In truth I have never been one for diaries or journals. I understand the importance of good note keeping, naturally. Any scientist does. But the idea of recording my own personal thoughts has always been abhorrent to me. How self-indulgent, I thought.
But recent events have changed my mind. I now see the value in putting these events down on paper. Immortalising them, somewhere. Anywhere. We live in strange times. Exciting, yes. Pleasing? Sometimes. But always strange.
The current events took place less than a week ago. I was sitting in my drawing room, snugged in a velvet robe and smoking a pipe of wassie tobacco. Yes, I realise the moral implications of this habit, but a wassie has to have some vices. It was a high-backed armchair and I was resting my head against the winged side, almost in a doze. The flames in the fireplace had long since faded, the coals now glowing a deep amber, ashes settling in the grate.
I was waiting, you see. Waiting to die. I had lived a good life, but today was wassie Wednesday. The second of my existence. Not counting that of my creation, of course. It was the second anniversary of the day of Loom, when we had all been plucked from the ether, shaped by the rough hand of Meta and then dropped to earth. Which meant it was Wassie Yeeting Day, popularly known as WYD. The day when we were all yeeted high into the sky and ascend. We wassie know that we live but to die. Either at the hand of the outcast, other random acts of violence, or the slow and inescapable march of time. We know it in our soles. As in the bottom of our feet, where we feel things most deeply.
My eyes were beginning to close, consciousness slipping from my mind. This was it, I thought. Time to meet my maker. I felt calm, sensation slipping away. Then suddenly it returned with a jolt. Not to my entire body, but to my feet, of all places. In that instant I became amazingly aware of my feet, more aware than I have ever been of any part of my body. I could feel the air against them, the corded muscle of their incomprehensibly invertebrate biology, the soft weave of the rug beneath their feet.
And it was then that I became aware that the rug seemed to be moving. Only a tiny amount at first, but then a touch more, and a touch more. There was to be no doubt, the rug was being pulled, somehow. Most of me was paralysed, but I still had control of my feet. With a belligerent surge I dug in my wassie claws. I would not allow this rug to be pulled! With all my strength I held on, desperate now even at the time of my death.
With a crash the door to my drawing room smashed open, the handle denting the valuable wooden panelling of the wall. In a snap I was awake, my eyes open and all sensation returned. The feeling of my feet was normal again. And indeed the rug did not seem to be moving. Had it been pulled? It was impossible to tell. Certainly, it wasn’t being pulled right now. Would it be pulled from me again in the future by some mysterious force? Had it all been a dream? I had little time to ponder this, as the source of the crash, and the new dent to my wall, came shambling before me.
The creature was a young looking wassie, although I knew he must be as old as me. He was yellow, and fat, with a tongue protruding from his beak.
“Derp scared ser. Come quick ser,” said the wassie.
I glanced up at the golden carriage clock on the mantelpiece. There were still six hours of wassie Wednesday remaining. There was time yet to die, I reflected.
“Come in young wassie,” I said, quite redundantly, as Derp stood before me already. He was dripping with water, a pool now forming around his feet.
“Derp scared,” repeated the creature.
“Yes, yes, I realise that. Maybe take a seat.” I gestured to the other armchair. Derp blinked.
“Derp –‘
“Yes, you are scared,” I cut in. “Care to elucidate?”
Derp blinked again.
“Why – are – you – scared?” I asked.
“Zombie wassie cum backa live,” said the fat yellow wassie, seeming to force each word out with a supreme force of will.
I sighed. Well, this did sound interesting. I was the foremost expert in wassie science. Well, one of the foremost experts, but I don’t speak often about her. The wassiewoman. In all of my studies I had not heard tell of a zombie wassie coming back to life. Oh, they were animate, certainly. But they were not alive.
“Well, young wassie. We had better investigate,” I said, throwing off my velvet robe. My sun shaman sigil shone in the firelight. I strode to the door and donned my helmet of thinking, tucking the loose strands of spaghetti behind my non-existent ears. Yes, the glasses of true sight would also be useful. I placed them on and the world when black. Useful yes, but impractical. Glasses that are 100% opaque are certainly limited in application. Tucking the glasses under my helmet I turned to Derp.
“Lead on then my wassie!” I cried with gusto, and then waited.
“Let’s – go,” I said.
Derp nodded and shuffled to the door. Little did I realise then that the next six hours would lead us on the wildest adventures of our lives, terrify us to our very core, and alter our entire perception of reality.
But I am tired now, and I fear the rest of the story must wait for another day.
