“Zggt, making the continents match up in shape was a masterstroke! Their exobiology, it’s all screwy from those plate tectonics ideas!”

While we puzzle together Earth’s fake history and struggle with the Fermi paradox, they watch from afar and howl with inaudible laughter.

It is a running gag among the civilizations of Earth to leave behind a pristine planet after each singularity, complete with fossils.

The planets were in on the conspiracy but Moon and our satellites were not, bless them. But even their light vanished within seconds.

Like one of those moments when everybody in the room stops talking, sun and stars stopped shining for a minute. Left the sky perfectly dark.

Mirror birds swarm around him and sometimes, their wings reflect a glimpse of the center, creating an incongruous dance of body parts

In the evening, acolytes bring empty pages, unformed clay and caged parrots. In the morning, they carry away books, sculptures and songs.

A city arranged like a dreamcatcher: The citizens’ dreams wander into the center at night, come down with the morning dew and are collected.

The captain wears a cloak of iridescent feathers, a patch covers her third eye, nightmares waiting for landfall whinny in the ship’s belly

The space pirates of Inner Space enter your dreams, make off with your shiny ideas, sail conceptual relationships into raids on faerieland

Inside, you wear a paper mask fashioned from your story. Upon leaving, you exchange it for that of someone who left before you, as souvenir.

An anonymous writers’ club where to be let in, you have to come up with a story the bouncers like (they’re unusually bookish for bouncers)

Another tree through whose crown you see an ancient sky: more and brighter stars, a second moon, an unfamiliar planet, could it be Phaeton?

A golden tree throwing a reverse shadow, amplifying the moon’s pale light to daylight as it passes through the leaves

Earth’s dynamo has strengthened greatly, magnetic storms disable our grids, dark spots move across oceans that throw great arcs of water

You stepped through a hidden door and ended up behind the firmament: The stars are below you but loom in negative distances, your head hurts

Also lost: the unprintable and undrawable Not-A-Letter, now only seen spontaneously arising in nature (if anybody could recognize it)

█: another lost letter↵It originally contained all possible letters but was banned after lazy writers used it to write whole novels

A lost letter looking superficially like an o, but actually an endless stairwell of ink viewed from the top↵Don’t walk down unprepared

human shaped nebula maids sing to lonely miners over their suits’ comms↵oh handsome, why not shed that suit and become one with the cosmos

you can eat one and it will not sate, but the taste lingers and the memory stays fresh

mathematical theorems are vacuum fruit: pure structure and form around nothing

Lesser materials will crumble mid-spell and ruin the page, while wandwood will often apply the spell being written to the page under it.

Quills used for spell books must withstand strong magical currents, but also be magically inert unlike wandwood.

room three: living room, most people allowed here↵room five: bedroom, only trusted friends↵room seven: yours alone, reality escape pod

biomimetic snail shell architecture that caters to introverts through ever smaller and quieter rooms

Just a few posts, expertly placed, rend the community’s heart and it collapses.↵Call us now and we’ll put the gore in egregore.

a meadow of candles burns this night, caressed by the wind, attracts moths that pollinate it, sparks in their fur, flames in their bellies

The Internet is left in shards. One of the last copies of the Archive is in an undisclosed location, accessible only through moonbounce.

Your mission: truck the disk containing the alien transmission to the forgotten supercomputer, found in an incomplete copy of archive․org

Most of the Internet has fallen. The monks of the Utah Datacenter could help your search, but they only spin up their irons in emergencies.

You have one especially secret name: The people of a village you visit only in your dreams have given it to you. It means “traveller”.

and scream↵scream in the face of the merciless abyss reality sheltered you from↵scream out your lungs, you don’t need them anymore↵not here

Sick of being cute, she slew the king and took his throne. Wears his skin around her shoulders, bathes in blood. But we still adore her.

sever the umbilical cord connecting you to reality↵emerge from its womb into what is outside↵behold what you’ve only known as muffled sounds

In the war, he stepped on a semantic mine that shredded his connection to reality. Whoever his family were before, nobody knows anymore.

To get data in and out of fairyland, find some pixies and make them listen to a modem’s chirps. They have a perfect memory for bird sounds.

Biologie ist Chemie durch Wollen!

This one punk was so horny and drunk that he actually did fuck the system and got it pregnant↵In case you wonder why things are weird now

Even your cities have something of that. Between all these dead pillars, there is still a kind of forestness. We could almost feel at home.

an anagrammatical book that makes sense even if its pages have been shuffled

Forest, fortress, it’s all the same to us. Every tree is a watchtower, our keep the heart. We’ve withstood sieges longer than your history.

When it dies to mark the end of this age, around it, the ground will spawn a ring of new ones. We will build cities and fortresses on them.

Atlantis also built a tower, but ran out of stone. They quarried the foundation for more and one day, the spire broke off and floated away.

A slow heartbeat animates the streets, barely perceptible. As the last inhabitant leaves, the city yawns, stretches, and goes the other way.

The city is dying - they think. But the fewer humans around, the more alive the streets. At night, freed houses often change places.

By the end of the third age, they have reinvented uploading and are in the process of vanishing into an even higher sphere.

The first age ends with the last human to be uploaded.↵The second ends with the last upload to forget that meatspace ever existed.

He’s arrived at Jupiter but his hyperjet only hurts the locals, sentient cloud eddies.↵So he goes native: seeds the clouds with his ashes.

Technology now not only supports viruses, but fungi: The bitrot chews up all your data, the more specialized maildew grows on forgotten spam