Fish Bowl
Ethan Rupp
amnesia beach fish horror IF Competition 2012 IFComp Game mystery ocean parser sea unreliable narrator walkthrough
You are a beachcomber living by the shore. Today, you wake to find an empty fish bowl in your home, and don't remember how it got there. You try to piece your memory back together, but soon learn what the old maps meant: Here there be monsters.
%
"All that would be left was his footprints, heading into the
sea."

You're master of your own destiny, Larry Wyndham. Another day,
another dollar, Larry Wyndham. And above all remember: Time and tide wait for no man. You aren't just a drunk beachcomber - you
are Larry Wyndham the drunk beachcomber. What you need, the sea shall provide. Eventually. You hope.
As you stumble into your shack, your body covered in sweat and
your mind reeling, you don't have much time to take in your surroundings before you collapse. The last coherent thing that occurs to you is "Hey, since when do I own a…"

Created by Ethan Rupp & Joshua Rupp.

You wake up with the smell of the sea in your nostrils. You are
lying on your damp cot, and outside you can hear the wind grinding against the weak walls of your shack. As your eyes focus, you take in your surroundings: The only light in the one room shack comes from a waxy window. There is a simple dresser missing one leg in the corner; on top of the dresser is a grey glass fish bowl. You are fully dressed in a white t-shirt and dirty green pants. You can't remember going to bed last night; you must have collapsed on the cot like this.
You examine the bowl
It's an empty grey glass fish bowl, slightly dusty on the inside. You can't for the life of you remember how you got it or, for that matter, why you put it here.
You look at the dresser
It's a simple dresser missing one leg. It has one drawer. On top of
the dresser rests a grey glass Fish Bowl.
You open the drawer
You should get up first.
You get up
You get off the cot.

the shack. The only light in the one room shack comes from a waxy window. There is a simple dresser missing one leg in the corner; on
top of the dresser is a grey glass fish bowl.

You can see your shack door here.
You open the drawer
You open the drawer, revealing a paperback book.
Examine book
It is a book of sea legends. On the cover is a woodcut illustration of a sea monster, mostly hidden underwater, wrapping its tentacles around an old sailing ship.
About yourself
Larry Wyndam, beachcomber.
You look at what you're carrying with you
You are carrying:
your clothes (being worn)
canvas sneakers (being worn)
You read the book
(first taking the paperback book)
You flip through the book; most of the stories are about
adventurous exploits at sea, although there are a few concerning sightings of mysterious beasts and strange encounters. A section has been underlined in the middle of the book: "…the ship was found
adrift, completely abandoned. The rigging was intact, and the ship's stores were filled. The sail flapped slowly in the wind. There was no sign of the crew, or hint as to why they had disappeared." Peculiar. Did you underline that? Maybe while "celebrating."
You examine the cot
It's a thin foam mattress lying on a long box. The loose yellow sheets are always damp from the sea air.
You look at the door
The door is a piece of plywood on a hinge. The lock is a rope tied around a nail on the inside.
You go outside
(that is, outside)
You must open the door first.
You open the door
You open the door. A cool sea breeze touches your sweating skin.
Leave
(that is, outside)
You reach for the door.

...CAN YOU don't I don't HEAR ME???!!!going down, we're goingISEEYOUunderneath, circlingunderneathTHEBEASTthebeastcirclingunderneathMURDERERnot,
amnot, amnot, amKILLEDicanseeHEARME?circlingunderneath.

You clutch your forehead. What was that?
You take Bowl
It is not wrong to carry around a fish bowl. You would be
breaking no laws. On the other hand, because one can do a
thing does not mean one should do a thing. You decide to
leave it where it is.
You look in Bowl
The Fish Bowl is empty.
You wear Bowl
(first taking the Fish Bowl)
It is not wrong to carry around a fish bowl. You would be
breaking no laws. On the other hand, because one can do a
thing does not mean one should do a thing. You decide to
leave it where it is.
Leave
(that is, outside)
You step out onto the cold sand.

Your rubber boots are next to the rock that serves as your front step. Around the shack is long dry grass and bits of broken glass. Down a little ways to the north you see the grey shoreline, and then the black, roaring ocean. There's a peculiar smell here.

You can see your shack door, your rubber boots, a bucket (empty) and a shovel here.
Smell
You sniff a putrescence in the air. You breathe carefully, trying to winnow out its source. Soon, you find that it is coming from a dense clump of beach grass.
You look at the clump
Long, dry, green-blue grass that shivers against the sides of the shack. The smell seems to be coming from within a large clump.
Search clump
You push some of the grass aside, revealing the moist carcass of a
dead black cat. Blue-grey glimmering filaments of sticky rot
crisscross its matted black fur like a lattice. Its eyes are dull yellow, going white with accumulated pus. You gag at the repulsive smell.
You examine the cat
The moist carcass of a dead cat.
You take the shovel
ground. Dark, sticky fluid comes up with the blade and drips over your feet.

You focus your eyes. It's just trapped water from the wet sand.
You wear the boots
(first taking the rubber boots)
You sit on the rock and pull the worn rubber boots on over your tattered canvas sneakers.
Look around
Around the shack is long dry grass and bits of broken glass. Down a little ways to the north you see the grey shoreline, and then the black, roaring ocean. A foul smell comes from the body of a dead cat.

On the grass is a dead cat.

You can also see your shack door and a bucket (empty) here.
Bury cat
Prudent. First, you'll need a hole. You really will.
You dig the hole
You heft the shovel, wincing at your aching shoulder. You feel exhausted, as though you've already been digging all night.

The ground is strangely soft and spongy. You gouge dark clots of
earth from the dampening sand and hum tunelessly to yourself. The hole begins to grow.
You dig the hole
A gust of wind from the sea starts to blow away the rancid air.
You feel better outside, with the growl of the ocean at your back.
This reminds you of playing in the sandbox when you lived in ...

... said that he no longer belonged aboard ship, and threw
himself over the side, quickly disappearing beneath the black water. God have mercy on him.

You have always lived here.

The soft ground almost hisses away from you, forming a puckered
grave. Inside shining beach insects wriggle into the walls.
You look at the insects
These are immature larvae of G. perigorea, from what you
remember, but the bugs were more Gabriel's bag, and ...
You shake your head. You don't know how much you drank last
night, but you can't remember meeting anyone named Gabriel.
Bury cat
You shovel some dark sand over the body of the cat. Its tail and a stiff paw emerge from the ground like roots. The smell isn't as bad, now.
Look around
You are standing outside a small, decrepit shack. Its walls are made
of various kinds of scrounged woods, all cracking. The shack door is Open.

You can see your shack door and a bucket (empty) here.
You take the bucket
It must have rained last night. You pour out a stream of grey, sandy rain water.

Taken.
Go north
You walk down to the shore. Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building
up where the surf meets the land. A dead, dry fish lies on the sand. Sea water sparkles in its empty eye sockets. You see a bottle floating on the waves close to shore.

You can see a dead fish here.
You examine Fish
A dead, dry fish, lying on the sand.
You examine bottle
A blue glass bottle bobbing out in the ocean.
Swim
(in the ocean)
You wade out into the dark water, until it comes a little over
your waist. You stand still, the cold water splashing against your chest.

As you stand there, you think about mermaids, creatures that
always terrified you when you were a child. You loathed the image of sickly pale human faces ploughing through the black waves. Even though they had human faces, their bodies were horrific - serpentine and hidden in the water like roots. A man would walk into the ocean
towards the face, and when he saw what it really was it would be too late.

All that would be left was his footprints, heading into the sea.

The Shore (in the ocean)
Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land. A dead, dry fish lies on the sand. Sea water sparkles in its empty eye sockets. You see a bottle floating on the waves close to shore.

You can see a dead fish here.

A corked bottle floats just out of your reach. Inside, you can see a scrap of wrinkled paper.
You take the bottle
You should never let a message from the sea get away. It could
be from someone in need of rescue. You reach for it. It bobs farther away, just out of your reach ...
You take the bottle
You wade after the bottle. The cold water reaches your chest.

appendage. This tentacle resembles whatever the other entity
desires.

Specks of algae flitter through the black water. You
had not noticed before how much the ocean, when you are in it, resembles space.

nature is revealed.

The bottle sinks. You see it shimmer under the water.
You think you can still reach it if you hurry ...
You take the bottle
You reach into the darkness for the bottle. You face touches the
water. There is a voice in the bottle, and you can't remember the last time you spoke to someone. You reach. Your fingers touch something
hard in the water.

It wraps around your hand.

You scream, pulling away. Whatever it is lets go. You stumble backwards, wading clumsily back into the shallow surf. Your face is cold with sweat. You wait for your heartbeat to slow.

shore. Their slithering whispers almost sounds like a voice to you.

Time and tide wait for no man, Larry Wyndham.

But they wait for me.
Go outside
As you turn to trudge out of the water, you feel something slide
past your leg. You shudder. Probably just a fish a little too close inland.

Damn, you seem to be missing something...

Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land. A dead, dry fish lies on the sand. Sea water sparkles in its empty eye sockets.

You can see a dead fish here.
Inventory
You are carrying:
a bucket
your rubber boots (being worn)
a shovel
your clothes (being worn)
canvas sneakers (being worn)
You fill the bucket
(with the ocean)
You can't do that here.
You take the water
(the bucket)
You already have that.
You look at the bucket
lip.
You take Fish
You reach for the fish.

...i didn'tiSHOWMEWHEREit'ssocoldOPENcan'tholdontoOPENcan'tididn'tOPENcircli ngOPENcirclingbeneathOPEN!!!

You open your eyes. You are curled on the sand, your hands
holding the sides of your head. You slowly stand up, your stomach rolling; greasy sweat is trickling down your arms.

There is a dead fish here.
Keep going
You carefully pick the fish up; for a moment it seems terribly
heavy, like a large sack of potatoes, but the feeling passes and you lift it off the sand. You can feel its sharp, delicate bones beginning to protrude from the network of drying, putrid scales. You find the pugent smell strangely comforting.

Taken.
You go north
You wade out into the dark water.

The Shore (in the ocean)
Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land.
Go south
You trudge out of the water.

Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land.
Go south
Around the shack is long dry grass and bits of broken glass. Down a little ways to the north you see the grey shoreline, and then the black, roaring ocean.

You can see your shack door here.
You look at glass
Pieces of glass glint in the sand. Some of the larger pieces come from broken bottles. You look affectionately at some of the more familiar pieces.
You go inside
You walk into your shack just as a male voice finishes leaving a message on your answering machine:
"... whatever it is. It's not him anymore. It's … an animal. We
have to decide. You know what I think we should do... what we
have to do. Will you help me? Please. Please, help me." There
is a beep and the message ends. You stand in the doorway, confused.

Wait... what answering machine?

You walk into your shack just as a male voice finishes leaving a message on your answering machine:
"... whatever it is. It's not him anymore. It's … an animal. We
have to decide. You know what I think we should do... what we
have to do. Will you help me? Please. Please, help me." There
is a beep and the message ends. You stand in the doorway, confused.

Wait... what answering machine?

This is a one room shack; the only light comes from a waxy
window. There is a damp cot in the corner, and a simple dresser with one leg against the other wall. On top of the dresser is a grey glass fish bowl.

There is a small table next to the cot; on top of it is an
answering machine. A red light is blinking on the machine.

On the dresser is a waterlogged paperback book.

You can also see your shack door here.
You put dead Fish in Bowl
You carefully lower the dead fish into the fish bowl. Its
emaciated form settles to the bottom with a bony scrape; through the foggy grey glass, it looks strangely vulnerable.
You examine the machine
It's a standard answering machine, which was most decidedly not
there when you left. You don't even have electricity, which leads you to wonder, as your eyes wander downwards ...

Yep. You don't have outlets, so it's not plugged in. Logical
enough. Yet the message light is blinking ...
Play machine
The tape begins to play. There is a muted crackling noise, and
then the message starts:
"... You have no new messages. They have gone into the sea."
You wait a while
Time passes.
Look around
This is a one room shack; the only light comes from a waxy
window. There is a damp cot in the corner, and a simple dresser with one leg against the other wall. On top of the dresser is a grey glass fish bowl.

There is a small table next to the cot; on top of it is an
answering machine. The machine appears to be dead.

On the dresser is a waterlogged paperback book.

You can also see your shack door here.
You look at the book
It is a waterlogged book of sea legends. On the cover is a woodcut illustration of a sea monster, mostly hidden underwater, wrapping its tentacles around an old sailing ship.
You read it
(first taking the waterlogged paperback book)
The book has been largely obliterated from being under water,
but one passage still stands out from the grimy paper:

"... he was found three days later, floating near the reef. Miraculously he still lived, and we pulled him aboard, even though he struggled against our attempts. He told us that he no longer belonged aboard ship. Though previously an able sailor, it was clear to us that his ordeal in the sea had taken his reason from him. We tried to restrain him, but he eluded us; standing on the bow of the ship, he said again that he no longer belonged aboard ship, and threw himself over the side, quickly disappearing beneath the black water. God have mercy on him."

You put the book down; sea water begins to ooze from its sides, only gradually slowing to a trickle.
You look at Bowl
It's an empty grey glass fish bowl, slightly dusty on the inside. You can't for the life of you remember how you got it or, for that matter, why you put it here.

In the Fish Bowl is a dead fish.
You examine dead Fish
It's emaciated form looks strangely vulnerable.
You pour the bucket into Bowl
No more water remains in the bucket.
You go outside
(that is, outside)
You step out onto the cold sand.

Around the shack is long dry grass and bits of broken glass. Down a little ways to the north you see the grey shoreline, and then the black, roaring ocean.

You can see your shack door here.
You go to the north
Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land.
You look at the foam
Yellow foam builds up on the shore.
You take the foam
Er ... no.
You take the water
(the bucket)
You already have that.
You fill the bucket
(with the ocean)
You can't do that here.
You go north
You wade out into the dark water.

The Shore (in the ocean)
Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land.
You fill bucket
(with the ocean)
You fill the bucket up with water from the ocean.
Go south
You trudge out of the water.

Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land.
Go south
Around the shack is long dry grass and bits of broken glass. Down a little ways to the north you see the grey shoreline, and then the black, roaring ocean.

You can see your shack door here.
You pour bucket into Bowl
The bucket is now empty: the Fish Bowl is now partially full of
water
You pour the brackish water over the dead fish.

The dead fish seems rejuvenated by the dousing; a thin layer of
slime is developing on its scales, and the hollows in its eyes are beginning to cake with inky meat.

Unfortunately, there isn't enough water in the bowl.
You go south
You have a strange feeling as you leave the ocean. You can't tell whether you live on the shore and walked into the sea, or live in the sea and just walked onto the land. You hold your eyes shut, and the disorientation passes.

Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land.
You pour the bucket into Bowl
The bucket is now empty: the Fish Bowl is now full.

You fill the fish bowl with water. You can't believe the fish
was ever dead - it is an elegant, slim creature that moodily swims
back and forth in the bowl.
You examine Fish
(the fish)
You are getting more exhausted.

It is a grey, slim fish with intelligent eyes. It swims slowly back
and forth.
You take Bowl
You are getting more exhausted.

It is not wrong to carry around a fish bowl. You would be
breaking no laws. On the other hand, because one can do a
thing does not mean one should do a thing. You decide to
leave it where it is.
You get on the cot
You collapse on the cot. You can't find where your mind ends and
the sound of the ocean begins. They are both an interconnecting knot. You plunge into darkness, green darkness that rushes over you with a wet gurgle.

In the fog of your dream, the fish looks at you through the
glass of the fish bowl, the water around it turning sickly pink. You feel a terrible guilt, a sorrow you can't explain or contain.

"Forgive me," you say.

The water lowers in the fish bowl. The fish withers, becomes desiccated, and lies on the bottom of the dry glass.

start screaming, but the darkness fills your mouth and chokes you, and you wake remembering nothing.

Through the waxy window, you can tell that it's dark outside.

The Shelter (on the cot)
You are inside a hastily constructed shell made of pieces of
sheet metal and plastic welded together. One wall is open, with a flapping piece of tarp serving as the only protection from the wind. Bits of equipment litter the sandy ground.
A recording device rests on the ground. The message light is
blinking.

There is a mirror propped against the wall. A partially buried
helmet lies nearby. There is a fish bowl on top of a stainless steel piece of equipment. A dead fish lies inside. A long crack is beginning to form down the side of the bowl.
You get up
You get off the cot.

sheet metal and plastic welded together. One wall is open, with a flapping piece of tarp serving as the only protection from the wind. Bits of equipment litter the sandy ground.
A recording device rests on the ground. The message light is
blinking.

There is a mirror propped against the wall. A partially buried
helmet lies nearby. There is a fish bowl on top of a stainless steel piece of equipment. A dead fish lies inside. A long crack is beginning to form down the side of the bowl.
About yourself
Your skin has taken on a grey sheen. Your breath, when you make yourself breath, comes out in a quiet hiss of steam. It smells like seawater.
You check what you're carrying
You are carrying:
your rubber boots (being worn)
your clothes (being worn)
canvas sneakers (being worn)
You look at the mirror
You stand in front of the mirror propped against the wall. Your eyes are growing farther apart, turning black and cold, like marbles. Your skin has taken on a grey sheen. Your breath, when you make yourself breath, comes out in a quiet hiss of steam. It smells like seawater.
You look at the helmet
Where the bucket was, there is now a helmet half buried in the cold sand. It's constructed of bent grey chrome, and its transparent visor has cracked. On the side is etched the name WYNDHAM, L.
You look at Fish
(the Helmet)
Where the bucket was, there is now a helmet half buried in the cold sand. It's constructed of bent grey chrome, and its transparent visor has cracked. On the side is etched the name WYNDHAM, L.
You examine the machine
It is a sophisticated black recording device, torn away from a panel. Its message light is blinking.
Play machine
... Doctor Gabriel Lucas, ship's scientist. This will probably
be my last log. I found Janice on the beach just now. Larry killed
her. She went looking for him, and he killed her. She should have waited for me, of course, but she hasn't ... didn't accept what I
know. I hope this message gets to someone. This planet is almost completely ocean, so I'll think of this as a message in a bottle.
Our engines failed when we entered the atmosphere. Laurence
Wyndham was the ship's pilot. He ejected the emergency pod, and we crashed into the ocean near a small land mass. The pod had been
damaged and broke apart on impact; Bob and Dewey were killed. Janice, me and Larry were hanging on to debris in the water. It was cold; we were having trouble hanging on.
I know I thought at the time ... I'm most certain now, that
something was in the water with us. I remember feeling that something was wrong, beyond the obvious. Something was ...
... circling beneath ...
"... circling beaneath us. Larry couldn't hold onto the
wreckage. He went under. Janice and me swam ashore with some of the wreckage. Larry was under more than five minutes, but he came up after us while we dragged the remains onto the beach. He seemed unchanged.
It is my belief that Lawrence Wyndham was somehow ... infected
by an unknown form of life in the oceans of this planet ..."
... it'ssocoldOPENcan'tholdontoOPENcan'tididn'tiOPENcirclingOPENcirclingben eathOPEN!!!
...
"... at night, his appearance underwent alteration. I have no
surviving equipment to track this process, but his body is becoming ..."
... underneath,circlingunderneathTHEBEASTthebeastiscirclingunderneathMURDER ERnot,amnot,amKILLEDicanseeHEARME?circlingunderneath
...
"... infected ..."
... beneathcirclingbeneathOPENseeyouIseeOPENcircling ...
"... it's becoming ..."
... circlingCAN'THOLDONbeneathTHEBEASTcan'tholdon ...
"... it is my belief that Laurence Wyndham is dead."
The voice grinds down to a syrupy rumble as the recording device
breaks down.
You take Helmet
As you reach for the helmet, you see the skeleton of a fish. You close your eyes. You cannot take this.
Look around
sheet metal and plastic welded together. One wall is open, with a flapping piece of tarp serving as the only protection from the wind. Bits of equipment litter the sandy ground.
A recording device rests on the ground. It appears to be dead.

There is a mirror propped against the wall. A partially buried
helmet lies nearby. There is a fish bowl on top of a stainless steel piece of equipment. A dead fish lies inside. A long crack is beginning to form down the side of the bowl.
You examine Bowl
A long crack has formed down the side of the grey glass fish bowl;
many smaller, finer cracks are growing out of it. The slightest touch could cause the bowl to shatter.

In the Fish Bowl is a dead fish.
You take Bowl
You grab the fish bowl, noticing as you do that your hands look different than usual ...

Before you have time to think about this, though, the fish bowl shatters in a clean shriek of glass.

The fish bowl is gone, replaced with the body of Janice. The
body is still fairly fresh, and the wound in her throat glistens where someone bit out her esophagus.

You can still taste the memory of blood in your mouth.
You examine janice
Janice is slumped in a broken pile on the ground. Her throat has been recently savaged, and her blood has been absorbed by the dark sand.
You check what you're carrying
You are carrying:
your rubber boots (being worn)
your clothes (being worn)
canvas sneakers (being worn)
You take Janice
The iron taste in your mouth intensifies just looking at her. It sickens you that you are not sickened.
You eat janice
(first taking Janice)
The iron taste in your mouth intensifies just looking at her. It sickens you that you are not sickened.
You look around
sheet metal and plastic welded together. One wall is open, with a flapping piece of tarp serving as the only protection from the wind. Bits of equipment litter the sandy ground.
A recording device rests on the ground. It appears to be dead.

There is a mirror propped against the wall. A partially buried
helmet lies nearby.
You look at the tarp
A flapping piece of tarp, serving as your only protection from the wind.
You go outside
(that is, outside)
You push the tarp aside and walk out of the makeshift tent. Where you buried the cat you notice, with the memory of a feeling, a scrap of green sleeve sticking out from the dark sand.
You step out onto the cold sand.

shelter. The makeshift tent is made from pieces of sheet metal and plastic welded together, with flapping piece of tarp your only protection from the wind. Bits of obscure equipment litter the sandy ground, salvaged from the wreck.

You can see a partially buried sleeve here.
You look at the sleeve
It is a scrap of sleeve from a green jacket. A little farther up a piece of collar emerges from the sand mound. You can barely make out yellow lettering, saying: "Gabriel ..." but the rest of the name is covered in sand.
Go north
You pause as you walk to the shore, and take some of the sand
from the beach in your hand. When you were a child, you built sandcastles from this substance. You let the sand fall through your changing fingers. This world has never known a castle.

As you walk to the shore, you watch how the moon has broken
apart in slivers on the surface of the inky water. You keep muttering to yourself, like a mantra: "All that would be left were his footprints, heading out to sea. All that would be left were his footprints, heading out to sea."
You are standing on the shore. Out in the water, you see a
figure standing.

Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land. The moon has broken apart in slivers on the inky water. Out in the water, you see a figure standing.
You examine the figure
You can't make out any details from here. It is a large silhouette,
its angles and lines completely alien to you.
You go north
As you tread out into the cold water, you hear the grainy,
recorded voice in your head: "Laurence Wyndham is dead."
You're the master of your own destiny, Larry Wyndham,
you think. Another day, another dollar, Larry Wyndham.
You wade up to your waist. In the water, you feel your skin
change. The figure stands over you. It reaches down to touch your
face.

The wind blows sand over the footprints on the beach. In less than a day, it's as though they've never been there.
Go north
The smell is strong; you want to find out what's causing it first.
You take the shovel
ground. Dark, sticky fluid comes up with the blade and drips over your feet.

You focus your eyes. It's just trapped water from the wet sand.
Dig
You heft the shovel, wincing at your aching shoulder. You feel exhausted, as though you've already been digging all night.

The ground is strangely soft and spongy. You gouge dark clots of
earth from the dampening sand and hum tunelessly to yourself. The hole begins to grow.
Search clump
You push some of the grass aside, revealing the moist carcass of a
dead black cat. Blue-grey glimmering filaments of sticky rot
crisscross its matted black fur like a lattice. Its eyes are dull yellow, going white with accumulated pus. You gag at the repulsive smell.
You go north
If you leave without burying the cat, birds will come. From a
distance, it will be obvious that they are eating something dead on your lawn. And then people will think you are crazy. This is a hassle you don't need.

Granted, you do live alone in a shack, you're a drunk,
and your memory is shot to hell. Also granted, there is a
dead animal on your lawn. Then again, you have no idea how it got there. Which other people will definitely take into account when you explain how not crazy you are. Because the world is a warm and welcoming place for scavengers fallen upon hard times.

Yeah. Better bury the cat.
You go to the north
You don't want to go into the water wearing only these canvas shoes; it's easy to cut yourself up in there.
You go south
Around the shack is long dry grass and bits of broken glass. Down a little ways to the north you see the grey shoreline, and then the black, roaring ocean.

You can see your shack door, your rubber boots and a bucket (empty) here.
You take boots
Taken.
You wear boots
You sit on the rock and pull the worn rubber boots on over your tattered canvas sneakers.
Go north
Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land. A dead, dry fish lies on the sand. Sea water sparkles in its empty eye sockets. You see a bottle floating on the waves close to shore.

You can see a dead fish here.
You go north
You wade out into the dark water, until it comes a little over
your waist. You stand still, the cold water splashing against your chest.

As you stand there, you think about mermaids, creatures that
always terrified you when you were a child. You loathed the image of sickly pale human faces ploughing through the black waves. Even though they had human faces, their bodies were horrific - serpentine and hidden in the water like roots. A man would walk into the ocean
towards the face, and when he saw what it really was it would be too late.

All that would be left was his footprints, heading into the sea.

The Shore (in the ocean)
Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land. A dead, dry fish lies on the sand. Sea water sparkles in its empty eye sockets. You see a bottle floating on the waves close to shore.

You can see a dead fish here.

A corked bottle floats just out of your reach. Inside, you can see a scrap of wrinkled paper.
Go north
You daren't go any farther. The undertow will catch you.
Y.
debugcheapnitfol quit with exit status: 0
%
Odd, how the light just makes your apartment gloomier. Pre-dawn darkness pools in the corners and around the tops of walls. Your desk lamp glares yellow, but the shadows only draw your eyes and deepen.

Not much of an apartment, no. One desk, paper-piled, with a dusty computer shoved to the side. Your futon. Second-hand stereo sitting on a cardboard crate. A kitchen nook one way and a bathroom nook the other, with a closet to the side. A broad mirror tries to make the place seem twice its size; it halfway works. One window, whose shade
is down, and the front door firmly shut.

Your luggage is piled untidily by the door. A potted hyacinth sits beneath the window.

You are sprawled on the futon, staring up into that gloom. Your eyes feel gritty. But it's too late -- early -- no time left for sleep, anyway. In a few hours your ride will arrive.

On the desk are your to-do list and a travel book.
Sleep
You've been trying all night. It's not going to happen, no matter how long you lie here.
You look at the list
You won't accomplish much while slumped on the futon. That's been getting slowly more apparent for hours now.
You stand
You lever yourself upright. Umf. It's amazing how much lack of sleep feels like a hangover, only without the preceding party.
You get up
The taxi isn't here yet.

Come to think of it, as with a hangover, dehydration is probably the problem. Your mouth is dry wool.
You look at the list
You sit down at the desk.

items and scribbled corrections. However, everything seems to have gotten done. The last line reads "Call taxi", and it has its
checkmark, and here you wait.
You look at luggage
You've packed and repacked: breakdown tent, dried food, sunscreen, compass, mylar space-blanket, long underwear and showoff tats, walking shoes and dancing shoes and hiking shoes. You're ready for the Death Valley Om.

(As ready as you're likely to get. It is, of course, the Death Valley Om -- half arts festival, half cult, a week in the deep desert where people show off, have sex, take drugs, and maintain a twenty-four-hour constant OM. Sand, heat, and thousands of throats. A space
outside the world; with no dues except that you join in the chant, as much as is in you to chant.)
You examine the hyacinth
This plant is your one claim to actual responsibility. The hyacinth sits by the window, soaking up sunlight (when it's not night) and managing to thrive despite your lack of gardening skill. Although it looks a little parched at the moment.
You examine the kitchen
You stand up.

The kitchen alcove has a refrigerator, a sink, a stove, and barely enough space to stand between them. One wall projects out to form a counter, with a cupboard beneath it.

On the kitchen counter is a glass.
You take glass
You step into the kitchen nook.

Taken.

You're still feeling thirsty.
You turn on the sink
(the kitchen sink)
Nothing comes from the tap but an eerie distant howling. The kitchen sink hasn't worked since you moved in.
You turn on the sink
(the bathroom sink)
You spin the tap. The pipes sound like an indigestive mammoth, but water does dribble out of the faucet. Reassured, you turn the tap back off.
You fill glass
The faucet rattles, and water dribbles into the glass.
Drink water
(the glassful of water)
You gulp the water. It feels vaguely astringent in your mouth, unsatisfying. Well, no doubt thirst will be more real after you fly to California --
You fill glass
The faucet rattles, and water dribbles into the glass.

-- Fly? Where did you leave your plane tickets?
Water hyacinth
You step out of the bathroom nook.

You water the plant.

You hate this feeling. It happens all the time. Something
safely accomplished, and then pow, you have to worry about it again. Unfair! The tickets must be here somewhere.
You search the luggage
You quickly pop open each suitcase and riffle through, trying not to disarrange your tidy packing too badly. Nope. The tickets aren't
there.
You look around
You survey your one small room. One desk, paper-piled, with a dusty computer shoved to the side. Your futon. Second-hand stereo sitting on a cardboard crate. A kitchen nook one way and a bathroom nook the other, with a closet to the side. A broad mirror tries to make the place seem twice its size; it halfway works. One window, whose shade
is down, and the front door firmly shut.

The place is still too dim, except the corner where the desk lamp is somehow too bright.

Your luggage is piled untidily by the door. A potted hyacinth sits beneath the window.

On the desk are your to-do list and a travel book.
Examine book
You sit down at the desk.

The Schmendrick's Guide to Desert Camping -- you've been
studying it for weeks now. Vast alien reams of information: perspiration rates, sunburn factors, tent guying, and how to make a condensation still out of a trashbag and a tin can. You could probably write the book out longhand from memory; and none of it means a damn thing to you.

(That's why you're going on this trip, after all. Nothing is
off-limits at the Om. "Law ends at sea level." In one place in the country, for one week, a community is formed from pure will. No enforcement; only desire, and the knowledge of what the desert can do. And the Om. Every religion chants, you remember reading that.)
Search desk
You carefully tilt up piles of paper, trying to avoid an avalanche. Nope. The tickets aren't there.
You open the closet
You stand up.

The closet has no door. It might have once, if those are hinge-marks
on the frame, but that must have been several tenants and a dozen
coats of paint ago.
You look in the closet
The closet (if you can call it that) is a shallow recess next to the bathroom. Peering into the (ahem) depths, you see an old jacket and a vacuum cleaner.
Search jacket
You root through the jacket's myriad pockets. Nope. The tickets aren't -- Aha. They are, after all. The tickets slide to the floor
and lie there, smirking at you.
You take the tickets
Taken. Something scrapes underfoot as you bend to pick the tickets up.
You examine the tickets
Your round-trip tickets to California. You stare at them for a moment -- lost in the idea of the desert.

The sound of a helicopter comes faintly through the closed window.
You open the window
The window-glass is sealed; it can't open or close. Some notion of thermal efficiency. Truthfully, you like it that way.
You look at your surroundings
You survey your one small room. One desk, paper-piled, with a dusty computer shoved to the side. Your futon. Second-hand stereo sitting on a cardboard crate. A kitchen nook one way and a bathroom nook the other, with a closet to the side. A broad mirror tries to make the place seem twice its size; it halfway works. One window, whose shade
is down, and the front door firmly shut.

The place is still too dim, except the corner where the desk lamp is somehow too bright.

Your luggage is piled untidily by the door. A potted hyacinth sits beneath the window.

On the desk are your to-do list and a travel book.

You can see a trace of sand here.

The helicopter is getting closer.
You examine the sand
A trace of sand is visible on the living room floor.
You take the sand
You scrape up a pinch of sand. It runs through your fingers; it's
sand.

The sound of the helicopter is fading now.
You turn on stereo
The stereo buzzes, hunts, and then locates its station. Ah, your favorite small-time indy worldbeat/techno station. At least you think that's what they call it. It's a pretty stream-of-consciousness
format.

The room fills with the sound of an Indo-Basque chant.
You take the vacuum
Taken. (Awkwardly.)
Vacuum sand
Just "vacuum". When you clean, it's pretty much cleaning the whole area.
Vacuum
You squeeze the handle, and the vacuum cleaner begins humming industriously. You run it back and forth on the floor. But it only seems to spread the sand around. In fact, it looks like there's more sand than before you started.

You can barely hear the helicopter any more.

The radio begins playing a Hispano-Nigerian chant.
Keep going
You squeeze the handle, and the vacuum cleaner begins humming industriously. You run it back and forth on the floor. But it only seems to spread the sand around. In fact, it looks like there's more sand than before you started.
You examine the cleaner
The vacuum cleaner is a "luggable" model -- meaning that it's awkward to carry, but too small to be really efficient. Fortunately, you don't generate a lot of dust.
You examine the radio
The stereo is old, dating from the era when matte-black, featureless, and opaque were the watchwords of hipness. It still works, however, as the strains of a Hispano-Nigerian chant demonstrate.
You listen
You are listening to a Hispano-Nigerian chant.

The radio begins playing an Antarcto-Dominican tune.
You read the tickets
Your round-trip tickets to California.
Look around
You survey your one small room. One desk, paper-piled, with a dusty computer shoved to the side. Your futon. Second-hand stereo sitting on a cardboard crate. A kitchen nook one way and a bathroom nook the other, with a closet to the side. A broad mirror tries to make the place seem twice its size; it halfway works. One window, whose shade
is down, and the front door firmly shut.

The place is still too dim, except the corner where the desk lamp is somehow too bright.

Your luggage is piled untidily by the door. A potted hyacinth sits beneath the window.

On the desk are your to-do list and a travel book.

You can see some sand here.
You look at the mirror
The far side of the mirror is just as shadowy as this one. It's probably meant as commentary; not more space, just more of the same.
You look at the computer
You sit down at the desk.

The computer is years old, and incompatible with just about everything but electricity. You use it for writing -- at least, you try to
believe that you do.

-- the only kind of game your beige antique can run, anyway.

The you-have-died message is blinking morosely at you. You started up Ready, Okay! last night, trying to distract yourself until
morning. But you can't get even halfway through without running out of insulin.
You play the game
You've tried everything you can think of twice, and you're tired of trying. Maybe an idea will come to you later.

The radio begins playing an Austro-Andean fugue.
You turn off the computer
You hit the power key; the computer gives a tiny sigh and shuts down.
You look at the crate
The crate your computer arrived in. It's dented and disreputable now, but still serves the time-honored purpose of holding your stereo up.
You stand
You stand up.
Vacuum
You squeeze the handle, and the vacuum cleaner begins humming, albeit with a bit of a whine. You run it back and forth on the floor. But it only seems to spread the sand around. In fact, it looks like there's more sand than before you started.

The radio begins playing a calm Atlantean (?) song.
You open the vacuum
You pop open the vacuum cleaner's casing. Sand spills out -- all over the floor. What the hell?

The stereo clicks as a calm Atlantean (?) song ends and the hourly
news comes on. What? Morning must have arrived, although the world outside is still dark. The taxi should be showing up soon.
You examine the closet
The closet is a shallow recess next to the bathroom. Peering into the depths, you see an old jacket.

"More allegations of campaign finance misconduct..." (Oh, fascinating news day.)
You examine the jacket
Your jacket hangs in the closet. This is, of course, your old
jacket -- vaguely waterproof but definitely ratty -- suitable only for errands around the city. Your new jacket, windproof
weatherproof sandproof Xoron(tm), suitable for desert hiking, is
neatly packed away in your luggage.

(Not that luggage is the important part. The experience is supposed to be transformative. And, frankly, you're in need of transformation. Another month of this and you'll indistinguishable from this apartment -- beige, featureless, and up for cheap rent. At the Death Valley Om, they say, you may be sunburnt and thirsty and exhausted, but you're alive. Nothing sounds better. You're planning to try the solo Zen
night hiking.)

"Sharp words between the superpowers today..." (Huh? There are still superpowers?)
You examine the kitchen
The kitchen alcove has a refrigerator, a sink, a stove, and barely enough space to stand between them. One wall projects out to form a counter, with a cupboard beneath it.

"Three people reported missing at the Death Valley Om in
California..." (Hang on.) "The popular desert arts festival was shaken yesterday when three attendees failed to return from moonlight hikes. State police are searching the area." (You resolve to read that desert camping book one more time.)
You look at the fridge
It's yellow. Beyond that, it looks like every other refrigerator in
the United States.

It must be morning, after all -- your metabolism is starting to
ratchet up to daytime levels.

"In the business pages, stocks are down..." (You once again lose interest.)
You open it
You step into the kitchen nook.

You open the refrigerator, revealing a jar of peanut butter.

You're definitely getting hungry.

"And that's, um... far out. Back to the groove, folks," and an Antarcto-Hmong fugue begins.
You open it
You unscrew the lid... with an unexpected grating sound. Something sifts to the floor.

The peanut butter jar is full of sand.
You look in jar
The jar is open, but it contains no peanut butter. Instead, it is packed with sand.
You drop the jar
Dropped (in the kitchen nook).

The fridge door swings shut.

The radio begins playing a Sino-Hmong song.
You open the stove
That's not something you can open.

Your stomach rumbles.
You open the cupboard
You open the cupboard, revealing a box of crackers.
You open the crackers
You pull on the box top. It's stuck, somehow. You yank --

The top tears away, and white sand sprays out of the box.

This is getting to be too much. You consider which of your friends might have snuck in here and set all of this up. No... mmm... nobody, really.
You examine the list
You step out of the kitchen nook, and sit down at the desk.

items and scribbled corrections. Dammit, yet another item you missed
-- you have to water the plant.
You turn on the bathroom sink
You stand up, and step into the bathroom nook.

With an eerie hiss, dry white sand boils from the faucet. You yank at the tap, but the bathroom sink is already full, and sand spilling on the floor.

The radio begins playing an Austro-Andean tune.
You turn on the kitchen sink
You step out of the bathroom nook, and step into the kitchen nook.

With an eerie hiss, dry white sand boils from the faucet. You yank at the tap, but the kitchen sink is already full, and sand spilling on
the floor.
You examine the plant
This plant is your one claim to actual responsibility. The spider
plant sits by the window, soaking up sunlight (when it's not night)
and managing to thrive despite your lack of gardening skill. Although it looks very dry.
You open the fridge
You open the refrigerator.
You look in it
The refrigerator is empty.

The radio begins playing a repetitive Slavic melody.
You close it
You close the refrigerator.
You open the door
Which do you mean, the front door or the closet?
Front
You step out of the kitchen nook.

The sun hasn't risen; what light you have would just leak out into the night. Anyway, the taxi hasn't arrived, so there's nowhere to go.
You examine the futon
The futon is definitely on the downhill side of life's rolling knolls. It serves as both couch and bed, if inadequately in each case, which makes it the most important piece of furniture you own.
You look under it
You bend down, and see little but a bit of sand.

The radio begins playing a Balto-Hmong tune.
You sit on the futon
You sit down.
Look around
You survey your one small room. One desk, paper-piled, with a dusty computer shoved to the side. Your futon, upon which you sit. Second-hand stereo sitting on a cardboard crate. A kitchen nook one
way and a bathroom nook the other, with a closet to the side. A broad mirror tries to make the place seem twice its size; it halfway works. One window, whose shade is down, and the front door firmly shut.

The place is still too dim, except the corner where the desk lamp is somehow too bright.

Your luggage is piled untidily by the door. A potted spider plant sits beneath the window.

On the desk are your to-do list and a travel book.

You can see a thin layer of sand lying on the floor.

In the kitchen nook you can see a jar of sand and some sand.

In the bathroom nook you can see a trace of sand.
You look at the list
You stand up, and sit down at the desk.

items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
- clean out closet
- buy stereo stand
- don't leave stove on
You examine the closet
You stand up.

The closet is a shallow recess next to the bathroom. It's closed.

Wait. Didn't the closet lack a door when you moved in?

The radio begins playing a calm Dominican lullaby.
You open the closet
You reach for the knob; then hesitate; then reach again.

You might as well not have bothered. The closet door bursts off its hinges before you can touch it. You leap back, barely avoiding the cracking plywood as it smashes to the floor, buried in the torrent of sand that is pouring out of the closet.

After a few seconds, the room is still again.
You examine the stereo
The stereo is old, dating from the era when matte-black, featureless, and opaque were the watchwords of hipness. It still works, however, as the strains of a calm Dominican lullaby demonstrate.
You look at the box
The box is open, but it contains no crackers. Instead, it is packed with sand.
You look at the crate
The crate your computer arrived in. It's dented and disreputable now, but still serves the time-honored purpose of holding your stereo up.

The radio begins playing a Filipo-Shaker chant.
Open crate
You barely touch it, and the heavy cardboard abruptly tears. Sand
pours out across the living room floor. The stereo sags; in moments, the crate is reduced to paper rags, which are immediately buried in
the sand.
You look at the list
You sit down at the desk.

items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
- don't leave stove on
- defrost refrigerator
You turn off the stove
You stand up, and step into the kitchen nook.

The stove is already off.
You turn on the stove
You turn the knob -- click. Then the stove emits a loud crackle. The burner frosts white, although you can feel the heat radiating from it; bits of its substance seem to be flaking away. Thermal shock? you have time to think. And then the entire burner arrangement slumps into
white sand, which runs down off the stove.
You open the fridge
You pull open the refrigerator, and try not to flinch as a wall of
sand rushes out and buries your feet.

The radio begins playing an angry Sumerian song.
You look at the list
You step out of the kitchen nook, and sit down at the desk.

items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
- unclog shower drain
- pack clean socks
- remove package from kitchen storage
You examine the shower
You stand up, and step into the bathroom nook.

The shower stall is a familiar symphony in pinkish-grey tile and grunge. Well, more of a solo. A short solo.
You turn on the shower
You turn the tap, and -- no surprise now -- dry sand floods from the showerhead. Shielding your eyes from the spray, you reach to turn the tap back off.

A creaking from above warns you. You leap back as the plaster cracks overhead, and whiteness roars down.

When silence returns, the entire far end of the bathroom is a blank slope of sand.
Open luggage
You step out of the bathroom nook.

You grab a suitcase handle -- which crumbles dryly in your grip. In seconds and in silence, the whole row of suitcases and duffels has collapsed to white sand on the living room floor.

The radio begins playing a soothing Javanese tune.
You examine the list
You sit down at the desk.

items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
- remove package from kitchen storage
- find notes for IFComp entry
- flush notes down toilet
You turn on the computer
You hit the power key; nothing happens. Terrific. Something's finally fried itself in the bowels of your twelve-megahertz wonder, and you
may never die in a text adventure again.
Flush toilet
You stand up, and step into the bathroom nook.

The toilet? Yes, it's the toilet's turn! You press the handle,
grinning maniacally. And indeed, the sand rushes down the sides of the bowl; the shining porcelain itself crazes, cracks, and veils to the bathroom floor. The toilet is a pedestal, a stump, a mere pile of
sand. Gone.

A faint creaking comes from the bathroom ceiling.
Leave
You step out of the bathroom nook.

With a muffled crack the bathroom ceiling gives way. Broken
plaster and rusty pipes tumble down as you stare. And down comes the sand, a dry white rushing river, hissing, shrieking. In moments the bathroom is lost to your sight.
Look around
You survey your one small room. One desk, paper-piled, with a dusty computer shoved to the side. Your futon. Second-hand stereo. A kitchen nook one way and a closet the other. A broad mirror tries to make the place seem twice its size; it halfway works. One window, whose shade
is down, and the front door firmly shut.

The place is still too dim, except the corner where the desk lamp is somehow too bright.

A potted palm plant sits beneath the window.

On the desk are your to-do list and a travel book.

You can see ankle-deep sand here.

In the kitchen nook you can see a jar of sand and a heavy layer of sand.

The radio begins playing a hypno-Basque song.
You examine the sink
The kitchen sink is full of sand.
Examine nook
The kitchen alcove has a refrigerator, a sink, a stove, and barely enough space to stand between them. One wall projects out to form a counter, with a cupboard beneath it.

The cupboard is open; inside is a box of sand. Sand spills from the open refrigerator.

You see a jar of sand and a heavy layer of sand lying here.
You open the cupboard
That's already open.
You look in it
In the cupboard is a box of sand.

The radio begins playing a calm Korean tune.
You take the box
The cabinet and counter start to groan as soon as you touch them. You slam the cabinet for good measure; and the stained pressboard crackles white, shivers, and explodes into sand. All right!

A faint creaking comes from the kitchen ceiling.
You go outside
You step out of the kitchen nook.

With a muffled crack the kitchen ceiling gives way. Broken
plaster and rotten lath tumble down as you stare. And they, of course, are followed by sand, white sand, rivers of sand. In moments the kitchen alcove is lost to your sight.
You look at the list
You sit down at the desk.

items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
- find notes for IFComp entry
Search desk
You carefully tilt up piles of paper, trying to avoid an avalanche. Yes, sand is scattered beneath.

Carefully? You shove a paper-stack off the desk; it's a shower of sand before it hits the ground. Ha! You push another, and another, and then sweep the whole mass over the edge. White sand cascades everywhere. Laughing, you feel the desk itself give way.

Pop. Oops. That was the light bulb imploding. The apartment
is very dark and quiet of a sudden.
You sit on the futon
You sit down.

The radio mumbles, "This is, um, one-oh-three... kay-tee-oh-whoa... your source for interworldbeat..." You can practically hear the bong gurgling in the background. After a moment, a creepy Atlantean (?) melody begins playing.
You open the front door
You stand up.

You open the door.

Outside is full night. You can see little... nothing. No taxi, no stars, not even streetlights. The world ends at your doorstep.

Quietly, the night begins to enter.

You are standing with your back to the closed door. You close your eyes, then tear them open; darkness is worse than the sand. Not so funny any more... you concentrate on slowing your breath.
You look
You survey your one small room. Your futon. Second-hand stereo. A closet to one side. A broad mirror tries to make the place seem twice its size; it halfway works. One window, whose shade is down, and the front door firmly shut.

The room is very dim, now. Blackness creeps around the windowshade.

The computer has survived somehow, and lies in a pile of sand. A
potted palm plant sits beneath the window.

You can see a travel book, your to-do list, a jar of sand, a box of sand and hills of sand here.
You examine palm
This plant is your one claim to actual responsibility. The palm plant sits by the window, soaking up sunlight (when it's not night) and managing to thrive despite your lack of gardening skill. Although it looks very dry.

The taxi honks repeatedly.
You open the front door
You do not want that.

The taxi honks repeatedly. The sound seems a little fainter now.
You take the list
Taken.

The radio begins playing an electrifying Basque chant.
You examine the list
items and scribbled corrections. At the very bottom of the page, you see:
- call taxi
- wait for taxi
- look, make sure it's actually taxi before opening door
(That last entry in a hasty, nervous script.)
You open the door
You do not want that.

The taxi honks repeatedly.
You open the window
The window-glass is sealed; it can't open or close. Some notion of thermal efficiency. Truthfully, you like it that way.
You open the shade
And if you see no taxi outside? What then? ...but the angry honking comes again. You yank hard on the windowshade, and it whips up as violently.

Blazing daylight floods the room.
You look through the window
Outside, dunes roll away to the rising sun. Nothing else is visible. Only the sunlight that burns you, full in the face. And sand.

The radio begins playing a Franco-Andean melody.
You examine the list
items and scribbled corrections. It is entirely illegible.
You sit on the futon
You flop down on the futon.
Sleep
You've been trying all night. It's not going to happen, no matter how long you lie here.
You stand
You stand up.
You turn on the computer
You hit the power key; nothing happens. Terrific. Something's finally fried itself in the bowels of your twelve-megahertz wonder, and you
may never die in a text adventure again.
You look at your surroundings
Sunlight cuts across the room like hot butter, blazing from the
window. The room is nearly barren now; walls and ceiling are blank,
but for the window, the closed front door, and the full-length mirror across from them.

The futon sits alone in the center of the room. Next to it, askew on a pile of sand, rests the faithful old stereo.

The computer has survived somehow, and lies in a pile of sand. A
potted cactus sits beneath the window.

You can see a travel book, a jar of sand, a box of sand and hills of sand here.

The radio begins playing a Balto-Atlantean (?) lullaby.
You examine the mirror
You look into the mirror. The far side is just as bright as this one. With the sunlight behind you, only your own face is in shadow -- the walls, the door, your furniture, are all full-lit. Beyond your reflection and the window-frame, the street outside, the houses and trees, are all --

The street outside?

You spin around.

[Hit any key...]
Odd, how the sunlight just makes your apartment more prosaic.

Not much of an apartment, no. One desk, paper-piled, with a dusty computer shoved to the side. Your futon. Second-hand stereo sitting on a cardboard crate. A kitchen nook one way and a bathroom nook the other, with a closet to the side. A broad mirror tries to make the place seem twice its size; it halfway works. One window, whose shade
is up, and the front door wide open.

Your luggage is piled untidily by the door. A potted hyacinth sits beneath the window.

On the desk are your to-do list and a travel book.
You take the luggage
You take a step across the room, but a quick movement distracts you. Something scurried along the wall? You can't see it any more.
You take the luggage
You move towards the luggage but feel suddenly dizzy. Dehydration, probably.
You sit on the futon
You reach out and touch your hand to the futon. It feels like glass.

The reflection shimmers like water, but the mirror is only heat -- pooling among the dunes, rising from the sands.

[Hit any key...]
The land is nearly barren. Dunes roll away towards the rising sun; a little shade trails behind them, but that will soon be gone. The sky
is flat and empty blue.

Your futon sits nearby. The stereo leans against a dune. Your computer squats complacently, the color of the sand.

You can see a travel book here.

Click. The stereo is playing "Cool, Clear Water".
Examine book
The Desert Elemental's Handbook -- you've been studying it
for ages. Trace moisture segregation, arthropod ecocycles, sand/grit/fines sizing distributions. And, of course, the artistic aspects of heat, time, distance, and death.

You study the chapter about bones.

Something moves beneath your futon.
You look under the futon
You catch a glimpse of two tiny eyes, shining out from beneath your futon.
You look at the eyes
You still haven't managed to see it clearly.

You catch a darting movement past your feet.
You turn on the computer
The computer is already on.
You examine computer
The game's opening sits neatly at the top of the screen, followed by a command prompt.

Click. The stereo is playing "Gotta Stop on the Road for Water".
You read it
The game's opening sits neatly at the top of the screen, followed by a command prompt.
Type i.
(on the computer)
You kneel in the sand and play through the computer game again.

You catch a darting movement past your feet.
You look at the floor
It's exactly like all the sand you've ever seen before.
You examine the dunes
It's exactly like all the sand you've ever seen before.

Something moves beneath your futon.

Click. The stereo is playing "Water From Another Time".
You look under the futon
You catch a glimpse of two tiny eyes, shining out from beneath your futon.
You move the futon
You can barely move the futon on a solid floor. Against the sand, no hope.
Look around
The land is nearly barren. Dunes roll away towards the rising sun; a little shade trails behind them, but that will soon be gone. The sky
is flat and empty blue.

Your futon sits nearby. The stereo leans against a dune. Your computer squats complacently, the color of the sand.

You can see a travel book here.

You catch a darting movement past your feet.
You examine the Sun
Fusing hydrogen. Deathly, inescapable. White, blazing down.

Something moves beneath the computer.

Click. The stereo is playing "Sun Gets In My Eyes".
You search the computer
The game's closing message blinks at the bottom of the screen.
You turn off the computer
"The only way to win is not to play," flashes the screen. You roll
your eyes. The oldest lie; nobody's bought it since ever.

You hit the power key; the computer gives a tiny sigh and crumbles away.

A tiny figure burrows out of the new-fallen sand. You just have time
to make out its shape -- human -- before it darts behind you and out
of sight.

You catch a darting movement past your feet.
You turn off the stereo
A garbled news report comes on just as you reach for the switch.
"Death Val... hikers... missing for... still... hope, say..."

...Old news. You hit the switch: click. The stereo falls silent, turns white, and drops instantly away into sand.

Something moves beneath your futon.
You look at your surroundings
The land is nearly barren. Dunes roll away towards the rising sun; a little shade trails behind them, but that will soon be gone. The sky
is flat and empty blue.

Your futon sits nearby.
You sit on the futon
You sit down, and find yourself seated on bare sand. The futon has disintegrated without a sound or a final word.

A tiny figure burrows out of the new-fallen sand. It darts one way, then the other; but there is no more shelter.

The figure seems to be chanting to itself.
You look at the figure
A tiny human figure walks across the sand. It doesn't seem to notice you.
You take it
You cup your palms around the figure and raise it into the air -- a human shape fallen to its knees in your handful of sand. You gaze
down; sunlight seethes in the cauldron of your fingers. The figure slowly slides flat. But the sand is running out of your hands, and the figure falls to the ground, where it slowly pulls itself up again.
You examine it
A tiny human figure trudges across the sand. It doesn't seem to notice you.

The figure seems to be muttering to itself.
You ask the figure about itself
As you speak, currents of air curl across the sand. The figure
clutches its clothing about itself and staggers on, ignoring you.

The figure moves more slowly now.
You examine the Sun
Fusing hydrogen. Deathly, inescapable. White, blazing down.

The figure stops and looks around for a moment, shading its eyes.
You take the sand
You pick up a pinch of sand. It runs through your fingers.
Touch figure
You kneel and brush your finger over the figure's forehead. It shakes its head, unseeing, and then collapses. You watch in concern, but in a few moments it struggles to its feet again.

The figure slumps to the sand. No -- it's still moving, though on
hands and knees.
Kiss figure
You kneel and brush your lips over the figure's forehead. It shakes
its head, unseeing, and then collapses. You watch in concern, but in a few moments it struggles to its feet again.

The figure falls. After a few seconds... it still doesn't move.

The sands quickly cover it.
You look at your surroundings
The land is nearly barren. Dunes roll away towards the rising sun; a little shade trails behind them, but that will soon be gone. The sky
is flat and empty blue.
You look at the shade
The shadows shrink as you watch. The dunes aren't high here, and the sun is rising fast.
You examine the Sun
Fusing hydrogen. Deathly, inescapable. White, blazing down.
You examine the sand
It's exactly like all the sand you've ever seen before.
About yourself
You're you.
You check your inventory
You are carrying a travel book.
You read the book
The cover is worn now. The pages are all blank.
Drop book
Nothing to do but wait.
You wait
The tiny figure crawls out from under the sands. It's dead.

"You win," it says. "Okay, my turn again."

>...
Nothing left to do. Time passes.

The sun crawls higher.