A Fleeting Case of Self-Possession, or, Memento Moratori
Lea Albaugh
cover art male protagonist
%
A Fleeting Case of Self-Possession, or, Memento Moratori

Or as you think of it, your chamber. Over the years, this room has become more full of books, but it has always contained a random assortment of knickknacks, objets des art, and dust. The only door is to the north, and there is a window to the south, half-obscured by floor-length curtains.

Some crackers, a carafe of water, a typewriter, and a sheet of paper rest on a utilitarian table in the center of the room. A candlestick, replete with candle, rests on one of the stacks of books.

You run and lock the chamber door.
You examine the door
The door is about as intimidating as an attic door could be. It is held tightly shut with a massive combination lock.

You rush over to the typewriter and quickly type a few extended sentences.
You examine paper
"To whomever may happen across this missive,
I know not exactly what has transpired, but recent events have left
me experiencing urges -- strange urges, as if I suddenly wish to journey in a compass direction when I myself hardly know the magnet's bearing. At other moments, I find myself ceaselessly examining previously familiar objects, though it is at those moments when I can break free of this possession, as can I when the demon's demands are so non sequitur as to be baldly the work of the pr?ternatural. I scarce have reason to trust my own intuitions; in summary, I fear I may cause harm to myself or countless others in the throes of these bizarre peregrinations. To prevent such a woeful turn of events, I have locked myself in my chamber, with the aid of a lock of which the combination resides solely in my own mind -- this haunting fiend, whether it hails from deepest Inferno or whether it is born internally as my own viscera, cannot yet gain access to my innermost knowledge.

I shan't leave in the face of anything less than mortal peril."

You pace back and forth and wring your hands.
Inventory
You are carrying:
a lighter
an absinthe spoon
some lint

You pace back and forth and let out a small shriek.
You examine the lint
It's not particularly interesting.

You pace back and forth and despair.
You examine lighter
It's a simple silver-colored lighter.

You pace back and forth and compose melancholy poetry in your head.

A sultry summer thunderstorm kicks up outdoors.
You look at the spoon
It's a small slotted spoon, useless to you since your recent resolution to never touch another drop of liquor in your life.

You pace back and forth and gnash your teeth.
You eat the cracker
You take a cracker.

As you eat it, you can feel your throat get a little drier.

You are thirsty.
Drink water
(first taking the carafe of water)
You drink the water and your thirst subsides.
You eat the cracker
You take a cracker.

As you eat it, you can feel your throat get a little drier.
You examine the candle
It's a squat whitish cylinder of wax in a simple brass candlestick.

Your thirst gets the better of you and you go to open the window.

You open the window. As you lean out the window to refill your carafe, a fiend of Stygian darkness clamors its way into the room!

You are thirsty.
Oops bat
It's an average-sized Little Brown Bat [Myotis lucifugus]. And it's clearly hard of hearing.

You are thirsty.
Light candle
As you light the candle, the room instantly feels a little more gothic.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the cow creamer.

You are thirsty.
You examine the cow creamer
It's shaped like a cow. Or rather, like a cow with a handle and a spout.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the penwipe.

You are thirsty.
You take it
This is no time to start carrying around random knickknacks.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the display cases of entomological specimens.

You are thirsty.
You break the carafe
Violence isn't the answer to this one.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the broken vase.

You are thirsty.
You drop the carafe
Dropped.

The hapless bat ignores its scientific name and knocks into the candle, sending it sputtering across the stacks of books.

You are thirsty.
About yourself
Scruffy hair, wide eyes with a slight twitch to them -- you've been cultivating an "eccentric" appearance lately

(first taking the carafe)
You fill the carafe up from the rain.

The fire catches the edge of the stack of books.

You are thirsty.
Wait
You drink the water and your thirst subsides.

The fire spreads across the books.
Wait
You pace within a few feet of the door.

The fire catches the curtains.
You wait
You cower momentarily as the hapless bat gets a little too close to your face for comfort.

The fire is terrifying.
You examine the fire
Bright and intimidating.

You suddenly feel that unlocking the chamber door would, in fact, be a rational action, and you promptly act on your new-found reason: you unlock the door and scramble into the hallway.

A narrow flight of stairs leads downward.
You go south
Do you really want to go back into the fire?
Xyzzy
You froth a little at the mouth.
You examine paper
It's a clean white sheet of paper.

You rush over to the typewriter and quickly type a few extended sentences.
Type
You are out of blank paper.

A sultry summer thunderstorm kicks up outdoors.
Examine books
The books are everywhere -- they're the most notable feature of the room. They're dry, brittle, and mildly forboding, and you can never remember which is which.

On the stacks of books is a candle.

An invitation to a masque flutters out of the topmost book, and you catch it in midair.
You look at the invitation
An elaborate script beckons you to partake in a masked f?te. It's scheduled for tonight, but you're hardly planning on attending; you shudder to think what havoc your demon could wreak in such a setting.

You pace back and forth and compose melancholy poetry in your head.
You read the invitation
An elaborate script beckons you to partake in a masked f?te. It's scheduled for tonight, but you're hardly planning on attending; you shudder to think what havoc your demon could wreak in such a setting.

You pace back and forth and ponder the fundamental inequity of existence.
You eat it
That's plainly inedible.
You examine the window
The small casement window is set into a dormer. It is closed.

In the fading twilight, you can make out some scraggly trees. Rain falls quickly against the glass, and a dark shape knocks against the window.
You open the window
Though you feel compelled to do so, you catch yourself and wail mournfully. "Such an unmotivated desire must be demon-spawned!"
You think
What a good idea.
You examine the dust
It's just dust.

You pace back and forth and wring your hands.
You check what you're carrying
You are carrying:
an invitation
a lighter
an absinthe spoon
some lint

You pace back and forth and let out a small shriek.
You look at the crackers
You see nothing special about the crackers.

You pace back and forth and gnash your teeth.
Wait
You pace back and forth and compose melancholy poetry in your head.

You are thirsty.
Wait
You pace back and forth and wring your hands.
You wait
You pace back and forth and gnash your teeth.
Wait
You pace back and forth and wring your hands.

You are thirsty.
Wait
Your thirst gets the better of you and you go to open the window.

You open the window. As you lean out the window to refill your carafe, a fiend of Stygian darkness clamors its way into the room!

You are thirsty.
Examine fiend
Actually, now that you get a good look at it, it's just an average-sized Little Brown Bat [Myotis lucifugus].

You are thirsty.
You take Bat
I don't suppose the bat would care for that.

You are thirsty.
You examine the creamer
It's shaped like a cow. Or rather, like a cow with a handle and a spout.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the disused cravat.

You are thirsty.
About yourself
Scruffy hair, wide eyes with a slight twitch to them -- you've been cultivating an "eccentric" appearance lately

You fill the carafe up from the rain.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the grandfather clock.

You are thirsty.
You take the creamer
This is no time to start carrying around random knickknacks.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the display cases of entomological specimens.

You are thirsty.
Go south
You can't go that way.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the antique globe.

You are thirsty.
Drink water
You drink the water and your thirst subsides.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the display cases of entomological specimens.
Light Bat
Though you feel a strange urge to burn the bat, you manage to stop yourself before you light him aflame.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the penwipe.
Light self
Though you feel a strange urge to burn yourself, you manage to stop yourself before you light you aflame.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the statuette of the Eiffel Tower.
You examine the carafe
The carafe is shiny, overwrought, and slightly sinister-looking.
Also, it is mostly full of water.

You pace back and forth and gnash your teeth.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the cow creamer.
You wait awhile
You pace back and forth and despair.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the penwipe.
You examine table
It's got four spindly legs and a time-roughened top made of indeterminate wood.

On the table are some crackers, a typewriter, and a sheet of paper.

You pace back and forth and gnash your teeth.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the decorative plate.
You examine the typewriter
A bit worse for wear, but still functional. You consider typewriters the "only way to write."

You pace back and forth and wring your hands.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the bust of Pallas.
You put paper in the typewriter
(first taking the sheet of paper)

That can't contain things.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the disused cravat.
You write the poetry
You are out of blank paper.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the statuette of the Eiffel Tower.
You enter the window
It's a three-storey drop to the ground. And it's raining.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the penwipe.
You hit the candle
Violence isn't the answer to this one.

The bat flutters clumsily around the room, knocking into the disused cravat.
Light candle
As you light the candle, the room instantly feels a little more gothic.

The hapless bat ignores its scientific name and knocks into the candle, sending it sputtering across the stacks of books.
You put out the fire
You blow on the empty fire, to little effect.

The fire catches the edge of the stack of books.
You enter the window
It's a three-storey drop to the ground. And it's raining.

The fire spreads across the books.
You put the paper in fire
The empty fire holds only liquids.

The fire catches the curtains.
You pour the water on the fire
(the carafe of water on the empty fire)
Futile.

The fire is terrifying.
You put the water in the fire
(the carafe of water in the empty fire)
The empty fire holds only liquids.

The fire is terrifying.
You enter the window
It's a three-storey drop to the ground. And it's raining.

The fire is terrifying.
You examine the curtains
Objectively, they are purple and silken; whether they are sad or uncertain is more of a matter of interpretation, though you frequently judge them to be so in your more autobiographical writings. They're on fire.

You suddenly feel that unlocking the chamber door would, in fact, be a rational action, and you promptly act on your new-found reason: you unlock the door and scramble into the hallway.

A narrow flight of stairs leads downward.