The Platypus

Humans love their scripts.

Get born. Go to school. Work. Pay bills. Die. Maybe squeeze in a holiday if you’re lucky. And if something shows up that doesn’t fit the narrative—something like, say, a talking platypus—you shove it in a box labeled ‘Crazy’ and move on.

It takes most people years, decades even, to change their way of thinking. Catastrophes, miracles, life-shattering events. For me, it was a gray Thursday afternoon at the park. And the words:

“The beak isn’t even the weirdest part of me.”

I’d been happily enduring my burnt, lukewarm coffee in mind-numbing silence before that. But after hearing those words, turning around to see who said them, nothing. Just an empty bench. And a platypus sprawled across it like a sunbathing retiree, one lazy, lopsided eye fixed on me.

I scanned the trees. The path. The river beyond the fence. No cameras, no hidden speakers. No people lurking with phones out, laughing at the idiot falling for a prank. Just me. And the platypus.

Then it spoke again.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you,” it said. I swear it said it. The platypus. “And before you ask, no, you’re not hallucinating. Reality just has a messed-up sense of humor.” It spoke again!

That was the moment I realized I was completely, irreversibly batshit crazy.

I’d been enjoying my burnt coffee moments earlier. Peacefully accepting my mundane existence. Then a marsupial decided to strike up a conversation.

“I’m a monotreme, actually.”

“A talking marsupial. Great. Just great.” I muttered as I rubbed my eyes and took a step back.

“Monotreme,” it repeated, sitting up slightly.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, utterly dumbfounded.

“Not a marsupial,” it said. “Don’t lump me in with those wombats and their cubic crap. That’s offensive.”

It glared at me like I’d insulted its mother.

I opened my mouth to say something reasonable, something grounded and sane like Why are you talking to me? or What the hell is happening right now? But all that came out was:

“Cubic crap?”

The platypus rolled its eyes. “Yeah. Wombats. Cube-shaped turds. Freaks of nature. But sure, let’s focus on that. You’re chatting with a platypus in a public park, and what breaks your brain is the geometry of marsupial feces.”

It wasn’t wrong.

The platypus shifted on the bench, its claws tapping against the wood in a pattern that felt just a little too deliberate, like a code I wasn’t smart enough to crack.

“This is usually the part where you run away,” it said, stretching its legs. “Or start recording me for social media. But you’re still here. Interesting.”

“I’m… processing,” I said, though that word felt insufficient. My brain was flailing, grasping for anything normal to hold on to. The best it came up with was: talking platypus = bad; coffee = good. I took another sip. The coffee was cold. Bitter. Comforting.

The platypus gave me a slow nod. “Good. Processing means there’s still hope for you.”

“Hope for what, exactly?”

“Waking up,” it said. “Stepping out of the cozy little dream everyone’s trapped in. Normalcy. Stability. Comfort. Lies, all of it. I’m here to crack it wide open.”

I squinted at it. “You’re telling me you’re… what? A prophet?”

The platypus barked out a laugh. “God, no. Prophets are egomaniacs. I’m more like a…philosophical pest control technician. Exterminating the delusion of normalcy one poor bastard at a time.”

I glanced around the park. A jogger passed by, completely oblivious to the marsup—monotreme, lecturing me about reality. “No one else hears you, do they?”

“Of course not,” it said, almost offended. “They’re too deep in the script. Get up, go to work, pay the bills, pretend everything makes sense. Keep scrolling, keep shopping, keep distracting yourself until you die. Neat little puppets dancing on strings. But you?” It tilted its head. “You’re teetering on the edge. I can smell it.”

“Smell what?”

“Doubt.”

The word hit me like a gut punch. I almost laughed it off. Almost. But it was right. Lately, my life had felt… off. 

The platypus must’ve seen it on my face because it leaned closer. “That nagging sensation you can’t explain? That itch at the back of your brain? It’s the world whispering that something’s wrong. And it is. Everything’s wrong.”

The sky darkened as if on cue. I told myself it was just the clouds shifting.

“So…what do you want from me?” I asked.

It gave me a toothy, impossible grin. “To help me break the world.”

That’s when the ground cracked beneath my feet.

I screamed. 

The platypus sighed. 

It stretched its webbed feet like this whole conversation was exhausting. “Alright, look, explaining reality is like trying to describe water to a fish. You don’t see the problem because you’ve never been outside of it. But lucky for you, I’m not just here to talk. I’m here to show you.”

I didn’t like the way it said that.

Before I could ask what it meant, the platypus snapped its claws together.

The world hiccupped.

That’s the best way I can describe it. Everything, trees, grass, the distant skyline… it all flickered for a split second, like a bad signal on an old TV.

And then things got wrong.

A jogger ran past us. Same guy from earlier, same fluorescent shorts. Except now there were two of him. The first passed by, eyes forward, breathing heavy. The second followed exactly a second later, copying every movement down to the bounce of his ponytail. It was like reality had copy-pasted him, but slightly out of sync.

I turned to the platypus, heart pounding. “What the hell was that?”

“A crack,” it said. “The world isn’t as seamless as you think. Sometimes the stitching slips.”

I looked back, but the second jogger was gone. Had I imagined it? Was I having a stroke?

“Not convinced? Fine, let’s crank it up a notch.” The platypus snapped its claws again.

A flock of pigeons erupted from a nearby tree. Nothing weird about that, except they didn’t fly. They froze in mid-air, wings outstretched, suspended like they were caught in an invisible web. For a long, suffocating moment, they just hung there, twitching slightly, like puppets waiting for someone to pull the strings.

Then, all at once, they dropped. Straight down. No flapping, no gliding, just a dead weight plunge into the pavement.

I stumbled back, nearly tripping over my own feet. My breath came too fast. Too shallow.

“See?” The platypus spread its arms like a magician revealing his trick. “This world runs on code. And sometimes? It lags.”

I shook my head. “No, no, that’s—that’s not possible. That—” I gestured wildly at the dead birds, at the now-empty bench where the jogger had been. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”

The platypus gave me a pitying look. “That’s what they all say at first.”

I was spiraling. My mind clawed for logic, for anything to ground me, but everything felt…fragile. Like the world had been a solid wall before, and now it was brittle glass, hairline fractures creeping in.

The platypus leaned in, its voice softer now. “You feel it, don’t you? The unraveling?”

I swallowed hard. “What… what happens if the world does unravel?”

The platypus grinned. A wide, impossible grin.

“Haven’t a clue. That’s what I’m here to find out.”

The streetlights flickered. The cracks spread. The ground shook. And reality, as I knew it, started to fall apart.

I gripped a nearby lamppost to stay upright. “What…what’s happening?”

The platypus licked its beak. “The script is failing.”

The ground beneath us cracked. A jagged fissure tore through the asphalt, revealing not earth or stone beneath, but darkness. Deep, endless darkness. People walked over it without noticing, their feet passing through the void as though it wasn’t there.

“Normalcy is a fragile thing,” the platypus said, stepping toward the edge of the fissure. “And when enough people stop believing in it…”

It tapped the ground with one claw. The crack widened, spiderwebbing outward. Streetlights flickered. Buildings shimmered like mirages.

”…it collapses.”

I staggered backward. “Stop this! I don’t want to see anymore!”

The platypus sighed. “You already opened the door, mate. No going back now.”

The ground vanished beneath me.

And I fell.

I slammed against something solid, a soft thud, like landing in a pile of pillows. I blinked, heart racing, mind scrambling for a way to make sense of the chaos I’d just witnessed.

Then I heard the voice again.

“You thought it was over, didn’t you?” the platypus said, its tone laced with a certain smugness. “Thought you’d get a neat little ending, a return to normalcy. But no, you’re stuck here. With me.”

I looked around, confused, still reeling. There was nothing familiar now, nothing that made sense. No park. No joggers. Just endless darkness.

“And here’s the kicker,” the platypus continued, sounding far too amused. “You’re not even the one falling. You’re just watching, from the other side of the curtain. See, this—” it waved a claw around, gesturing to everything “—this is what happens when you stop playing along. When you look behind the curtain and realize there’s no wizard.”

I stood up, shaky, heart pounding as I searched for some escape, but the platypus’s voice, calm and knowing, echoed all around me.

“Yeah, you’re not in control anymore. The rules? Gone. What happens next? Well, that’s something I guess we will find out later.”

And with that, the platypus did something impossibly strange: it winked.

At you.

“You better keep reading, though. Trust me, it’s not over. Not for you. And not for me.”

And then… poof. It was gone.

But I could still hear it. 

In your head.

I could see it. Waiting on the next park bench. Waiting for you and your lukewarm coffee on a gray, cloudy day. 

I’m waiting here in the dark, for you. It won’t be long. 

It’s lonely here in the dark. 

Can’t wait. 

See you soon.