Tower 727

You lived a fastidiously virtuous life on Earth, and your reward was an afterlife that granted your every whim. You chose to relive your life, making different choices. Not out of regret, but curiosity. You know who you were. But who else could you have been?

“It’s authentic. See the brushstrokes on the clouds there?” “That’s just the actual sky, though.” But you do recognize those brushstrokes on the still sky. There’s a familiar signature under scentless flowers. “I told you that was a low bid.”

Maybe it’s an abandoned ARG? Before you can open it to have a look, your phone buzzes. It’s a push notification: “Did you know you can see through walls? Activate X-Ray vision.” #invisiblenetworks

There’s only way to get it. You were exploring the subway, taking photos of an abandoned terminal, when your QR reader mistook some damaged tile for a code. The app downloaded immediately. #invisibleNetworks

Look at your nose. Can you see it? You might have to close one eye. Can you see it? They left it out of the simulation on purpose. If you can’t see it, you’re in the simulation. So, can you see it?

“I have ADD. It’s really hard to focus without a deadline.” The courtroom is silent. This isn’t usually how people react to having their execution set.

The phone rings. You turn it over. The caller ID reads: Y O U R N A M E I S J O H N You don’t answer. Across the room, Dave has set down his canapés. He’s stock still. You set down his phone. You’re trying the deadbolt when his hands close on you.

Psychic dilation makes a Home bigger than it really is. It works in human houses. In a swallow’s nest. In a turtle’s shell. We don’t see it in beaver lodges. We’re not sure what that means for us, or for the beavers who slap the water threateningly when we draw near.

They were invading the vast Desert of Druze. They learned too late why the defending armies preferred drum rudiments composed in 7/8 time.

We saw their planet for the first time, centuries ago. We watched their civilization grow. Their orbit fill with satellites. Their spectrum fill with radio waves. Soon we will be closer than we’ve ever been. And it’s clear they don’t know that we can tell what they’re planning.

The Lion Mausoleums are in a stately yard. They’re the final resting place of some of that region’s most notorious poachers. There’s a scream, and the Engraver lowers his binoculars. “Get me the correct spelling of the name this time.” He readies his tattoo gun.

You dream of attending a wedding. You’re Scythebearer, of course. We all weep and avert our eyes as you follow the procession. “Whosoever can sever this bond?” Your only line in the ceremony. “Only me.” Nobody hears it. But they all smile sadly and whisper “Only you.”

A paper airplane lands at your feet. And it fills you with hope. Finally. Fresh meat.

You’re afraid to sleep. In your dreams, you murdered someone and hid the body. As you drift off, you’re racked with guilt for a memory you’re only sure is fiction when you’re awake. In your sleep, the detectives are waiting. They know what you did.

“The Facility is hiding messages to me in the newspaper.” The Propagandist laughs. “Well, we do that from...” she pauses, reading your notes. Later you can’t describe what changed. Her smile didn’t. Those teeth stay the same. But you cover your throat as she excuses herself.

He's strapped to a chair, his tattooed head held in place with leather strap. You're shoved onto a stool beside him. Gently, you push a loose needle away from his eye. Above you, the aperture opens. Your eyes begin to roll back as your hands move, unbidden, to the keyboard.

You stand at the door to the time machine. “What are you waiting for? We’re about to make history!” “It’s not going to work. When I was four, I came out of this machine. Just give me a minute to prepare myself.” You set Teddy on the console.

This is the one. The one where the asteroid hits. Not the planet. Just me, specifically

“Your piano... it sounds strange.” The pianist nods thoughtfully, hands moving spasmodically in sharp contrast its graceful, elegiac sound. “It’s the wire.” He murmurs. “It’s made from piano wire.” You’re about to ask for clarification when it comes in the form of a garrote.

Long abandoned gas station on the side of the highway advertising low gas prices a decade out of date. You always stop. You press your face against the glass, and look into the past. Next time, you’ll keep driving. Next time, you’ll have learned your lesson.