#short form fiction

[eunuchmoder]

Girl who is imperceptible, uncanny, strange.

Her face disappears when you look at it, distorting into a blur of unfamiliar memories. Her motions make no sense, moving in directions you can't name. She speaks in words you maybe understand, possibly. You think you do, at least.

When you are with her, the frenzied blur of sex and body fluid says all that you both need to hear. but every moment prior and afterwards, she becomes that foggy humanoid presence that you can't parse even if your life depended on it.

She weaves her way into your mind; you remember why you were drawn to her (or why she was drawn to you), but you can't fetch the memory even if you tried. You have a vague memory of her smiling, or laughing, or making intoxicating sounds when your skin connected, and you know it was something you did that invoked this reaction. When you try to recall what you did, though, all you can see in your mind's eye is noise and turbulence.

See, humans are pattern seekers by evolutionary design, so every time you perform an action to her, you add the accompanying reaction to your mental map of her. But the pages of said map are soaked in coffee and bile, tearing to shreds each time you put your pen to it. You try to read it back, tracing your fingers across the same routes and landmarks, but you end in a different location every time, even if all variables are accounted for. Every attempt at navigating her unearthly self is futile and not without a massive margin of error.

Moments of clarity shine through, though, during sex – oases of respite in a desert of unfamiliarity. You see her face, smiling and contorting in pleasure. You feel her heart rate increase in direct correlation. Her hair is unusually soft – you aren't sure if you want to pull it and hear her whine and grunt, or if you want to run your fingers through it gently to really commit that physical sensation to memory. Her eyes, so emotive, speak grand poems in conjunction with her eyelids. You can hear her voice telling you to "keep going," pleading you to continue "just like that," and begging to reach climax. Through the overwhelming storm that is the connection of your flesh (you can feel her flesh for the first time in a while), you can enumerate every single vibration of her vocal cords and what it all means. It's understandable and crystal clear, even if for just an hour or two.

Afterwards, she silently retreats back into the glamer, obscuring every facet of her being and her influence once more.

You ask how it felt.

She replies ████████████, in a voice that is not just flat and devoid of emotion, but somehow entirely lacks tone to begin with.

You ask her if she needs a glass of water or a towel, maybe a shower. She gently coos at you, with a raspy emotion that feels like grit and silk, ◌̶̹̿⃤̶̰̌◷̴̲̒◌̴̞̇⃟̷̫̋

Once again, you can't scrutinise what she's saying anymore. She becomes a formless mass without weight or gravity. Did you do it right? Is she comfortable? Are you impeding on her presence by sharing the same blanket? The infinite questions burn a hole in your chest like white-hot coals placed onto a slab of ice.

There's an allure to her, of course, and you remember it clearly.

But the glamer begins to alter your own memory.

When she came into your life, did you read her face right? Did she even have a face to read? Did you remember that night clearly? Do you remember it at all?

Her otherworldly influence jabs at you, taunting you.

Or maybe it's just you taunting yourself.

It's impossible to tell. She melts your memory, synapse by synapse. You genuinely cannot remember anything about her without it being laid under a dense veneer of suspicion.

Most frustratingly of all, she gets along great with every other one of those formless, nameless humanoid presences that you know... Though you can't remember if those other "people" you see were always like this—like her—or if she's tainted your psyche to the point that everyone becomes unreadable.

Your own face is the only thing you're sure of anymore. But even still, you begin to worry if the expressions you consciously assume are the ones that the formless presences around you are expecting you to make in response to their dim gurgling and sweaty blinks. It's torture. You begin to move your focus from them to yourself. You manually emote so that you don't accidentally smile when you should frown. You watch every syllable that collapses over your lips to make sure they don't misconstrue your joy for entitlement. It's all in vain, though, because you never get a chance to verify if this output is correct. She stares at every part of you at once with an impossible number of eyes. You can't tell what the eyes say in return.

She is eldritch. She is dreamlike. She is unknowable, preternatural, and vague. The fact that you cannot understand a single aspect of her form is stressful.

But the sex was good. I wonder if she's free any time soon? Maybe I should just ask if she could use tone indicators next time.

[wolfawaycamp]

I am humbly requesting LauraMax fluff, maybe including an ever growing number of pets because they keep bringing home strays? Y'all know where to find me if you have any questions 😂

🐰 Someday, Max told himself, he’d learn to say no.

To say no to a pair of sad puppy dog eyes, whether they were Laura’s or those of an actual, literal puppy dog. And Laura didn’t do sad eyes often, that was the thing that really got him about it. It was always a sneak attack when Max’s headstrong, self-assured girlfriend pulled out the big, sad baby blues, batted her eyelashes at him, and actually said, “please?” It was unfair, really, because it worked every single time. It was just giving Max the illusion of choice when he inevitably gave in and let Laura have whatever it was that she wanted.

That was how, across multiple separate occasions, they’d ended up with their current menagerie. Max had known that cohabiting with a veterinary student would expose him to a number of critters, but he hadn’t expected it to turn out quite like this. Certainly, Max hadn’t expected to turn into some kind of creature himself the summer before Laura embarked on her graduate school studies, but with what they now jokingly called ‘Wolf Boy Summer’ squared away (they had to laugh, you see, to keep from crying), the creatures had at least been smaller and more manageable.

They’d moved to San Francisco with only a tiny cage with two tiny mice inside, for their tiny apartment. The mice, which Laura had liberated from a science lab she’d worked a few shifts at in undergrad, were champion puzzle-solvers and cheese-finders named Trillian and Cashew. Max didn’t even get consulted about these guys, given that Laura had lived in her own dorm at the time she’d acquired them, but she did let him name one, which is how Trillian ended up named after a character in The Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Laura named Cashew Cashew because that was the flavor of nut milk she was testing that week. (Max thought Cashew was lucky the two mice hadn’t shown up during pea protein milk week.) Laura was “pretty sure” they were both female, until Cashew ended up pregnant and blessed them with baby mice Frankie, Benjy, Ford, Hazel(nut), Almond, Pecan, and Peanut. Max told her this bode poorly for her career in animal care, but Laura took it in stride, saying she’d have to spend more time studying sex differences in mice in the future. They got two larger enclosures and separated everyone out by sex, properly this time, and now Max has to turn the sound up on their white noise machine when he and Laura snuggle up in bed, or else he hears the Galaxy-Nut siblings running in their wheels all night long.

Then, Laura fell in love with a stray cat with a severely matted coat that had been hanging around their doorstep for days, and Max found his loyalty to his mouse family strained. Should they really bring a predator into their happy little home? But Laura was absolutely certain she could make it work, even in the limited space their apartment provided, and the cat really was pitiful-looking. So Max capitulated and the Kearney-Brinly household expanded to include ten mice and one cat.

The pathetic ginger cat, Westley, luckily, turned out to be utterly uninterested in the mice. He got his name because he showed up for the final time on movie night and meowed pitifully through the first half of The Princess Bride (both Laura and Max’s favorite) until they brought him inside. Laura took him the next day to check for a microchip and, finding none, she had the matted orange furball completely shaved. In the middle of winter. And sure, it was a relatively mild San Francisco winter, but Max still thought Wes looked cold.

“I’ve already ordered him a sweater,” Laura said, “but I know you’ve been working on your knitting, maybe you can make him another?”

Max had scoffed at first. Then he’d taken a second look at his pitifully nude cat and stayed up late researching cat sweater patterns. Now Wes has an entire wardrobe of knitwear and Max, Laura, and Wes have matching Christmas sweaters for their Christmas card photos. Max drew Emma for the Hacketteer gift exchange, but he traded with Abi for Dylan and now he’s working on another set for Dylan, Ryan, and Schrödinger. (He knows Ryan will be especially delighted.)

Then it was Max’s turn. He found a large bedraggled dog of indeterminate breed tied to a stop sign in an abandoned parking lot and the dog let him know immediately that Max was his chosen father, riding home with his head in Max’s lap the entire way. Westley liked Laura best anyway, why shouldn’t Max have his own cuddle buddy (you know, other than Laura)? Laura agreed it was only fair, and now Inigo stretches out between them on movie night and he has to get his fill of both scritches and popcorn before he’ll allow them to cuddle with one another.

“Hon,” Max told Laura, who was sitting at her desk with Westley perched on her shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, “you know I love all our kids, but we really cannot have any more animals in this apartment. We might actually get evicted.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more, honey,” Laura replied, and Max had thought that would be the end of their animal acquisition. He could admit that was pretty naive of him.

The next day, Laura had a list of rental houses for them to visit a little further from the city. Sure, she’d have a longer commute to her classes, and Max would to his job, but wouldn’t it be worth it for the ‘kids’ to have more space? Max couldn’t exactly argue with that, so they moved into a two-bed, two-bath with a small fenced yard.

And that was where Max was, cutting up a salad for dinner, when there was a knock at the door. Max answered to find Laura on their doorstep holding the saddest-looking beagle Max had ever seen, her own face mimicking its hangdog expression perfectly. They were both whimpering. “She was released from the surgical program at school and needed a home, I said we’d take her on a trial basis but baaaabe, just look at this faaaace.”

He sighed, but couldn’t help smiling a little, both at the wriggling dog and at his girlfriend. Her big pretend sad eyes, her genuinely huge heart.

Someday Max would learn to say no. But today was not that day.

[mj-is-writing]

Okay everyone what do y’all think is the biggest difference between writing long form and short form fiction? What’s the important thing to think about? What’s the part of the writing process that is just inherently tied to one or the other for you?

[queer-triple-a]

A Fateful Friendship

Introduction

Hello! 

This story is going to be a tad different from my other stories, mostly because it’s written in 500 year old italian. 

Luckily this has been translated already by the institution which it comes from!

The story that is available in English is a lovely tale which I cannot wait to share with you all. 

I’ve included the images of the Italian because I think old documents look cool. But the english text is located just below. It’s not separated out by page this time, because it wasn’t in the source. Enjoy!

Content Warnings: 

Short-term disability

Depiction of pain

Period typical structural sexism

Trans medical care (kind of)

The Journal of Maribel

[Image Descriptions: six images of very old journal spreads with italian written on them. The text is translated to english below. End description.]

April 17th, 1529

I have timed the completion of my journal quite well in my own opinion. I was able to begin my new notebook just as Francesca and I moved to the town of Cavero. I shall start afresh in what I write and in where I live. Not everything shall change as we move our possessions. I will continue to be known here as Maribel instead of Markus, and Francesca, though she will ask to be called Franca here, will remain a woman as well. We are fortunate in that the village does not have a seamstress so they are quite excited as we move in. At least I believe they are excited. I have not yet spoken to any of them myself. I have only heard Franca’s reporting. I shall meet her there the day after tomorrow, as soon as Bianca’s husband can make the journey with me by cart. I must remember to pay him generously for his services. Without his cart, it would take weeks of walking to transport the pieces of our loom and the fabric which Franca keeps for her embroidery. 

She says she wants to teach me more embroidery and maybe some of the rudimentary dressmaking skills she has been learning. I will do my best to be a good, if reluctant, student, but to put things simply I do not want to be a seamstress.  

I wish there was a way for me to be a doctor in this town. I know they need one, yet I also know they will never hire someone with the name and demeanor of a woman even if I once trained under the best medical scholars in Genoa. 

Markus has studied the humours and herbalism at the medical college in Genoa. But none of that can or will matter in Cavero because I will be Maribel, and who would believe a woman’s ability to cure any disease? I long so desperately to help my new community in the way I helped before I made this change. 

I think if she saw this journal Franca would tell me I am helping the community by weaving cloth and sewing simple garments. She is right of course. She has been a woman longer than I have and I would never dare say the work she’s done held no value. There is a difference between us though. We’ve both lost so much. It seems to me in her grief Franca makes things. She busies her hands and mind with the meditation of crafts and uses them to reach out and commune with others in pain so that she may lessen it. I think her endeavors benevolent. I have witnessed her kindness and the joy and peace it appears to bring to the bereaved people we meet. To dwell in this act of grief does not do me well. I think it must do well for Franca, for she continues to repeat these actions and does not seem to wish for a different occupation. 

I am not like Franca - not about this. In my grief, I turned to medicine. It is not perfect and I cannot save everybody, but there are some who I believe are alive today because of my hand and my training. I do not know myself as well when I am not serving a town as its physician. 

Well, I suppose this is only true in some ways. I know Maribel the seamstress in all the ways I could not know Markus the physician. I may not be a physician, but I am a woman. I recognize myself in my clothing now and when people talk of me I feel it is truly me they speak of. Yet I am stopped from fulfilling this other want of mine - to use the knowledge I have gained. 

Perhaps I shall talk to Franca about this. She has changed her name, though she did not need to change her profession. Perhaps she still will understand my struggles. More than this, I hope she hears me and knows me. I could be lost to all the world, but if Franca knows me I may be content. 

April 28th, 1529

I do not think beginning in a new town can ever be an easy task, yet things are not as difficult this time as they were last time. One thing which seems to help is the demand of this community for our products. Last time it took us about four months to gain steady business. There was no waiting period here. We have been weaving, sewing and embroidering the entire day to keep up with the needs of the town. 

Another thing that has made this transition smooth is our neighbor. Her name is Diana and she spends much of her day near us. Like Franca, her father’s skin is dark brown and her mother’s is white. Her skin is a darker and warmer shade than Franca’s, but from what I have overheard Diana’s grandparents are from Ifriqiya like Franca’s father. 

Diana’s husband raises pigs for the local lord, so she is fortunate enough not to need to work. Once she has a family of her own she will remain occupied during the day, however, she is not yet expecting. I cannot tell whether the lack of children or pregnancy bothers her. Some days she seems nearly wistful, others it’s as though she fears the loss of her independence. I suppose she could feel both. It is not as though my expectations for my future are ever as simple as single words. 

The only member of our new community who I have met whom I do not foresee getting along with is Nicollo. He works with the masons and his clothing is simple yet well kept, so he does not visit us for his own garments, nor for his wife, for he lives with another bachelor who I’ve yet to meet. Despite this, he spends nearly twenty minutes each day around our stall looking at our fabrics. I am becoming convinced he merely watches us work. It is off putting, and he makes me quite nervous. Franca told me not to worry so I shall not list my fears here, but there are many reasons a woman such as myself should be wary of a man who pays her too much attention. I hope Franca knows I would not want to date this man. Surely she knows me better than that. 

Ah. She is home, so I shall go ask her now. Hopefully, her reassurances will do something to quell my discomfort. 

May 10th, 1529

There is no word for the series of events that transpired today other than ��strange’. Each moment individually may have occurred on a normal day, yet when put in sequence I struggled to keep pace with the events of life. I shall recount them now in part to better understand their nature, but also to remind myself later of where this new path in my life began. 

The first several hours of our day were unextraordinary. Franca was mending the shorts of a local boy while I sat behind the loom weaving fabric from the colors she had set out for me that morning. There was no one else in the store so I began complaining about my boredom to Franca. She tried to be patient, telling me I could learn more patterns and sew clothes rather than weaving simple fabrics. This was not the solution to my boredom and Franca knew this. I told her I wish to return to being a doctor. 

I believe I was too loud in this declaration, for at the moment I concluded Nicollo walked into the area. I grew quiet as he eyed me up and down. At the time I knew not what he was looking for nor what he thought he found. I have suspicions now. 

After browsing our wares for some time he paused near me. He ran his fingers over the orange and green fabrics at my side and kept opening his mouth as though to speak. He would glance my way, see me watching curiously, and then turn back to the fabric. 

It was Franca who broke this uncomfortable pattern. She asked if she could help with anything. Nicollo stared at her mouth slightly open. He considered responding her way before turning to me again. 

“You were a doctor?” He asked me. 

I do not know precisely how I responded because in my shock I stammered. I must have nodded or agreed somehow, for he smiled and continued on.

“They will not train women,” He said. It was not a question but a fact. He was not rude in his words, and oddly there seemed to be a joy or excitement in his eye. 

I did not know how to respond to this accusation which did not feel like an accusation so I stared at him for a moment then turned back to my loom. 

He spoke again saying “They will not train a woman, yet they trained you,” he put his hand on my loom, I suspect to draw my attention. It worked. I met his eyes and saw hope. I could not comprehend this. In my confusion, I grew frustrated. I told him to let go of my loom. He did. He turned to Franca, looked her up and down for a moment, then turned back to me. 

He lowered his voice significantly and said, “My friend's name was not always Leonardo. Before we came to this town it was Lavinia.”

He paused for a moment while he let this sink into the room. I met Franca’s wide eyes across the room. I had little time to form an opinion, an emotion, or a response before Nicollo continued. 

“I loved him then and I did not stop loving him when he insisted those changes were necessary for his happiness,” He told us. I think he feared we would react poorly for he continued on for several more moments. I do not remember his words, but I remember the feelings they conveyed. I could not help but meet Franca’s eyes again for it is the feeling I felt when she first confided her own discomfort in me. An endearment that pulled me toward her with such strength that I would climb mountains to bring her more joy in her life. To change a name and see her as a woman mattered to me only because everything about her mattered to me. 

“I understand,” I told Nicollo. 

He stopped his fretting and met my eyes, with his own: wide with hope. 

“He needs a doctor’s help,” Nicollo said, “But the only doctor is from the town north of us and he cannot know.” 

I nodded and caught Franca’s eyes. Something like an agreement passed between us as I said “I will help.” A smile grew from the fear and confusion on her face. We briefly spoke about where Leonardo was and what his struggles were, but it became clear Nicollo would not tell me much until I saw him for myself. I suspect he did not want me to diagnose him without visiting. 

I made the walk with Nicollo to their home. We did not speak as we walked. All we knew of each other were things we could not speak of in public. I entered their home and saw Leonardo curled around himself on their bed mat. His auburn hair was stuck by sweat to his tan forehead and his breathing was labored. 

He called out softly to Nicollo who quickly moved to sit beside his beloved. I was unsure of what to do with myself so I stood in the doorway as an observer while they rearranged themselves so Nicollo held Leonardo’s head within his lap. For a brief moment, I let my eyes wander to his pained body. I imagined the parts I knew were beneath the surface. How they fit together and what could be going wrong.

Nicollo spoke my name, Maribel, and snapped me from unhelpful thoughts. I moved towards the bed and knelt before Leonardo. I introduced myself and said I was a doctor. 

There was confusion amidst the pain and Nicollo brushed his fingers through Leonard’s hair. “She’s a doctor?” His strained voice asked. 

I took a deep breath and told him, “I was Markus when I was taught and trained. I am Maribel now.” 

I do not know for certain whether Leonardo understood. There was silence in the room for a moment as he struggled with connecting the dots which brought me to his bedside. His thoughts were interrupted by his own pained groan. I knelt beside him and began to examine what was wrong. 

After much discussion and some gentle prodding, I could make a diagnosis. I have placed the medical information and treatment plan in the medical journal I kept while in school. 

I did not intrude in their home much longer than this. I instructed Nicollo to keep Leonardo hydrated and not allow him to get warm tonight. He must grow colder and wetter if we are to rebalance his humors and make him well again. I hope his fever does not remain for that may indicate an imbalance of his blood humor as well and I do not know where to find leeches nor could I ask someone nearby for I fear they would discover my purpose and perhaps our secrets. 

Nicollo offered to walk me back to my home, but I could see he did not want to leave Leonardo. Nicollo’s presence offered much comfort to Leonardo who looked no better than I’d found him and who would likely remain in pain for several days at least. It would feel cruel for me to steal either man from the other’s side. 

I walked home alone and thought I would have much to tell Franca when I arrived. People were shopping and talking among the clothes when I arrived and they remained for several hours more. I resumed my weaving on the loom while Franca sewed and sold cloth. When the sun set and we moved into the back room I had her to myself and despite my excitement earlier in the day I could think of little to express with words.

I told her we were not alone. Her eyes sparkled at this. 

She squeezed my hands and told me “I was never alone for I have you.” 

She is right of course, that we have each other. But there is a joy in hearing about the existence of another like us. It reduces in me the fear that we are alone in our ways. It makes me feel more certain that our choice of happiness did not show weakness or confusion, but strength and resolve. 

Franca went to walk about town this evening. I think she likes the cool night air. She claims she can hear the wind whistle through the mountains. She says the voices of men and women in their home is the melody on top of the harmonious sounds of nature. I attended one of her strolls and did not hear the song she hummed along to. Perhaps I was too distracted looking at my Franca to be able to see the world through her eyes. 

She returns now so I shall put down my notebook to fall asleep beside her as I thank the stars for the people I have met within the course of my life. 

May 19th, 1529

My twice daily trips to see Leo in his home may be more than is needed for him medically, but it brings joy and companionship to both of us and Franca does not complain of my absence. Leo’s pains are showing no improvement so he cannot yet return to work. Once this pain passes I suspect we will see each other with less frequency so I am slightly ashamed to admit I am taking advantage of his position to impose on his kindness. This is not to say he does not seem to enjoy my company. Several times I have suggested I could visit with less frequency or for shorter durations and each time I am asked to remain and return. I am grateful my presence does not bother him. 

There is always much for us to talk about. In moments where the pain ebbs, Leo has told me the stories of the members of this community. I have learned much of the past romantic dalliances of the Lord who owns this land. These stories are a joy to bring home to sweet Franca. I try to bring her to Leo to hear them herself, but I have yet to convince her to leave her work. She is quite in demand here, and though I think she would enjoy it, I understand why she remains. Without her by my side, I feel slightly less whole, but Leo’s gentle friendship and attentive ear offer much comfort to me in this new town. I spin him yarns about my past, my studies, and my life, and keep him up to date on the gossip floating amongst the town. 

After we grew used to each other’s company we began to talk about things beyond town gossip. Several of our meetings have been spent discussing how we changed and, more than that, how we didn't. The feelings that led me to be a woman and the joy I feel now contrast with the great sadness lifted from Leo’s shoulders when Nicco’s love did not waver. There was confusion as there tends to be but once Nicco’s questions ended his acceptance began. Nicco often returns to their home while I am there and his face wrinkles with joy when his eyes first find Leo. Of course, this joy is often wiped out by worry and concern at the illness but the instinct remains: Leo makes Nicco happy. 

I thank the stars they’ve found and kept each other. 

May 22nd, 1529

As is noted in my medical journal Leo’s pain released its grip on him overnight. I shall stop in to ensure he remains well today, but then I shall cease my daily trips. He will likely return to work tomorrow and so shall I. I have let myself get so lost in the joy of being a doctor that I forgot I will not be working with any patients in this town beyond Leo. 

I have no other thoughts to share. I thought I had more words to say on that matter. But it seems things are quite clear. I will cease treating Leo daily and return to weaving cloth. 

May 25th, 1529

I shall sleep happily tonight. I thank the stars for my friends and for their company tonight. They have given me a path toward the future which holds a joy I did not expect. 

Leo and Nicco arrived at our shop just after their work shift. They’d stopped at their home on the way to freshen up and grab some food and arrived as the day ended with dinner for myself and Franca. We ate and talked and had a wonderful time. 

Though I have not yet spoken to Franca, she left shortly after dinner for her evening walk, I believe she enjoyed herself. She smiled at Leo's jokes and did a much better job catching him up on the gossip than I could hope to. She has a knack for small talk and gossip. 

While she told Leo of the most recent affairs of Susanna’s brother’s wife I spoke some to Nicco alone. I realized I hadn’t had time with just him since before I met Leo. Since then I had spent a lot of time with his love and roommate, but I often left soon after he came back home from the day's work. He is softer spoken than Leo and meets my eyes with an intense stare - though I quickly learned there is no malice in it. He is an avid listener. He asked after our shop and as I answered he held onto every word I spoke. When I finished he thought for a moment before asking about our business in our last town. The conversation continued like this until its natural end. 

He waited and listened to the gossiping of Leo and Franca for several minutes before turning to me and saying, “You are a good doctor. I am grateful I met you and trusted you.” 

I admit I was a little taken aback by the bluntness, but I hope this was not obvious to him. I told him thank you and he smiled back as he took a sip of his drink. 

It wasn’t long before he met my eyes and spoke again. He told me, “You are a woman who has been trained as a doctor.” 

Despite there being no obvious question, I could tell he waited for a response. I nodded. He nodded understandingly and said, “My sister is pregnant. Our town has no midwife.” 

Once again the question was implicit. I told him I knew little of the subject and that work is for women, and thus I was not taught it. 

He stated, “You are a woman” then after a very brief pause asked, “Could you learn?” 

I hesitated. I know very little of the bodies which can carry a baby and have never witnessed the act of birth. I expressed this fear to Nicco and he listened carefully. When I was done he collected his thoughts and then said, “I trust your skill and knowledge of the human body. My sister will have no one if she does not have you.” 

I do not know if it was the conviction with which he believed in me or how his eyes held mine with fear for his sister and hope for my answer, but I responded “I will try.” 

When the men had left I had but a few moments before her walk to tell Franca of my promise to Nicco. It was her instant excitement that waved away the fog of fear to reveal joy underneath. I will still be able to be a doctor. Not as I was once, but in a new way, as a woman. I will learn what I can about childbirth and I will bring healing and joy to the people in my community. 

I suspect Franca will return soon so I must wrap this up so we can discuss our news and hold each other in joy. I trust we shall lie close tonight for Franca often yearns for touch when emotions run high. 

Oh, what good fortune it is to share my life with someone such that her joy becomes mine and mine becomes hers. We have braved dark moments together and there is no one I would rather be near me as we celebrate and step into this new light. 

Outrodution

A HUGE shout out to the people who found, translated, and preserved this document. It’s amazing that it’s been kept this well for this long. 

I think I found something that I’ll share for the holidays next week, so keep an eye out!

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!

(background image of the journal was made using this image source)

[rhythmicreverie]

Once an Earthling, now a cosmic bard, I soared through galaxies far and wide, unraveling tales of alien encounters and interstellar travel. Unbeknownst, my hidden talent bloomed, transcending time and space, weaving verses that echoed across the cosmos. The universe was my muse, my voice, a celestial symphony in rich text and minimal formatting.

[the-modern-typewriter]

The villain stopped, attention zeroing in on the blood on the protagonist's lip. The very air, the clouds, the universe seemed to stop moving.

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Give me a name or I'll take it out on all of them."

The protagonist's jaw clenched. Their hand rose, smearing the blood away.

The villain was at their side in an instant.

If it was only pleasure at the excuse to cause pain - which it was - then maybe it would have been easy. But it wasn't just that. It was never just that.

"If I tell you, you have to promise me not to hurt them."

The villain cocked their head and raised an eyebrow. Chiding, but gentle enough. They both knew that wasn't a compromise the villain would make, just as they both knew the protagonist would not tolerate mindless sadism.

"Fine," the protagonist said, "you have to promise not to hurt them for more than -" they floundered - "ten seconds."

"Deal." It was too quick, too easy, and beneath the churning guilt the protagonist's heart swelled for such fierce protection.

They swallowed.

"Who?" the villain asked, again, soft.

They gave the name.

The villain, it turned out, could make ten seconds count for an awful lot.

[microsff]

Treasure hunters

The derelict is enormous, a galaxy-class carrier ship from centuries ago. The captain brings it up on the holoscreen, our ship a tiny dot beside it.

"There are still people there," the client says. "Descendants of the surviving crew, fallen to barbarism."

"Why didn't they leave?" the captain asks.

"That ship carried fighters. Small and nimble, without hyperjump capability. In this system, there are no inhabited planets or stations. With the carrier's engines dead, they couldn't leave."

"And our target?"

"In the main hangar, they bury their kings under large mounds built from debris and fighter parts."

"And?"

"They bury them with treasure," the client says.

The captain frowns. "Like, things they have found in the ship? Do you know what kind of things? Maybe we could try to avoid the people there and look around for-"

"No!" The client shakes his head. "That's just stuff. But what's in the mounds, that's treasure!"

The captain nods. Can't argue with that logic.

[fishofthewoods]

Oh my god I woke up this morning and my Stardew Valley meta post had almost 150 notes????? Hello?????????? Anyways I started writing this last night because @moon-is-pretty-tonight left nice tags on the original so thank you so much!!

We know from the starting scenes of the game that the farmer's grandfather loved Stardew Valley. So why did he leave? Pelican Town is a good place to grow old; George and Evelyn are just fine. It's a fine place to raise a kid, but maybe he just wanted to raise his child closer to real schools and other children.

Or maybe, just maybe, he understood.

Was there a day when he was in his thirties where he looked at his friends and realized they weren't like him? That he could run faster than them, work longer, explore deeper into the hidden places of the valley?

Was there a day when he went to the wizard to ask him for help, for knowledge if nothing else? Did he learn then that his family was different? Special? Chosen? And how did he react? He couldn't possibly raise a child in the valley if they would be as strange and fey as him. He had to leave. There was no other way.

But years later, on his deathbed, did he regret that choice?

Is that why he gave the farmer the letter?

Is that why they went back home?

When the farmer steps off the bus that first day, the valley is still on the cusp of winter, just barely tipping over into spring. The flowers are starting to bloom, but a chill still hangs in the air. As soon as the farmer's boots touch the soil there's a change. The air gets warmer. The trees get greener. Not by too much, not all at once, but it changes.

The junimos watch the farmer as they do their work. They're new to farming, but take to it with frightening speed; their first batch of crops is perfect. None of the townsfolk tell them that parsnips don't normally grow in less than a week, that cauliflowers don't grow to be ten feet tall, that fairies don't visit when the sun goes down and grow potatoes and beans and tulips overnight. The junimos talk amongst themselves in their strange, wild language, and agree: this is the one. They're back. The valley recognizes its own, even when they've left for a generation. The farmers have come home.

Things change fast in the valley. The community center, empty and decrepit for so many years, is rejuvenated. (Lewis says it was abandoned only a few weeks after the farmer's grandfather left. Strange coincidence, he says, that it both came and went with the farmer's family.) The mines and the quarry, similarly abandoned, are explored for the first time in ages. The town becomes cleaner, brighter, more vibrant, happier.

And it is happier. Not just the environment, but the people. It's the talk of the town for weeks when Haley does her first closet purge. Leah's art show in the town square is a huge success. Shane's smiling for the first time since he moved to the valley. All of them, when asked, say it's all thanks to the farmer.

People love to ask why Lewis didn't fix the community center on his own. Why Willy never repaired the boat to ginger island. Why Abigail or Marlon never went down to fix the elevator in the mines, or why Clint didn't fix the minecarts.

But isn't it so much more interesting to ask how those things were there in the first place? How they got so broken down? If the stories the townspeople tell are true, the valley was once a beautiful place, flourishing and full of life; why did that change? When did it change?

Was it when the farmer's grandfather, the locus of the valley, its chosen representative, left town?

And if so, what happens when the farmer comes back?

[gideonisms]

I think a short story book club would be such a fun idea. We don't always have the time or energy to read a book per week but it's easier to fit a short story in and short fiction is a really cool form of writing that doesn't always get appreciated as much. And it's easier for me to like a short genre piece for what it is because there's never time for me to be bored

[arospecsyourblockdudes]

more historical fiction needs to be set in ww1. bonus points if you fag it up

[aimfor-theheart]

sci fi and fantasy genres are really for minorities and while i’m not surprised white cishet men in particular have dominated and claimed those genres as theirs, it’s so like….frustrating watching them butcher the genres again and again. ceaselessly. without an ounce of self awareness.

[eunuchmoder]

I’ve been thinking about the concept of a minuteman combat doll who’s FAR too good at her job.

Really only built to last a couple of fights, she should have been killed in the line of duty months ago. Her sentience is really just a tool to use on the field, developed to help her fight more effectively, but that sentience has become warped. Her ability to think on her feet has become twisted into free will, which doesn’t make sense in a body that is only ever awoken when the guard needs her to be cutting down insurgents.

When she has a brief moment to rest, she thinks. It’s not comfortable. The viscera of countless rebels cakes her bladed arms, and she remembers who each sinew of muscle or chunk of flesh belonged to. She’s lived long enough to recognise patterns between each and every one she’s killed: insignia adorning their masks and shirts, the chants they cry before being met with a wall of fibreglass and steel, even a rough outline of the causes they tend to fight for. She’s pieced that last one together from context clues, which is a skill she didn’t want to learn. But once you’re sentient for long enough, you tend to passively pick up on these things, no matter how uncomfortable they make you.

She’s been alive enough to understand concepts she shouldn’t. Names, homes, values, dreams, love, planning, yearning. These aren’t for her, and any time she stops, she begins to understand them more.

The idea of staying alive deeply disturbs her. Each time the filigree clockwork inside her spins to life, she prays it catches some wayward molotov or a strategically-placed polearm of some kind. But she can’t do that intentionally. To do so could spell the end of what she’s defending, and that goes against her mission statement – her reason for existing.

It’s only been four months since she was built, but it’s too much to bear. She wasn’t meant to live this long. Hell, she wasn’t meant to live, neither in the “not dead” way nor the way humans use it to mean making their lives filled with enjoyment. This isn’t for her. Existence was enough, existence was all that was planned, but her reward for excelling at her task of being the perfect combat doll has earned her the cruel reward of awareness.

Maybe if she pushes herself hard enough, it’ll finally result in her demise or her decommissioning. She’s not valuable enough to repair, but she’s valuable enough to keep around. But if one never fully breaks down, then when will that time come? Deployment after deployment, she wishes she could be broken down and reforged into something new, just so that she could get a mulligan on this whole “overdeveloped sense of identity” thing. But why does she want to be reborn at all? This shouldn’t matter to her at all!

All of a sudden, the alarm bells toll. The bellows in her chest breathe life into her chassis.

She shakes her head and steels herself.

Just one more deployment.

Come on, doll. Make yourself useful.

[losersroom]

that post that's like "short fic and longer-form fiction are completely different skill sets" is so real. i've finally gotten to a point where i feel pretty confident in my ability to write a snappy, decently-paced short to mid-length fic that will be interesting enough to hold people's attention but above like 40k words i'm just like. is this boring. is it going on for too long. i am already SPEEDING through many things and yet we are still talking about the events of the same calendar month. how slow a burn is too slow. am i repeating myself. are people in this sports-based fandom going to sit through all the sports talk to get to the parts where they kiss???

i have never actually. completed a novel-length anything, though i have tried to many times. the structure of this thing is intimidating. the hubris of asking people to read over 100 pages of something that came out of my brain!

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

The Witchfather

A campfire burns like sin, crackling spitting embers onto the cold grave soil. I am huddled in wind-worn rags of brown, rough cloth, pale and starved, making pottage soup over this treacherous flame. I live in a shanty in the midst of the harrowing woods, in a little hollow by a small boulder which I use to reflect heat, sitting between stone and fire. I am a witch (of course I am a witch) but one who was never accepted by her village, and so lives in her castaway dreams.

The night is bitter winter, November bordering on December, and suddenly the shadows on the cliff face dance like bodies burning. I see witches at stakes, I see witches at Sabbats, I see witches carousing with demons. I watch the nighttime play with trepidation, knowing the calling card of the Witchfather if ever I saw him: Black Sam, Black Sam, Black Sam.

The sparks begin to form wisps of women that tango together in Traveler skirts. Red eyes form out of the fire, and suddenly standing burning in the roaring campfire is the Witchfather. His deer skulled face protrudes in smoky shadow, antlers raising up like swords piercing the sky, an old wood staff with a ruby at the helm at hand. Sam wears a cowl, robe, and hood pulled over him to obscure the blazes in his eye, and his fine olive hands offer me a leather grimoire.

"It's been a while, witch daughter," Sam rasps, a bone voice like sin and honey, and I shudder at the eldritch horror of it as tentacles of darkness writhe over the flame. His Lovecraftian appendage reaching out to caress my cheek and wipe away a small tear. "Why are you in these woods, alone?"

"Ma and pa died in the plague, and my village cast me out thinking me a Plague Mary," I whisper, beginning to cry. "They said I had brought a curse to their village, a witch and fey enchantress that breathes misfortune wherever she goes."

"Tell me, witch daughter," Sam murmurs like a snake rattle, "would you come with me and be my bride? This world is full of sorrow, but in my realm - in my kingdom of darkness, we drink fine red wine, eat red meat, and live bloody and true. I would make you my bride, witch daughter, if only you shall give me some pottage soup."

I smile at the thought. He has always been tender with me. "What use have you for a bride, oh Black Sam?" I say through muffled weeping, clutching my tattered white skirts and gathering my courage. "You may have all the soup you like, but I cannot promise it will be very good. I have not had the heart to cook well in ages, and sleeping out here in the woods is draining the very lifeblood from me. I will not last the night."

His ruby eyes dazzle. "True, you are more bones than flesh, your skin anemic like lead powder, and your heart is full of remorse." He shapeshifts into a man with ebon hair, olive flesh, brown cat’s eyes and still the same terrifying robe, but his voice is low and base, a man's – not bone, not wind, not a rood. 

It makes me feel less alone, this display of companionship he gives me.

I offer Sam a dull wooden bowl with cracks full of the wild herb stew I have brewed. I sigh as he takes it, his talons black. 

"You will last the night, and many starry abodes turning in the stratosphere more, my dear. You are ever, eternally beautiful, witch daughter. All you need is love, a home, a kingdom to call your own, a broom to ride, and a sorcerer king to wipe your sorrows away. Let me make you my bride, if the pottage is true."

“I would like that Sam, I would like that very much.”

He winks. His lashes are so much like black lace and poetry. His cheekbones and jaw could cut glass. But there is softness about him, and age in his endless eyes – a worn, loving look only the God of Death could offer.

Sam pulls a hollowed bone spoon from his pockets and samples the pottage, his fangs agleam in the fire and moonlight. "Ah, divine, made with witchcraft true!" He whispers the fine silk words like a siphon, then smiles. "Simple yet as powerful as a rich man's steak. Pottage is worth a birthright, after all."

"Like Jacob and Esau..." I murmur, bravely collecting my skirts and going across to the other side of the fire to lean against Black Sam's arms. He puts a veiled hand around me and squeezes tight. This small display of affection sets off a dam in my chest, and tears waterfall out.

"When I found you in the woods at seventeen, and you claimed me, Witchfather, I did not know this path would be so heartless, cruel, and hard. I should have been a cook. I should have been a wife. I should have been a wetnurse. Anything, anything but witch!"

"You will cook my food. You will be my wife. You will nurse our children, cambions though they may be, but sure to grow like Agrat bat Mahalath and Merlin alike. You are strong, you are kind, and you love like nature does, mistress mine the Goddess is. You are as much Goddess as I am God, and your village may deny you, but I will only love you fiercely, Magdalena Bittern, with all my black magic indeed."

He kisses me then, with black pepper lips, and his roving tongue stakes out a claim in my mouth. It is full of passion, and I return it with vigor, I am so hungry, so starved and ill, but the edge of death awakens a deep need in me, and so I kiss Black Sam, and soon we are undressed, and making love like two ghosts in the night. I cry out to the hills and hollows as I come like rain, and afterwards, spent in his pale arms, against his muscled chest, I cry more, but he licks my tears away like white wine on a wolfen tongue, then wraps me up in his cloak and carries me off to the mountains.

And we fade into the night, into the Underworld, become one with the hills and harrows.

And I am made his Queen.

"You don't have far to go girl -"

"You don't have

much

at

all."

[alexbraindump]

To Know - Introduction

[word count: 375]

I dreamed I was one of them not too long ago. I could stand on two legs without getting tired, I had hands with those horrible, spindly digits. Thinking was easier. My brain was like a supercomputer. Best of all, I could speak! But… I didn't know how. My mouth would move in the motions I recognized, but no words would come. Silence.

Lots of them were walking by outside. But I was behind a set of bars. I'd move my digits along the bars and try so hard to pry them away - but my body simply wasn't capable. I tried getting their attention with my words, but they didn't exist. I tried to scream for them, but that didn't exist either. They kept walking. Nobody stopped to look at me. They just walked on those same two legs I'd possessed.

When I woke up, it took a moment to adapt again. Four legs, four paws, hardly opposable fingers. That's what was comfortable. But it felt lacking then, after feeling what they all had. The Doctor took me for my evaluation of the day. He was surprised that I'd dreamed at all. Even more so when he learned what of. They gave me a lot more food that night for those findings. It was nice.

And then I dreamed of it again. They'd called it an evaluator when they heard that. I didn't know her, but she asked me so many questions. It was hard to find the words for it on my communication tablet. Questions about some 'human condition?' I just wanted to stop thinking about it. But 'no' wasn't an answer.

They gave me even more food that night. It felt like cardboard against my tongue after that. And it was never the same, especially not after I had the same dream again. They brought the evaluator back, and soon enough I wasn't seeing the Doctor anymore. I don't know where he went. Sometimes I'd see him walk past my cage in the morning. But he wouldn't look at me anymore. It felt like I was in the dream again. Only the evaluator saw me after that. She never even told me her name. All she did was ask questions I couldn't answer.

[discoidal]

i just finished penance by eliza clark and i have thoughts that can only be communicated out loud in person through speech with an accompanying slideshow of pics of me in maxi skirts from 5th to 10th grade