#psychological story

[collectionofshorts]

Spelling Bee

[Genre: psychological fiction]

How would you spell that?

The girl sat at her desk, she stared at the paper in front of her with a tenseness in her brows and her lips pushed upwards in concentration. It was her list of words to learn for the week: again, place, years, know, over, wear, old, boy, home, and seven. Seven was the girl’s age, so she felt like that was the most important on the list, but it was important for another reason too. Seven started with an S, the very letter she thought the word she was trying to spell started with.

Words were confusing, she was always told to sound things out— but she knew better than that. O's and U's were so similar. Th's and F's were as well. Then there were silent letters sometimes— how was she meant to sound out words when it was possible half the letters made no sound? Nonsense! Spelling was nonsense! Yet, she tried. She felt as if figuring the word out would clear it up somehow, as if it would help her make sense of the meaning and situation.

S… Su? So?

She only heard the word once last Saturday morning from her mother's mouth. It was hardly said gently, it was yelled in fact. Screamed, maybe. The girl could feel the phantoms of the hot spittle against her forehead and eyelids, though most of the details of the interaction had been eaten up by her brain. She just knew the feelings the interaction caused— how it felt to sink into her shoulders as if her body could collapse in on itself and whisk her away. How tight her little hands grasped at the hem of her night dress, her knuckles were bone white against the pastel pinks and yellows of the dress. How heated her face got as she held back tears— or tried, since she failed miserably. It was humiliating, this ordeal had been in front of her new step brother and she didn’t want this cool new teenager in her life to think she was bad. He was her friend! She and him already had so many secrets and played all the time. Why did her mother always do this in front of her friends?

The specifics of the words yelled at her were a blur— all but that one she did not know. This one word was the crux of what got her punished. The reason. She needed to know, so she would not repeat it.

She wrote an S down on her paper and tapped her pencil on it several times. Specks of lead dusted over it and tumbled into the indent her tapping had created. She still did not know what to follow it up with, but the one letter felt like an accomplishment.

S… Se? Sa?

Her eyes flicked towards the teacher. A round, happy woman, but she seemed a bit aloof. Even at the girl's young age she thought the teacher dressed gaudily— though she lacked the word to describe it. The woman always wore mismatched, bright colours, big chunky jewellery, and a huge smile. The colours were nice, so was the clanking sounds of the jewelry, but deep inside the girl knew it was better to fit in and blend into the background. She hated attention. Still, fashion aside, the teacher was smart— smart also started with an S. Surely she would know how to spell this other S word that was plaguing the little girl! However, she snuffed that idea out of her head nearly as quickly as it came. She shook her head and hoped that idea would fall right out her ear.

Adults didn't listen to her, and when they did only bad came of it. If she asked her mother too much she'd be screamed at. If she repeated some of what her step brother taught her, her friend’s parents made ugly faces, talked to her mother, and the prior issue would repeat. She feared this word she was seeking might be bad, thus would make the teacher call home, resulting in the same outcome. She had to do this by herself. The girl knew that.

S… su…d. Yes, it was definitely S-U-D! 

She jotted it down on her paper with haste, afraid she'd lose the letters if she took too long— the pencil scratched across the paper in long, heavy strokes. 

Halfway there, she thought. She tapped the eraser of her pencil to her chin as she tried to remember past the feelings of that morning. The sun spilled through the window towards the back of her room, but she stood in the shadow of her step brother as she faced the door opposite the window. Gaps in his shadow allowed rays of lights to splash her legs and lower back. Her mother was in the doorway, her face a deep crimson. There was a sneer corrupting her pink painted lips, cracked it into the snarling maw of an animal. She spat nearly as much as she spoke, growled with frustration half as much as that. Her eyes were so wide it reminded the girl of a bug, at least looking back. Her mother was pointing between the boy's bunk and the girl’s pillow on the floor.

She had brought her pillow down from the top bunk since it was too hot to sleep so high up. She had learned in science class heat rose, so the floor was her best option to stay cool. She remembered trying to explain that through sobs, but couldn't get more than three words out. Her mother screamed the girl down, she peppered her barrage with insults the girl also didn’t know— but knowing they were insults and bad words was enough for her.

“Liar! I know you were down here to _____ him, you stupid—!”

S-U-D… Oo? Yeah! Oo. That was easy, two O's made that sound! And another S to follow! She got it! S-U-D-O-O-S.

Sudoos.

A toothy smile broke the girl's rather serious thinking expression. She was so proud of herself, however the joy of spelling this mystery word faded quickly as she realised her belief that mastering its spelling would clear up its meaning was false. Her face as well as her heart fell. She sat there and stared at the letters messily scrawled across the bottom of the paper. It seemed even her own brain failed her too.

[gummybearsandgreenmango]

His Bleeding Heart

The air has been knocked out of me. The little whoosh silent but taking me by surprise. My vision narrows, and I reach my hands out to steady myself. It feels as though the world has tilted. I must maintain my equilibrium, keep my poker face on, despite the sweat that's starting to dot my forehead.

Everyone who sees me would never see the turmoil behind my eyes. The pain and the panic swirling within my thoughts.

What should I do? What will happen next?

I see his face in front of me, blurry and unfocused. Quickly, I swipe an arm across my eyes, crouching in front of him. I cup his face with my quivering hands. His declaration has taken me by surprise, and I couldn't think properly. At first.

Now that the shock has waned, every detail of my surroundings is coming into sharp focus. Our curtains lift a little with the breeze, the napkin tucked under the saucer fluttering without care. I see the remnants of my lipstick on the rim, the last dregs of the coffee I'd been drinking cold inside the cup.

My eyes scan every feature of his face, committing each to memory. I remember how many times we'd spoken about the future we'd share together. The dinners we'd spend laughing about this and that.

I just sigh, straightening up and heading toward the kitchen. It's getting late, and I need to prepare dinner. He chooses to stay in the living room. His eyes looking almost vacantly at the basketball game on tv.

I wash my hands carefully. I was planning to make burger patties out of our leftover ground beef, and I needed every inch of my hands clean.

He used to bring every stray he meets into our house. His bleeding heart unable to fathom them being hungry and abandoned. After the fifth one, I'd put my foot down.

He would go to work every day, and leave the actual care to me.

I can no longer stand the toll it takes - not only physically, but emotionally. We can never keep these animals; our children are allergic to them. We've had to hide them in the shed for fear our children would meet them and fall in love.

Tonight is our anniversary. I'd taken special care with my appearance. Our children have been sent off to their Grandma's to spend the night, a little sleepover party I'd told them.

Of all the nights he could have given me the bad news, it had to be this night. I could scarcely accept the news. The shock forces me to widen the distance between us. Him into his designated spot on the couch, and me to the kitchen.

I sneak a glance at him around the corner. He's just sitting there, with nary a care in the world. And why should he look disturbed? His world hasn't changed. He knows I'll be here to pick up the pieces.

But I don't think I will be.

I look around the brightly lit kitchen. At the marble countertops and wooden shelves. When we first moved in here as newlyweds, it was what compelled us to buy the house. Since then, I've spent many a time preparing meals for our family in this house.

Placing the cast iron pan on top of the stove, I turn the knob, waiting for the pilot to turn on. The sound of the vent sucking up any smoke fills the small room until I can no longer here the game.

My hands toil even as my mind calms. I've known what I need to do. Known it for a couple of months now.

I go over all the details of my plan. It won't be easy. But if I do everything right, I can make both of us happy.

"Dinner's ready," I announce from the doorway.

With a grunt, he pushes a hand against the chair and stands. His figure has filled out since I first met him. The shoulders and arms heavily muscled, his hips slim, and his legs sturdy.

"Thanks," he says as he slides into his chair. The piping hot burger I'd placed on his plate still emitting steam. I'd fixed it just the way he liked - with copious amounts of ketchup, lettuce, tomatoes, bacon and slices of cheese.

I won't be begging him to stay. Not me.

But if he's leaving, I want him to realize what he's missing.

"I appreciate you not making a fuss about it, Eileen," he says before taking a big bite of his burger.

My mind flashes back to the suitcase waiting in the hallway. I didn't even think he knew how to pack his own clothes, let alone where the suitcases are.

I just make a murmur in my throat in response. I've lost my appetite, but I know I have to keep up my strength. I'm going to need it in the days and months ahead.

"About the kids," he starts.

I hold up a hand. "Why don't we talk about that next time? Our lawyers can figure that out, surely?" I say, using my knife to cut myself a sliver of meat. I detest burgers, I prefer my patty plain. If I'd know this was where we'd end up, I'd have chosen a different menu.

"I'm hoping for joint custody," he says, ignoring what I've said. "I'll do my best to find a place nearby, so they won't need to go far."

"No reason for things to change for them just because we're divorcing," he chews noisily, taking a big gulp of water to help the meat go down.

"I agree," I say, resigned to having this discussion.

"I do appreciate your sensibility and cooperation on this," he informs me. "I'll need your help in making sure the kids accept Amara, too. After all, she's to be their new stepmother."

I make another murmur in my throat, taking a sip of water. He must have mistaken it for assent, as he wipes his mouth with a napkin.

I wait for a few minutes before I speak again, my voice stronger this time. "I do have a few concessions regarding that point."

He looks up. "The children shouldn't meet her until you're sure of your relationship. I won't have them hurt. They'll already be hurting once they hear the news. We should take it easy on them."

"I don't see any reason to rush."

He snorts derisively. "They've already met her a few times. I don't think they'll need a bigger adjustment period. Maybe you do, but not them."

I clench my skirt into a fist under the table, not deigning to give him a response.

Instead, I stand to take away both my plate and his. I've cleared for him during all the years of our marriage, and even though it's about to end, I wasn't going to stop now.

He grabs my wrist, stopping me as I turn away.

"You'll always be my first love. It's just - I've fallen in love with someone else now. You have to learn to accept it."

I take a step firmly away from him. "I don't need to accept anything. You're the one who'll need to adjust. I doubt you have anything in common with a 20-year-old fresh out of college."

"That's beneath you," he admonishes. "I'm leaving soon, I just need to grab a few things I've forgotten in the bedroom."

Making no acknowledgement, I move away finally, walking with leisurely steps to the kitchen. Heaving a deep breath, I slowly place the plates inside the dishwasher, clicking the door shut with finality.

No one can fault me for not being an exemplary wife. I've done everything that's to be expected and more.

Thud.

The sound reaches my ears, and I walk toward where I guess it's coming from. Perhaps something's fallen out from the closet.

Pausing at the bedroom door, and clutching the frame, I look at him in the bedroom, having fallen backward into the mattress.

Moving closer to him, I give him a smile. I slip the syringe I'd prepared earlier from my apron pocket and quickly gave him another dose. His eyes look desperate and pleading - frantic - but I don't give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, I hum to myself, grabbing him by the legs and pulling him to the kitchen.

It's my domain, after all.

I've had enough of his strays. I can't believe he dares to build this one a home.

I always knew his bleeding heart would be his undoing.

I warned him.

[saints-who-never-existed]

“In the war film, a soldier can hold his buddy—as long as his buddy is dying on the battlefield. In the western, Butch Cassidy can wash the Sundance Kid’s naked flesh—as long as it is wounded. In the boxing film, a trainer can rub the well-developed torso and sinewy back of his protege—as long as it is bruised. In the crime film, a mob lieutenant can embrace his boss like a lover—as long as he is riddled with bullets. 

Violence makes the homo-eroticism of many “male” genres invisible; it is a structural mechanism of plausible deniability.”

–Tarantino’s Incarnational Theology: Reservoir Dogs, Crucifixions, and Spectacular Violence. Kent L. Brintnall.

[bl00dfroma-fairy]

[childrenofcain-if]

DEMO ✝ BACK-UP ACCOUNT

Wealth. Power. Death.

The Ballad of the Young Gods is a dark academia interactive fiction story, with dark fantasy and psychological thriller themes. Some of the romances also contain tropes and storylines which may be disturbing to some readers.

It is based on media like “Ninth House” by Leigh Bardugo, “The Secret History” by Donna Tart, “Masters of Death” by Olivie Blake, and SYFY’s “Deadly Class”.

It is rated 18+ for depictions of swearing, sexual themes, violence, and death.

Getting into an Ivy League school is a dream that thousands of American students nurse from a young age. Luckily for you, that dream is your reality. Four years of continuous hard work and pressure have made you a proud freshman at Yale University. And as if that wasn’t enough, you have been handpicked to attend Rathore College, whose selection process is revered across all the nation’s top educational institutions. But you should’ve known this stroke of luck came with a catch.

Yale is a crucible of power, where secret societies wield arcane magic and the dead are far from silent. The illustrious House of Styx wants you and this is a situation that not even your money can get you out of.

They are powerful, elite, and most of all, controlling beyond recognition. They are also the heart of the eight secret societies that attach themselves to Yale. From the White House to Hollywood’s most acclaimed stars, their influence reaches farther than anyone can dare to imagine.

A sinister conspiracy brews under Styx’s watchful gaze, one that threatens to unravel the fragile balance between the living and the dead. But in a graveyard of secrets, you and your accomplices are the ones with the shovels. You’re now in a world where the past is never truly dead, and the lines between life and death blur with each passing day.

But some secrets are better left buried, and some prophecies are destined to drag you to hell.

Cédric Armand Lacroix / Céline Armelle Lacroix (M/F)

Vindictive. Conniving. Ruthless.

As the heir to the Lacroix fortune, C is every bit as arrogant as their bloodline demands them to be. Even after the messy divorce of their parents which further led to their disownment by their father, Alain Lacroix, they refuse to give up on their dignity. They’ve vowed to destroy him one day and take what’s rightful theirs, brick by brick. The world bent to C’s whims, what money couldn't buy them, those pale green eyes probably did.

There is nothing that they can’t have, especially if they set their mind to that. That is until you came along and stayed one step ahead of them every time in everything that mattered. It wasn’t just the fortune or the legacy at stake; it was the bruising of their pride, the constant reminder that someone—anyone—could outmaneuver them. But beneath the layers of resentment and anger, there’s something more—something darker, even more dangerous.

An obsession takes root, one that blurs the line between hatred and fascination. And they vow to spend their whole life despising you for everything.

Romance trope: Enemies / Academic Rivals to Lovers.

Vance Kasper Næsholm / Vanessa Karina Næsholm (M/F)

Pious. Haunted. Disillusioned.

Raised under the oppressive influence of a rigid, fire-and-brimstone faith in a Danish Catholic orphanage, they were taught to see demons in every shadow and sin in every touch. Forever haunted by the visions provided by a wrathful God they can neither fully grasp their mind around nor escape from, their only reprieve came on the day they got adopted at the age of six and diagnosed with schizophrenia. But the truth of their ‘psychosis’ may be far more sinister than any medical diagnosis could account for.

As the tides become even stormier and their medications become ineffective when they arrive at Yale, all V can do is hold on to the last threads of control over their lives. Your first meeting almost makes them teeter over the edge.

Now that they’re your roommate, they’re bound to you by fate or folly, but whether they’ll be a stable ally remains to be seen.

Romance trope: Roommate Romance.

Wilhelm Johann Ostendorf / Wilhelmine Johanna Ostendorf (M/F)

Exhausted. Abandoned. Lost.

What does the world think of you when you’re a product of brilliance and neglect at the same time? With an Oscar-winning filmmaker for a father and a mother ensconced on the American board of directors at the Louvre, their pedigree is undeniable, yet it is a legacy more hollow than it appears. While their parents sculpted their careers into masterpieces and amassed accolades, they left W to be raised by their paternal aunt and uncle. A sizeable trust fund and periodic checks served as their parents’ only gestures of care, a shallow substitute for the love and attention their only child so desperately craved.

The only times they had felt more than someone who was deeply unlovable were the summers you spent on rusty swingsets and fast bicycles with training wheels. But the swingsets have long been dismantled, and the bicycles have been traded for cars.

The only questions remain—are you the same kid who saw them, really saw them, beyond the reality of being unwanted and the suffocating looks filled with pity that came with their name? Or will this reunion only serve to confirm their deepest fear—that they are, and always have been, truly alone?

Romance trope: Forgotten Childhood Friends to Lovers.

Dumitru Constantin Diaconu / Dumitra Constantina Diaconu (M/F)

Charismatic. Reckless. Guarded.

D’s name is the one that comes up in almost every conversation about Yale’s wildest parties. A natural-born rockstar charmer with a magnetic presence, they effortlessly draw people into their orbit, collecting hearts and bodies with the ease of someone who’s always been in the center of the gold rush. Despite the countless admirers and the trail of broken hearts left in their wake, you’ll always find them with a Marlboro between their lips and a new person in their arms to warm their bed at night. Their smile is a promise, and their laughter a siren call. In the haze of flashing lights and the thrum of bass that pulses through the walls, they are a heartbreaker in every sense of the word.

Feelings are a complication they don’t allow, a line they never cross. They’ve perfected the art of detachment, of keeping their connections strictly no-strings, because to let someone in would be to risk the vulnerability they’ve long since sworn off.

Will you be the only person they'd let peel back the barbed wire surrounding their heart? Or will you be left with nothing but the faint scent of cinnamon and a tale that wasn't meant to be?

Romance trope: Friends with Benefits / Sex First, Feelings Later. [You will only be able to unlock their romance route through a hookup.]

Maxwell Edmund Whitlock-Singh / Maxine Edythe Whitlock-Singh (M/F)

Duty-bound. Noble. Untouchable.

Politeness and decorum are second nature to M. They are the embodiment of manners, a living testament to the art of subtlety in a world where spectacle often trumps substance. They are the sort of person who commands attention without seeking it, a product of both royal blood and rigorous self-discipline. Dubbed the “Paragon of Styx,” M is a modern Plato, someone who finds as much solace in philosophical debates as in the classical texts they’ve devoured in multiple languages. As the second-born child of the Crown Princess of Wales, they have always understood that their life would be one of service with every action scrutinized, and every word weighed.

Their intellect is vast, but it is their passion for the esoteric that sets them apart. For all their convictions, there is a restlessness within M that even they cannot fully articulate. It is the paradox of their existence—a life of privilege that feels at times like a gilded cage, a role that demands both reverence and obedience. Indeed, heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Will you make them realize that life is more than duties and expectations? Or will you become yet another figure in the background, another reminder of the golden cage they were born into?

Romance trope: Forbidden Royal Romance / Secret Relationship.

Step into the shadows as the wealthy heir apparent to a billion-dollar industry who is just starting at Yale University as a freshman.

Be a part of Yale’s most enigmatic secret society, the House of Styx.

Fully customize your character including: pronouns, gender, physical appearance, personality, sexuality, and more.

Romance 1 out of 5 love interests (all of them are gender-selectable).

Study forbidden knowledge, practice dark magic, and try not to fail at your actual coursework.

Test your mind, body, and soul in rituals that blur the line between reality and nightmare.

Learn about the secrets that your mother took to her grave. Is she really the same woman you remember so fondly from your childhood?

Will you rise to navigate the sinister plans brewing under the nose of the House? Or will your actions drag you and your companions to the fiery depths of Hell.

W̶̗͖̝͆h̷͕̲̑̎̓̍̄̎͠͝a̵̢̛̫̾̓͗t̴̙̫͛̐͆̾̀̓̔̊͝ ̴̪́́̈́͛̂̉̀͒̊́ạ̸̗̯̲̘̬͗̀ͅr̸̢̪̜̭̼̠̟̜͚̂̈́͋͋̅͑̉́̎͝e̸̩̯͉̿̊̔͛̃̎͝ͅ ̵̢̹̜̤͍͙̩̬̰̜̏̃͝͠y̷̢̨͇̘͍̌́͐̍̆̓̑̐ǫ̶̢̧̡̛̥̤͉͎̟̃̏̍̓̒ͅu̷̓̂̾̇̇͜͝,̸͎̖̮̲̳̻̱̬̎̒͑͝ ̸̡̛̰̌͐c̶̛̪̗̰̻̜̲̘̺͗͊h̴̡͔̦̘̤̖͊̿̓̇i̵͉̘͙̥͍̼̜̐̐̄̅͝͝ĺ̶̡̧̧̼̦̦̗̰̝̼̓̊̀d̸̡͎͔͔̰̖̿̐̈́̓͊̌̃̓͜?̷̩̗̲̫̮͕̍̈́́̽͜͝͝

DEMO

RO DETAILS

SPOTIFY (for RO playlists, click on their names in the cast section)

PINTEREST

DISCORD

WRITTEN BY: axel (he/him)

CODED BY: @albywritesfiction (they/them)

[lyss-butterscotch]

This game makes me ill. I've never had so much fun being oh so humbled by a video game.

Anyways PLAY NINE SOLS

[w0rld0fbeauty]

[dukeofthomas]

"Are the Robins child soldiers" It depends. If the story is super serious and into exploring complex morality and grounded from reality's standards, then yes. If the story is lighthearted, made for children, fluff, etc., then no. If it's somewhere in the middle, it might depend.

If an author wants to write a story seriously delving into the fucked up-ness of children fighting criminals, they can, and if you don't like it, you can read something else.

If an author wants to write a fun story about villains and heroes featuring Robin in a world where that's not an issue, they can, and if you don't like it, you can read something else.

If an author wants to write a serious story but not apply IRL-logic to Robin, they can, and if you don't like it, you can read something else.

[chihirolovebot]

on a real note that bit near the end of the video was genuinely haunting. hearing somerton talk about how gay writers are erased from history was one thing (with all the irony being that he stepped on the backs of numerous underpaid, underprivileged and uncredited queer writers to build his youtube channel) but when h revealed it wasn't even somerton's quote in the first place? the worst, most crushing sort of irony. how do you lament about the erasure of gay people and gay writers in history... whilst erasing a gay writer and taking his words as your own?

[whereserpentswalk]

You were born to be a sacrifice. When you first exited your mothers womb the oracles decided that would be your fate. They tattooed your hands and forehead so everyone would know.

When you turn twenty, they'll take you to the church, and they'll set you on fire. And then when your body is burned they'll give your ashes for the angels, and the angels and saints will be proud, and bless your community and family with great riches. Or at least that's what they say.

When you were young it didn't seem to mean anything that you were born to die young. Nobody cared, they just saw you as another kid. But it was always there. Adults would ask other kids what they wanted to be when they grew up, but they'd ask you what you would do once you were a ruler in the court of heaven. They'd tell other kids about marriage and sex and having children, but for you that would just be for other people, you'd die a virgin.

And at a certain age, you were removed from school. Because they said you wouldn't need it. That you shouldn't be wasting your time on such things. And you didn't understand, but you understood that all your freinds were upset that they wouldn't see you anymore. Not as much at least. And people talked about you so much differently from then on. You weren't complimented as strong, or as smart, or as ambitious, you were pretty, and pure, and brave, and dutiful. And everyone talked about how proud they were of you, how wonderful it was that you were going to die for them.

They were so nice to you. They gave you so many gifts and jewelry. You got to spend all day inside playing video games, and you got the best toys and got to go to movies and plays when you wanted to. Soldiers in power armor would bow when they saw you, and robots and cyborgs would turn off their lights. And you sat at a special place in church, and the clothing you wore was diffrent then everyone else's. And people talked about how wonderful you were, and how pretty you were, and how much they loved having you when they knew you wouldn't be on this world for long. And they were so proud of you when they showed you the platinum clothing you would wear on the day of your sacrifice. And you didn't understand why but all of the compliments sounded sad.

As you grew older things changed. The other children went through puberty, but you didn't, they gave you surgery to prevent it, ans told you how pure you were for not producing blood or seed. And you were old enough to understand that you would die, that you would burn, and it would hurt, and that nobody really knew for sure what happened after peopled died. And you saw a sacrifice, and saw the pain they were in, and there weren't any angels, there were only priests watching and chanting, and the smell of burning skin.

Your parents and family started to care much more how you behave. To make sure you're polite. To make sure you're a good sacrifice, who the angels will like. And meanwhile while all your other freinds are going to college, and talking about becoming artists, or starship pilots, or scientists, you know you'll only ever have one ending. But still, everyone loves you, and you don't have responsibilities, but still sometimes you think about how much diffrent life would be if you were born differently.

You've started meeting people who've left the faith, or people who didn't grow up in it, people who believe in diffrent religions or in no religion at all. And your heaven seems less and less certain every day. According to imperial law you're allowed to be sacrificed, but if you choose not to they can't force you. But if you choose not to you can never be a part of your faith again, and your family will be disappointed in you forever. All your family and community, everyone who you ever knew, will consider you a failure, a coward doomed to hell for not going through with what the cosmos planned for you. And all that pride and joy they felt about your fate would be replaced with anger that you never became what they were so happy and proud about you being. You don't think you believe in heaven anymore, but you still might choose to die, if it means they're proud... it's what you're raised to do, you don't know who you'll be if you choose to leave.

Better choose fast darling, it's only a few months away now. You don't want them to be upset.

[collectionofshorts]

The Flower Dance

[Genre: psychological fiction]

Thousands of white petaled flowers danced in the cliff top's chill breeze. Stuck in one spot as they tried their hardest to free themselves and tango with one another— or to saunter across the grassy plain into the heavenly blue beyond the cliff’s edge. But alas, they failed to uproot themselves. The soil they found themselves in acted as their jailers. Frigid and unmoved by their desire for freedom. Though the soil refused to let them dance, their fate was not shared by one flower. This lone flower was very much different from the rest. She was larger. Peach and pink, oh so full of life yet so close to death with her roots damaged and far from her soil. But this did not stop her. The lone flower danced alone gracefully between the others, blades of grass squished between her tattered roots with each bouncing step she took. The wind washed over her, making her leaves flutter against her stem, caressing it. Her petals were as soft as silk and flew through the breeze, rolling around her and trying to join the swirling gusts high above in the fluffy clouds. The warm oranges and pinks from the sunrise bathed her and made the dew that fell from her in drops glisten and sparkle.

The little white flowers looked up, pleading to join her in her Waltz. Their prayers were answered as soon as the lone flower noticed her imprisoned friends. She plucked them from their spots as she went, freeing them from the ground that kept them as trapped as she once was. They joined her in her dance. The soil loathed this. It tried to sink the flowers back into its muddy hold, but the lone flower lifted her friends high.

“My roots are too damaged to ever take hold again,” she said to the others, “I will keep us all from being tethered down ever again.”

The little white flowers clung to her leaves and whirled alongside her to the wind's melodic tune. The soil tried to speak to her, tried to tell her freedom was wrong, but she knew better and did not even humour it with an argument. She knew the soil was rotten, and she had a plan on how to rid herself of its petulant whispers.

The flowers danced to the cliff edge and stopped. Way below them were huge ocean waves that had their own gala. One far more grand than the one the flowers were having so high above. Currents that danced all across the world in lockstep, waves that weaved through rocks and swayed onto the sand. Roaring chants and cheers and laughing as millions of droplets swung one another over the slick shining rocks and onto the white sand. It looked so joyous and captivated the flowers.

“We can join that dance and be free,” the lone flower said, “Our soil might keep up alive longer than the ocean below, but what kind of life is that? To be stuck in one place until we die? We should dance and be free until our last! We should join the currents and dance all around the world! See something beyond this cliff edge!”

The little white flowers quivered with apprehension at the idea.

“Will the ocean really take us?” One asked.

“Has the ocean ever met flowers like us?” Another pondered.

“The ocean has seen many things,” the lone flower said, “We will tell it our names and I’m sure it will welcome each and every one of us below its waves.”

“Our names?” the little white flowers asked in unison.

The lone flower hummed and hawed for a moment before plucking one of her friends from her leaves and declaring, “You will be Hope!” She picked up another, “and you Joy! And you Wonder! Love! Laughter! Whimsy!” She continued on naming each flower in such a fashion, each earning a name worthy of their beauty.

And with that, the small white flowers cheered and leaped from her leaves and floated to the ocean below. They held each other as they giggled and spun in the winds that carried them down to their watery bliss below. 

The lone flower stood at the edge. The blades of grass squished between her muddy toes. The wind stilled and her fluttering, caressing dress drooped limply at her wobbly knees. Her eyes were puffy and pink against her pale peach skin, her lashes damp and clumped with tears that poured down her flushed cheeks. Her waist length hair, once soft as silk and straight as an arrow, cascaded over her shoulders in knots as the swirling winds had left it behind. The woman watched as all the flowers fell from the canopy she had made for them in her dress and plummeted off the cliff edge. She watched the whole descent into the treacherous ocean below— the sunlight that reflected upon it with hellish hues almost made the water look like lava. It was only polite for her to watch unblinkingly until the end, for each small white flower was a funeral. For her hope, her joy, her wonder, her love, her laughter, her whimsy— all things that had long withered and died somewhere within her. She even kept watching as the vicious currents sucked them under and tore them to smithereens. She watched as the battered remains of each named flower were bashed repeatedly into the rocks below. Once they had been completely destroyed she knew it was time to cast away all the awful things that festered inside her too.

And so, to end this dance, she took a bow.

[serpentface]

Dog lover

[arrimorr]

My ocs, Sir and Ser, aka the eldritch malevolent policemen 😔

[bl00dfroma-fairy]

me & who

[shy-raccoon]

The damsel in distress slowly starts getting more and more unstable from the unaddressed trauma of being frequently kidnapped. One day they completely snap and the villains start being found mysteriously murdered with increasing brutality.

[macdenlover]

i really can not stand the “fandom is so fun we’re all just projecting and making shit up” thing. because no i actually deeply admire the canon of my favorite media and all the intention and care and craft put into it. we are not the same.