$30.00
**Lunar Laughter** began as a rumor carved into the back of a crater. Not spoken—scratched, like fingernails on chalk made of ice. Astronauts heard it through their boots, a vibration that wasn’t sound but *amusement*. The moon was laughing at weight. At footprints. At the idea that anything ever stayed where it landed. Every laugh bounced once, twice, then sank into regolith where old radio signals go to fossilize.
They said if you pressed your helmet to the ground you could hear jokes told in extinct units of time.
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**Cosmic Teeth** followed.
Huge, enamel-bright constellations clamped shut and opened again, chewing light into smaller, funnier pieces. Stars ground down to glitter, planets gnawed into punchlines. No blood, just sparks. These teeth didn’t bite out of hunger—they bit out of rhythm. A chattering metronome for the universe, clicking faster whenever someone took reality too seriously.
Astrophysicists tried to count them. Lost track around infinity-minus-one.
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**Saturn’s Smile** was the most polite of all.
A thin curve, ringed and impeccable, like a portrait painted by gravity itself. It smiled because it knew the secret: everything spins until it forgets why it started. The rings were braces, holding that smile in place, preventing the planet from laughing out loud and shaking its moons into confetti.
Once every few millennia, the smile slipped. That’s when civilizations misplaced entire mythologies.
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Out beyond that—
**Nebula Giggles.**
Soft, colorful, inappropriate. Clouds of gas collapsing into themselves because something was *too funny to remain diffuse*. Pink laughter, green snorts, blue wheezing chokes of joy echoing across light-years. New stars were born mid-giggle, still shaking, still embarrassed, igniting before they could compose themselves.
Some burned crooked for billions of years because they never quite stopped laughing.
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**Radiant Rocks** drifted through it all—asteroids glowing with leftover humor, jokes petrified into minerals. If one hit your ship it wouldn’t destroy you; it would remind you of something absurd from childhood and then quietly pass through. Miners cracked them open looking for rare elements and found punchlines instead. Economies collapsed. Comedy thrived.
Geologists still argue whether laughter has a crystalline structure.
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Then came **Jovian Joy**, loud and unavoidable.
Jupiter laughed with its whole atmosphere, storms rolling like belly laughs, lightning flashing in applause. The Great Red Spot was a joke told so long ago no one remembered the setup, only that it was *hilarious* and would never quite end. Its moons listened like a captive audience, each reacting differently—one blushing, one sulking, one taking notes.
The joy was crushing. Literally. Anything too fragile got flattened into agreement.
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All of this fed into **Celestial Chuckles**, the background noise of existence. The hum beneath the cosmic microwave hiss. The reason silence never quite works. Tiny laughs between particles, smirks in the math, an audible shrug every time causality tripped over itself and pretended it meant to do that.
Priests called it divinity. Engineers called it interference. Both were wrong and right and laughing nervously.
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At the edge of the map—where telescopes refuse to focus—waited **Stellar Smirk**.
Not a laugh. Not even a smile. Just the suggestion of one, etched across the face of the universe like a watermark. It knew you were watching. It knew you wanted meaning. It let you look anyway. The smirk never explained the joke, because explaining would ruin it.
This was the expression the cosmos made right before the tape flipped.
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**PSULE “2” c100**
A cassette found drifting between orbits, labeled in fading ink. One hundred minutes of low-grade cosmic mirth recorded accidentally by an unmanned probe. Side A: distant laughter slowed to a drone. Side B: silence, punctured occasionally by a single, knowing chuckle. No track list. No artist credits. Just the hiss of space, wound tight around a cheap plastic spool.
Edition of 1, unduplicated