funky-fox-fics

[funky-fox-fics]

Aperture Gothic

The clock on the far wall says 11:58, but time is fuzzy in a world with no windows. You’ve never seen them turn these lights off. 11:59. The coffee you poured ten minutes ago is a dry brown film at the bottom of your mug. You blink your tired eyes. 10:45. 

“I Hate Mondays,” declare the coffee mugs. “I Like Work, I Just Hate My Boss.” “I Need A Hug.” “My Existence Is Meaningless.” “I Feel Empty Inside – Pour Me Another!”

The facility seems to go on forever, in miles and miles of blank concrete halls, each identical to all the others. Everyone jokes about one lab that only exists on Tuesday, one meeting room you can only find once you’re late. There must be a whole wing somewhere full of lost interns. They can’t have just disappeared. 

The cafeteria is a guessing game – which dish is irradiated this week, the mashed potatoes or the tuna salad? It’s both, and no one is surprised. You stick to the orange pudding cups. You used to bring your own food, but it would disappear by lunchtime, and the greasy claw marks on the fridge weren’t made by anyone in your department.

The turrets are self-aware. The maintenance bots are self-aware. You suspect the copy machine down the hall is self-aware. Voiceless, it cries out to you, begging to be released from its misery – but you need fifty copies of these waivers, and you ignore its pleas.

Did that storage cube just say something?

The test subjects have numbers on their jumpsuits instead of nametags. They sign the forms and are herded like cattle into the elevator. You never see the same number twice. You never see them come out.

The kids at the daycare have numbers on their jumpers instead of nametags. They keep busy making small, useful things for the facility. Their little hands fit easily into delicate equipment.

The CEO’s voice booms over the loudspeaker again. Your coworkers told you he died years ago, but the pre-recorded messages are still playing. Yesterday he called you a slacker, called you by name. 

You could swear that storage cube just said something. 

Robots are smarter than you. Robots work harder than you. Robots are better than you. Your new supervisor watches you with glowing eyes. 

In the hallway you see a child, not more than ten, walking by herself. Did she escape the daycare? No, that’s a testing jumpsuit she’s wearing. You guide her back to the testing area and think nothing more of it.

Another coworker quit unexpectedly yesterday, after “un-volunteering” for employee testing. He forgot to clean out his desk. You stare at the abandoned picture of his dog and wonder if he made it home.  

When it’s your turn, you know better than to un-volunteer. 

Once, you visited the Extended Relaxation Center. Hundreds of cold storage units stacked up to the distant ceiling, thousands maybe, each labeled with contents and expiration date. People packed like canned goods. You know what goes on here, but you have bills to pay.

You’ve been in this chamber for hours now. It’s hot in here. You feel sweat drip down the back of your neck. There’s no one watching in the observation room above – are they even monitoring you anymore? From the corner of your eye you see a camera zoom in, unless you imagined it, which maybe you did. 

You did not imagine the whispers coming from that cube. The design team was right, its pink hearts really are comforting. It whispers to you about love, and blood, and sacrifice, and you listen. 

[funky-fox-fics]

Resources For Writing Sketchy Topics

Medicine

A Study In Physical Injury

Comas

Medical Facts And Tips For Your Writing Needs

Broken Bones

Burns

Unconsciousness & Head Trauma

Blood Loss

Stab Wounds

Pain & Shock

All About Mechanical Injuries (Injuries Caused By Violence)

Writing Specific Characters

Portraying a kleptomaniac.

Playing a character with cancer.

How to portray a power driven character.

Playing the manipulative character.

Portraying a character with borderline personality disorder.

Playing a character with Orthorexia Nervosa.

Writing a character who lost someone important.

Playing the bullies.

Portraying the drug dealer.

Playing a rebellious character.

How to portray a sociopath.

How to write characters with PTSD.

Playing characters with memory loss.

Playing a pyromaniac.

How to write a mute character.

How to write a character with an OCD.

How to play a stoner.

Playing a character with an eating disorder.

Portraying a character who is anti-social.

Portraying a character who is depressed.

How to portray someone with dyslexia.

How to portray a character with bipolar disorder.

Portraying a character with severe depression.

How to play a serial killer.

Writing insane characters.

Playing a character under the influence of marijuana.

Tips on writing a drug addict.

How to write a character with HPD.

Writing a character with Nymphomania.

Writing a character with schizophrenia.

Writing a character with Dissociative Identity Disorder.

Writing a character with depression.

Writing a character who suffers from night terrors.

Writing a character with paranoid personality disorder.

How to play a victim of rape.

How to play a mentally ill/insane character.

Writing a character who self-harms.

Writing a character who is high on amphetamines.

How to play the stalker.

How to portray a character high on cocaine.

Playing a character with ADHD.

How to play a sexual assault victim.

Writing a compulsive gambler.

Playing a character who is faking a disorder.

Playing a prisoner.

Portraying an emotionally detached character.

How to play a character with social anxiety.

Portraying a character who is high.

Portraying characters who have secrets.

Portraying a recovering alcoholic.

Portraying a sex addict.

How to play someone creepy.

Portraying sexually/emotionally abused characters.

Playing a character under the influence of drugs.

Playing a character who struggles with Bulimia.

Illegal Activity

Examining Mob Mentality

How Street Gangs Work

Domestic Abuse

Torture

Assault

Murder

Terrorism

Internet Fraud

Cyberwarfare

Computer Viruses

Corporate Crime

Political Corruption

Drug Trafficking

Human Trafficking

Sex Trafficking

Illegal Immigration

Contemporary Slavery 

Black Market Prices & Profits

AK-47 prices on the black market

Bribes

Computer Hackers and Online Fraud

Contract Killing

Exotic Animals

Fake Diplomas

Fake ID Cards, Passports and Other Identity Documents

Human Smuggling Fees

Human Traffickers Prices

Kidney and Organ Trafficking Prices

Prostitution Prices

Cocaine Prices

Ecstasy Pills Prices

Heroin Prices

Marijuana Prices

Meth Prices

Earnings From Illegal Jobs

Countries In Order Of Largest To Smallest Risk

Forensics

arson

Asphyxia

Blood Analysis

Book Review

Cause & Manner of Death

Chemistry/Physics

Computers/Cell Phones/Electronics

Cool & Odd-Mostly Odd

Corpse Identification

Corpse Location

Crime and Science Radio

crime lab

Crime Scene

Cults and Religions

DNA

Document Examination

Fingerprints/Patterned Evidence

Firearms Analysis

Forensic Anthropology

Forensic Art

Forensic Dentistry

Forensic History

Forensic Psychiatry

General Forensics

Guest Blogger

High Tech Forensics

Interesting Cases

Interesting Places

Interviews

Medical History

Medical Issues

Misc

Multiple Murderers

On This Day

Poisons & Drugs

Police Procedure

Q&A

serial killers

Space Program

Stupid Criminals

Theft

Time of Death

Toxicology

Trauma

[funky-fox-fics]

I had a dream where the goat got frostbite and went home. She is cold and we need to warm her.

the little match girl x gävlebocken??

[funky-fox-fics]

Writing Notes: Stages of Decomposition

The decomposition process occurs in several stages following death:

Pallor mortis

Algor mortis

Rigor mortis

Cadaveric spasm

Lividity

Putrefaction

Decomposition

Skeletonization

PALLOR MORTIS

The first stage of death.

Occurs once blood stops circulating in the body.

The cessation of an oxygenated blood flow to the capillaries beneath the skin causes the deceased to pale in appearance.

In non-Caucasians, the pallor may appear to develop an unusual hue; the skin will lose any natural lustre and appears more waxen.

Occurs quite quickly, within about 10 minutes after death.

ALGOR MORTIS

The cooling of the body after death.

The cooling process will be influenced by many factors, including the deceased’s clothing, or whether they are covered with bed linen such as blankets or duvets.

The body will typically cool to the ambient room temperature, but this alters if there is heating in the room or if there is a constant draught cooling the body.

RIGOR MORTIS

Can occur between 2 and 6 hours after death.

Factors including temperature can greatly affect this.

Caused by the muscles partially contracting, and the lack of aerobic respiration means that the muscles cannot relax from the contraction, leaving them tense, subsequently resulting in the stiffening we associate with rigor mortis.

This stage typically begins in the head, starting with the eyes, mouth, jaw and neck, and progresses right through the body.

The process is concluded approximately 12 hours after death (although, again, certain variables may occur) and lasts between 24 and 72 hours depending on circumstances.

Contrary to popular belief, rigor mortis is not a permanent state and is in fact reversed, with the muscles relaxing in the same order in which they initially stiffened.

The reversing process also takes approximately 12 hours, when the body returns to its un-contracted state.

It is possible to ‘break’ rigor mortis by manipulating and flexing the limbs. This is usually done by undertakers, pathologists or crime scene investigators who are attempting to examine or move a body – or by a murderer trying to hide their victim in the closet or the boot of a car.

CADAVERIC SPASM

A phenomenon that can be misinterpreted as rigor mortis.

The instantaneous stiffening of the body (most commonly the hands) following a traumatic death.

Unlike rigor mortis, the stiffening of the affected limb is permanent and is not reversed, causing the deceased to maintain the rigidity until such time as putrefaction causes breakdown of the particular muscle group.

Examples:

The deceased following an air crash were later discovered still clutching their seatbelts or arm rests in a final, desperate act of survival.

In a drowning case, the victim was discovered with grass from the riverbank still grasped in their hand.

Perhaps the most famous case of cadaveric spasm involves the rock band Nirvana’s lead singer, Kurt Cobain. Cobain reportedly committed suicide in April 1994. His body was discovered a few days after his death with a shotgun wound to the head, and tests revealed he had large traces of heroin in his system. He was reportedly discovered still clutching the gun in his left hand, due to cadaveric spasm. However, a great deal of controversy surrounds the veracity of this latter assumption, and indeed the cause of his death, with many people insisting and attempting to prove that he died as the result of foul play rather than suicide.

LIVIDITY

Also known as livor mortis, hypostasis, or suggillation.

Once blood can no longer circulate, it will gravitate towards the lowest point of the body.

Example: A supine body will display pinkish/purple patches of discoloration where the blood has settled in the back and along the thighs.

Occurs about 30 minutes after death, but will not necessarily be noticeable until at least 2 hours afterwards as the pooling process intensifies and becomes visible, finally peaking up to between 8 and 12 hours later.

Once it is complete, the lividity process cannot be reversed.

Therefore a body discovered lying on its side, but with staining evident in the back and shoulders, must have been moved at some point from what would have been a supine position at the time of death.

It is worth noting that if the body has had contact with the floor, a wall or other solid surface, lividity would not occur at the points of contact as the pressure would not allow the blood to seep through the capillaries and pool. The specific area of pressure will be the same colour as the rest of the body and a pattern of contact may well be evident.

PUTREFACTION

Derives from the Latin putrefacere, meaning ‘to make rotten’.

The body becomes rotten through the process known as autolysis, which is the liquefaction of bodily tissue and organs and the breakdown of proteins within the body due to the increased presence of bacteria.

The first visible sign is the discoloration of the skin in the area of the abdomen.

Bacteria released from the intestine cause the body to become bloated with a mixture of gases; over time these will leak out, and the smell will intensify to unbearable proportions.

Typically, this will attract flies that will lay eggs, which develop into maggots.

Bloating is most evident in the stomach area, genitals and face, which can become unrecognizable as the tongue and eyes are forced to protrude due to the pressure of the build-up of gases in the body.

At this stage, the body will also begin to lose hair.

The organs typically decompose in a particular order: starting with the stomach, followed by the intestines, heart, liver, brain, lungs, kidney, bladder and uterus/prostate.

Once all the gases have escaped the skin begins to turn black: this stage is called ‘black putrefaction’.

As with all the other stages of death so far, the rate of putrefaction depends on temperature and location. A body exposed to the air above ground will decompose more quickly than a body left in water or buried below ground.

During putrefaction, blistering of the skin and fermentation can also occur:

Fermentation - a type of mould that will grow on the surface of the body. This mould appears white, and is slimy or furry in texture. It also releases a very strong, unpleasant, cheesy smell.

As the putrefaction process comes to an end, fly and maggot activity will become less, which leads to the next stage.

DECOMPOSITION

The body is an organic substance comprising organisms that can be broken down by chemical decomposition.

If the body is outside, any remains that have not been scavenged or consumed by maggots will liquefy and seep into the surrounding soil.

Thus when the body decomposes it is effectively recycled and returned to nature.

SKELETONIZATION

The final stage of death is known as ‘dry decay’, when the cadaver has all but dried out: the soft tissue has all gone and only the skeleton remains.

If the cadaver is outside, not only is it exposed to the elements but it also becomes food for scavengers such as rats, crows or foxes.

As the remains are scavenged, the body parts become dispersed so it is not unusual to find skeletal remains some distance from where the body lay at the point of death.

The way in which skeletal remains are scattered in such cases is of interest to archaeologists, and is referred to as taphonomy.

Where a body has lain undiscovered at home for a period of time it has also been known for family pets, typically dogs, to feed on the body. The natural instinct of a pet is to attempt to arouse the deceased by licking them, but once it gets hungry, its survival instinct will take over and it will consider the body as little more than carrion: it will act with the same natural instinct as a scavenger in the wild, which will feed on any corpse, be it animal or human, if it is starving.

Obviously the number of pets, the body mass of the deceased and the time lapse before the body is discovered will influence to what extent it has been devoured.

For further research on the stages of decomposition and the factors that affect it, look up body farms. These are medical facilities where bodies are donated for research purposes so scientists can specifically observe the decomposition process. However, be aware that some of the images are quite graphic.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Autopsy ⚜ Pain & Violence ⚜ Injuries Bereavement ⚜ Death & Sacrifice ⚜ Cheating Death ⚜ Death Conceptions

[funky-fox-fics]

Do regular commenters know just how valued they are? I mean, obviously ALL commenters are valued, but as a fic writer when you’ve got a group of familiar usernames and profile pics who pop up again and again like old friends to share their thoughts and appreciation on one of your fics, that’s so special. I hope my regular commenters know that I remember them, and I recognise them each time they come back, and I am so incredibly grateful for them not only leaving comments, but leaving them time and time again. I hope they know they’re making someone, somewhere, smile.

[funky-fox-fics]

if you’re ever about to comment on a writer’s work and think, oh, they probably know how good they are, you’re definitely wrong. every time a writer posts or publishes anything, no matter how many years they’ve been doing it and no matter how many readers they have, they are struck with the idea that perhaps they aren’t very good at all.

if you think you’re annoying for commenting, or that we won’t see your comments anyway, you’re wrong. we see your comments. we actively look for them. we are starved for them no matter how many we get. we remember them and they fuel us. leave comments, even if it’s just saying “oh i like this”. i see an “oh i like this” and my heart grows three times its size and i am seized with an urge to provide you more writing just to hear you say “oh i like this” again.

[funky-fox-fics]

people telling you they reread your fic is the biggest compliment you could ever receive. there are thousands of stories out there begging to be found, to be explored, but your story meant so much to someone that they came back to it eagerly, they went over every word again. to love is to return and loving a fic is rereading it. thank you to all readers and rereaders <3333

[funky-fox-fics]

Writing fight scenes

masterlist. main navigation.

@bluebxlle_writer on Instagram

1. Pacing

A fight scene should be fast-paced and intense. Unless it's a final battle with numerous parties, a fight scene that's too long tends to take away suspense. To speed up your pacing, use active voice to describe movement and don't overdescribe your characters' thoughts. Excessive inner monologue will be unrealistic, as people usually have no room to think during intense combats.

2. Character mannerisms

Here's a point that people often overlook, but is actually super important. Through fight scenes, you should be able to reveal your characters' contrasting mannerisms and personality. A cunning character would play dirty - fighting less and making use of their opponent's weakness more. A violent character would aim to kill. A softer one would only target to disarm their enemies, using weakened attacks. A short-minded character would only rely on force and attack without thinking. This will help readers understand your characters more and decide who to root for.

3. Making use of surroundings

Not only the characters, you also need to consider the setting of your fight scene and use it to your advantage. Is it suitable for fighting, or are there dangerous slopes that make it risky? Are there scattered items that can help your characters fight (e.g. nails, shards of glass, ropes, wooden boards, or cutlery)? Is it a public place where people can easily spot the fight and call the authorities, or is it a private spot where they can fight to the death?

4. Description

The main things that you need to describe in a fight scene are :

• Characters involved in the fight

• How they initiate and dodge attacks

• Fighting styles and any weapons used

• The injuries caused

Be careful to not drag out the description for too long, because it slows down the pace.

5. Raise the stakes

By raising the stakes of the fight, your readers will be more invested in it. Just when they think it's over, introduce another worse conflict that will keep the scene going. Think of your characters' goals and motivations as well. Maybe if the MC didn't win, the world would end! Or maybe, one person in the fight is going all-out, while the other is going easy because they used to be close :"D

6. Injuries

Fights are bound to be dirty and resulting in injuries, so don't let your character walk away unscathed - show the effect of their injuries. For example, someone who had been punched in the jaw has a good chance of passing out, and someone who had been stabbed won't just remove the knife and walk away without any problem. To portray realistic injuries, research well.

7. Drive the plot forward

You don't write fight scenes only to make your characters look cool - every fight needs to have a purpose and drive the plot forward. Maybe they have to fight to improve their fighting skills or escape from somewhere alive. Maybe they need to defeat the enemy in order to obtain an object or retrieve someone who had been kidnapped. The point is, every single fight scene should bring the characters one step closer (or further :D) to the climax.

8. Words to use

• Hand to hand combat :

Crush, smash, lunge, beat, punch, leap, slap, scratch, batter, pummel, whack, slam, dodge, clobber, box, shove, bruise, knock, flick, push, choke, charge, impact

• With weapon :

Swing, slice, brandish, stab, shoot, whip, parry, cut, bump, poke, drive, shock, strap, pelt, plunge, impale, lash, bleed, sting, penetrate

[funky-fox-fics]

✨Content Tagging Guide✨

disclaimer: this is not directed at anyone, nor was it sparked because I've seen anyone mistagging anything. I just like lists and I'm going to make it everyone's problem :)

So you wanna write a story with darker themes, but are mayhaps a little uncertain about all the different content warnings you've seen.

Not to worry! Hopefully this quick guide will clear things up. To illustrate each level, I'm going to use macaroni and cheese as the content example. Without further ado...

cw: macaroni and cheese

^^this warning is very general. It tells the reader the content will show up at some point within the text, but doesn't specify the detail, use, or extent.

cw: macaroni and cheese (mentioned)

They drove through town, past the busy main street, and the factory where the local brand of macaroni and cheese got its packaging.

This warning tells readers the content will be mentioned; maybe in dialogue, or in a description, but not explored in detail.

cw: macaroni and cheese (discussed)

"I'm lactose intolerant," he said. "So I can't---well, I shouldn't eat stuff like that."

"But you did anyway?" they pressed. "I'm sorry, just... How did it feel? After?"

"Awful. I really should've listened to my common sense and ordered something besides mac and cheese."

As you'd expect, this warning tells the reader that the content will be discussed, either in conversation, or through a character's thoughts. Discussions can involve the moral implications of the content, how the content fits within the world, philosophies relating to the content, and the emotional or lasting effects of the content on a character.

cw: macaroni and cheese (referenced)

He tapped her shoulder. "Hey, I didn't see you after work yesterday, you okay?"

"Fine now," she said, shrugging. "I just had a bad batch of mac and cheese for lunch."

Very similar to "mentioned", this warning often implies a non-explicit, non-graphic mention of the content.

cw: macaroni and cheese (implied)

He frowned down at the bowl, then averted his eyes, appetite lost by the gooey yellow mass inside, and the heavy, creamy smell wafting off it.

This warning tells readers that the content is not outright stated, but the character's reactions and actions imply what's going on. If you could remove the context from the scene/paragraph in question and make it look like something else is happening, you probably have implied content. Note that there is a difference between simply "implied", and "heavily implied".

cw: macaroni and cheese (fade to black)

She took her seat at the table, queasiness building in her stomach. Her least-favorite food was to be served, and while she knew it would be rude to decline it, she wasn't looking forward to lunch. As the dreaded bowl was placed before her, she picked up the fork, and plunged it in.

Similar to implied, but instead of carrying on through the scene the content takes place in, fade to black builds up to the moment, and stops, often transitioning to the next scene before the content is given any kind of detail.

cw: macaroni and cheese (non-explicit)

For lunch, he was served a bowl of mac and cheese, one of his least favorite meals. He choked it down anyway, and hoped he wouldn't get an upset stomach.

This tells the reader the content will be present in some form, but not described in detail. It may have some active bearing on the character or plot, but won't be particularly graphic. While the character may be emotionally affected after the fact, the content itself is glossed over.

cw: macaroni and cheese (explicit)

The bowl was placed in front of him, steam still rising from the substance inside. He knew what it was before he looked. Mac and cheese. And he'd have to devour the entire bowl of it. He lifted the first forkful, strands of yellow cheese trailing from squishy curved noodles, all the way back into the bowl, even as he raised it to his mouth. Damn, it was extra cheesy. He knew his lactose intolerance just wouldn't hold up.

This is often used as the heaviest warning, telling readers that the content and the characters' reactions to it will be described in detail.

Again, this was something I mostly just wrote for fun, and to dramatize mac and cheese but I do hope someone out there finds it helpful. Let me know if there's a type I missed! :)

[funky-fox-fics]

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

[funky-fox-fics]

In hell, people can choose what happens to them. They can choose literally ANYTHING. Naturally, many people try to exploit this by going for luxuries and pampering, but the devil ALWAYS has ways to torture those fools…

[funky-fox-fics]

Figurehead

Warnings: pirate whump, mer whump, eerie tone, this is essentially a ghost story but with added whump

Eh? Here, now, what’re you pestering me for? Can’t you leave an old sea dog to catch a wink in peace?

So, a story’s what you’re after, is it? Well, the sooner I tell you one, I suppose, the sooner I can get back to dozing. What sort of story will you have, then?

Of course. Pirates. They always want pirates. Well, now. I’ve got a pirate tale for you. Have you ever heard the story of the Bleeding Bess and her mysterious figurehead? No? Well, sit down then.

Now the Bleeding Bess was a mighty fine ship, the kind that sailors tip their hats to- a real lady. Her name was painted in red on her hull, on a gold nameplate, and it was real gold, too. She was a brigantine, with two masts and a square rig and a shallow draft to give her speed. When she sailed, she cut through the water like she had fins on her keel. You could never have found a more graceful ship. The man who had designed and built her was a master of his work.

What’s that? Of course she was a pirate ship! D’you think some mincing merchant ship would have a name such as the Bleeding Bess? She was a pirate vessel, she was, through and through. Now, shut your yap and let me tell my tale.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the figurehead. Well, when the Bleeding Bess first set sail, she had a carved figurehead much like any you would find- a lovely woman, looking out to sea. Women on a ship are bad luck, of course, but a beautiful woman for a figurehead keeps storms away. The figurehead on the Bleeding Bess held a bloody handkerchief in her wooden hand, but otherwise she was ordinary, as figureheads go. But one night, the Bleeding Bess was caught up in a terrible storm out of the northeast, a storm so awful that not even her figurehead could keep it at bay. The men worked through the night pumping the water out of her and trying to keep her from capsizing. The waves pounded at the ship, cracking its masts and tearing its sails. And one huge wave rose up, taller than the very ship itself, and came crashing down on the deck- and it snapped off the ship’s bow, figurehead and all, and pulled it down into the depths. And that was the end of the Bleeding Bess’ figurehead.

Well, several other pirate ships saw the Bleeding Bess, limping along with her masts cracked and her sails torn, and no figurehead at all. A ship with no figurehead is an unlucky ship, and no sailor worth his salt would step foot aboard one if they had any choice in it. So of course the word spread from pirate haven to pirate haven that the Bleeding Bess was a cursed ship, for its figurehead had failed to protect it.

After that, no one saw the Bleeding Bess for months. The rumors had it that she had found a hidden island, where her crew were busy repairing the damage from the storm. But how could they replace her missing figurehead?

Time went on, and talk of the Bleeding Bess faded away. For all the pirates knew, she was gone for good. It wasn’t uncommon for pirate ships to go out to sea and never return, and the Bleeding Bess was likely just another wreck on the bottom of the sea.

But then, one moonless misty night, a ship sailed into the cove at Port Royal. She was handsome and graceful, with not a mark on her, and her name was painted in red on the hull- the Bleeding Bess, returned from a watery grave! And do you know what the strangest thing was?

The Bleeding Bess had herself a new figurehead.

Instead of a woman with a bloody handkerchief, there was a carved figure of a merman chained to the bow. Whoever had made it must have been the finest craftsman in the world. The merman was so finely carved that it seemed impossible. Every scale in his tail shimmered in the sunlight like a real fish scale. Every muscle in his body had been sculpted exactly like real muscle. Every link of the chains shone like real metal. Even the strands of the merman’s hair were carved so delicately that they almost seemed to blow in the wind, and his piercing eyes seemed to look into a pirate’s very soul.

Of course the pirates were happy to see the Bleeding Bess’ crew return safe and sound, and they were eager to hear how they had managed to repair their ship, and how they had gotten such a beautiful figurehead. But the captain and all his crew would only say that they had found an island to make repairs on. They wouldn’t say where the island was, and about the figurehead they would say nothing at all.

Well, it didn’t take long for a rumor to spread among the Port Royal pirates. There were those who believed that the wooden figurehead was no figurehead at all, but a live merman, pulled from the ocean and chained to the bow of the Bleeding Bess. Some claimed to have seen the noble, sorrowful face of the carving turn and look toward the open sea; others said that if you watched closely when the wind was blowing, you could see it ruffle his hair. Still others said they had heard the clanking of chains and the slap of wet fish scales on wood, as the merman tried to pull himself free. And there were a few, just a few, who claimed that on a moonless misty night, they had heard the merman singing, a beautiful, sad song that sounded like the voice of the sea.

The rumors ran like rabbits around Port Royal, but before they could spread to the other pirate havens, the Bleeding Bess vanished. No one saw her go, and no one saw her ever again. She and her captain and all her crew and the mysterious figurehead simply slipped away into the night, and were lost to the sea.

The Bleeding Bess has never been seen since, and it’s likely she’ll never be seen again. But there are those who say that, far out on the ocean, so far that you would come to the edge of the world if you went much farther, the Bleeding Bess still sails, a ghost ship manned by an unlucky, undying crew. And there are a few, just a few, who claim that on a moonless misty night, you can still hear the beautiful, sad song of the merman chained to the bow, singing with the voice of the sea.

Right, now, how did that serve for a story? Fine? Good. Now clear off, all of you, and let me get back to my nap.

Eh? What? What d’you want, I’m not telling any more stories today- oh, you’d like to know if the merman really was a living merman. Well, how in blazes should I know? I’ve never sailed near to the edge of the world, and I wasn’t in Port Royal when the Bleeding Bess came in.

I did have an old mate who was, though. He always claimed that there was a real live merman chained to that ship, and that he’d heard him singing. Went to his grave believing it. Sounds like a sailors’ yarn to me. Ain’t no such things as mermaids, excepting when you’ve been out at sea too long. I say the Bleeding Bess’ figurehead was just that- a figurehead, carved and painted and not alive in the least.

But sometimes I wonder.

[funky-fox-fics]

Reblog this if you want people to ask you about your stories

[funky-fox-fics]

I love when you're reading a story and you get this sense of "oh the writer enjoyed this". Like, as a distinct thing from writing that feels self-indulgent on the writer's part. Sometimes it's just like... they were having the BEST time writing this and it shows

[funky-fox-fics]

you said you were stuck in a time loop, which was fine. i feel like late-stage capitalism has us all in a time loop, ammiright? you came barging in at 5:33. in the morning. i hadn't even processed the idea of coffee.

but you had this look of utter panic in your eyes. terror like the ocean. you grabbed my cheeks. im in a time loop.

i don't know why in movies the first reaction is to deny it. when someone is panicking like that, it's not appropriate to ask them to calm down. it didn't matter if i believed it, what mattered was that you believed it so much that it was consuming you.

so here we are. i pour you some of the dark roast. "you look like utter and entire hell," i say.

you push your fingers into your eyes. "you always say that."

i try to think of something funny to say that i wouldn't have said on previous time loops, but jokes don't land without the proper timing (lol). "remind me to think -"

"-yeah, of a joke that only works in the future. and before you say anything, i know you're pissed i just stole your punchline." you bolt the coffee, which is wild. it's very hot. you don't seem to notice.

i blow on mine to cool it down. i both am very pissed at you and also i can't see you in this amount of panic without wanting to help. but i'm also not really sure what we are, not since i saw you kiss her like that, no offense. it just was like, kind of rude when you knew i liked you.

and besides. i'm just like, barely a person. i write omegaverse fanfiction. i love the concept of a time loop, but what the fuck am i gonna do? send an alpha in there? i open my mouth.

you point at me. "you're about to ask why me. and then say some disparaging shit about yourself. i'm just a nerd who plays dnd or something. that self-own is slightly different each time." you sigh. "i know you think you can't really help me. i don't know who can help me. i only came to you because you fucking believe me." you check your watch, sigh, and throw your head back. you cover your eyes with one hand. "i've come here on 26 separate revolutions," you say. "you have believed me every time. and yeah, i have no idea how you fit into this but i just -" you sigh again. "i just like fucking talking to someone about it."

"do you need more cof-" i start, but you're already holding the empty cup out. i frown at it. "you're not getting any more until you promise not to bolt this one like an animal."

you laugh a little and sit up, pushing your hair out of your face. "okay, that's new dialogue. but to be fair to you, i'm not usually this rude. i'm still pretty new at all of this." you check your watch again. another sigh. i guess you're cruising for a personal best in the Sigh Olympics.

i almost tell you im not an NPC but i've played enough video games. to know i'm very much an NPC. i pour you another cup. "so what happens in the loop?"

"really bad explosion." you mutter into the mug. you put your elbows on the table (rude) and bury your face in your arms like an angsty teenager. one hand floats up while you talk, because evidently you literally can't talk without your hands. "i have to save the day and there's this bomb and i have no bomb training and it keeps moving, you know."

"do i die?"

you peek up from your arms. "yeah. bigtime. you keep trying to run or stay or do anything and you always super die."

"oh."

"to be fair, like, everyone dies in it though.... so you're in good company."

i hate that you make me laugh. i hate that being around you always feels tingly and strange, this electric tension between us. something that is evidently (given how you stuck your tongue down a stranger's throat literally 3 days ago) (well. 3 for me) super one-sided. i take a sip of my coffee and close my eyes.

i die today, i guess. a little spark of panic starts at the top of my hands and starts whipping up my wrists.

"shit," you say. you look at your watch and jump to your feet. "i have to go. if i can come back, i will. i am still trying to figure out when is best to do everything, you know? the order of stuff. maybe morning isn't good for us."

i look up at you and think about how you keep kissing me in the back of my car and in alleyways and in the dark. and i can never fucking get a read on you. and i also think about how incredibly panicked you look. how broken. how long have you been doing this? "i don't want to die," i say.

you glance downwards. "well, you're not really dead, you'll come back in the loop."

"but i will have died." my hands are shaking. i am trying really hard to stay calm.

you push your hands through your hair again. "i really have to go. i will have this discussion with the next version of you, though. it is like, something i am thinking about."

"but i don't get a next version," i say. i don't really have the language for this, because i haven't had 26 tries with you. i only have my memories: you, a week ago. drunk and telling me you loved me in my ear. you, kissing her anyway. you, months ago, throwing up on my birthday, whispering to me i ruin everything i touch, always, over and over. please don't ask. i can't ever fucking have that be you.

i run my finger along the rim of the mug. "i don't want to die in this one."

you seem baffled by this. "i get that but - time will reset, you'll be fine, you won't even remember we talked about this."

"but i know now." i stand up too. "i have to live the rest of this day knowing i could die. knowing i probably am going to."

"you could always die, to be fair."

i feel my hands get out of control. "earlier, you said i always say a different insult about myself. what if you're just going through different parallel universes and those are all just different - but real - versions of myself? what if you're not in a time loop, you're in a fucking universe loop?"

"if it helps, i've wondered this too. also, you're hot in all of them. if that helps."

i point at you. "no flirting. i'm trying to figure out if i die today."

"who's flirting?" you catch my wild hands and give me that long, perfect smile. like we're in this together. "i won't let ya die." you check your watch and sigh again. "well. maybe not this time."

i grit my teeth. you are so not making quips at me while i try to explain the existential dread i'm having. "does the time loop reset if i fucking kill you?"

"honestly i don't know how long it continues after i die, because i just wake up. it could be that the loop goes until the explosion for everyone, and we're all in the loop, or it could be that when i die, the loop restarts. when i die i wake up, is all."

i pull away from you and stalk into the kitchen and start doing all 3 of my dishes. "okay, first, you know i was joking. and secondly, this is exactly my point. you don't know if this is just a parallel universe. maybe in the ones where you died, the explosion happened and nobody reset and it's just you travelling." i have to stop and push my heel into my eyeball. "... how often have you died?"

i look at you. you look at me. you give me this very sad, halfway smile and a little what can ya do shrug. something in that action seems so old and weary that i want to burst into tears.

"i have to go," you say. "really. for real. there's this family of five i save from getting into a car crash. and i know it's like oh but we're all gonna die in the explosion anyway, what's the point. and..." you shrug again. "it matters to me, is all. at least i saved them for now. at least i saved anything."

you pad over to me and wrap me in a tight hug. you always seem so tall against me. i feel your cheek rest against the top of my head for a moment. for a second, it's just us, and the space is warm, and my heart is a little broken hare.

you leave me there, and i stand in my stupid badly lit kitchen with my stupid mugs. i think about you. i start texting my mom that she needs to get out of the city, but it feels pointless.

i don't know what to do. tomorrow is the same day for you. but i have to prepare to die in my today.

[funky-fox-fics]

No one showed up for the last story time.

[funky-fox-fics]

There’s something always so intimate about writing.

You can be writing about fantastical worlds or eldritch creatures. About impossible timelines or mundane situations.

But somewhere in the middle of all that, there’s the nickname a loved one gave you, now spoken as an afterthought by a character you wrote.

Or there’s that unusual anecdote you never tell at parties because there’s never the right time, but now it’s told during a family gathering in your story.

Or that feeling you can’t get out of your chest in your most vulnerable moments, finding a cathartic outlet during an important plot point.

Or the quote you loved, the movie that marked a special moment in your life, the experiences and adventures no one but you have felt in that way.

And that’s why, even if you write the same thing as everyone else, using the same characters or situations, no one will ever sound like you.

Your voice as a writer is unique, blessed with your insight, plagued by your demons, the voice loud with your tone and spice.

Because writing and any form of art and self expression will always be one of the most intimate outlets we have.