strangelittlestories

[strangelittlestories]

My conduct this year landed me on Santa Claus's fabled and controversial "Kill-at-all-Costs" List. Turns out the reason the big man and his people don't exercise that option more often is that they really aren't good at following through on it. Well outside their core competency. He's delegated to the elves, and they've got this ingrained assembly-line mindset that doesn't translate at all to the adaptable and fluid mindset needed for siege breaking. They just haven't adjusted their playbook at all from when they're doing rote deliveries. Armed Elves have been rappelling down my chimney one at a time into the roaring fire I've kept going nonstop for the last week. They haven't even thought to try my front door yet. Whole house smells like peppermint, which it turns out is what burnt elf meat smells like. Thought I was being super clever putting cyanide-laced almond milk out with the cookies as a last line of defense, but none of them have made it even the scant few feet to the side table where that's sitting. At the rate things are going the real danger is that I'm gonna forget what I did with that and accidentally drink it myself while I'm watching the show

[strangelittlestories]

Everyone said that Xinyu the necromancer was a 'death' of fresh air.

Ever since she arrived at the Tower of Erudition, it had felt less stuffy.

A skeletal bard now played gothic renditions of the land’s most popular music in the common room.

She had summoned ghosts to haunt the library's index system, so that books were easier to find and late night research was more companionable.

And after one particularly memorable resurrection, an undead dragon could ferry wizards who struggled with stairs up and down the many knowledge-stuffed storeys.

Some of the professors still wished she would pay more attention to her studies, saying:

“Mages are only permitted so much time at the Tower in one lifetime. Stay too long and the archival sphinx will consume you. Don't you want to fit in as much learning at you can?

To which she would reply:

“Don’t worry, I'll be back in my next lifetime. They say 'you only live once', but I say that's quitter talk!"

Then she would wink her solar eclipse of a wink and go back to whichever project had her attention at the moment.

In her final year, she was named Head Girl. She was always available to help students with their concerns; she operated a strict ‘open grave’ policy.

One day, a student came to see her in the students’ common room (which she had renamed the ‘common tomb’).

"Pull up a chair, I just cast Blaze Dead." Said Xinyu.

"Do you mean Raise Dead?"

"I certainly do not!" she replied and took a drag on a long black cigarette. The smoke smelled faintly of sweet decay.

“I, uh, need help. I think.” the student said, a tremble of nerves in their voice.

“That's what I'm here for.”

“I found something in the archives. Well, *someone*, I suppose.”

This was odd. If a sphinx ate you, it wouldn't leave anything left to be found. All the data that was your body would just be added to the Knowledge Chorus at the heart of the Tower.

“And you want me to speak to them?”

“Maybe? I tried going to my academic supervisor. But, they, uh … I think they've been replaced?”

“So it's gonna be dangerous?” Xinyu’s smile had something of a skull's rictus grin about it.

“Probably.” The student got up. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't get you mixed up in this. You're busy and you're nice and I don't want you to disappear…”

"Oh no. You have presented a student welfare issue and I am honour-bound to intervene.”

“I did mention the danger, right?”

“Hey.” Xinyu took another look drag of her corpse joint. “It's better to have girled and bossed than never to have bossed at all."

“I'm not sure that makes sense.”

“No, but it sounded cool, right?”

[strangelittlestories]

A: “Is there a term for that thing where you like someone a lot and it fills you with this feeling of fizzy energy and potential, like you can feel every electron in your body zipping around?”

B: “That's a crush.”

A: “Okay, but what about when you play out daydreams in your head of what it would be like to date? And it's so sweet it's like your heart has toothache.”

B: “Yes, that's Future Abstract Plural.”

A: “Wait, there's more. You play out the daydream, but because of who you are as a person, you always gravitate to how the relationship ends. Like, not catastrophically so, just the mundane separation of tectonic plates shifting over years? That leaves you shaking with quiet but gentle grief?”

B: “Uh-”

A: “And then whenever you see them, the crush is kinda gone? Because you already processed the end of that relationship a dozen times and have arrived at a place of wistful acceptance? So when see their face and you're sad, but kinda hope for their happiness, but also definitely don't wanna smoosh their face anymore.”

B: “...”

A: “...”

B: “Okay, there's two things that could be happening here. Number one: your future self is continually sending the memories of this relationship back in time. Probably via a sympathetic distraction broadcast. But every time, you fail to heed the warning and have the relationship a little differently. So they keep sending the warning, commandeering your idle fantasies for their memory dump missives. Eventually, they grind your feelings down until the shine wears off.

A: “And option two?”

B: “It's a trauma response.”

A: “Okaaaay.”

B: “Either way, it's called Eternal Sunshining.”

[strangelittlestories]

There is a sacred relic in the city of Melody. It sits in the centre of the Metronome; the clock tower that looms over top of the city's cathedral.

The clocktower keeps near-perfect time; its bell chimes echo out across the streets with a bright and clear tone. The citizens of Melody set their lives to its rhythm. To hear the Metronome ring is to see the sun rise on a crisp spring day. It is like finding the high note of a song is just within your range. It is to know you a one beat in a piece of music that has been played unbroken since civilisation began.

But true beauty, the Conductors say, is found in imperfection. True to this philosophy, the Metronome makes a single error once every 13 months and 1 day. On this day, it will sound the chimes of midnight somewhere between 256 and 68 seconds early.

Every Choirmaster of the cathedral has given a different explanation for this discrepancy. Some have said it is an echo of the Coda that will play at the end of days, rippling back in time and resonating with the instruments of the metronome due to their exquisite nature. Others say that it is an effect of the massed souls of the Melodians, which are so in tune with the music of the cosmic engine that they bend time itself, such that the clock wishes to join their song sooner.

Whatever the reason, here is what the people of Melody believe: that if a person should manage to enter the inner workings of the clock just as it strikes early midnight, then even the most discordant soul may find salvation. Even the most desperate sinner will find the Metronome's chimes brings their spirit back into good time and tune, ridding them of the troubling vibrations of damnation.

After all, when a new day strikes early, even the lost may find themselves a part of the dawn chorus.

And so those who have lived troubled lives but achieve a sudden redemption may say: they have been saved by the bell.

[strangelittlestories]

Blue-haired huntress Green-thumbed enchantress By pen and soil You create life.

The fae can't have this prince - you're ours. Changeling that you are, magic that you wield. You are human enough to be loved by us.

What more could we ask? By luck or by love, A blessing is a blessing and some you never let go of.

[strangelittlestories]

Fenrir woke up grumpy.

The midnight beast, the dawn-hunter, the great wolf who howled Ragnarök into being ... they just really *wished* that the apocalypse came with a snooze button.

They had slept funny. Their back hurt. Their jaw ached. This was probably to be expected when you have spent multiple Ages bound to a rock by an unbreakable silk muzzle. But would it have killed the gods to spring for an ergonomic pillow?

Oh well. Fenrir knew what *would* kill the gods. Because it was themself.

Sometimes you have to be the deicide you want to see in the world.

But maybe caffeine could happen first. Fenrir went in search of coffee.

Fenrir moodily rolled out of bed (well, not exactly bed, but out of the bedrock of the world) and began shuffling towards wakefulness. As they reached the mouth of the cave, they became aware of two shadows trotting along at their side.

"Hi dad." said Fenrir's two kids.

"Don't even talk to me until I've had my end of days." replied Fenrir.

"We got you a pick me up." said their son, Hati, "I swallowed the moon out of the sky."

"Yeah, and I ate the sun." said the daughter, Skoll, "The whole-ass sun."

"We thought they might put a bit of pep back in your step."

The pair presented Fenrir with a 'Starpups' takeaway cup. The name "Philomena" was written on it, which made Fenrir chuckle (they never expected baristas to get their name right).

"You're good kids."

By the time they reached the climactic final battle, Fenrir had nearly finished the steaming cup of cosmos and was feeling nearly human. Which was impressive, as they were a giant wolf.

"Hey Odin." said Fenrir.

"Did ... did you turn up late to Ragnarök with a coffee?" replied the Allfather.

"Presenteeism is just oppression that says please." replied the wolf.

"Your generation." Odin shook his head sadly. "You just don't want to work. How can you expect to *fight* with such little work ethic, pup?"

"It is not the size of the dog in the fight." Fenrir's eyes glowed with the brilliance of all that shone above and below. "It's the size of the *light* in the dog."

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[strangelittlestories]

Pondering predestination and "promised souls" in fiction and I present to you: five flavours of inviolate (or “inviolate”) souls:

1. Incorruptible classic. Vanilla innocence. It doesn't matter what you do, because your soul is a duck and sin is water. You absolutely will do stuff that to other people would be a sin. You may enjoy it. But it just won't stick to you and you keep beatifically smiling beneath the bloodstains. You are John Calvin's favourite princess.

2. Not so much incorruptible, as unprovable. This one is innocence with a twist of lemon. It's much the same as option 1, but you weren't born free of sin or destined for heaven. No, it's just that some aspect of the divine bureaucracy *thinks you're cool* and loses the paperwork, strikes your sins from the record, or tampers with the scales that weigh your heart. To most people, you are just some human. To the angel of judgement, you are the Blorbo from its shows and it watches you with So Many Eyes.

3. A Pure Soul (unwilling). Spicy flavoured. You desperately want to sin. You wanna fudge things up. Get messy. Commit some giga-crimes. But everything you try just … turns out wholesome. Your bullet misses every vital organ and the resulting surgery catches a totally unrelated condition. You try to rob a bank and end up uncovering a major fraud. You are an agent of benevolent chaos, a gremlin of good fortune, a cryptid assigned “blessing” by fate. You will die mad about it, surrounded by those who love you and whose presence you've begrudgingly accepted.

4. You're not exactly predestined, magical or special, but the world just twists itself into the right shape. You'd be perfectly willing to dirty your soul for the right reason (or maybe even just a minor benefit), but things just tend to work out without you needing to. Beneath the surface, some part of reality is screaming with the strain of this and another part is wailing at this injustice. You just kinda half smile and shrug. “It all works out in the end, champ.” This is a Nothing Flavoured Soda. It's not bad, it's just ... absent. I, personally, hate you.

5. You won the lottery no-one wants to enter and you're going to the other place. You know this. You've always known this. “One in every hundred thousand bottles now comes with added brimstone.” You try your best anyway. You won't let a cosmic nat 1 on your destiny roll define you. You bestow mercies on the world and every one is a middle finger to the universe.

[strangelittlestories]

Cowboys are witches and horses are their familiars

[strangelittlestories]

One of the reasons I think I like the idea of Spooky Wild West is that supernatural creatures fulfilling other tropes is inherently fun.

Take the vampire prospector for example.

They can work the mine in daytime. Pan the river at night. They're away from society, so less likely to be found out.

A vampire doing the elderly prospector voice is very funny. "Well, young'un, I don't drink that there ... moonshine."

Plus, when looking for gold, they always know where to find the vein.

[strangelittlestories]

okay brennan “i’m going to say something about destiny and love (and time travel) that’ll make you cry” lee mulligan

fantasy high: junior year (episode 17 “the name”)

worlds beyond number (episode 23 “on your way”)

[strangelittlestories]

My teammates tell me I’m gonna to croak on the job.

They don’t mean soon. They’re not, y’know, assholes about it. They don’t mean I’mma get myself ended because I’m not good enough. They don’t even mean I’ll bite off more than I can chew. I can chew a lot, metaphorically speaking.

(And, like, sure I’ve snuffed it once or twice in the course of a mission - but it never *sticks*. And, sure, my team would probs suggest I add ‘so far’ to that sentence. But ‘hell never sticks … so far’ is grammatically weird, I think, so I reckon I’m morally in the right.)

What they mean is: I’ll never let myself leave the job, so of course I’ll lose myself to it.

Which. Y’know. Fair.

A lot of folks in the profession have this issue, of course. When you’re in the world-saving game, it can be tough to justify quitting and letting someone else take a turn.

I call it the Heroic Paradox. The ‘Heradox’, if you will.

Paradox part 1: an apocalypse demands a ‘hero’ or ‘heroes’. If it does not find one, a hero must be created. This is rough for the hero, ‘cos they’re a normie with a normal life and the process of going hero mode will take that life away from them.

(I’m actually not a huge fan of the term ‘hero’, but ‘designated end-of-days preventer’ is lengthy.)

Paradox part 2: if an apocalypse begins and the hero(es) already exists, then job’s a good’un, just crack on with business and de-apoc the lypse.

Paradox part 3: if the hero(es) are a few apocalypses deep and now pondering retirement on a nice little island/farm/wizard tower/public office, you hit that awkward moment where a hero is called for, but not yet present. Best case scenario: some poor schmuck gets their life ruined by ‘destiny’.

Worst case? The hero refuses the call or gets snuffed out early or *there just isn’t anyone appropriate* and that situation really puts the ‘scat’ in ‘eschatology’.

So … yeah, I don’t see myself retiring.

But if I’m honest - if I peer really intensely at the squirming pile of neuroses that lurk beneath the justifications - I was this way *before* the stakes got this high. I’ve always been a ‘crisis mode’ kinda jerk.

Lurching from mission to disaster to disastrous mission has always been where I feel most *myself*.

Now you (or my team) might say: that’s no way to live. Everyone needs downtime. Rest. Enrichment.

It’s been the downfall of many a hero that they hit crisis mode so hard, they don’t bother going to *therapy*.

My answer to this is simple: if you treat self-care and self-maintenance as being *really fricking urgent*, you can roll that work into your *existing* crisis pattern.

This is actually pretty sustainable. Because first: that stuff *is* urgent and you’re a bilge-organist if you don’t realise it. And second: the best kind of therapy is always the one you’ll *actually do*.

So yeah: I’ll pass away on the job. Because even the soft fuzzy nonsense I do … it’s all for the job.

And you know what? If it means I’ll exit this world knowing who I am? I’m okay with that.

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[strangelittlestories]

Sometimes you will also get people picking up on subtleties that you absolutely *did not* consciously intend.

Which is a wild feeling for me, because it's equal parts:

1) oh gods im a fraud, they can never know

2) I am a gods damned genius, I write subtext in my fudging sleep

Like, do I have literary skills so ingrained from practice I don't notice them any more? Or am I the luckiest happy-go-lucky keyboard mashing hack in the world?

Truly, I have Schrödinger's Talent

It's such an amazing feeling when someone picks up on something in your writing that you 100% intended but didn't think people would notice. Like, YES!! My writing properly conveyed the thing it was supposed to!!! You are so awesome for noticing that!!! I am so awesome for writing that!!! I feel so good about my story now!!!!

[strangelittlestories]

I'm being completely serious when I say Granny Weatherwax's "What about the fire?" speech from Lords and Ladies has done more to help me recontextualize and manage my anxiety than like 5 years of therapy did

[strangelittlestories]

There’s a larp (live action roleplaying) game that I play, where there exists a creature we have dubbed a ‘Chronovore’.

This planet-sized sci-fi beastie eats time via a cool-ass external digestive system that ranges out from its main corpus (what are effectively its digestive enzymes look like glowing blue-winged angels, which are creepy as sin).

My character in this game fell victim to said chronovoric digestion and was aged 30 years by the experience. They lost what they expected to be the most valuable years of their life - the time when they expected to most make a difference to the universe.

I have a lot of emotions about this. Especially because when I look at my life aged 39 and consider the shape I am trying to hammer it into, one thought keeps recurring: I wish I had started this work sooner.

And then I consider my ADHD (a condition I am really certain I have, but am still seeking diagnosis for) and damn if I do not feel like it straight up ate decades of my life.

That’s how it feels, gang. There’s this bubbling resentful rage and grief for years spent with an invisible wall between me and what I wanted. For the nights where I spent (and still spend) revenge procrastinating and wrecking my days. For all the hours chasing short-term dopamine that was often destructive for me.

Hours. Days. Years. Eaten by a part of me that often feels like a monster squatting in my brain, hiding in my bones.

It reminds me, too, of that scene from a Hammer Horror movie where a monster expert is talking about vampires and says something like “Oh, you still think vamps are just things with big teeth that gotta bite your neck and drink your blood? Sweet baby, there’s all kinds of these creatures; some of them just fully suck your life straight out of your soul.”

This is why I don’t think I’ll ever think of my ADHD as a superpower. Or, at least, if it is: it’s from one of those gritty think piece superhero stories where your power is also a hecking curse.

I am preoccupied by what my own brain has taken from me.

And the thing is: it’s not really true. At least, not all the way true.

Those years I think of as lost were filled with good times. I made meaningful connections. I wrote poems and stories that I love. I performed art that meant something to me in front of people who enjoyed it. I consumed a lot of good media. I learned and dreamed and tried really hard to be a person I could be happy being.

But I also let a lot of the things fall into the background. I started a lot, but didn’t finish a lot. I missed the chance to work on skills that are now harder to learn because I’m older.

So I find myself cursing the Chronovore.

I nearly wrote this as a piece of fiction. If I had, I would probably have ended with the protagonist finding a way to subvert or redeem or work with the Chronovore.

Maybe the satisfying ending just this: none of us get as much time as we want. We all give time away - whether it be taxed by things we resent or gifted to what is important.

The Chronovore is not special.

And if it is not special, then it is mutable.

Maybe that is enough.

[strangelittlestories]

#bat #a hecking classic #sure I can see how I got gothy night-dweller who will absolutely headbutt a building on accident

You show up for your first day at Copyright-Free Magic School. As you're going through orientation, you're informed that all new students get a school-assigned familiar that they are responsible for housing and maintaining. The staff member assures you that your assigned familiar is appropriately chosen and reflects you in some way.

Spin this to find out yours. (Remember, you are responsible for maintaining this familiar in your dorm room.)

[strangelittlestories]

200 Word RPGs 2024

Each November, some people try to write a novel. Others would prefer to do as little writing as possible. For those who wish to challenge their ability to not write, we offer this alternative: producing a complete, playable roleplaying game in two hundred words or fewer.

This is the submission thread for the 2024 event, running from November 1st, 2024 through November 30th, 2024. Submission guidelines can be found in this blog's pinned post, here.

[strangelittlestories]

Slate and Satin sprinted down another alleyway. The winding streets curled around them, as if the city was closing its fist to conceal the two thieves from view. They turned, put on another burst of speed, and stopped in the shadow of a dumpster, gasping.

“Is she still following us?” asked Shale between gulps of foetid air.

Satin looked behind them. No furious lawkeeper emerged. He cocked his head and listened. No pounding footsteps, just their own heavy breathing and the chitter of echo bugs as they picked over the nearby trash for residual magic.

“I think we lost her.”

“Shame,” replied Slate with a tired smile on her face, “she was cute.”

Satin shook his head.

“You’re a professional thief. How did you get a *thing* about paladins?”

“People are hotter when they’re chasing you. Especially if they can chase you wearing platemail. I don’t make the rules.”

“You want me to set you up? I could turn you in and keep your share.” Satin elbowed Slate in the ribs gently. “I hear interrogation chambers are a great place to get to know each other.”

Slate chuckled. She looked up at the walls around them, clocked a fire escape, checked the alleyway exits, then flashed a smirk back at Satin.

“Nah. It’s no good if she has help to catch me. If it’s meant to be, she’ll find her way to me on her own.”

“Or she’ll get a divine revelation from The Arbiter that drops a pin on the Law we stole.”

“Sounds like fate to me.”

The smile on Satin’s face faded, chased away by a stray thought.

“Hey … what do you think they want with this thing anyway?” Satin hefted the tablet, a corner of faded clay poking out from beneath the hessian wrapping. “What do they have to gain by pinching one of the First Laws?”

“The less we know, the better, buddy. Anyone asks what the game is, I want to be able to tell them true: I’ve got no idea.”

“I don’t get how you can’t even be curious.”

“Oh, I’m curious, but let me put it this way: I like my alibis like I like my partners.” Slate winked. “Steelclad.”

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