The Impossible
by Will Hartwell and Christopher Scheer


(Dream of) some vehicle—railway train, coach, etc.—which is boarded in a stupor or fever, and which is a fragment of some past or ultra-dimensional world—taking the passenger out of reality—into vague, age-crumbled regions or unbelievable gulfs of marvel.

It was a change in that rhythm that roused me, I don’t know how long afterwards. Looking out of the cab’s window, I found myself staring at Lord Nelson’s Column—the driver had taken me to Trafalgar Square. This may shock you, my boy, but I had half a mind to fight him that day. When I turned from the Column to shout at the blackguard, I saw the roofline. Things were…wrong. Off. Even though it was night, there was a glow above, like distant fire, but without heat. I’ve seen London burn, and this was different—this was baleful light, and it made me sicker just seeing it. The cobblestones too were wrong—twisting into shapes that I could not fathom, and writhing, writhing. I tried to get my bearings, and gazed once again upon the Column, only to see it warp and decay, leaving some other thing instead. I was trapped in a mockery of my city.

About the Author

Will Hartwell and Christopher Scheer are writers/performers from Massachusetts and Long Island, respectively. In their short lives, they have made a gratuitous number of Cthulhu jokes.