Journal of a Madman

Clanks and clinks disturbed the foggy night—a soulless man stamped his worn clogs down the sett-laid street.

The outline of the lamp-row drew him towards a hazy patch of light in the distance. A solitary shop front, defying the hour and urban damp.

As he came upon the establishment, he pulled his collar up and glanced around, then turned to the facade. Before him were prominent bow windows framed by narrow glazing bars, made redundant by frosted glass. The store's name was hidden by the brume. Only the wooden door and a section of the iron cresting were visible.

He adjusted his jacket, took a firm step, and pushed.

The door swayed open, revealing a clean, silvery interior. He stepped into the gleam and closed the door behind him.

“A good night to you, sir,” the shopkeep said. “Please know that you're welcome.” He stood behind a counter at the far end. Perfectly groomed, in both hair and mustache.

The man didn't immediately answer, busy as he was studying his surroundings. On the walls he saw the wares, hanging still as if made of stiff cloth, sparkling as if made of crystal. “Good night to you as well.”

“So, what are we looking for today?”

The man ambled to the counter and leaned in. “I'm looking for a soul,” he murmured.

“Well, of course.” the shopkeep said. “What specific type of soul?”

“Um.” The man tapped twice at the wooden surface with his finger. “I'm unsure.”

“Forgive my impropriety, sir, but would you allow me to inquire about your budget?”

The man cast his eyes downward and to the side, then reached into his pocket. He produced a well-worn pencil and a small piece of paper, which he placed on the counter. He scribbled something, then pushed the paper across.

The shopkeep brought the paper close to his face. “I see.” He folded it with both hands and gave it back.

The soulless man met his eyes and raised an eyebrow.

“For this price, we are looking at a grade one, maybe even a grade two if you don't mind it being quirky.” The shopkeep clasped his hands. “Is this along the lines of what you were looking for, sir?”

“A grade? What even is that?”

“Well, sir, grade ones and twos are the items that have been found to be, um,” the shopkeep extended his palms towards the man, “below expectations, as it were. The ones more than the twos, obviously.”

The soulless man shifted his weight from side to side. He frowned.

“It's not so bad, sir, really.”

The man scoffed. “Is it really better than nothing at all?”

“Well, depends on the person, I suppose, but plenty of people seem to think so.” The shopkeep leaned in. “And again, with some luck, you could even get a two.”

“Bah!” The man swatted the air, then turned to the side to stare at the glimmering walls. “Just not worth it, my good yeoman.”

“I suppose you could always come back later, when you've got a heavier purse.” The keeper grinned. “After all, you don't need a soul to work.”

“That I don't.” The soulless man nodded to the keeper and received a nod in return. “Thank you.” He turned around and walked to the entrance.

“That I don't,” he whispered, then opened the door and cast himself into the fog.

— Bastian Espada

The savanna, dim and parched, bears witness to an unwonted phantasm.

A shadowy breath crosses the grass, and caresses the nape of potential prey.

It sniffs, moist air.

A vision: one watering hole, still fighting for existence eight months into the dry season.

It flashes forward, clearing a pride laying half-asleep beneath a nearby acacia tree.

A graceful stop, and its reflection disperses on the water.

Blurry ripples, a sunken murmur…

It swipes at the surface with its sharpened hoof.

Again.

Again.

Then, an explosion.

A colossal crocodile lunges; desperate, confident—and misses completely.

Before the suchurian predator can process what has occurred, it finds itself lying on its back. Subdued and immobile.

A pair of long fangs puncture its neck, thick and covered in osteoderms as it might be.

Ungulus von Drakul, Supreme Antelope of Darkness and Father to all Vantelopes, feeds.

— Bastian Espada

“So tell us philosopher’s stone, what is the teleology of humanity?”

Jason blazed and fogged-up the library nook. He extended the joint towards the stone, who sat to his right—as was proper during times of war.

The philosopher’s stone pinched the tip of the scorpion joint and took a hit. “We just…we gotta—”

Smoke escaped in bursts with every syllable.

“—come together. Acquire knowledge. Power over this universe. And hope we can redesign it into something that doesn’t suck.”

“Woaaaah,” Matt said. “Why we though? Like, you ain’t even human, bro, you’re just a magical rock.”

The philosopher’s stone took another deep toke, and exuded a whole cloud of sweet Summer-Carolina Gold OG, enveloping the shelves with pure skunk.

“We are all guests of spaceship Earth, my dude. The universe would no sooner fuck you in the ass than me.”

The philosopher’s stone offered the joint to Matt, who took it without looking. “That’s pretty brutal, bro.”

The door to the library blew open.

A group of crazed lithophiles barged inside and fixed their eyes upon the stone.

And so it wept, for it knew the ways of the world.

— Bastian Espada

To boredom:

While staring at the ceiling,

Lost in mindless peering,

To me came the strangest idea:

The notion—

that reality is a tad bit too real.

— Bastian Espada

“What the hell are you doing, you stupid phone?” I ask.

The phone doesn’t answer.

It never does.

— Bastian Espada

“You mean once the war begins?” The man put his cigar down. “It’ll be the usual.”

His assistant pushed a stack of documents across the table. Their well-suited interlocutor skimmed through the papers and grinned.

The man smirked, then leaned forward. “The rich will hide, the young will die, and the poors will eat their boots. From our dead we’ll raise martyrs and saviors; from theirs, villains and traitors. Eventually, we’ll make all combatants into heroes. And once they’ve finished weeping…”

The man picked his cigar back up.

“We’ll fuck their widows.”

— Bastian Espada

“So that’s the schedule for the day. It rained a lot yesterday so we are bound to find plenty of ’em. Those of you that have never been mushroom hunting before, please remember to be extra careful. Do not eat any mushrooms that haven’t been deemed safe to eat by me or any of the other guides and do not engage with the mushrooms on your own. That’s all there is to it, have fun!”

The group cheered as they cocked their shotguns.

A few paces away Princess Peach—huddled behind a fallen log—observed the group. “I’ll distract them,” she said to her companions. “Go get Mario.”

— Bastian Espada

A group of sentient role-playing video game characters discussed the nature of their universe.

“Absolute rubbish!” the studious orc said. “If we truly lived inside an incomprehensibly large mana crystal, we would be seeing elemental flares annihilating each other at the micro-pixel scale.”

“Any mana crystal dense enough to contain an entire reality within it would have to be green! We should expect everything to be tinted green! And yet…” the wyvern scholar waved his hand through the air.

“One requires little else to dismiss the idea, than to point to the most obvious obstacle for the emergence of life in such a universe,” the half-elf, half-giantess professor said, “any living thing that managed to come into existence would be immediately afflicted by mana sickness, driving it to proactive self-destruction.”

The stubborn gnome frowned and pouted. “You lot just don’t have any imagination!” he said, pointing a finger at each of his detractors.

The studious orc wiped his glasses on the cuff of his robe, then sighed. “Enough, Romulus. You need to face the fact that there just isn’t any good evide—”

Timmy shut off his PC.

— Bastian Espada