Category Archives: Words Words Words

3 Ways to Change Your Hair Color RN

1) Trade one of your most precious recurring dreams to the Gentleman of Thrice-Dark Woods. After he’s dined, and after you’ve realized what you’ve lost, he’ll gladly apply some sort of colored paste for you by way of apology.

2) Open a portal in the soft side of this world, your fingers tugging at the dimension’s fatty layers until you’re viewing the colorless obscenities that live outside all-we-know. (I assume you want WHITE hair?)

3) Close your eyes. There. Your hair’s black. Everything is black. Now press against your eyes. Your hair is now full of stars.

upgrade? [dismiss]

On the more run down side of town, you can see delivery trucks dropping off smartdoors all the time. Lots of households order a door, but the freeware version only lets you lock your door for 30 days, and then it’s time to have some other vendor drop by to install a new door and start the 30 day cycle all over again.

None of us have money to subscribe.

It’s either that or you have to watch an ad to enter your house and no one’s got time for that. Keep them free doors comin’.

new year, new me

tfw you come to yourself at the stroke of midnight, new year aborning, riding the boards of a great ship, entering a town in darkness by water, entering your home to find yourself already there, the two of you and your matching faces making eye contact, the one who was there first still typing this message, gesturing for you to sit before setting out for the docks and all that’s left is to post this and find out what’s being inherited by renouncing the sea for your shadowy twin and their social media accounts

the franchise

My Pistol Is My Passport (1957)
My Pistol Is My Draft Card (1968)
My Pistol Is My Cocaine (1974)
My Pistol Is My Buddy (1982)
My Pistol Is My Brand [Like/Comment/Subscribe] (2008 – franchise reboot)
My Pistol Is My Bitcoin (2017)

lost time incident 70 – hope

lost time incident 70
Hey there, lost timers! Hello to all the incidenteers! This is the last lost time incident of 2017! You spent all year hoping you’d see the last one of the year and here it is.

“Why couldn’t he write the last newsletter of the year earlier?” you’ve asked. “Why not send the last newsletter in Q1 and then it’s not hanging over our heads the whole year, casting a pall of dread over everything we do, leaving us unsure when the last newsletter is going to emerge from its well and grab at our ankles with its clawed fingers?”

Sorry about all your ankles, folks.

As per the yoozh (which is how we’re shortening “usual” now for all of 2018), we’ve got a few bits of microfiction arranged below for you. Please read all the words in the order in which they appear. In any other order, they may not work.

new year’s goals
) Free my mirror self from the mirror dimension… then immediately trap it in the shadow dimension. It’s not going to see that coming at all.

) Build a new familiar out of less flammable materials.

) Finally get my hands back on the correct wrists because no one believes I swapped ’em “because reverse clapping is going to be really hot this year”

) Send a blanket of imps through downtown to kick the ankles of everyone who plays music in public without wearing headphones.

) Finish this list <– Done already! This is easy!

yard sale
Just selling a few things that are starting to clutter the ol’ hut. Make an offer.

The Mask of Trees – Helps you blend in with trees, make friends with trees, seduce a tree’s tree-wife.

The Mask of Illusion – Makes you think you can look like anyone, but that’s an illusion. You look like an idiot in a mask that’s got no eye holes.

A pile of masks – I forget what these do. Probably cursed.

Even more masks – You know what? I thought I had a problem with clutter but I think it’s just these masks, reproducing. Rubbing their fake faces together and breeding.

Come get a mask. Cheap.

the start of a vibrant franchise

“They call me… The Scared-of-Fire Kid.”   – First sentence of my groundbreaking caveman/cowboy cross-genre masterpiece.


The Scared-of-Fire Kid walked into the village. As he passed by, women shooed their children into the comforting darkness of their caves. Local toughs, their lips smeared with fermented fruit, glared at him from under half-closed eyelids.

In the center of town, a wonder: Two big rocks stacked on top of one another.

“Well, I’ll be,” said the Kid. “Modern technology. What will they think of next?”


“This ain’t no concern of yours, Scared-of-Fire Kid,” said the leader of the club-wielding thugs. “Why don’t you just get back on your horse—” ”

I don’t know what that is,” grunted The Scared-of-Fire Kid. “I don’t think that’s a thing that’s native to my biome. Or maybe they haven’t evolved yet?”

[NOTE TO SELF: When did horses?]

“We want you out of this cave, lady,” said the fur-wearing tough. “Our boss has big plans for this space. He found a big pile of meat and he wants to store it in here, where it’s cool, eating as much as he can before it magically transforms into flies, which is a thing we believe happens.”

“Transmutation?” said the cave-lady.

“Less talking, more walking,” said the tough.

“You having some trouble here, ma’am?” asked The Scared-of-Fire Kid, who was terrible at minding his own business.

“Before we fight, we have to count down,” said The Scared-of-Fire Kid, facing his foe in the middle of a dirt path.

“I don’t count,” said the caveman, swinging a sharpened bone.

“What?”

“In my head, numbers are like: one, two, three, many.”

“Then you do count, just not very high. We can still count down, starting at three,” said The Kid.

“I don’t see why we don’t just fight, like, right now.”

The Kid rubbed his unshaven jaw. “There’s this thing called ‘genre convention’–”

“What?”

The Kid sighed.

The mother and child, safe from the bone club-wielding band that had threatened their village, watched The Scared-of-Fire Kid gather up his things to leave.

“Why do you have to go?” asked the child.

“My work here is done,” said the Kid. “Also, those guys set fire to your home and, uh… man, I do NOT like that.”

“We can build another home,” said the mother. “And cook you something… if you’ll stay.”

“What, like… cook with fire?” asked the Kid. “Yikes. No thanks.”

The sunset beckoned.

 

ending theme song
Doot doot doot-dooo.

I have no idea how to end this thing.

I have the same dilemma when it comes to this year.

And when it comes to myself.

The nice thing about endings is: most of them take care of themselves. They just happen.

Just like this…

–Michael


Hey! Did you enjoy reading this? But did you find yourself thinking “Dang, if only this sort of thing were delivered directly into my inbox so I didn’t have to spend time on a website as if it were still the 90s or something!”?

You’re in luck! You can subscribe to the LOST TIME INCIDENT newsletter and finally class up your inbox. 

New Year’s Goals

) Free my mirror self from the mirror dimension… then immediately trap it in the shadow dimension. It’s not going to see it coming at all.

) Build a new familiar out of less flammable materials.

) Finally get my hands back on the correct wrists because no one believes I swapped ’em “because reverse clapping is going to be really hot this year”

) Send a blanket of imps through downtown to kick the ankles of everyone who plays music in public without wearing headphones.

) Finish this list <– Done already! This is easy!

The Potion Path

SCAM ALERT!

Please don’t pay any money for Whittleshane’s Pocket Potion Pack! It’s a rip-off!

You wanna get into making potions? Just start mixing and drinking stuff. Every potion witch started the same way.

And most of ’em are dead. Learning curve is steep. But it’s an AFFORDABLE lifestyle. That was supposed to be a big part of its appeal.

If you buy your potion knowledge, what are you really learning? Nothing.

follow Friday

It’s Friday and we all know what that means! Time to remove the veil that covers our scrying pools so we can FOLLOW people!

For this next season cycle, we recommend following:

Our Lady of Parchment – Follow the sound of wind rustling open book pages. Will you gain forbidden knowledge? Or end up transformed into a living scroll, buried on a shelf? How would I know?

The Faceless Leader – No matter which way you turn, this figure is there ahead of you and no one has seen its face. Run if you can. Shout “hallooo” if you like. But some say if it turns to acknowledge you… then YOU become the one who is followed!

The Snail Racers – Super easy to follow.

The Scared-of-Fire Kid

“They call me… The Scared-of-Fire Kid.”

First sentence of my groundbreaking caveman/cowboy cross-genre masterpiece.


The Scared-of-Fire Kid walked into the village. As he passed by, women shooed their children into the comforting darkness of their caves. Local toughs, their lips smeared with fermented fruit, glared at him from under half-closed eyelids.

In the center of town, a wonder: Two big rocks stacked on top of one another.

“Well, I’ll be,” said the Kid. “Modern technology. What will they think of next?”


“This ain’t no concern of yours, Scared-of-Fire Kid,” said the leader of the club-wielding thugs. “Why don’t you just get back on your horse–”

“I don’t know what that is,” grunted The Scared-of-Fire Kid. “I don’t think that’s a thing that’s native to my biome. Or maybe they haven’t evolved yet?”

[NOTE TO SELF: When did horses?]


“We want you out of this cave, lady,” said the fur-wearing tough. “Our boss has big plans for this space. He found a big pile of meat and he wants to store it in here, where it’s cool, eating as much as he can before it magically transforms into flies, which is a thing we believe happens.”

“Transmutation?” said the cave-lady.

“Less talking, more walking,” said the tough.

“You having some trouble here, ma’am?” asked The Scared-of-Fire Kid, who was terrible at minding his own business.


“Before we fight, we have to count down,” said The Scared-of-Fire Kid, facing his foe in the middle of a dirt path.

“I don’t count,” said the caveman, swinging a sharpened bone.

“What?”

“In my head, numbers are like: one, two, three, many.”

“So we can count down from three,” said The Kid.

“I don’t see why we don’t just fight, like, right now.”

The Kid rubbed his unshaven jaw. “There’s this thing called ‘genre convention’–”

“What?”

The Kid sighed.


The mother and child, safe from the bone club-wielding band that had threatened their village, watched The Scared-of-Fire Kid gather up his things to leave.

“Why do you have to go?” asked the child.

“My work here is done,” said the Kid. “Also, those guys set fire to your home and, uh… man, I do NOT like that.”

“We can build another home,” said the mother. “And cook you something… if you’d stay.”

“What, like… cook with fire?” asked the Kid. “Yikes. No thanks.”

The sunset beckoned.