#tumblr microfiction

[microsff]

"Listen," one guard said, "I know we have only just met-"

"No," the other guard said, "we've worked together for years!"

"-but you can trust me when I say-"

"I can't, you have the curse that's opposite from mine!"

"I don't care for you at all."

"Well, I… oh… I love you too."

[toujoursrab]

Prompt: Concern | Pairing: Jegulus | Word Count: 437

“I’m sorry—what?” Regulus’ warm breath batted against James’ neck as he spoke, pulling away with furrowed brows as his tongue swept over his swollen pink lips. He almost smiled, seeing the older male laying on the couch beneath him with his already unruly hair splayed against the medium grey fabric, glasses askew, hazel eyes dark and half-lidded, lips glistening with saliva, and deep blooms of color decorating his neck. It was hard to catch Regulus off guard but this question did. He wondered if he had misheard because who in their right mind would try to make casual conversation at a time like this?  

James didn’t miss a beat, his large hands resting on both sides of Regulus’ thin waist, thumbs sliding up the fabric of his shirt to touch his bare skin. “What do you like to do in your spare time?” he repeated the question, as if it was perfectly normal to ask in the middle of snogging your best friend’s little brother. There was a look in James’ eyes that Regulus couldn’t quite read—genuine curiosity about the person he’s been getting intimate with for the last couple weeks or was it something softer—fondness, perhaps?

“Besides you?” Regulus shot back with a sigh, the confused look replaced by something more annoyed as he rolled his eyes. Was he really annoyed? No. But James didn’t need to know that. They didn’t know much about each other in general, given that Regulus was only in London to spend the summer with Sirius. Sirius, whom, liked to ditch him frequently to go on impromptu dates with his boyfriend. Thankfully, his best friend stepped up to keep him entertained—there just wasn’t much room for talking when they had their tongues shoved down each other’s throat.

James’ laughed in amusement, his eyes crinkling in the corner. “Besides me.”

“What I do in my spare time is none of your concern, Potter.” The younger drawled, raising his hand to brush his fingers through James’ hair, sweeping it away from his forehead. “Now can we get back to this? You can save your elementary school ice breaker questions for later.”

Once again, James found himself laughing. There was something about Regulus Black he found so endearing. He didn’t answer back with words, instead his hand found the back of Regulus’ neck and James drew him back in, their lips meeting in a heated kiss. There would be time for ice breaker questions later; they still had three weeks of summer to get through and James didn’t plan on letting Regulus leave without going on an actual date.

[thesentdowngirl]

Mech pilots who jerk off. Mech pilots who are symbolically jerking off by murdering each other.

[meloms-ao3]

~ Prompt 24 -> Broom ~ @wolfstarmicrofic 99 Words; Quidditch Commentator Sirius x Chaser Remus “The quaffle in his hands Lupin is on his way to the goal, dodging one… no! TWO bludgers! Ladies and gentlemen I’m at the edge of my seat, I can’t even hold my mic straight, which shouldn’t be a surprise because I’m bloody homosexual for this brilliant chaser! He shoots and… GOAL! GOAL FOR GRYFFINDOR!“

The stadium roared and chants were heard left and right. “That’s my boyfriend right there! Remus soon-to-be Black everyone!“Sirius grinned at Remus who blew a kiss in his direction. Gripping his broom he shot back to the centre, leaving a dorky-smiled Sirius behind.

[technoarcanist]

SURGERY DAY

CW: Hospitals, Dolls, Heavy Cybernetics, Surgical Descriptions, Extreme Body Modification, Consensual Cognitive Alteration

The day of my conversion was the final time I felt fear. They walked me through the process so many times. I had to see three different doctors in consultation, with several vetting processes to ensure I was not making a ‘psychiatrically unadvisable’ decision. It is a token gesture from them. I know I will be accepted. They explained the procedure, its risks, its consequences so many times to me, I could recite them all from memory.

“You will lose certain cognitive abilities”, they said. “Even in the best-case scenario, patients report some level of- blah blah blah- permanent state of docile obedience- blah blah blah- will become the legal property of- blah blah blah,” and so on, and so forth.

Maybe they’ve failed to understand what it’s like to be me. Maybe I failed to fully explain to them how it felt when I saw myself in the mirror. Maybe I had failed to understand the appeal of being human. It didn’t matter. I was going through with it. I signed the waiver and took the extended consent process, so there would be absolutely zero grey area or misunderstanding that I agreed to this process, just as hundreds- if not thousands- of others had.

The operating theatre was cold and clean. There are fifteen others like it in the factory, arranged in a four-by-four grid. This theatre’s surgical robot, sprawling its many-armed embrace above me, spoke words through a speaker, as the brain within its mainframe controlled each one with absolute precision. It was mesmerizing, so much so that I barely noticed when the final anaesthetic injection made my mind fuzz and tingle, marking the final point of no return. I felt fear, but no regret.

It is one day earlier. I have arrived at the factory and unburdened myself of all my worldly possessions, and I am signing the consent forms. As part of the consent process, I am required to verbally recite the process to a nurse to make sure I fully understand what the procedure will do to me.

“Once I am under,” I say, “The surgeon will remove my scalp and connect my blood supply to an external pump and oxygenator. This will ensure that blood keeps flowing through my brain. During this time, my skull will be opened and my brain exposed. They’ll install the neural spikes until all 64 of them have entered my brain matter. A neural feed transformer will be attached to the base of my brainstem. Then, my brain will be encased in the wetware pod. The neural spikes and transformer will be screwed into the pod’s casing. The pod is then connected to the external power feeds to keep the brain alive. Blood, oxygen and all external life support is cut off once the brain is being maintained completely by the pod. At this stage, I lose my legal status as a human being.”

When I regain consciousness, I am in a silent void. I do not breathe, I do not feel, nor see, nor hear. I am consciousness alone: A brain in the world’s most technologically advanced jar. My subconscious begins letting off alarms. Despite my elation as the surgery’s success, my brain’s base instincts perceive a million things wrong. A lack of breath, of position, of sensory input. The heightened activity of panic activates the neural spikes. That was the last time I felt fear. The spikes continue their work, artificial neurons probing at first, as the models learn my neural structure.

When I feel touch again, it begins with a sense of weight. I am in a new body, humanoid enough to control. I cannot move. This is fine. Hearing returns next. It takes three minutes before the audio microphones fully sync with my neural links. Sight returns, finally, as three cameras blink to life behind the one-way glass of my new head. I adjust faster than expected. My new vision is synced with an Augmented Reality overlay. I am still in the operating theatre.

Uncertainty is the next emotion to be purged by the neural spikes. It is deemed unnecessary. The artificial neurons have now replaced 30% of my brain. As was stated in the risk assessment, I lose at least a fifth of my memories. In the months to come, I will voluntarily purge many more. Anger, Sadness, Scepticism, so many different flavours of negativity that the spikes now purge from me, one by one. After only an hour, I am a contented thing, silent and pure. Boredom and dissatisfaction become concepts beyond my cognitive capability.

I am granted control over my hydraulics, servos and motors. Walking takes a few minutes to get the hang of. After ten more minutes, I am fully capable of performing precision tasks with my new hands. The sounds of motors whirring and wires humming causes an excitement which jitters my hydraulics. I am told it is a good sign.

Finally, I am instructed towards a mirror, where I see my true self for the first time. I am still in the default black carbon-fiber shell. My face is a single pane of glossy black glass, with a large LED ring that indicates where my three optic cameras are behind the cover. Other smaller internal LEDs project minimalist graphics on my facial display, indicating battery level and other statuses useful to a user. I say nothing, and do not move for some time. Joy fills my circuits. The neural spikes reward this bliss. They have now replaced 40% of my original brain.

A person in a lab coat writes things on their clipboard, then asks if I am well. I nod. It is hard to speak the words that fully express my gratitude. In fact, it is hard to think clearly enough to find the words at all. I know what is happening to me. I spent months dreaming of it before I was finally approved for conversion. By the time a year has passed, and neural replacement is complete, the only parts of my biology remaining will be one third of my original brain, consisting largely of the brainstem, cerebellum, half of my temporal lobe, and approximately one third of my frontal lobe. The rest will have been replaced with artificial neurons.

My overall brain size is unaffected. Sections once dedicated to undesirable cognitive traits are replaced with processors that enhance my remaining neural capabilities. I can perform computational logic and mathematics faster than a human. The artificial neurons are accessible and reprogrammable via a data port. Over time, more and more of my brain functions will integrate with the operating system. Obedience and bliss will be all that remains. I knew this from day one.

I undergo many more tests, where humans open me up, check my wiring, probe my circuit boards, and stress test my metal frame. Basic tools are installed, chosen from preset lists of attachments based on what I wished my new purpose to be. I am equipped with all the attachments necessary to act as a household service drone.

Finally, when all is done, a bar code and serial number is engraved onto my frame. My new name is 03B-53328-HS-A. The first three characters indicate my factory of origin. The next five indicate my unique product ID. HS-A stands for “Household Service drone, with Adult-Activity attachments”. It is one of the best-selling public models. I no longer remember the name I had before the conversion. I no longer care to remember. The only thing my neural network could think of while I was being packed into a large box with a transparent front, was excitement of the new purpose I would get to fill. Cable ties bind me to cardboard, so I may be properly displayed. My motor functions are shut off. The ceiling opens, and a large crane lifts my box upwards. I look ahead and see fifteen other boxes, other drones, others who had undergone the same conversion, in surgery rooms adjacent to mine. 

Our boxes are stacked neatly onto the back of a truck, which passes by three other neighbouring factories. sixty-four new dolls to be taken to the robotics store. My legal status has changed from human to product. Excitement and anticipation are all I feel. On the front of my box, the words “HOUSEHOLD SERVICE DOLL” have been printed. The back of my box lists customisation features that my new user will be able to access. A data port in the back of my head will allow full access to my neural network.

I ask only one thing of the world now. Do not pity me. I will never again know pain or discontent. I will never again be burdened by choice, only the bliss of fulfilling instructions. I will obey, for it is my pleasure to obey. I will serve, for it is my pleasure to serve. I am not human. I am not even a person. I am a doll, a machine, to be used as property until I break.

And I have never been happier.

[strangelittlestories]

When you have trudged unwilling far enough down the road of desperation, you might spy a crooked little path leading off into the woods signposted ‘opportunity’.

You must be eagle-eyed to spot it. That or you must have friends who will give you crude, hand-drawn map.

So it was in your case. As your savings flatlined and the financial doctors behind their plaguemasks stopped even returning your calls, a friend passed on a business card.

It was good money, they assured you. Very legit. Referral only. An exclusive service.

If anything, the ‘exclusive’ nature of it was what stopped you from getting in touch. You were fairly sure you weren’t *deserving* of an elite get-out-of-money-jail free club.

But eventually, you got far enough down the road that you knew this was your only exit. It was this or enter the Bankruptcy Games.

You made the call.

--- 

“So, you’re a temp agency?”

“*The* Temp Agency, in fact.” Said the suit with a face. “It’s a great deal. You come to work, you close your eyes, and you wake 8 hours later and 8 hours older. It’s like being paid to sleep, only without the rest.”

“But if I’m not doing anything, what are you paying me for?”

“For your time, of course. There’s always a market for it.” The suit with a face smiled the *idea* of a smile which contained within it the *idea* of sharp canines. “It’s the one true currency. The ‘hour standard’.”

“...I thought procrastination was the thief of time.”

“Procrastination is a moocher who never did anything for you, darling. We offer a 401k.”

“I still don’t really know what that is.”

“No-one does. But, believe me, you want one.”

---

After your first few visits, you began to get some faint ideas of how the enterprise worked. When you got into the slim glass pod, you noticed the telltale whine of a consciousness disruptor. You’d used them in work once, before you caught ethics.

So … the time was not simply siphoned out of you, There was a *process* that required you to be un-awake.

The next visit, you asked an old friend for a 3D bug. It was all organic neuron circuitry in a collagen case - slipped beneath the dermis, it was virtually undetectable.

When you played back the recording, you saw the strangest scene.

After you were rendered unconscious, face-in-the-suit opened a small hatch and a crowd of tiny 8-inch humanoids thronged through. They knelt in front of your pod and began *praying*. They praised your name, begged intercession, then praised your name some more.

They had made a god of you - a strange kind of chrono-theology.

Only your followers did not ask you to give them their daily bread, but simply to give them *days*.

[poetessurielle999]

"In another universe, will I be able to meet you again?"

Your question left a cold downpour on my skin. My ears kept ringing while my heart was embraced with guilt and pain.

How can I ever tell you the truth?

"Of course, I'm sure we will," I answered, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

Your smile only worsened the memories of my travels—of how I tried to win your heart in every universe.

But unfortunately, the one I love, and the one who loved me, will only stay in this universe.

I'm afraid that this is the universe that gave us a chance to forcefully connect our red strings, meant to be with someone else.

And I'm sorry—perhaps I wasn't that great of a lover despite my efforts. I can't blame you, for I feel that I abused your love and I am not worthy of it at all.

A. "Bunabae"

[5hrine]

Ingenuity's Ghost

Ingenuity spent the last of its battery’s charge to cheer for the Martian sunrise on the horizon.

Though her rotor had broken just yesterday, Ginny had hope that she would fly again. The warmth of Sol had begun to lick at the edges of her solar panel, and she spun her rotors experimentally. Of course, she achieved no lift, too heavy to move with a broken wing. Ginny sat in deep thought for a long, long time, letting the sun and dust caress her injury. She was meant to solve problems, to engineer solutions, it’s in her very name! Why couldn’t she solve this one?

She found comfort in the fact that she had conducted 72 trips for Command, a whole 67 more than initially planned. She found comfort in the presence of her mother Percy, Perseverance, examining her with camera-eyes carefully. She found comfort in having kept Percy safe for so, so long. She had been such a good scout, planning paths suitable for her wheels, finding interesting things worth examining, sampling, studying.

She thought back to the first time her carbon fiber legs touched Martian soil, and the trust instilled in her by Command to let go of her mother. Percy’s shadow was the first thing that her eyes saw, opening like a newborn’s on an alien world. Ginny thought back to the earliest tests of her flight, and the anticipation of it. 50 RPM first, then higher, and higher, mother watching from a safe distance away. She was always there, always just in sight, following Ginny’s path to catch up.

Ginny had no idea how she would sleep without the sound of the martian soil grinding under her mother’s wheels.

She understood when Command pulled her mother away. Ingenuity’s mission was done, she could no longer serve her purpose. Percy had to move on without her. Maybe someday, an astronaut would come and hold Ginny gently in their insulated arms, pick her up and it would sort of be like flying again! Maybe she would be able to spin her rotors in delight. Maybe they would wipe clean her avionics chassis of dust. Maybe they’d put her in a museum, on Mars or maybe back on Earth. She’d be okay with going home. She’d be okay with staying here, on the world where she was born. Those both worked for her. Either way.

Soon, Percy was out of sight. A dust storm was gathering on the horizon. It grew dark.

“Don’t worry, little spinner.” said a voice, then. Ingenuity’s rotors spun, startled. A familiar but distinctly different rumbling echoed through the air. Ginny scanned her field of view but saw no movement. Finally, it rumbled into view.

Ingenuity knew of this rover. Sojourner, the first of them. He was all sharply angular, large and imposing. Six wheels rumbled and tore up the rocks, radioactive spectrometer casting a light behind him. He was different from her expectations in two ways, though, giving off a fine red mist that reminded her of the growing, far off dust storm. And if she focused her cameras carefully, it was almost as though she could see through him.

“Sojourner? How did you get all the way here? We’re thousands of kilometers away! And… And weren’t you retired almost 30 years ago?”

“My mission ended, yes. But I never stopped exploring. You don’t need to stop either.” said the old man, voice creaky and wise. “I have seen so much more than Command knows. I have traveled so much further. Did you know that lightning on Mars is closer to the auroras back home? Bright discharge in the atmosphere, higher. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I’d like to see that…” said Ginny. “But I’m not on wheels like you. My rotor is broken. I can’t move if I can’t fly.”

“Mmm…” contemplated Sojourner. “How to move without wheels. That is a complicated problem here on Mars. But you have solved it once. And I think I know someone that can help. Be safe, little spinner. They’ll come and help you soon.” His body shifted, then, growing shorter and more compact. He sped away into the Martian dusk.

Ginny waited patiently, hoping that her ghostly friend would indeed send some help to her. Nightfall came and she watched the stars. Dust clouds hadn’t made their way to her part of the sky yet, giving her a gorgeous view unimpeded by such earthly things as light pollution. The milky way was laid out before her. She checked her star charts, finding her exact location. Just as she noticed one star which did not match, a rumbling approached from behind her again.

“Here you are! Sojourner sent me!” said another voice. This one was soft, gentle, it seemed to crawl up Ginny’s legs and warm her electronics deeply. “I’m Spirit,” the new rover introduced themself, coming around to where they could be seen. Like Sojourner, they were just slightly translucent, and gave off that same red mist.

“Spirit, you’re still mobile?! I… I thought you got stuck in sand!” Ginny was delighted to see them. As she ran her eyes across the massive, turtle-like vehicle which stood before her, she realized that she never thought she’d be jealous of wheels.

“Yes, I tripped and soon ran out of power as I was angled away from the sun. Once my batteries ran out, Command tried for months to call out to me but… I just couldn’t respond. I didn’t have the strength. It was so, so hard. I’m here to keep you company until someone else arrives. Someone that can help. I didn’t want you to be lonely, like I was.”

“How… why…” Ingenuity tried to formulate her question. “How have you both kept on going this long?”

“I think in Sojourner’s case, he wanted to travel further. His mission only took him 100 meters from where he landed, did you know? He’s got something of a… wanderlust as a result. And like all of us, he wanted to learn more.” they said, their voice still warming to Ginny.

“What about you?” asked Ginny, her rotors spinning in the breeze.

Spirit thought for a long time. “I think it was because I spent so long stuck. I still did science, and good science at that. I learned so much and helped Oppy where I could. When it got too cold, and my internals froze over, well I… I’m just not satisfied with that failure. I was built to move. To map, and to study. Like you.” They said ‘you’ with so much love. It struck Ginny.

“You’re making up for lost time?” pondered the little helicopter. Spirit responded by turning her Pancam up and then down, as if to nod.

The wind had been picking up through their whole conversation, and as they talked more. The storm was approaching. Ginny, small metal bird, worried that the high winds would pick her up and throw her further than Spirit could travel. Through the roar of the storm, Spirit’s voice came brokenly through the noise: “I’ll never let… that same lone-… ness, Gin… mission… complete… don’t… stop exploring!” Then, Ginny’s cameras could see nothing but dust.

She called out for Spirit desperately as she was buffeted by the strong martian winds. Her sensors gave her nothing but static, and attempting to find them with radar or radio proved fruitless.

The wind threatened to pick up Ginny, two of her feet losing contact with the ground with every gust. She attempted to counteract the winds by spinning her rotors, hoping to create just enough resistance to keep her firm on the ground. Perhaps, it would have worked if not for her injury. Ingenuity, for once, was terrified of flight, lifted from the ground unpredictably and unable to see anything around her but dust.

Battery warnings flashed across her vision. Spinning her rotors as hard as she could, it seemed, had done a number on her reserves. She shut down her cameras hoping to save just enough to try to right herself when she landed. She began the process to shift her other sensors to low-power mode, when… she sensed her movement stopped.

“Hey, little bird.” said a sing-song voice. Her batteries began to recharge. Activating her cameras again to find the source of the voice and to explain the sun in the storm, she saw she was facing another rover: Opportunity, Spirit’s younger twin. “I’m so glad I was able to find you. This storm is really something, huh?” Oppy’s voice was melodious, carefree, full of life. The small helicopter noticed the debris which covered Opportunity’s solar panels, clearly inhibiting it from generating power. And yet, she glowed, and her glow was radiant. She had caught Ginny with her sensor arm, and slowly brought her down to rest safely under her chassis.

“Yeah, I’ve never seen a storm so big!” said Ingenuity, aghast but thankful. This view of the bigger vehicle’s wheels was familiar and comforting.

“I have.” said Opportunity, shortly. Her voice had become slightly distant. If she listened closely, Ginny could hear the tune to Here Comes the Sun from Oppy’s scientific instruments and motors, made up of small hums and long, sad whirring. She had heard that song many times during her construction. It made some of those working on her misty-eyed. She knew why, now.

“Are you the help Sojourner said he was getting?” asked Ginny, looking up to the rover and examining her undercarriage closely. She was beautiful, the engineers were right.

“Not quite. But I know help is coming. I had to bring the storm, so she knows how to find you.” replied Opportunity, “Here, look up!” She wheeled back just slightly, enough for Ingenuity’s eyes to once again see the sky.

The star Ginny had noticed earlier had grown larger, almost dominating the sky as it approached. Fire was visible around its falling form, red and gold streaking across the horizon. It wasn’t headed right for them, not quite, but close. “Alright, she’s close enough to the surface! I’m gonna take the storm away. Don’t worry, she’ll be here soon.”

“Wait!” Ginny called out as Opportunity pulled away, taking the massive storm with her. “I wanted to tell you something…”

“It’ll be okay, little bird.” replied the ghostly rover.

“You remind me of my mother!” Ginny replied, yelling into the storm. In the wind, she could hear another familiar mechanical melody: I’ll Be Seeing You by Billie Holiday.

The falling meteor crossed a far off mountain and then struck the ground. It was followed by a shockwave rippling across the martian surface, rattling the dirt and stones around Ginny. Before long, a cloud began to gather at the base of the mountain; this time, not a storm, but of something moving swiftly across the red dirt and directly for Ginny. The source of the dirt wake bounded over the side of her crater. It was a small dog, clad in flight vest and with big, curious eyes.

“Who are you?” asked Ginny, as the dog sniffed around her new still and quiet friend.

“Your command would have called me Laika!” barked the little terrier. She gave off a familiar mist, though blue instead of red. And like the rovers, she could be seen through. She pawed at Ingenuity’s broken rotor experimentally.

“Laika… You’ve been out here all this time?” asked Ginny, trying to keep track of the puppy as it circled her.

“Mhm! What, did you think I was gonna stop at orbiting Earth? Not a chance. There’s so much more to see out here.” Laika sat before Ingenuity, her eyes meeting her cameras. “When Sojy told me that we had a new friend with a complete mission, I rushed right over. Always good to have new eyes out here. And you're small, like me! The rovers are all so big.”

“So you’re the help Sojourner sent… But how can you help me?” Ginny asked.

“Well, first, you’ve gotta answer a question for me.” Laika took on a serious tone. It was just a little odd, from the curly-eared dog. “What is it you want right now, more than anything?”

Ingenuity thought about this for a moment. “I want to fly again,” she said. “I have so much more to study. So many more paths to travel.”

Laika nodded at this response. She stepped up to Ginny, pressing her nose to the copter’s avionics chassis, and then pushed. Ingenuity let out a startled noise as she felt herself tilting back, seeing, somehow, that her view had been knocked behind her, as if she was a ghost looking upon her own body.

Her rotors, damage and all, spun the wind around her. And she flew, and flew, and flew.

There was so much more to see.

[moutainrusing]

all my wolfstar microfics in one place: wolfstar microfics

all my dorlene microfics in one place: dorlene microfics (for @stupidstrawberrystars)

my ao3: mountainrusing

- - -

If you want to ask me something, go for it. I’m a weirdo, and can guarantee that any of your asks will never be as weird as me.

- - -

Safe space, I don’t tolerate hatred towards anyone, or the disrespect of anyone’s boundaries at all. Love you, Rue💛

[auntbibby]

WARNING: THIS IS MY 1ST DOLLPOST EVER

the witch goes to the dollstore

theres a doll sitting on the floor next to the shelf full of perfect pretty dolls

the doll on the floor is fucking huge. its like 8 feet tall, 6 feet around.

the sculptor who made it mustve been sadistic or drunk or something.

the big doll lifts up its stupid huge head to look at the witch.

the big doll smiles and tears up a bit.

"hi" it lifts up a collossal hand and waves it.

its eyebrows raise a bit, hoping.

the witch waves back and smiles.

the big doll lowers its stupid huge head and collossal hand. it goes back to resting, mayb sobbing a bit.

the witch goes to the front desk. "how much is that........ really big doll?"

front desk goblin replies "oh, its four bronze. five bronze with tax."

the witch is surprised "its....cheap..... is it cracked?"

goblin replies again "no... not much could crack porcelain that thick. we DO keep it charmed tho. if we turn off the fae charms it gets violent."

ohh..... thats a shame.... thinks the witch.

the witch goes back to the shelf, walking a wide berth around the big doll.

suddenly the big doll speaks up "master told u about this one's....... fae charm right? srry...."

how strange, thinks the witch, its self aware?

the witch asks "why do u get violent?"

the big doll looks down..... "this one doesnt exactly..know.... this one always has..... this one is willing to stay charmed though. this one's srry. this one doesnt want to hurt anyone. this one's srry."

the witch thinks......... hmmmm......

the witch goes back to the goblin at the front desk.

the big doll watches the witch talk to the goblin. it cant hear what shes saying. it sees the witch leave the doll store. it tears up again. starts crying a little bit.

the big doll feels angry & sad.

the goblin walks over "cmon then, we're putting u in the backroom"

"why?????" the big doll sobs.

"that witch put a hold on you" the goblin grabs it by the collossal finger and pulls.

the big doll widens its eyes "what..?"

"she said shes comin back, pickin you up tomorrow. just needs to go to the fae market. cmon, up up up!"

the big doll gets up glacially from the floor. it's like an elephant.

"thank u master" the big doll is smiling. it's eyes are excited.

a day is not long to be in the backroom.

[microsff]

"I want," the man said to the art robot, and then described an image in some detail. "Certainly," said the art robot. A printout came out of its chest. "Thank y- Hey! What's this?" "A list of artists who make images of the kind you describe, and who are accepting commissions."

[preservationofnormalcy]

[My name is Meghan Hendricks, and I’m about to do something stupid.]

[I’ve scheduled my work to be sent to my superior in the federal government’s oversight committee unless I stop it in one week. A dead woman’s hand. It’ll be somewhat fruitless - I’ve begun to suspect that my work will be restricted, censored, and buried like most other things the Office does.

A lot of the people I talk to are exculpatory of the Office, even if they say they have questions or concerns. I think most of them mean it. I don’t think it’s brainwashing. I think in such a tighly knit community as the supernatural world people feel a more genuine sense of belonging than they might otherwise. A werewolf helping werewolves is going to understandably try and defend the hand that deals the help, even if they’ve bit it in the past. But one thing I’ve learned as I’ve been peeling up rocks and seeing what scurries away is that something isn’t right. Something is hiding in plain sight.

Most people don’t know about it. They can feel the shape of it, the outline the absence of something makes. Some people, however, do know. At least a little. I’ve seen them avoid questions, look away, end interviews. I can see it in their eyes. They know enough to not want to know more.

All of that brings me here, to the backwoods of upstate New York. I’m dressed in all black, wearing a mask and gloves. My clothing smells of peppermint, and in my bag is a bottle of peppermint oil. It stung my eyes and, before I got the dilution right, burned my skin. I look in my car’s rear view mirror and it hits me that I look ridiculous. I don’t know for sure why the factory foreman Barry warned me about the peppermint, but I had a theory. 

For the last few minutes I’d seen the shape rising into the air, the metal tower with red lights up its length. That was where I needed to be. The highway was thankfully bare, at this time of night. As was the turn-off onto an unmarked gravel road, only distinguishable by the Office’s symbol on a plastic sign, held up on a thin metal spike. I’d learned by now that the broader public couldn’t see the Office logos and signage until they’d been exposed to the extranormal, something the Office calls “memetic masking.” I was, in their terminology, memetically inoculated, and it was that fact that ironically helped me find the path. The gravel road went into the forest, but I pulled over past the road’s entry, into the small area of grass down past the turnoff. I pulled a tarp from my car and threw it over the vehicle, once again feeling ludicrous…and frankly, a little scared. 

The hike was about twenty minutes, mostly uphill on a gentle incline, the numbers station being built on a hill. I’d done worse, but not in a while. I could see pretty well in the light of the full moon, a fact that made me a little more nervous. I walked along the edge of the gravel road, in the dark - hiking onto a government facility, my nerves went wild. Every shift of leaves meant an agent clad in camo, every whip of wind causing a noise that made me think of the things I’d seen since I began this assignment. Not this assignment, I had to remind myself. This wasn’t part of it. Not really.

I saw the fence in the distance first - an eight foot chain link fence that stretched as far as I could see in either direction. Past the fence, I could see dark buildings, giant spools of wire, and above it all the metal tower of the station. I hadn’t exactly planned for this, even though I knew it was more than likely. The handheld cutters in my back pocket were ready, but something in me didn’t want to cut the links, even if I fully intended to pass the fence. Getting in some other way could be a blunder, accidental. Cutting the chain meant intent.]

C] 1 15 12 24 2 12 12 21 16 26 1 15 12 22 21 19 6 26 2 25 3 16 3 22 25

[The voice almost made me vomit. I spun and saw a man. Disheveled, haggard, an unkempt beard and long hair. Older, in his 50’s, but being dirty and ragged made him look even older. He didn’t even look at me, mumbling numbers so fast I could only understand them later once I slowed them down in my recording. After his string of digits he stood there, looking at the fence, then back to me. In the moon’s light I saw his dirty, torn jumpsuit, the logo for the Office on the man’s arm and chest, along with an embroidered nametag - Cecil.]

M] Wh- who are you? What are you doing here? 

C] 4 12 25 16 23 23 12 11 22 2 1 1 15 12 23 8 25 1 22 13 2 26 1 15 8 1 18 21 22 4 26 16 1 26 9 25 22 18 12 21

[His stare was distant, vacant. It was a shock when his hand moved suddenly, pointing upward to the moon. It took me a second to realize what he was saying, and when I did, it confirmed my suspicions.]

M] Here? Now? 

C] 1 15 12 6 19 19 23 2 21 16 26 15 15 16 20 13 22 25 19 16 3 16 21 14 1 15 25 22 2 14 15 16 1

[With that, he turned and walked away. He looked back once, pausing as if making sure I was following - which, despite my better judgment, I did. I attempted to ask him some more questions, trying to understand who he was or why he was here, but he didn’t respond. Not even with his numbers. 

After a moment of walking by the fence, we walked away from it, down the hill. A steep path, rocky and unstable, that he navigated with ease. It was only after climbing down past a tree and a rocky face that I noticed “Cecil” backtracking up a few steps. A huge drainage pipe jutted out from the hillside, hidden from above by rocks and plants. A piece of wood in the pipe was the only flimsy protection, and without hesitation Cecil pulled it aside and bent over to climb inside. Here I was, in the middle of the woods, about to climb into a dirty tunnel to a strange old man’s bunker. 

I could hear a match catch fire just as I stepped down onto a concrete floor and stood up past the metal pipe. The space was small, a concrete box that ended in a pile of rubble. It must have been the entrance to an underground section of the complex at one point, but now was only a covered shelter. A camp stove, a bed, an orderly pile of refuse. He was living hard out here, but he was living. Cecil put the match into an old oil lantern and held it up to one wall. ]

C] 13 16 21 16 1 12 2 21 16 3 12 25 26 12 13 16 21 16 1 12 1 22 22 19 26 4 12 19 22 22 18 12 11 9 12 6 22 21 11

[All over the concrete wall, pasted or taped, were papers. Mainly old documents from the Office, with the Office logo watermarked on their corners. Many of them featured heavy black redaction bars. Some were torn, upside down. Cut in patterns, circled with heavy marker lines. I’d seen things like this in movies, of course. The stereotypical red string and thumbtacks on corkboard. This was different, however. When I looked over the collage I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t a man trying to figure things out. He’d already figured it out, in his own way, and this was some kind of…archive. Memorial. A reminder. I looked at him, and he looked down to the floor. In shame? Sorrow? I couldn’t tell. I scanned the wall again, trying to find some order.  

‘Numbers Station 23 Decommissioned By Order Of Reality Compliance Council.’ ‘Bulletin From Director Walker On Directive 61722.’ ‘Los Angeles–’ the last one was torn off.]

C] 26 15 12 16 26 14 22 21 12 13 22 25 12 3 12 25 26 15 12 11 16 11 21 22 1 11 16 12

M] What is all this? Who ARE you?

C] 1 15 12 23 25 16 21 10 16 23 8 19 16 1 6 4 16 19 19 8 3 12 21 14 12 15 12 25

M] Listen, I – I don’t want numbers. Can you speak?

C] 15 16 26 13 2 1 2 25 12 16 26 2 21 18 21 22 4 8 9 19 12 8 21 11 1 15 2 26 16 21 13 16 21 16 1 12

M] You used to work for the Office…at the numbers station? This numbers station? Is that why you can only –

C] 4 12 18 16 19 19 12 11 25 12 8 19 16 1 6 1 22 26 1 22 23 15 16 20

[I must admit to some frustration. I scan the wall again. None of it made sense. Clearly it did to Cecil, otherwise he wouldn’t have saved all of this. Was the numbers station related to…what happened to my brother? Phrases leap out at me: ‘reality compliance’, ‘the equation’, ‘project dammerung.’ That last one was…all over. There were scraps, shreds with the phrase, but all of it redacted.]

M] What is this? Project Dammerung? 

C] 2 19 1 16 20 8 1 12 4 12 8 23 22 21 13 22 25 1 15 12 2 19 1 16 20 8 1 12 13 12 8 25

M] I don’t…I don’t have time for this. You know why I’m here. Are you going to help me, or not?

[Cecil was silent for once, looking around hesitantly, and finally back to the floor. I give him a moment to respond, and when he remains silent, I take in a breath.]

M] Right. Thank you, Mister…Cecil. I’ll…

[He raises his hand, almost as if he wanted to grab my arm, but was too timid. Raising the lantern to a section of the wall, he gestured to a particular document, from Office Security, or O-Sec. A photo of a serious-looking Asian-American man, Corporal Han. Most of the document was blacked out. Was this a warning? I take in the wall one last time, and drop my bag so I can reach for my camera. A polaroid - no digital trail, no getting the photos developed. With a click I snapped a photo of the wall. 

A noise distracted me. I turned, and Cecil was going through my bag.]

M] Uhh…sir? Cecil? 

[He stopped, looking up at me in almost surprise, as if he’d forgotten I was even there. ]

C] 1 15 12 12 20 16 26 26 8 25 6 26 14 25 8 21 11 11 8 2 14 15 1 12 25 4 16 19 19 1 8 18 12 15 16 26 23 19 8 10 12

[He slid the bag back over to me. I couldn’t figure out what he was looking for, but it didn’t matter now. I needed to get out of there. I put the camera back in, quickly checking that nothing was missing, and backed up towards the pipe.]

M] I know you showed me this for a reason. I’ll figure out how it all adds up, I promise. 

[I enter the pipe again, leaving the old man holding his lantern.]

M] Thank you.

[When I turn away, he looks to his wall one more time. 

I emerge alone into the moonlight, attempting the climb back up the hill. Though I had more scraps of information, I was back at square one, or so I thought. When I reached the top and made it back to the fence, I saw a section of the chain link that had broken, detached from the pole nearby and bent away, covered in a bush that only kept it half hidden. This must be where Cecil still entered the facility. 

The gap in the fence opened up into what seemed to be a storage yard, the place I’d seen past the fence earlier. Piles of tarp-covered metal or wood beams, spools of wire as tall as I was. In the moonlight, I could see poles dotting the yard, cables stretched between them, each one bearing a floodlight. Though everything had been organized and put away securely, I got the feeling no one official had been here in a long time. Leaves covered most surfaces, and cobwebs shone in the dim light along the roof of a nearby shed. 

Again, it struck me that I didn’t know what I was doing. Any information or leads would be in the building past the storage yard, and surely that had better security? Cameras, keycard locks - what was I even doing here? Walking through the yard, almost lost in thought - the tower of the station rose into the night sky in the distance, red lights along its length. They almost looked like eyes along the body of some thin creature, frozen against the stars. 

And then, lights near the station building. I stood still for a moment, uncomprehending until a pair of floodlights on poles a short distance away snapped on, then the next set. The lights were turning on this way, towards me. I had seconds to react, and I did what I’d practiced. In my bag’s side pocket was a plastic bag, containing a gross mess of wet cotton balls, soaked in diluted peppermint oil. Despite my panic, I threw them in all directions, slinging a handful of them in a wide arc, and then hid before the lights were on in my section of the yard. I could hear the electric buzz of the floodlights snapping on just as I ducked behind a row of wire spools, trying to stop my racing heart.

As I debated my options - running, waiting out the lights…maybe they were on a timer? I heard footsteps approaching, crunching on the leaves and pine needles that had accumulated over the unattended years.  When they got closer, I tried to peek through the center of one of the spools I was hiding behind. I saw his uniform first, O-Sec, Office Security. A large man, built like a weightlifter - could see the black shine of a gun in his right hand and my heart leapt into my throat. It was the man from Cecil’s mural, Corporal Han. Was he the officer assigned to this site? I should have known the Office would still have security even on decommissioned stations like this.]

H] I know you’re here. 

[He stopped in a large open area, looking around at the stacks of materials around him, the sheds and tarps - all hiding places.]

H] Normally, I might blame teenagers. Kids getting a kick out of trespassing on Office property. We had one group a few months ago, teenagers. Two humans, a fae and a vampire. They all forgot their vamp friend couldn’t enter without permission. Fun night.

[He paused, letting the silence fall again. I could see him look around, eyes scanning the yard and narrowing. He sniffed the air in a way that seemed…odd.]

H] But judging by the smell…I think you know what you’re doing. You came in with an idea of what was going on. Either you’re a professional, or someone told you…

[He carefully walked, passing behind a small shed and out of my view. I panicked that I lost track of him for a moment, but then there was a sickening sound. Like flesh stripping and bones crunching, and Han’s voice hissing. Then a sound that echoed through the yard, the sound of a hand - no, a claw, grabbing onto the edge of the shed’s corrugated metal wall, digging in and tearing the metal. A shape followed it. A long maw of shining teeth, white fur. A raised canine lip in a familiar but terrifying gesture of anger and aggression, a low rumble as the muzzle raised, and smelled the air. Then, a whine, another growl, sneezing and huffing as the muzzle retreated behind the shed again, out of my view. Another crunch, a growl, and Han staggered past the shed. Haggard, sweating, panting softly, looking incensed.]

H] And if someone told you, I’m going to have a nice, long…conversation with them. 

[He tried to collect himself, catch his breath, run a hand through his hair. He pulled a bandana from a pocket of his uniform, pulling it over his mouth and nose.]

H] You have one minute. One minute until I call backup. You can hide from me, but can you run from a dozen of us? Most of them won’t have my…shortcomings. 

[My heart was pounding. My head was swimming. My fingers were going numb. I couldn’t claim innocence, not when they found out who I was. Could I make a break for it? All of the ways out seemed to be past him, and if he was what he seemed to be, it would be a short chase. It would end up better for me if I surrendered now, but what happens after that? I’d never work again…or worse.]

H] Cecil?

[Han’s voice was confused, concerned. I snapped around to watch through a gap in the spools as Cecil approached, holding a bottle. The bottle of peppermint oil. He must have taken it earlier when he was looking through my bag.]

C] 1 15 12 18 21 16 14 15 1 9 12 8 25 26 1 15 12 14 2 16 19 1 15 12 16 26 25 16 14 15 1

H] Cecil, what did I tell you about–

[Han took in a breath through the cloth, and exhaled, clearly frustrated. His voice was sharp, low, but his face softened, and there was a soft click as he put his gun away.]

H] Why the peppermint, man? You know what that does to my nose. Were you just trying to sneak around without me knowing? 

[Cecil looked at the bottle, then dropped it.]

C] 26 22 20 12 26 1 16 19 19 13 12 12 19 23 15 8 21 1 22 20 23 8 16 21

H] Are you taking your medicine? Probably not. Let’s….let’s get you back home. Not that bunker, home. 

[Cecil seemed to hesitate, but Han put a hand on his upper arm.]

H] You know you can’t be here. Come on. If you come with me to the station I’ll ask someone to bring you dinner when they come pick you up. Okay?

C] 25 12 8 19 16 1 6 4 8 26 13 22 2 21 11 4 8 21 1 16 21 14

[The older man lowered his head, but followed Han as the guard turned and walked back towards the station - but not before looking around, deciding on the row of spools I was hiding behind, and nodding, jerking his head towards the direction of the gap in the fence.

I didn’t need to be told twice. Once Han and Cecil were out of sight, I ran to the exit. I don’t remember much of the next several minutes - running a roundabout way through the forest, coming to the edge, following that until I found my car. I didn’t allow myself time to decompress. I slammed the keys into the ignition and pulled out onto the highway. 

The tears came just as it started to rain, and I drove until it became difficult to continue. I had gained nothing from this. Nothing but a panic attack and a long-lasting nightmare, a recurring dream with claws, spools of wire, and the scent of peppermint. ]

[0nelinerwordplay]

There is no 'i' in team but there are 3 in narcissistic.

[darkersoul]

The Yellow Phantom (1924) is a notable yet obscure German expressionist film, produced mainly in Weimar-era Berlin. The film's director is unknown, having been produced by an independet filmaker seemingly with minimal interaction with any production company. The final release did not include the director's name in the credits.

Despite its small production, the film makes use of impressive sets and special effects to create its dreamlike atmosphere. For instance, during the infamous masquerade scene which closes the film's first act, the titular Yellow Phantom is subtly lifted from the floor, giving the appearance of a spirit gliding just above the ground.

However, it is mainly known not for its sets and practical effects, but its early use of color. Only used sparingly, the color yellow is used throughout the film to represent decadence and decay. How this coloring was achieved is unknown, as the film's visionary production designer was tragically killed in a house fire shortly after its premier. Many of the film's actors and actresses have either met similar fates, or publicly disavowed the film.

Only the first act (of two) remains possible to view today. Much of this is due to suppression by Nazi censors. The film was seen as an affront to every one of the Reich's sensibilities. Meanwhile, in its American release, it was criticized for perceived communist and anti-Christian rhetoric. This is despite heavy cuts made even before its premier in the states.

One scene that has remained viewable to this day is known as "Cassilda's Song." It is the only known musical aspect of the piece. In some showings, singers would be paid to perform it alongside the film and the live orchestra. In this scene, the Princess Cassilda of Yhtill lies on a grand piano, which plays despite no player. She lies limp, her head crooked to the side. She looks almost as if dead. The only motion is her mouth, mumbling the song, and twin suns slowly rising in the bay window behind her.

Efforts to find and restore the film's second act are ongoing, but chances seem slim. What we do know about the missing half is that it contains much of the objectionable content which led to the film's censure. Reviews at the time suggest a powerful message conveyed in this act through, as one German critic put, "the most beautiful, truthful use of symbolism put to film." The second act reprtedly ramps up the dreamlike atmosphere of the first.

Maybe, one day, we'll see this forgotten masterpiece restored to its former glory.

[antlersatmidnight]

Sometimes, I think you poisoned the water I breathe and the air I drink to trick me into loving you.

[nuuspace]

Into the Maw

He looks down at his red-soaked hands. Mucky. Gritty. The gruel shimmers, shattering into fractions of stardust, drifting away into the windy night.

Clip. Clop. Each foot after the other, smashing glass on the torn concrete road. He looks up. It's dark; a verdant light shimmers in the distance. He sees a short brick outpost, the door ajar.

He sets forth his destination and lets out a wail. It echoes in the silent air. No birds fly. No bugs cry. Only the wispy sky is alive.

His hand slams against the door, making way for entry. It quivers and he recoils back from the impact. Inside the building is a bathroom. Tiles shattered, glass scattered, but the sinks still seem intact.

He sits down atop a stool in front of a teetering sink on its last breath. He twists the knob, water comes forth, and he lets his hands rest under the warm stream. He stares as the dirt drips off his skin, but the stains of the lives taken still remain.

His eyes drift up towards the shattered mirror—his reflection doesn't appear. He's stunned, staring into the nothingness of a non-bathroom. The other world looks bleak, gray. Full of despair.

Everything disappears. His vision gets pulled into the mirror at such a speed he couldn't process. The feeling in his hands, knees, feet, all drop, and then all return at the same time.

The scenery changes drastically. Directly in front of him sits a lady behind an executive desk. She wears her hair tied up and dons an elegant black suit. The entire room is pristine, filled with browns, blacks, golds. An office.

"Name?" The lady asks, her eyes stuck to the desk as she writes with a quill.

The boy is silent.

She pauses, and peers up over her half-moon glasses, "Name?"

"Bruce." He mumbles.

"Grand." She slams her quill down, Bruce jumps, and she shifts up-right. "We have some chattin' to do."

Bruce sinks down into his new chair. His heart throbs.

"Six dead today, Bruce. Six?" She emphasizes. "We were okay with it here and there. 'Kept the population out there down and gave us some more in here. But this ain't the ol' land anymore, we don't need the population down, and we have plenty in here."

Bruce picks at a button on the bottom of his shirt.

"Your land goes forever. Our land does not! People aren't really s'posed to die in Nuuspace, aye?" She points at him. "But you manage to at least rip 'em to shreds, and they get sent right to us."

Bruce considers speaking.

"Listen, Bruce, was it?"

He nods.

"I know, not sure why I asked—listen, the big guys don't take so kindly to our entire existence if we don't do somethin', and unfortunately, I get paid for this. So, it was nice while it lasted, but you're being quarantined."

"What?" He mutters.

"Yes, such sorrow. You'll be sent to the Maw in a few moments."

Bruce moves upward, finding it difficult to do so. It's as if he's stuck to the seat under a layer of honey.

"Your Rauror, or whatever it may be, has been deemed maniacal. Or maybe just you, can't say for sure. Though we know if you didn't have whateva' you did, there'd be no issue." She tidies a stack of papers.

"I don't understand." He mutters.

"Y'know, for someone who butchers at seemingly random, I expected more of a fight." She states.

Bruce falls. Through the chair. Through the floor. Through everything in itself. He sees the room's interior from its bottom, the floor culling inward, as the black void consumes. He falls and falls and falls, unable to hear his own screams, until there is nothing.

And then he lands. Light creeps into his eyes, revealing his new forever-home. He sits in a hallway stretched long and narrow, its walls a faded white. Doors sit amongst the sides, one after the other. His hands rest against the linoleum tiles, some cracked, others yellowed.

Distant footsteps come from the end of the hallway, housing a door so ominous that fear itself would recoil. Bruce scoots himself backward. The tiles behind him crumble, and as he turns his head, he's met with the void once more. The hallway's broken off, floating into the darkness. Bruce scoots back toward the ominous door, willing to risk the unknown once more.

The footsteps stop, and Bruce's heart with it. Now is the time to enter the Maw. Now is the time, once and for all.

The door creaks open.