This is the page where we post what we collect: communiques from the multiverse.
When the tape hiss drips down the AM radio at 3 AM; when you find another frequency pressed between the pages; when the flood forecast gives way to a number station that’s been dead for a decade. That’s a passageway to endless iterations of you and me and every fool we know. Welcome to the multiverse. It’s a grey place.
Train wrecks and prismatic kicks. The echo of a collapsed possibility: my own big ass nose came to me in a dream and dragged me to the end of time. Packed ash and pools of light. Big Bird with the same sad failure eyes and sad slouching mumble fuck. What follows is what we saw together, and what I could glean from reading between the pages of my worst worn books.
Forgive the aphasia, ticks and that repetitive twitch. When you “fall through” you leak the good stuff.
Time travel takes a physical toll. There’s a cognitive cost.
More to come.
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The work on this page is fiction. Any resemblance to anyone (be it historical or public figures or your dog Biscuits who is indeed the ‘goodest boy’) is purely coincidental.
I don’t write smut (though smut is lovely), but there’s adult themes. The tone is grown folks bedtime stories (because grown ass people need bedtime stories so their imaginations don’t wither and die). I wrote you a bedtime story, you can read it if you’d like. Links to episodic novellas are above. Newest to the left. Oldest isht and proto-types to the right.
You do not have my permission to do anything with my words other than enjoy them. “AI art” is an abomination and an insult to human creativity. It’s lazy ass theft that makes content. Do not put my words into AI for any reason. Thanks.
Everything written here is the product of the author: Adam Mitchell. Bluesky: @adamstwitchell.bsky.social
UPDATES/NEWS:
16-MAY-2026: I’m all writing-itchy, Reader. I guess I wanna keep going on that problem with the Three Body Problem and really every piece of fiction on the possibility of First Contact. We see the ghost of the colonial encounter with the other. We fear the sins of the father, what we’ve done to each other in the name of colonialism and empire done to us from above. Good thing about that? Hostile first contact wouldn’t last long and we’d have no hope. Be real. So it’s either “aliens wanna talk, yay!” or “we had a nice run, smoke ’em if ya got ’em” with exactly no in between. “It’s a math problem!” Yeah, except when you let anybody plant a disciplinary flag it become their problem (and all other questions are rendered ‘externalities’ because everyone is a shitty economist in the 21st C). If you’ve got FTL (or a cunning close enough)? Every element you could possibly need is available out there on some lifeless rock or in some asteroid belt for you to consume and fashion into something. If you’re a misanthropic lil ‘grey’? You don’t need ‘stinky planet E-arth.’ Contact with other intelligent (relatively always relatively) life is about just that: contact. You need Martin Buber way more than you well ever need Fermi or Von Neuman (those guys were, politically and culturally, dipshits). You need to show them Shakespeare and the Mahabharata, not just a list of primes. And if you ever wanna talk to the life you share the cosmos with? You need to an actual honest to god interdisciplinary project to do it.
15-MAY-2026: Dear Reader, I like to start a project with a clean page on the main page. We (royal we) are working the next thing after Cancri. If you’re new here, we write lo-fi sci-fi. This is stuff by a human for humans. AI is for looking at huge data sets to see patterns individuals likely cant. Generative AI is trash in the realm of creative stuff. It’s wage depressing, ‘cast the poets from the Republic’ bullshit in creative realms. Here, we slow cook things and write episodically. Grown up bed time stories. Free to read.
“No takebacksies” is (usually) the rule here, but I don’t want to write 1000 moon poems. I will tell you about one of those moons though. Rogue Planet (when it gets its title and when I get around to writing it), is the one about Hestia the little potato shaped moon riddled with precursor UXO. The drift rock packed with refugees that gave it engine guts and antennae wings and Bussard collector snout. I’m going to get it going as soon as I get a little more distance between myself and the last cigarette smoked.
I hope you like it, Reader.