Teeth are pulling me through an inter-dimensional window by my hair, but yes I’m fine. Please carry on with the lecture. Micro-economics is a fascinating subject, and here I am just excreting ectoplasmic discharge all over my desk as I shift between planes of existence.
No, no, don’t help me. Wouldn’t want you all to get sucked in as well. This is my thing, my problem to deal with. I’m not gonna unload on everyone. I’m sure whatever Lovecraftian horrors I experience on the other side will be more psychologically scarring then they are lethal. I can already see the incomprehensibly thrashing appendages now. Nothing about them looks particularly harmful beyond their chilling violations of coherent spatial structure.
I can’t even hear you anymore. I can still see you all flailing about in a panic though. Stop that. All this fuss on my behalf is truly embarrassing. Ah, but I suppose if I can’t hear you, you can’t hear me either. No point in complaining. You’re all fading far too quickly as this nightmarish landscape comes into view: its jagged valleys, its menacing crags. Boulders are tumbling constantly across windswept, graying vegetation. A turgid wailing without source pervades all under this empty, hopeless sky.
Oh hey, there’s a Taco Bell here too. That’s kinda neat. I- Oh… oh no wait, it’s closed.
About the Author
Sam Gorenstein is from Guilderland, N.Y. He has previously served as writing chair for the UAlbany Sketch and Situational Comedy Club. He runs a webcomic at thesearethethings.smackjeeves.com, and is available on twitter at @SamIsNotADoctor. They say on nights when there’s not too much fog, if you look closely, you can still see his ghost ship sailing just off the bay.