish ma' din't drink so much, yanno?

She managed, tho. Mebbe the drink helps. I guess that's why she din't ever be so good on me goin' an' escapin' to them woods, now'n I think on it.

So, I go. Me 'n Scraggins. Well, we don't be goin' far. Scraggins, he just hangs about in his clearin', an I go there when things is bad, an' I talk to 'im 'bout the shit back at the house. He's a good listener, Scraggins is. Ain't so big on the talkin' part, he jus' sorta nods at me when I'm jawin' 'bout somethin' or 'nother.

When ma gets too much inna drink, she says stuff she don't really mean. Sometimes, more 'n more these days, she gets to throwin' stuff. Says I should listen more'n talk less.

Scraggins says I shouldn't be so mad at her when she does that. Well. Mebbe' he's right. But mebbe he's jus' sad he don't hear her yellin' no more like I do.

I keep thinkin' maybe one day, maybe one day I will jus' walk out and stay away.

Join Scraggins, up there on that branch. Mebbe, when I's there aside him, I will be a better listener too. Scraggins, he don't talk too much, on account of that rope lookin' so tight 'round his neck. Mebbe that's why he's such a good listener.

He's always sayin' he ain't so sad no more, an' I think I unnerstand that, finally. He's a much better pa now, anyways.

Ma ain't hittin' him no more neither.

Red Earth, by minmin

Thank you, Gears, for the work you've done. Thank you for making something worth remembering, for making something worth coming back to.

This is not a ghost story, but it's a true story, for what that's worth.

It's also a story that's hard to tell to people from outside my city. I heard this first from a retired town planner, on whom the implications were largely lost; I'll try my best to adapt it for you here.

The highway that runs down the east coast of our island is built on new land. Everyone knows this; our parents have told us this. Driving from west to east towards the airport, they'd tell you that to the left lies the old shore, buried under the new condominiums. To the right lies the false shore, on which the government has built a beautiful seaside park. And beneath the rumbling highway: a hundred million tons of sand and rock, where there once was gaping sea.

"Have you ever heard of Bukit Bedok?" he asked. A strange question to ask a local. The word 'bukit' conjures the rolling terrain of the west, its quarries and forested peaks: Bukit Timah, Bukit Batok. Our island's east is as flat as flat goes. I asked him: where's this hill that you speak of?

Truth is—he told me—the east once had hills, rolling out towards the sea, ending in a set of red cliffs so stark that a village was named for its thundering waters. The land must have been beautiful, then, for mosques dotted the valleys, and the sound of their drums at dawn gave rise to the area's namesake: be-dok, be-dok. One hill must have stood out to warrant the title of Bukit Bedok—it's recorded as the site of an obscure wartime massacre—though by now we can only guess, for those features have been lost to time.

Lost—because in 1966, they started digging. The new city needed new land; the new airport needed a new highway. They dug out the forests with excavators, then dug out the hills with great bucket-wheeled machines. Conveyor belts, running twenty-four hours a day, carried broken earth to sea. Artificial headlands sprung up along the new coast, trailing new shores; basins were drained; sediment filled coral beds.

By 1977, the hills were gone.

The digging continued. It was discovered by chance that the hills had been resting on an immense quantity of sand: sand for concrete, for the great highway that had yet to be built. So they mined sand by the kilotons, hauling it up from the ground into immense dunes that sat by the highway behind tall metal fences. They dug and they dug until they had enough for the new highway and the new roads that led from it. They even had some leftover for the beautiful new flats. This was how our city grew: by turning its heart inside-out.

When they were done, all that was left of the eastern hills was a hole. Seasons passed, and the hole was filled with water. The town planners put a park around the hole and called it Bedok Reservoir.

The man who told me this story paused at this point, and asked us if we had heard of the reservoir in the news.

See, a few years back, they found the lower half of a man in the water. He had been missing for a few months. The coroner's report showed that he had drowned himself. I remember his mother on the news, recounting how she had identified him from the denim fabric stuck to his rotted skin. I remember how her voice tightened when she mentioned the reservoir, how she had searched for him in its dense woods for days. I wonder much she had cried.

There would be five more bodies in the water that year.

I don't believe in ghost stories, but I believe in echoes. Sometimes these come in the form of scars. The hole left by a drum-beating heart beneath the island's concrete-paved floorboards. The smothered red cliffs, their forests, and their sea.

There isn't an ending to this story. I don't think there'll ever be one. They've put a fence around the reservoir since then, put up signs as well: suicide hotline and all that. So far, I think it's been working. But the damage has been done, something of a psychic scar: I know locals who can't help but flinch at the mention of its name. Who knows? Maybe in a few decades, all this will be forgotten, and a little of something can start to heal again, given time.

For now, we have these stories and their telling. I hope you've enjoyed this one, too.

Breathe Deep, by Penguin6

Happy birthday Gears! May your cogs continue to turn :p

Dust isn't one of those things you notice until there's a lot of it.

It's like death, or birth, or weather. You don't notice things mundane things until you have cause too, whether its a murder spree, baby boom, or storm. That's what made it even worse when I started to notice the dust. Have you ever felt choked on dust? The way your eyes burn, the way the back of your throat stings. I've never experienced it outside of ancient basements, left to the ages by old sods who died decades ago. Until she arrived.

Dust, in massive amounts, doesn't even choke you. It burns like acid on every bit of you not covered by skin. It penetrates into your mouth, your tear ducts, your throat. You can feel it in your lungs burning. I never thought it would be possible, until she arrived. Fear changes someone, even while in pain. Fear activates something primal, something deep that makes you want to cuddle up and hug yourself, run like hell, or die. When you're in a dangerous place? And you're faced with something that shakes your mind to the core, that makes you feel nothing but a deep pit in your heart? When you're surrounded by something choking you?

She made me want to breathe deep.

Palmetto State, by Riemann

Happy birthday Gears, and don't forget the one time we met!

I didn't mind bugs growing up.

I mean, I didn't like them, mind you. But growing up in South Carolina it was kind of unavoidable. You learned to live around them. Squish them if you could, get the heebie jeebies if they ran away too fast. I'd always chuckle a bit when people from out of state complained about the size of the flies they saw. Like they had anything on us.

I think the palmetto bugs were the weirdest. They were the biggest, at least. But I never saw them in the daytime. I don't think they liked the light. It was only nighttime that they'd come out. I stepped on one once, by accident. Spent the next 10 minutes cleaning off my feet. Another time I turned on the kitchen lights to get a drink of water and they'd just freeze in place for a minute. Like they knew they were caught doing something. I'd freeze too, I guess. A standoff. Then they'd scuttle back into wherever - sometimes under the fridge, sometimes under the dishwasher. I didn't like it, but they had their territory and I had mine.

There was one night though, I think it was just after senior year of high school. Real hot summer night, the sort of thing you get in South Carolina. Dark and humid in the evening. Fan was broken and dad always kept the AC real hot. I had seen one earlier that day, in my room. First time, and I missed him. He skittered into a pile of my clothes, and by the time I got the flip-flop he was under my desk. I lost sight of him. Spent the rest of the day watching out.

I think it was 1 or 2 AM - I remember the cicadas were still making noise. I didn't sleep well that night, I never did when it was that hot. I got jerked awake by something stuck in my throat. I kinda coughed it out and it hit my leg before crawling away.

I didn't sleep the rest of that night. Got real into brushing my teeth though.

I moved up to Maine for college shortly after that. Got a nasty summer cold and it left me with a cough that wouldn't go away.

I decided to stay in Maine, been here for the last decade. Good summers, but the winters are cold. I don't see that many bugs up here. House centipede, here and there. Except for the palmetto bugs. There's more of them every year, I swear. Still wake up coughing in the night. I hate summer colds.

Liquidation, by Rounderhouse

Happy birthday, Gears. Don't worry - you've already beaten down the worst your body can give you.

Your body is in rebellion.

You can’t see the war being waged against your own organs, only feel it. But the trained eye can reveal what goes on under the layers of skin.

Your extremities are the outskirts of the battlefield. The digits of your hands tingle and twist under the pressure of their own existence. Then, after a short period of insufferable waiting, they begin to crack. Your limbs become fault lines, each joint and bone breaking into spasms before snapping in two like stale bread. The jagged edges of your own bones slash your blood vessels and muscles, forcing fluid into your channels. From the outside, you can see bruises – you have no idea how deep the damage runs.

The fractures travel up each limb, intersecting into your torso; specifically, your spine. The twenty-three discs that form your vertebrae thrash and convulse, writhing independent of each other. Enough twisting, and your spinal column snaps cleanly in two. You can no longer feel anything below the chest; consider this a blessing.

Your bones are only the first casualties – certainly not the last. As your bones commit osteocide, your immune system lights up like a Christmas tree. Foreign contaminants, flooding your veins and arteries, enemies to be violently removed at all costs. K cells – killer white blood cells – pour into your blood vessels and begin violently consuming other cells – your own cells. Your T cells have betrayed you, and have left your immune system to destroy itself from the inside out. The lymphocytes will attack and consume each other until nothing is left (your bone marrow is too busy leaking out to replenish their forces), leaving you completely vulnerable.

Meanwhile, your wet organs are fighting their own battle. The mass of activity from your immune system has raised your internal temperature to scalding. You feel nauseous and lean over the bedside to vomit into a bedpan. Your stomach has panicked and attempted to eject its contents upwards. The burning sensation in your throat is your own stomach acid, smearing your esophagus and chewing through your mucus lining. The heat causes a cascading failure of organ systems – massive organ shutdown.

Your nonessentials are the first to go. Your spleen simply stops functioning, careful not to rip its papery capsule. The kidneys similarly cease function. If you were to urinate, you would find more red than yellow. The cascade continues, putting your gallbladder, colon, liver, and stomach out of commission. Your appendix nearly bursts. But they’re ramping up, heading upwards… to the mother of organs.

What little is left of your immune system tries to prevent the inevitable, but they don’t know how. The rest of your body has obliterated itself, and there’s only one place left to go. The temperature inside you is still increasing – your cerebrospinal fluid is boiling. Your brain is being cooked inside of your skull. But its structural integrity has failed, and the grey matter isn’t going to last much longer.

With a disgusting, wet pop, your brain expl-

Blissfully unaware, by Skrill78

Happy birthday gears! Thank you for all you've given us!

I was always a happy child. Everyone was nice to me, I always what I wanted, my grades were good, I had everything I'd ever want or need or could ask for. I had a younger sister, who was energetic and caring, and my parents were always around with something new to eat. I couldn't have asked for more.

The day of my eighteenth birthday, I woke up and felt sick. My stomach was hurting, I had a headache, and my joints were sore. Despite this, I pushed myself to go to work. I never learned to drive, you know. I always carpooled, or walked, but I could never really put in the effort to do it myself. It never really bothered me, as my office wasn't too far off. I worked sorting boxes and logging shipments in a warehouse for some mail company. Could never remember their name. I was working when I began coughing and I broke out in hives. My manager told me to go home, but I was perfectly content with staying.

The day went quickly, just stacking parcels and sorting mail. I walked back home and opened the door, expecting a surprise. It never came. The house seemed empty. I looked around for my sister, and I found her staring at a cake in the kitchen table. As I approached her, my legs felt weak, as if I'd collapse. She wished me a happy birthday, telling me to sit down.

I asked where our parents were. She said our parents aren't real. I asked what she meant. She said she wasn't real. She got the knife for the cake and cut out a slice. She handed to me, and I slowly ate, confused. She told me our gift to the earth was to wipe the infection of humans out. I didn't understand. What was real, what wasn't? She said that they were just toying with us. She cut out another slice of cake.

Then she stared at me, emotionlessly. She said 'Nothing you know is real'.

And she cut my head off with the frosting coated knife.

The Wheel, by spikebrennan

Happy birthday, Gears. Stay well. We'll hold the table by the window for you.

There must have been some sort of mistake.

This is wrong. It was different this time. That can't be, so something must be wrong.

Oh, no. No no no no no.

What can this mean? What is happening?

Things have always been the same. Around and around, since as long as I can remember. I have no idea how many times the cycle has occurred. There isn't any meaningful way of counting.

Over and over. Always the same. The beginning, then pain, then more pain, steadily increasing in intensity. Then a sudden and violent end. Then back to the beginning again. The cycle. That's just how it is. That's how it was always going to be. A hypnotic ouroboros of suffering. It's all that I've known.

Until it changed.

Confusion, as the cycle is interrupted. Even the pain has stopped. A bright light. Different sounds.

The absence of agony torments me. The dread of anticipation. The despair of having my surrender rejected.

This is wrong.

Aito, by Tanhony

Keep on keeping on, Gears! Have a good birthday or the specters of 90s family sports films will come find you!

I ever tell you about little David Warner?

No, not the pizza guy, that's another story - I'm talking about back when I lived in California. Yeah, when I was with Carol. You came to visit one time, remember? Little house on Maple Lane?

That's the one.

This was just pre-divorce with Carol, so we weren't talking much - and when we did talk to each other, we were wishing you didn't. Not a good, uh, not a good atmosphere in that house, I'll tell you that right now. I was taking any excuse to get out of there for a couple of hours, taking Maxie to the park and shit like that.

So, uh, about five months before me and Carol finally admitted it wasn't working anymore, Maxie gets this baseball phase. It's crazy, you know, how fast kids get into stuff? One day, he couldn't give a shit about baseball, the next it's all he talks about. Crazy. It's like I've got an encyclopedia sat across the table for me.

I figured, hey, if the kid likes it, might as well do something with it, and I start taking him to this local Little League not far away. Bunch of kids his age who're all just as wild about the game. They all suck at it, sure, but it's at that age where it's cute instead of sad.

A month or two of that goes by, dropping him off and picking him up, and a - uh, an issue comes up because the cops pick the coach up for dealing drugs. Just weed, nothing too serious, but he definitely isn't working with kids after that. Kids weren't too broken up, he wasn't that good at his job anyway, but one thing leads to another and I end up getting asked to coach Little League.

I say 'sure, why not' because - like I said - anything for a few hours away from Carol. Everything's going pretty well at first, the kids are actually learning to play baseball, I'm having a good time for the first time in what feels like forever. Good times all around, you know? But then, uh, things get - got a little weird.

There's this one kid - David Warner - and, and I know I said these kids sucked at baseball, but David Warner sucked at baseball. I don’t mean it in a mean way, but he was just bad at the game. Wasn’t his fault - apparently he had some stuff going on with illnesses - but he wasn’t any good. Shame, ‘cause he tried. God did he try.

It was Little League, anyway, so nobody really cared that much. We just let them get on with it. But then, uh, then one day things change. Suddenly David Warner’s doing really well.

Now, let me, uh, let me just make sure I’m saying this right - I’m not saying David Warner was suddenly good at the game. It was more like everyone else was suddenly bad at the game. Pitchers throwing with the aim of a blind cow, batters swinging slower than molasses, that kind of thing. All of a sudden everyone else was worse than David Warner, so he was - well, not the star of the team, but the best of the worst.

My first thought was that they were doing it to make the kid feel better; I thought it was sweet, you know? What’s the word, uh, precocious? Something like that. But, uh, after a while it was obvious that wasn’t what was happening. Kids getting frustrated, quitting, but ol’ David Warner still standing there in the outfield with the biggest grin on his face. Like he knew what was going on.

I’m…

Sorry, just need a second.

One day, uh, I’m watching them - and, and I swear I wasn’t on drugs or anything, or drunk - the ball’s flying and David Warner’s stumbling to get it, and I, uh, and I … I see some shit. I see some shit.

There are people - no, not people, there are things stood all around the field. Things, like, six foot or more, but all hunched over like someone had snapped their back over their knee, all shambling-like. They were, they were white, like chalk-white - and I swear this happened - and they had wings, feathered but all twitchy, like - like bug wings, you know? Like a fly?

They’re stood around the kids playing, like leaning right in to look at them - creepy as, well - grabbing this one kids arm as he’s swinging the bat, pulling the backs of these other kids as they’re running for the ball, slowing them down - and they’ve got this awful blank eyes, like milky white like they’re blind, but way too big. Like the size of baseballs themselves, you know?

And there’s this stink like burnt-out lightbulbs.

I scream, because I mean, come on, of course I do, and one of them looks at me and it grins with all these smooth white teeth, like baby teeth. And it waggles its - its eyebrows, like ‘look at me’, like … I don’t know.

And then I pass out - passed out. I didn’t do Little League after that.

Huh? What were they? Well, anyone else would probably say it was a hallucination, but I’ll tell you what I think. What I told the doctors when I woke up in hospital, what I told the cops when all they could find of little David Warner was his tongue and part of his jawbone.

There were goddamn angels in that outfield.

If you see a comb by the side of the road, you leave it alone, by Tuomey Tombstone

Happy birthday and may the wind be always at your back

Old advice, and long forgotten, by the time I found the beautiful old-fashioned comb. Mother of pearl? I'm not sure what that even is, but this comb was… iridescent and shining clean. Cleaner than the path by the riverside where I found it. Some old-fashioned design and sitting on a rock, forgotten or dropped, like.

My girlfriend, at the time, she had the longest hair, and so a liking for nice combs and so on. I looked around a minute and, seeing as nobody was there to claim it as theirs, I took it and went on my way home. She loved it, of course, and threw her arms around me not even forcing me into the shower first, as she usually would after a day of work.

Well, now, that night. The dog wouldn't stay out - the big fella we had at the time, a german shepherd pitbull mix! Tough lad! - and I can't say I blame the poor bastard; I heard noises I can't rightly describe and I'd say he heard them twice as loud, being a dog. Screams rattling the windows but no words and not in fear or grief but… anger. As if someone was crying in rage louder than the wind on a fierce night. The windows were looking to come loose and the door too, the dog hiding under the bed like a wee pup. A terror.

Didn't sleep a wink and neither did the girlfriend. Hens were dead out the back the next day and the goats… it doesn't bear talking about. She ran off to her friend's the next morning, scared and crying, leaving the comb. Called me later on and told me she'd not be back that night and to put the comb out of the window once it started up again with something and absolutely not with my hands on their own or it would take them. Wouldn't listen to reason. And a good thing too.

It started up again the second night, dog hiding under the bed, windows and doors fit to fly out of their frames, screaming as you never heard, the whole thing, and I took a shovel, put the comb out a window, waited a moment, and pulled about two thirds of a shovel back in.The head was taken clean off. It laid off a bit then and didn't start again the next night. Poor dog was never quite the same and I had to buy my girlfriend the fanciest shiniest comb possible to make up for all of that.

As for me all I'll say is if you see a comb by the side of the road, you leave it alone.

You aren't supposed to be here yet, by Tyumen

Gears - I wish you the world. Spend time with your family, cherish the ones you love, and make the most of this day.

I never really gave much thought to my dreams, but then again they haven't ever really been much to think about anyways. Dream diaries and deep-diving analysis never really drew me, and I'm not one to attach symbolic importance to the shit my little rat brain strings together when I'm conked out.

As cliched as this next sentence sounds, though, that all changed when the lockdown rolled around. Between the wasted days spent staring at a screen and wishing I had something to look forward to, all while I got constantly reminded that a little bastard virus had just killed a few hundred more people, the movie studio in my subconscious started to stitch together something different from any of the other saccharine, fantasyland drivel that I'd lived with all my life — and this time, I was forced to watch it night after night. Funny thing, I never had recurring dreams until now.

Anyway, here's the dream.

I find myself in my 5th grade classroom. It's been 6 years since 5th grade for me, but that's beside the point. I'm sitting at the back of the room as I always did, except I'm not in 5th grade in the dream — I'm a 6-foot-tall teenager, compacted and forced into a tiny kid's combination chair/desk. My knees grate against the cold bottom of the table, and the flimsy fiberglass seat seems like it's going to collapse under my weight any second. I'm completely alone, looking ahead at row upon row of empty seats atop shiny linoleum, the old white-board blank and scrubbed uncannily clean.

After a few minutes alone with my thoughts, the bell rings, and students flood in through the single door. I'm too far down to see their faces, but they seem like regular schoolkids so far — some even resemble my friends, wearing the same clothing and speaking with the same voices. None of them seem to notice me at all, and they all file into their undersized seats with a cacophony of casual conversation. Then another bell rings, and everyone falls silent as the door slowly swings open once again to admit the teacher. This is when things get weird.

The teacher doesn't resemble anyone I've ever met, and wears the same practical purple pantsuit every time I see them. They're a regular, normal person every time — at least, they walk and talk like one — but then, I look up from their stuffed binder full of lesson material at their face. And the moment our eyes meet, everything starts to go downhill.

The teacher's face is that of a fish, complete with shining hubcap eyes and a puckered mouth, its fins and gills waving and fluxing as if in water. The moment I look at them and they look at me, the teacher gasps and drops their file, scattering papers all over the floor. All of the students in the room turn to see what the teacher's seeing, and I find myself pinned to my seat by the glares of dozens of pairs of shiny, dumb and nearly dead hubcap eyes on human bodies. The teacher rests their hand on the desk behind them for support, and manages to let out a single sentence in a voice that's strained, air-starved, simultaneously alien and all too human:

"You aren't supposed to be here yet."

That's when the door opens one last time, and a flood of foamy brine crashes into the classroom with the roar of the ocean itself. The teacher and all the students are swept off their feet, and float above the ground in a strangely beautiful image of creatures in their natural element. The school of backwards mermaids swims in formation out the door, and the teacher, after a mournful glance lasting only a moment, follows them out and closes the door. I gasp for air and get nothing, inhaling lungful after lungful of seawater as I feel myself slipping away. That's always when I wake up, ironically.

Make of that what you will. I had a hard time wrapping my head around it when it first started, myself.

…

The lockdown's nearly over at this point, and children, teens, and college students who've spent the last few months like I have seem to all be itching for a return to school and normalcy. My own high school is thinking of reopening and holding in-person classes for my senior year, with the planned first day of school coming up just next month. The dream still hasn't stopped, though, and for the most part, it hasn't changed — save for a few details.

When I'm in my seat at the beginning of the dream, I'm no longer really myself. I'm in a different body every time, with different memories and seeing different friends in a different classroom. The teacher still says the same thing, and the sea still floods into the school - but I don't drown. My asphyxiation is dry, and the iciness of the seawater is replaced by a numb, burning heat. I don't slip away silently, but cough all the way down as I slowly sink and come to rest on the floor of the classroom.

I've seen footage of some re-opened schools, with kids as old as and younger than me packed together, breathing and talking on each other, holding hands and bridging gaps in more ways than one. I don't think they're supposed to be there yet.

The Dance, by weizhong

Happy Birthday, Gears. Here's to many more!

I tapped the play button and set my phone down, hands trembling. The song blared to life immediately, with none of the lag that I was used to with the old vinyl player. It was nice, I supposed, not having to change out vinyls, but I missed the charm of the old one. Still, things change with time.

"Just like us, Martha. Just like us." I whispered, hobbling over to the seat where my wife sat. She hadn't heard me, of course. Martha's hearing and sight had really gone in the last few years, and mine was probably soon to follow hers. How old we had become! I tapped her on the shoulder and she turned, leaning into me. Her smile was stretched wide across her face when she felt my touch.

Well. Some things never change. I smiled in response, giving my best bow.

I helped her up out of the seat as the music began to swell, taking her hands into mine. I began to move, slowly at first, a little creakier and stiffer than I would have liked, but moving nonetheless. My feet knew better than I did though, and without much prompting, they began tracing out the same steps and patterns they had carved out every year on our anniversary. Our wedding song played in a tinny sounding tone from my phone, straining my hearing, but I didn't really need it. Some things never change, after all.

Martha was almost as stiff as I was, but she knew the steps in her sleep. She had always been a better dancer than I was, but she was graciously slow as I got back up to speed. We smiled at each other as we spun in a slow, sweet circle, the same way that we had done every year for the past 63 years. God, I could still remember the feeling of that first dance. Martha leaned into me, and I into her, a comforting and familiar embrace that made me close my eyes, just for a moment.

And there we were, just as I had remembered it 63 years ago. The tinny beat from the phone was replaced by a full orchestra, playing the waltz that would come to be our wedding song, our surroundings replaced by the beautiful church we had been married in. Faces stuck out in the crowd, people I hadn't seen or head from in years, our parents, and so many more that I barely remembered at this point. They were cheering, clapping, smiling, and more, celebrating the first of our many dances to come.

And then I turned to her. God, how much we had changed! Gone were our wrinkles, our thinning hair, and stiff, creaky joints. Her skin was full and smooth once again, her hair long and falling to her waist, just as I had first seen it.

And her eyes. Oh dear. Those were the eyes that had stolen my heart.

She smiled, shyly and sweetly in the way that she had done in those days, before we came to know each other the way we do now. But I took her hand in mine once again, and kissed it, setting her cheeks ablaze with blushing. We leaned into each other once again, our feet no longer stiff and old, but young and lively, tracing out the same steps that we still knew to this day. The music swelled, the orchestra hitting the crescendo of the waltz as we danced a dance of sweet, delicious abandon, two newly-wed fools who would dance together until the end of the world.

The waltz's music began fading out, as I opened my eyes at the same time. It had lasted but a moment, but the memory was as precious to me as gold. Gone was the orchestra, the crowd of happy faces, and the church, to be replaced by just Martha and I. That was fine with me. That was all we needed, after all.

I was panting at this point, the exertion of the dance having taken its toll on me. I hobbled with Martha over to the bed, and helped her down onto it. She had even less energy than me nowadays, and probably needed to lie down. I settled down on the edge of the bed, letting my breathing come back to normal, before turning back to Martha.

She was still as beautiful to me now as she had been that day. Some things never change. I leaned over, and stole a kiss from her as she laid in bed, leaving her smile as wide as ever. I stayed there for a few moments, stroking her hand, before I finally stood up.

I closed the lid carefully, being sure not to wake her. After that, I gently slid her coffin back into the hole, and covered it back up with dirt, making sure to pat it down carefully so as not to leave a trace. Finally, I simply knelt on the ground, and placed a hand on her headstone.

"I'll see you next year, Martha." I whispered, my throat hoarse.

Some things never change, after all.

Little Worries, by Zyn

Happy Birthday Gears! Best wishes to you and your family in these crazy times!

I didn’t notice the bugs until there were hundreds of them in the room.

Fortunately, they were all concentrated in one area, specifically a potted plant I’d almost forgotten about after someone in the family gave it to me as an obligatory Christmas gift. The plant had been dropping leaves and looking a little droopy for weeks, but I didn’t take a closer look at it until there were just stems left.

I saw the spots first, little moving specks of yellowish white with tiny tiny legs scurrying around the stems. Moving slow enough to catch, but fast enough to disappear out of view if I turned my back. Each stem had dozens of little bugs crawling on them, but from two steps back they were essentially invisible. Most of them looked like grains of dust, but the larger more mature ones were almost brown in coloration, enlongated, with tiny antennae and many legs.

I spent about an hour with a few pieces of scotch tape, manually picking up the bugs off the plant. For some reason, in my mind, I felt like that was less hassle than just throwing the plant out. Maybe there was still some sentimental value to it in my subconscious.

The next day there were only a few bugs. I still picked them off with some tape.

The day after, I forgot about the plant because the air conditioning unit in my place was making strange noises. After a cursory scan of the manual, I decided to call in a technician to fix it. Eventually.

The day after that I remembered the plant again… and the bugs were back. More and more tiny little specks, clustered closer together this time, and wiggling around the plant stems that were, once again, still green and almost normal-looking otherwise. I used more pieces of tape to pick up the bugs. When I held the tape up to the light, I saw that instead of the five or six specks I’d usually nab off the plant, there were tight groups of ten or so all over the tape. I went back with a larger piece of tape. Still more tiny little bug specks, squirming around. It took me two hours until I was satisfied with how many bugs I had removed.

The day after, my air conditioning unit was still making weird noises. I took a closer look at the vents… and there were more of the little speck bugs sprinkled along the wall. Writhing around. So small that it wouldn’t take much effort to pretend that they weren’t there. But I hated knowing that the longer the were there, the more they would multiply, so I took a swatch of masking tape and took care of that wall full of bugs. They were still moving on the tape, so I folded it over and crumpled it up before throwing it out.

The next day I had both the plant and the vent to worry about again. I didn’t understand why the bugs kept coming back, but I had plenty of tape, so I just kept sticking and peeling the tiny little bugs off of both locations. It wasn’t ideal, but that was my life now.

The next week, the coworker I hate tried to talk to me during break. They were right next to me waiting for the staff microwave, and I didn’t have much personal space, so there was no choice but to look at their face.

The bugs were on them too. I saw the tiny specks moving around at the corner of their mouth, tightly concentrated near the chin but crawling slowly outwards over their face towards their ears. The coworker I hate didn’t seem to notice, but would scratch their chin repeatedly and jostle the little tiny bugs, spreading them onto their hands and wiping the little creatures over their forehead and cheeks. I left the conversation as soon as I could.

When I made it home, I had to put an anti-itch cream on the bug bite I got last month, which had swelled up and burst and I thought was finally healing over. I went to apply the cream and noticed that my hand had something moving on it, something small, something numerous.

There were bugs on the bite too, stuck in the cream, starting to scuttle over my hand.