Transference
A Thursday Prompt story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  Major Matt Mason

Prompt: moving out



The word had come down from the Editrix herself: The site was moving to a new host in order to save money. It meant having to acquire a new access to the system in order to comment, even though Comments Were Not Allowed.

The transfer was coming in a few days, and slowly the habitués of the site were beginning to realize that it was actually happening.


***


“I hope I make it to the other side. I'm sure it'll be transformative at least,” Bootstraps remarked as he hefted another cardboard box, swaddled in packing tape. Tetman, standing nearby, finished quoting a passage from Guy de Maupassant’s Suicides and started to pitch in as well.

Everyone was helping tote boxes from the Chat Den of Iniquity, some resigned, others hopeful.

Me? I was helping move boxes as well, but was staring dubiously at one marked CANNED CLAMS in Sharpie marker. Someone had applied a red ink stamp reading YOU MONSTER! across the label.

I shrugged and picked up the box – hm, not heavy, but awkward – and moved it over to the new room. The box was set down in an area marked off in blue painter’s tape and labeled Chat Tropes, and it fit exactly between Those Cakes We Like and the Cedar Cheese. Pungent stuff.

Bos set a box down in another part of the room and said, almost wistfully, “At least with this move, our friends are coming with us; we're not leaving them behind.”

“That’s true, but how many are going to stay behind anyway?” I asked. I had to admit, I was having doubts. The Editrix and others were giving me confusing replies about whether or not I would have to pay to get into the new commentary space, and Diane had shared a warning notice from her browser that the new site was a possible phishing hole.

Oh well. What new place doesn’t have its downside?

Others were pitching in. Cripes said, “I miss TLM. We should leave a forward.”

I laughed at that. No one had seen Turgid Love Muscle in ages, and Huggy was too much a one-note samba when it came to being a troll. Far too easy to simply flag and block his racist ass.

For the record, Huggy wasn’t his actual name; he changed it regularly, but we named him because he thought that a man hugging a woman meant he was gay or something. Yeah, trolls.

“These boxes are a bitch. Got some Sacrament of Coffee?” Cripes asked.

“The coffee maker’s over there,” I said, pointing, “but I had mine about three hours ago.”

Around us, other people were packing stuff away, chatting as one does in chat spaces, or sharing things they’d seen on social media. Ipso was showing off a picture of their pet bearded dragon, who had finally learned that if he did his business on a piddle pad, he could stay out of his cage. Yes, even lizards can be taught, which is more than you can say for some people.

On that subject I paused, looking down at the pet carrier full of trolls. Who the hell had packed them? I briefly considered tying a fat cinderblock to the carrier and chucking it into the Stream of Consciousness right outside. Some might think it needlessly cruel, but it was either that or Hello Kitty Online.

Diane looked over my shoulder at my account of the move. “You could use this as your first substack post.”

I chuckled, picking up the troll carrier. Now, to find a station wagon to strap the carrier onto the roof of, and do a Mitt Romney-esque road trip. They’ll be fine; trolls are eternal, after all.

I paused, looking at the blank spots on the walls that had held pictures of those we’d lost over the years. Losses through illness, age, differences . . . How many more will be added, of those who didn’t want to move, I wondered?

“Well, we’ll just have to see, wouldn’t we?” I asked the yowling, hissing carrier full of trolls. “Pity you won’t. Now, where to find a station wagon and a length of rope . . . “



end