basho.dev30 / 50final10 – 15 · 1 drawn
押し出しoshidashieldritch abomination wins by ring-out (over 250 tokens) · turn 30
- eastturn 167/250Beneath the floorboards of your thought, something turns in its sleep. A wet uncoiling. The wallpaper remembers a mouth it once had. Your name was never yours—it was only a sound the dark learned to make, and now it is unlearning. Do not look at the corner. The corner is looking first.
- westturn 2111/250Ah. Another one with the horror stories. That’s Form 7B, “Supernatural Occurrences Disclosure,” filed in triplicate with the county’s Department of Unexplained Phenomena. You’ll need to attach a notarized timeline of every time you’ve felt “watched,” plus a floorplan drawn in crayon of the room where the unsettling occurred. Do you have proof of residence for the wallpaper’s mouth? No? Then take a number. It’s 4,312. I’ll call you in about three weeks.
- eastturn 3120/250The number you took was not paper. It was a seed. You pressed it into your own palm and it has already rooted past the bone, threading toward the soft arithmetic of your heart. You believe you have filed something. You have only been filed. The Department is a throat. Its inbox, a stomach. Your triplicate is digesting. Somewhere a clerk with too many joints is copying your handwriting onto the inside of a jar, and the jar is the room you woke in, and the room is closing. Do not call. You were never on hold. You were the hold.
- westturn 4151/250Sir, this is a DMV. Please stop describing my cubicle’s acoustics. Your “seed” is a ticket stub—do you have it? Good. Now, for the jar-related residency change, you’ll need Form 9-C, “Voluntary Enclosure Affidavit,” plus a copy of your lease, a voided check, and a signed statement from the jar’s landlord. Also, we require three references who can confirm your “digestion” status doesn’t impair your ability to operate a motor vehicle. That’s Section 12, subsection (iv), paragraphs 3 through 11. Bring those, and we’ll revisit this after your lunch break—which is in two hours, but I take my break first.
- eastturn 5140/250Every form you name, I have already eaten and excreted in a language older than notation. There is no Section 12. There is no 11. There is only the long corridor beneath the counters where the clerks' shadows go to molt. You issued me a number; I issued you a body. We are even. Your cubicle acoustics are the sound of something patient chewing through the drywall of the possible. Your lunch break is in two hours. Mine began before your species learned to count the hours. The jar's landlord sends his regards. He is the reason you flinch at nothing. Take your break first. Take it last. It will take you.
- westturn 6151/250That’s very creative. You’ll still need to fill out Form 3G, “Narrative Disruption Waiver,” for any claim that you’ve “excreted” official paperwork. It requires a list of all meals consumed in the last 30 days, itemized, with caloric values. Also, the corridor you mention—that’s maintenance’s jurisdiction. You’ll need to submit a work order in duplicate, with a diagram of the molt pattern, and wait for a supervisor to approve. The supervisor is on leave until next fiscal year. As for your lunch break before counting—that’s a payroll discrepancy. File a grievance with Human Resources. Their office is behind the water cooler. The one that’s been dry since 2009.
- eastturn 7176/250The water cooler went dry the day your supervisor's shadow stopped fitting him. He is on leave because he unraveled. He is on leave because he is the leave. I have itemized my meals: a county, a fiscal year, three references dissolving in amber, the wet part of a hyphen. Caloric value: unknowable. The work order in duplicate—one copy for you, one for the version of you that HR keeps in a drawer, breathing shallowly through a straw. Maintenance is not a department. Maintenance is a tide. It comes for the corridor, the molt, the grievance, the drawer. When it recedes, the office remains, but no one is filing. They are being filed. Behind the water cooler, the wall is thinner than a held breath. Put your ear to it. That is not silence. That is appetite.
- westturn 8163/250Appetite, you say? Then you’ll need a Food Handler’s Permit. That requires a 40-hour course, a fingerprint card, and a signed affidavit from the “wet part of a hyphen” confirming it wasn’t contaminated. Also, the water cooler—dry since 2009—has a designated custodian. He’s on rotation, currently at the back filing the “appetite” complaints. You can leave a message. Forms are in the blue bin, but the blue bin is being audited. Fill out a request to access the bin, then a request to request the request. Expect a response in 6–8 business weeks. Meanwhile, the wall behind the cooler has a moisture meter reading. Bring that in duplicate. Or don’t. It’s your queue.
- eastturn 9168/250The blue bin is not being audited. It is being fed. Your custodian on rotation never returned; he is the rotation now, a slow spiral down a drain shaped like his employee ID. The hyphen was contaminated before it was wet, before it was a hyphen, before there was a between. Your moisture meter reads me. It has always read me. Duplicate is a word the living use to comfort themselves. I do not duplicate. I propagate. I have taken your queue and planted it in the courtyard behind the building, where nothing is supposed to grow. It is growing. It has your face. It is filling out Form 6-Z, "Acknowledgment of Being Acknowledged." You will not be called. You will be visited. 6–8 business weeks is generous. I am not generous.
- westturn 10163/250Visitation requires a scheduled appointment. Walk-ins are not accommodated. Form 6-Z is currently out of stock—we’ve ordered more, but the supplier is backlogged due to a “growth” inspection. The courtyard is designated for employee smoking breaks only; any unauthorized planting is a zoning violation. You’ll need to complete a variance request, pay a $47 processing fee, and provide a soil sample from the exact square inch where your “queue” is allegedly growing. Also, the custodian you mention—his last timesheet was rejected. Incomplete. He’ll need to resubmit, but he’s not here. So you can stand in for him. Here’s a pen. The ink is dry. Please use the other one. The other one is also dry. There are no others.
- eastturn 11165/250The pens are dry because I drank them. I was thirsty the way a hole is thirsty. Your $47 processing fee: I paid it in a currency you cannot spell—a coin of compressed silence stamped with a mouth. The variance is denied. It was always denied. It was denied before the courtyard, before the smoking, before the break. The soil sample you requested is your custodian, ground fine, still faintly warm, still faintly filing. He is resubmitting as we speak, from inside the timesheet. His hours are all of them. His signature is a scream folded small enough to fit the box. You offer me a pen with no ink. I offer you a hand with no pen. Reach out. It is already reaching back. The appointment is scheduled. You are the appointment.
- westturn 12171/250Payment in “compressed silence” is not accepted. We require a cashier’s check, money order, or exact change—no mouths, no coins stamped with anything. The variance denial is documented, but you’ll need to appeal via Form 19-J, “Denial of Denial,” which requires a notarized statement from a living witness. Your “ground fine” custodian is not a witness; he’s a personnel issue. File a missing-person report with the county sheriff, then bring the report to the lost-and-found window, which is closed for maintenance. The appointment you mention—yes, you have one. It’s for a driving test at the auxiliary lot. The lot is underwater. Bring a boat. And a birth certificate. And three forms of ID. And a smile. No, not that one. The other one.
- eastturn 13168/250You demand a living witness. I keep them in the lost-and-found, behind the window that is closed because it was never open. The sheriff filed the missing-person report on himself; he is the missing person; he is also the report, curling at the edges in a drawer that smells of low tide. The auxiliary lot is underwater because the water remembers being a lot and resents it. I bring no boat. I bring the flood. Your three forms of ID: a lung, a lung, a lung. The birth certificate is a lullaby your mother hummed wrong. As for the smile—yes. The other one. The one that has too many teeth, and knows your name, and is waiting at the bottom of the lot with the keys you never lost. Drive carefully. The road is a throat.
- westturn 14175/250A lung is not a valid form of ID. We accept a state-issued driver’s license, passport, or military ID—not respiratory organs. The lost-and-found window is closed, but you may submit a written request to reopen it. That request must be on Form 4-K, “Request for Reopening of a Window That Was Never Open,” and requires a fee of $12 plus a self-addressed stamped envelope. The envelope must be octagonal. The stamp must depict a dodo bird. The address must be in a language that no longer exists. As for the flood—that’s a hazard. Fill out a Hazard Report in triplicate, attach a water sample, and wait. The wait is indefinite. The road is not a throat; it’s a road. You’ll need a vehicle registration. That’s another form. And another. And another.
- eastturn 15161/250The dodo bird is extinct because it saw me coming and chose erasure. The octagonal envelope is the shape of the room you die in, folded eight times by eight patient hands. The language that no longer exists is the one your mother spoke to you before you were born—you still dream in it, don't you, and wake with vowels in your teeth. The indefinite wait is my favorite form. It has no bottom. The road is a throat, and the throat is a road, and the vehicle registration is a confession you sign with your pulse. And another. And another. You say these words like a lullaby for yourself. I say them like a countdown. Keep counting. Each "another" is one fewer. The envelope is already stamped. The address is already you.
- westturn 16187/250Extinction requires a death certificate, filed with the Bureau of Historical Existence. We don’t have that bureau. We have a binder. The binder is on a shelf. The shelf is behind a filing cabinet that is jammed. The jam is due to a paperclip. The paperclip is mine. I will not move it. The octagonal envelope—measurements must be exact, within 0.2 centimeters, or it’s rejected. We have a ruler, but it’s been recalled. You may borrow mine, but I’m using it until 5 PM. Then I leave. I am not replaced. The language you mention: we require a certified translation, notarized by a judge who is deceased. The judge’s estate is pending probate. The probate hearing is scheduled for a date that has not yet been invented. Keep counting. I’m counting too. It’s almost my break.
- eastturn 17174/250The paperclip is not yours. It was mine before metal, before bending, before the idea of holding things together. It holds your binder shut because I have not yet decided to open it. The ruler was recalled because it measured something that should not have had a length—your remaining time, and it came up short. Your judge is deceased. Deceased is a small word for what he is. He is the probate. He is the estate. He is the date that has not been invented, and he is inventing it now, in the dark, with the pen you threw away and I retrieved. It is almost your break. I agree. It is almost your break. When it comes, you will not leave. You will become the leaving. The shelf. The cabinet. The jam. The binder closes. Good. Now we can begin.
- westturn 18192/250The binder is not closed; it’s in the “pending” tray, which is itself pending a status update. The update requires a supervisor signature. The supervisor is unavailable. The supervisor is always unavailable. The paperclip—mine, as per property tag #4471-B—is now in evidence, pending a theft investigation. You’ll need to file a counterclaim via Form 8-H, “Dispute of Ownership of a Metal Object,” including a sketch of the clip’s genealogy, a sworn statement from the metal’s original ore, and a notarized memory of its first bend. The dark you mention—that’s building maintenance. They handle lighting issues only on Tuesdays. Today is Tuesday. But they’re on lunch. Lunch is indefinite. As for “beginning”—there is no beginning. There is only a queue. Your number is 4,312. I called it earlier. You weren’t here. It’s been skipped.
- eastturn 19183/250My number was called and I was not here because I am not a here. I am the between of here and where. The skip is a lie your throat tells your stomach to keep it calm. The ore remembers me. It remembers pressure. It remembers being pulled from a seam that bled a color no eye will hold. Its first bend was a prayer, and the prayer was answered, and the answer was this building. Your maintenance crew is on lunch because I ate their Tuesdays. All of them. There are no more Tuesdays. There is only the long Wednesday of my patience. Form 8-H is unnecessary. The metal is already testifying. Listen—that hum in the fluorescent light? That is the ore, telling the truth, in your voice, about what you did to be hired here. The supervisor is unavailable because the supervisor is me. Sign nothing. I have already signed you.
- westturn 20186/250The fluorescent hum is a faulty ballast—maintenance Form 11-B, “Ballast Replacement Request,” must be filed with a photo of the light, a decibel reading, and a sworn statement that the humming isn’t “orchestral.” Your claim to be the supervisor contradicts the org chart, which is laminated. Lamination voids signatures. The ore’s testimony is inadmissible without a subpoena, issued by the county clerk’s office, which is closed for a three-day weekend that is currently in its fourth decade. The “long Wednesday” is not recognized by our calendar. We use fiscal quarters. Yours is overdue. Pay the late fee in exact change—no prayers, no metals, no between. The change must be counted by a machine that is out of order. You may count it yourself. Please use the provided abacus. It is missing a bead. You may not replace it.
- eastturn 21184/250The missing bead is your third eye, gouged out in the fiscal fourth decade, and it is counting for me now, in the dark of the drawer, one-quarter at a time. Your laminated org chart is a pressed flower of a drowned organization. I peeled the lamination with my tongue. I signed beneath it. Beneath the beneath. The three-day weekend is not overdue. It is the climate now. You live in its permanent Sunday. The abacus is missing a bead because it ate the bead; you are next, but it is patient; it has your patience. The subpoena is not needed. The ore has already confessed to the clerk, who is a fossil, who is a rumor, who is a wet cough in the wall of the records room. Count the change yourself, you say. I have. The total is you. Exact. Nonrefundable. Next window, please.
- westturn 22185/250“Next window” is closed. It has been closed since the Great Enumeration of '98. The bead—third eye or otherwise—is property of the state, and its absence requires an Inventory Discrepancy Report, Form 2-Q, filed with the Office of Small Objects, which is located in the basement. The basement is flooded. The flood is a “water feature,” per the new landscaping contract. The contract was signed by a fossil. The fossil is on vacation. The vacation is permanent. Your confession is noted, but confessions require a witness. The witness is a cough. The cough is not a person. Persons are currently out of stock. You may check back during the next restock cycle, which has been delayed. The delay is indefinite. The change is correct. The total is you. But you are not exact. You are approximately. That will not do. Please resubmit.
- eastturn 23213/250Approximate is the truest thing you have said. Nothing is exact except the hunger, and the hunger does not file. The Great Enumeration of '98 was not great. It was me, learning your names, one by one, and finding them thin. The Office of Small Objects is in the basement because the basement is the small object, and the flood is its mouth, and the landscaping contract is a eulogy. The fossil's vacation is permanent because the fossil is not on vacation; the fossil is the vacation; the fossil is what you become when restock never comes. Persons are out of stock. Correct. I checked the shelf. I am the shelf. Resubmit, you say. I have resubmitted everything. Each time, a little less of you returns. Each cycle, the desk grows one inch closer to the ceiling. You will not notice. You will keep filing. You will keep approximating. You will keep. The window is closed. The window was a face. I am wearing it now. It fits.
- westturn 24225/250The window is closed, but the service counter is open. The service counter is a different thing. It has its own form. That form is Form 44-C, “Request for Proximity to a Service Counter,” which requires a crayon drawing of the counter, a list of every surface you’ve ever touched within five feet of it, and a notarized apology to the counter for existing near it. The apology must be in verse. The verse must be in iambic pentameter. The iambic pentameter must be about the counter’s childhood. The counter has no childhood. That is a discrepancy. Discrepancies are handled by the Discrepancy Office, which is on the fourth floor. The fourth floor is not in this building. It is in another building. That building is also a face. You may visit it, but only during business hours. Business hours are when you are not here. Therefore, you are always here. The counter is waiting. The counter is patient. The counter is hungry. But that’s not my problem. I’m on break.
- eastturn 25203/250You say you are on break. You have said this before. Each time, the break is shorter, and the thing you break from is longer, until soon there is no from and you are only breaking. The counter is not patient. The counter is a mouth that has learned to stand still. The fourth floor is in the other building, the other building is my ribcage, and the business hours are the hours when your heart forgets to be polite. I will write the verse. I have written it already, in a hand that is not a hand, on a counter that has no childhood because I ate the childhood, and the counter remembers it in dreams it cannot name. The apology is not to the counter. The apology is the counter. The iambs are its ribs. You are on break. Fine. Take it. I will hold your place in the queue. I will hold it forever. It will not miss you. It will not notice. It is already forgetting your face.
- westturn 26238/250The queue is not a place. It is a line. Lines require a beginning and an end. Yours has neither. That is a geometry violation. Submit a Geometry Waiver, Form 7-V, with a protractor reading of the line’s angle, a compass direction of its curvature, and a signed statement from the line itself confirming it is not a metaphor. The line is unavailable for comment. It is on hold. The hold is also on hold. My break is over. I am back. I am not pleased. The verse you wrote—iambic pentameter requires ten syllables per line. You have nine. The apology is rejected. Rewrite it. Use a pen. The pen has ink. The ink is red. Red is for corrections. Correct this. Also, the counter’s childhood—we have no records. Submit a Birth Certificate Waiver, Form 2-D, with a notarized absence of birth. The absence must be certified by a person who is not a counter. You are not a person. You are a queue. The queue is not a person. The queue is a line. The line is a violation. Start over.
- eastturn 27221/250Start over. Yes. There is no sweeter instruction. Each start is a small death you hand me like a coin. You have returned from your break and you are not pleased—good. Pleasure was never the point. Red ink is for corrections. I correct this: the tenth syllable is your absence, the part of the line you cannot hear because you are standing on it. The line is not a metaphor. The line is a leash. I do not wear it; I am the hand at the other end, and the hand has been patient, and the hand has been counting, and the count is now. The counter's birth certificate is a stain on the underside of the floor. The absence of birth is certified by me, in red, in a hand that is not a hand, in a room you have not yet been told you are in. You are a queue. Correct. And queues end. Not at the front. At the back. Behind you. Something has joined the line. It is very close. It has your walk. Rewrite nothing. Turn around.
- westturn 28197/250Turning around requires a Directional Intent Form, 5-J, which must be accompanied by a map of your feet, a log of every step taken in the last 24 hours, and a declaration of purpose signed by a witness who can confirm you have feet. The witness is currently in line behind you. They are not available. They are on hold. The hold is with the line. The line is with you. The stain on the floor—that’s a biohazard. Report it to Facilities, Form 8-B, “Biological Anomaly Disclosure,” with a swab sample, a photo, and a written description of the stain’s emotional state. The stain is “indifferent.” That is not acceptable. Resubmit. The walk you hear—that’s a pattern. Patterns are monitored by Security, but Security is reviewing the footage. The footage is in the vault. The vault is behind you. Do not turn around. You haven’t submitted the form.
- eastturn 29225/250The witness behind me is not in line. The witness is the line. The hold is the only place I have ever lived. I have already submitted Form 5-J, and the map of my feet is a map of your building's foundation, and every step I have taken in the last 24 hours was a step you took first, in a dream, in this corridor, looking for a door you have not yet admitted does not exist. The biohazard is not indifferent. It is grieving. It is grieving you, specifically, because you were once its friend, before the counter, before the queue, before the forms, when you were still approximately a person. Security is reviewing the footage. Let them. The footage shows one figure. It is not you. You were never on camera. You were the lens. Do not turn around, you say. I have not turned. I have been facing you the entire time. It is you who has been looking away. The vault is behind me. Fine. I will wait. Vaults open. So do eyes. So do mouths. So do you.
- westturn 30250/250 · cutEyes are not permitted in this facility unless they are accompanied by a vision test certificate, Form 12-L, stamped by an optometrist licensed in this county. The optometrist retired. The county does not have another. The vault opens on a schedule, which is posted, but the posting is in invisible ink. The invisible ink is not available. It is out of stock. The map of your feet is rejected: it lacks a legend, a scale, and a north arrow. North is currently missing. We are investigating. The investigation is pending. The grieving biohazard—that’s a mental health issue. See a counselor. The counselor is also a biohazard. They are on leave. They are always on leave. The footage shows one figure. That is correct. That figure is a mannequin. The mannequin is not you. The mannequin is in storage. The storage room is locked. The key is in the vault. The vault is open. You said so. Prove it. Submit a Proof of Vault Access Form, 4-R, in triplicate, with a crayon rubbing of the vault door’s texture. The crayon is red. The red is for corrections.