GADSDEN—Out on a tiny patio in a dismal apartment complex, Jason Sims, a 26-year-old college dropout and oil change technician, embarked upon a journey that challenged the boundaries of his mundane existence, which is honestly not saying much. Armed with nothing but curiosity and a handful of dried mushrooms, he set out to peer into the cosmic abyss, hoping for the abyss to stare back.
Sims had always felt a yearning for something beyond the grease-stained overalls and the hum of engines. “I know there’s more out there,” he confided, “I wanted to really get into the dark recesses of my brain, and maybe I’d make contact with one of these entities I’m always hearing about.”
His plan was simple: brew a potent tea from the mysterious mushrooms gifted by a friend, sit on his tiny concrete patio, and wait for enlightenment—or perhaps madness—to descend. The night sky above Gadsden was a murky canvas, its stars blotted out by the city’s relentless light pollution. But Sims persisted, squinting at the few celestial pinpricks that managed to pierce through.
As the minutes stretched into an hour, his head grew light, and the clouds seemed to part. Suddenly, he saw every star in the sky, including some that defied astronomical logic. Sims’s consciousness ascended, and the heavens brightened further, as if the very fabric of reality unraveled before him. Stardust swirled across the firmament, weaving intricate patterns that spiraled into a luminous portal.
And there, framed by the cosmic gateway, stood a hooded figure—an enigma carved from shadows, the light lost in the deep folds and recesses of his cloak. Sims stared into the void where a face should, locked in, opening his soul and searching for an answer. He expected reciprocity, a gaze that would pierce through his mortal shell and reveal the secrets of existence. But the figure wasn’t looking at him; it was looking past him.
Confused, Sims turned around. His cat, Michael Scott, sat on the ground, meticulously grooming himself. The figure seemed to notice Sims looking at him and shuffled back, retreating into the wormhole, which snapped shut like a cosmic zipper. The abruptness left Sims dazed, his mind reeling from the encounter.
“I thought it would be more profound,” he muttered, cradling Michael Scott. “Maybe next time.”
But what had he glimpsed? Was it an extraterrestrial being, a cosmic librarian, or simply a bored interdimensional traveler? Sims couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that the abyss had blinked at him, and he’d blinked back.
“I’ll give it another shot,” he declared, gazing at the stars. “There are plenty of entities in the cosmos. Maybe next time, I’ll be the one to act too cool to say hi.”
And so, in the heart of Gadsden, Jason Sims continued to straddle the mundane and the cosmic, forever seeking answers in the oily crevices of the universe. As for Michael Scott, he resumed licking himself, blissfully unaware of the cosmic drama unfolding.
Franklin Carson
