Then there was a loud CRACK, and what remained of the structure 
exploded into a puff of ashes. 


"That's the sound that space makes when it unfolds itself. That's 
what it sounds like when normal reality is reasserted." 


Green swept the ash from the table, then took another deep draw 
from his cigarette. The room was filled with the scent of tobacco. 


"There are two more phases after where you are. A Phase Three 
Type Green is at stability. They know their limits, and don't try to 
push beyond them. They're the ones that normally give us the least 
trouble, and that's where | want to get you to." 


"And Phase Four?" 


"The fourth phase is the Type Green finding that they have no limits, 
typically accompanied by delusions of godhood. | don't believe that 
you will reach this phase for two reasons. Firstly, you seem to 
operate under a very strict and self-consistent system of 
metaphysical comprehension. Your abilities, for example, will not let 
you levitate objects with your mind, or alter memories, or do any of 
the stranger things which we have to deal with for Type Greens. 
Even in your idealised reality, you have limits. Secondly, your 
personality doesn't match what we'd expect for ascension to Phase 
Four. You take your academic abilities for granted, admittedly, which 
led to a superiority complex - one you're disappointingly unaware of, 
or flippant about. But the fact remains that you can quite easily be 
reasoned with. You don't try to manipulate people, beyond 
maintaining an amicable outward mask; nor, frankly, do | think 
you're capable of it. You're far too naive to put yourselves in the 


shoes of a god. Which is good, since we've enough gods to deal 
with already." 


There wasn't much | wanted to say in response that wouldn't make 
me look petulant, so | remained silent. 


"| think, though, you can understand why this organisation exists. 
There are people out there who do consider themselves as gods. 
There are people who can grab other people's minds and twist 
them, reshape them, or snap them with trivial ease. These people 
are not reasonable in the way that you are. These people cannot be 
negotiated with. What they want to take, they take, what they want 
that is not there to take, they make. These are people that the world 
can't know exist, and these are people that we can't let exist." 


Green tossed the stub of his cigarette to the ground, extinguishing it 
with his foot. 


"My job is to kill those people, or stop them from getting to that point 
in the first place." 


| kept quiet while Green lit another cigarette. 


"In our organisation, Green operatives like me are normally 
accompanied by Orange operatives. They're the heavy artillery for 
when something goes wrong. They're either normal people wearing 
‘Orange Suits’, huge armoured exoskeletons resistant to the sorts of 
things that Type Green threats can enact, or they're a Type Green 
themselves who can go head to head with the other reality benders. 
Which finally gets me to my point." 


lt was obvious what was coming. 
"| want you as a reserve Orange operative." 
| kept quiet. 


"We have three Orange operatives in Anchorage already. Orange 
Suits are expensive, and impractical for urban environments, so all 
three are reliable Type Greens. Given the sparsity of threats, I'm the 
only Green operative in the region." 


"| can't say I'm impressed by the whole Reservoir Dogs, colour-by- 
numbers shtick." 


Green's face remained stern. 
"| need a yes or no response." 


"I'm a theoretical physicist. Also, you have kidnapped me and have 
held me against my will. No." 


Green nodded. 


"| think you understand the necessity of having done so, but fair 
enough. Then here's how this will work. Keep out of our way, keep 
to yourself, and we'll never see you again. No more attempting to 
describe or communicate metaphysical phenomena. No more 
perpetual motion machines. No more of any of it. Keep to yourself, 
continue on with your research at the college, go on as if nothing 
has happened. If you violate any of these, we will bring the full 
weight of the GOC down on you. If you make it necessary, we will 
end your life. Indicate to me that you understand and accept this." 


"| understand." 
"Good." 
Green was quiet for a bit, then continued. 


"That inhibitor's going to last the rest of the week. Get used to 
feeling like the rest of us." 


Green took out his business card, flashed the fractal image at me, 
and the world felt like nothing again. 


| woke up on the lounge chair in my apartment, a dull pain pervading 
my head. | opened my eyes slowly, then blinked; the room was dark. 
The LED clock across from me shone red numbers across the room 
at 23:37. | stood up, walking across to the light switch; flicked the 
lights on, then swore a bit and shielded my eyes with my left hand. 
My eyes adjusted, and | looked down at myself. 


The blood from the injection still drew a coagulated tree down my 
arm. 


| went to the kitchen, twisting the tap and wincing as cold water 
washed the pattern away, dissolving it into a red spiral that 
disappeared down the sink. | splashed some water in my face, trying 
to rouse myself further. | walked to the bathroom and took a shower, 
then switched into my winter sleepwear. Tired, | moved to my 
bedroom, previously filled with the pitter-patter of perpetually 
spiralling papers. 


Now, there was silence. 


| sat at my desk, then took out two stapled sheaves. The first, my 
thesis. | thumbed through it, looking at everything I'd written. It made 
sense to me, but seemed... hollow. I'd thought it some great work, a 
breakthrough, at least some kind of progress, but no, my mind was 
tricking me. There was nothing new here. Yet how the Professor had 
raved on it, called it astounding, lauded me with praises. Whose 
thoughts had | errantly twisted to see my way? How much of what | 
thought true was self-delusion, how much of my success was 
trickery? How much of my life, just some formulaic and predictable 
pattern, straight from the same cookie-cutter as every other 'Type 
Green’ abnormality? 


The second, my derivative article, a knockoff imitation of The Paper, 
filled with highly personalised theories | had thought universal. | 
knew what | meant, the ideas were in my mind, but the words didn't 
have the meaning they needed to. It was rambling. It was 
incomprehensible nonsense by an incoherent author, an author 
blind to the work's absence of communicable meaning. How much 
of what | had done really meant anything, when separated from my 
ambit? What of my life was taken the easy way, and what was 
earned? How could | be sure | deserved any of what | had? 


Did | deserve anything at all? 
Probably not. 


| jolted up and started racing to the kitchen. 


Your entire life's a play, and you turn people into actors. 
| retched into my mouth. 
Your life's a play, and your mother died from the role you cast her in. 


Dark yellow splattered across my kitchen sink. | heaved and heaved 
again; the stomach acid stung at my tongue and went up my nose. 
My eyes began to water as my heaving stopped. | panted, watching 
as my vomit dripped down the drain. My reflection in the metal base 
stared back through the pane of bile, ginger stubble peeking through 
my blanched chin. | wiped my mouth, rinsed my hands, cried, then 
returned to bed. 


Get used to feeling like the rest of us. 
My sleep was broken and full of nightmares. 


« Hub | It's All Just A Big Long Cry For Help » 


Anart Antics 


Jakeob Aldon stared at her bathroom ceiling, reclined so far into the 
bathtub that only her face breached the surface. She was beginning 
to regret her latest purchase. Damn her impatience. If she had just 
taken the time to learn how to copy her consciousness and bind it to 
an inanimate object, her life would have been so much easier. But 
instead she took the quick route, the lazy path, and bought this 
stupid American tub with its stupid Russian water. And they wouldn't 
even tell her how they came to be, all they would ever talk about 
was communism and America and Mother Russia and blah blah 
blah blah blah- 


"If you two don't shut up, | swear to God | will turn you into a fucking 
toilet." 


"Sir- ma'am- whatever | should be calling you. |am an ass man. | 
would welcome this change. Shit in this commie's stupid-" 


At least Aldon could say she learned a lesson from it all. Do your 
own leg work. Research like a proper anartist. Or you would end up 
with two idiots yammering into your brain. The Library was always 
open, all she had to do was wander in. She lifted herself into a stand 
and bade the duo a halfhearted farewell. They, of course, ignored 
her to talk about more inane bullshit. She dried herself off with a 
thankfully non-sapient towel and dressed in clothes that lacked even 
a hint of sentience. As things should be. 


Shutting the door behind her made her feel a little better, put that 
much more between her and her giant mistake. At least the rest of 
her apartment was welcoming. A tiny space, packed with random 
anartistic garbage amassed between her and her roommate, 
Finnegan. Small moving statues, speaking paintings, CDs filled with 
mood-altering music. Bags of clay, stacks of pallets, sacks of 
concrete mix, buckets upon buckets of paint. It was a sty, but it was 
their sty. It was home. 


events 


Definitions 2% 
explicating 
anomalous acts 

or events 


gobsacking (rn) 


into sentient 
smoke. He's full 
of it like a tent's 
full of Fiffle 
Stinks - said of a 
teller of fanciful 
stories, a liar. 

A trick usually 
done by hungry 
college students 
which goes as 
follows - a 
number of them . 
usually 6-12 
meet and 
[REDACTED] to 
form an 
extradimensional 
pocket inside the 
mouth of one of 
them, referred to 
as "the 
gobsack". The 
fellows will then 
pool their money 
for an "all you 
can eat" pizza 
parlor entrance 
fee. They wait 
outside, while 
the gobsack 
enters, and 
artfully pretends 
to eat as much 
pizza as he 
deems sufficient, 
stuffing it into the 
pocket without 
chewing. The 
rest of the group 


Staring at his computer monitor was Finnegan, his ever-present 
beret displaced by the sound-cancelling headphones covering his 
ears. Finnegan was palming an old bathtub plug, spinning it in his 
fingers. Aldon skirted through the minefield of art supplies and 
flicked off the beret. It took several seconds for Finnegan to notice. 


"Oh, hey, Allie." An eyebrow rose slowly. "What's the matter with 
you?" 


"Stupid goddamn bathtub," she pouted. 


"| told you," he sang knowingly. "It is pretty funny, you have to 
admit." 


Aldon just crossed her arms and sulked. 


Fingers danced across the keyboard as Finnegan saved and closed 
his latest audio project. He grabbed his beret and pressed it into 
Aldon's face while he removed his headphones. Aldon laughed, but 
swiped at him out of mock irritation all the same. The roommates 
exchanged a series of playful punches before Finnegan donned his 
hat again. 


"Ready to go?" he asked, still smirking. 
"AS ever." 


The artistic duo left their little apartment, making sure to lock up 
behind themselves. Outside of their personal alcove, they were out 
in the real world. Where they were supposed to be responsible 
adults. They walked adult strides, spoke of adult topics. Like sports, 
taxes, and the weather. How about that weather. It sure was 
weathering. And those taxes sure were taxing. Not to mention just 
how sporting those sports were. 


The responsible duo entered the library and dropped their 
conversation. One had to respect the rules of the library, capital L or 
not. They wandered through the aisles until they reached their 
destination. A quick perusal of the shelf and Aldon plucked a specific 
tome from its brethren. It was even halfway out, as if it knew it was 
the one she wanted. One Atlas Shrugged. She flipped open the 


book to a random page, made sure the coast was clear, and cleared 
her throat. 


"Man, this is one interesting book," she said, without a hint of 
sarcasm. That was the important bit. "I'm really glad | found it!" 


She snapped the book shut and slid it halfway back into place. She 
then gripped the spine and twisted. The book spun with her hand, 
and she gave it a light push. The bookshelf bent inwards as space 
twisted open into a portal. Finnegan giggled as he always did and 
hurried in, Aldon right behind him. With a gentle nudge the door was 
shut again, and space collapsed back into a state of normalcy, the 
book still sticking out by several inches. 


Inside the Wanderer's Library, Finnegan and Aldon felt more at 
ease. It was their home away from home, where they were free to 
be their goofy selves so long as they followed the five core tenets. 
Return your books on time. Don't damage books. Don't steal books. 
Don't damage Library property. Don't harm those within the Library. 
Easy enough, though they had to remind themselves not to indulge 
in their usual roughhousing for fear of it breaking the fifth rule. 


The Library itself loomed above, below, and all around them in its 
grand omniscience. Doors surrounded them in the small marble 
lobby, each representing more common Ways to reach the Library. 
Separating the lobby from their branch of the Library was an 
Archivist, one with its chair. Beyond that was a branching staircase 
that led to the different sections of the Library, which paid no mind to 
the primitive concept of gravity. Aldon looked up and saw a man 
who appeared to be sitting upside down, reading a book against the 
shelf he found it. A Page read over his shoulder as it stocked the 
shelves. On another floor, a Docent strode perpendicular to them, 
leading another Wanderer to her destination. Beyond the spiraling 
mess that was this branch, seemingly hovering in the distance, was 
another branch of the Library, containing all the knowledge of 
another reality. Beyond even that lay more branches, twisting and 
turning and intertwining amongst each other, often only a hair's 
breadth apart. 


The two Wanderers approached the Archivist. Finnegan cleared his 
throat and opened his mouth to speak, but when the unseeing 


Librarian turned to look at him he faltered into a mumble. He had 
never been particularly comfortable with the Librarians. 


"Can | help you?" it asked. Its breath matched the scent of a freshly 
printed novel. 


"We're looking for a book that can teach us to make our own Ways," 
Aldon said. "We've been using a common one, but we need to 
transport something and it's too inconvenient otherwise." 


Silence fell as the Archivist thought. "Will this cargo cause damage 
to the Library, its contents, or its occupants?" 


"No. It's just a tub. Well, a talking tub. We need to get it to Japan." 


There was a slight twitch in the Archivist's face. Aldon allowed 
herself a smile, since it wouldn't catch her doing so. 


"Very well." It lifted a long finger, and without looking it pointed in 
what seemed a random direction above it. "Up three floors, on the 
left. Third row, eighth shelf. A book titled A Wanderer's Guide, by 
Lucifer. Do you require a Docent to help you find it?" 


Finnegan frantically shook his head, his beret sliding to and fro. 
Aldon stifled a giggle and replied with, "No, | think we'll be alright. 
Thank you." 


The Archivist nodded. "Enjoy your stay. Mind the rules." 


"Of course." 


Several weeks later Finnegan and Aldon found themselves in 
Japan. They had taken up pseudo-residence in the warehouse the 
competition was being held in, as had several other artists while 
they finished their works. One artist was occupied trying to find a 
way to make his chainsaws remain active. Another was attempting 
to unwind by playing the piano making up part of his piece. The 
event's creator, also a participant, was actively avoiding his wife.