This is a list of all the locations which were contributed by readers of rec.arts.int-fiction and will be included in Something That Happened.
Your Office, in The Year 2020
Many things appear to have changed here since 1996. The compact discs on the shelf where textbooks used to be. The brightly crayoned stick figure drawings labelled "Daddy" on the wall. The brand new copy of Avalon on the desk. A note to yourself to thank Gareth for his kind review. So many things you never thought would happen.
David Dyte (ddyte@vaxc.cc.monash.edu.au).
In a Beckett Play
You are buried up to your chin in fine sand, staring across the empty seats of a dark theater. There is absolute silence, as though every molecule in the building is waiting for someone or something to happen. It is difficult to think clearly. Your mind is constantly drawn to tangents. Are you an actor? Are you watching the empty auditorium, or is the empty auditorium in rapt attention, studying you?
Russ Bryan (russbryan@earthlink.net).
Stuck in a Blueberry Pie
Well, I guess you shouldn't have annoyed the Baker's Wife after all. But then again, who would have thought she would shrink you with her rolliing pin and add you as an ingreedient to a bluberry pie. Now if you can just think of a way to get out of here before you become part of a cooked blueberry pie.
Jeffrey Michael Hersh (hersh@cebth0.cebaf.gov).
This was a real-life situation:
>ENTER CELLAR
As you go down the stairs you hear low conversation.
>LISTEN
"No, I think it went here."
"Here?"
"No, there."
"Okay..."
>D
There are two men in the cellar...blood is every-where, a large pool of it on the floor, spashes of it on the walls, even spots of it on the ceiling and (yuk!) stairs.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes! Look at the diagram!"
Consulting a diagram of cuts dotted onto the outline of a steer, the two men appear to be engrossed (and I use the word advisedly) in assembling a cow. You watch as they attempt to insert a roast.
"Yes. It fits. Okay, then where does this chop go?"
>LEAVE
Good idea. No sense in disturbing them - they are obviously disturbed enough already...
...it is a truly bizarre story from a real slice of life. For those dying of curiosity, the player was my wife's mother, the men were her father and uncle, and they were trying to put the cow back together again so they could find their place on the diagram - they had never butchered a cow before... I'd guess this was around 1935...
Larry Smith (lcs@zk3.dec.com).
Control Room
You expected this room to be filled with technical equipment, but it seems rather bare. A sign fixed sideways on the wall reads "Please do not tamper with the controls of the gravitational field inducer - this may seriously inconvenience our staff." Both ceiling and floor are carpetted in a tasteful pastel blue.
A large dial is labelled "Strength". A large lever is labelled with a double-headed arrow, and currently points downwards.
David Fletcher (linc0334@sable.ox.ac.uk).
Coventry
You are in Coventry. It is very, very quiet. And lonely. Three loudspeakers pointed in your direction are making no noise, and the grand piano in the corned is openly ignoring you. For some reason the floor smells of Peach Melba.
L.J. Wischik (ljw1004@thor.cam.ac.uk).
Behind the Eggtray
This part of the fridge looks as if it hasn't been cleaned for decades. Patches of frost and congealed milk make the footing treacherous, and a well-established bloom of antique broccoli dominates the south-east corner.
One brown egg sits in the tray.
[And in case you want to use them:]
egg description:
Looks like a Size 3. A legend has been stamped on the egg, stating that is guaranteed free-range.
broccoli description:
Perhaps this monster was once a victim of vegetable neglect, but you find it impossible to summon up any sympathy for it now.
tray description:
Red. Plastic. And stained.
responses to "look under tray":
John Wood (john@elvw.demon.co.uk).
Museum of Frozen Emotions
The museum is only dimly lit, by a glow seeming to come from the exhibits themselves. And what exhibits! On a marble pedestal to the north stands Happiness. Melancholy is to the south, flanked by Gloom. Jealousy looms next to Anger, which in turn almost completely hides Fear. Lust and Love stand to the east, so close as to be almost indistinguishable. In the middle of the room, swaying slightly, is Discontentment.
Dan Shiovitz (scythe@u.washington.edu).
Uncle Jesse's Farm
Chickens run amuck outside this dilapidated farmhouse. The exposed earth of the nearby dirt road is Georgia red clay red, meaning a red that is just shy of being orange, but not nearly as as orange as the General Lee, a muscular 1969 Dodge Charger complete with a huge "01" painted on each of its doors, both welded shut to facilitate easier entry through the windows. The car nearly takes your breath away. The sight of Daisy Duke washing her Jeep "Dixie" does take your breath away, primarily because the thought of having to breathe in the shorts she's wearing very nearly brings on an asthma attack. To the south, the gravel road leads through the countryside toward the Boar's Nest. Around the house, to the east, you can hear Uncle Jesse banging away on his truck.
Jeffrey Miller (jeffmill@ix.netcom.com).
Eastern Seaboard Fission Authority -- Deep Archives
You're deep within the data structures of the Eastern Seaboard Fission Authority. All around you, stacks upon stacks of archived data are patiently waiting to be accessed. Beyond them, at the limits of your perceptual horizon, swirl the walls of intrusion countermeasures, so recently breached.
A librarian daemon is here, presumably to aid users in interfacing the vast amounts of records stored here.
Roger Carbol (uq775@freenet.Victoria.BC.CA).
In The Garden
Leafy stalks tower high above you. You strain your head back, searching for the sun, but you can only see the light filtering down through the vegetation. Shaking your abdomen, you crunch over the dirt between two enormous pebbles.
Your antennae detect a faint scent trail, running north to southwest. The trail is at least a day old, but it signals food to the north.
You might be able to cut a low-lying leaf here with your mandibles.
>DIAGNOSE
You are a perfectly healther worker ant.
Kenneth Fair (kjfair@midway.uchicago.edu).
Under the Gazebo
Well, now you've done it. The gazebo's got you pinned but good. The weight of its floorboards pins you to the grassy earth, and after that last charge, it appears to have gone to sleep on top of you. You can see a trapdoor leading up into the gazebo proper just tantalizingly out of arm's reach. The remnants of the flask are strewn all around, making it a minor miracle you weren't cut when you fell. On the bright side, there's no sign of that Off-White... person.
You seem to have dropped the tetrahedral saw. It probably fell out of the bathtub in all the confusion of the chase.
The gazebo shifts uneasily over you and snores a bit.
Scott Johnson (zagyg@io.com).
The Green Room
This is the Green Room and, you guessed it, everything is green. Green grass (???) covers the floor, green vines climb the green walls to a green ceiling. The air is filled with a gentle green light. You'd never expect to see so much green in a cavern.
You feel rather out of place, not being green yourself.
A little green man, perhaps a meter tall, sits on a hummock of grass. Dressed all in green (of course), he puffs sweet-smelling green smoke from a green pipe.
He looks depressed.
Bonni Mierzejewska (u6ed4@wvnvm.wvnet.edu).
Inside the Cage
You yawn, stretch and shuffle out of your small wooden house, pausing to sniff at the air as you walk out into the expanse of pine shavings that lines the floor of your cage. You make the rounds. Everything smells pretty well the same way it did a few hours ago. Your wheel, the small cold dish full of unappetizing alfalfa pellets, the water bottle with its usual ration of murky room temperature water.
From beyond the thin metal bars you hear strange sounds that fall alien on your ears, but since you can't smell anything out of the ordinary you clamber onto your wheel and run for a while. Not particularly exciting, but such is the life of a hamster.
Neil K. Guy (neilg@sfu.ca).
Inside your mind
What you imagined to be a neatly organised series of files dating back to your earliest childhood memories are in fact quite the opposite. An image of that girl you met four years ago passes the chess game your dad beat you at when you were eight. At the front of the room is a somewhat odd looking cloud which you assume is the whatever lies at the front of your mind.
>Examine Cloud
You move towards the cloud, pressing youself against it. Suddenly you are one with the cloud. All you can see is you examining the cloud which is showing you examining the cloud which is showing you examining the cloud which is showing you examining the cloud which is. Everything goes quite. As you fall into the depths of madness you vaguly notice the words 'Recursion Error, Stack Overflow, Heap Corrupted'.
Ben Chalmers (Ben@bench.demon.co.uk).
Grassy Knoll
This pleasant stretch of grassland is a welcome, peaceful oasis in the urban jungle of downtown Dallas. You have an unobstructed view of the crowds assembled in Daly Plaza, awaiting the Presidential motorcade.
You can see a rifle, a walkie-talkie and a suitcase (which is closed) here.
Steven Howard (blore@ibm.net).
BurgerKrieg Restaurant
Ever since the Kaiser won the war, these military-themed fast-food eateries have become a part of everyday life; so it almost comes as a relief to see one here, of all places.
Flourescent light bathes the steam-sterilized, field-gray linoleum floor and tables. The sandbag counter is staffed by dour, plump blondes in cardboard pickelhaube helmets. Behind them, an array of shining machinery turns out burgers, shakes and fries with frightening precision. Condiments, napkins and straws are served from an ersatz commissary wagon.
The tables are deserted at this hour, and your reluctance to immediately place an order draws hostile, monocled glares from the employees.
Roger Giner-Sorolla (giner@xp.psych.nyu.edu).
The Library
The Library throbs with an almost palpable energy; reflections from occasional octarine discharges interspersed with, and sometimes simultaneous, sounds disturb the relative calm of this section. You awake leaning almost upright against a bookrest. As you try to make sense of your surroundings, moving your limbs brings your right-hand page into view displaying a picture showing most of your possessions fallen to the floor; something on your left-page seems to be trying to make itself noticed. There are a number of other books on this shelf; ominously, some of them are locked and chained. A movement, accompanied by a soft "ook" sound, catches your attention. At the same time, a light fluttering to your left makes itself felt. Nearby, a long-limbed creature is draped over a desk.
The previous room
There's no point in repeating what it looks like here, since you've just been here.
You see a coin that you hadn't noticed before.
Branko Collin (u249026@vm.uci.kun.ni).
The cubic space beneath Moore Creek Dam
Travel in the cubic space was notoriously turbulent, probably because the dam silted up so long ago. The "fasten seat belt" sign has been illuminated all through the trip, and the flight attendants regularly and uncaringly spill gin and hot coffee into your lap. However the jacarandas are in full bloom and, since the other guests had long ago fallen into drugged sleep, you could enjoy their singing in peace.
George Jenner (george@telematique.org).
The Left of Nowhere
You always keep hearing people speak of "The Middle of Nowhere", but no one ever speaks of other points within nowhere. Nowhere continues on to the east, while to the west is something that appears to be somewhere. THe most noteworthy feature of the nowhere is that there is nothing there. In fact, it looks like a curtain of black with no fixed dimentions or boundaries. There is no visible light source, and yet, you can see yourself. The only other thing here is a large wooden sign identifying this refion as "The Left of Nowhere"
Ross Raszewski (rraszews@skipjack.bluecrab.org).
The Nucleus
You stand atop one of the outer protons of the nucleus, held in place by your negative personality. Electrons swarm above you like angry bees. Other atoms float by in the distance, much too far away for you to reach.
The green thing suddenly realizes you're still here, and begins to approach.
Admiral Jota (jota@mv.mv.com).
On the screen
Pixels swirl all around you in a mesmerizing dance, as windows are created and destroyed. Above, load-monitors trundle along on their never-ending task, accompanied by the relentless ticking of a clock. Once in a while it's possible to catch a glimpse of an X-rated background.
A Netscape icon is lying here.
An Angband window appears on your right.
Kvan (kvan@diku.dk).
Amidst the Swarming Bees, on the Ostrich
A maelstrom of buzzing bees makes it very difficult for you to hear or even think. Each bee looks to be the size of your hand, and those stingers look mean. Through this storm of insects you can make out thousands of honeycombs. You might be able to climb even higher through the hive, or return back to the tree by moving downwards.
The ostrich shakes violently, apparently greatly distressed by all of this activity.
Jonathan Fry (jfry@saims.skidmore.edu).
Ye Olde Pastie Shoppe
The Pastie Shoppe, established some time in the eighteenth century, is one of the oldest surviving businesses in Bolton and the building itself dates back to the fifteenth or sixteenth century. It is a small but busy shop, selling meat pies, various sweet pastries and the meat and potato pasties for which it earned its name. Warm smells of fresh baking waft from the kitchens at the back of the shop and tantalise your nostrils. Trays of food lie behind glass counters
[ and an elderly lady in a blue and white striped apron smiles at you inquiringly from behind the cash register. "What d'you want, luv?" ]
Den of Iniquity (dmss@york.ac.uk).
Along the parade route (in the Popemobile)
You are imprisoned in a large plexiglas cage of sorts, being transported down a road. Ahead, you can make out the tail end of a high school marching band, while on either side of you the street is filled with throngs of jubilant yet reverent worshippers, waving and shouting and bowing and generally fighting for your attention. Small air holes have been drilled through the ceiling for your breathing convenience, but other than that there seems to be no discernible exit.
You see a small microphone and a pointy hat here.
tv's Spatch (spatula@kona.javanet.com).
Red Jelly Plain
The sea of sticky red jelly stretching away to the horizon in every direction shimmers in the mid-summer sun. It undulates with the faintest breath of air or the slightest movement upon its glistening surface; you are finding it increasingly difficult to remain upright. Behind you the imprints of your own passage quiver gently in the aftershock of your foot-fall, but otherwise the entire plain remains smooth and unmarked.
I mean "jelly" in the sense of that sticky stuff you had at parties as a kid (or perhaps still do)-- "jello", or whatever you Americans call it, not jam. And it's strawberry flavoured, not raspberry.
The idea of the undulating surface is that, eventually, it will wobble so much that the player will be unable to retain his footing, and will go sprawling to the ground. Obviously this, or any other movement, will only increase the wobble.
Of course, jelly is sticky, and this will affect any objects placed on it, and could hinder the player's attempts to pick thing up. And what about that sun? Won't the heat increase the stickiness?
The jelly is just the right consistency to support an average human, but what about a human with a full rucksack? Oh yes, the foot-prints. Well, needless to say anything else placed on the jelly will leave its mark too.
Should the player examine or look closely at the jelly:
Peering into the murky depths of the jelly, you fancy you can make out a shape below. You strain to pick out some detail, shielding your eyes from the reflective glare of that angry sun. Slowly, a definite form assimilates itself in your mind-- could it be? Is that possible?
Buried in the jelly is what looks to be a human being. Although it is impossible to precisely guess his depth, you would wager a month's pay that he is stuck well over a quarter of a mile below the surface. And if that is so, you could not begin to estimate his height-- this man beneath the jelly must truly be...
...a GIANT!
Julian Arnold (jools@arnod.demon.co.uk).
Amongst the Sausage Trees
You are surrounded by the source of all fats and cholesterols: the sausage trees of lower New Guinea. Nothing but sausages as far as the eye can see. Bacon grass crisps gently under the blazing sun, while the porkchop petalled piglacs turn to follow its slow arc across the sky.
There is a dead man laying under a nearby tree.
>x man
He seems to have died of cholesterol poisoning.
You can feel the cholesterol all around you seeping into your skin.
Gerry Kevin Wilson (whizzard@uclink.berkeley.edu).
Scrapple Factory, on the conveyor belt
Piles of identifiable and not-so-identifiable pig parts cover the floors, hang from hooks in the ceiling, and are duct-taped to the walls. The floor is awash in blood and industrial chemicals. At the north end of the factory there is a huge rusty machine with a chute opening onto a conveyor belt; at the south end, the conveyor belt empties its load into a huge, bubbling vat of Scrapple-to-be.
With a hideous squeal, the rusty machine spits a mass of bloody pig parts onto the conveyor belt.
The conveyor belt trundles farther along. You are now about three-quarters of the way to the vat.
A pile of pig pieces disappears into the vat with a horrible "schlupp" sound.
Adam J. Thornton (adam@phoenix.princeton.edu).
On Top of the Space Needle
You've managed to scramble up to a breathtaking view of downtown Seattle. You can see the white arches of the Science Center below you, and walking amongst them, the blue-capped U.N. soldiers. A spire towers above you, with a red light on top which blinks periodically.
>x spire
The spire towers above you. On top is a blinking red light. A cap of some kind seems to be caught between some of the guide wires.
>x cap
The blue cap has a stylized yellow 'M' on the front, so that it looks like it was made from two arches.
>x soldiers
Most of these U.N. soldiers are wearing blue caps, although you spot one with a red cap with a wavy white line on it. They seem to be looking for something.
Lucian Paul Smith (lpsmith@rice.edu).
Harbor of SpamHalla
This is where the souls of lost Spam -- the Spam that isn't gelatinous enough, the Spam that doesn't taste quite right, the Spam that is a little too overtly greenish -- are finally laid to rest. You see a line of ships bobbing up and down in the harbor waters -- an extended boardwalk gives you a steady place to stand. In the distance, you see a mighty barge, laden with Spam, set aflame under the night sky.
There is a Nordic Pork Priest here.
There is a good deal of odd-looking Spam here.
Peter Scott Rogers (psrogers@owlnet.rice.edu).
In the Speaker
You should have payed more attention to the warning tag when it said, "Speakers are not intended for vehicular use." Now you're trapped inside, and the rhythmic beating of the large paper cone is growing stronger every second. The only escape seems to be through a fine metal grating, far too small for a human to fit through.
[ A strong magnetic field snatches away all of your magnetic possessions, embedding them in the cone. ]
Jesse "Monolith" McGrew (Jmcgrew@cris.com).
Inside the painting
You find yourself on some stairs, which lead upwards and downwards. Looking up and around, you see the stairs seem to form a square border around a dark, cavernous pit. While you're deciding which way to go, you try and recall the name on the painting - was it Esha? Echeir? Esher? Something like that....
Aquarius (s.i.langridge@durham.ac.uk).
The Centre Of The Universe.
Everthing revolves around this point, like a big chunk of mostly nothing floating around a concept. God, it feels good to be here.
[Away in the distance all manner of processes, micro and macro, are constantly emitting radiation, blowing up stars, and mutating snails with the kind of reckless abandon that large explosions always seem to generate. At least it's all heading in the opposite direction.
Giles Boutel (boutel1g@wcc.govt.nz).
The Surreality
As you enter The Surreality you notice your inner self rotating in it's grave while ambidextruous thoughts befall you like imaginary relatives dancing between the mountains. You wonder if the smell of amber will ever seem different after you have seen it here for the last time. Just beyond your grasp you can conceive of an old-fashioned billiard cue and half a pound of mockery which hang from the middle of a rectangular arrangement.
In the distance sinister sounding noses contemplate the strangely normal idea of flower arrangement. Silent poems await your perplexion, shimmering acidly, yet distinctly noble.
Small, disorganized groups of toasters seem to be nibbling on your frontal lobes with a disapproving air of accountanty.
You can go inwards, outwards, counter-clockwise and beyond.
Cornelius Goetz von Olenhusen (5olenhus@rzdspc5.informatik.uni-hamburg.de).
The Limousine
Whoever owns this car must have an order of magnitude more money than sense. It's about eighty feet long, articulated, and bright red both inside and out. As you sit in the driver's seat, you wonder what all those unmarked switches and pedals are for. Over your shoulder you can see the foremost passenger compartment. Compared to the rest of the limousine, it seems almost unremarkable except for the colour scheme and the fact that there is a small typewriter attached to the partition. The hatch in the ceiling must lead to that dome on top.
Lying on the front passenger seat is a letter addressed to the Editor of the Daily Chronicle.
John Elliott (elliott@teaching.physics.ox.ac.uk).
Julian Arnold (jools@arnod.demon.co.uk).