<No way>.

Autumn said it in a gasp as she peered inside the open window, having called out for someone & hearing no answer.

She took a deep gulp & then climbed inside. She wandered thru all o’ the few rooms with her breath held & found no one inside. & yet she knew the place couldn’t have been abandoned by the mess o’ too much junk to notarize it all strewn ’bout or left round without care — a mess which would probably disgust someone with high sensibilities, but which excited Autumn with golden possibilities.

She dropped her pack & put her papers & Bible inside, & then pulled out a long jacket & wrapped it round her with the hood up & then put a black ski mask o’er her face. She watched herself in the bathroom mirror & saw that all her hair was covered, as well as e’ery part o’ her face but her eyes.

{ Wish it wasn’t so scorching hot, tho }, she thought as she fought the urge to pull down her mask & start furiously scratching her itchy face. { O well: it’ll encourage me to hurry mo’ }.

Then she pulled out a black plastic garbage bag & began wandering the apartment, picking up items that seemed useful. She started with goods that weren’t worth any money value, but would save her from having to shop: a coffee pot & maker, coffee grinds, a can opener, pots & pans, cups, plates, & bowls, boxes o’ soap, packets o’ sponges, the whole utensil drawer, & whate’er canned & boxed food she could find in the cupboard, as well as some well-contained food she could find in the fridge & freezer.

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Despite how late in the evening ’twas, the sun blared as high as if ’twere the middle o’ the afternoon as Edgar parked into the FredMart driveway. They all sat in a dimness that only seemed to make the sunlight outside hurt Autumn’s eyes e’en mo’. Autumn sighed, & then took a chug o’ her “water bottle”.

<Hey>, said Dawn. Autumn aimed a petulant glance @ Dawn without stopping. Dawn continued, <¡You’ll need your decision-devising skills for this!>.

Autumn lowered her “water bottle” out o’ her mouth with a loud pop & replied, <If you were paying attention, you’d know that the “decision-devising” has already been done. What I need to worry ’bout is my nerves — which you’re currently riding like a fucking bull. So shut it>. She took a chug, only to pull it back so fast that it sloshed water o’er her. <Actually, start yapping ’fore we leave the car. In media res, as they say>.

<All right, but put that ’way & lets go already>.

Autumn carefully screwed the lid on her bottle, lowered it into her backpack, zipped her backpack up, grasped the car-door handle, & then took a deep breath.

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Their flag was silver, — a silver similar to the waxing-gibbous moon, hours early to its shift so it could catch the sky while ’twas still blue before the orange that was already creeping up from the horizon could steal it all, steering the purple tides — & emblazoned on that silver was a white snowflake with a golden crown on top.

This flag fluttered like a spring heron in the lite wind & ocean waves; but by this point those who ran the ship found themselves far stormier, for they had spied a ship following them for nearly an hour now, & had now realized that ’twas not only closing in on them, but was also armed with cannons & helmed by men holding assault rifles & wearing suspicious all-concealing red, blue, & green suits & face masks.

& @ the top o’ this ship’s mast was a flag that was nothing but black. But to any seagoer who knew the ropes round the Pacific Ocean nothing was mo’ threatening, for they now knew that these were seashinobi, brilliant pirates notorious for paralyzing a ship & robbing it o’ its goods, & then slipping ’way unidentified, like the snap o’ a finger — that is, when they weren’t hired as assassins ( as was their most common role during their heyday o’ 16th-century Japan, usually gainst political rivals o’ their patron ), which is when they would obliterate a ship & all its crew in 1 smooth stroke, like the slit o’ a throat.

Most o’ the crew scrambled below deck for protection, while the driver & her assistants worked to steer & speed the ship ’way & the security team stood in a line ’long the edge o’ the ship toward which the hostile ship was headed with their guns out.

With an edge o’ dread, the man handling the telescope said, <They already have their guns aimed @ us>.

Security looked ’mong themselves with contorted frowns.

<Their machine guns will shred us before our pitiful pistols have a chance to shove hardly a shot out>, 1 said in a hushed tone.

But ’nother said, <There’s no use trying to hide below. It’d only delay them a li’l. Better die fighting than die hiding>.

So they stood there staring straight @ their assailants like prisoners in front o’ a firing squad.

The cap’n stuck his head back up from below the deck.

<There’s no way the sea police will be able to reach us before our stalkers>.

Without turning back to the cap’n, the security lead said, <There’s no way we’ll be able to o’erpower them>.

<Put your weapons ’way>, the cap’n said with a tinge o’ urgency. <You’re right: there’s no way we’ll be able to fight back, so we’d best surrender & hope they only take our goods>.

The cap’n walked up to the flagpole & lowered their snowflake flag with a wary eye aimed @ the shinobi ship so close, knowing any second he could become a fleshy pincushion if they thought he was on a plot, or e’en if their temperament stirred them. Then he pulled out a white sheet, tied it round the pole, & began raising it, stumbling on the white string with his sweaty palms in his haste.

Howe’er, before it reached halfway up, his ears were rocked with the racket o’ gunshots, & in the corner o’ his eyes he saw his security team explode with orange light. Without thought, the cap’n dropped on his knees & positioned himself ’hind the pole. There he could see his security collapse in a pile o’ cries & a puddle o’ blood, ’long with the driver & her assistants. Bullets continued to zip by like furious wasps. The cap’n was breathing hard, as if the wind were clogging his throat & choking him, his face drowning in tears & sweat.

Then he heard a throaty boom, followed by an elongated screech, & crouched e’en lower when he saw a cannon fly toward the ship in an arc. His thoughts ’bout what would happen were cut short when it hit the ship, releasing a blast that spread its arms long past the cap’n, tossing his body @ the ship’s wall like common debris, sapping it o’ its sentience & sapience, as well as shreds o’ its face & skin.

The ship shattered into wooden shards & sank. From its dying heart spread a white liquid, foaming like cauldron water from the quakes round it. Then the other ship turned & disappeared in the distance & the fizz died down & the white liquid was devoured by the purple sea till there was no sight o’ it any longer.

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Autumn wanted to ask Dawn how she e’er convinced her to set up a detective agency till she remembered that she already knew how, having been there @ the time. Then she took a sip o’ her coffee.

<This’ll get you out from under the smothers o’ your covers & using your calculator mind for something refreshing for a spin. That’s the problem: you’ve been doing stealing so much that you need to try something else for a while>, Dawn said, as if reading Autumn’s mind, which would be a rude thing to do.

Autumn nodded. Autumn could see why Dawn would think that way, since Dawn tried a million different things & ne’er finished any o’ them. Since Autumn knew this, she wasn’t sure why she thought ’bout it, much as how she wasn’t sure why she wasted time thinking the things she’d already thought multiple times — “Give it up, chump”, “¿Why am I doing this thing I’m going to keep doing e’en after asking?”, & “Perhaps I should stop being a rancid asshole this season”.

Autumn stared @ the rotary phone with 1 hand tapping the rim o’ her coffee mug & the other tapping the table. She didn’t ask why the phone was rotary, tho, e’en in her head. ’Twas better not to ask such things o’ this devilish realm their cruel literary god placed them in like slaves. She didn’t ask why everything was grayscale. For 1, it wasn’t grayscale, but a soupy pea green. She didn’t ask how she knew what color everything was when everything was just words in windows.

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Tho Autumn didn’t dare let Edgar see it, she felt her breath catch up when she saw it come into view, & ’specially as she felt herself enter what seemed like a forcefield round it. Here she saw not just billions o’ tiny colored dots bunched together, giving off the flat illusion o’ a brick building, but the building itself in its full spatial glory. Soon she’d be close ’nough that she could feel the scratchy texture o’ its bricks.

But this thrill came married, as it always did, to a fear o’ all the tasks she had left to complete — all the tightropes she had to cross, e’ery 1 o’ which with its own risk o’ falling off & destroying her in the snap o’ a finger: she had to find her room in the labyrinth inside that building, had to figure out all the financial trickery to keeping it & feeding herself while paying for her expensive classes, had to get to e’ery class on time e’ery day & had to excel @ e’ery class. A single failed project could destroy her fore’er.

But she did what she always did when faced with such seeming impossibilities: she took a deep breath & reminded herself that effortless tasks were no accomplishments @ all; ’twas the threats & pain that made a task valuable.

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2016 May 5:

I decided to try writting a diary to help me be better @ expressing myself, which doesn’t look like it’s working well now cuz I keep having trouble thinking o what words to use. But that’s OK, sense I guess “custom makes calaber”, or howe’er that saying goes. Autumn did say that I could change to be a better person. I hope she’s right.

Anyway, ¡I wanted to write specially now cuz o’ the excitting day I had! I still can’t believe it! I ne’er thought I’d be able to work anywhere, having no skills @ all, ¡but I was able to get one! Aparently the owner o some place called Kat Insurance was looking for a mascot & said he was impressed by my “cat costume”. I tried telling him that it isn’t a costume, but he seamed to still think it is.

I was fraid I couldn’t do the job & would be fired soon, but I was able to do it it turns out. All I had to do was hold this sign up in front o the building. ’Twas awfully cold outside & holding that sign up for hours did feel kinda tiring, but I can probly take a coat tommorrow &, anyway, as I heard Autumn say, “no misery, no victory”, or something like that. I bet if I do it for a while my arms might get stronger & it won’t be as tiring. Honestlly, I was so excitted today bout actually getting a job that I hardlly e’en noticed, anyway. I know it’s not the hardest job in the world, but it’s still nice to be useful for once. I probly shouldn’t say stuff like that tho cuz Dawn says I should think positivelly.

Anyway, n ( I need to stop writting this so much ) Not much happened during most o the day, cept me standing round holding the sign & looking round @ the city. It really is beutiful ( I hope that’s how you spell it. I need to get myself a dictionery, cuz I’m not that good @ spelling. ), specially all o the colorful cars that drive by in many different shapes. When it got darker, my boss, Sir Wednesday, said I was done & could go home. That was awfully nice o him, considering he could o expected me to know when to go home & do that myself, sense I should o known already.

Anyway, I got back to Dawn’s & told her the good news. Unfortunatly, I accidentlly forgot to tell her when I 1st got the job, which was probly rude o me, & she said she was worried bout me. I probly shouldn’t be thinking this kinda thing, but I don’t know why Dawn doesn’t spend her time worrying bout people who deserve it mo. E’en with my new job ( which really isn’t that amazing, anyway ) I still can’t see myself really being the kind o person who makes good use o it. Someone who’s great. O well, I probly shouldn’t write bout this kinda thing.

Well, that’s all I have to say for today. I’ve written quite alot. I usualy don’t write that much, sense I don’t have much to say ( aleast not anything very smart ), but Dawn told me I should do it to help me express myself mo. She said I shouldn’t do it e’ery day, tho, cuz it might get tiring, just when something important happens, like today with this new job, which I’ll try to do.

Anyway, this entry’s getting rammbly, so I’ll just end this here. As you can see ( as if anyone else will e’er want to read this ) I’m not very good @ writting, but hopefully I’ll get better @ this as I keep doing it too.

Felix Spero

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She’d been thinking ’bout it for a while & decided that the gingerhaired thiefrat that Moneybags obsessed o’er would have to pay. She was thinking ’bout it while walking down Habanero Highway, which always reeked o’ gasoline on the desert afternoons, on a trip toward Verditropolis, which she was now thinking she’d have to postpone for a bit. She was in 1 o’ her millions o’ disguises, as she always was, & was on the move. She didn’t think she was wanted for anything, but there was no reason to stay in any place long ’nough to become wanted.

She kept eyes all round her: tho the rat didn’t seem dangerous, she knew her knowledge on the subject was short & stunted. Hell, based on what she knew, she ne’er would’ve guessed she could’ve been robbed.

She still wondered ’bout that, still rolled the memory thru her mind as if it’d just occurred. In the apartment that she rarely & temporarily called her home, nondescript, no different from the other thousands that infect the city, she was rummaging thru her bookcase where she hid most o’ her funds & noticed her funds missing. The books themselves were in the right place, down to the Talented Mr. Ripley being tilted gainst the right end; but the stacks of orange bills wrapped in rubber bands were nowhere in sight or sense.

For a second she wondered if she’d changed her hiding place & just forgot. She remembered well ’nough that changing hiding places was a common tactic she’d learned in her ol’ days in SOA. But, no, she knew she’d been robbed. She could feel it. She knew gut feeling was a big part o’ her “career”, & she could feel it stirring now.

’Course, since Madame Autumn Springer was her only victim who was a thief herself, she was the obvious 1st target. & while the rat was good ’bout keeping any hairs or fingerprints from leaving her trail, the rat’s clumsy method o’ research, which was just asking round the apartment complex for info, revealed her like blood still sticky on her hands.

Despite this fatal flaw, she had to admit the rat was rather clever. ’Course, that would only prove her own brilliance when she managed to shut the rat down.

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“IN THE BELLY OF THE ANIMAL WHOSE DEMEANOR I DON’T QUITE ENJOY”, or “BOSK-FL5761-BELLY”, as it is abbreviated, is the seventh story of Boskeopolis Stories’s sixth season, and the 94th story overall, written by millenial Jupiterian crustacean J. J. W. Mezun. Autumn and Edgar are eaten by the white supremacist whale while searching Orange Ocean for treasure and spend the story trying to escape.

This story was first published 2022 February 1, but was lost in a server-crash caused by J. J. W. Mezun’s bitter ex-cat hacking into it, making it as-of-now a lost episode, which caused controversy at the time it occured.

There were two known significant versions of this story before it disappeared: the first version had two periods after each chapter title; dialogue was the same color as the rest of the text, surrounded in regular American quotation marks instead of J. J. W. Mezun’s usual unusual formatting wherein he colors dialogue Mulberry Red and puts angle brackets round them; and there was no final “chapter”, leading critics to attack this story for being unrealistic in not explaining how Autumn and Edgar escaped to tell everyone the story, which was presumably how Mezun knew about it, since whales obviously can’t talk — that’s ridiculous. The second revision appeared five minutes after the first version’s midnight ( UTC ) appearance when Mezun hastily logged on to clean up yet more fuck-ups on his part.

There are many inconsistencies in the formatting of the title: while the title on the web page was in all-caps with spaces between each word, the version of the title in the address bar is all lowercase letters with hyphens between words.

According to J. J. W. Mezun, the story took more than four years to finish, which makes him an incredible slacker. Come on, man. The author also claimed that it was inspired by his real-life experience reading Moby Dick while sitting at bus stops, which is clearly complete horse shit.

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Here I was: I found myself standing before the mouth o’ Osequus Cave, where legends say roams the great prophet, J. J. W. Mezun, who is said to have 1st discovered the obscure tales o’ Autumn Springer, the great thief o’ Boskeopoleon folklore.

Tho I knew this was a prophet, like many, perennially drunk on inspiration, & could be a danger to my life & soul, — when I would quiver for my life @ the thought o’ bumping into someone on domestic streets — as a prophet myself, a collector o’ all Boskeopolis’s best myths, I had no choice but to venture onward into the darkness o’ this grotto, a black hole that promised no return.

I didn’t wander long inside, with the limp light o’ my flashlight revealing li’l & my breath held tight, before I heard a voice, deep & hoarse from rare use, call out to me in a strange language that I, thankfully, in my deep studies, knew. Roughly translated, twas:

<You must be Nasrin Mohsen, the Speaker o’ the Eye>. I flushed & felt my stomach churn @ the unexpected recognition & the bizarre title they had given me. ¿How many others know who I am, & do they all call me by this odd — & undeserved — appellation? The voice continued, <I hope you can get into my lair>.

I felt my nerves shudder as I witnessed a lanky creature whose shape did not seem to fit any terrestrial being lumber out o’ the shadows — a creature o’ unknown species; but if one had to designate one, ’twould be mostly a mix o’ crustacean, tortoise, insect, & human, for, putting together all o’ the few witness accounts, they had a human head & torso, but with crablike claws, a tortoise’s shell on round their back, & long, black, thin legs like an ant’s. Since so few had seen this being & lived to conjure up a Latin name, likely referencing their favorite musician, like Prodigiosum ladygaga, the species — or e’en family, or order, or phylum, given how many their various parts encompasses — is still unnamed. But since this was likely the only instance o’ this class, it probably didn’t matter; I already knew a name for this thing: Prof. — tho in what dark subject matter they studied is unknown to all who speak — J. J. W. Mezun.

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