Entry by Joshua Hanson. This entry needs artwork!

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,577 different people.

A sudden flash of light opened my eyes to the next life. In the first five seconds I determined that I had no clue what was going on. No big surprise there. I stood in a large dark room holding a small blowtorch. Ahead of me was an ornate mahogany box, surrounded by thick ballistic glass and a cage. I looked around for a moment, most of the building was dark but I could see some roped off areas and a few more glass boxes with assorted bits in them.

I looked back at the box in front of me, my thoughts interrupted by a man yelling, “Come on Dex, grab the stupid thing and get the HELL out of there, we can’t keep the security off forever!”

A Thief. Of all the things to be, I had to be a thief. I decided not to question the man and instead reached through the cage only to be blocked by the ballistic glass. “Alright, use your torch on the upper left corner, and the lower right. This should free the pins on the case. Don’t burn that box!” the man ordered through the earpiece.

I did just that, causing the front of the glass box to fall onto the stand it was sitting on with a loud thud.

“Easy, easy! The cameras might be off but the mics on them still work! Just grab that box and get out, we’re already past the deadline,” the man said, slightly frantic. I grabbed the box and slid it into a felt pouch, then started for the door. Just past halfway to the door a heard the automatic locks click into place. If I didn’t have the sense to take this seriously I would have guessed I was on a movie set.

The radio crackled and a woman’s voice came out, “Dex this is Alexandria, we’ve lost the frequency for the security system and everything is reactivating! GET OUT OF THERE NOW!!!”

Alexandria… I half hoped she wasn’t part of this, but then I wasn’t surprised that she was. I didn’t have to be told twice, I booked it to the next exit. I grasped at the handle only to find it locked. As I heard the next door lock I leaned up against the door and sighed. Completely trapped now. At this point I was pretty sure I wasn’t making it out of this life, alive. I guess it isn’t that bad though, thieves don’t really deserve any better do they?

The door behind me suddenly swung open, tossing me onto a flight of stairs. There was a sudden rush of panic as I fell back, but as I landed on nothing but my own ass it subsided a bit. I quickly scrambled to my feet as the radio once again came to life.

“We got one door unlocked but it’s not going to stay that way for long, it’s on the East side of the building, go!” Alex yelled. I heard faint sirens over the radio and somebody else yelling. Seems luck was on my side for once. I started down the stairs three steps at a time, pivoting on the railing at each landing. There was a muffled screeching of tires below me. Something caught my foot and I went head first down the last flight, slamming into the door at the bottom.

The door burst open and I was delivered onto the cool pavement of the sidewalk. I really should watch my step. As I collected the box and took a moment to make sure nothing was broken a grey windowless van came barreling down the street, screeching to a stop a few meters past me. The double doors on the back swung open and Alexandria ushered me toward them.

“Dex hurry up, they’re not far behind!” she yelled to me. Her voice sounded so soft even in the desperate situation. I ran to the back and jumped in as a pair of police cars came flying around the corner.

“Pedal to the metal, we’re getting out of here!” ordered the man who had been talking to me on the radio as Alexandria pulled the doors shut. “Alright Dex, let’s see the prize.

“The man grabbed the bag from me and pulled out the box. In the light of the van I could see small carvings in the wood, which was polished to a mirror like finish. He almost fainted at the sight of it.

“Fantastic! I can’t wait until the client sees this, we’ll be rich!” he sang in excitement. Alexandria took the box and examined it before handing it back to me. I looked it over for a moment then turned to her to ask if she recognized the carvings when everything froze. The image of her face slowly faded into black as I was pulled from the life of the thief.

Entry by Nathan Bedrick. This entry needs artwork!

My joints locked. My eyes itched. My hair bristled. For the first time, she was within reach, and I was me. The first sight I saw was Alex.

I grabbed the fabric tape railing to my side and tightened my throat muscles. My hand hurt. I was in the middle of a coffee shop line. Looked like about the time when I left. I spotted lemon squares- nothing compared to Betti’s cooking. I spied some miniature cupcakes at the end of a stick, and flashed back to one of my last memories before our lives. Seeing the pastry pops reminded me I had just walked in here and spotted the chocolate kind.

My throat was dry. I could use a lemonade, too. I was in the mood for some coffee-shop sweetness after eating Ugali for a week. I didn’t care about artificial ingredients, a lack of home-style love, or even the fact no expertise made it. It was then that I noticed they had a summer-flavored kind of cupcake bite. Didn’t they make that flavor right around when this all began? Did they make it again? Was I back? Was it over?

I restrained my quivering. Was it pain? Was it excitement? It’s been so long since I saw a familiar sight, and even longer since it was in English! I felt like me, I felt at home, and I felt like the chance to talk to Alex was right in front of me. I was certain it was Alexandria. She looked quite different without the burqa, and I’ve mixed her up a few times, but I wouldn’t forget how she held her Diane Goldfarb purse, just like the imitation-Coach bag she toted with her today. They all held their bags the same.

My sunglasses didn’t help, but my gut pushed me. I walked past the cashier and raced to her table. Would she recognize me? She sat beside the window, looking out. It was so quintessentially ‘Alexandria’. I paused, to relish that thoughtful look in this lady’s eyes. Then, I moved. I anxiously looked at her before pulling the seat back. I seemed a bit thin, as the bright, arm-length shirt and gloves didn’t help.

All I could yelp out first, was “Alex!” Her eyes widened, and I felt anxious for only a moment. She looked anxious, as if I solved Rumplestiltskin’s riddle without having been asked.

“Do I know you?” she replied. I felt overwhelming loss and anxiety. How could she forget me? Haven’t we been through this enough? Doesn’t she recognize me? Maybe it’s my hat? Or the sunglasses? Or the gloves? I hastily take them off, whispering a shout as well as I could.

“It’s me, Dexter! Dexter Peterson!” My heart stopped. Her eyes were fixed upon me.

She uttered a shuddering surprise, “That’s quite strange for a woman’s name.” I could feel fate’s cruelty chilling the back of my neck. I looked to my exposed hand… Burned, but feminine.

Coming down from the excitement, I notice pain all over my arms and back. My head was aflame. Pushing back my sleeve, I share with Alexandria a first sight. Burns. Everywhere. My body ignited, as if I was tossed back into the flames for a second roast. My eyes welled up as my strength left me.

I wasn’t me. I wasn’t Dexter today.

Seeing Alex shocked me away from this pain, and now it left. I was defenseless. I fell back into agony. My silent tears ran down to the table. A man whose warm, concerned smile touched me came over and asked about whom I sat down with. He asked why I took off my protection. He introduced himself to Alex, but she excused herself and left. He could see the worry in my eyes, and the pain. He could see the confusion and sadness. He reached out to my shoulder and touched me.

I felt his love, and I felt the scraping of my burn. He told me that fate was cruel, but he still loved me no matter what. I cried out a little bit. He was concerned, and he had a right to be. My gut tumbled, like a washing machine cleaning out the stains this experience left on me. It was then that I noticed me, walking down to take the A train outside the window. Cake pop in his hand.

Who were we?

Entry and artwork by Coyoty.

Once again, I find myself reading entries in my own journal, some of them accurate accounts of lives I’ve had, some of lives I may have in the future, and others that are obvious fantasy. I hope.

I’ve experienced some strange things, but I don’t look forward to being an Elvis-impersonating ostrich, if that’s to be an eventual incarnation. At least I’d be prepared for it. “Review” incarnations have come in handy for avoiding physical danger and personal embarrassment. They’re also very frustrating.

I’ve yet to read any clues as to why this is happening to me or how to bring it to an end. Or if I should end it. Am I to be a great hero who needs these experiences to defeat a threat to all these worlds I’ve passed through? Am I dead and in Purgatory? Just a brain in a virtual reality rig?

Or maybe I’m a false person with false memories in a simulation created by a Solaris-type entity. (I really hated reading that book and concept.) Worse yet, am I really just a round-robin shared-universe character doomed to live out the scripted whims of my “fans”?

Having been celebrities and series authors, I can see the satirical commentary opportunities for that. The catalyst for this world’s “Dexter’s Journal” is a musician named Matthew Ebel. As usual, I’ll submit an entry with the hopes that he would actually know the answer to my questions and be open enough to the possibility that I’m actually “his” character to give me some answers before I

Editor’s note: I don’t know either, Dexter, just keep moving. Nothing to see here.

Entry by Menokh. This entry needs artwork!

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,577 different people.

I wake up with a sudden rush of adrenaline. The building I’m in, whatever it is, feels and sounds like it’s exploding. I grab the gear next to me and run outside. I’m surrounded by who must be my comrades in arms. I get the armor and assorted gear on long before I notice that we’re not human. We stand upright as humans do, but we have fur, muzzles and tails. We almost look feline.

I don’t have time to be surprised.

We take off running. The building was our training barracks, and they’re being bombarded from orbit. I’m told several dozen soldiers are missing and presumed dead. Several of us have no armor, and many did not think to grab their gun in the chaos. We’re heading across base to arm ourselves for the presumed ground invasion. My mind is swirling.

I wonder, as I have before, what would happen if I were to die when I am someone else? No time for that. Feigning forgetfulness from the attack I ask what is happening.

“We’re being attacked. Other worlds in our Kingdom have been fully burned from orbit, totally wiped out. This is different, they’re attacking. They must want this world.”

I do not respond. We get to the armory just in time to see an enemy warship descend over our capital city a few miles away. I’m terrified, even as the ship hovers over the city it is bombarding targets miles away. Plasma blasts blow overhead and strike our command center. We’re screwed.

I grab a rifle and take of running into the hills with my comrades. We aren’t prepared, and we fear we’ll lose against such an advanced enemy. Crouching in the bushes we see landing pods launched from the ship by the hundreds. Just then my suit radio crackles into life. It’s a General Tsune Murasame from some place called Owara. I have no idea who he is any more than who these people are. He says his ship is in orbit and ready to lend its assistance as required. He tells us to hunker down and wait for word from Central.

Entry by Steven Shiroma. This entry needs artwork!

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,577 different people.

When one awakes it is often to the sound of an alarm clock, a cell phone, a door bell, or some other device designed to grab attention; however that luxury is lost when the time and place one wakes up in lacks the technological advancement. As such I woke up today not to an alarm, but to a person “asking” me a question.

It was rather startling to wake up from a rather pleasant dream of flying (or was it memory?) with a person, he looked to be military of some sort, dressed in thick plate armor topped with a winged and battle scarred helm hiding his face and accompanied by a rather viscous looking blade on his side. The stranger stood in front of me “asking” a question. I stress “asking” because it was not in the normal sense that someone would verbally communicate a question.

You see he never spoke a word, nor did he make any physical gesture. But as soon as I felt him “ask” his question I found myself spouting words unbidden but unable to be held back, my mouth vomiting forth with an overly cheery and car salesman-ish gusto, “Welcome back adventurer! Your reward for that bounty is five royal gold pieces as well as five hundred ee-ex-pee!”

There was a sudden flash of light surrounding this soldieresque figure in front of me before he took off at a full sprint. I don’t mean like a brisk walk or something befitting social standards, this guy RAN out of the room. After he left I felt a little more comfortable, what with no longer being stared down by an nonspeaking, seemingly unsocial character. Even after what I would call the “soldier’s” departure autonomous movement had yet to be granted to my limbs.

Seemingly of their own accord my hands suddenly sprung to life. One which was holding an empty mug the whole time was held firmly still while my other hand which had also been holding a cloth began to polish the already polished mug and kept polishing…and polishing… It seemed in this life I was to remain rooted for the however long it lasted. Thankfully my eyes and head where somewhat motor functional, allowing me to turn my head and direct my vision but speech was still lost to me. Not too long before I figured whereabouts I was.

If the constant glass polishing wasn’t an indicator, the large bar I was permanently rooted behind hinted to the fact that in this life I had become a bartender. The multitude of colored, unlabeled bottles behind me seemed to all be full, all the glasses that sat in rows below the bottles where so spotless and picture perfect it hardly seemed to me that they had been used. There were no patrons currently at the bar and only a few other guests lingered about the dining area of the bar, all standing, a few pacing but they never went very far.

These people gave me the creeps to be honest, they moved in short, repeating movements.

I doubt that those people where as conscious as I was, or maybe they where and like me where unable of vocal communication short of pre defined scripts it seemed from my earlier monologue. Just as I was getting accustomed to this new setting, a female figure ran into what I came to a conclusion as Green’s Tavern, boasted by a large wooden sign I noticed hanging above the bar. As she approached at the same break neck run as the soldier, there was no missing that her manner of clothing was much simpler than that of the previous patron.

She wore leather armor which I presume was homemade, a pair of riding boots, worn gloves and a tattered dark red cloak fluttering in her wake. Instead of a sword a strung bow seemed to be the preferred weapon of this newcomer, firmly grasped in her hand while the quiver was firmly strapped on her back, the flights of the arrows seen poking above her right shoulder. Sadly the hood of her cloak obscured her face this time simply a dark recessed shadow. I just so happened to notice something that had slipped my attention before.

Above this newcomer’s head floated what I could only explain as a small…text box, but in real life. The text written there was simply a name. Alexandria.

She was here and soon she was standing right there in front of me, only a bar separating me and her. I wanted to scream, I wanted to shout, ask her who she was, where she came from, why she was here but nothing came out. Then to my dismay I felt it happen again… I was getting “asked” a question and before I knew it I was gushing with that overly zealous tone, “Welcome back Adventurer! Your reward for that bounty is five royal gold pieces as well as five hundred ee-ex-pee!”

That same golden light enveloped Alexandria, a small “ding” was barely audible but was soon accompanied by more floating next, this box rising with the words “level up!” in it. Before I could even compose myself she was off like a shot, sprinting at full speed out the door and like that she was gone again. All I could do was go back to polishing that glass and await the next patron.

Entry by Runtt. This entry needs artwork!
Note from General Ebel: Obviously, this one ain’t eligible for prizes since Runtt is drumming for the freaking album in the first place. He’s already getting this stuff for free!

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,577 different people.

The alarm clock has gone off for the fifth time. Time to get out of bed. After a nice morning stretch I casually walk to the window. Parting the curtains, I’m astounded to see a city that seems to go on forever into the horizon. Much like the ocean, but visibly active.

The city looks oddly familiar, but different. It reminds me of home from my former life. Who am I now? It felt good to to take a shower for the first time, in what seemed to be a lifetime, without being shot at. I felt a real sense of calm.

My clothes, a grey suit, made from a blend of silk and other fabric, were laid out for me. A white shirt and purple tie accompanied it, with a very nice pair of loafers. A successful business man perhaps? This apartment is cozy. Not too big, not too small. I can take a wild guess and say that it’s a pretty expensive place to live. It looks to have paintings of who could be important people tastefully hung throughout the rooms.

I’m guessing it’s the 20th floor, judging by the view. I fix myself some coffee and pick up the local paper, conveniently slipped under my door. The headline jumped from the front page… 2,000 YEARS OF PEACE

Today, September 11, 4016, marks the two thousandth year of peace since the towers fell, and our city was devastated. Many will gather at the Tower Memorial to remember the history of that day and the resolve our fair country showed during such a dark day in our past, and to celebrate the many centuries of peace that would follow nearly two decades of war. Among the festivities will be performances by local rock bands, the theater district and speeches from the governor, the mayor and various celebrities (to be announced).

Placing the paper down, I sat up, and fixed my tie. There was knock at my door.

“They are ready for you, Mr. Mayor.” I grabbed my overcoat and my speech and walked out of the apartment.

Entry by Wyatt. This entry needs artwork!

My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,577 different people.

No, don’t put down the book, I’m serious. 11,577. It’s a hard thing to believe, I know, but I have. Don’t ask me how, don’t ask me why, I don’t know myself. I’m amazed I’ve managed to last as long as I have. I’ve been gladiators in ancient Rome, Allied and Axis soldiers in WWII, a would-be suicide bomber… I’ve been a man-killing lion in the African savanna, a twelve-point buck during open season, a fox being hunted in the English countryside… the list goes on and on.

Do you know what it’s like to be shot at? I’ve had it happen to me more times than I can easily count. You’d think you’d get numb to it after a while, but no, each bullet whizzing by your head sends a fresh surge of mind-destroying adrenaline through your body. Even if the body isn’t human. I’m not even sure I’m on Earth anymore.

I woke up this time, and the first thing I saw in front of me was a snout. My snout. Oh great, I think, I’m an animal again. I tried to roll over onto all fours – and I hit blanket. Am I a pet this time? That’d be a pleasant change of pace… I’m just about to fall back asleep beneath the snug blanket when something else strikes me. Namely, a boot.

“Private Peterson, get your rear in gear!” I sat bolt upright and turned to face the sound and the source of the flying boot. There, standing before me, is a man with the head of a wolf. What godforsaken hell have I wound up in this time?

Okay, the bullets going by stay freshly terrifying, but the bomb shells are oddly comforting. Even if I’m in this crazy cat-man body, at least it’s still recognizable what’s going on. I wound up in a war again. At least last time I was a colonel – here, I’m just a lowly private. What war it is, though, I haven’t a clue. They speak English here, wherever it is that we’re fighting – well, this side does. Even though I have to admit I’m curious to find out what language the other side is speaking, I’m just slightly more interested in not getting shot to pieces.

Wherever I am, they haven’t gone past trench warfare yet here. I hate trench warfare. Getting sent up just to die… it’s a horrific fate I’ve seen more often than any man alive. Give me a good rifle, I’ll go be a sniper, just don’t stick me in the trenches. I’ve lived through both sides of pretty much every terrestrial war that was fought in the trenches, enough that when I go back, things start to look familiar… this one is new.

Definitely not on Earth. I wish I could ask somebody what war we’re fighting, but last time I did that I was slapped in the face and told to go shoot at the bad guys. Well, those might not have been her exact words, but that was the gist of it. It only takes once to learn to just hunker down and hope I get through the day. All I can tell is that it doesn’t seem to be a war over race – or if it is, the races are less obvious than you’d think. I’m a cat, getting bossed around by a wolf, I had a ferret on one side of me and a rabbit on the other in the trenches, and I think I might have seen a giraffe on the enemy’s side.

I’m amazed that one hadn’t been shot in the head yet.

I believe I took my 436th bullet today… yep, 436th. Stings just as bad as the others that I took in the shoulder. I have no idea how closely my body relates to that of a human body right now, but from where it hit, the Dexter Peterson of this world should be able to keep his arm. Assuming they’ve figured out antibiotics here. They smeared something that stung worse than the bullet onto the wound.

They say pain is weakness leaving the body. If that’s the case, I’d better be a bodybuilder next. I can barely write five words without having to stop and hold my shoulder until the pain goes away. Hopefully, I’ll go to my next body soon. If not… well, this is going to be an uncomfortable life. I wonder what Alexandria will look like here…

The Lives of Dexter Peterson is an album/novella/comic project scheduled for release this year. It’s all about a boy from New York City who finds himself inexplicably jumping from one life to the next, as though someone were changing the channels of his life and he’s the star of every single show. Throughout it all he keeps track of his lives in a journal that, somehow, travels with him.

Who, What, and Where is Dexter Now?

Think about it… what would you do if you were suddenly somewhere else, someone else, somewhen else. You could be a different race or even a different species. What do you see? What’s happening around you? What skills do you suddenly have or languages do you suddenly speak fluently?

Submit your own journal entries, artwork, photos, video, or even phone it in to be considered for a free copy of The Lives of Dexter Peterson, both the album and the novella! Details are at www.whoisdexterpeterson.com

Example by Matthew Ebel, Art by Genesis Whitmore

Unknown date, definitely in the near future from 2005. Another thing happened for which I have no explanation: After Antarctica I became a psychiatrist in an Illinois hospital. I don’t know what year that was either, but the place looked like the hospital from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Maybe late seventies? Early eighties? I don’t know, the memories always fade so fast. The time is unimportant. At the very least it was during a time when I could have bought some good music on the original vinyl.

I saw her again, but only for a moment. Alexandria was a nurse in this life, speaking little and doing nothing more than her job. By now I’m convinced she doesn’t recognize me, but I think someone else might. I was called in to see a patient who had a notebook like this one. His entries said he was 22, but he looked older than that. Honestly, I don’t know how long ago he’d written the entries or if that notebook was even his. Again, it’s unimportant, what haunts me are the contents of the notebook.

Mr. Petri— that was the patient’s name —had written entries just like mine. Just like this one. Assuming he’s doing what I’m doing, he keeps track of the date and time only when he’s home in London, when he’s himself again. Other times he writes as though it’s about someone else. I think he tried to separate the lives that weren’t his somehow, splitting those experiences off like some weird daydream. Maybe he’s right. Maybe “Dallas” Peterson is someone else.

Petri was insane, though. He threw a fit in public and got locked up. Oh God, I hope I’m not headed the same direction. He came totally unglued when he saw me, as though he recognized me. Maybe I’ll run into him again, I don’t know, but I swear he recognized me. In his hysteria he shouted and raved and I knew he was speaking directly to me. ME. He said the token was right in front of me, that it was everywhere. I don’t know what he meant by that, but I can’t seem to forget it. I hope I can figure out what he meant before I end up strapped to a hospital bed.

Example by Matthew Ebel, Art by Genesis Whitmore

I have no idea what has happened in South America. Technically, it’s not even South America yet, but I’ve covered this before. Apparently I ordered a covert expedition to find gold or valuables in Spanish-controlled territory. I believe I’ve kept this from the local officials with the intent to gain His Majesty’s favor over the Governor. Either that or I’m just going to grow rich introducing coffee to the masses. Maybe both if I stick around here long enough.

Something happened, though, something I’ve only read about in books or seen in movies. They all disappeared or died, leaving only a pound of coffee and some letters from the sole survivor. My guess is they were poisoned by the locals and saw hallucinations. I hope they weren’t eaten.

I got this news after watching another man die today. This one was a pirate who had personally disrupted most of the shipping around here for the past year. I vaguely recall him targeting my company’s tea shipments almost exclusively. He nearly deprived the entire island of tea, perhaps intentionally. At least I have coffee, though, I prefer that anyway.

I’ve found over the last few paragraphs that I apparently know how to work a quill pen. Never picked one of these up before, at least not in the last couple thousand lives. Heck, I could never even figure out my grandfather’s fountain pen until I was a French patent clerk for a while. I can see why the Bic Round Stic became so popular, though, this business is not easy. What I wouldn’t give for an iMac right now. Perhaps,when I get back to New York, I’ll pick one up from the Apple Store. If I ever make it back to New York.