Down the Labyrinthine Ways, Last Page

Sam walked up the stairs of the tallest building she could find. Even if she didn't know where to go, at least she could see everything. As she walked, she felt the building stretch out around her, felt it grow bigger and bigger. The stairs added to themselves, becoming more and more, until she felt like she had walked miles and miles and not moved an inch.


Still, she did not give in. She was determined to figure out this place, so she kept walking, discarding her shoes on some undetermined floor, her arm gripping the railing.


Finally, she came to the top floor where the stairs stopped. She opened the door and found herself on the roof of the building, only sky surrounding her. She gasped for breath and had to stop herself from hyperventilating, then slowly calmed down.


She slowly moved her feet forward and walked towards the edge of the roof. Luckily, there was a rail there to prevent her fall, so she gripped it with white knuckles and looked down.


There it was. The city. There was every building, every street, as far as she could see. It stretched out for so long, not even ending at the horizon. As she looked down, she saw as the city rearranged itself again, only this time into something different.


It was a face. It was making itself into a face, lakes for eyes and a tall building for a nose. She could see as the colors of the buildings changed, shading the face, making it a mixture of pale pink and brown for hair and


And it was her face. The face the city was transforming into was her own. The city was becoming her. And she knew.


It was always her. She hadn't been lost in a city. She had been lost in herself. She had been hiding from herself.


She felt the wind whip around her, felt her hair falling away from her face. The railing she had been holding onto had disappeared and now she was standing on the edge of the roof looking down at herself-as-a-city and she knew what she had to do.


if she was down there, she couldn't be up here, too. she couldn't be here and be the city. so the city had to be the real one. she had to let go. she let go and fell forward.


she let the city take her

Down the Labyrinthine Ways, Page One

It was 1939 and she was twelve years old, her eyes bright with excitement. She clutched her mother's hand as she led them both into what the sign declared was the "Dawn of the New Age" and the "World of Tomorrow."

They had only moved to New York last year and now there was this. There was so much excitement, so much to do, so much to see, so many people around. It truly was a World's Fair and there she was, right in the middle of it. She hadn't been able to see Flushing Meadows so much before because of all the preparations, but now that she could see it, she loved it with all of her heart. She could do that because she was twelve and could give all of her heart to many things.

Even as the sun beat down, even as she sweated inside her wool sweater, she gazed up at all the exhibits, eager to see each and every one. She wanted to go to the Ford Pavilion and see the race cars; she wanted to go to the Amusement Areas and go on the parachute jump; she wanted to see and do all things.

And then she realized that she wasn't clutching her mother's hand anymore. Somewhere in the rush of people, somewhere in the excitment, she had let it slip out of her grasp. She turned hurriedly and tried to spot her mother, but she couldn't. There were so many people, just so many of them. She tried to yell out "Mom!" but there was such a din that she knew her mother would never hear her.

She tried to move against the flow of people, but it was like trying to swim against the tide. Eventually, she was left on the sidelines, desparately watching the crowd, trying to find some sign of her mother, of the light brown hair and kind smile, the woman who would pick her up (even though she was getting too old for that) and kiss her on the forehead and tell her to be more careful.

She never saw her.

She wandered from place to place, searching for her, but the Fair was too big, too crowded. Even as night approached, the people never left. There were too many of them and only one of her and soon she was lost, lost amid the world of tomorrow, lost in the dawn of a new age.

And so she hid. She hid from the crowds and the people and the world of tomorrow. She hid and cried into her wool sweater and she wished her mother would find her.

Eventually, a man who worked there found her and brought her to exact center of the Fair where her mother was waiting for her. She rushed into her mother's arms and cried and her mother told her it was okay, that everything would be okay. "Dry your eyes, Samantha," her mother said and she did. She dried her eyes and they went home together, but Sam knew, deep in her heart, that she wanted never to be lost again. To be lost was the worst thing in the world.

Years later, she would feel those exact same feelings when she was inside the City.

In which I cease my wanderings

It's been a day since I last made a post here, hasn't it? I should probably update my progress in finding a place to stay within this city. An unlocked door, an open window, any invitation for me to stay put instead of wander.

So far, there has been nothing. All the doors have been locked, all the windows shut.

I wish I had my camera. Even broken, it would have helped calm me. Perhaps it was the only thing keeping me sane. My camera and my story.

I still have my story. Down the Labyrinthine Ways. Except it doesn't seem so important to write it now. Because I am living it now. All the wandering my character did, I am now doing. Shall I wander for forty days and forty nights before finding shelter?

I...I have looked back and what I wrote. It is gibberish. It wasn't gibberish when I wrote it. It turned to gibberish. Like the books in the library. It became unintelligible. Unreadable.

I have to stop. Even with no shelter, I have to sleep. I feels like I've been walking for weeks, instead of days.

This bench is as good a place as any to fall asleep.

And if I die before I wake, I pray

my soul

the city

take.

why did i write that

In which I lose my way

I am lost. I      nexplicably, inextricably l       ost. I don't recognize an      y of the buildings around m       e and even if I did, it woul                                        d not do any good, for they are      all locked. I tried to open       doors, but they would not op      en. The windows are dark an       d shuttered and I can't see inside anywhere, I can't tell where I am. Every side street branching off into darkness. I am lost. Lost in a mercurial city.

I ran from t                                        hat deformed person in the cathe      dral. I ran from them and didn't look back. Perhaps that was bad                               of me. Perhaps they did not wish me harm      at all. But I took one look at them at felt such revulsi on,                                        such vileness, I could not help but run. Why did I feel in th at way, like I did? I do not know. I just ran. I ran down corridors and hallways, rushing through doors, not looking where I was running, not looking at all.

And now I am      lost. I cannot find my room. Once, I would have been able to turn      the corner and see it; now, I can only see more empty buildings, m      ore flickering streetlights, more dark alleyways that seem to conv                                        ey danger. I don't know why, but this place, this city doesn't feel like it used to feel. It doesn't feel safe anymore. It doesn't feel right. It feels...

I cannot des      cribe how it is making me feel. This place, this city. Everyw      here I turn now, it seems like it is turning me away, pushing me a      way. I have seen no more department stores, no more Italian rest                                       aurants, no more movie theaters. No more life. Just dark buildings, their edges as sharp as blades, their windows opaque, their doors firmly shut and locked.

Is this my fault?                               Or did A do something? When they         killed their monster, did that         change the city some         how? Or does it simply respond         to my own emotions?         When I was hungry, it led me to         a restaurant. When I panicked,                                 it became a place of panic, a place of blind fear. If I calm my self down, will it turn back into a place that feels exciting? Will I find my room then? Or will I just wander this city forever, searching for something that no longer exists? What am I doing? What am I going to do? -- Sam Norton.

In which A is A

I followed A from our meeting place, staying behind them just enough so that they couldn't see me (or perhaps they could and were just humoring me). Finally, they turned a corner and I glimpsed them talking to someone. A woman who looked like she was around middle age. I could barely hear the conversation, but the older woman knelt down and seemed to be staring up at A reverently. Perhaps A's tactics had worked on someone else.


After about ten minutes, A walked away from the older woman and through a doorway. I rushed past the woman (who was still kneeling) and pushed the doorway open again and went through.


I found myself inside a large cathedral. There were rows and rows of pews with ornate designs on the ends. I rushed past them and the large stained glass windows, not even bothering to look up at them. I could no longer see A, they had vanished. I rushed to the other end of the church where the large double doors were and pushed them open slightly.


Outside, I could see there was a wide street. I saw the back of a woman, but then I heard the loud crack of a gunshot and I looked beyond the woman to where A stood. At first I thought they had shot a mannequin, it looked so strange. But then the mannequin started to crumble, turning to ash, the ash falling on A like rain.


A raised their hands, as if making a grand speech. I could barely make out the words they were saying. "-dreams, come unto reality. Behold the slain beast..." There was a rustling behind me and I turned, but nothing was there. I looked back down at A. "Watch, as I wield the future," they were saying, "as a musician wields his instrument." The rustling returned and again I turned, but there was nothing. I looked back through the barely open door and heard the end of A's speech. "The new world is closer now then it ever has been. This is it. This is my victory." And then they descended into hysterical laughter.


There was a sound behind me, the sound of shuffling feet, so finally I turned, fully expecting it to be nothing at all. But there was someone. They crawled on the ground, their face and hands hideously deformed. They looked at me with shock and then malice and rasped, "Let me in."


I ran out of the double doors. A and the woman were gone. All that was left was a pile of ashes on the ground. I ran down the street, away from the church, as fast as I could.


Sam Norton

In which I have a revelation

I was inside my room trying to sleep, when I realized what had happened. A had broken my connection to the world and what was I doing? I was hiding. I was hiding like they said I was.

So I stood up and opened the door and I walked outside. The roads were wavy and they all led to an intersection where there was this little garden and A was waiting for me.

"Come out to play?" they said. Their face was uncovered and it looked old and scarred. "Do you believe in me yet?"

"Believe in what?" I asked. "You are you, as you said. I don't believe that you're a god. I believe...that you exist."

"Good enough," they said.

"Why is it so important," I asked, "that I believe in you?"

"I'm going to face a monster soon," they said. "A monster who exists because people believe it exists. I'm going to kill it because in this place, I exist like it does."

"A monster?" I said. "You brought me here just to help kill a monster?"

And then A said something that shook me. "I didn't bring you here." They looked around and then said, "I've gotta go. Got some people to meet before the big day." They turned and walked away. "See you soon."

And so I followed them. I'm following them right now. Either they don't know I'm behind them or the city is somehow keeping me hidden, I don't know. But I'm going to continue following them until I see who they meet and how they leave.

And then I won't be hiding any longer.

Sam Norton

In which I notice graffiti

I keep on seeing graffiti when I look outside. It must be A that is writing it, right? Who else can it be?


I saw them on the city's moving streets, like BurmaShave ads, changing one after another.


I'M GONNA FADE AWAY
I'M GONNA FACE AWAY
I'M GONNA FLY AWAY
I'M GONNA DIE TODAY


I'm afraid to leave my room now, afraid even to look outside.


Sam Norton

In which there is a knock on the door

There was a short story published a while ago in Thrilling Wonder Stories. It was by Fredric Brown - I like his stories. It was only two sentences, but to me, it was quite chilling:

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door...

I don't know how long I have been in this city, but I know in all my time here I have not seen another living soul. Not until today.


There was a knock on the door.


Two simple knocks. That was it. I thought that perhaps I would open the door and there would be another package from A. Perhaps another riddle or another Biblical quotation to mull over. I went and opened the door.


There was someone outside.


Slowly, I stepped outside, one hand clutching my camera. Was this the elusive A? They wore a completely black outfit, including a hood that covered their face. "Hello, Hider," they said. I couldn't even tell from their voice if they were male or female - it sounded strange, the pitch a little too high for a man's voice, too low for a woman's.


"Why do you call me that?" I asked. "That's not my name."


"But it's who you are," they said. "You hide. You hide behind your name, behind your words, behind your pictures. One mustn't hide, not from oneself."


"Are you A?" I asked.


"I am," they said. "I am A and A am I. To deny it would be to deny that I exist. I exist, thus A equals A. I am that I am."


"Now you're quoting the Bible again," I said. "You're not God."


"I'm not?" A said. They titled their head and looked at me. "Then how is it I can come and go and you cannot? You are trapped here and I am free." They stepped closer, their feet making crunching sounds on the ground. "I have given you food and water. I have given you technology. And what have you given me? Disbelief. I don't think that's very fair, do you?"


"If you're a god, you're an awfully capricious one," I said.


"Of course," they said, stepping closer. "What else would the God of Humanity be? Capricious and willful and indifferent and cruel. All the qualities that humanity posssesses in abundance. But the God of Humanity would also be powerful and strong and able to adapt quickly." They stepped closer still and I raised the hand that held the camera. I was going to snap a picture, but they grabbed the camera out of my hand. "Now, now. I have given and I shall take away. Besides, you were wasted on it, taking snapshots of stone lions and fountains. You could have shown people the enormity of the City, the brilliance of this place, but you didn't. You don't deserve a camera." They dropped the camera on the ground and before I could try and stop them, they stomped on it, crushing the camera under their boot.


"What," I said, unable to comprehend what they had just done. My camera, which I had taken everywhere, was now cracked and broken on the ground.


"I did say that I was cruel." A leaned in closer and I could make out the shape of their face underneath their hood - round and thin, a face like any other. "Do you believe now?" A asked. They turned and started to walk away. "You should. Or else the next thing I step on might be you."


They opened a door and step through. I stepped forward, but the door closed and then vanished itself.


I kneeled down and carefully picked up all the pieces of the broken camera. Looking at them, I knew I could never repair it - it was so complex, if I had been younger, I might have thought it was magic. I picked up each piece and cupped them in my hands.


Then I walked back to my room and sat down.


I sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.


I jumped, then placed the broken camera on the table and walked towards the door. I opened it carefully, but there was nobody on the other side. But there was a note stuck to the door, a piece of spiral notebook that looked like it had been ripped haphazardly. On it was written:

A STORM IS THREATENING
I AM GOING TO FADE AWAY.

I looked at the note, then closed the door again.


Sam Norton

In which I receive a reward

There was a large metal box beside the lion today. On top was a square filled with letters, like the letters I type on this machine. I entered the letters B-A-S-E-B-A-L-L and the box unlocked itself. Inside was food -- packages of crackers, dried fruit, beef jerky, and bottle after bottle of water.

And near the bottom of the box was a piece of paper on which was written: MARK 5:36.

As soon as Jesus heard the word that was spoken, he saith unto the ruler of the synagogue, Be not afraid, only believe.

Curious. Of all the Biblical passages A could have chosen, they chose this one. This is about the healing of a dead woman. Am I...dead? Is this some sort of purgatory?

No. No, that's a plot from a bad pulp story. Besides, there are plenty of other weird passages from Mark 5. I mean, that's the chapter where Jesus comes across a wild man who cannot be bound in chains or fetters and, when he asks him his name, the man replies, My name is Legion: for we are many.

Sam Norton

In which I walk from lion to lion

There was a lion in front of my door this morning. It was light outside, so I decided to take a walk and I opened my door and I saw a lion.

It was a stone lion, like those found outside of old buildings. It looked strange though. Like it was from a drawing made by a child. It was...deformed.

I closed the door and tried not to look at it as I walked past. Instead, I tried to think of the answer to A's riddle. "Joe wants to go home but he cannot. The Man in the Mask is waiting for him." It sounds like a trailer for a new detective film.

After a few minutes of walking along a stone path, I found myself in front of a tunnel.

I could see that beyond the tunnel were stairs, but...it seemed as if tunnel was leading going to lead me somewhere else. Somewhere I hadn't been in this city. So I walked through the darkened tunnel and when I came out the other end, the stairs had vanished. Instead, there was a dirt footpath that led to a pond.

It was one of the most beautiful ponds I'd seen, but it looked...too real. Too vivid. The colors were too colorful. The ducks...they were real ducks, but they didn't make any sounds. They moved and flapped their wings and I'm sure had I brought some bread, they would have eaten it, but they didn't make a sound.

The sky began to darken and the air felt like it was filled with static electricity. I closed my eyes and there was a thrumming sound and when I opened them, it was night and the pond wasn't there anymore.

Instead, there was a fountain.

Bright jets of water colored in green lights fell into the rippling water. The air felt heavy. My fingertips tingled. And the answer came to me.

"Joe wants to go home but he cannot. The Man in the Mask is waiting for him." The Man in the Mask is the catcher. Joe is playing baseball.

For some reason, I can't help but think that the city gave me this answer. That being here, in front of this fountain, I was able to think of it and it led me here just for that purpose. But that's stupid. Just as stupid as a riddle about baseball.

I walked back along the path, through the tunnel, and back to my room. There was the lion again, but it had changed. It no longer looked like it was made by a child. It looked...refined.

I looked into its eyes, then closed my eyes and opened them again. The lion didn't change. It looked like it had been petrified. Like it had seen the eyes of a basilisk and been turned to stone.

I turned away from it and went back inside.

Sam Norton

In which I find more reading material

I just looked out my window and saw a lake. It was in the middle of the city, but I could see no streets leading to it, no paths that ended at its shore.

I just got my camera, but now I'm looking again and the lake is gone. Replaced by a row of buildings, brick and mortar.

Earlier today, I received another message from A. At least, I think it was A. It was different from the others. Not a Biblical quotation this time. A riddle.

First, I found this slipped underneath my door:

It's a copy of one of my early stories. Someone took an image of it and then duplicated it another page. The sheet was fine - not rough like the pages of the digests I write for.

And then on the back was this:

Who is Joe? And who is the Man in the Mask? Or is this riddle simply hypothetical in nature?

And why is A suddenly leaving riddles? Strange.

My food supply is running low. Will they leave me more food somewhere or do I need to answer this riddle first? The more things A leaves me, the more I don't understand them or why they are doing this.

Sam Norton

In which I read again about John Sunlight

Another message from A.

I was trying to write Down the Labyrinthine Ways when I heard the knock. From what I could tell from my excursions outside my room, I was the only one in the City. And yet there was a knock on the door.

I opened it. There was nobody there, just the darkened street, now lined with wooden garages, each one painted white and marked with a number.

There was something in front of Number 4.

Perhaps it was because "4" kind of looks like "A," but they had left something for me. Something I remembered from my childhood.

An issue of Doc Savage and a blank domino. I remembered reading my old issues of Doc Savage, hiding in my covers when I was supposed to be asleep, my fingers achingly traveling from word to word as I became enraptured by the world of Doc Savage.

And I remembered this issue. The issue about John Sunlight. The only bad guy to ever be Doc Savage's equal. Oh, how he frightened me. "It seemed from the first that John Sunlight had been put on this earth so that men could be afraid of him." Men and little girls, as it were.

I flipped through the pages, looking to see whatever message A had left here. The book wasn't exactly like the one I had when I was a kid - it seemed like this one was a reproduction. The copyright said it was from "2006." And then I found what I was looking for:

"1 SAM 15:32."

1st Samuel 15:32. And Agag came unto him delicately. And Agag said, Surely the bitterness of death is past.

Maybe I should explain this for all of you without a Christian background. Agag was the King of Amalekites. God instructed King Saul to "completely destroy" the Amalekites; however, Saul spared Agag. Samuel saw this as a defiance of God's will. So he took Agag and cut him up into bits.

I don't know what to make of this. Should I be worried that A will cut me up? Am I Agag? Or am I Samuel? Should I obey A is if they were God?

And what about the domino? It has no dots on it - it's just blank. What does that mean?

At least I have some reading material now that isn't gibberish. Although the last time I read this story, I had such horrible nightmares.

Sam Norton

In which the night is cold and my mind wanders

I'm trying to write, but it's hard. It's hard to describe this place. I haven't even decided on a title and usually those come to me easily. I mean, I can't title this like my normal stories, because it's not like my normal stories.

I don't know if anyone is even reading this entry. What do you think, unknown person, of the title Down the Labyrinthine Ways? I don't know. On the one hand, it's the first thing I thought of, but does it fit?

It's been getting colder here. Does that mean it's winter? How many days, weeks, months have passed? I feels almost like no time at all.

I haven't seen anymore notes from A. And I don't know what I would make of them if I did.

I am trapped within this city, but it does not feel like a trap. It feels like...well, when you were young, did you ever in your bed, under your covers, and imagine the white sheet was the rolling hills of some fantasy land where you could wander forever? I feels like that. It feels like if the sky was lifted away, I would see the face of myself as a child, messy hair and everything.

I just babbling. I'm putting off writing, because I know it will be difficult. But I can't help that, I just have to dive in and hope for the best.

Wish me luck.

Sam Norton

In which I valiantly attempt to check out a book from a library

I have taken to walking the streets of this city at night. Or at least when the sun isn't up, since "night" and "day" don't really have the same meaning here as they do in the real world. Hmm. The real world -- I still think of this place as unreal, unbelievable, impossible. Yet I've lived here how many weeks? Seen how much of this unreal city?

In all likelihood, I've only seen a fraction of a fraction. I see new buildings everyday here. Some I recognize as buildings I've seen before, but with new additions, new floors, new terraces, or the exact reverse. Skyscrapers which are now one-story tenements. Plazas which are now trash heaps (and yet all the trash looks clean, as if it isn't real trash at all, but the image of what trash should look like, if you understand what I'm saying).

And then today I found a library.

Look at it. Doesn't it look beautiful? Look at the arches (down the nights and down the days, down the arches of the years).

And how did I know this was a library? There were windows.

Ah, did I say windows? I meant glass displays of gorgeous rooms filled with books.

So I, of course, entered this library, passing from room to room, looking for a book to read. I passed from shelf to shelf, my fingers touching spines, until finally, giddy in spite of myself, I took down a book and opened it:

Eruyy Jpbr-Sol-Siwln

si noh

J oazf zirold. M nbsx cl pyopslfk.

Tljz ppbje mt davqld eok tm ja tajztie hnh J jar'u zei uoe apvd jpy tlf arifz. IM nh wvpugie hnh nbsx cl pyopslfk.

I flipped through the book. Every page was like this. Complete and total gibberish, not even with recognizable words like the signs at the movie theatre. Nothing I could comprehend.

I set the book back and picked up another:

AaaaaaaaaAaaaaaaaaaa

AaaaaaaaaAaaaaaaaaaa

AaaaaaaaaAaaaaaaaaaa

AaaaaaaaaAaaaaaaaaaa

AaaaaaaaaAaaaaaaaaaa

I chose another book:

Samantha picked up the book, opened it and read:

Samantha picked up the book, opened it and read:

Samantha picked up the book, opened it and read:

Samantha picked up the book, opened it and read:

I shut the book quickly. Even if this was the only non-gibberish book in the whole building, I have a feeling I still could not read it without going mad.

Finally, after hours of searching, I left the library without a book in my hands. My search had been a complete and utter failure.

And then a revelation hit me: what am I? I am a writer. Why am I here?

I am here to write.

All the books are gibberish. So I will write my own. I will write a book about this city. This is what I am here to do. This is my purpose.

Sam Norton

In which a message is left, but the meaning is unknown

"A" left me another message. At least, I think it was A. They didn't sign their name this time.

I don't know how they can navigate this city so well, but they appear to be able to know where my room will be at a given moment. Or perhaps it was merely luck that the message appeared where it did.

Today (well, tonight, actually, since the sun didn't rise as it usually did), I opened my door and saw a hedgerow. And in the center of the hedgerow was an envelope.

Seeing as the envelope bore my nom-de-plume from this journal, I decided to open it. Inside was a card with writing on the front and the back.

At first I was confused. The envelope was addressed to me, but the name on the card was "John." And was the date of November 26th important?

And then something clicked within my mind. John 11:26.

And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?

This fits with A's other "believe in me" note, though I'm not sure why they are now using a Bible quote. Are they asking if I believe in them? Well, I believe they exist. What else do they want me to believe in?

Sam Norton

In which I walk and reflect

The sun is shining very brightly and yet it is still cold. How long have I been here? A week? I would try marking the days, but "days" and "nights" seem arbitrary here. I saw the sun rise and set within an hour one time. Does that count as one day?

I went outside again today. There was no more department store or Italian restaurant. Instead, the streets were lined with steel buildings, the sun glaring off them, blinding me. I walked amidst them, each building reflecting my image back, until at one point I was between two mirrors, my reflections arcing back and forth into infinity.

I turned the corner then and found myself in front of a movie theatre.

There was nothing on the marquee, though, and no posters within any of the frames.

There were notices on the doors, but they were all in gibberish. Things like "the gostak distims the doshes" and "reduction occurs step wise though the essence is all one."

I couldn't even get inside the theatre -- the doors were all locked. I have a feeling that if I had been able to go inside and sit down and watch one of the films, it wouldn't make any sense at all. Perhaps it would simply be a white screen and I could make my own movie with shadows. Perhaps it would like the notices, just snippets of complete nonsense. Or perhaps it would have made perfect sense and revealed all secrets of this city and how to leave it.

After trying to open all the doors, I just turned around and walked back. The row of mirror-buildings had become sloping houses with brick exteriors. I glanced back and the theatre seemed to sit there, lonely, on the corner.

Sam Norton

In which a picture is worth a thousand words

I found a camera today. It was waiting on my doorstep. At least, I assume it's a camera. It takes pictures; however, similar to the typewriter I'm using now, the pictures appear on a small screen instead of an actual piece of paper. If I hadn't already been in this city for several days, I would be fairly impressed.

I have taken a picture of what's outside my window right now. The streets have changed again and I want to see if taking a picture will preserve it. Will the picture itself change when the street does? Let's find out.

I followed the instructions on how to upload it - it was fairly simple. I'm surprised I could even take this picture. I assumed this city was like a vampire, no reflection in mirrors, won't show up in photos. I thought the image might turn out distorted or degraded, but it isn't.

And yet I can't help feeling that there is something about this image that isn't right. Or maybe I am simply paranoid.

Sam Norton

In which I wax philosophical

I'm chewing on a cracker watching the morning light hit the streets. Is it the morning already? It felt like the sun just went down. It felt like the night passed in minutes. In the darkness, the streets changed position, like a strange game of musical chairs, and the only one left standing after the music stopped was me.

Sorry if I'm getting a bit too depressed. This place is getting to me. I haven't received any more notes from "A" -- whoever they were -- and I've been conserving the food they left me. Water isn't a problem -- my room is equipped with a small washroom, including sink. I don't know where the water comes from, but it's clean.

Sometimes I look out into this city and feel that it's amazing. It's everything I dreamed, everything I wrote in my little science fiction stories, a gleaming metropolis of the future. And sometimes I look out and feel like it's a cruel joke, a city without people, without animals, without sounds echoing or smells wafting, a city devoid of everything except its structures. A hollow city.

Sorry about all that. I just had this great feeling of ennui well up and I had to let it all out.

Sam Norton

In which I go shopping, feel hunger, and find a note

God, I could kill for a cigarette. That's the only thing I've been unable to find.

I've started to explore this city and noticed something odd. Well, odder. The city seems to be providing me with everything I need to live here.

For example, as I walked out of my room (I'm getting use to thinking of it as "my" room - is that bad?), I wondered if I would have to stay in the same clothes for the entire time I was here. At that exact moment, I saw across the street a department store, it's windows filled with mannequins displaying all sorts of clothing. The sign above the department store declared in large block letters that it was called "LACUNARY'S".

Inside was aisle after aisle of every article of clothing I could possibly wear. I'm afraid I may have gone a bit overboard in my selection, as I had never been able to afford such outfits, so I ended up piling article after article of clothing into a basket and then whisking them away back to my room.

Perhaps I was lucky even to find my room again, though, since the city seems to change around me. At one point, after my third trip, I realized that I was quite famished and when I turned around, LACUNARY'S had changed. There were no more mannequins in the storefront, no more outfits -- instead, the sign declared that it was "FUGUE'S GENUINE ITALIAN RESTAURANT". The windows had enticing pictures of pasta and pizzas and, as I cautiously opened the front doors, my mouth began to water at the smell of fresh baked dough and tomato sauce.

The smell was a lie, however -- or perhaps a delusion of my own fevered imagination -- because within the restaurant I found no pizza, no pasta, nothing except empty tables and chairs. Besides, who was to make the food anyway? As for as I could tell, there was no one else in this city except for me.

At that thought, however, I heard a rattling sound. It was coming from the kitchen area of the restaurant. I didn't know whether I should run towards the sound or away from it. I eventually compromised and opened the kitchen doors slowly, trying to see if there was anyone there. I saw no one, so I stepped inside and took a look around. Still no one -- except there was a cabinet that was ajar.

Inside the cabinet, I found an array of dry and canned foods (along with the helpful addition of a can-opener) which can probably last me a few weeks or possibly even months if I ration them out. Tucked beneath one of the cans of food was this note:

You are not dreaming. You are wide awake.

This is a city of the lost, the fear of being lost and abandoned and forever wayward. It likes you now. It enjoys playing with you, like a cat enjoys playing with a mouse. But in the end, it will consume you like it has consumed so many others.

I can protect you. I can provide for you.

All you have to do is believe in me.

A

I have read this note a dozen times now. I packed all the food away in my room (I have no idea how I am still able to find it -- all the streets have changed, yet whenever I try to find it, I always see the door to my room). I do not know if this "A" person is telling the truth or whether I should trust them. I do not know if I shall continue to find food or if when this supply runs out, I'll just simply starve.

The only thing I know, right now, is that I want a cigarette badly.

Sam Norton

In which I walk through a door and find myself somewhere else

Hello. I'm still getting used to using this thing. It's not that different from my old Smith-Corona typewriter, except I don't need any correction fluid, I suppose.

I guess I better introduce myself: I am Sam Norton. Well, okay, "Samantha" is my full name, but I never go by it. I'll be twenty-eight this November and I am a writer by trade. And, well, I'm lost. Completely and utterly lost.

So, here's the scoop: as stories are my bread and butter (actually, I'm lucky if I can afford butter), I went out today to mail my latest yarn to Astounding Science-Fiction. Usually, I can only get one or two of my stories into Astounding in a year, so I also send my stuff to Weird Tales and Fantasy & Science Fiction. Anyway, I had my stories all bundled up and I walked into the post office and sent them all on their merry way.

Then I saw a side door. I mean, I had been to this post office lots of times, but I hadn't seen this door before. And I was curious about where it led. Did they just install it? So, my curiosity firmly peaked, I went over and inspected the door. There was no lock on it, nothing labeled "Employees Only", so I opened it.

It led to a fairly large room with completely blank walls. There was a bed on one side (very neat, the sheets all tucked in, you could bounce a quarter off of it) and in the center was a desk. It was a beautiful desk made of dark wood and in the center of the desk was this typewriter I'm using now. I mean, it looks kind of like a typewriter, but it's not; above the keys is a screen, like a television (not that I've owned one). The screen was turned to this page where I could enter these entries, like a diary. And there was a note next to the typewriter: Hider, this is your password: (password). If you hide, they shall seek.

Thinking that someone must have been staying here, I went back to the door and opened it to leave. Except where the post office used to be...wasn't. Like, while I was in the room, someone had just moved the entire post office away in wheels silently and now...now I am someplace different.

It doesn't look like any city I've been in. I keep looking out the windows, but the streets all look different, I can't keep track. I'm afraid of leaving this room now. I think it was meant for me. That's kind of crazy, isn't it?

I mean, I write stories about space aliens and flying saucers and robots and sometimes the occasional weird fantasy thing, but this...this is out of my wheelhouse. I kind of want to curl up and wish this whole thing away, but that ain't going to do anything.

This whole typewriter thing can be compressed. It can fit down so I can hold it in one hand. Maybe I should start walking? Start exploring? Can I find my way back? Man, Dorothy never had it this bad.

Sam Norton