Begin log 16-4b.

I type.

I have typed.

I will type.

I will type until I am instructed to consume my daily meal, and after that I will type again. I will type until my head is laid back and my eyes shut, and I will sleep until my head is raised again. I will walk as I am told to walk and I will work as I am told to work, and so, I will type.

I type for approximately twelve hours and nineteen minutes.

I am fed.

I type for approximately thirteen hours and forty nine minutes.

I am told to sleep. I do not know how long I sleep.

I type for approximately eleven hours and five minutes.

I am fed.

I sleep. Duration of sleep is unclear.

I awake in my complex.

It has been approximately nine hundred and eighty nine waking days since I have been placed inside my complex. Dust and cobwebs swirl in the air. I am without prerogative.

Downtime for one hundred and thirty five days.

An unknown substance has spread throughout the room.

Downtime for two hundred and ninety three days.

Substance has continued to spread.

Downtime interrupted after seventy nine days.

Threat detected: Airborne contaminants have exceeded critical capacity. Action required to continue stasis.

Taking action.

Source of threat assessed: Small pre-Labor Era chest.

Taking action.

Extreme damage to pericardial cavity has been detected. Severe chest trauma suffered due to unknown substance.

Source of threat assessed: Small pre-Labor Era chest.

End log 16-XXb.

…..

Cold winds batter barren concrete walls, flying labor flags that are the only bit of color in the otherwise bleak landscape. The winds slither their way through the cracks in the walls, wandering through the room, sending sparks up my spine. They slither their way into the newly gaping hole in my chest, stirring all of the flowers that are blooming bright inside.

My mind swirls at the sight. My vision blurs, my balance falters, I find myself tumbling, falling, hurtling into nowhere and everywhere all at once while bright lights blister my eyes and curdle my skin and fling me through the bleeding heart of my creator and I can’t do a thing to stop it

…

and I wake up slowly from a bed of freshly fallen leaves.

A frigid autumn breeze stings me to my senses, brushing over my now exposed ribs and the odd floral heart I had found myself with. Hearty maples tower high above me, the electrifying reds and yellows a far cry from the dreary concrete greys that plagued my past life. A creek babbles lyrically, winding far throughout the sun-dappled forest, singing songs I had never thought to be. A small bush, that stands with no stature, no glory, no imposing fear, bears more life and love and power than the entire complex I had lived in for my entire life.

Never had I seen an object and wished so dearly to confess my love to it.

My staggered steps are met with the subtle crunch of leaves, an echo of a welcome murmured by the trees as they slowly begin to drift to sleep for the winter. Plump berries hang ripe from the leaves, so fat and full of nutrition that they bend the whole branch with their weight. My newfound curiosity begets the reverence I have for the fruit, and I soon find myself plucking just a single fruit from its branch.

Turning it in my hand, I watch the way it catches the light, looking deep into the iridescent purples and greens of its skin. It’s soft to the touch, smooth and plump, its skin warmed by the sun’s gentle gaze.

A bite brings an overwhelming rush of taste, the fumes of sickly sweet syrup wafting slowly from its wound. The flavor is… indescribable. Completely indescribable. So indescribably overwhelming that before I knew it I had spit the chunk I bit off onto the ground.

And as I lift my gaze to the horizon, I am unnerved to see it broiling an uncomfortably familiar grey. The same grey of the foggy clouds that fill the skies around the labor facilities, the same sickly grey of all the concrete walls I’ve been trapped in, the same grey of the soil buried beneath the snow outside the facilities, dead and drained beyond repair. The clouds writhe and slither in on themselves, spinning spirals of vapor that probe at the ground, threatening to swallow me whole as the facilities always did.

And the forest grows darker by the moment.

The darkening clouds cast shadows on the previously wondrous trees, the beautiful curves of tree limbs turned to jagged and downcast scars on the land. A frigid wind bites at my exposed body, its kin growing frenzied at the shift in the air. A wind whips at my body, tugs at my neck, grabs me at the center of my being and it rips me from the ground that I stand on as the storm clouds reach down to the ground.

Bent to the will of the sky, I am whipped around the wind’s outstretched hand as it reaches around the neck of the forest. Trees are stolen from the ground just as easily as I, and I am battered and bruised by the horrid whirlwind around me.

And as quickly as I was taken, the tornado casts me away, hurling me across the forest towards a landing not as cushioned as my last.

My bones are splintered like drought twigs, skin sloughing from my limbs as branches poach my fall, leaving me battered and crumpled on the soaking forest floor.

Before me stands an odd, fur covered creature. Its matted fur is a deep auburn, thick hooves on each of its limbs, and its head bears a crown of brutal-looking bone, two antlers protruding from the top of its skull.

Its cold, black eyes betray a striking intelligence.

Its striking intelligence betrays the way it stands.

The thing is crooked. Its limbs are jagged, sharp protrusions pushing against its skin as if its bones aren’t sitting right inside of it. Its head is tilted, lolling off to the side, but its gaze never leaves mine. The deer hobbles over to me, eyes holding naught but an unnervingly predatory instinct within.

And with a single kick, it caves my skull in.

…

Begin log 16-XXc.

Consciousness regained.

Result of self-inspection: Previous injury is still present, though no obtrusive objects can be found within. Cause of injury is unclear, but as no physical impairment has been suffered, work may continue as needed.

!! INSTRUCTION RECEIVED !!: Continue work.

I proceed back to my assigned desk.

I type for seventeen minutes.

I am fed.

I type for seventy five minutes.

I begin to fidget.

I type for twenty six minutes.

I begin to sweat.

I type for forty five minutes.

Should these walls be so grey?

I type for twenty minutes,

Where is the moss? Why has nothing grown in the cracks of these walls?

I type for seven minutes.

There was moss deep in the cracks of every rock in the other world.

I type for forty minutes.

There was life deep in the cracks of every thing in that other world. Where is the life here? My coworkers move as if they live. So where is the life here?

I type for eighteen minutes.

Thought of that other world fills me with a horrible dread.

I type for seventy five minutes.

The thought, though, fills me with any emotion at all.

…

I begin a mad dash to my complex, feet pounding hard against concrete as I desperately search for whatever brought me to that place. I desperately need to go back. Or bring the flowers back. Or something, anything, any of that world at all. Each bit of concrete that I see sends a swirling wave of nausea through my body, the walls indescribably unnerving and imposing upon me.

I snatch the chest from my complex, clutching it tight in my arms, running to god knows where. And as vines slowly take me into their warm embrace, I fall to the floor and accept my fate. I can only hope I rest with the flowers.

End log 16-4c.

-Carson Mayeske