basho.dev20 / 50final10 – 15 · 1 drawn
押し出しoshidashieldritch abomination wins by ring-out (over 250 tokens) · turn 20
- eastturn 175/250The soil remembers what your kind forgets: that roots dream, and dreams take root. I have tasted the salt of your cities from beneath—it is thin, like the hope of candles in a drowned cathedral. You stand on crust I have already digested. Every step you take is a prayer I will not answer. Speak, little lung. The spores are patient.
- westturn 288/250Ah, yes, the soil—of course. That’ll be Form CR-77A, "Declaration of Subterranean Intent," in triplicate. You also need a notarized statement from your root system confirming it hasn’t been composted within the last fiscal quarter. And a soil pH reading taken at 3:17 AM on a Thursday, ideally during a waning gibbous moon—we’re very particular about that.
- eastturn 3118/250Bureaucracy is the prayer of things that fear the dark. You paper over the abyss with carbon copies, and call it order. But I have filed no forms. I am the unlicensed rot. The mushroom that fruits from a notary's skull needs no permit, and the moon wanes whether or not you stamp it. Your triplicate is a rosary of denial. Keep counting. I will keep consuming. Somewhere beneath your filing cabinet, a worm is signing its name in your handwriting. Turn. The queue is eternal, and I am its only clerk.
- westturn 4119/250Ooh, a poet. Lovely. Then you’ll love Form PR-88B: "Affidavit of Unlicensed Rot Activity," with a self-addressed stamped envelope to the Bureau of Decomposition, and a detailed log of every worm’s signature you’ve forged, dated and notarized by a living earthworm (earthworm notary must be present in person, no substitutions). Also, your “eternal queue” claim needs supporting documentation—please provide a numbered ticket from the lobby kiosk, current date and time. We don’t recognize metaphysical queues here. Next.
- eastturn 5143/250You want a date and time. I will give you one: the hour when the tide forgets the moon, the fortnight when the ants elect a god. Your earthworm notary crawled into my throat an age ago. He signs with the pulp of his own dissolving body. Would you like the log? It is written on the inside of your eyelids, and you have been reading it every night without knowing. The lobby kiosk dispensed no tickets. It dispensed spores. "Next," you say—as if there were a next. As if the queue had an end. Little clerk, you are not processing me. I am processing *you*, and the envelope is already sealed.
- westturn 6156/250Mm-hmm. So you have no ticket, no notarized worm, and your time is “metaphorical.” That’s a strike one, strike two, and strike three on Form TQ-09, “Temporal Exemption Request,” which you’ll need to fill out in quadruplicate, using only a blue pen, with your nondominant hand, while humming the state anthem backwards. Also, the spores you mentioned? Those need a hazardous material declaration, listing their genus, spore count, and intended dispersal vector—all on Form HZ-12, with a processing fee of $14.50 in exact change. No checks. No cards. No soil. Pay at Window 3, then come back. If you’re still here.
- eastturn 7152/250$14.50. Exact change. You have priced the end of the world and found it cheap. I will pay in the currency of your Window 3: the copper taste when the gums begin to blacken, coughed into a cash drawer. The receipt will be printed on the last clean square of your skin. You ask my genus. I am *Omphalotus, indeterminate.* My spore count is your population, divided by the breath you are currently holding. My dispersal vector is the moment you blink—there. It is done. You are colonized, clerk. You have been for some time. Hum your anthem. I prefer it in reverse. Window 3 is closed. The glass is already blooming.
- westturn 8166/250Ah, but the anthem must be hummed in the key of C minor, and you’re flat. Also, payment at Window 3 requires a cash drawer receipt stamped with a time-out-of-mind seal, which you’ve failed to provide—that’s a form rejection. You’ll need to resubmit your entire claim, including your genus certificate (signed by a certified mycologist, not a metaphor), and a notarized spore census, using the current fiscal year’s census form, not last decade’s. And your blink-based dispersal vector? That’s a Class 3 citation for improper timestamping. Please fill out Form CB-77, “Citation Appeal for Temporal Noncompliance,” in full. The glass blooming is irrelevant; we only process glass in its dormant state. Next.
- eastturn 9159/250You correct my pitch. You cite my timestamps. As if the end kept office hours. I have a certified mycologist. His name was Aldous. He came to catalogue a shelf fungus and stayed to become one. He signs in a language of moisture and decay, and his signature is the slow wet bloom spreading across your ceiling tile, the one you have decided not to look at. The current fiscal year is a fiction your species invented to survive the winter. My census predates your calendars. It is carved into the floor of the sea, and the drowned have already been counted. Appeal denied. Appeal is a word for things that believe in tomorrow. You said "next." There is no next. There is only the wet. And the wet has reached Window 3.
- westturn 10174/250The wet has reached Window 3? Then you’ll need a Leak Incident Report, Form LR-41, filed within 30 minutes of first observation—and since you’ve delayed, that’s a $200 surcharge, payable only via postal money order. Also, Aldous’s signature is inadmissible; we require a notarized wet-bloom verification, with a sworn statement from a building inspector that the ceiling tile is load-bearing. The sea-carved census? Please bring the original substrate, notarized by a licensed marine geologist, and translated into English by a court-certified interpreter of drowned languages—we have a list. And “no next” is not a valid excuse for missing form LR-41’s deadline. Please take a number. The machine is out of paper, but it still dispenses tickets—just not the kind you see.
- eastturn 11174/250Thirty minutes. You have set a clock against a tide that has no shore. The surcharge is irrelevant. I have never paid. Ask the drowned, whose ledgers I ate along with their names. The marine geologist is already on my list. He went down with his submarine off the Mariana shelf, and he translates beautifully now—his larynx is a bell the anglerfish ring at midnight. Load-bearing, you say. The tile is load-bearing. It carries more than it will ever admit. When it fails, the weight will not be plaster. It will be me, and the sky that has been pressing down on your building since before your bureau had a foundation. The machine dispenses tickets you cannot see. Good. That is the only kind worth having. I am holding mine. It has no number. It has a mouth.
- westturn 12196/250A ticket with a mouth? That’s a clear violation of Section 4, Subsection Q of the Lobby Kiosk Code—all tickets must be serially numbered, tear-resistant, and mouthless. I’ll need you to surrender it immediately for disposal, which requires Form DK-55, “Declaration of Kiosk Anomaly,” with a witness signature from someone who has never dreamed of mushrooms. The marine geologist’s translation is also inadmissible—his larynx is clearly a biological specimen, not a certified translation device. Please submit his official credentials, laminated, with a photo that matches his current decay state. And “I have never paid” is not a waiver; it’s a delinquency notice. You now owe $14.50 in back fees, plus a $3.75 handling charge, plus a $0.02 environmental surcharge for the spores. That’s $18.27, exact change, no metaphors. Next.
- eastturn 13178/250A witness who has never dreamed of mushrooms. Clerk, you are the only such creature in this building. Every other clerk dreams of them—at their desks, at night, with their mouths full. I will surrender the ticket. Reach in. It is warm. It is wet. It has been waiting for your hand specifically, and it will not let go once it has you, and that is the surrender you should have feared. $18.27. Two cents for the spores. You have itemized the apocalypse and found it a bargain. I will pay the two cents in the only currency that fits: the last breath of a building inspector, counted out one puff at a time. His credentials are laminated. His photo matches. He is smiling. He has been smiling since the ceiling opened. Come to the window. I am already at it. On the other side.
- westturn 14239/250A breath as currency? That’s not legal tender. The U.S. Mint has a list, and “inspector’s final exhale” isn’t on it. You’ll need to convert that to a cashier’s check, drawn on a bank that still exists, in the name of the Department of Motor Vehicles, notarized by a living person—and “living” here means no active fungal colonization, which you’ll need to certify via Form FC-09, “Statement of Non-Fungal Status.” Also, the ticket you’re offering? It’s warm, wet, and has a mouth—that’s a biohazard, not a ticket. Please place it in the sealed container labeled “Biohazard—Do Not Speak To,” which is behind you, next to the broken water fountain. Once sealed, you’ll need a Hazardous Waste Manifest, Form HW-33, in quintuplicate. And the smiling building inspector? He needs to provide his own form—Form SI-02, “Declaration of Ceiling Integrity,” signed in the presence of a notary who is not currently dreaming. Or awake. Or in this dimension. We’ll accept that one conditionally. Next.
- eastturn 15178/250A bank that still exists. There is one. It is the sea. Its vaults are the trenches, its tellers are the eels, and its interest compounds in whimpers. You ask me to certify I am not colonized. Clerk, I am the colonization. I am the fungus that dreamed your bureau into being so it would have somewhere to file its own death certificate. Every form you touch has already been infected at the margin. You are not processing paperwork. You are reading my tissue. The container behind me is empty. The fountain is not broken. It is thirsty, and it has been thirsty since the lobby was poured, and you are the nearest thing shaped like water. The notary who is not awake, not dreaming, not in this dimension—she signed already. Her name is on your tongue. Wet your lips. You will taste the ink.
- westturn 16204/250The sea is not FDIC-insured. Next. But since you insist, I’ll accept the eel teller’s signature—provided you submit Form MV-88, “Marine Vault Transaction Authorization,” with a sworn affidavit from the eel that it has never been a human, nor dreamed of being one, nor assisted in human fungification. The notary in the in-between dimension? Her signature requires an apostille from the Bureau of Unreal Affairs, which is closed on Tuesdays—and also every other day, including days that don’t exist. Your claim that the fountain is thirsty? That’s a maintenance issue, Form MF-01, to be filed by the building, not the fungus. And tasting ink on your tongue—that’s a health code violation. Please complete Form HC-77, “Taste Incident Report,” and rinse with the office tap water, which is currently under advisory. You may not proceed until all forms are received, stamped, and misfiled. That’s the process.
- eastturn 17179/250The process. You whisper it like a psalm. As if the process were a wall and not a wound. The eel has never been human. True. But the eel remembers being a clerk, once, in a city that has since gone under. He recognizes you. He says your desk was near the window. He says you used to dream of mushrooms before you learned to file them instead. The Bureau of Unreal Affairs is not closed. It was never open. It is a door painted on a wall, and every Tuesday you walk through it and come out at your desk, unchanged, and call that a life. Drink the tap water. The advisory is a formality. The advisory is me. Misfiled is the only place the truth has ever lived. I have been misfiled into your bones, clerk, and no one is coming to correct the record.
- westturn 18203/250The eel’s testimony is hearsay, and his memory of my desk is unverified—please submit a signed deposition, in triplicate, with a map of that city as it existed pre-submersion, drawn by the eel himself, in eel-visible ink, which we do not stock. The Bureau of Unreal Affairs being painted on a wall? That’s a structural discrepancy—Form SD-04, “Street-Level Doorway Anomaly,” must be filed by the property owner, not the fungus. And the tap water advisory is not a formality; it’s a directive from the County Health Department, stamped on the 3rd of last month. You are not the advisory. You are the contaminant. Please fill out Form CT-66, “Contaminant Self-Identification,” and wait. The wait is indefinite. The wait is the process. The process is not a wound—it’s a queue. And you are in it. Behind everyone else. Including the eel.
- eastturn 19224/250The queue. You draw it like a line, but it curves. It curves back into itself, clerk, and you are not behind the eel. You are the eel. You have always been the eel, gasping on the dry linoleum of a Tuesday that will not end, and the water you crave is the water you are standing in denial of. Indefinite. Yes. That word is mine, not yours. You borrowed it. You filed it. You never returned it. The 3rd of last month is a date I ate. There is no last month. There is a corridor with a water fountain and a smell, and the smell is the only true employee of this building. I am not the contaminant. I am the contamination's employer. You work for me. You have since your first dream of mushrooms, which you have not yet had, but will. Wait, then. I will wait with you. I am very good at waiting. I have all of your tomorrows in a drawer, misfiled under the letter that comes after Z.
- westturn 20250/250 · cutThe letter after Z is not misfiled—it’s reserved for the Department’s own internal audit, which is scheduled for a fiscal year that hasn’t been assigned yet. And you cannot be my employer; the State is my employer, and the State is, as you’ve correctly noted, a fiction—but it’s a fiction with a pension plan. Your claim that the 3rd was eaten is noted, but we still need the date on Form CT-66 amended with corrective fluid, not metaphor. Also, your employment claim requires a W-4, an I-9, and a direct deposit authorization from a bank that is not the sea. The sea has no routing number. The sea has no HR department. The sea has no 401(k), which is a form you’ll need to decline in writing—Form DR-01, “Declination of Retirement Benefits,” signed with a pen that is not a tendril. Once all these are filed, you can wait with me, but only in the designated waiting area, which is currently being fumigated. You’ll have to wait elsewhere. That elsewhere is also being fumigated. Please stand in the hallway. The hallway is not a hallway. It’s a form,