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  • About Us
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  • FAQ
  • Licensing
  • Criticism Policy
  • Article Deletions
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• Community
  • Site News
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A strange wind whistles through the air. The alleyways feel quiet and hollow in the dead of night. The light reflects off the stars, the traffic of interstellar travel only adding to the neon lights that paint the streets. You walk, shivering, dazed, and confused. You have no idea where you are, no idea how you got there, and no one to turn to. The wind sends shivers down your spine, your body fighting against the freezing temperatures with only a tattered shirt and ripped pants to protect you. You're on 15th Street. That's all you really know.

A singular warehouse calls your name. It's the only building shrouded in darkness, which grabs your attention amidst the flashing lights and signs. It's demanding you towards it, it's allure irresistible. Its rusty exterior shakes with every beckon.

The dark brown garage doors facing the street were welded shut, the metal fused with the concrete. The smell reminds you of licking the ends of cable adapters. The memory is warm, providing a dark contrast to the call of the warehouse. The smell of hot chocolate fills your nose. The warm, yellow glow of incandescent lights provides relief to the glaring neon blue lights. A soft piano replaces the droning call of the warehouse, and you feel so warm, so fuzzy like you could just sit here and-

No, that's hypothermia. Keep moving.

Circling around the warehouse, a side door sits atop two steps covered in ice. The dim porchlight buzzes quietly. A sign is posted on the door.

No, it's more than that. It's the warehouse. It's hiding somethingfor you. It's stood here, against the cold, against the test of time, for you. The doorknob turns. You don't know if it was you or not, but it doesn't matter.

The warehouse is damp, its rafters dripping with warm water, probably packed with bacteria and cholera. A large droplet lands on your hand. Disgusting. You go to shake it off when the color surprises you. It's white. You smell it, hoping to distract yourself from having to venture deeper into the warehouse. It's milk. You look up. It's all milk. Warm, delicious milk.

The door closes behind you, but you don't care. You found something of meaning, something of noteworthy significance. You drink it from your hands, unable to compose yourself. It warms your body and soul, as any glass of it would.

At the center of the room, a cow stands motionless. Its body is illuminated by the light of the full moon, a spotlight in the dark milk cave you found yourself in. The cow stares at you,directly at you. Its white fur radiates a heavenly presence, whether it came from itself or the light of the moon was a mystery. Milk continued to drip down from the ceiling, solidifying this moment into your mind as pure perfection.

And then the cow spoke. It should have spoken words of wisdom, an explanation for all there is, but it didn't.
It opened its mouth and unleashed something far, far worse.


It did something it can't.