Dear Reader: In Reply to Your Correspondence

Hi! Sorry to keep you waiting.

I keep trying and failing to map out an adequate preamble to any of this, so here goes. If you wrote to me after 665 ended and never heard back, this is a letter to you.

The things I want to tell you are: thank you, and I’m sorry. I’ll start with the sorry.

I’m sorry I never wrote back. Sometimes it was a missive asking me to start making things again, sometimes just a bit of a check-in, sometimes just saying you’re out there and you had occasion to think about me and wondered what I was up to these days. In any event, I can tell you that I read every one. If you didn’t get a bounceback message, I read it, and it made my day. The tangle of reasons why I didn’t write back, even just briefly to say thanks, was a whole mountainous mess of my own horseshit problems and I think explication of them would sound too much like an attempt to excuse it, and I don’t want to do that. What I’ll say is that avoidant behavior loops and shame spirals and procrastination bouts that go on for years at a stretch are killer, and they can be a sign there’s something else going on that maybe needs attention. Little tip from your old pal JSP. Anyway, what matters here is: You took the time out of your day to drop me a line and said something nice – that’s the thing, everyone who said anything at all said something nice – you said something that meant a lot to me, and probably made me cry a little, and you deserved more than silence in return.

That said: Thank you. I’m serious about crying. I was dealing with a lot, including a big sloppy helping of despair. Maybe you can relate: despair is sometimes situational and specific, and sometimes it’s this big thorny existential thing that orbits a few core areas of you but largely it’s nameless and formless and it’s just sort of there. It can be both, even, and then they do a whole tag team thing and, okay you get it. It’s not like I didn’t notice that every so often I’d get just enough oomph to start making declarations that I was going to start making things again soon and then I’d turn around and it was a year later and I had maybe a couple beginnings of something sitting in a sketchbook I promised myself I’d get back to one of these days. Faith in myself was something I rebuilt extremely gradually and in a lot of quiet and not super visible ways. It was a little spark, a tiny cinder, and I am not kidding when I say that every time I noticed another email coming in with a subject like “Is this JSP?” or “sixsixfive” or what have you, I read it, and I felt really bad about not replying, but it stayed with me that you were out there, that you remembered me, and that you liked the work I did. On more than one occasion I got overcome and just broke down crying with gratitude, despite everything. Every time I heard from you, that little cinder either glowed a little more strongly, or it stopped the fading it was in the middle of. So if you wrote and wondered if your message reached me: It did, in so many ways. I’ve carried your correspondence with me in my heart and head and I cannot thank you enough.

A bunch of other stuff happened too, in the intervening years. There’s some catching up that’ll show up in subsequent entries on this site, and I’m trying to lay it out in a way that’s workable and not boring. But when I sat down to start writing, I knew where I needed to start, and it’s with you, and the reply I didn’t send until now. I’m sorry, and from the bottom of my heart: thank you. And thank you for liking the stuff I made, and caring enough to say so. Twenty (!) years after I started dorking around with my little orange website, there are some novelties which have never worn off. To this day it just absolutely floors me to think I could type some words or upload some scribbles into my computer and it could reach someone out there and connect with them – with you – in whatever way. I sincerely think that’s miraculous and I never feel any less of a sense of wonder about it than I did the first time it happened.

Thank you for your patience and thank you for reading and, above all, thank you for being you. I’ll write more soon.


Some Thoughts on Fallout 4

(WARNING: a lot of spoilers)

Fallout 4 has turned out to be a mix of elements that are sometimes excellent and sometimes frustratingly brush up against the edges of the more interesting game it did not become. It’s full of interesting side quests and then a main questline that always seems kind of confused and hurried.

First, I should say that the game has a lot of fun moments and little bits like building a structure at Oberland Station with a dormitory on the bottom floor and a bar on top. Chairs of all kinds, and bar stools, and a bar. A jukebox and soft lights and knickknacks on the walls. Sitting at a picnic table and seeing everyone mill about and drink and smoke after a long day of farming. Little things that make the world feel alive, for a moment.

This is an off-the-dome estimate but I’d say something like ninety (maybe ninety-five) percent of the quests amount to: talking to a character, going to a location, killing everyone at that location (one of the enemies will either be named or legendary depending on whether the quest is randomly generated or not) and maybe retrieving an item, then returning to the first character and either telling them you killed everyone or giving them the item you received from killing everyone.

I have found one (1) quest that allowed me to perform intelligence checks to find a solution to a problem.

Basically, the game railroads you into murder almost all of the time. This has no perceptible effect on your character, for better or for worse. Raider dialogue suggest they get skittish about the possibility of synths showing up at the doorstep, but they don’t give a shit when it’s you. The nuclear apocalypse seems to have caused an unexpected mutation: Everyone has developed a new gland, somewhere in their neck I assume, that allows them to perceive unerringly when they are near the person to talk to when it’s time to go do a bullshit milk-run mission, and that person is you. Sometimes, when you have performed enough tasks for a character, other characters will indicate they’re aware of the tasks you’ve performed and that they would like you to perform a task for them now. Your actions have no other cumulative effect. Inescapably, you are personally responsible for a mountain of corpses, most of which were just people defending their turf from the blood-sodden murderous maniac who kicked down their door and started blowing people’s heads off.

This paradox colors the entire game. Preston Garvey is that kid you continued to be friends with in middle school but were increasingly embarrassed to be seen with, and he wasn’t doing anything wrong necessarily but you could tell that his values and interests were growing irreconcilably distant from your own. You become the General of the Minutemen, and sometimes if a settlement gets raided and there are Minutemen around while you are there, they will help you defend the settlement. This is the only useful function any of the Minutemen perform except for giving you quests they inexplicably are unwilling or unable to go on themselves (they never even do anything off-camera). This same function, minus the quest-giving, is also fulfilled by any settlers you’ve got kicking around who will immediately open fire on any nearby threat to their settlement, making the Minutemen even more superfluous because the only thing in the game that can actually kill settlers is you. Other than that, you are the only member of the Minutemen doing any work at all, though Preston and Sturges can frequently be seen idly hammering nails into the outer wall of a well-preserved house, having selected the one part of the entire fucking town that doesn’t need a touch-up and proceeding to touch it up. This important labor precludes them from engaging in any of the tasks that compose the Minutemen’s mission statement.

Preston Garvey is that kid who wants to make a zine, and all of his conversations with you are about his zine, and he wants you to help him with his zine and he’s got a lot of homework right now so you wind up doing the whole thing for him. You typeset everything and do all the layouts and sneak into the library to photocopy everything. “Man,” he says when it’s printed, “that looks good. That looks real good. We did it, man.”

Sturges will help you teleport into the Institute, although he is not the only person who can do so. Regardless of how much effort he expends, he will talk about how we saved the day once the credits roll. Someone elsewhere noted that when you first meet Sturges, he is typing away at the keyboard of a terminal. When you look at the terminal yourself, it is locked. Sturges was just kind of hammering away at keys and hoping no one would notice.

The protagonist always, always, always sounds like a voice actor who’s doing his best, and “his best” involves inserting no real personality into anything he says or does.

* * *

A lot of parts of the game feel like they were put together by people who weren’t talking to each other and had no intermediary between them, even parts that should be closely connected. The companions almost always feel like hurdles to clear, without much thought put into making them feel like anything else. Cait is basically amoral and she likes it when you are mean to people. She likes it when you steal things and she likes it when you pick locks in front of her. Piper is fairly morally upstanding, or what passes for it in this game, and she does not like it when you steal but she does like it when you pick locks in front of her. If you pick enough locks in front of Cait, she will eventually confess to you that she has a drug addiction and asks for your help. In this case she told me she has heard of a place called Vault 95 where rumors exist of a solution that might help her. Approximately three days earlier in-game, Cait and I had been to Vault 95 and methodically gone through the place, killing every living thing inside. This appeared to slip her mind and I had no option for reminding her that, say, the blood from the place’s inhabitants was probably still crusting up her hair. Elsewhere in the game, it’s quite possible for me to have killed a named raider by accident, later to run into the person who asks me to kill that raider and to inform them that I already have. Sometimes, after you have been asked a couple dozen times to go kill super mutants and then gone and done so, and talked to Strong the super mutant about super mutants and what super mutants are and what they do, someone will ask you to go kill super mutants and you will have the option of asking, “What’s a…super mutant?”

I got Cait clean, and eventually I had picked enough locks in front of Cait that she wanted to discuss her Feelings. There was a romance option at the end of that conversation, and though my character’s Charisma score was high, the option was highlighted in red meaning I had little chance of succeeding, even if I’d wanted to (I did not). I therefore told her that we were the best of friends and I wouldn’t have it any other way. This made her happy. When I came back to the town I’d sent her to, she said, “I know I’ve said it before, but…” and then repeated word-for-word the confession that led to the romance check. It was still highlighted in red. The game is at once terrified that I will miss the chance to sleep with a digital character, but also wants to provide me with roadblocks to doing so, even after I’ve turned down the opportunity. Cait has now said this entire spiel to me three times. The game really wants you to fuck her. The game really does not want you to fuck her.

Cait does not like it when you flirt with other women in front of her, but if you dismiss her in favor of Piper or vice-versa, she will suggest a threesome.

The companions will tell you their stories if you do enough things they like in front of them. They rarely have any strong stake in the game’s story. They might dislike certain actions, or siding against factions to which they’re sympathetic, but mostly they’ll go along with what you do. There are no dealbreakers. Cait was a slave for five years and has horrific memories of it, but if you attempt to sell a child into slavery in front of her, she won’t like it but she’ll get over it. On the other hand, it’s possible to be kind to people in front of her too many times, at which point she will have had enough, thank you very much, and part company with you.

* * *

Preston Garvey is a load. Preston Garvey is just a goddamn fucking load.

* * *

At one point in the game, you encounter an old woman who’s manic with anger, holding up a shotgun and demanding you go away, because she believes she is a synth. She tells you that she had a grandson, and one night while sitting on watch with her gun in her lap, she must have fallen asleep or something because when she woke up her grandson had been shot to death and no one else was around. She must be responsible, she tells you. She’s a synth, she has to be. There’s no other explanation she can think of, and she is mad with grief. You can talk her into lowering her gun and then offer her sympathetic words, telling her that what happened is not her fault, that she’s not a synth. She will calm down a little and thank you for offering your perspective and say feels better now.

You can then go upstairs and break into her terminal. Due to layout of the building, there’s no way to do so without encountering her and having a conversation with her first. If you do so, you can read about her nightmares and also a diary entry in which she recounts the night she fell asleep with her gun in her lap, and when she woke up her grandson had been shot to death and no one else was around. This experience convinced her she is a synth, says the diary. She can think of no other explanation, and she is mad with grief.

This then enables you to go downstairs and open a new line of dialogue with her where you confront her about her grandson. If you do, she breaks down and says she might as well tell you the whole story: One night, while she was sitting on watch with her gun in her lap, she fell asleep. When she woke up, her grandson had been shot to death, and no one else was around. She is certain that she herself is responsible, and that she is a synth. She can think of no other explanation, and she is mad with grief. You can talk her down, and she will calm down a little and thank you for offering your perspective and say she feels better now.

Should you choose to kill her, you will find out she is not a synth. No explanation for what actually happened is ever given. I checked the wiki.

* * *

Sometimes, Fallout 4 is a child, insisting that you play only within the tightly-defined rules it has come up with and ignoring you if you don’t. You are pretending to be Superman, and it is pretending to be Lex Luthor, and when Superman punches Lex Luthor, it petulantly insists that you did not do that and it is not hurt. “This rock is Kryptonite, actually,” it says, holding up a pebble. “You’re weak now, you have to fall down.” You’re not. You don’t. It might be something if the game would throw a tantrum if you refused to play along, but it never does. It just pretends you didn’t do that.

When I finally made it to the Institute and found out what happened to my infant son from the beginning of the game, I was honestly pretty excited on a storytelling level. It seemed pretty meaty: You’ve finally found your son and he’s older than you and he’s also basically Hitler. This was what I kept coming back to. The Institute is committing slavery, but they’re also able to make new slaves at the touch of a button and wipe the memories of runaway slaves. They create entities that can think and feel and then insist those entities cannot think or feel, and punish them for acting as though they can. They are also making great scientific strides that could finally, after centuries, lift humanity out of the shitpile the world has become. What do you do? What can you do?

I have a longstanding policy in the Fallout games of killing slavers on sight, but this was my son, for God’s sake. Then, while strolling through the Institute, I overheard a conversation between two scientists in which I learned the synths experience REM sleep and are dreaming. At a terminal, I learned the paterfamilias of the Warwick family had been abducted and tortured until they could make a convincing copy of him, then presumably killed, far underground, never seeing his loved ones again, never understanding why. The copy would gather data about the family’s farm and then, once they had enough data, the whole family would be killed, likely by the hand of an entity they believed to be their husband, their father.

A scientist turned to me in a room in the Synth Retention Bureau wing and said, “The synths may seem human, but don’t let that fool you. They’re not.”

The shotgun blast tore her head clean off her shoulders, bouncing twice I think when it hit the ground, a trail of blood marking its path through the air for a quarter-second. Two Institute coursers drew their guns and walked towards me, directly into a garden of hastily-placed plasma mines. Their artificial bodies ripped into pieces, flinging everywhere. I methodically walked around the Institute, killing everyone in sight. Most of the Institute’s denizens drew guns in a futile attempt to stop me, whereas others cowered behind bulky terminals, hoping I’d miss them. I did not.

For their crimes, there were no courts I could appeal to. No police to call. There were no judges, no juries. Just me. In a lawless land, there was no difference between what was moral and what I could not be stopped from doing.

Everyone was complicit. Everyone had to die.

A cloud of white lab coats appeared on the periphery of my vision alongside a few laser blasts. I spun around, unloading exploding bullets into them, not seeing what I was firing at. My son was one of them, and he died, like they all died. I did not stop. I launched a mini nuke into the center of the place, a cash-register sound and experience tally informing me that I had sheared all life from the Earth in a fifty-foot radius or so.

By the time I was done, there were only three sentient beings alive in The Institute: Two children (one synth, one human), and a synth who had not attacked me. He wandered among the corpses serenely, occasionally stopping to say things like, “You must be so proud of what Father has built!” I got on the elevator and left, receiving a warning that I’d better run, that they would get me for this. I don’t know who was supposed to be speaking.

The Institute was now a tomb, a formerly sterile place of clean white hallways now littered with mouldering bodies and smeared with chunks of viscera. Heads and legs and eyeballs lay alongside dropped coffee cups and folders and pens. Two children and one happy idiot ambled aimlessly, alone, uncomprehending, the living buried with the dead.

I returned to Sanctuary, to unload some of what I’d picked up down there – the lab coats of my son and of the Institute head scientists. I got a notification that the Castle needed to be defended. The last remnant of the Institute’s synths descended upon my base in a desperate final assault, only to be torn to pieces by the Castle’s defenses and my personal arsenal. The masters lay dead, and now so did the servants who’d sided with them. As my minigun spun to a stop, its red-hot barrels cooling, the last synth in the Institute’s army clattered to the ground.

And Preston Garvey turned to me and said, “Hey, I know a way we can finally strike back at the Institute.”

8 Lifehacks For People Who Need, Or Just Want, 8 Lifehacks

  1. If a loved one dies, no need to worry! Just get a magic potion that brings dead people back to life.
  2. Use the following mnemonic device: Mary Saw A Nintendo Game
  3. Scratched up DVD? You might have to replace it but you might not! It still might work, but if it doesn’t then yeah you’re going to have to replace it.
  4. Trouble getting out of bed in the morning? Simply make it so your bed goes away for a while so you can’t go back to it. Bring your bed back just before you leave for work.
  5. Press your left thumb and forefinger into your right palm, just under the joint for your right ring finger. Yeah, like that. Good. Gooood.
  6. Hungry, but broke? Not for long! Get a free slice of pizza.
  7. Cut most of your dick off and throw it in the garbage. You won’t believe what happens next!
  8. Hung over after a long crazy night? Try a classic Russian hangover cure!

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

(Editor’s note: The following is a letter sent to Commuter Barnacle by a songwriter named Mel Clopps. We have made no attempt to verify the statements made in it, and the views expressed therein do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Commuter Barnacle. Mr. Clopps felt that this was the best platform for him to tell his story, and we gave him the opportunity. Thank you for reading. -ed.)

Hi. My name is Mel Clopps, and you haven’t heard of me. I’ve written one of the most well-known songs of the holiday season, sure, but you haven’t heard of me, thanks to a credit-stealing hack. And today I’d like to finally set the record straight about that, and about the song you never knew I wrote.

I’ll cut to the chase: I’m the real composer of the song “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” That’s right, jack. Me.

Now, I know you’re about to go looking at your phone like every schmuck does, and if you do, you’ll see that your precious Wikipedia says Frank Loesser wrote the song in 1944. Nope. I wrote it, in 1940, and then I met Loesser while we were both in the army. We got to talking, and it came out that I was a composer and he asked me if I had anything I could play for him. I did – I played him a couple songs, including “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” which he swiped from me wholesale. I was a struggling nobody at the time, and I had no money to hire a lawyer to sue him with, so I had to let it go.

I gave up on composing after that, and I became a meatcutter. I did okay for myself, enough to retire comfortably. And I put the whole stupid thing behind me, or so I thought. Yeah, sometimes I’d be walking through a Krogers or something and I’d hear that song come on, and it’d just burn me up, brother. But I came to peace with it, and I even began to appreciate how so many people liked the song, even if they didn’t know it was mine. Oh, I’d make sure I didn’t read whatever anyone wrote about it, but like I say, I came to peace with it.

Now you know. But that’s not the main reason I’m writing this.

I’m writing this because the song came up in conversation a little while ago with my granddaughter, and I finally let it slip that I’d written it. Boy, I figured she’d be tickled pink to know her old grandpa had come up with a holiday classic, you know? You can imagine my shock when she said, “Oh, you wrote the rape song?”

So it turns out, the song’s seen something of a critical reappraisal in the last couple years, and a lot of folks have said it’s got overtones of coercion, and that it’s rapey. That’s the word she used, you know. Rapey. I sat down and listened to it for the first time in decades, and coming into it cold without knowing any of the backstory that got stripped away by that crumb Loesser, I was stunned. Yeah, it’s got some questionable business in it if you don’t know the whole story.

I guess normally I’d let this go like I let the song go originally, but something about the look in my granddaughter’s eyes made me want to set the record straight, finally. As I’m sure you can figure, I’m getting on in years, and I want this cleared up before I go. I don’t want my legacy to be “the rape song.” So here it is.

You know, a lot of people think of prog as a genre of music which didn’t really exist until, what, the sixties? Seventies? Phooey. I was one of the earliest prog musicians, and I can tell you that it was around in the forties, and it was as good as it’s ever been. Maybe it was the musical possibilities of the Hammond organ, maybe it was the way Astounding Science-Fiction was telling stories we wanted to see in musical form, but I tell you, we couldn’t get enough of it. I have no idea why, but history has forgotten all of these phenomenal works. You’ve probably never heard Eubie Blake’s The Gods of Knowledge, Book I, which was just this fantastic suite about what happens when a rugged individualist attempts to fly faster than the speed of light in his spaceship. Or Gershwin’s final work, which was also his finest: Who Weeps for Saturnus? which achieved the brilliant narrative (and musical) feat of telling the story of the Greek gods as a parallax view of World War One – Franz Ferdinand and the Omphalos stone are basically the same thing. I know that sounds a little wild, but you’d have to hear it. Gershwin’s epic cycle featured a nameless protagonist, a rugged individualist standing defiantly against a world which sought to outlaw all forms of expression. It was full of polyrhythms and harmonies that’d just blow your hair back. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you I wept openly the first time I heard it.

All of which is to say that “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” was part of a much bigger work. One which I spent years of my life on, only to have it taken away from me and presented without context to a public who mistook it for something much lesser than what it really is.

The Doors of Beyond, Book I: The Passage to Hades was a concept album I finished writing in 1940 (Book II was going to be called Neptune Ascending but I guess it’s a moot point now). The Doors of Beyond tells the story of an unnamed man who devotes his life to the perfection of self and to rugged individualism, see, and it’s this whiz-bang sci-fi adventure, a real cracker of a story, but also it aimed to tell a deeper truth about the human condition. The narrator lives in a futuristic society ruled by the totalitarian Clerics of Andromeda, who rule their citizens’ lives and stamp out independent thought. But then, one day, the narrator discovers a record player from the time before the Age of Andromeda, with jazz music on it, and everything changes.

Well, long story short, he narrowly escapes from the Andromeda Ziggurat with his life, and he acquires a traveling companion – a woman who never before questioned the life she’d been living. They try to fly away, but the Clerics give chase and their spaceship is badly damaged. Together, they just barely evade the Clerics’ ships and hide out on the planet Pluto while the ship’s computer makes automatic repairs. But here’s the thing, right, and I think you’ll agree that this is a real stroke of brilliance: It turns out, the shock of being taken out of the life she knows, it makes her go crazy, you know? She has this breakdown, and what happens is, she suddenly thinks she’s back on Earth and that she has to get home to her mother. Since the protagonist is a self-made man who’s good at everything, he knows that this is a special kind of space psychosis, and that if you don’t play along with the sufferer’s delusions, they just might experience Galactic Mind Death (a lot of this is in the liner notes and is only alluded to in the actual songs).

So what does he do, right? She can’t actually go out onto the surface of Pluto. But he can’t tell her that. So what he does is, he concocts this story about how they’re back on Earth but it’s winter, and it’s too cold to go outside, and then this is where the album first hints that there’s romantic feelings between the two of them, because he calls her baby. It’s genius, because he’s only playacting, but you can tell there’s real emotion underneath it and he’s worried about her.

And then “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” starts.

Now, another thing Loesser changed is that his version of the song is only in one time signature – the original changes it up a lot. Also, the original is sixteen minutes long and there’s a long musical interlude. Basically, he just took the lyrics and tune and ruined it. Took out the whole meaning and story and everything, like a jerk.

I mean, think about it, “No cabs to be had out there?” It’s great, because it works on so many levels. He’s talking about bad Earth weather where she wouldn’t be able to get a cab – but on another level, he’s talking about how there are no cabs on the surface of Pluto. Get it? So you’re listening to this album and this complex layered wordplay is happening and it’s blowing your mind.

Oh, and the part about “What’s in this drink?” Yeah, see, he has the ship’s nutri-synthesizers put together a futuristic medicine which he believes will cure her space psychosis, but he can’t tell her why he needs her to drink it so he has to just act like he’s on the make. And the liner notes make it clear that he’s conflicted because he doesn’t want her to think he’s slipping her a mickey but at the same time, he knows it’s the only way to save her. This is real human drama, buddy. When I finished writing it, I remember saying, “Let’s see Cole Porter top that!” He never did, unfortunately – Porter died before he had the chance to finish writing Sirens of the Nebula. He showed me the overture though, and it was just killer.

So there it is. Now you know the story of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” and maybe the next time you hear it, you’ll think of it as what it is – a painstakingly crafted chapter in a sci-fi parable which tells real truths about the human condition – and not just “the rape song.”


Mel Clopps

PS. Admittedly, I did use rape as a narrative device at other points in the album, at least a half-dozen times or so, and all of them were used to provide motivation for a male character. But I think the greater point stands.

Femto-Horror: The Newest Trend in Microfiction

Some time ago, there emerged Pico-Horror, the microfiction format wherein internet writers attempted to craft the scariest story possible using only two sentences. Now, hot on its heels comes Femto-Horror, a bone-chilling trend in constrained storytelling. If you find that the airy canyon of Twitter’s 140 characters gives you too much elbow room, if Pico-Horror seemed like a good start but you keep having to add filler to stretch it out to two sentences, then you’re certain to find Femto-Horror the ultimate in creative minimalism, because Femto-Horror challenges the writer to come up with the scariest story possible while keeping it to a length no greater than one letter.

Already, some of the most well-known names in literature have come forth to put their own spin on this clearly excellent idea. Noted internet person Cory Doctorow threw down the gauntlet with his acclaimed spooky story, “C,” meeting with a flood of accolades and upvotes from all corners of Reddit or boingboing or whatever. Though he faces criticism for making his story out of the first letter of his name, Doctorow insists he only picked the letter because he’s always found it powerful, and commanding of attention.

More stories emerged. None other than Neil Gaiman spoke to Commuter Barnacle about his barn-burner of a story, “H.” Says Gaiman, “Oh, I thought the idea was glorious. I find writing with constraints to be quite cozy, really, like a proper cup of tea or late Sunday afternoons in autumn, but I was quite stymied at first by how steep the restriction is. Given the limitations, Femto-Horror winds up being mostly about picking what you think is the scariest letter. I decided on H because it looks a bit like it’s raising its arms, sort of, like a monster. But perhaps we may find that sometimes we’re wrong about who is truly monstrous.”

Meanwhile, genre luminary Charles Stross stepped up to the plate with his Weird Fiction pastiche, “Q.” While the story debuted to a mostly positive reception, critics have found things to dislike about it. As one anonymous commenter whinnied, “Ugh, typical. He’s just taking something from Lovecraft and adding something to it. Like he thought nobody would notice that he just took the letter O from the fourth page of The Strange Case of Charles Dexter Ward and added a curvy line sticking out.” Similar charges were leveled at Wil Wheaton, whose ghost story “M” has been called a ripoff of John Scalzi’s “N,” which is also a ghost story, but in space.

Charges of unoriginality are less likely to stick to author Mark Z. Danielewski, who announced via his message board that he’d completed work on a Femto-Horror story of his own. His story, “ə,” has been eagerly received by audiences, who’ve praised its inventive  structure and ambitious prose but mostly admitted it’s still not as good as House of Leaves.

But it’s not only professionals getting into the action. Reddit user fudgechugger had barely put the finishing touches on his pulse-pounding zombie epic, “L,” before he received notification that it had been optioned for a film by 20th Century Fox. Principal photography is expected to begin in early spring. The movie has a projected budget of $80 million and Adrien Brody is expected to star. When we spoke to fudgechugger, he was terribly excited – not just for the fame, but for the unexpected windfall. Mr. Chugger did not tell us an exact figure, but he confirms that the studio is paying him a sum in excess of eighteen dollars.

It’s not all good news and roses and rainbows and that sort of thing, though, as author Seanan McGuire was unfortunate enough to learn. She unveiled her apocalyptic cyber-thriller, “@,” to wild paroxysms of orgasmic retweets, and even received much praise for the tale’s strong, well-written POC characters. Readers were so excited, and so hungry for more stories in the fully realized world of “@” that McGuire immediately went to work on a sequel. She proudly released “ƒ” two weeks later, only to be met with a hail of controversy. It seems that ƒ is also the preferred pronoun of a Tumblr user named clobberbatch, who was none too pleased to see it used in a story. “This is appropriation and it’s not okay,” ƒ said. ƒ went on to write a 20,000 word essay (though the essay is only 150 words if you do not count each use of the word literally) explaining how McGuire’s use of the character is problematic. At press time, this essay had ben reblogged eighty quinitillion times between the same six people. The kerfuffle is already being referred to as ƒ-fail 2014.

But the creative voice is unlikely to be dissuaded, as Femto-Horror continues to spread all through the internet like some kind of metaphor for a thing that spreads rapidly through a system. Already, anthologies are being hastily assembled and edited, even as writers gear up to tackle what some say will be the next fad in constrained storytelling: Un-Horror, whereby writers attempt to scribe the scariest story possible while sitting on their hands and not touching a writing implement of any kind. Fright afficionados are already looking forward to the terrifying blank pages their favorite authors come up with, and when they do, you can be sure Commuter Barnacle will be here to tell you all about it!