The Bear Creek Gazette Friday Night Generator
by Sam Westcott, 3.24am January 10th 2021
First, choose the appropriate beginning event as assigned to your sun sign.
Because four legs were not enough for the mammal-insect hybrid farmer,
Because the cardigan-cloaked chemist was smoking weed after school, was rumored to be carrying amphetamines in her laptop bag,
Because the man beside you on the bus was telling you he’d begun to see Jiu-Jitsu not as a martial art, but as a kind of dance, a choreographed series of movements, a tangling, un-tangling of limbs, a kinetic coupling of interdependent math equations,
Because the Bechet you were both dancing to was playing loud enough, and you were now time-travelling, years unwinding, and bringing you, hips moving, foreheads touching to Chicago, or New York, or to Moscow, to His room, to a time when the band was live, and then back again, a recording,
Because the soothsayer was telling you your unconscious was a rhinoceros, and your friend was saying that you were a shaman, and the smoke was dense, rising above the firs, and among it, cawing, but veiled in grey, the birds of your childhood,
Because you were lost in the loft of a car in the parking lot of the burger place you went to, and left a lot, a lot as a kid,
Because the professor directly behind you was playing strip backgammon in the laboratory with your crush, and you were thinking only of tarantulas,
Because the people at the talking match stick’s party who didn’t know you were talking to the people there who did know you, and were now convincing these people to no longer know you,
Because your friend’s mom was cooler than your mom’s friend, you could only communicate with her through helium balloons into backyard as would-be smoke signals,
Because the ponds melted pre-maturely, sinking the hockey nets, and flooding your backyard in an array of frog corpses, some purple, some orange, some yellow, some unseen, none of them green, all of them with five thumbs per wounded limb,
Because people’s words started blurring into one another, like there was a white noise, a static in-between them, sticking them together,
Because you knew you were an older soul inside a relatively young human body, and had inhabited many other human bodies in the past, and may again inhabit others,
Because aliens were real, and had been working, oddly, at the gas station where you were currently parked, filling your tank,
Next, choose what happens as assigned to the decade in which you were born:
you hear a song as dark and minor-keyed as the night sky you stand beneath, and turning, find it being sung by a sailor exhaling smoke on the dock.
the cook brings you a souffle, it’s warmth on your tongue a conspiracy between you and your candle-lit date.
you smell the collective smell of dust-coated books, and the words slip from the pages, sentences turning insect, worm themselves from the shelves, onto the floor, towards you.
you tell your brain to forget her, although it doesn’t, it can’t, and so time as an ocean begins to pass in a form of drifting, and you are wooden, fragmenting, floating atop it, moving slowly toward an unknown shore.
you, stranger, drunk and alone, are walking home alone and notice you are falling
you are falling, body filling with that feeling when you kick-start out of a dream, but tonight there is no dream, nor can you say for certain that this experience is entirely non-dream.
you awake, and now the walls are the galaxy, and above you, another galaxy as the sky.
you re-arrange the tiles in the correct order according to your family tree, the entire floor now like a map of how you got here.
you derive meaning from the words but in a way that goes beyond the mere meanings of them, and is now of the sound of them, and this sound, like a shape, becomes your home.
you realize that home is a feeling, a by-product of thought. And then wonder if you may someday return to that space outside of space, the source of all thought.
Finally, please complete the sentence below to finish your story:
This leads to __________________
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