#short story vignettes

[z2z-gaming-and-random-art-ai]

Back Cover to AI Art S3E9 - What Remains of Edith Finch

Older video games were notorious for back cover descriptions that have nothing to do with the game so let's see what a text-to-image generator makes of these descriptions. each episode of Back Cover to AI Art Season 3 will feature 4 ai art creations for each game.

1. Intro - 00:00 2. Back Cover and Text Description - 00:10 3. Creation 1 - 00:30 4. Creation 2 - 01:00 5. Creation 3 - 01:30 6. Creation 4 - 02:00 7. Outro – 02:30

What Remains of Edith Finch (PS4) In this Lovecraft-ian tale set in Washington state, explore a series of short story vignettes to solve the mystery of the Finch Family’s cursed demise.

🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩

Released in 2017 for the PS4, Xbox One and Windows, What Remains of Edith Finch is a first person adventure game developed by Giant Swan and published by Annapurna Games.

What Remains of Edith Finch is only the second game developed by Giant Swan since the studio's debut title The Unfinished Swan which released in 2012. as of writing the studio is still active but no announcement of a new title has been made, no surprise really as it was 5 years between their two game releases.

🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩🏠🕵️‍♀️🧩

For more Back Cover to AI Art videos check out these playlists

Season 1 of Back Cover to AI Art https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFJOZYl1h1CGhd82prEQGWAVxY3wuQlx3

Season 2 of Back Cover to AI Art https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFJOZYl1h1CEdLNgql_n-7b20wZwo_yAD

Season 3 of Back Cover to AI Art https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFJOZYl1h1CHAkMAVlNiJUFVkQMeFUeTX

[voices-in-dark-violets-head]

He'd always been such a good boy...

Well, not really. He was a Mightyena after all. So that meant flaunting authority when the mood took him, which was most of the time. And hell, you try stopping a huge hound like him from sitting on the couch...

And it also meant flirting. But when it's a beast with a bite that can crush tree trunks, flirting isn't a handful of daisies. It's a flagging tail when he knows you're watching. It's swaying his balls. It's lying on top of you when you're in bed, the distinctive weight of his sheath on your belly...

But that's not even when he really wanted something. No, you'll know when that happens, because you'd feel the claws, and the panting against your neck, and the cold earth against your cheek as he pulls up your rear.

And his paws would hook around your waist, powerfully, indulgently firm. A hold that means you're not going to escape until he's properly tied you down...

Oh, and that's why you have to keep a wary eye out. Because he ain't just doing it on a lazy Saturday afternoon at home. He'll do it half-way through the night if he's woken up from a lustful dream, dragging you out from under your covers. Or he'll grab your arm in his jaws mid-hike, and pull you into the grasses for some wild indulgence. And whether he plants his rear against your crotch or rams his sheath between your cheeks, you have mere seconds to give him what he wants, before he viciously, indulgently takes it...

...Like I said.

He's always been such a good boy <3

[fraglance]

[kissedbyghosts]

Black Wings

I transformed myself into a murder of ebon birds, their tenebrous wings battering the air as we ascended in a burst of dark feathers.

Up we leaped past heaps of bones to soar over rivers of blood whose garnet depths coursed in jagged veins to a distant sea. We followed their branching paths to this sanguine expanse where we saw, amid the haunted waves, great skeletal beasts sloshing and wailing in the wine-colored swells. Raven-swift, we darted across the raw expanse until basalt cliffs jutted into view.

Beneath this chorus of giant knives, the Vermilion Sea was churned to an agonized pinkish foam, the coast’s tidal orifices flecked like rabid mouths.

Further inland we flew, crossing carnal fields of gnawing flowers whose narcotizing fragrance pulled at our desires and begged us to dream.

There, the tired wind’s laborious breath carried us slowly over the fleshy blooms to a forest of pale trees. Their ruby leaves glistened in the wan light like drops of crimson misery as the smooth flesh of their twisted limbs winked with eyes that bore witness to our passing. Beyond them, we crossed wastes that wept with milky marshes. Pumping our wings in a storm of black pinions we rose higher above their troubling miasma and rode updrafts that bore us toward the crooked shadow of distant mountains. These cut through the haze like a great carnivore’s teeth and gave the impression of being swallowed. Onward we flapped, coming at last to circle about a titanic edifice of impossible antiquity. It gleamed gun-metal-black in the cool, distant light of an indiscernible sun. Dark and ominous the tower loomed, its massive length driven like a spear through the world. We entered the structure in a whispering rush through an organically shaped window. Within was a spiraling labyrinth of iniquitous geometries. Insane corridors of pulsating flesh whose membranous doorways opened onto rooms red and glistening as fresh wounds.

The great tower’s lofty vertex was shrouded in the tattered gauze of lamentable clouds, yet at its peak, which rose just above them, was an open court surrounded by monolithic pillars. Near its center was an august and ominous seat of angular stone.

Upon it sat a niveous vision, her dusky eyes glittering in the anemic light, her full, wet lips the color of blood.

She reclined luxuriously there upon her monolithic throne, bare as a sword save for torrents of jet hair that issued from her exquisite head to coil about her pallid face like dark serpents.

A shadow of my shape surged out of the vortex of black birds who swirled madly, a cacophonous maelstrom whose mass then coalesced before her. Having robed myself in human form, I stepped forward and knelt humbly before her.

“Rise”, she said. I did as she commanded and rose to my feet. “Speak,” she said, “tell me your heart.” Trembling with fear and lust, I spoke, “I have crossed worlds of pain and desire to seek you. I have known you in the night as my lover and my mother. I have known your body in the hollowness of my form and tasted your mouth in the spaces between lives. I would know you if I knew no other. You are the chrysalis of doom, the womb of eternity. I will only to will your will, my Queen.” She smiled and beckoned me forward, “Come here and kiss me”. A storm of joy and terror assailed my heart. Nervously, I stepped forward, suddenly viscerally aware of her presence and the beauty and power that she commanded. Just as light falls into black holes, I went to her. Our lips approached, and, meeting, formed a singularity. Then, she gave me the gift of her True Name, but I found I could not utter it. I wanted to sing it, so glorious it was, but I immediately choked as I tried to speak it aloud. Gasping violently, I grasped my throat and fretted with my tongue, but I was struck mute and cursed to die.

Despairing, I fell at her feet and struggled dismayed. Then, suddenly, the universe seemed to tumble in on itself, as if suddenly unmade, until there was nothing. Not anything. Just absolute, unnamable, unfathomable formlessness.

I was no more. No thought was self, no such concept was there, nor need of it in that perfect aphotic eternity.

And then, suddenly, violently, I was torn from her womb and born into a flowering, effulgent chaos.

In horror and awe, I worshipped her, and she loved me, and by us worlds became.

From us sprang gods, civilizations, and countless empires rose and fell, until at last, all that remained was the glittering abyss and its endless cold silence. I saw myself reflected in her eyes then and knew us to be the same: a luminous self-reflecting void, a dreaming abyss of eternally self-annihilating beauty and terror. As I opened my eyes, space and time expanded, and the darkness laughed as I was filled again with light. © JM Tiffany 2024

[pawseds]

Dear Hrodwyn

[843 words; a Lancer RPG fic]

06 SEP 5010u

Dear Hrodwyn Vorobyev, what to say to you? You have her eyes You have your father's name When you came into the world you cried And it broke my heart

Here, on this ice planet in its lonely orbit, life thrived.

As the sun's first rays carve peaks out of darkness, see how bones of copper and steel are nestled between treacherous mountains. See how they are buried beneath white snow and frozen in azure depths, weathered by the elements but preserved by solitude.

Quickly, before the sun parts with the land again, look how this metal skeleton twists along the planet's veins, the great frozen river. The river streaks blue and green across white, and with the sun's warm blessing, it brings forth minerals and algae, water and valour.

From afar, this planet is death. But closer, the river carves a path through the white void. The river carves life.

I'm dedicating every day to you Domestic life was never quite my style When you smile You knock me out, I fall apart And I thought I was so smart

Here, on the fringes of exploration and expansion, life thrived.

No one recalls when the first colonies arrived, but the winds remember what they came here for. It was not for the bones of metal, but it was for what the bones once were. It was for the red-hot core of energy housed within, the dying heart of a star.

See how greed tries to dig its venomous claws into the stars. See how, in greed's self-declared war against itself, it tears apart scraps of alloys, weapons of titanium, and frames of carbon fibre. It is a hunger that ravages; it is a hunger that tears its stomach inside out to house the mass graves of the first colonies.

It all ends like how it all first began: with silence. Life, innocent in ignorance, crawls out of the graves to start anew. No human remembers what they came here for.

The wind warns them in whispers, but it cannot control who listens.

You will come of age with our young nation We'll bleed and fight for you We'll make it right for you If we lay a strong enough foundation We'll pass it on to you We'll give the world to you And you'll blow us all away Someday, someday

Here, on footsteps that follow the river eternally, live thrives.

From dust, tiny specks come together like ants to form new colonies. Though humans have greed, they also have resilience, intelligence, and creativity. Observe how they dig through the snow with their own hands, wrangle with tooth and leather and stone, and explore for years to reignite the machines that first brought them here. Watch as they create tools with the guidance of ghosts. Watch as they teach themselves to walk, to run, and to fly once again.

What was first a single colony in the beginning has now scattered into multiple colonies -- some big, some small. The biggest colonies were grown on the secret to reawakening cores. Their strength fuels machines, their warmth radiates from hearths, and their light is a beacon from which cities are built around. But though their light welcomes all to hide from the frigid cold and dark days, the secret of the cores remain tightly grasped within the palms of handpicked engineers.

Cores are scarce and so are the cities that followed. In their wake, smaller settlements are nurtured around other sources of life: the geothermal energy volcanoes bring, the lamps and heaters machines bring, and the fresh food and water rivers bring. Trade routes are forged between these settlements, and when the first port to the rest of the galaxy opens in the largest city, the settlements begin crossing paths more and more like constellations across the ink-black sky.

But some colonies do not settle. Some continue to fare across the white void as their ancestors once did. Forever walking, forever migrating, these nomadic colonies follow the planet's orbit as they seek the longest days of warmth, the longest hours of light. The sun is their beacon, their core, so these colonies continue to follow it: living off the river that melts and freezes and melts, marching across the planet's equator back to where they began again and again and again. ⠀ Nothing changes from this never ending track. In these nomadic colonies, the scouts go scout for shelter and danger on foot, the hunters go hunt the feared and the fearing on machines, and the rest of the farers follow the path cleared through the snow.

Nothing changes until a settler hears the song of a farer.

Nothing changes until the settler, with her wit and her machine, joins the farer on his eternal voyage; and the farer too embarks on a new eternal voyage of walking in the settler's shoes and seeing through the stars in her eyes.

With time comes love, and with love comes life.

Yeah, you'll blow us all away Someday, someday...

Life learns, life changes, and life thrives.

---

I wrote this all the way back in 22 May this year, and here it finally is with some light editing! (Don't mind the grammar errors, it is late and I am tired lmao). I ported the Birdfam yet again into Lancer, in which Gavrill Vorobyev is, yet AGAIN, my PC! (I just really want him on a Swallowtail idk I think it fits him well) The biggest differences here is that he's 21 instead of 41, his wife Leyna is alive, his kid Hrodwyn was just born (coincidnetally, the campaign kicks off a day after), and he doesn't have thirty four mental illnesses.

I do not take credit for this worldbuilding! This planet is directly ripped off of the planet the Birdfam originally came from, which was from a 4e campaign. So it's my GM who came up with this; all I did was write about it here.

(i'm gonna throw in all the hamilton references i want FIGHT ME)

[thedarknesssings]

Prompt 2:  Burnt

Prompt 2: Horizon - FFxiv Write 2024 Characters: Arafel de Courcelle, Fiera de Courcelle, Addifore Adelrik @nnamierart. Content Warning: Mentions of blood and injuries, reference of nudity.

“Arafel?”  The feminine voice sung his name with a familiarity that made his chest ache.  His eyes snapped open, and he sucked in a sharp breath despite having no need to breathe.

Red-streaked black curls tumbled across the warm chest he was using as a pillow with the lift of his head.  His crimson gaze locked on the face of the man asleep beneath him.  Calling Addifore’s recovering state sleeping might’ve been far too nice.  Blood still streaked his throat, the holes his fangs left behind littered his skin, and bruises blossomed between the scabbed wounds.

“Arafel!  You never talk to me anymore.” Her pitch perfect voice continued her whining.  

She was right.  Arafel had not spoken to his wife since the night he learned of what she’d done. The night everything he thought he knew of truth and love shattered, leaving him hollow.  A shell of a man that he’d never acknowledged until that moment. He was dead. So was she. Their lives were nothing more than dust, notes in peerage books at best. Notes that were wrong.  None of them mentioned his daughter either.

“Arafel, darling. Please.”

His gaze rested on the covered hand mirror propped up inside an elegant silver holder designed specifically for it. For her.  Beneath that soft cloth shimmered a reflection of a red-haired woman of great beauty. Arafel needn’t lift the cloth to know she lurked on the surface even now. The faint glow of her presence emanated through the spaces in the weave of the cover. The faint click of the clock hand counted away the minute he held silent.  

“Not in the mood to talk, Fiera.”  Arafel’s figure shifted, sliding against Addifore’s prone body until he lay against his side instead. Fingertips swirled in idle loops and circles across his bare chest.  

“You never are until their novelty wears off.”  Her tone took on a vicious note, dripping with venom.  “Disgusting how you fucked the meat this time.”  The glow of the mirror dimmed, leaving the room cast into darkness once more.  

The look in Addifore’s eyes reminded him of the rising sun.  The snap of gold on the indistinct horizon of dark lashes promised both salvation and condemnation.  The vampire glanced away, a sneer curling his lip and leaving a single fang exposed.  He still wasn’t worthy of standing in the sunlight.  

[groovebunker]

niles fixes her with a death stare from the front of the church when the priest asks if anyone knows why max and fran should not be married.

as if she’s going to interrupt.

as if she’s going to ruin the happiest day of fran’s life.

[sparrow-flight]

Here Now

[3715 words, 20 minutes]

1 January 2017 Winnipeg, Canada

The father walks the long way to the house that is not his own. He could’ve told the taxi to drop him at the door. Instead, he stops it at an intersection and it drives on without him.

In the 4am winter night, the father has no reason to fear anyone seeing him. The streets of this dingy neighbourhood are empty except for wet, brown snow that collects the deep footprints of strangers. The father has no reason to fear anyone robbing him. His pockets are light. They only hold an empty wallet, an expired driver’s licence, and a dead cell phone. And yet, the absence of life leaves room for imaginary danger. The father’s blue eyes stare down pockets of darkness, his tense legs ever ready to sprint.

He avoids the straight path that leads to his destination. Instead, he circles the housing block like a frantic bird, riding his own wings of instinct governed by survival, anxiety, and death. His metronome heart sets his quick pace, and when he makes the final turn that brings his destination into view, his heart drums to the swell of fear and excitement.

His eyes now squint in the dying light of sparse streetlamps, and he whispers to himself house numbers he passes in the language of a stranger. He stops at a small house. Its front has a door, a window with blinds, and a broken bulb with frozen cobwebs. Before the door is a wooden deck with stairs. Rusted nails barely hold the planks in place.

He walks up the stairs to the door and raises a fist to knock.

Fuck. No one’s going to be awake. God, I’m a fool. Got too excited—

Movement, through the crack beneath the door. It sparks the warm memory of the padded pit-pat of small, socked feet on hardwood floor. The father trembles. He doesn’t know if it’s from cold, excitement, or fear. He knocks before he decides.

The pit-pats are real now. He can hear them: larger, heavier, but undoubtedly theirs. The window blinds fold to form a peephole. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and the father stares down at an almost mirror image of himself. The same messy black hair, the same weary eyes: his eldest child, better than him in every way.

They speak in the language of family. “Daa?”

The eldest child throws themselves at their father, nearly knocking him off the stairs. He can’t help but laugh as he picks them off the snow, warmth bubbling out of him into his tight embrace. His child is taller and stronger now — an adult by all definitions. But to him, as they bury their face into their father’s chest, they’re still so small, so light, so easy to tear away from him like before.

—

It has been a year since the siblings have lived in this house together. The eldest, Hrodwyn, left Auntie Elmira’s care at the orphanage when they turned eighteen. They had saved up enough from their two jobs, and the two jobs continued to be enough for rent. Their two siblings followed them: their sixteen-year-old brother Merethel who always kept his long, black hair swept over his right eye, and their twelve-year-old sister Hygd who always kept a smile on her face. Auntie Elmira let them leave. She knew they were inseparable, and their father was relieved that they were.

It has been ten years since their father was wrongly sent to prison. On the red-blue night of his arrest at their doorstep, Hygd was three and wailing, Merethel was seven and scared, and Hrodwyn was ten and bold. Hrodwyn heard the officers yell “Gavrill Vorobyev” over and over, watched them slam their pleading father against a car, and felt their siblings shatter in their arms. As the officers drove their father away, Hrodwyn knew it was now their responsibility to protect their family. They knew it was now their responsibility to fix all the broken pieces their father left behind, even if it meant pricking their own fingers.

In the mornings following their father Gavrill’s return, Hrodwyn made sure every piece of the siblings’ lives were meticulously organised like glass figurines on display. Nervously, they presented their father their handiwork within the cabinet of cutleries and Tupperwares, the closet of detergent and cleaning supplies, the fridge door of schedules and chores. All this order balanced on a rickety shelf Hrodwyn had built; all this order came crashing down in days to make room for Gavrill.

At first, Gavrill did not see this as a problem. He saw no problem at all — he was finally free, and his senses flared with life. He relished the touch of warm skin instead of thin paper, savoured the sound of rich voices instead of broken static. And with every chip and crack he felt between him and his children, an echo of his wife’s voice would comfort him:

—You’re here now, she would say, and that’s all that matters.

But it did not take long for reality to slip through the cracks of his ignorance. That was what he got for dancing around “How did you get out of prison?” — that was how he began stepping on his children’s broken pieces.

—

4 February 2017

“Daa, daa.”

Gavrill jolts awake on the couch. Foreign babble plays to colourful cartoon ponies running across the television screen.

“Ah, sorry daa,” Hrodwyn whispers in the language of family, Ingush — Gavrill ensured Auntie Elmira taught them when he was in prison. “Do you want lunch? I was going to heat up the stew you brought home last night.”

Gavrill rubs his eyes. Yesterday, his new job called him to an orientation in Rio de Janeiro. He bought the stew before he flew back. “Sounds good. We should finish that soon. It smelled great! I think you will all like it.”

Hrodwyn smiles politely. “I’m sure we will.”

Gavrill stands up. He sees Hygd at the foot of the couch, knees tucked to her chest as she watches the cartoon. He looks around for Merethel and doesn’t find him — he’s probably studying in Gavrill’s bedroom, the only other room with a table. Hrodwyn is already in front of the fridge: a Tetris map of new groceries, wilting vegetables, and takeout boxes. They move the stew containers from the fridge to the microwave, then drift from the kitchen to Gavrill’s bedroom. A minute later, they return with Merethel grumbling behind them.

The microwave beeps. Gavrill opens it, but Hrodwyn beats him in removing the containers, slipping past him with an “it’s okay”. They place the containers on the bar table that divides the kitchen and the living room. Merethel catches a sniff of it and speaks in English.

“Wow, this smells good,” he dips his pinky into the side to taste it. “And it’s not spoiled!”

“Of course not,” Gavrill responds in Ingush. He brings one container to Hygd and sits next to her. “I wouldn’t feed you spoiled food.”

Merethel raises an eyebrow.. He takes a spoon from the drawer and the container of stew.

“Hey,” Hrodwyn says in Ingush. They sit across Gavrill. “Don’t go back to daa's room. Eat here.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re always there,” Hygd says, also in English.

Merethel curls his lip. “And?”

“Hey, no English,” Hrodwyn reminds their siblings, who comply.

Hygd tries drinking the stew straight from the container and burns her tongue. “daa's been asking you to eat together with us, like, every day. Don’t you hear him?” 

“Well, I’m sorry, but are you studying for a scholarship?” Merethel sets his stew down with a huff and sits across her. “I thought so.”

“Hey, come on,” Gavrill says. “Be nice to your sister. Can you get a spoon for her, please?”

“She can get it herself.”

Hygd frowns. “But you’re closer! They’re on your side!”

“Come on,” Gavrill sighs.

Merethel grumbles. “Why do you want me to give her a spoon so bad—OW!”

Hygd had kicked him underneath the bar table. He retorts by trying to kick her back, but she tucks her legs out of reach. Merethel kicks her chair instead. It screeches against the floor. Hygd grins at her fuming brother. He growls and tries again.

“Hey-hey! Enough!” Gavrill yells then bites his tongue. Shit, too harsh? He lightens up. "Don’t be like that. Just pass her a spoon, please. And one for myself as well."

The two ignore him and continue scrabbling. With a sigh, Hrodwyn clears their throat and glares. Only then do their siblings stop. A second glare makes Merethel pass a spoon to his father and sister. A third isn’t needed to make Hygd smile sweetly and thank him.

Fragile silence falls on the table. Gavrill tries to tread across it carefully towards his children.

“Well, this is nice. Um,” he smiles and looks at Hrodwyn. “I’m glad you got off your shifts today. I think this is the first time we’ve had lunch together!”

“Yeah! It took, like, a month,” Hygd tilts her head to Gavrill. “And you still haven’t told us what your new job is!” 

Merethel scoffs. “Or what kind of company can hire a man out of jail.”

“Hey, I—” Gavrill opens his hands. “Those questions can wait until later. Why don’t you guys tell me about school?”

“Ugh, it’s boring stuff compared to what you’re doing! I think,” Hygd mixes her stew. “Why don’t you wanna tell us?”

“Yeah, daa,” Merethel says. “Why don’t you? You’ve had your orientation. You should know enough about your job to tell us about it now, right?”

“How was Rio? Did you see any birds?” Hygd swings her feet.

“It was very nice,” Gavrill smiles at her and folds his arms. “Very hot. But uh, the food was good! And there were little birds on the street. Oh! I forgot I got the three of you keychains—”

A loud slam and screech interrupts the conversation. Merethel had pushed his chair back. He stands up. “I’m going to my room.”

Hrodwyn tugs his sleeve. “Hey—”

“Don’t touch me,” he spits in English and yanks his arm away. “If he doesn't even want to talk about something normal like a job, what the hell else can we talk about?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll talk about it!” Gavrill shocks himself with his tone. He offsets it with a smile. “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. Come, sit, sit. You want to know what kind of company got me home, right?”

He gestures towards the empty chair. Merethel narrows his eyes and remains standing. The two other siblings also look at Gavrill in anticipation. His open mouth runs dry.

Helvetia Ltd. A private military contractor working for an R&D consultation firm funded by the G20. A company of hounds with global reach and infinite pay. A company that operates in the dark, hidden between the lines of conspiracy theories.

“A big company,” Gavrill finally decides. “Powerful, obviously, and they know I’m innocent, so they got me out. In exchange, I get a job right out of prison. And I get to be with all of you again!”

Merethel switches to Ingush, making sure his father understands him. “Very descriptive, daa.”

He storms off to the siblings’ shared bedroom. Hrodwyn reaches for him. Gavrill sighs and waves for them to stop. The bedroom door slams shut, and the two remaining siblings are left to contemplate their father’s response. They swallow it with lunch.

Soon, Hygd’s eyes creep to Merethel’s half-eaten stew, then to the hallway he vanished off to. She slides off her seat and picks up his stew with both hands.

“He still needs to eat.”

Her small feet shuffle down the hallway. Once she disappears around the corner, Gavrill deflates, burying his head in his hands. Hrodwyn stirs their stew.

“Are you not going to tell them anything?

Gavrill sighs as he picks himself back up. “I’m not going to tell any of you anything you don’t need to know.”

Hrodwyn leans towards him. “Daa, you can tell me. I’m an adult now. I can take it.”

He looks at his child, the bags beneath their eyes, and shakes his head. “It’s fine, really. It’s a good job with good pay. Contract-based, so I’ll be home most days. Don’t worry about it.”

Hrodwyn’s voice is quiet, fraught. “Then at least tell me you know who framed you. Were they caught?”

“No. And I don’t know who or where they are.”

“What? Then how does the company know you’re innocent? Did they reopen the case?”

“I don’t know.”

Gavrill continues eating his stew with downcast eyes. Hrodwyn stares at him. “Why aren’t you worried? That guy is still out there. What if you get framed again?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“It’s fine. Trust me.”

“Did the company tell you something?”

Gavrill closes his eyes and sighs. “Look. When I got arrested, the court said that they were going to lock me up until they found the real culprit. Ten years passed. No one figured it out. They’ve all moved on from that and I’ve moved on from that, too. I’m just glad I got out in the first place. That’s all.”

Hrodwyn is quiet for some time. “Will you tell me why you got hired? Is it because of something you did in Ingushetia?”

Gavrill stops eating. “What makes you think that?”

“I remember how you fought against Russians. I remember how mama died. It’s why we moved here, isn’t it? And now you have this strange job you don’t want to tell us about—”

A rap on the door interrupts them. Gavrill, relieved, quickly leaves the table. He peeks through the blinds, frowns, and cracks the door open. Wind cuts into his face. He looks down. A large package sits atop fresh snow. Its only identification is a tag taped onto it: “HROTHGAR”. The name his wife once gave him. The name he now gave Helvetia. Footprints trail away from the package to the road where it meets fresh tire tracks. No vehicle is in sight.

He scowls. He grabs the package, dusts snow off, slams the door shut, and locks it. Before Hrodwyn can see it, he rips off the tag and shreds it, pocketing the strips.

“Do you need help with it?” Hrodwyn tilts their head. “It looks big.”

“No, it’s fine. I think it’s from work. Do you have a cutter?” 

Hrodwyn hands him a pair of scissors. He carries the package and the scissors into his bedroom and closes the door. Large luggages and old boxes are spread across the floor. Their contents, the salvaged pieces of a happier life once lived, have yet to be organised into wardrobes, sorted into shelves, or fitted into photo frames. Gavrill has no time or energy to. They’re not his children’s — they aren’t as important.

Gavrill pushes the luggages and boxes aside with his foot. He drops the package in the space he made. He sits on the floor, raises his hand, and plunges the scissors into cardboard.

—

The package contains Gavrill’s uniform: a three-piece navy suit with a golden tie and a pair of black oxfords, and a durable coat designed for urban environments. The suit feels too expensive to bend his arms in. He tries wearing it without creasing the fabric. It takes a long time — long enough for his two children to knock on his door: Hrodwyn who stared in confusion, and Hygd who brimmed in awe.

By then, Gavrill still had not worn the entire uniform — he had forgotten how to tie a tie. He could count the number of times he has done it in his life on his hands, with all but one count being for court hearings. So Hygd gets to work. She pulls her father out into the living room and opens a YouTube tutorial. Time passes. Hrodwyn’s and Hygd’s fussing grows louder without them coming any closer to their goal. Their commotion annoys Merethel enough for him to bring out his own tie for a snarky demonstration. Soon, all three siblings end up circling their father for final touches: fitting the golden tie, tightening the vest, and smoothening the suit as Gavrill stands stiff like a Christmas tree.

When they’ve finished, Hygd steps back to look at her father like a panel judge. She watches Hrodwyn attach the final piece: Helvetia’ lapel pin bearing a cross in a shield. Hrodwyn steps back to join their sister. Gavrill remains frozen in place.

“I feel so embarrassed.”

“Why?” Hygd grins. “You look cool!”

“Do I?” he looks at his other two children with an uncertain but small smile. My daughter called me cool.

"You look… expensive. Very expensive," Hrodwyn gazes at the suit's double vents, the trousers cut to the curve of Gavrill’s legs, and the hand-stitched buttons. "How much did this cost, daa?"

"More than the suit I rented for my own wedding, that's for sure,” he grumbles. In a clearer tone, "I don't know. The company covered it. But what looks wrong?"

"You don't look comfortable in it. It shows.”

"When was the last time you combed your hair?” Merethel adds. “Or got a haircut?"

Gavrill grimaces. "I didn’t need to touch a comb or cut my hair back there. I only trimmed it now and then. Is it that bad?”

Merethel is quick. “Yes.”

Hygd punches his arm.

“It’s not that bad,” Hrodwyn taps their chin, “but if you did something to your hair, you can look more professional.”

"Oh! Wait, daa, sit, sit," Hygd drags her father to the couch and forces him to sit. She crawls behind him, kneels, and gently combs through his lightly greying hair with her fingers. A spare yellow hair tie comes off her wrist. She bunches his hair together. "Too tight?"

He shakes his head. "What are you doing?"

"Tying a bun," she does so expertly with a quick twist, then jumps off the couch to look at him. She grins at the team effort. “Daa! You look like a thousand bucks! Here, here.”

She grabs her father’s hand, which squeezes hers in return, and leads him into the siblings’ bedroom. Hrodwyn and Merethel follow behind. She turns on the lights and pulls him in front of the chipped mirror mounted on the wardrobe door. “What do you think, daa?”

Gavrill stares at his reflection. His smile dissolves. He doesn’t recognise himself. He only recognises Agent Hrothgar, Helvetia’s newly hired murderer, wrapped in a gallant lie of navy blue as he stands in the bedroom of children. 

Hygd smiles brightly. “So..?”

Hrodwyn notices his stare. “What’s wrong, daa?”

If he doesn’t recognise himself, will his children recognise him? After a job that hails bullets and shrapnels at his body and his mind, after he returns too splintered to shield them from the truth, will they recognise him as their father? He can try to convince them. He can try to be the best father he can be to erase the decade when he wasn’t. He can try to pretend that he’ll never leave them again, that he’ll always be there for them, that he’ll cut himself wrapping his splinters to hold them tight and never let them shatter into pieces again—

—Our children are smart. You can only do so much to protect them, Gav. How would you rather them find out? Her smile would sadden. With a voice full of conviction, she would say: —Don’t you have enough regrets?

Gavrill looks away from his reflection. His eyes drift to his children.

“You need to know about my job. Can we talk?”

Gavrill sits on Merethel’s bed, next to Hrodwyn’s and Hygd’s bunk bed. He pats his side. The siblings, surprised by his directness, move to sit next to him.

He twiddles his thumbs. "This job I have, it's... dangerous.  The company is even more dangerous. They have a lot of power, a lot of money,” he tugs at his three-piece suit. “They were able to pay my bail and hire me out of, well, you know, in exchange for my… skills. And I—” he hesitates, “I can’t leave unless…"

“You die,” Hrodwyn states.

Gavrill pauses, then nods. Their delivery stings. 

The room falls silent. Hygd curls into a ball. Merethel tries masking his nerves.

"Ah, well, it's like, uh, working for the military then, right? There's always a high chance of death, and it's a risk some people with families take."

Gavrill’s voice is soft, defeated. "I'm sorry."

“It’s fine. It’s… whatever,” Merethel looks away. “It’s not like you’ve never been gone before.”

Gavrill winces and opens his mouth. Hrodwyn interrupts him. “Don’t apologise. You had no choice and you did what you had to do. They were never going to reopen your case. There will never be another option for you besides this one.”

Gavrill hates how he sees himself in his child’s placid eyes.

"What should we know about the job?” Hrodwyn continues. “What do we have to do?"

"I'll be here until the company calls me. Whatever they tell me to do, no matter how dangerous, I must follow. The company also has enemies. Keep the blinds closed, don’t let strangers in, never enter the house when someone’s watching, and always tell each other where you are, hmm?" he raises his phone. "If something’s wrong, call me or Auntie. Don't let anyone in the house. You still have Auntie’s phone number, yes?"

The children nod.

“Good. And lastly,” he voice softens and he wraps his arms around his children, "don't worry about me. I will always do my best to come home to you. I may get hurt, but I will always come home. Okay? My fight is to go back home to you, no matter what."

He pulls them in closer. The cracks between them remain but in this moment, the family is whole.

"I am here now. And I swear by my last dying breath, I will never, ever, let anything take us apart again."

Hygd picks her head up from her tucked knees. “Promise?”

Gavrill hooks his pinky with all his children’s and smiles. He cuts himself with his words and hopes it never heals.

“I promise.”

---

First | Next About the Flight | List of Stories

[pearl-d1ver]

writing prompts <3

write a story with a set of 3 elements! I know this trend went around a while ago, but I love these prompts so I thought I’d make one! (feel free to mix and match!)

1. a secret passage, old text, a forced choice

2. a lie, fresh flowers, the breeze

3. neon lights, a quiet car, a tube of bright lipstick

4. a dated photo, high heels, noisy upstairs neighbors

5. a locked door, smoke, a full moon

6. identical twins, snow, white and red

7. a crackling fire, herbal tea, a secret

8. waist deep water, the end of summer, something lost

9. a drive in movie, blood, a discarded pair of shoes

10. an unconventional plan, waking up before dawn, a barking dog

hope these inspire someone, happy writing <3

[rewcana]

new substack is up!!

it's a short fiction story this time

[scorndotexe]

i often write about weird romances or at least romantic adjacent relationships but i truly never know how to end them. a murder suicide doesn't always work. but they can't leave each other and they can't stay together.

[snickerdoodlles]

regarding posting extra fic content that is not fic, but being worried about notifications... i have no idea how user subscriptions for pseuds work on AO3, but would it be a viable option to post those extra things under a pseud and then you can make it a related work to the fic in question?

it doesn't work! :( anyone who's subscribed to my main 'snickerdoodlles' username will get notifications for everything i post on AO3 that isn't anonymous because the pseuds still tie back to it. which is actually really convenient for me in every other case, but ajkfdjh.

right now i'm mostly considering building up a queue of tumblr posts that i'd want to copy over to AO3, then making a specific story post that's in my anon collection as i move stuff over. i can link all the story stuff together in the fics themselves, then take them out of the anon collection after i've finished uploading everything so that it's just one email notification at the end. my only hesitation rn is that moving a bunch of stuff over sounds very boring and i'm procrastinating it lol, but that's the only method i can think of atm that won't drive me completely nuts? i also don't really want anyone getting AO3 notifications from me to become associated with "not fic" either oof, i will cry if that happens 😂

[voices-in-dark-violets-head]

Pouncing Shadow

-----

"I'm setting off to see my boyfriend!"

The words taste sweet and spicy on your lips, and you can't help but grin as you climb into the little boat, the cats ready at the oars.

Do others know the full extent of your meaning, you wonder?

The palicoes? Ah, who can tell? They're happy enough to integrate with civilization if it gets them a big fish at the end of the day, and their food is to die for, if you can mind the odd hairball.

The hunters guild... perhaps. There's banter and jokes aplenty around the dango counter, a reduction of your work to casual terms and easy-going euphemisms, to the point that 'boyfriend' could mean anything - but you know that more than a couple take nighttime excursions to the flooded forest only to return supposedly empty-handed, and that's not even considering those that sprint off with their Palamutes after every hunt...

The questgivers? ...They had exotic tastes. You'd given more than one married woman directions to a Khezu in your time...

But - as you step onto the lush grasses of the old shrine, and leave your feline oarsmen behind the dense treeline - you wonder about what he knows...

It's not hard to track the gouges of claws in the earth, the ripped branches from trees. The ground rumbles with an echoing rrrrrrowwwwlll as you clamber over moss-covered walls, half-fallen and swallowed by bushes. So, it's not long before...

SLAM. Your head rings, sparks dancing in your eyes, and you're briefly disorientated until the paw pulls away from your head. The last few moments are missing from your memory, and you're gradually, staccato-like, reaquainted with the mud under your cheek, the warm air rolling from above you, the shaft buried inside your rear, sparking waves of aching, painful pleasure...

Nargacuga are relentless. Territorial. Envious. Proud, too - and you've learnt to lie down, grit your teeth, and let your moans be drowned out by his ground-trembling snarls. You let him indulge in your body, and delight in how he carves tree roots in twain like they were twigs, as he fights to force every inch he can inside your warm walls. The last thing that interrupted him was a Great Izuchi, and the crater-like crack in the nearby cliff is still visible, still stained.

You grab pawfuls of grass, warm pre running like a river down the inside of your thighs. And the thought once again rises to the top of the blurred mix of pleasure and pain in your head.

How much does he know...?

He no longer attempts to fight you. You don't need a stinkmink to lure him where you want him, nor a kunai on hand in case his hungers drift...

But does he know what a boyfriend even is? Does he know you as a hunter, see this is a rare reaching across a battleline? Does he see you as a mate, and desires to claim you as such? Or is he merely a beast, a monster - indulging in a warm, fluffy body he can throw to the ground and use...

And honestly...

You're not sure which you find hottest.

[fraglance]

[kissedbyghosts]

In Silent Depths

The way was steep, descending in tight shafts through sedimentary layers into the pulse-haunted quietude of dark spaces below. I hammered my anchors and tested the protection before rappelling deeper. As the rope spiraled away like a thin snake into the aphotic throat of silence, I lowered myself down. My lantern glowed amber, creating a thin blister of light around me that swayed with each movement. Precariously, I dropped further into the depths. I was squeezed through a maze of tunnels, down broad fissures, and out of claustrophobic cracks into wet chambers. Limestone, gypsum, and dolomite took strange liquous forms, carved as they were by the slow flow of water over time. Occasionally, when I raised my lantern, strange fossils and ancient relics would cast worrisome shadows amid the looming stalactites and stalagmites. As my footfalls echoed into the shadowed stillness the warm glow of my little lantern was my dearest companion. In a place that dark and isolated, time passes differently. Without the Sun and Moon to pull one through their days, time vanishes into a permanent Night in which the only stars are phosphene flashes in the optic nerve, the false lights of the so-called “Prisoner’s Cinema”. But I was no captive here. I had come in search of something. Something lost. Something precious. After several cycles of resting and moving (what day was it?) I reached at last a vast chamber hollowed out long ago by heat and pressure into a natural cathedral. My lantern sent waves of light shimmering through a sea of dancing refraction. I shivered in the vaulted womb and listened to the sound of my breath. Eventually, I found it: a low mound of dirt on a bald island in the center of the prismatic chamber.

Though tired and sore, my heart fluttered in anticipation. I set down my pack, adjusted my lantern, and set to work with my shovel. How long I labored there in that crystalline abyss I cannot say. My face dripped sweat and strained muscles weakened as exhaustion set in. On I went, giving myself fully to the task, until at last I uncovered a feminine form beneath the moist soil of that secret place. I was struck with a sudden fear, and for a moment, I was frozen. I could hear the subtle sound of slow moving-water as I set to using my hands to clear away the dirt. It was then that I saw her face. How long had she lain there? Gingerly, I wiped the mud from her eyes, my hands gently clearing the muck from her cheeks and brow. When she opened her eyes I saw myself in them, and taking her into my arms, we wept. When at last she would emerge into sunlight, it would be without me. My body slid neatly into the impression. As I lay motionless in the mucky indentation, I closed my eyes. “I love you,” I said. “I know,” she spoke softly. I smiled as I felt each shovelful of earth add its weight upon my body. It was strangely comforting. Finally, I could rest. I closed my eyes and dreamt of her. © JM Tiffany 2024

[pawseds]

愛してる • Aishiteru

In which "Snakebite", runaway teen by circumstance turned yakuza information broker, sneaks into his mother Hibara's house. He leaves her money, as he does every month. She grabs onto the ghost of his presence and searches for him, as she does every month. She is running to the door, crying for him to return. He listens from outside, knowing he can't for her safety.

[325 words, characters belong to @mintrhine]

Snakebite closes his eyes. The months with Kensuke have reminded him of not only what home felt like, but how much he missed it.

Is that how you feel, ma?

He forces himself to listen. He forces himself to listens to the punishing call for the little boy who has run too far in a game of tag, the desperate cry for the young man who has run too far to ever return.

Is this what I have done to you?

He can't blame her for still chasing after him, or for thinking nothing has changed. After all, the last memory he gave was one of young eyes and dark hair she shielded her whole life. It was that little boy's fragile innocence she guarded from the closed doors where he was born; the closed doors of rough nights and rougher hands, where men bruised her dignity in secret to uphold their own in public.

She doesn't know better than to stop. He can't blame her, either. She has spent 15 years doing nothing but protecting him -- now it was all she knew to do. But her little boy has grown, whether either of them liked it or not; the little boy has always known what his mother did behind those closed doors; and that little boy has changed because of it, whether for better or for worse.

But if it takes Snakebite's guilt and his mother's broken heart to finally open a new door for her, then so be it.

It's my turn to protect you now, ma. I'm sorry.

And he knows that there is only room for one beyond that door.

I don't regret anything. I don't want to regret anything. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

The door opens. Hibara runs out into the night. Her son is not there. She is too late. Only his shadow remains as a piece of paper lying at her feet.

大好き いつも、ありがとう 愛してる

---

I offered @mintrhine, one of the Helvetia players, to help write his NPC Yamasaki "Snakebite" Ryumi from the background of his PC Tatsu/Kensuke in a play-by-post/open roleplay kind of situation. This is an unedited segment of what I've written for that! I thought it'll be nice to explore this aspect of him to add another dimension to him.

As evidenced by my writing project @sparrow-flight, I treat these as writing practice and I kinda put my braincells into this part that reads like a tiny character sketch/exploration, so why not put it up here? I should put up more writing here, anyway, even if they're nothing too neat but short and sweet! I think the door metaphor that mirrors reality is alright, and I also like the last paragraph full of puns. Double meanings brr (I wrote this while walking home from a midterm and then squatting in my bedroom)

I also tried putting 3 different levels of saying 'I love you' in Japanese in increasing order of meaningfulness/intensity? I don't speak the language so feel free to let me know if it doesn't work!