Now here's a fun writing challenge for you: finish this story for me.

While I was looking for filler (because you people have really been enjoying your holidays and aren't sending me enough Stuff!, I decided to find some of the 'best of the best' from the Lost Issues that are responsible for that cartoon on the archive page.

I stumbled across this story.

'Oh, ho!' I chortled. 'This is good. Who wrote it?

Er, me? I don't remember a word of it.

I couldn't imagine how it would end. . . and then it didn't. Darn! There must have been a visitor from Porlock. I get that a lot.

So. . . how would you like to finish it for me? Mind you, you need to stay with the story so far and finish it in a way that makes it into a coherent whole. No fair suddenly changing genres or main characters. You'll have to come up with a reason why Silasi h'Murghitsa (pronouns they/them) says 'nothing new has ever happened' on that planet.

So how about it?

The other day – for a certain definition of 'day' – my pilot found herself at a loss to explain the glitch in our warp drive's dimensional stabiliser. We put in for repairs at one of those back-of-beyond service stations. You know the type: the ones with the antiquated radial fuel pumps that belong in a museum and the cheesy signs that can be spotted a thousand kilometers away.

I could've stayed aboard while she dickered with the maintenance crew and made repairs, but I expected a certain amount of banging would be involved. Besides, I was bored and wanted to look around. I strolled into what a sign optimistically called the 'visitors' lounge.'

The cafeteria-style food court was closed. From the sign next to the register (all major credit cards accepted), it wouldn't be open for several hours yet. For a certain definition of 'hours'. So the hungry/thirsty visitor was left to the mercies of the vending machines along the back wall.

The drink choices turned out to be hot koffie or a mysterious iced beverage called Africola. Obviously, Galaktikoke hadn't got out this far. Knowing how bad the koffie in these places usually is, I opted to try Africola.

This was a mistake.

The slogan 'Everything Is in Africola' turned out to be more or less true, according to my tastebuds. I swear they detected cinnamon, cayenne pepper, and old rubber tires. The palm trees on the label should have been a tip-off. I washed away the aftertaste with some water from the fountain (free) and decided to try my luck at the prepackaged food machine.

It turned out there were two trays on offer: Meal Number One and Meal Number Two. I tossed a coin, and Meal Number Two 'won'.

It turned out to be a hoagie made of Arcturan summer sausage, heavy on the buffalo meat, with a side order of Martian potato salad (the vinegary kind) and some whipped rainbow jello. I could tell the Orion Food Syndicate had been through this way. They always stuck in rainbow jello. It was their trademark. I sighed, and looked around for a place to sit.

The place was fuller than I'd expected, and most of the booths along the window were taken. I found an empty one between two burly and surly Ganymedan thumb wrestlers who were busy rehashing their last bouts – Ganymedan thumb wrestling is an intricate sport, what with the four arms and the double thumbs – and a loving couple of indeterminate origin and no particular gender who were literally wrapped up in each other. I slipped into the booth, which at least had clean astrohide, and stared moodily out the window as I munched on my sandwich.

There wasn't much to look at, apart from a protruding arm of the station with a tanker attached to it, and the planet below – a dreary-looking orb with a few winking lights where there were towns, I supposed. I sighed.

'Do you mind if I join you?' said a mellifluous voice. I glanced up to see another diner with a tray – a well-dressed and attractive Cygnan with violet eyes and hair to match. They smiled at me disarmingly, and I nodded an invitation. They slid into the other side of the booth facing me.

I smiled back. 'I see you've chosen Meal Number One,' I commented. 'Is it any better than Meal Number Two?'

They shrugged noncommittally. 'I doubt it,' they said. 'Boeuf bourguignon a la Pleiade with a side salad and crème brûlée renversée.'

I admired the way they managed to pronounce all the diacriticals correctly.

'Sounds fancy,' I commented. 'Beats my hoagie and potato salad, anyway.'

'It won't be,' they chuckled musically. Cygnans do everything musically. They could make an aria out of 'good morning'. 'The side salad will turn out to be hydroponic erugula and dwarf tomatinos and the crème brûlée will have been made with Jovian mooncow leche, which is gross.'

I laughed. Cygnan laughter is contagious, which is one of the reasons they are so popular. This trip was looking up.

'Bon appetit,' I said. 'Or at least, Jaribu kufurahia chakula.' Which is Outer Asteroid pidgin for 'try to enjoy your food', a common expression in the Cat's Eye Nebula.

We ate in companionable silence for awhile. After each of us had given up the struggle over our respective desserts, the Cygnan offered, 'I'm Silasi h'Murghitsa, from Leda 16 Cygni.'

'Pleased to know you,' I replied. 'I'm Joran Jilko, from Luna, Sol 3.'

Their beautiful eyes widened. 'From Luna? I've never met anyone from there.'

I laughed. 'There aren't many of us. My whole town, Tranquility Bottom, had a population of 36. Lots of room to spread out among the craters, but not much to do. Most of us end up somewhere else.'

Silasi leaned forward. 'You seem to be doing pretty well. I'm guessing that's your spaceship being worked on?'

I nodded. 'The Luna Moth. She's taken me pretty far.'

'What do you do, exactly?'

I chuckled. 'I collect stories.'

Silasi looked surprised. 'You collect stories? You're some kind of researcher?'

I nodded. 'I'm compiling a folklore index that, hopefully, will take in all the inhabited worlds. I want to see how the tales travel from system to system.'

'Tell me something: do you ever run across a completely new tale?'

I shook my head. 'Not in all the light-years I've been doing this. So far, every tale has been a version of something told on Terra a long time ago.' I added hastily, 'Not that it necessarily started on Terra. Though nobody knows how the stories got there. Just. . .I haven't found any new ones. Sure, the 'strange beast' might be a silicon-based life form on a magnetic planetoid, but it's still a dragon, and the astronaut who fought it is still a warrior of some sort. . .but it's fun to follow the transmission lines.'

Silasi nodded. 'I hate to say this, but that planet out there illustrates your point.' They indicated the unprepossessing ball out the window. 'Nothing new has ever happened there.'

'How so?' I thought. 'Surely once upon a time. . .?'

Silasi shook their head. 'Not even then. The planet was settled ages ago by a cult of. . .

Dmitri Gheorgheni

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