Fandom Island and Town

Okay, seriously, the angel statues? Totally moving. Why can't the local council buy NORMAL statues? Would it kill them? No it wouldn't.

But these ones might.

You needn't mind them for now. They're only statues. Yeah, their moving might start to be noticed, but weird stuff happens in Fandom all the time.

Right?

PS: Still tacky.

[OOC: For today's abductees. Please title your comment with the time of day you want. Go here to ask someone to NPC for you or to give me pretty, pretty icons. For broadcast!]

Fandom lay in the way of a hundred, a thousand, different worlds and times. Deep in the depths of the Fandom Post Office (well, in a back room behind a door with a lock that sometimes even worked), lay a machine that sent letters between all of them: the Sorting Engine.

Sometimes they were letters that hadn’t been written, or might have been written, or were meant to have been written, or letters which people had once sworn that they had written and hadn’t really, but which nevertheless had a shadowy existence in some strange invisible letter world and were made real by the machine.

If, somewhere, any possible world can exist, then somewhere there is any letter that could possibly be written.

The inherent magic of Fandom saw to it that these weren't delivered.

Letters from the present day which turned out not to be from this present day, letters from pasts that never happened, but ones that might have happened if only some small detail had been changed. Letters from pasts that shouldn't have happened, except that one small detail did change, and suddenly those pasts became history.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Fandom saw to it that those ones were.

Behind the door in the darkness of the Post Office, the Sorting Engine began to glow, brilliant blue light spreading out to engulf the sorting trays.

When it faded, it left behind letters, sitting innocuously in the trays. Letters that had been waiting a very long time for the right time, but which also and at the same time hadn't existed until this week.

They weren't the only letters in today's mail, and they went into the mailbag - nestled alongside the magazines and utility bills and near-guarantees that you, too, could win a million dollars if only you acted now - waiting to be delivered.

[ooc: Some text lifted verbatim from Going Postal by Terry Pratchett.]