Introduction
Old Mister Sterling McCage would have turned 600 today. Yet his frozen, dust-covered face suggests he had not even reached 60. Long ago, he had slashed his throat with a jagged piece of cement, unable to bear the realisation that his once beautiful life no longer sufficed. He bore two children, both of whom started a tech business, able to provide him with a nice bungalow in the countryside. Still, despite having tiptoed around the gutted corpses of his pub friends and shell casings in the worst trenches the world had to offer, everything was taken from him—including his wife. She had been riding her bicycle outside, tucking their babies’ milk bottles and wiping them with her handkerchiefs. They were planning to move to the countryside, not the bunkers, when she perished in the Blitz. The husband and children survived and were eventually relocated to a quaint, quiet farm in isolated Scotland.
He was once a clean-shaven soldier who served in a great war. His room was full of his Lee–Enfields, rusted beyond time. And a Volksempfänger he got from Austria was in the corner, waiting for its speakers to be dusted and its buttons clicked again. They were all old, only-documented-with-photographs-and-not-holograms old, and his room was opaque from the dust hanging around the air. During his deployment to Vienna, a German bomb detonated an apartment near him, and he was struck by a metal bar in the aftermath. After his honourable discharge, his chaotic thoughts began transforming into words rather than the sounds of bullets and explosions—a coping mechanism to conceal the torment it carried within. Then, as his mind softened a little day by day, all he could find himself doing was to squeeze it and put it all onto ink. He would write from dawn to morning, and sunset to midnight, every day, and in times when he was not writing, he was reading, in his chair by the sultry sun casting harsh rays on his dusty living room, which collected on the surface of his drink, a coffee cup in the morning and a full-bodied whisky in the evening. The layer of dust did not compare to the stacks of paper he stained his ink on. Memoirs upon memoirs, memories brought and not forgotten, but the past did not stain the present. He was so dedicated that, in his senior years, around when his children had started work elsewhere, he would hide in his basement to keep himself away from the family gatherings, on Christmas and New Year’s Eve, to flow his thoughts without the interruption of a calling by relatives to hold their babies, his grandchildren. He was, in every sense, like any wanderer who has traversed through this place.
But he eventually turned into one. One of these days, he realised he felt more comfortable writing in isolation, surrounded on all six sides, top to bottom, side to side, by a wall, and kept himself away from the light. And the darkness became more comfortable with him, except for a dim nightlight at his side. Though more dusty, which could remind him of the very rubble of the past war he was writing about, he did not seem to falter. Until the darkness he was so comfortable with, the walls he had become accustomed to shielding himself from human activities, became uneasy to see. He turned to his back, and the wall seemed to be shaking from side to side, and going through adjacent walls as if they were mere projections. And, like any other story goes, he touched it, and fell onto another basement like his, but a little more yellow. It is always a great bore to talk about the infinite, especially one that has been repeated so many times it seemed as never-ending as the rooms themselves.
So, although he was beginning to be frail, he found himself in a group of people, nice ones that is, or he would be killed for his flesh to be bait for the otherworldly creatures of a thousand limbs. He found it a great bore, too. What did he do to long about the stacks of papers he wrote? He wrote more and more, but now with recycled wallpaper the nice people had given to him. But how did his writings about the war benefit them? The nice people found he had a talent for words, so he was sent to the superiors, ones that were not as nice, to describe places they had explored, and sometimes the frail man would join them in these expeditions. And he was given principles, in the form of a piece of paper. It was like any other paper, but he kept it in the bottommost part of his already heavy backpack and eventually forgot it.
What does Old Mister Sterling McCage have to do with such a staircase? He made himself a prominent member of the now not-so-nice group, and although he was averagely nice (he would slightly gag when shooting someone up close), he was the nicest among them. And he was a rule-abider. He had not made himself home; he moved his entire life into this place—much more than a home. This was precisely why he had found himself in such a situation. A door to an ordinary staircase, only differentiated by its lack of colours, beckoned him while he was separated. It reminded him of old-time photos; the grainy, dust-ridden photographs of his previous home still with a wife, and his newly bought bungalow. So he entered it and never stopped climbing, for his feet were still on the steps as his corpse lay down on the flowing blood.
Before he felt he had to end his journey in such a manner, he pulled the paper out. It is unknown whether he imagined it all in his head. Was he frustrated? Or had the staircase influenced him to become beyond frustration, and beyond anything complex words would not even be able to describe?
- Does not abandon associates, ensuring no liability is left unaddressed.
- Offers assistance freely, cultivating mutual dependence where it proves advantageous.
- Never deviates from established protocols, demonstrating unwavering loyalty to collective objectives.
- Teaches survival methods to those less experienced, reinforcing alignment with group priorities.
- Takes initiative in monitoring responsibilities, trusting others to uphold their commitments.
- Remembers the identities of all participants, preserving their contributions in the record of continuity.
- Unites efforts against common uncertainties, consolidating strength through shared focus.
- Shares provisions equitably, prioritizing the sustainability of collective resources.
- Tracks temporal progress as a group, maintaining harmony through shared awareness.
- Maintain unwavering adherence to these principles, lest you find yourself abandoned, like chickenshit butterfly.
- Embrace the modest capacity of your wings, as they are sufficient to navigate the path defined by these principles.
Narration
Here I am, writing from what might be one of many landings—or perhaps, the absence of one. The staircase I am on spirals endlessly, though with light above and darkness below offering no reprieve, rising and falling as I ascend and descend. I came to find this after what felt like an odyssey-length climb, where I encountered this specific step. I chose to take a rest here. Though it was only about a woodchip’s width longer than the others, it was comparably large enough for me to call it a landing. I am... merely simple.
Simplicity manifests itself throughout my sightseeing here; maybe because I have been here long enough for the staircase to know my preference. It is only a staircase, after all, nothing more and nothing less, only with one detail: the top, though it seems the only sign of angelic movement, can never and should never be reached. Infinity does not make something special; it makes it boring and gobbledygook-prone. That is why I call myself simple. Indeed, I am not even writing this in a diary, on paper, with withering paint, or even on the plastic bottles left behind by those who pushed the staircase's boundaries to its limit! It is because I do not possess the instrument to do so, neither artificial nor biological. I could, however, think—like the many others who came here before me and, through their thoughts, altered the very being and flesh of this staircase since the dark first touched its bottom step. Gloom had long turned to doldrum. Like a rescue animal trapped in the collapsed rubble of twisted metal, suffocating dust turning the sun's rays opaque, and disintegrating concrete crumbling around me, I cling to the many who found that taking another step was a dread as heavy as hanging themselves.
But let us not be so depressed, shall we? One good detail about this staircase is that one shall never feel the need to drink or eat. The body is in a state of perfection, as we were originally created to be. I do not understand why many fear delving deeper into the stairwell. Most have only peeled away its paint, or at most, peeled the layers of the handle bar's wood, and they choose to end their journey that early. Or I do not understand. Maybe, I am... too simple. But who am I to judge? If the stairwell fails to compel one to take another step, or if the exhaustion felt—which could just be an illusion crafted by a lethargic mind—renders one's feet as rigid and unyielding as the very handrails, then rest, but only temporarily. Sit as I do, and allow thoughts to realign. Sometimes, the act of stillness can refresh the will to continue.
If comfortable, look around for a little. The windows above are only separated by the spiraling staircase. The cascading flights of stairs, like a tiny whirlpool in a vast ocean, just separated by cylindrical, concrete walls. Trust me as I say that would be boring, as the vast ocean is merely infinite. But how does this staircase differ then? Yes, it could be perceived as an infinite space, but when thinking that, one might as well be simpler than I am.
So, I will tell you a story if that is the case. In the distant past, a great war engulfed an entire planet—one of only two such wars since the dawn of time. Such a vast conflict, spanning the length and breadth of the world, demanded equally vast weapons, one that could reach across great distances and hold immense power. To wield these weapons, however, required great minds. These great thinkers thought hard, and from their efforts they made machines to use these weapons. But this great machine was not great enough, even when the great war had ended. So the thinkers set out on a journey. They and the machine evolved and its greatness rose, just as one climbs higher and higher on a staircase. But eventually, they encountered a limit. This limit was not a wall, but a number: 9223372036854775807.
The question remains: who sets the boundary that defines where progress must end? Who made this number a limit? It was people—great thinkers—who shaped this boundary. Many may not accept it, but it is undeniable: without them, this staircase would not even exist. And without them, how would we know if the staircase was merely the height of a handlebar, or if the journey itself were confined to only a few steps? This is why I do not understand those who choose to end their journeys, surrendering their once-succulent bodies to decay, becoming nothing but dusty wax figures. Why climb the staircase knowing that death is near? Because that is not the point. The journey undertaken on this staircase is determined by its visitors. The ones who do not accept nature are Strangers.
Set your boundaries, and the staircase will honor them. It will not extend upward again unless you will it. As I have come to believe... the staircase is, in every sense, alive.
Everything was good in the old days
And, “Nostalgia aids my myalgia,” he says
My old man, where have you gone?
The tans from the sun never worn
You’ve simply been… wrongly born
“I assure you, young man, simple ain’t a pickle
It spoils but never foil”
But ain’t waiting for pickling a great bore?
You simply… never opened the door
And the true sun’s never let you thaw
Let it rest, old man
Only your age a number
‘Cause you never pick up lumber nor muse a pen
Those papers of yours? Eaten by Big Ben
Turned yellow as its hands revolve
“Oh, I remember yellow… I knew yellow…”
No, no, old man. You have simply… forgotten
Nobody listens to you anymore, old man
“But, but… the infinite… yellow rooms...?”
Yes, but I’d rather watch a pickle turn to yellow from mold...
- Quote from La Nausée/Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre and English translation by Robert Baldick.
- Blood Splatter Image (CC BY-SA 4.0), edited by the Sole Author: "bloood" by Luis Moraga 17.
- First Image (CC BY 2.0), edited by the Main Author: Caption Not Found by tubafil.
- Second Image (CC BY 2.0), edited by the Main Author: "Hotel Spiral Staircase" by David Blaikie.
- Third Image (both CC BY 2.0), edited by the Main Author: "Abandoned Printing Press - office space" by mallix and "Valentines for glitches and the gun is good." by Rosa Menkman.
| Canons | Winter's Butterfly |
|---|---|
| Levels | Megalophobia │ A Child's Abnormality │ White Torture │ Roads to Abyss │ Haphazard Remnants │ Saturation │ Terror Basins │ Innocent Ball Pit │ Day Zero │ Vitrum Madness │ The Last Snow │ The Unit │ Antiquated Perpetuity │ Indigence │ Niagara of Iron(ic) Fists: The Contra-Pulp Fiction Theme, Vol. I & Vol. II │ Ain't All Blood Red │ Pipe Dreams │ The Worm in the Fruit │ Vienesse Sunday │ Old Mister Staircase │ Thalassophobia │ Toko Kelontong
|
| Entities | Mandela Disease │ The Death Locomotive │ Rainbows │ Count the Stars! │ The Thing on Level 7 |
| Tales | The Temporal Yellow │ The Ladybug Heart of a Génocidaire |
| Joke | Em Dash Island │ Meggies |