"Shade" transcript

    *** SHADE ***
A brief story by "Ampe R. Sand" (Andrew Plotkin)
First-time players should type "about".
Release 3 / Serial number 001127 / Inform v6.21 Library 6/10
Standard interpreter 1.0 (6B) / Library serial number 991113

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.

You lever yourself upright. Umf. It's amazing how much lack of sleep feels like a hangover, only without the preceding party.

glass: (You step into the kitchen nook.) Taken.
to-do list: (You step out of the kitchen nook, and sit down at the desk.) Taken.
travel book: Taken.
old jacket: (You stand up.) You don't need your old jacket.
vacuum cleaner: Taken. (Awkwardly.)

Come to think of it, as with a hangover, dehydration is probably the problem. Your mouth is dry wool.

You step into the bathroom nook.

The faucet rattles, and water dribbles into the glass.

(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 --

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out items and scribbled corrections. There, near the bottom; "Buy plane tickets", and a checkmark. So where did you leave them? The desk? Your coat pocket? Could they have gotten packed accidentally?

-- Fly? Where did you leave your plane tickets?

You step out of the bathroom nook.

You sit down at the desk.

You carefully tilt up piles of paper, trying to avoid an avalanche. Nope. The tickets aren't there.

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 stand up.

You root through the jacket's myriad pockets. Nope. The tickets aren't there.

You quickly pop open each suitcase and riffle through, trying not to disarrange your tidy packing too badly. Nope. The tickets aren't -- Aha. They are, after all. The tickets slide to the floor and lie there, smirking at you.

Taken. Something scrapes underfoot as you bend to pick the tickets up.

It's a bit sandy.

The sound of a helicopter comes faintly through the closed window.

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out items and scribbled corrections. Huh. "Vacuum" is checked; you remember doing it. But look at this floor.

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.

The helicopter is getting closer.

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 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 sound of the helicopter is fading now.

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.

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.

You squeeze the handle. The vacuum cleaner makes an unpleasant grinding noise, and then stops entirely. The sand must have been too much for it.

Suddenly the room fills with the sound of an Indo-Slavic tune. What? Oh, yes -- you jiggered the stereo timer to act as an alarm clock, back when you still thought sleep was possible. Terrific. You've arrived at the morning, although the world outside is still dark. The taxi should be showing up soon.

Almost immediately, the hourly news comes on.

You can barely hear the helicopter any more.

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out 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.

"More allegations of campaign finance misconduct..." (Oh, fascinating news day.)

You are carrying some plane tickets, a vacuum cleaner, a travel book, your to-do list and a glass.

"Sharp words between the superpowers today..." (Huh? There are still superpowers?)

Dropped.

"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.)

Your round-trip tickets to California. You stare at them for a moment -- lost in the idea of the desert.

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.)

The Schmendrick's Guide to Desert Camping -- you've been studying it for weeks now. Vast alien reams of information: perspiration rates, sunburn factors, how to avoid dying of thirst, how to avoid dying of heat. It sounds challenging.

(But that's why you're going on this trip. 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're definitely getting hungry.

"And that's, um... far out. Back to the groove, folks," and a hypno-Javanese melody begins.

You step into the kitchen nook.

You open the cupboard, revealing a box of crackers.

Taken.

You pull on the box top. It's stuck, somehow. You yank --

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

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out 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 open the refrigerator, revealing a jar of peanut butter.

Your stomach rumbles.

Taken.

The radio begins playing an Afro-Atlantean (?) melody.

You unscrew the lid... with an unexpected grating sound. Something sifts to the floor.

The peanut butter jar is full of sand.

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.

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out items and scribbled corrections. Dammit, yet another item you missed -- you have to water the plant.

You step out of the kitchen nook, 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 task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
  - clean out closet
  - buy stereo stand
  - don't leave stove on

The radio begins playing a Filipo-Inuit song.

You step out of the bathroom nook.

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 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 spider plant sits beneath the window.

You can see a vacuum cleaner and a thin layer of sand here.

In the kitchen nook you can see a trail of sand.

In the bathroom nook you can see a trace of sand.

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
  - buy stereo stand
  - don't leave stove on

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.

The radio begins playing a Hispano-Korean chant.

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
  - don't leave stove on
  - defrost refrigerator

You step into the kitchen nook.

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.

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
  - defrost refrigerator
  - unclog shower drain
  - pack clean socks

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 Antarcto-Maori tune.

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
  - unclog shower drain
  - pack clean socks
  - remove package from kitchen storage

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 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.

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
  - unclog shower drain
  - pack clean socks

You step into the bathroom nook.

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.

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
  - pack clean socks
  - find notes for IFComp entry

The radio begins playing a bouncy Shaker song.

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 task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
  - find notes for IFComp entry
  - flush notes down toilet

You sit down at the 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.

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out items and scribbled corrections. In the middle of the page, you see:
  - flush notes down toilet

You 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.

The radio begins playing an Appalacho-Atlantean (?) tune.

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.

The task list for your impending journey is a mess of crossed-out 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.)

Time passes.

Time passes.

You hear a car approaching outside.

The radio begins playing a bouncy Inuit melody.

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.

The window-glass is sealed; it can't open or close. Some notion of thermal efficiency. Truthfully, you like it that way.

Outside, dunes roll away to the rising sun. Nothing else is visible. Only the sunlight that burns you, full in the face. And sand.

You do not want that.

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 a step across the room, but a quick movement distracts you. Something scurried along the wall? You can't see it any more.

You can't quite make out anything unusual.

You move towards the travel book but feel suddenly dizzy. Dehydration, probably.

(on top of 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".

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.

"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.

(on top of your 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 closes its eyes for a few seconds.

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 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.

The figure moves more slowly now.

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.

The figure slumps to the sand. No -- it's still moving, though on hands and knees.

The figure stops and looks around for a moment, shading its eyes.

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.

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

The sands quickly cover it.

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 can see a travel book here.

The cover is worn now. The pages are all blank.

Nothing to do but 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.

    *** SHADE ***