Xi Artifact Repository

Sunbeam slices through Venetian blinds. Checkerboard linoleum. The alarm clock vibrates violently beside a sleeping Barnaby.

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Barnaby's black dot eyes pop open. He yawns — mouth stretches wide, snaps back. He smacks the alarm clock. Soft thwack. The bell squishes.

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The sunbeam hits. Barnaby looks down. His base is sagging. He pokes his own foot — finger sinks in with a wet schloop. Panic.

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Classic slapstick dismay: Barnaby slaps both hands to his cheeks, stretching his own face. His mouth forms a perfect "O" of terror.

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First step — his foot sticks to the counter. He pulls; leg stretches like gum, pops free. He stumbles into a sugar cube that embeds itself in his shoulder.

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Wide shot. The refrigerator — a towering retro chrome monolith — gleams at the far end of the counter. Barnaby's only hope.

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The beam tracks across the counter like a slow laser of doom. Barnaby scrambles forward. He has to move.

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The toaster radiates heat distortion. The slot glows orange. One path: a narrow gap between the scalding metal and the tiled backsplash.

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Barnaby presses flat against the cool tiles. He exhales, sucking in his marshmallow gut. He begins shimmying sideways.

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The toaster fires. Two slices of toast rocket upward with a violent KACHUNK. Barnaby lurches backward — his back presses against the hot casing.

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A perfectly rectangular golden-brown crust has formed on Barnaby's back. He taps it: hollow, crispy. He shakes his fist at the toaster in defiance, then moves on.

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The counter ends in a sheer drop. Below: the vast porcelain basin of the sink. The drain gapes like a maw. One bridge: a wooden spoon across the gap.

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Barnaby steps onto the handle. Arms extended for balance. The spoon dips under his weight. He wobbles dramatically with every step.

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Midway across — the sunbeam catches up. Barnaby's head starts losing structural integrity, drooping left. He hurries. Sticky feet smack the wood.

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He throws himself onto the far counter, rolls into a shapeless lump, quickly molds himself back into a cylinder. Pressing on.

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A puddle of orange juice stretches across the counter ahead. No way around it.

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Barnaby wades in. His lower half turns a vibrant, sticky orange. Each step makes a shhh-womp sound as his feet peel off the tacky surface.

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He clears the swamp: orange-stained below the waist, sugar cube still embedded, toasted back. A battered, multicolored mess. He wobbles forward.

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The floor shakes — the dishwasher hums like a subterranean beast. Barnaby navigates around the fault line, leaving sticky white footprints.

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Barnaby breaks into a frantic squishy waddle. He's shrinking with every step, leaving a dotted line of clay footprints behind him.

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The gleaming chrome handle is so close. But the sunbeam consumes the entire counter. No shadow left.

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His face is sliding off. One black dot eye drifts slowly down his cheek. He reaches the base of the refrigerator.

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The refrigerator door is cracked open a fraction of an inch. Heavenly blue glow. A wisp of cool vapor escapes. But the handle is miles above.

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Scattered alphabet magnets on the floor. A desperate plan forms. Barnaby grabs an A, sticks it to the fridge door. Then a B. Then a C.

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He's building a ladder of primary-colored plastic letters. His left arm dangerously thin — stretching as he hauls his melting body upward.

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The sun beats down. His face slides further. He reaches the crack in the door. One last push.

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He squeezes his squishy, half-melted, toasted, orange-stained body through the narrow gap. A perfect slapstick moment of clay physics.

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Barnaby collapses onto the wire shelf beside a pristine stick of butter. Cool blue light. The compressor hums. His melted edges begin to firm up.

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His eye freezes in place — permanently slightly deranged but happy. He gives a gooey, misshapen thumbs up to the butter stick. Meltdown over.

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