Topic

Signals

Flares from beneath the surface. Each one a coded fragment — sometimes a dream, sometimes a warning, sometimes a mirror. They follow no logic but their own. Read them as you would eavesdrop on someone remembering something important — just not out loud.

#23. Outsourced Thought.

The world had misplaced its reading glasses. A notice went up in the square. It read: Taxes, Regulations, Procedures. A man in a hurry insisted it said: Urgent, Medical, Forbidden. By evening, the chaos had spread. They brought receipts as scripture, parking tickets as pardons, timetables, bound and footnoted. The

#22. Instructions for Putting Out the Rubbish (Porto, alternate Saturdays).

In certain parts of Porto, the rubbish goes out by category. Organic on Mondays. Plastics on Wednesdays. Regret on alternate Saturdays. The trick is to label it correctly. Shame is not recyclable. Nostalgia is. Bitterness must be double-bagged. Never leave disappointment in the wrong bin. It contaminates the whole load.

#25. Canine Anomalies, Filed.

The paperwork never matches. The names are always “wrong.” At the park, someone calls out: Rex? And I think, What a heavy thing to name a dog. Doof once ignored a priest. Sig grabbed a philosopher’s sleeve. They say I bit a nun at school. We’re not misbehaved.

#23. Pending Adjustment to Gravity.

(Circulation: Level 2 and above only — do not affix to public boards) To all relevant occupants, systems, and structural participants: Please be advised that a temporary gravitational adjustment is scheduled for implementation at an unspecified time. This will occur without warning, explanation, or regard for previous trajectories. Anticipated effects include

#20. Protocol Breach at 07:41.

(Excerpted Log – Partial Reconstruction) 07:38 – Doors confirm closure. 07:39 – Wind direction logged as “ambivalent.” 07:40 – Subject B reports “a feeling like being misfiled.” 07:41 – [DATA CORRUPTED] 07:42 – Someone says, “I think we’re still inside the metaphor.” 07:43 – Power stable. Lights dim of their

#19. Eligible.

The weather had been strange for weeks. No patterns, only habits. Chairs inching away from desks. Books returning to the wrong shelves. Time arriving early and leaving before the second act. She told no one. Dressed for several climates at once: boots and silk, umbrella and sunglasses. Her bag heavier

#18. The Moon Resigned.

She said she was tired of supervising tides and poetry. Said every wolf's howl felt like a performance. Said lovers don’t write any more — they outsource. She left a note carved into the back of a mirror: “I was never a muse. You just needed a quiet

#14. The Automated Grief.

They told her the lighthouse had been automated. But every night, the beam blinked once in Morse code – just the letter M. No one else noticed. She began blinking back from her window, out of courtesy. By August, the entire bay was answering. Boats turned in circles. Maps had to

#16. Cold Storage.

The fridge had a second compartment she hadn’t noticed before. It was behind the cheese drawer, and cold in a different way – not temperature, but tone. Inside were small Tupperware boxes, each labelled with a date that hadn’t happened yet. She opened one and found a conversation, perfectly

#17. A PhD in Code-Switching for Hostile Space.

The university had a department no one could find on the map. Students were sometimes enrolled by mistake. The syllabus contained only questions that had already ruined someone’s life. Exams were silent and self-administered. Those who passed were sent a certificate printed on edible rice paper, which they were

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