#Story: Library Fairy

[narianders-gt-hell]

Hey how did you get up there. Is that safe.

[localicecreambiter]

felt it time for a banner change

[dreamfaerietale]

[im-cosmic-mind]

A whimsical tale, the heart beat of life & a tale of school days on a rainy day🌧️  a candle is lit near the opening of a cracked window. Warm and cozy inside, and a cup of hot cocoa by my side.  The chilled air kisses my cheek as I open a book of fairies, the smell of an ancient book fills that air. I am happy in my little universal library. A place I call home, a place that is familiar.

The book of fairies is the tale unknown to most. The fairies dance in a circle, the gate of life. They are creators of nature, natures artist. From every leaf to every tree & flower. From the rivers to the sunsets, to air & oceans. Potions of love and devotion. They hide, watch over the nature & those new to life. This tale is a long one, but for now let’s sleep to the sound of rain. New school days await. 🌧️✨🪐

[crazyfeathers]

Le Portrait Chinois de Mary

Comme dans un conte de Fée

Nature 

Si elle était une saison ? Printemps

Si elle était un animal ? Biche

Si elle était un élément ? Eau

Si elle était une pierre précieuse ? Morganite

Si elle était un végétal ? Rose Blanche

Si elle était un paysage ? Un jardin romantique

Sens

Si elle était une couleur ? Rose poudré

Si elle était un son ? Cinnamon, Lana Del Rey

Si elle était une odeur ? Bouton de rose

Si elle était une matière ? Dentelle

Quotidien

Si elle était un objet ? Un peigne en argent

Si elle était une boisson ? Lait à la fraise

Si elle était un moment de la journée ? Petit matin

Si elle était un vêtement ? Un ruban dans les cheveux

Si elle était un aliment ? Une meringue

Caractère 

Si elle était un défaut ? La fragilité

Si elle était une qualité ? L’innocence

Si elle était une mauvaise habitude ? Tomber amoureuse du mauvais garçon

Si elle était un sentiment ? Le manque

Imaginaire 

Si elle était un livre ? Roméo et Juliette, Shakespeare

Si elle était un conte ? La Petite Sirène, Andersen

Si elle était une créature fantastique ?  Naïade

Si elle était un personnage de Disney ? Aurore (La Belle au Bois Dormant)

Si elle était un film ? Titanic

[sheltoner]

i may be a little too into reading fairytales for someone my age

[ceruleanfuckup]

I'm so excited for my D&D campaign

[solianapaeris]

My favorite story

[andersdotters]

Apparently Alhaitham has canonically read The Boar Princess, which uh... I suppose shows that he is at the very least not a snob when it comes to choosing books to read.

[saanjh16]

So, I am about to meet my boyfriend in a week. Since it's his sisters wedding and his family suggested I should come. But yesterday, he got into a minor accident, after which he is suggested to take rest for a week. Although he is fine, while we were talking yesterday, I told him that he doesn't have to come pick me up from the station as I'll ask his brother to come instead. To which he says, "There is no way you are coming to my town and anyone but me is picking you up." And then I said it isn't a big deal, and I don't want him to come. I'd rather have him take rest. And then he says, "You know what? Even if I had an accident a day before you were to arrive, I'd come to pick you up the next day, and it is the end of the discussion." 😭😭GOD, how did I get this man????

[ddoubleblindd]

The Red Shoes

2/15/2259 06:34 a.m. EST Kei Nakamura—billionaire tech giant and mastermind behind Global Omnium Solutions—was announced dead this morning. Found unresponsive in his hotel room while visiting Syneaux on business, Nakamura’s cause of death remains unknown. City police say further testing is necessary.

Nakamura’s entire existence summarized in less than ten words—squashed between hyphens no less. It’s a blasé, lazy synopsis for a man only known on the outside for his mind and his money. Beneath the three-sentence announcement is a picture of the man himself in a sharp, three-piece business suit. 

If there were even an ounce of journalistic integrity in the article’s author, the truth would have served as a salacious, clickbait-fueled piece amongst the rapid-fire articles surrounding the billionaire’s death.

Kei Nakamura was a man chasing a high. It didn’t matter where it came from or how much it cost. At the end of a needle, at the bottom of a bottle, beneath the sheets of a stranger. Twice at the edge of a blade and once on the firing end of a pistol. Every rush of adrenaline and extra dose of dopamine was his reason for living. There weren’t enough hours in the day to drink it all in. But you knew all that, right Cypher?

That’s right. You’re just the same—on a desperate, carnal search for the greatest highs that life has to offer. You’ll try anything. Legal or not; dodging the cops is part of the overall experience.

I know all about you, Cypher. Your fortune came from a trust fund after you barely passed primary school. You knew you’d never have to work, so why put in the effort? I doubt I would have, either. Then, your listless existence led you down the rabbit hole of the deep web; chasing a rumor that began as little more than a murmur in a chatroom.

The Red Shoes.

Strange name for a neural chip, you thought. Someone mentioned it stemmed from some ancient fairy tale. But that didn’t matter. Designed by Nakamura himself, The Red Shoes is a goldmine to those who can get their hands on it and a dream come true for people like you. Once inserted, the fabled chip starts small, nearly invisible changes in the brain with exceptional results. No longer will the user need a full night’s sleep or three meals a day. No wasting time on trivial bodily functions that stand between you and the rush.

Just hours after insertion, the mind accesses energy reserves from excess fat and tissue—nothing precious, of course. It rewires your organs to metabolize chemicals like alcohol and amphetamines faster and more efficiently while still giving you the stamina to keep moving. The pleasurable side effects of consumption will linger without the fear of a crash.

To you, The Red Shoes was the ultimate creation for a man who jumped from rave to rave, bed to bed, needle to bottle to needle. You didn’t care how much it cost or whose hands it passed through. Nakamura only made ten chips, and you had to have it.

The FDA was not happy to discover another unapproved chip circulating on the market. So the nickname changed every time you looked. ‘Ruby Slippers’ was one unimaginative solution; my personal favorite was ‘Fruit by the Foot.’  But I digress.

Beyond the homebrew encryption protecting the data itself, each chip was hand-numbered and signed with a code that was impossible to perfectly recreate. It didn’t stop people from trying, and you yourself were victim to a handful of very expensive dummy chips.

But when the FBI started cracking down, a lot more people were willing to part with their tiny piece of heaven. You found one from an inside man at Global Omnium Solutions—an exorbitant amount of money changed hands and your package was delivered by a man in a mask.  

Your heart hammered as you opened the unremarkable box and held the thumb-sized tech in your palm. Chip number six. Just like your birth month. 

You installed it an hour ago, Cypher. What the hell are you waiting for?

Jacket in hand, you head out the door. Through the packed streets of New Chennai, you weave between corporate suits and neon lights. Down the main road to the A-Line bullet train, where you swipe your wallet and search out a place in the car to stand. Nakamura’s face appears on every screen on the train, scrolling words beneath the image announcing his death. Is it just your imagination, or are your senses more alert? The sounds are clearer, and the colors brighter. Surely you wouldn’t have heard the television with such clarity over the din of passengers before. Just a little longer, and the truth will arrive.

The train’s second stop is the Green District, where you take your leave. A place avoided by esteemed members of society with luxuries to lose. Swarmed instead by the drivel who seek the unmentionable. You’re one of them, though you seem to think you’re above the rest of the rabble that shows their faces in the Green District.

I assure you. You are not.

Into the Haze you step. Down two flights of stairs, a quick flash of your card to a bouncer standing rigid outside a door lit by a single bulb, and you gain access to one of New Chennai’s notorious clubs. The pulse of electronic music and the throng of those moving with its rhythm assaults your ears. A young woman with glowing purple eyes and teal blue hair appears before you, taking your wrist and pulling you close. You recognize her, though her name escapes you. She reaches into her jeans pocket, then presses a folded paper envelope into your palm with a wry smile before guiding you into the mob.

No words are needed, and none would be heard anyway. Sliding your thumb beneath the fold, you toss the envelope’s contents onto your tongue and wait, letting the glowing-eyed girl lead you closer to the stage.

You’re barely twenty steps into the club before the first rush hits. An immediate sensation of invincibility. The music throbs in your veins, and the touch of your partner’s fingertips summon goosebumps on your wrist. When she turns and aligns herself to your body, the overwhelming scents of strawberry daiquiri and off-brand perfume coat your nostrils and tongue. The heat of her chest against yours is intoxicating.

Then the second rush washes over you.

You can’t remember ever feeling this good. Pulling the girl closer, you run a hand through her hair and the other down the small of her back. You’re one with her, the music, this crowd. Emotions flicker through you in time with the strobe lights—one second you’re laughing, then whispering sweet nothings into her ear, then find your mouth on her throat.

While the new implant finishes distributing the drugs to your bloodstream, its lesser-known function executes, scanning the neural networks of those within two meters of you. It recognizes and replicates the highest levels of dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, and endorphins in the vicinity and then transmits them to you.

Even you didn’t know this about The Red Shoes. You gasp against her skin, and your fingers dig into her back. For some, the experience would have knocked them senseless. But not for you. A man that’s pushed himself to every edge takes it in stride. Sweat drips down your back, and you find yourself responding to the slightest stimulus—the infinitesimal breeze wafting from the air conditioning, your partner’s breath on your cheek, the folds of fabric gliding across your chest. In her glowing eyes you’re sure you can make out the answer to life’s most profound questions, so long as you stare a little longer…

Time no longer exists for you. Only this feeling—God himself couldn’t create a purer sensation. You don’t know how long you’ve been dancing; your phone claims nearly three hours have passed when the young woman takes your hand and guides you to the back of the club. You’re devoid of fatigue or aches, and your energy remains at an all-time high. Even after the curtain is drawn and you sink into the arms of the violet-eyed woman, your stamina reserves are hardly touched.

She falls asleep, but you’re far from finished. You dress and make your way back through the club, deciding a change of scenery would do you good.

 When you return to the streets, you brace for the beginnings of a crash. The dip in emotion, the sudden exhaustion. But it never comes. You laugh, dancing your way between the late-night stragglers. Into the Last Drop you spill, finding a new array of lights and music. You buy a drink and slide two crisp hundred-dollar bills across the bar with a bottlecap. Sweat drips from the glass and your back as the bottlecap returns, filled with tiny pills. Swallowing them and your whiskey in one gulp, your search for a new partner is quickly rewarded.

You were exactly the kind of person The Red Shoes was made for, Cypher.

In addition to the goods from the bar, your new partner places a thin square of paper on your tongue. As it melts, sounds take on corporeal shapes while lights shape themselves around the girl’s body. You howl with ecstasy, and she laughs, wrapping her four arms around your neck.

The club moves with you, bending and weaving to your whim with a flick of your wrist. Some of its patrons no longer look human, but you’ve conjured your own safety net around yourself and your dance partner. You’re immortal.

This night never has to end, and you refuse to let it. The crash never comes, and the dip never happens. The hallucinations fade, but the energy remains. The sun rises as you make your way to your fifth club. A quick check in the mirror, and you’re elated to see your pupils are normal, the usual bags beneath your eyes are missing, and you no longer wear a flush of exhaustion. When your gaze slides to your hair, you notice the dark roots have turned a brilliant white. Tugging at your bangs, you lean in for a closer look. 

When you blink, the color is back to normal. Just your imagination, you assure yourself. You move on.

Magazine stands shilling the morning news hold papers with Kei Nakamura plastered across the front page. Global Omnium Solutions is suddenly on the coals for hidden tech created by their CEO. The chip scans for elevated dopamine in the waking crowds but finds none. The back of your neck tingles, and the sensation slides down your spine. Just the sun on your black jacket, you conclude. 

Round five. This club’s sign has been covered with graffiti so many times it’s illegible. You can’t remember if you’ve been here before, but that doesn’t matter. The Green District is all the same. Show a few extra bills and the bottlecap, and you get whatever’s on the menu. As you wait for the concoction to take effect, you look over the thinning crowd. Most people don’t make it past the sun’s rise, but you’re very interested in the ones that do. Couples with bloodshot eyes dance close to the stage, and one woman in little more than black straps covering her skin struts around the flock in search of her next meal. A bombshell of a redhead catches your fancy as she nurses a martini in the opposite corner of the room. Her hips and head sway in time to the music, and a tight black dress clings desperately to the edges of her thighs. How many women have you been with this evening, Cypher? You’ve lost count, and you’re ready to go again.

You’re whispering in her ear before the song strikes its next hook. She has a hand on your chest, and her chin rests on your shoulder. The chip’s busy reading the pleasure sensors of those around you, pumping the replicated sensations through your veins. Her skin smells saccharine sweet, and her voice is low and cool against your cheek.

A hand grips a fistful of your jacket, and the room spins. The fist connects with your chin before you can recognize what’s happening. Your lip splits against your teeth, and the taste of blood coats your tongue. Another blow to the eye and a third to the solar plexus sends you to the ground. Onlookers jump back from the scene, and the redhead steps forward, attempting to quell your furious assaulter.

Ah, her jealous lover, you think. He can’t hurt you. Not now.

You spit a bloody mass to the polished floor and stand, rolling your shoulders before gently pushing the young woman aside. A growling challenge escapes your throat, and, to the guy’s credit, he looks surprised. The wicked smile that wipes away his temporary shock says he’s more than happy to oblige your demand.

The punches and kicks you throw may feel as if you’ve packed Olympian strength behind them, but that’s the hubris of the implant talking. He deflects them easily, then catches your arm in both hands. His wrists twist, and the snap of your elbow supersedes the thrum of the background music. The red-haired girl’s inaudible screams pulse between the rhythmic adrenaline pounding in your ear. 

You laugh as you stare at your grotesquely twisted forearm, and your attacker’s features contort with disgust. You feel nothing. This bastard isn’t worth your time. You take your leave. There are more clubs to go to and more women to find. Just walk it off. You have The Red Shoes, after all.

The enormous flatscreen in the center of the Green District drones on with further details of Nakamura’s passing. The news anchor says that the FBI has publicized their investigation into a mysterious chip, one that matches the description of an implant found nestled in the depths of Nakamura’s neural network. You peer at the screen out of the corner of one eye and see your face in stunningly high resolution. Your heart skips a beat, and your feet pause. When you blink, the concerned-looking news anchor has returned in your place.

Just ride the high, Cypher. That’s what you’re here for.

The patronage in the clubs noticeably thins out as the day progresses, though that hardly deters you. Even a handful of people can make for a good time. And as each partner runs out of stamina, you move on to the next. When the next club is empty, you call a local buddy and offer to bring the booze if he shares his stash. It’s like being in eternal freefall and never fearing the bottom.

You skip down the alleyway, six-pack in hand, your arm dangling limply at your side. Whistling a tune you know thanks to a series of repetitive cereal commercials, you follow the rhythm in your feet. Every red cent you spent on the implant was worth it. Every last one.

Unfortunately for you, there are others who agree.

The man whose honor you damaged earlier awaits you at the end of the alley, tapping the end of a baseball bat in one open palm. Two other broad-shouldered forms flank him, eyes narrowed and hands stuffed in pockets.

“You really think he has one?”

“I broke his arm. Look at him.”

“Dunno. Could just be tweaking.”

“I said I’d pay you, didn’t I?”

Even in your euphoric stupor, the muffled conversation chills you to the bones. You turn tail and run, and the goons are on your heels. You laugh with the fight or flight response crackling through your blood—just another high. Lay low for a while, and even this guy will forget your face.

The news anchor’s voice cradles the district as you turn onto the main road. “The Red Shoes, as the FBI has named it, elevates essential brain chemicals to fatal heights should the implant be removed. There are ten of its like in existence…”

The bat is hurled at the back of your knees, striking true and catching you off balance. Pain is non-existent, and you scramble to your feet—but it’s too late. The cronies are on you, snatching your hair and snapping your neck forward. The second one holds fast to your feet, bracing against furious kicks and flailing arms. Their ringleader approaches and catches your limp wrist, sliding a blade free from his pocket. Neural implants require a biometric scan of your fingerprints to unlock, and he has no problem acquiring one.

You scream and shriek. But you seem to have forgotten that this is the Green District. Those who hear you pretend not to or move to the other side of the street. No one wants the cops involved when it comes to this town.

It was a good time we shared together, Cypher. You exceeded my expectations. While every instance of The Red Shoes has a specific AI encoded to monitor and grow based on its user, I’m confident that I can take my next user’s experience to a new level.

Adrenaline rockets beneath your skin as you watch the life seep out of the eyes of another human being. You weren’t sure you could do it, that the money you forked out of pocket was worth it for this damn implant. But as the dopamine levels rise, you start to believe that it is. 

Don’t you, Neon?

Please don't repost or copy this work without my permission.

[roses-and-roses]

[theimaginationstationpodcast]

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[blumoonfiction-blog]

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[amomohthefairy]

💜✨✨✨

[blog-karl]

MY FAVORITE KIDS’ BOOKS

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