fishbrainrot

[fishbrainrot]

“I want to change my name.”

A white porcelain cup snugly fit in his hands. He follows its golden edge with a thumb. Chain of pink flowers feels slightly rough under his fingers.

“Well, no one’s gonna stop you.”

Lady Malachite’s sitting in front of him, alive and well. Everything’s familiar- the cup in his hands, the smell of black tea mixing with a jasmine incense, lace tablecloth yellowed by time. It’s a memory. A dream, maybe. He knows because this place doesn’t exist anymore.

The moment feels comfortable. He’s back home.

“Will it make me feel better?” He asks after a moment of hesitation. He’d do anything to feel better right now.

“That depends, kid,” she answers softly, brows furrowed on her wise forehead.

“Did it help you?”

As a child, he never questioned her name. She was Lady Malachite. She was very much real and so was her name. Now it seems absurd. But she was using it for so long and nobody remembered her previous one… What makes a name the real one?

“Changing your name won’t change who you are,” she continues, and the words send a shiver down his spine. “It may fool others, but you’ll know. You’ll still be her son, raised between sand and trailers. And it won’t make you forget the names they used to call you.”

[fishbrainrot]

Enbarr’s court drowned in lies and schemes long before them. They were born into it, raised in it, so the future held nothing but tragedy. The only thing left was acceptance. Or wrath. So Lady Edelgard burned with fury. He shared it alongside her secrets, hopes, and plans. Growing up by her side already felt like a rebellion.

[fishbrainrot]

I am a Tybalt

It’s a summer day but I feel cold. My palms, steady hands of a fencer, are shaking. I see your face, half-closed eyes- foggy. This is our goodbye. The hardest one.

What should I say when you lie vulnerable? You were always holding smiles like a shield and the sharpest sword. I could never pierce it, no matter what. Day after day, they were breaking me, like on a wheel. What should I tell you? We’ve got the parts already. You are a Mercutio, and I am your Tybalt. There’s nothing to understand. Even you are not above it.

I didn’t walk away from lives of rage. Nurtured, it grew within me and became a part of me. I am a Tybalt and Tybalt chokes on hatred preached with his and other’s throat. So he cuts and doesn’t think. Violence is the question and the answer.

I don’t want to be a Tybalt.

But when you are Mercutio, blood rises in my veins. A tragic fool bigger than life. You’re not above me, so come to me or I’ll bring you down. Face me. Whole life, we’ve been dancing on the edge of a sword. See, it reached you like I said, so why the surprise?

I’ve hated you, Mercutio. And not because I’m the most loyal dog of Capulet! Everybody’s been watching. But you’ve seen me. And I thought that in the shade of your stare, I could be just the prince of cats. Nothing less, nothing more. Now, stick to your lines.

I’ll always be a Tybalt, empty in his rage. An egg shell filled with someone’s ambition and bias. And you thought you could be a bird, flying above us and only that mattered. You’re an unstoppable, arrogant fool. Did Romeo tell you that? Has Benvolio seen the beauty in your insolence? Answer me! Because I’ve seen and I died long before his blade stroke my side. I’m entering the stage and talking with a whisper of a prompter. Stick to your lines!

Now, when there’s no Mercutio, I’m sentenced for Tybalt, who will burn in his own sorrow. No. This is Romeo’s sorrow and Romeo’s sword. My shock.

I see a pall in flowers, long lines of weepers. In another life, maybe they could mourn me. Maybe I could join them. In a moment, everything will perish. Prayers, incense, my soul and even my guilt. And my lament, my name, it doesn’t matter in the darkness.

[fishbrainrot]

It was spring in my homeland And poppies were blooming in drops of blood; It was spring in my homeland, Sunny spring of bloody days; With whirl drums have hit our brains, Steps have kicked in face on streets; With a whip of lies hearts burst. On piles lit with hate Burned years of hearts and souls. "Die Strasse frei…" With the stone of words; A lie has fallen with mud in face, The lines of heads, The lines of hands, Company's song: "Die Strasse frei…" And drum has hit, On heart has hit, On brain has hit, On mouth has hit, "Die Strasse frei…" And the roar of drums… On streets blood…

On mouth, on hearts, on brains, on heads… With shoes, with shoes, shock troopers.

Do you remember? From livid lips Just one word has fallen (Do you remember, Hans?) And crowd like night Have upraised above your head, And then salty sand in eyes, And then in my mouth The smell of blood; Do you remember, comrade Hans, The sunny spring of somber days?…

It’s my translation of a poem by Polish poet Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński. Back in high school, I used to perform it on recitation contests. I translate it to take part in open mic night in the UK.

Here’s link to the original text.

[fishbrainrot]

the magical potion was to free me from fear and incoherence  a dark dawn was rising  I couldn't say a word black coats and pairs of eyes watchful they know the magical potion runs down the chin gold, it's not made of relieve eyes are watching understanding they know my incoherence  double echo behind me two different rhythms  a shadow in the eye's corner and a man in the door words on the neck  like hands on the throat  barking of dogs movement's vibration let me forget let me melt away in the crowd

I went for creative writing to write scripts, so the first year, first semester, we had poetry. Which I never tried. Ever. In my life. But I was also a very depressed, very anxious teenage foreigner. So I bet my entire grade on being edgy. Poetry’s edgy, right?

[fishbrainrot]

Do not enter

There are days when she invites them with a gentle smile. Her breath is filling their sails, her arms carrying their ships And yes, she loves her boys as a mother does- to death. Then, there are days when she begs: “Do not enter!” But her tenderness makes them forget some sense of respect. Honor thy mother, they say on Sundays. And they need a reminder- her love is strict as well. So when she embraces them, grounding forever, It is the highest form of affection. Forgiving.

[fishbrainrot]

The room is messy. All the things he's been using recently left somewhere in the chaos. This morning he was still telling himself that he could find everything, that there was some method in it. But looking ferociously for notes that should be in the desk's drawer because they always are but somehow now they mysteriously disappeared, Charlie started to doubt. Or maybe it was a matter of takeout boxes growing in a pile next to the couch. He should throw them away. He should have thrown them away at least a week ago. The smell is unpleasant, but at times like this, he doesn't seem to care. His life is a mess. Probably bigger than the room itself. He barely sees the floor just like he barely sees himself in a year, month, or even a week. Dealing with such mundane problems is tiring, and he is so exhausted already. He'll do it tomorrow. Tomorrow he'll sort out everything, the new job included.

Does mom know? Did she see everything on the news? He isn't even sure how big the whole thing is. Probably he should google it, check if the problem escalated, what kind of shit he needs to deal with. Thinking about it makes him dizzy. Maybe he should call home. It's been too long, if he won't do this, they will. And a battle is easier if you're choosing the time and place. Too bad, he's more of a writer than a fighter. A pale smile crawls on his lips. A terrible rhyme and it's not even true. He hasn't written anything in a long time. Maybe he should. Especially now, when he's about to lose the job. No one can stop him. Well, maybe bills can. You've gotta pay for a living, and writing shitty articles about the supernatural usually isn't enough. But maybe going back to research he'll feel excitement again. Maybe he'll find answers. And maybe he'll even move on. He wasn't sure if he wanted though. No mysteries - no thrill, nothing to chase, nothing to cherish. Only awfully cluttered house smelling like old food and mold. And boredom. Endless, aimless boredom. But it's a problem for the future. Now, he has to pay his bills.

The phone vibrates somewhere deep under two blankets. He never used an actual ring, always only vibrations. No charming person has ever made his heart flutter as much as the sudden noise of phone ringing. He hesitates. Vibrations are running through his skin in rhythmical waves. Stress crawls onto his neck.

"Hey," his voice is more hoarse than he expected. That's what you get after days of silence, talking only to a delivery guy. He tries to clear his throat.

"Charles! It's been a week. Are you alright?" Mother's worried, he hears it in her voice. But there's also something cold in it. He's not sure if she's angry because of the silence or the interview. His stomach twists in anxiety.

"I'm fine," he lies as always. It's easier to hide things from her. Fewer questions, no judgment, and a reasonable amount of freedom. Hopefully, she'll never find out.

"And nothing happened recently that you'd like to talk about?" She knows. Anxiety in cold needles pierces his neck. Fuck.

"No," his voice is calm, seemingly indifferent.

"Are you sure?" She knows.

"Yes, mom."

"Why are you lying to me?" There she goes. "I've seen it." How? Last year she couldn't even find a fish recipe online. Anger starts to rise in his chest. Cold and bitter. "Tom found it on the internet." The only thing his brother should be looking for is his own place to live. "Tell me they've manipulated the video."

"I don't know." A wide smile stretches his lips. Nervous and nasty.

"You don't know." She's getting angry. He doesn't want this but there's a quiet voice deep down his chest that craves an argument. One thing's sure- he'll regret that later.

"No. Not really a thing I'd like to rewatch."

"Well, those are your words. Why even say it if you regret it?"

"I don't." Not exactly true. "I'm just ashamed," he admits eventually. It's a weird feeling to be ashamed of something you believe in. It's the part of himself Charlie hates the most. His life would be easier if he could hold his head high, confident and unapologetic. Choosing his own discomfort is easier than bearing the displeased eyes of others. It's the shame that grows deep in his soul.

"As you should be. Did your boss say anything?"

"Not yet." And the waiting is the worst. When there's no distraction he remembers about it.

"Oh, God. Okay, if they fire you, we'll find you a nice, respectable one for a change. It'll be fine, sweetheart. You just-"

"I like my job," he'd like to sound sharp but his voice comes out completely flat. The same old talk. Like a broken record.

"You're meddling with dead people's things, honey." She's so condescending and she doesn't even realize it. Or maybe she does. He's not sure what would be worse.

"I'm looking for evidence."

"Which is-" He's patiently waiting for her to find the right word. "Courageous? But also creeps people out. That's why you're still alone."

"I'm not." How many times he's got to relive this conversation? Is it some kind of purgatory? His thoughts are slowly drifting in a different direction.

"You need someone to spend your life with." Preferably a smart, hardworking woman who loves sports, doesn't mind him being quiet or distant, and dreams about a terraced house at a reasonable price where she could raise their two children. Right. What a dream.

"I'm managing." He'd love to be right at this moment. He's not. But there's an unshakable belief in him that it's gonna be fine. Eventually. He doesn't know how but he's getting there.

"You're about to lose your job." He can't respond to that. "How old are you, Charles?"

"Twenty-nine," the answer bearly leaves his throat. It's not a battle he's going to win. Not this time.

"And you're still looking for ghosts, vampires-"

"Unexplained events."

"Right. It's time to grow up."

"Have you-" He hesitates. The right question can change your life, it worked for him so why not for others? Maybe if he could turn his thoughts into a coherent sentence, she would listen. Maybe after all those years, they could understand each other. But his head feels like a busy hive, buzzing with shattered ideas and memories. He could start with that summer when he saw it for the first time, in aunt's old shack. With the overwhelming fear that makes you freeze because there's nowhere to run. With the need to explain what's happened. The fear it'll come to never leave you again. The mysteries, the thrill of a question no one could answer. But simple explanations are usually right. What's the easiest way to explain what he's seen? Losing sanity. He has to say something. And she can't think he's going nuts. "Have you ever loved something so much that you weren't able to stop?" He thinks about the excitement, the natural happiness that research brings. That's the only thing he's ever been good at. Asking questions and searching for every dumb detail. That's how he's got himself into this mess.

"No." For a moment it's quiet. He thoughtlessly listens to gurgling pipes, allowing the disappointment to sink in.

"Alright then." Maybe there's no right question.

"No, please, do tell me." She's mad but now he feels empty. There's no angry voice.

"It doesn't matter." He's so tired.

"Get over yourself, son. Let me know what they'll say. Remember, we love you." He hangs up. Once again there's only the smell of mold, the sound of water running in the walls, and exhaustion. His thoughts run to the past, to the moments he can't forget nor explain. It would be nice to focus on something else, let himself rest but when this train is running, it's impossible to stop. Eventually, he'll fall asleep. Tomorrow will be better. He'll get up and throw away the boxes, maybe even clean up a bit. This he'll manage. He'll manage for sure.

[fishbrainrot]

The Oak King

I was the king of sunny days and never-ending summer. My soldiers followed me, tempted by the promise of eternal glory. Songs about our victories would echo through the tall halls of my castles. That’s why I built them. To be remembered through the generations of my immortal race. If I could end this war, my name would never be forgotten. The Great Conqueror, the Oak King.

The memory of my hammer is vivid- heavy and shining in the midday sun. When it fell, my enemies could only run, hoping to be faster. I was made for battlefields- strong as the oldest oaks in the forests untouched by human hands.

But I wasn’t the only one.

I always searched for him across the battle hills. Lithe and sharp like the cold he was bringing. The king of winter nights and everlasting frost. The only relentless obstacle I’ve met. The Holly King. We had the same dream - to unite the realm. But there could be only one king. Every time we clashed, songs were written.

It’s been lifetimes since I was a king.

Fighting our endless war, we’ve crossed a line and didn’t even notice. “Humans are funny little things- as full of themselves as empty their heads are,” my wife used to say. But there’s always something older, stronger, and forgotten. We fought, the ancient forest burning around us. I almost had him. Then, we learned how deep and vicious human gods bite. Her rage was radiant. “Regrowing a forest takes time and effort,” she said. “So let me give this quarrel of yours a purpose.”

I’d like to think that the Oak King died in that battle, between the ashes of her sacred grove. The Holly King pierced his side with precision. Through a hole in the armor, he reached the heart and ended this chapter of history. The winter came, and the human realm fell asleep. But as the earth must die once a year, it has to rise as well. When the slumber was over, I had to open my eyes and go back home. Defeated and alone, with no trace of my unstoppable army.

They welcomed me as if I had left yesterday.

The Oak King’s death was long and pitiful. She locked us in a cycle we can't escape. Every autumn I succumb to illness and he takes my life. Then I sleep. Then I wake up. With longer days my strength grows, his weakens. It's my time to kill. I sat on my throne but the only thing I could think about was running out of time. Even humans live longer.

“It’ll happen soon,” I told my wife, holding her hand under the late summer sun. She looked at me, her eyes round in surprise, and said: “Already?” I’ve never felt so out of place.

I miss my wife. If I was the sun, she was a gentle rain soothing the dry soil. Always by my side. When I fought my wars, she looked after the court. During my recovery, she was taking over my responsibilities. She cleaned my wounds and comforted me when life was hard to bear. But with time, her eyes grew morose, then cold. I’ve never thought she would think me a weakling, a burden. After all, fae were hardly ever crippled. We were made to live the life to fullest and then die a sudden death. I was drifting further and further away.

I could see my family falling apart. They didn’t know what to do or how to treat me. I didn’t know either. I was a stranger in my court. The only thing I could do was preserve my legacy. So I passed the crown to my children and left my lands to never look back.

But I wasn’t the only one.

At home, we fought great battles, not willing to yield. Here, we’ve got no armies, no audience, no bards to write songs. But seclusion gives a lot of time to think. I watched the season change, the world reflect our wounds.

For the first time since I died in the grove, I felt a slight touch of purpose.

March is a nasty month of transition. Sun slowly grows warmer, but snow is still covering the earth. We avoided each other. I don't know when I stopped craving our confrontations. It had to be gradual just like the beginning of spring. The days grew longer, we could feel it in our bones. When he found me, I was waiting- between the trees, in a clearing where early sun melted the winter ice. Snow crunched under his feet. “You know it has to happen,” I said, trying to sound gentle. And then he exposed his neck. My cut was quick and clean. I hoped he would do the same for me. I wrapped his body with a soft blanket, head by his chest. Maybe he could do the same for me this autumn. Pick me up with care and carry to safety. Snow on the nearby hills was melting, reflecting the morning sun. Was it always so blinding?

I don't know when I got lonely. It had to be gradual like the beginning of autumn.

We’re not staying together, but we’re always nearby. I’m taking care of his affairs when he’s recovering through the summers. I clean his wounds and comfort him when life is hard to bear. I don’t think we can handle each other for long, but he makes me feel less alone.

My wife has perished a long time ago, as well as my children. All devoured by the war I haven’t finished. On long, summer nights I can't help but think about them, trying to remember their faces. By now, they're only misty figures. I named every single one of them but their names feel strange to my tongue. I fear forgetting. He watches me and there’s sharpness in his eyes. Sometimes I feel like an open book, like an old sentimental fool. We exchange our true names. I’m surprised when I feel at peace, but it’s not unwelcome. Maybe he could remember who I used to be and still look at me with respect.

Respect comes from a challenge. Trust comes from respect. And in trust, I’ve found comfort.

I have my garden where I can sit in the shade and watch the flowers grow. We share the same cycle, and I can’t help but feel a warm fondness. I’m learning to cook. Thousand years ago, human food felt flat compared to dishes I used to eat at home. But my memory faded. I like cream and honey and even those funny colorful sweets. The earth isn’t that big, but diverse enough. I’m discovering unknown places, learning to appreciate new things. Maybe I’m old, but if that’s not nice, I don’t know what is.

There are years when we’re trying to forget. When his wound is healed, my body grows weaker with every day. He watches me with the same eyes, piercing like winter freeze. And I know he can see how my hand shakes when I’m drinking my morning coffee. We both know. So I’m making a list of my unfinished errands. We’re sitting on a sofa, reading books, and drinking tea because the evening chill is getting colder despite the long summer. And I say: “Let’s get it over with.” He raises his eyes and this time there’s something somber behind them. I know it’ll be quick, and when I wake up, he’ll be there to say, “It took you long enough.”

[fishbrainrot]

It's a short scene with characters from my Monster of the Week campaign. They're not-yet-thirty losers YouTubers investigating the unexplained and paranormal.