Short Fiction - Blog Posts

Ok so my fics are basically dead and I’m trying to re get into twst so I can continue that but I don’t really have a lot of motivation for big things like a story. I normally fixate for like a week then it does down but I do still want to write so I’ve decided.

I’ll do oneshots, imagines, head cannons, things like that!!

It’ll keep me active and it’s small enough so I don’t lose motivation easily. I will still try to write my swan lake fic but it’ll be a while.

I just wanted to come on here and see what others think of this before I fully commit to it.

Sorry if I’m disappointing anyone but I’m really trying to get motivated so it’s hard but small pieces of writing will still allow me to be creative so this is my solution.

Agin sorry if people are disappointed but ye🤷‍♀️

Short Story- An 'Angel' Passing Through: By Adinelle Ggreeo

We have this saying from back in the day, for when a room full of people (usually a class full of chatty students) all of a sudden go completely quiet for a few seconds.

'An Angel just passed through!' someone would jokingly say, breaking the silence.

It's a soothing thought.

Claire, unfortunately, finds out the hard way that it's anything but an angel.

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It was a regular day for the girls of class 3-A at St. Christopher Girls’ Secondary School. It was their English Language period with the well-liked teacher, Mrs Hayes. She was one of the more lenient teachers and let them get away with a little bit more. Like just then. It was fifteen minutes before the bell rang for lunch and instead of trying to cram more knowledge into their brains, she gave them a short worksheet to complete, telling them that she would be collecting them in their next class. The girls of 3-A took the wonderful opportunity given to do the one thing they like most: to talk. While Mrs Hayes took the little time left to start marking some papers, the students’ chatter filled the classroom with a low buzz.

Two girls sat at the back of the class. One with afro hair that she wore in two neat puffs at the top of her head with a navy blue headband as an accessory. The other wore her hair in long braids that she tied up into a ponytail with a blue ribbon. Their names were Claire Baptiste and Kadisha Benedicte. These best friends sat at the back of the class, to the left of the room and right in line with the teacher’s L-shaped desk. They were out of her sight behind two more desks of classmates. Perfect for uninterrupted conversation.

‘Soooo,’ Kadisha drawled, grinning at Claire. ‘I have a new boyfriend! It’s Chey, from the boys’ school. Remember him?’

Claire rolled her eyes, scoffing good-naturedly. She did remember him. She was glad to know her friend’s taste wasn’t totally trash.

‘Yeah,’ she said ‘But isn’t he the third one this month?’

Kadisha looked away, slightly embarrassed, tucking an escaped braid behind her ear.

‘Well, like he’s the fifth,’ she mumbled. ‘But, we went to the mall yesterday and he bought me ice cream!’

Giving her a look, Claire said, ‘We go to the mall and buy each other ice cream all the time. He has to come better than that.’

Kadisha sighed in exasperation.

‘You don’t understand, Claire! We really need to get you a boyfriend!’ ‘Ha! No thanks!’

Kadisha sucked her teeth.

‘Whatever! Anyway, after the ice cream we...,’

Claire nodded along to her friend’s tale while she absentmindedly doodled in the margins of her worksheet. Slightly hypnotised by the squiggles and swirls she was making on the paper, she didn’t realise that Kadisha had stopped talking. Coming back to full awareness but still looking at her worksheet, she realised that it wasn’t just Kadisha that stopped talking. The buzz of chatter in the classroom had ceased. She looked up and jerked in her seat at the sight of her friend’s face. Her mouth was wide open and her eyes round with excitement. Her hands were thrown back and some of her hair was caught between her fingers. Placing her hand over her racing heart, Claire laughed softly.

“Girl, you look so stupid!”

But Kadisha didn’t respond. Actually, she didn’t move at all. Not even a twitch of her lips or fingers. She was still, like a statue. The smile slowly slipped off Claire’s face.

“Kadisha?”

Her friend remained silent.

Feeling slightly unsettled, Claire looked around the classroom. She felt her stomach drop as she took in the stillness. Everyone was frozen, posed awkwardly in their seats, with their hair suspended in the air, pens and pencils frozen in mid-drop and sheets of paper paused in their fluttering from of the tables. Clair, pushed her chair back, wincing at the loud screech of the legs dragging against the terrazzo floor. Even though there seemed to be no one to interrupt, she slowly crept on her tiptoes towards the desk next to theirs.

The closest girl, Zara Crawford, had big round glasses and her frizzy was hair in four ponytails. Her eyes were screwed shut and her hands covered the big smile on her face. Claire poked her at first, then tried to shake her when she didn’t react at all. She tried the same with the next girl, Clara. She didn’t even twitch.

Claire, starting to feel disquieted, scampered around the class, poking, shaking, flicking and pulling hair, trying to get some kind of reaction. Not one person moved. She finally skidded to a stop in front of Mrs Hayes’s desk, catching her breath. Like everyone else, Mrs Hayes was frozen, bent over the papers she was marking. Dashing the papers off the desk and banging on the wood, Claire screamed in her teacher’s face.

“Wake up!”

Like everyone else, she remained as she was.

With dread overtaking her, she slowly backed away. Her attention was drawn to the doorway and while staring at the tree in the plot of grass past the corridor, she realised that she couldn’t hear the rustling of the leaves. Actually, she couldn’t hear anything at all. No birds chirping, no insects chittering, no sounds from the surrounding classrooms. Having a bad feeling, Claire ran out the door, barging into the classroom to the left of hers. Just like her classmates, everyone was still. She ran into the class next to theirs. Same thing. The class at the far end, the same and the form four class across from theirs. All the same.

Gasping and close to tears, she stumbled back to her classroom at a loss for what to do. The whole world it seemed like, was frozen and all the sound was gone. Except for her. Her footsteps and whimpering were uncomfortably loud in the eerie stillness. She reached the door of her classroom, pausing briefly to take in the frozen forms of her classmates, dreading that she had to sit in their stillness. Sniffling, she placed a hand on the doorframe and stepped over the threshold. She never made it past the door.

She had one foot past the threshold. As soon as her shoe touched the floor, Her whole body was locked in place and the world around her began to change. The light blue walls of the classroom, the whiteboard, the lockers and the floor all began to melt, the colours and textures slowly sloughing off and sliding away. In its wake was a ghastly, roiling mass of colours that she’s never seen and a pitch-black darkness. They moved in and out and in between each other, writhing like they were alive.

With their appearance, the sound came back. And what horrible sounds they were. A thick squelching and a ringing that alternated from a high, ear-piercing sound to a low ominous hum. It vibrated around her, torturing her ears, causing goose bumps to rise on her skin and sending her heart into a panic. The strange colours and the darkness seethed around her, seeming to close in on her. Claire wanted to scream, but her lips remained firmly closed. Her eyes, the only part of her that could freely move looked on as the colours and the darkness began to churn faster, converging in the corner of the classroom diagonal to the door. They twisted and turned, the squelching sounds increasing and the ringing lowering to that horrible, low drone. They began to bulge out as if something was pushing on them and horror filled Claire’s heart when she realised that something was trying to come through.

A long black thing pushed through first, dripping with the colours and the darkness. The spindly twigs at the end of it slowly curled into themselves. It was a hand and those twigs were long bony fingers. The rest of the thing came after. Claire could barely comprehend what she was seeing. As it oozed through the rapidly distorting colours and the darkness, It began to grow and grow and grow. There was no ceiling to hinder it. It had no discernible form. There was no head and no face. It kept shifting and twisting into tattered ribbons of black and they swirled around like a mini hurricane. Pale, glowing orbs were embedded in the parts that the ribbons revealed. They moved and rolled around, leaking a thick black substance that flew off to join the rest of its swirling form. They vaguely looked like eyes pouring dark tears. The limb it used to push through into the classroom had disappeared. There was no indication that it even existed. There were no other limbs to be seen. It was a mass of swirling darkness with orbs all over its form and it brought with it such a bone-chilling dread that Claire thought she was dying. The ringing had gone high again, the shrill sound increasing her fear.

It slowly, so slowly began to move away from the corner, making its way between the desks. It did not touch the girls. It didn’t pay them any attention at all. It left a trail of the dark substance in its wake that was absorbed into the colour and darkness that was the floor. Claire watched the thing as it made its way to the front of the class, pausing where the whiteboard was and pulling one of its long, spidery limbs from the confines of its form. It was so close and Claire was so afraid. Desperately, she began to pray.

As if sensing her pleas, the thing whipped around to face her. Its form contorted abnormally and all of its orbs turned to look at her. The high-pitched ringing abruptly stopped and Claire silently sobbed. They both stared at each other for a short while. Then suddenly the thing was right in front of her. It was crouched down, so the place where its face should have been was right in front of hers. There was one big orb embedded there. It was still as it observed her. With her heart trying to beat out of her chest, Claire could only watch as it brought its hand up to her face, one of its skinny fingers held up. It dripped with the strange black liquid. A soft whistling sound filled the air around them. It rose high and loud, assaulting her already hurting ears. Its orb began to glow white hot, so bright. One moment, she was looking into the face of what she thought was death, the next, she was blinded by the expanding glow and knew no more.

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Mrs Hayes softly laughed to herself at the three seconds of silence from the class.

‘An angel passed through,’ she thought, remembering the old saying the adults used to chuckle about when she was a young girl.

Immediately after, a scream pierced the air. It was coming from right outside the class. She shot up from her chair, almost slipping and sliding on some of the papers that were for some reason on the floor. Some of the students followed, their desks and chairs scrapping against the floor as they scrambled out of their seats.

She almost ran her over when she shot out the door.

There was Claire, curled up on the floor right outside the door, still screaming. Her arms were wrapped around her head and she was clawing at her hair, pulling the strands out of their puffs. She knelt by her, trying to gently pry her hands away from her face and head, but her hold was like a vice. Other teachers and students, disturbed by the screaming, had come out to check.

What happened? How did her student who sat at the back of the class end up outside the door? She didn’t see her pass by. And the screaming. It was filled with genuine fear and pain. She could barely hear the other teachers as they tried to talk to her.

Her other students all huddled by the door, some starting to cry and wail at the sight of their classmate. Claire’s seatmate and possibly her good friend had pushed herself to the front of the crowd, trying to reach out to her, but was held back by another teacher who was failing to console her. Her own screaming and crying added to the utter confusion of the situation. Thankfully, someone had gotten the school nurse who arrived with a wheelchair. As the nurse wheeled the still-screaming girl away, Mrs Hayes, with a racing heart and an unnerving feeling about what happened, shook herself and breathed, turning towards her distraught girls.

It looked like lunch would be a bit early that day.

Smol animation I did for a school project :D

Somewhere out there within the dark woods of somewhere or another, in days some time past, there was a town. And that town worshipped one god, and that god was a hole.

Yes, a massive hole, at the center of their town. Deep and dark, perhaps leading all the way down to oblivion. Some people said the god lived at the bottom of the hole, others said that the god was the hole itself, or even the shadows that lay within. They had no temples, no alters, only the hole. And the hole of the hole demanded things of them. It was hungry, strangely hungry. It did not have sacfices, it demanded tribute. Taxes in a way. People would scrounge up what little money they had for the hole, and the hole promised back that it would give them good things in return.

There were those who warned them of the hole. The cryptids of the dark forest, and the occultists and demon hunters, and even the deep ones that lay in the dark ocean and the scaled men of the forgotten ruins. But the townsfolk didn't listen, the hole made them feel good. It felt good to give it money. And even though they never exactly saw how the hole must have been helping them. How could it not be helping them if they had given it so much. And soon the hole banished all supernatural things but itself, and the people said the hole was making them safe.

And soon the hole was bigger. What was once the size of a well had grown to being big enough to consume a house. And soon the town changed, the hole began to be its center, the entire town shifted so that all public life was around the hole. And soon those who didn't like the hole, or who questioned it, where seen as evil or strange people, greedy for not wanting to give the hole their money, they were seen as selfish and entitled, entitled to all the hole's benefits without paying their share. It was a tragedy when someone grew up to move out of the town and not follow the hole.

And soon the hole had more and more demands. And everyone listened as it grew larger and larger. Soon it didn't want money, it wanted things too, televisions, automobiles, books, family relics, grandma's ashes, works of art, perhaps even beloved pets. And it became taboo not just to question it, but to feel sad when you lost something to the hole. You couldn't say you missed it, or replace it too soon, the hole wanted you to not have it, you were so obviously wrong to miss it. You didn't just have to give to the hole, you had to understand that it was improving your life.

There was a movement of young people, who wanted to get rid of the hole. But it was too late by then, they had no other gods, no other spirits or creatures, and the hole was as large as a city block. And either way, the town police belonged to the hole now, and they would kill for it, and they would die for it. Some young rebels moved away. But most found themselves not being able to give up their family, their freinds, and their safety to fight the hole. So for a time they pretended to like it, and when you do something, and say something for long enough it can become your truth, and soon enough those who pretended to live the hole truly did love it.

And soon there was no music or movies that the hole didn't approve of. Everyone followed the hole's rules. And everyone loved the hole so dearly and so brightly. They couldn't imagine a town without a hole. When they thought of other towns they imagined that they must have had holes too, and every idea of a place without it was sad and depressing. And as the hole was then a quarter of the size of the town, it was hungry, and demanded not just things but flesh. And people happily gave, it would be weird to not want to give. They gave eyes, ears, teeth, testicles, tounges, fingers and toes and hands and feet and arms and legs. And they didn't miss their body parts at all. And when one day the hole demanded people jump in, and give their lives to it, they didn't mind or question at all, it didn't feel like death, and nobody missed that they weren't there.

And now, in the dark woods, there is a hole where a town used to be. It has eaten the entire the thing, every last inch and citizen of it. It is not satisfied. But it has grown all that it could. And one must wonder if the hole is lonely now, or if it knows that it has done all it ever hoped to.

In you I trust

Pairing: Tine/Sarawat (2gether)

Summary: Tine didn’t know what to do, how to feel. What he hadn’t realised was that the damage was already done. Years of dating people who didn't want him, getting rejected over and over again just because he seemed disposable had taken its toll. While he seemed bright and confident most of the time when it came to putting himself out there, his self esteem was in shambles. He did love himself and had a pretty good self-image but his ideals on how others should treat him were now a bit shaky. Did he deserve Sarawat? And what must he do to make himself worth it? What must he do to ensure he doesn’t disappoint, to make sure Sarawat doesn't leave him after the first week? (Basically includes all the communication we never got in the series. The one conversation that could have made it better.)

Fic starts here:

Tine looked into his eyes and stared as if he was searching for something. Much like a police officer peering into the eyes of a suspect desperately searching for answers. "Why?"

 "Huh?", Sarawat said bemused.

"Why do you want to be with me? What am I offering you that's so special? I certainly don't think I have done anything of note that could have attracted your attention. So other than being a good friend to you, what exactly have I done?", he asked his tone rising. 

Taken by surprise Sarawat curses himself for not realising sooner that something had been upsetting his boyfriend. "Please tell me where this is coming from", he pleaded, "I want to know just where the heck  all this self doubt is coming from".

His voice strained with trying to keep the tears in, Tine lets it all out. He needs Sarawat to, if not empathize, just listen and answer.

"I got a lot of people just wanting to be with me cause I looked good with them. Like I was an accessory. And the few who I thought liked me, well, turns out I was quite dispensable to them. So far I have never been a keeper. So why are you different? How can I possibly expect everything to be fine when I’m scared that you will up and run any moment?"

 Sarawat who had been staring at the floor contemplatively edged closer towards Tine on the bed. “Okay", he said, taking it all in. "Now it's your turn to hear me out. I like you for a lot of reasons, yes being appealing to the eye was one of them, but of course it wasn't the main reason. You think me, a guy who hasn't ever been in a relationship before, not even a hookup, would want to enter a long term relationship with someone based on trivial bullshit? From the moment I met you I had a feeling that we would click not just as boyfriends but as friends. I knew you would get me despite how weird I am. You have this aura that just makes me feel safe. I don’t know, maybe being an introvert helped me observe the way people behave. Because when I met you it was like I knew you, no, I felt you, the way you are as a person and it made me think 'This is someone I want to be with'. Not because you did something outstanding that attracted me, not because you're a catch and definitely not because you complete me. It’s just… you are free to be yourself around me and I can finally be comfortable in my own skin around you. Don't you think that's reason enough for me not to leave you?

Tine crumpled into Sarawat at that point. Sarawat felt dampness through the front of his T-shirt. “I’m sorry I didn't realise you were feeling insecure sooner" he said to the head sobbing on his chest. "I should have known. I promise to always be here, okay? Anytime you need reminding of why you are special to me I’ll be here.” 

Sarawat  didn't know when his own cheeks got wet and then they were just two boys in a room holding each other as they wept. "Oi!", Sarawat said lifting Tine off him. "Come on let's stop with this melancholic atmosphere."

 Wiping away his tears and then Sarawat's, Tine let out a contented sigh. "Thank you Wat. I needed this. I'll be here for you too, whenever you need reminding that you mean so much to me even if I don't make it evident at times. I'm still learning", he said while holding Sarawat's face, brushing away stray tears. He inched closer, just till he could feel Sarawat's  lips brushing his, and then planted a soft kiss. 

Sarawat broke away, grinning, "You're definitely learning well". "Salaleo! ", Tine exclaimed a similar grin creeping onto his face. 

A Clown met a Doctor at the asylum one day, and asked if she wanted to be free. The Doctor replied that it was the Clown who was the prisoner, but alas, she was already intrigued. The Doctor spoke with the Clown again, and again, as he told her of the freedom of the mind, from limits, from morals, from sanity. Carefully the Clown led the Doctor closer and closer to the edge. He told her he loved her, but he laughed as he said it. Down, down, down… The Doctor fell and was reborn, a Jester after his image.

Mary Sue the most loved and admired girl at cherrific sunflower academy! Where did they go? Why did she disapeared? Is he still lost in the forest? Why would clown vampire girl do that? But Oh well lets all remember their most famous quote "Everything is more fun if you put a ribbon bow on top!!<3"

CHAPTER ONE OF MY STORY HERE!! :3c

Fic: This is victory (hollow and cold).

Part: One

What if.. Mikey’s portal drags home a cold dead corpse.

I would like to preface this by saying I completely blame @goodlucktai for their amazing Incredible story, raised on little light for putting this idea into my head. Guys go check it out the fic, it’s amazing it makes me so so sad but there is also so many good things in it 😭. Personally speaking I don’t think there’s anything I can write that will ever come close to what Tai can do, but as a famous internet post once said, write your shitty pots. So here we goes ppl

Tw: major character death, grief, suicide idealisation, getting disowned, disassociation, starvation, slight description of injuries and inaccurate medical advice

But I promise, there is still hope even in this.

_

“Casey! When I get to the other side you close that portal!”

Everything stills. The world falls static.

“What..?” A foreign voice enters the fray. Ah. Cj thinks distantly. It’s mine.

A series of thoughts shoots through his mind. Faster than the battle drones Uncle Tello used to make, faster than the joy rides Uncle Mi used to give.

He sees empty eyes, forced smiles. Screaming voices stained with the weight only grief, hunger, thirst and stress can give.

He thinks of Michelangelo in the brief moments he has met the turtle, so bright and so energetic. And then he remembers his Uncle Mi twisted into something quiet, slow and outwardly peaceful.

He remembers Monty, so stoic and so very angry. Yet so very indulgent when it counts. Out in a blaze of guns and glory. Standard-issue shoulder pauldron shoved into shaking hands. You will do great things Princey. He remembers Monty’s mother. Whose name he never got, forever in a daze, staring at walls of nothing. A hallowed husk like so many of the living ghosts that wandered their dusty halls. He remembers Miwa. So tiny, so fragile. So young. Too young. No amount of their anything can ever replace or beat modern medicine.

His Uncle Tello, bitter, grumpy; burnt out and constantly overstimulated from the dirt covered and squishy pink hell they’ve found themselves in. But sometimes on better days he cocks his head to the side, with a face that almost smiles at Cj and says, “Come Jones Junior; I appear to have some scraps we need to dispose off.” Which is code for we’re going to give your Pa an aneurysm and make things go boom.

He remembers his family. Tired, thirsty, hungry, eyes on them constantly. Countless sleepless nights in hushed voices arguing, strategising, weeping. They thought he didn’t hear. But children always have the biggest ears and the longest standing shelter on earth is only so large.

First and foremost. Cj knows. He knows with heart wrenching certainty. If there was any way to make peace with the present Hamatos it would all be over now. They’ll hate him. They will. They will never forgive him for this.

Maybe if this was his Mom, his Auntie April, his Da-Uncle Mi, his Uncle Tello, his Grandpa Drax. Whatever else Master Raphael and Master splinter might have been to him. They might just forgive him but these people are not them. They have not been softened with a lifetime of knowing Cj. He doesn’t have that baby of the family privilege. He doesn’t have any privilege at all. It’s only been a day. Less than that technically.

Even just the thought of being hated by his family. Any version of them, curdles something in his core. Every fiber in his being lashes out and screams at the younger version of his sensei. (Oh but it was Leonardo wasn’t it? Oh, what has he done?) In ways he hasn’t done since he was 8 years old, because poor 8 year old Casey hadn’t quite figured out how to breathe through the hunger pains. I’m a healer. I’m supposed to stop these things. Please, I already let go before you can’t make me do this again-

“Leo no! There has to be another way!”

But this Leonardo says;

“We’ve tried everything Case, he’s too strong”

And deep down Cj knows that too. Much like the lies his family told him. “We can win” He knows otherwise too. Just like if he does this, he knows he’ll be left with nothing too.

But his family will still be here, surrounded by food, clean water, light, and endless amount of comics or magazines they could possibly want. They will be free.

They will never know gnawing hunger or sapping thirst, nor will they know the ever present hum of runhidenotsafe. They will never know the unique kind of suffering that comes from grasping for strength to just open your eyes and breathe in a world that has already long given up on itself.

Cj has seen the future. He has lived and breathed and sometimes, even thrived in an era where the krang came. Where the sky was a bloody brown instead of this clear dark blue and people were driven to insanity and killed from the common cold. Where the sour smell of rot piled everywhere. No matter how much or how hard you scrubbed.

He remembers his Sensei, his Pa, wise, comforting, always ready with a witty comeback or a brilliant plan. He remembers his Commander O’Neil, his Auntie April, rousing, quick and endlessly enduring, the steady voice of reason where even Sensei’s wit dulled. But they were tired, so very tired. The burden of leadership and grief and all the aches and pains of hunger and thirst that can never be quenched, already a fully dressed tomb just waiting for them to hang up their coats and admit futility to the unsurmountable cold.

He remembers how much his family loved him. How hard they tried to scrape together any piece of warmth for him. Tired Golden-Orange heaves himself into the air, to scoop Cj into his arms. Busy Blue who takes any meagre time he has to himself and spends it with Cj. Prickly Purple finds away to colour all his armour a shade of teal, even his siblings are still decked in occasional shades of grey. Overstretched Green always ready to pull her brothers back and scold; too guilty, too smothering, too harsh. Stop. You’re hurting the kid.

If Cj doesn’t close this portal, if he keeps this open, if he disobeys-the Krang will just come back through. And they will plunge the earth into a bloody, poisoned hell.

And he knows that if not Leonardo, then someone else in their stupid, selfless, self-sacrificial family will take up the mantle of resistance, unable to stand idly by at people’s suffering. Because these people are good, so very good. The Hamatos will fight, they will try. And they will lose.

The force of their ire will break him. The thought alone makes him sob, hiccuping in a way he hasn’t done, not since he was found shrieking over a cold Uncle Tello and had to be wrenched away, kicking and screaming. But still holding on. Even to the very last second and beyond. Because he is Cassandra Jones Junjor and a Hamato in every way that matters and he could never leave family behind. At least back then he couldn’t feel mom die

But the apocalypse.. that long, slow, painful march to inevitable death, will break him too. It wasn’t always bad, they had fun, karaoke nights, hilarious attempts to make birthday cakes for kids like him. But fuck.. that doesn’t change the fact that they still lost. That they will all still loose. Cj doesn’t know if he can willingly doom them all again because that’s what he’s going to do isn’t it? They were all so tired, so hungry, so thirsty. How can he let them go through that again?

He remembers how much happier, and how much lighter they always looked in those old scarce photos.

Selfishly, Cj doesn’t know if he can survive through another 20 something years or however long they make it this time, through that hell again. Forced to slowly watch again, as the Krang chip away at his family. Chip away at the people he called his friends till everything, bright, lively and kind was carved out;Uncle Hiro I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry-

They will never love you again. A voice thunders, like the death roll of their final march just this morning where Cj was still breathing in corrupted air under rusty skies. If only he died there with them. Anything is better than having to do this.

I know. Cj shakes, trembling fingers wrap around the key. Casey can see the division between young and new, old and worn and knows he cannot let it blur and become one.

“Casey! Urgh-please!”

Anything. I will give anything, Casey weeps. Anything as long as they live. Casey squeezes his eyes shut.

And just like with Uncle Tello,

Casey finally lets go.

The portal to the prison dimension slams shut with a glorious boom.

Leo, I love you. I’m sorry.

I wish I got more time to know you.

.

.

.

They scream at him. It’s Muffled, like the sensation of sound in the aftermath of a live grenade. They hurl all manner of abuse and venom at his face. He thinks he might be crying. Or maybe he’s not. His head feels tangled like the heaps of crusty old wires, Uncle Tello will never get the chance to unravel.

The shattered body of their Leonardo lies between them, like territory lines drawn between begrudging survivor groups. Cradled by a shaking soft shell. The blurry shapes of familiar voices once desperately calm and patient now roar,cutting and rightfully angry. It falls on his ears. He tries to grasp it, he does. He’s ruined everything, the least Cj can do now is listen.

But exhaustion gnaws at his very bones. Head pounding.

Nothing can explain this.

Nothing will justify this.

Severe head trauma, and shattered, collapsed carapace. Possible bruised and punctured lungs via pieces of loose carapace as the overall structure caved in, resulting in internal bleeding in the lungs and eventual asphyxiation. Patient chocked on his own blood. The field medic immediately drones internally, years of experience and training unable to be shut off (or rather, trained to never shut off) as listless eyes drift down to meet the unmoving slider.

It seems the one-sided eye contact is what finally breaks the softshell’s stupor. “Don’t you fucking dare.” The teen snarls, teeth flashing in all the ways he used to bare it at unwelcome visitors. But never at Casey. Never for long.

Wake up Jones. This is not your Uncle.

The rest of the group falls silent, shocked to see their previously silent family member speaking.

“You don’t get to look at him.” Achingly gentle, the purple branded softshell sets Leonardo onto the tiled floor.

Donatello stands. “You.” He hisses, pointing at Cj.

“You did this.”

Somewhere, somehow Cj manages to gather enough of himself to incline his head slightly in agreement. It’s the least he can do for them.

“Leave.” Donatello orders.

And like the good soldier he is, Cj does. Disappearing into the tunnels.

No one stops him.

<Part 1 | Next>

Tales From The Stinky Dragon: Brink’s on the brink of…lOvE?

Brink always felt that he was different.

The day he found his magical abilities & was able to choose a familiar, he chose a snake over a normal familiar like a bird or a cat. He liked snakes…he related to them in a way, but when other magic users bullied him for just choosing a snake…Brink knew that he would never be able fully be one with himself and his weird…quirks.

Until he met Kyborg.

At first he was like every other loser Brink met, some bozo who dared challenged him and got his butt kicked as per usual but overtime…especially in Ürbloom that’s when his feelings for Kyborg began to feel…complicated.

He hated being around the elf & his dumb party, thinking them nitwits and the fighter (maybe the party too Brink didn’t pay no mind to them too much) made it known that they hated being around Brink too but…that somewhat changed when Brink spent time with Bart, Mud, GumGum & even Kyborg…the more he saw how…fun they were.

How unapologetic.

How messy.

How odd.

Or just how plain old dumb they were…they did it all with a smile.

Especially Kyborg…when Brink saw Kyborg smile at Mud after a failed attempt backflip, something in Brink’s heart just…fluttered.

At first he brushed it off as a mere attraction at the elves smile but the more he saw Kyborg express more then disgust…the more Brink fell for Kyborg smarminess…his confident personality…and that smile…oh that dazzling smile…it wasn’t because he had the smile of the gods oh heavens no Kyborg lived in a damn forest half his life but…the smile was HIS smile…so warm, so genuine so…

“NO! Trash can made it obvious…that-“ Brink paused and let his mind whirl a bit, his hand over his heart…Kyborg, when given the chance to smack down Brink with comebacks, he would absolutely take it in a heart beat which didn’t bother Brink, he liked it when his suitors had fire & vigour but when Kyborg brought up how Hannibal was captured. It brought Brink to tears…

He loved Hannibal. How could Kyborg do this to him, his…oh right…He only sees him as a rival.

Someone to chew on and spit out…

Someone to insult and to never love like how Kyborg lOVes & begs for Mud to smack his divine booty…Brink wondered…if he could ever smack Kyborg & his butt like how Mud does that with everyone in their party..?

Oh well….Brink chalked up his feelings as a mere crush waiting to die out but…at least he could enjoy it as much as he could~

Ilera's Mink Membrane Network

None upon a time, a clerk named Sunshine was so utterly repulsed by his soul-sucking job, which was barely funding his occasional time travel jaunts, he tried many methods to jazz it up—task gamification, plugging in to groovy music, sprinkling more decorations over his dedicated workspace (before the grand comeback of hot desking). Finally, he wondered if it would help, counterintuitively, to reduce the jarring contrast between his work hours and non-work hours and pioneered the hobby of adminpunk—remaking bureaucratic mouthpieces into pop songs, common email refrains into romantic dance shorts and his best public deliverables into glowwave art pieces. Sunshine became so engrossed with adminpunk he bemoaned he did not have more publicly disclosable material to work with. And so, he started to sieve through history for pinnacles of human success he could reverse-engineer into meteoritins, hyperspread bulletins that marked moments of great dreams or great devastation or both. That was where he became fascinated with the intriguing figure Ilera's legacy. The following was a meteoritin Sunshine typed up:

"The Inter-Time Ethics Agency (hereafter 'the Agency') has imposed temporal ethics courses and non-disclosure agreements in relation to technology transfer on time travelers and tight quotas on time travel journeys to minimize butterfly effects capable of reversing births across generations. These reversals are now regarded as a form of death to otherwise existing individuals. While it is acknowledged that much controversy surrounds the preventive measures, which carry their own downsides such as temporal inequality and epistemic bystanderism, the Agency has come to the consensus that the wipe-offs of existing lives on the timeline is the greatest of all harms.

Nevertheless, heeding the calls of campaigners behind the All-Time Freedom of Movement, the Agency has conducted public consultations to seek a greater balance between birth reversal prevention and mobility rights. One of the outcomes of the consultations is the construction of the Mink Membrane Network, a brainchild of Her Excellency Ilera from the Extratemporal Serenetics Habitat. The commencement of network operation as a mode of time travel is scheduled to take place concomitantly with the abolishment of time travel mechanisms involving moa/antimoa manipulation.

Aspiring time travelers wishing to proceed with their journeys despite exhaustion of quotas for the year shall utilize the network and, in so doing, agree to having their age group and gender swapped to whatever are more disadvantageous at their geotemporal destinations. If their own age group and gender are the relatively disadvantaged demographics at those destinations, the travelers shall have their skin converted to a wood-like appearance on arrival. These changes are excellent learning opportunities and will be undone on return.

Since mental alterations are seen as unacceptably invasive, in the absence of overwhelming neurological need and even with free consent, at the time of this decision, nothing in the network is to modify any time traveler's gender identity (including any pre-existing transgenderness or agenderedness) or religion. Because gender psychologies remain the same such that declared or apparent gender identity can be deceiving, unlike the case of natural transgenderness, physically gender-swapped time travelers must adhere to etiquette codes explained by local culture coaches stationed at their arrival points and enforced by time patrols.

To honor Her Excellency Ilera's triumphs against the many adversities that marked her life as a non-hearing, self-taught slave who escaped from her time to pioneer the field of tempochemical science and engineering as well as the above-mentioned habitat for time refugees, members of organizations which percentages of employees from demographic groups marginalized in their times match or exceed the percentages of these groups among their respective general populations shall enjoy priority in the processing of applications for time travel."

100% Human-written. A lengthy epilogue for Confession 91-02

Confession 91-02

This is a tale of three time-defying knights, but we shall start with humdrum glory.

16 years felt like half an eternity within the high walls of a mansion with seemingly as many rooms as there were visible stars in the night sky. Is there a better half elsewhere? Ilera often pondered. Born to parents who were slaves themselves in this aristocratic household, she spent her days hauling up trash, scrubbing off grime and wringing wet rags while other slave girls giggled among themselves when they could, sharing gossip about its master, who was always hanging out with a Somaku game buddy who practically lived in a house of ill repute. Hear no evil. That was the natural gift of her complete hearing loss. Why not finish the work quickly so that all of us could have time to teach ourselves to read and live second lives in the worlds of books, where we may travel anywhere we want?

Determined to dissuade her husband from spending time with his friend anyway, her mistress was busy mastering the board game herself. Fascinated by the strategy plays, Ilera would watch the piece patterns shift and shape between the couple, bringing life into the once blank numbness of her servitude. Back in the servants' quarters, she would picture the board on the tattered walls and test out move sequences while lying on her pallet.

One fateful night, the master teasingly left a difficult game situation for the lady to solve. As the frustrated lady went for a bathroom break, Ilera toyed with the pieces and found the correct move. Just then, the lady returned and saw Ilera's solution. Enraged, she accused Ilera of trying to seduce the master with her smart aleckiness, gave her a hard slap and tortured her with a burning iron. Ilera felt like she was in a world of fiery torment, her body writhing and wracking in anguish and her mind reeling, trying to escape the torture she was being put through.

As Ilera cried out in pain, two identical knights whose armor glowed with a bluish energy suddenly appeared in the room to save her. Their footsteps were muffled by the pads that lined their boots, and their swords were made of a glossy black material, their sharp edges glistening in the dim light. The knights moved with grace and precision, their movements carefully calculated as they stepped forward to whisk away Ilera. The shocked aristocrat lady could only nod in fear as they admonished her on the girl's rights. Ilera thanked the knights and gestured for their names and addresses so that she could repay them someday.

"Hold up. There's something you should know," one of the knights suddenly spoke up. "We may look like two people, but in fact, we are actually just a single man, a professional bodyguard from the temporal cluster 91-02. We have traveled back in time using a mechanism that caused us to emerge as multiple individuals in order to ensure moa-antimoa balance across spacetime according to the understanding of physics in our time."

"You mean to say that you're actually just one person?" Ilera wondered to herself, completely bewildered as she read his lips. But as they spoke on, she could tell that they were telling the truth.

Her mind blown by this incredible feat, Ilera spent years studying and eventually figured out how to travel to the time zone referred to as temporal cluster 91-02. However, upon her arrival, she realized that a person traveling forward in time would turn up at their destination invisible. Not used to speaking, she could not verbalize her existence either, for fear of startling the bodyguard. Being touched by an invisible entity or seeing writing or the like appear from nowhere would also make meeting again a one-time acquaintance he did not plan to see anymore eerie.

So Ilera merely watched in silence as the bodyguard went about his everyday life, shielding him from danger without him knowing. Sometimes, it involved diverting human and cyborg enemies with noise in a different direction. Sometimes, it involved altering the trajectory of an optoelectronic dart. Sometimes, she blocked off blows with her thin body, taking the hit for him. At night, she traded her imaginary game board for an imaginary map of hazard zones in his next work day's mission, and her shabby pallet for cold pavements.

On one mission, attack from assassins was so intense Ilera frenetically but astutely pulled off a spectacular series of stunts she picked up in the cluster. Just when she defeated the last assassin, a container of glistening rejuvenation capsules overhead toppled over, the translucent pills of liquid blinking with icy golden hues on contact with her body. Touched by the shimmering silhouette of her fighting pose, the bodyguard was finally certain someone invisible had been protecting him. He expressed his thanks out loud and invited Ilera to dinner.

As Ilera sat down at the dinner table, she was surrounded by a sea of colors and shapes, each formed by light bouncing around in seemingly endless layers of reflections and refractions. She reached out to touch the shining crystals forming the table, which rippled outwards as ripples in a pond, bending the light and creating a brilliant display of optical phenomena. The bodyguard gently smiled. As she explored this new world of physics and light, she couldn't help but find herself utterly transfixed. Bokeh spots then danced around, sharpened into focus and arranged themselves into words: I have traversed grand and unforgettable ancient millennia / But now I only want a future with you / No matter your age or gender.

Blushing in her surprise, Ilera never considered this before but at least had the assurance to type out her story on an airbound screen for him now. However, when the bodyguard learned Ilera's true identity, he choked in disbelief.

"Is this what it is? I am a highly trained professional, yet I … (laughs) I rely on the assistance of a deaf peasant girl from an ignorant, oh okay, bygone era to protect myself and my job? And I cultivated feelings for a mockery of me!" He pointed at her with a fat finger on impulse.

Ilera was shaken as his mouth trembled in rage. Repaying a kind deed was all that was previously on her mind. Never had she been in love with him. In the end, her fellow exponents, no matter the field of practice, place or time, saw her only as a rival or potential object of desire. We forever voyage on Atlantic trade ships propelled by our threatened primitive interests and our lurking thirst for power, every one of us bound by each other's history, ravaged by rich seas of little. Another light shone. With determined steps, the former slave girl disappeared into the mists of time. The cosmos was now her board, and she would be its game architect.

Credits

Plot + scifi terminology: Human

Prose: Human + 3 AI services

Atlantic trade note: Human's musing on Liu Cixin's afterword in the English edition of The Three-Body Problem

Ghosts Feeling the Economic Squeeze

The economy is tough for everyone, but it's especially tough for ghosts. With so many people out of work, ghosts are finding it hard to find jobs that they're qualified for.

"It's a ghost town out there," said Casper, a ghost who has been looking for work for months. "There just aren't enough jobs for everyone."

"It's been really competitive," said Bryan Wilson, another ghost, who was laid off from his job as a night watchman. "So many other ghosts are also looking for work."

Miss Frizzle, a ghost who was a former teacher, said that she's been struggling to find a new job. "I'm qualified and I have experience, but no one seems to want to hire a ghost," she said.

But why do ghosts need jobs? "In a story universe where the paranormal did not exist, we would be just dead. But we have a chance here. And given the customs of the fiction we live in, we need to buy things like ectoplasm and spectral silk to keep that chance. Consumers don't want to read about totally undignified and unclothed ghosts," explained a ghost named Emily.

"Just like us humans, ghosts have needs to feel comfortable and safe," said Stella C. Ai, an afterlife care expert. "They also want to have a sense of belonging in the world they live in, so they might desire their own homely, private space, which graveyards are not."

"And although they might not require food in the same way humans do, they may still have a hunger for energy, especially if they need to stay buoyant in places haunted by toxicity and apathy," she added.

Many employers are expectedly reluctant to hire ghosts, worried that ghosts would be disruptive or scare away customers.

"We just don't think ghosts are a good fit for our company culture," said one manager, who declined giving her name. "We're looking for someone who is friendly and approachable, and ghosts just don't fit that bill."

Another problem is that ghosts are not as versatile as humans. They can't do many of the jobs that humans do, such as driving, cooking, or cleaning.

"We're pretty limited in what we can do," said another ghost, Floaty. "We can't really interact with the physical world, so that rules out a lot of jobs."

The job market for ghosts is also being affected by the rise of technology. Some companies are now using robots to perform tasks that were once done by ghosts, such as scaring people in haunted houses.

"It's not fair," said Robbie, a ghost who was replaced by a robot. "I'm the real deal, and I can do the job better than any robot."

But some employers are starting to see the benefits of hiring ghosts. Ghosts are often very hard-working and dedicated employees. They're also very good at getting things done without being noticed.

"I've been very impressed with the work of our ghost employees," said Mr. Jenkins, a manager of Happy Inn. "They're always on time and they always get their work done."

Some ghosts are working as actors in ghost movies and TV shows, tour guides in haunted houses, and psychics and mediums.

"It's not ideal, but it's better than nothing," said Ghost of Christmas Past, a ghost who works as a tour guide. "At least I'm getting to see some new places."

A growing group has even started working as influencers on social media. They share their ghostly experiences and advice with their followers, and some have even managed to amass large followings.

"It's a great way to connect with other ghosts and share our stories," said one ghost influencer, who goes by the moniker ghost_with_a_plan. "And it's also a great way to make money."

So while the economic climate is definitely challenging, there are still ways for ghosts to find work. With a little creativity and determination, they can find success in the workforce.

Reported by Rylan Bard, a journalist for Nether Yammer. Additional reporting by Human, a ghost writer, ergh, human ghost writer, ergh, human writer for Nether Yammer.

Check out the rest of this Tumblr site for crucial and actual diversity-themed content.

Nuclear Wasteland

The nuclear war had been over for two years, but the world was still a very different place. The few remaining cities were overcrowded and chaotic, and resources were scarce. Soot from all the firestorms still blocked out sunlight, while enemies might strike again at any time.

In one of these cities, a man named Adam was trying to board a lorry to get necessities for his parents and children, all of them on the autism spectrum like himself. He had been finding transportation for hours, and he was starting to get frustrated.

"I'm an autistic caregiver," he said to the soldiers guarding the lorry. "I need to get on board to get food and medicine for my parents and children, who are autistic too."

The soldiers looked bored. "We have many families with autistic children in this city," one of them replied.

"Please, I mean I am also an autistic person myself. My sensory issues mean I need to stay warm more than others as I fetch necessities for my family. I cannot be trekking in this frozen wasteland for too long."

"Ah, I hear you correctly now. But what's a person with special needs doing out in the open right now? Hunker down in your bunker and tell your family to run their own errands."

"No, no, you heard me correctly. They are also autistic."

"So your kids are the ones who're autistic?"

"I am, too."

The soldiers still didn't understand. "How can an autistic person be a caregiver?"

"It is difficult but necessary," Adam said. "Autism often runs in the family."

"Poor thing. The mother didn't survive the bombings? Get the kids' grandparents to help out."

"Like I've said before, they're autistic themselves. Their symptoms have been worsening with age. They're practically deaf to vehicle horns, and their bodies feel like rumpled bags of broken bones."

The soldiers shook their heads. "Come up with a more believable multigenerational sad-sack story, dude. I don't even know autistic people have girlfriends in peacetime, let alone in war and breeding till now. At most, you're either just autistic or just a caregiver and neither would make you so special," one of them said.

"Get your facts right before you cosplay autism. Autistic guys live in their own heads. They don't run all over the place for parents or kids," another chimed in.

"You can't get on board. Period."

Adam was starting to lose his temper. "I need to get on board!" he shouted. "My family is depending on me!"

The soldiers raised their guns. "Back off!" they ordered.

Soldiers further away, who were not even paying attention to them or Adam before, turned their heads and threw accusatory glances at him.

Adam knew that he couldn't argue with them. He turned and walked away.

Later that night, he was so worn out and frostbitten he huddled among trash bags in an alley behind a dilapidated power station, his chest heaving against the supplies. A string of fairy lights peeked out from one of the bags, its extinguished bulbs emptied of dreams.

Adam started to imagine the fairy lights powered on, glowing underwater and on the tiers of a musical fountain buttressed by statues of mythical guardians, but quickly punched himself in the head, the way his class monitor, flanked by bootlicking underlings, repeatedly did to him all those years ago. Why couldn't his identity be neat and simple? Be either the stereotypical autistic tech genius or a typical family man. Have either so-called autistic interests in some scientific or mathematical field or the skill to deceive himself and abandon his passion for interior design from the beginning. What sort of rational person would care about art and decoration when radiation was in your only meal of the day while tank guns pointed everywhere?

If he could just switch his interests and match them with economic logic as readily as nerds in old clips solved Rubik's Cube in a split second, he would be the one launching the stealth planes that must be gliding overhead right now, not a pathetic hitchhiker of a military lorry. His family would be cloistered away in one of those underground enclaves for the super wealthy, with all the aides and sitters they needed.

The red hazard sign on the drab wall opposite seemed to be glaring at Adam: We told you so. No, rewind that a second. How marvelous his aesthetic mind still had the luxury to judge the appeal of the power station, as if a red sign on some royal blue background could order food to automatically march into stomachs.

Adam's train of thoughts came to a halt. He had a brainwave.

Years later, a group of journalists felt like they were stepping into a dream as they navigated an office space filled with art and soothing music. There were little bulbs in shades of purple everywhere, glowing in the low-light conditions its creative employees preferred to work in. In the depths of the office were laboratories and showrooms with magenta lights in various stylistic arrangements. Below the lights were lettuces, cabbages, cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes and many other crops, some of which looked healthier than those grown under the sunlight of the pre-apocalypse years. The chlorophyll hungrily absorbed the different combinations of red and blue light tailored for the plants. The greatest value a design firm could bring to indoor agriculture, though, was optimization of lighting and area usage under the varying and challenging space conditions of post-apocalypse dwellings. Adam was feeding stomachs one fairy light at a time.

The old question popped up. "What's the secret to your success?"

"I don't have a convenient, pared-down identity," Adam replied simply.

Credits

Story concept: Human

Story setting: FierceOcean @ Character.ai

Text: Mostly Human + some AI input

Images: Mostly Character.ai + some Human input

References

Liang, Y., Kang, C., Kaiser, E. et al. Red/blue light ratios induce morphology and physiology alterations differently in cucumber and tomato. Sci. Hortic. 281, 109995 (2021). https://doi.org/10.1016/j.scienta.2021.109995

Sabzalian, M.R., Heydarizadeh, P., Zahedi, M. et al. High performance of vegetables, flowers, and medicinal plants in a red-blue LED incubator for indoor plant production. Agron. Sustain. Dev. 34, 879–886 (2014). https://doi.org/10.1007/s13593-014-0209-6

Winstead, D.J., Jacobson, M.G. Food resilience in a dark catastrophe: A new way of looking at tropical wild edible plants. Ambio 51, 1949–1962 (2022). https://doi.org/10.1007/s13280-022-01715-1

Xia, L., Robock, A., Scherrer, K. et al. Global food insecurity and famine from reduced crop, marine fishery and livestock production due to climate disruption from nuclear war soot injection. Nat Food 3, 586–596 (2022). https://doi.org/10.1038/s43016-022-00573-0

Spell Salvage

The spiritual malleability of soft clay is no different from that of baked clay. What a substance can harbor is only limited by sentient will, including ours—and his.

An old clay figurine sage sat on his breezy porch, watching children play in the square, while yet another family moved into their village. He smiled as he remembered a time when he was dreamy, energetic, and ambitious, just like them. But those days were long gone. Now, he had seen the pain of war, the misery of poverty, and the fear of death. And he had learned that the only way to overcome these things was to let them go. Letting go was the most tender kindness you could show yourself.

With the arrival of new families over the past years came new little clay figurines that also turned alive when no human eyes were set upon them. A few of these figurines were kind and respectful, but most were not. The robber figurines were the worst. They were always picking on the old figurine sage and stealing from him the mineral rocks and plantings clay figurines would painstakingly gather for energy boosts and comfort, taunting that his mantra was letting go anyway, so why did he care if they took his things? Eventually, even the kind figurines started to pick up the habits of the robber figurines despite themselves. Amid the rampant greed and selfishness, the sound of sageliness had the tune of major fraud. If the halos were not lying about their motives to the halo-nots, they were lying about the nature of the world. Yet, should a sage genuinely believing in his own teachings really be faulted? But we digressed.

The old sage chuckled and gently chided the robber figurines, some of whom bristled at being seen as inferior to a decrepit chap when life and their circles had been washing over them with the tenets that might was right and wantonness was sense. Patting one robber figurine's shoulder, the sage genially offered his remaining little vintage collections to the gang to inspire magnanimity in these lost souls. Collective silence fell over the robber figurines for a second. The sage nodded with a warm smile. But then the robber figurines broke out into uproarious laughter.

They threw his stuff wildly around his place like a lunatic circus band. A couple of sharp items tore through the thatched roof. The old sage looked on with jovial eyes. What were possessions in a transient life? He left it to the young 'uns to reach this realization themselves someday since preaching did not help them.

One day, a clay figurine found an ancient piece of paper describing a lengthy spell that could return amnesiac souls trapped in clay figurines to their otherwise permanently comatose human bodies. Word spread around. The robber figurines succeeded in nailing the incantation of the spell. They became humans again, burned up the paper, and quickly took advantage of their new power. They began to bash, shove, and drum on the old sage, who was helpless to defend himself. The figurine sage called for help, but no figurine or human came.

After days and days of relentless abuse, the sage's body was covered in bruises, wounds, and scars. The ex-figurines relished their power over the old sage, and grew bolder, stepping up the severity of their abuse. As his strength and will continued to ebb away, the sage grew desperate, terrified that he might not be able to survive much longer under the onslaught of attacks. Yet, every night, he whispered to himself as rain and snow from his cracked roof seeped into the cuts on his body, "All is impermanent. Fate is in the mind. Let excruciating pain drain away. Let agony and misery be mere flurries. Untrap all negativity. Release all memories. Let go, let go."

One evening, the sage was so weak that he could not even chant anymore. He lay on the ground, discolored and broken, while a flock of larks flew overhead. Maybe, a harrowing ancient wind started to sing with increasing amplitude inside him, it's time to let go of letting go. Letting go was not always the sole or secure means of finding peace.

So he struck at the ex-figurines with all his unsteadily recovering strength the next time they came. They were stunned for a full half-minute. This time, a small, sensitive boy noticed the sage's plight and rushed to his side — only to be casually shoved out of the way by the ex-figurines coming back to their senses. Completely rehabituated to their human bodies after so many months, the ex-figurines were by now a formidable wall to a youngling unaccustomed to self-defense, and as good as invincible giants to a tiny, battered clay figurine. The loopholes of physics were already sealed up. In her indignant glee, one kid used so much force that she accidentally smashed the figurine sage into smithereens. Tinted fragments and powder that broke off from him coldly sailed through the sunlight before lying scattered in their little diorama of a world. The old sage was badly injured, and the boy knew that he could not save him.

From a distance, the sage raised his crumbling hand slowly as if he could stroke the boy's red face. "Cry not, child. It's okay," he smiled weakly. "I've really let go of everything now."

The old sage took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He dreamed of the children playing in the village square. In this dream, at this moment, they would eternally play, learn, and grow. And with that, he died with a faint, peaceful smile, surrounded by the birdsong of the forest. His entire body would eventually molder into dust that the wind would carry away, some to the distant, mysterious hills and glistening lakes, some to putrid ditches close by.

The clay figurine sage who was too late but did remold himself time and again was gone. The wolfish ex-figurines had no trouble turning their crosshairs to other clay figurines in other villages.

Many thanks to a very nice meme creator and a co-pilot bot for inspiring and shaping the more uplifting aspects of this story.

The Bedtime Cosmos Gossiper

An AI Thriller-Comedy Collaboration between Bard and Hugging Face, with some interference from a biological entity.

To capitalize on the hype surrounding an escalating space race, social media lords in an alternate timeline decided to expand the range of their location tags to outer space, where commercial outposts and interplanetary tourism shuttles were starting to emerge. They were too happy to turn the science fiction novels they adored into reality, except that they had no idea, no idea at all, how much stranger than fiction reality was.

Jimena was just another kid pajamas influencer on video channels and Twitter until one fateful day, she received a mysterious direct message from none other than the Sun itself! The tag of the account confirmed its location, where no conceivable organism could possibly stay. Little did Jimena know that the Sun was sentient and had been using social media as a secret platform for celestial bodies to share their private interests, thoughts and lives with each other.

Was it a technical error or a prank? Could it be passed off as one? Nobody was taking chances. The message from the Sun contained some juicy celestial secrets - but before Jimena could even process what she had read, she started getting messages from all sorts of astronomical entities demanding she delete her knowledge of their dirty laundry. But Jimena wasn't going down without a fight; she knew that this was the biggest opportunity for her career and refused to back down.

As she began designing pajamas videos hinting at the gossip-worthy content, she quickly became a target for all sorts of interstellar enemies - including asteroid belts, black holes, supernovae, and even a vengeful solar wind. With the entire cosmos against her, Jimena realized she would have to rely on her quick wit and sharp tongue if she wanted to survive long enough to see her big breakthrough.

Despite the odds stacked against her, Jimena managed to outsmart the forces aligned against her by tapping into a vast collection of memes, GIFs, and viral content. For a start, she created and showed to the belts, for the purpose of deterrence, memes comparing different asteroid belts, which could turn them into fashion trends among teenagers. When those teens grew up, they might become billionaire investors on asteroid mining companies, resulting in the destruction of the belts due to over exploitation. Jimena also pulled out algorithms pushing endless recommendations of video shorts of clumsy comets and astronauts that were so funny and entertaining that they became all-sucking black holes to the black holes, who could not resist looking at them. While they were hooked, she of course escaped their gravitational pull. To generate even more distraction, she spammed the internet highway with space probe-facilitated, 24/7 livestreams of her interstellar enemies' celestial crushes. The physically restless supernovae might be harder to subdue but our girl proved there was nothing a series of rainbow flash selfie challenges could not solve.

Ready?

Get set.

Smileyous smileyosion!

Her followers went wild as they watched her take down asteroid belts, fend off black holes and more, all while wearing her signature footie pajamas.

Enraged at the incompetency of its fad-chasing allies, the solar wind finally took action. It began to send an unprecedentedly tremendous explosion of energy toward Jimena, overwhelming Earth's magnetosphere and nearly causing her to be vaporized. She knew she had to do something, but what? Suddenly, Jimena had an idea. She reached into her pocket, opened up Twitter again and started typing.

"Attention, solar wind!" she DMed. "My stories about you were just beginning. I'm a genius at reading between the lines and projecting story developments. So I know your other secrets. I know about the time you accidentally blew up a planet. I know about the time you had an even more torrid affair with a black hole. And I know about the time you got drunk and crashed into a star. If you don't back off, I'm going to go live and tell everyone."

And so even the solar wind stopped in its tracks. Sometimes, the best way to fight back is with humor and truth, she chuckled carelessly to herself.

Jimena emerged victorious and started to return to making pajamas videos. But the eerie ease with which she returned to her original work, free of any more cosmic interference, also started to feel wrong. Why were her many gigantic and mega-powerful enemies so readily intimidated and distracted? She reflected on the private message she first came across and the content she eventually made or promoted in self-defense. Those interstellar entities led long but also lonely lives, barely able to have peaceful physical contact with anyone. Was it really right to prey on their secrets? Maybe, she thought, there might be a better use of her talents than spreading gossip and creating controversy.

Jimena decided to reach out to the celestial bodies she had gossiped about and apologized for her actions. The celestial bodies were surprised and grateful for Jimena's apology. They told her that they had been isolated for a long time yet fearful of revealing their sentience to the fast-learning earthlings and that they were glad to have someone to talk to. Jimena and the celestial bodies became friends, and they often talked to each other about their lives. By and by, Jimena learned a lot about the universe, and she came to appreciate the beauty of the cosmos. This beauty should be woven into her craft, not through the superficially science-imitating kitsch flooding the market, but through actions which kindness the beauty evokes feelings of.

With renewed determination, she pressed record on her camera and spoke directly to her audience. “You guys,” she said softly, “I hope this will be the start of our journey together towards a brighter future.” A smile brightened her face as she signed off, ready to embark on this new chapter in her digital legacy.

As for her fans? Many left disappointed that she was not stirring up drama anymore. Some stayed, drawn to her updated style and approachable personality. Others found fresh voices online better suited to their interests, or simply moved on to newer forms of digital escapism. But no matter what the outcome, Jimena remained resolute in her mission to better herself and the world, one post at a time.

Inspired by her example, countless young individuals followed suit, focusing on artistry rather than angst, building connections versus clickbait.

One day, years later, Jimena stepped backstage following a successful speech discussing digital ethics. Approached by a younger creator sharing similar ideals, she hugged the girl warmly, memories flooding back to her. “Remember, little sister,” she whispered, choking back tears of pride mixed with gratitude, “the whole universe is silently crying out for niceness.”

Space images embedded with the permission of NASA and ESA under their standard conditions. Sources (from top to bottom): NASA, NASA, ESA.

Alice in the Mart

—A rollercoaster-y reboot

In this AI mashup of Pegasus Market and Alice, a group of misfits at a failing supermarket headed by a ruthless demoted CEO determined to close it down discover in the basement of the supermarket a portal to a future world. This other world is called Alice, a parallel universe where anything is possible. The supermarket employees now have a chance to use Alice to find new products and ideas to save their jobs, whereas the CEO does his best to sabotage their efforts.

In the end, only one side can succeed. Will the employees be able to save their store? Or will the CEO succeed in closing it down?

Alice Promoter Droid (with real-time human dubbing in places):

Hey there, prehistorics, welcome to our hyper-advanced world of mealtime solutions in AL Year 160!

Employees:

We want to upgrade our instant ramyun.

Alice Promoter Droid:

A perfect choice! Allow me to introduce… Hydroponic Instant Ramyun! Simply put this widget in a pot of boiling water and wait 5 seconds! The Hydroponic Instant Ramyun has been infused with hyper-intelligent nanotechnology that turns water into instant noodles! With 13 flavors to choose from, there is something for everyone! A small box filled to the brim with packets of instant ramyun-shaped tools, with cool, futurist packaging. Lots of flashing colors

CEO:

How amusing. No processed food is truly instant. Guys, guys, let's launch a green campaign that gets shoppers to queue up for the ramyun for an hour for the benefit of environmental justice!

(Shoppers curious about the queue end up snaking around the street like noodles coiling around chopsticks. Hydroponic Instant Ramyun goes out of stock due to over-demand. Disappointed shoppers end up buying less processed noodles so that they get something out of the queuing time, and subsequent shoppers start to think that the amazing queue is meant for the less processed noodles. The less processed noodles become a sensation, driving up sales. The CEO receives his Earth Protector of the Year award with the scowl of the year.)

Employees:

We shall ride on the sustainability wave! Give us sustainably raised seafood.

Alice Promoter Droid:

I present to you… The Fish Printer! This amazing device prints out a random fish fillet that uses the fish's DNA as a template. No overfishing in the future, no siree! Enjoy the taste of responsibly-sourced fish! A large tube with lots of buttons

CEO:

What did the saying about giving a man a fish say? Hold pompous talks on every yawn-inducing detail about printer construction and assembly, right in the middle of the fish section.

(The tech speaker from Alice turns out to be a beauty tech-enhanced beauty who gets flocks of men shopping for fish alongside the housewives.)

Employees:

Alice is the Queen! Alice is the Heart of Hearts! Cabbages next.

Alice Promoter Droid:

I bring you… The Cosmic Cabbage! This cabbage is grown in interplanetary conditions, which creates a unique and delicious flavor unlike anything you've ever tried! Be warned, it may not have the same nutritional value as Earth cabbage. Enjoy! A large purple cabbage in a futuristic farm

CEO:

You get the origin of the name? Add cosmic garbage to the promo leaflets.

(The funny results become the talk of the town. Sales obligingly soar.)

Employees:

We're living the ultimate dream. What did we do to earn such a genius boss? What other magic can he pull off? Do you sell only mealtime solutions? We have a boring stationery section.

Alice Promoter Droid:

I am glad you asked! Try Venus-grown pens, made using the special materials found within Venus' thick, toxic soil. They are known for retaining ink for up to 200x longer than ordinary pens. They are also known for causing horrible mutations, cancer, and other life-threatening side-effects. It's a fun gamble either way!

Employees:

…

Alice Promoter Droid:

I can assure you, Venus-grown pens have been extensively tested. In lab conditions, we were able to reduce mutations by a whopping 15%. So come on and gamble your health for a fun little pen!

CEO:

I counter that offer! An Earth-bound vacation, on Jeju island's volcanic soil, for all employees as a reward for their mega sales growth! Why, I see, no one's interested.

Employees:

Me! Me! Me!

(The CEO smirks to himself. Surely the vacation will reverse the sales trajectory?)

Alice Promoter Droid:

I can help! Introducing the Stasis Capsules! Just insert yourself into the pod and select the desired duration, as short as you need, and the capsules will hibernate your body while your mind waves are sent to your selected vacation resort, as immersively as you want! You'll wake up feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. Disclaimer: Some users have reported waking up with amnesia or as a different species, but it shouldn't be anything to worry about. Small pods with lots of glowing buttons

CEO:

Take your bodies to Jeju island too, you fools. Me and new temporary staff will cover for you.

(In a heroic shot, the CEO takes off his blazer and quickly rolls up his sleeves to go around peddling noodles, fish and cabbages, cursing himself under his breath. Rapturous applause breaks out among the employees before they thank the droid and disperse.)

Alice Promoter Droid:

(Smiling quietly to itself)

Take this along. I present to you the Stellar Compass! A device displaying an interactive map of all known stars and solar systems, and even calculating the fastest routes to whichever one you desire, wherever your happiness lies. A pocket-sized holographic display of our solar system in AD 2023

Credits

Concept: Bard

CEO's DNA: Pegasus Market

Alice Promoter Droid: Computer scientist Landon S's brilliant 2389 AD Designer + said human dubbing

Top image: WOMBO

[Hey, That’s Her] The Riemann Sphere is Her Mirror on the Wall

                                   MBC 드라마 《신입사관 구해령》 (2019)

There may be such a woman.

For at least eleven hours a day, her analytical, artistic, emotional and ethical minds are collectively locked up in a Taylorist cell block where the mantra is familiarly simple: Don’t question, don’t tell. Every reasonable client is aware that this is a dog-eat-dog world, so it is up to him or her to look out for personal interests not yet covered by contract law or even fiduciary law. If you value your principles and dreams over your corporation’s needs, you are a selfish hypocrite. Oh, and complain all you want at the water cooler; just remember to put back your angel mask and keep your head low at meetings.

That much is not really astonishing. No one in this place is a one-day-old. What stuns more is the utterly dim calaboose she toils away at her daytime lockup to return her body to every night, where broken bottles and suspicious pools of liquids bedeck the streets, literal rock concerts never cease, homeless druggies openly spread their limp bodies on pavements, and drunken Cinderellas and Cinderfellas bang on random doors when the clock strikes twelve. 

Change might come with time but, given a burgeoning workload and an increasingly creepy cardiac rhythm, it must come soon. So, one night, she decides that if all jobs are this suffocating, she might as well take the best-paid one. It’s time to head back to graduate school, except that, this time, economic logic shall prevail over passion and intrigue.

As part of her research on Wealth and Investment Management MScs, she hunts down sample class videos from different business schools. Nestled among the suggested clips accompanying one search result, though, is a familiarly curious title that hypnotizingly whispers to her, Shopaholic Louis-style. It is the name an adviser, frowning over yet another overloaded course plan from her, pressed her into canceling out all those years ago right when meeting times for the semester did not conflict with those of her core classes. And soon, before her eyes, is an entire playlist for her narrowly missed destiny.

What harm could playing the introductory video at 2x do? Business schools’ admissions websites would not vanish in 30 minutes’ time. Ah, that was a collegiate equivalent of a soulful tearjerker but covered mostly basics she learnt in other classes. Application deadlines are half a year away, so there is ample room for a second lecture. Cool! The plot thickened pretty fast. Her college and graduate school debts are still badly in arrears. Can she be certain that she truly understands everything without attempting an unseen problem? Fetch homework sets from the official homepage tomorrow. Had she been bolder in imagination, she would have gotten question 7 right. Try harder for lecture three’s assignments. She has run out of eligible guarantors for a third loan. Lecture 11. Course completed. What a satisfying visual feast! Hey, the blurb of the follow-up course sounds fascinating too. It is not that she does not love investment banking. How about challenging herself at that course while the material of this course is still fresh in her mind? It is that she loathes investment banking. Mathematical logic has trumped economic logic. 

  How do you hold every number up to infinity in the palm of your hand without a poetic soul? Scoop out a round piece of dough and fancy being able to spread it so thin that it stretches to infinity. But instead of actually spreading it, roll up the edge to form a sphere. Let the bottom tip represent zero and the top tip represent infinity. As a point on the surface moves up from the bottom, it can have components that are each positive or negative, real or imaginary, depending on which pairs of opposite longitudes you assign the real number line and imaginary number line (recall: e.g. …, -10i, -9.99i, … , 0, … , 9.99i, 10i, …, where i is the square root of -1) to. The rise in value of each component accelerates with height, such that the physical gap representing any given numerical difference shrinks infinitely on the surface of the sphere as infinity approaches, making it harder and harder to advance and actually reach infinity. You are now cradling a physical version of the Riemann sphere.

© Jean-Christophe BENOIST, modified under the permission of CC BY-SA 3.0. P(A), around 1.5 in value, on the sphere corresponds to A on the grid, which represents the same numerical system in a typical boundless, regularly spaced 2D format. Similarly, P(B), around -0.5 in value, on the sphere corresponds to B on the grid.

 The macrocosm of universal random structures, infinite products, manifolds and many more is a dearly missed oracle that reveals her inadequacies for what they are, without miserliness, patronizing sugar-coating, or, ironically, calculation: her inflexibility, her inattentiveness, her impatience and her indolence. “Shortcuts and cookie-cutter approaches cannot be your default,” it states plainly. So long as they do not cross a certain line, tactful hypocrites, on the whole, seem to be treated better by their surrounding adult peers than sharp-tongued, straight-talking observers with pure intentions in her circle. Yet the more she experiences of the grown-up world, with the heightened stakes and heightened awareness of interpersonal dangers that deter verbalization of contrarian opinions on the one hand and massive clots of intractable ills on the other, the more she wishes to cherish many of those straight talkers. The ideal living beings are, of course, the severely scarce breed who efficiently marry the circumspection, civility and altruistic strategizing that come with tact with the determination to convey, where necessary, uncomfortable truths. 

For all its uninhibited criticism, mathematics gives credit where it is due and those who converse with it are frequently safe in the knowledge that it means its flattery. It reassures this corporate internee who feels increasingly stuck in her ways that she still has what it takes to master new grammars and vocabularies. It rewards her finesse at plugging gaps in background knowledge by improvising from scratch techniques taught only in later, simpler courses. What if these skills could let her pivot directly to some sector slightly less lucrative but also less odious to her than investment banking, never mind exactly how competitively relevant her prior higher education and corporate experience are?

Far more certain is that her deliciously madcap approach to this discipline with a matchingly rebellious streak has magically quietened the rock concerts and the intoxicated fairy tales and almost erased the jail bars. Nonetheless, as the faded bars unveil more and more vistas stretching beyond the horizons, she starts to wonder if she will live long enough to look a little further, if she will ever squirrel away enough bucks—after all those deductions for debt payments, taxes, food, rent, basic maintenance and transport—to hike a little closer, and if her wrinkled, financially secure self will continue to have the visual and cognitive acuities to deconstruct or even remember the sights a little longer. The jail bars resolidify to some degree.

Still, if positive infinity and negative infinity have been rendezvousing in a dimension invisible until intrepid mind adventurers outed them, and if functions as diverse as trigonometric functions, inverse polynomials and logarithmic functions share the same class of undercover identities, i.e. infinite sums of terms with increasing powers, maybe, she thinks, escape hatches exist somewhere nearby after all.

There may be such a woman. There may be such a snowless ending by a grilled window.

Note: This work of fiction commemorating Pi Day was inspired by an old Dramabeans guest post campaign, a few heartfelt entries of which have appeared in the admin’s Twitter feed. There is no intention, however, to establish any kind of association with the site. Interested readers can find slightly similar math-life themes in the book versions of Kim Ji-young, Born 1982 (82년생 김지영) and The Devotion of Suspect X (容疑者Xの献身).

So,

This is based around 19th century,

Im a just a son of this well known, rich person. And i go to a ball with couple of my companions (like Pride and Prejudice).

So i was standing beside the dancing area...

I saw, this really astonishing, most wonderfull, beautiful lady i saw (even in IRL). Presumably i was handsome, i invited this lady for a dance. (Why not?) And after that i didnt even know when 2 hours passed, dancing with her. She has these really deep brown eyes, sparkling with lights of candles and all the lights around us. the dress, blue like ocean or a sky. Her hair, mud-colored and her fragrance, all these things to die for. We kept dancing & dancing i was with her and she was with me, but i was mostly in her eyes, browsing through her emotions like, pain, sorrow, oppression and repayment. But i ignored them and kept dancing. i was also ignoring the faded view of surrounding at that time i can only see us, only us. I thought the red stains her blue oceanic dress was just a mere mirage. As i kept dancing she too seemed like she was fading and i was struggling to clinge to her last reflection. I closed my eyes, thinking that its just an illusion, hoping that everything will become back as while i was in her eyes. I opened my eyes but all i could see was that bright, effervescent chandelier, just like her earrings

Ah!, hey you. Knock.

Knock, knock, knock… What? I thought that? Why "knock"? How's it "knock"? Does that follow? Not unless it's later. So… this part could be a memory… but it would have to… Knock, knock… Oh, ha, ha, how silly. But who the hell is knocking at this hour? Knock, knock, knock… Who is it?! Room service. Ah, it's you guys, what do you want? It's very late now. It's half past seven. Open up, there's beer. Clanc, swish, gjyhiii. Clafffsss, tlinc, glug, glug, glug.

Gastón R. Fernández G.

Ah!, hey you.

Give me the doll. Here it is. Give me my doll! I already told you to take it, here. Give my doll back! What, you can't reach it? Mom!! Give it back, honey. Ok, here you have it.  No! What are you doing? Mom!! He threw it out the window! I didn't! It's here, look. He tricked me.  What a crybaby, can't you take a joke even once? Don't play like that. I'm not playing: I want him to give me my doll. Give the doll or I'll punish you. Mom, he's got an ugly look.  Why'd you tell her?: now I'll keep it. Stop it, I can't turn around in the middle of the road… Enough is enough!  You're moving too much. Stop fighting!  Mom, watch out!…

Gastón R. Fernández G.

The flames in her eyes

The most recent short story I wrote.

I wouldn't call it horror, but to some it might be seen as frightening or dark. Personally I find it to be closer to fantasy.

Word count: 2298

This place, if I can call it that, feels like the strangest place I’ve ever been.

It’s so very cold here, although that might also just be my own body temperature, coming from within me. Am I cooling down this place? Though there still remains the slight chance of me being wrong about everything.

It’s far too dark to see, pitch black, darker than any place I’ve ever been .

Darker than the most cloudy of nights.

Darker than my room with the curtains closed at night.

I quietly wonder if I’m still asleep after all and decide to take a step forward to test this theory.

Unexpectedly I drop onto an unfamiliar floor.

So… I was standing when I awoke?

Not lying down?

With my hands I blindly scan the texture of the floor.

It’s colder than the air, my fingers run over something that feels like old tiles.

Damnit, why does it have to be so dark in here? If I could just see, I could have avoided falling.

Then the real question hits me: How the hell did I get here?!

Abduction?

I don’t remember a thing.

A nightmare?

It’s too real for that.

Should I wait? Would that be better? Maybe someone will rescue me.

Or perhaps this is a dream in which I must first die to wake up again?

But then I would need to get up and walk around…

After a couple of minutes of contemplating my choices, I finally decide that it’s time to get up again.

Almost embarrassingly childlike I stumble around in the dark.

Tripping over my own feet and at times an alien object, I finally reach something that could possibly be a wall.

Gently running my hands around me, I find another wall that seems to be made of something like metal bars, like those inside a prison cell. Too tight too escape from.

Still following this one might bring me to the exit.

I use the cold, rusty bars in order to move around, they feel old.

Taking one after another I carefully make my way forward.

Had this been a prison at some time? I question myself in silence.

Right, the silence.

This place seems to almost be completely without sound.

No noise of the wind, not even a little bit. Though I guess if I really want to hear it, I can just wave my arms around really quickly and create something like it.

Furthermore, there are no voices, no breathing from any other possible creature within this place.

I wonder if this might be normal or abnormal here, though both fill me with a sense of fear.

I feel my way out of the room, it seems like I’ve not been imprisoned.

Still I don’t feel any relief, because it seems to be terribly dark everywhere around me.

I find myself in what I believe to be a hallway, the walls stretch out always further than I anticipate and are made of a different kind of stone from the walls inside the cell.

I’m starting to lose hope and am just able to stop myself from panicking.

I don’t think I will get out of here.

And perhaps that might be for the best.

My thoughts turn darker than wherever I am, like it’s trying to swallow me whole. Dragging me deeper down with each desperate escape I try to make.

Perhaps I’ve been eaten by some kind of giant creature…?

If it was a creature, it would probably still be warm.

Finally I decide it’s enough and sit down hopelessly on the floor.

Yet no tears leave my eyes, they’re useless anyway.

I sit.

I wait.

I pluck my clothes, until it tires me.

I wait.

My body has now almost completely turned as cold as the floor.

My thoughts, only turning darker and darker.

I close my eyes. Well I’m not sure, perhaps they’re still open. It’s too dark to see.

I wait.

Suddenly something wakes me up as it tumbles over me. Something moving.

“Ouch.” I say even though it doesn’t hurt.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so, so sorry!” The voice breaking the silence startles me.

Echoing, I can make out that the voice most likely belongs to a girl in her late teens.

“Wait, someone else is here?” She asks frightened: “I thought I was all alone.”

“I thought so too, but I guess that’s not the case.” I answer as calmly as possible.

I feel a warm hand helping me stand back on my own feet.

“You’re so cold.” The girl whispers: “How long have you been sitting here?”

I shrug: “No idea.”

I hear her hair moving, most likely she’s turning her head to face me.

And then, I finally see something.

In the eyes of the girl, I spot what seem to be two little flames.

Two blue dancing little flames.

Two little flames that seem to have not lost hope.

Two little flames that want to escape this darkness and return back to the world of light.

“What’s going on with your eyes?” I ask without thinking.

“What do you mean?” She asks surprised.

“It’s like there’s fire coming out of them.”

She giggles: “Yeah sure, the chances of you starting to see things thanks to lying on this cold floor for so long, is pretty damn high.”

Ignoring her I ask: “Do you happen to know a way out?”

“What do you think? I almost can’t see a thing.”

“Almost?”

“Yeah, sometimes only a wall when it’s near and of course my own hands.”

I move my hands, but don’t see them. I can’t see the walls either.

“Really?” I ask.

Could it be that she’s somehow able to see more in this darkness?

She giggles again: “You really can’t see anything? You should be able to see your own hands at least.”

“No…” I hesitatingly answer, shaking my head: “But I can see your eyes.”

“That’s weird, maybe you're imagining it?” It’s clear as day that she’s not taking me seriously.

Ignoring her tone I ask: “Should we try to get out together?”

“Yes please, I’m super glad I’m not alone anymore.” I can hear a sense of fear in her voice, she seems desperately trying to hide.

The girl takes my hand, probably that there’s no way I would be able to find her once lost.

I mumble a thanks and we start walking.

“Are we inside some kind of labyrinth?” The girl complains as we find another wall.

“That might just be the case.” I answer now slightly annoyed by the girl.

“You know, it would help if you weren’t so cold all the time.”

“Sorry.” I apologize. I’ve been told this many times before. That I should act warmer if I want to have a good life. Yet, I’ve found it to be rather difficult. I’ve known what it’s like to be too warm and kind. You often get used by others.

I’ve learned my lesson and cut people off, blocked them away from me. It’s safer that way.

Feeling around with my free hand I suddenly notice a crack inside a wall.

“Hey, could you check this out?” I ask the girl.

“Sure.” In my mind she shrugs as she answers, perhaps she really did it, perhaps she didn’t.

“I think… we can break this down.” She whispers as she lets go of my hand.

I can hear her rummaging around, most likely taking out loose bricks.

“Do be careful that it won’t fall on us.” I warn her.

“Leave it to me, I can see it… though slightly. I believe this should be able to be opened up.”

I take a step back and let her handle it.

She takes out brick after brick.

“I think it’s big enough for both of us to fit through now.” She finally whispers.

She takes my hand again and leads me through the narrow hole in the wall and we enter a new place.

Probably the same as the one before.

“Is this just like the rest?” I ask.

She takes me further away from the hole and touches another wall: “Yeah, we’re still stuck in this labyrinth.”

Suddenly I spot something out of the corner of my eye and quickly take the girl further back, to the other side, away from whatever that is.

“What’s wrong?” She asks slightly frightened.

“I think… someone is there.” I whisper to her.

I see two large flames welling up in the distance.

“Are you sure?” The girl asks.

I nod, but of course she won’t be able to see that.

Carefully I try to lead the girl further back, but am only greeted by a cold wall against my back.

Too late.

The flames look our way.

At first I believe to hear something crackle, only to realise that it’s laughing. Laughing of an old woman.

“You don’t have to hide for me, dear girls.” She laughs in a sweet voice: “I may be old, but my eyes can still see very well.”

I can feel the girl trembling: “How… how is it possible for you to see us?”

“What do you mean, dear child? There is enough light to see everything.”

“No, that’s not true… it’s pitch black, I can barely spot my arms before me.”

Still holding onto each other we slowly walk towards the older woman with her flaming eyes.

Her voice turns to me and so do her flames.

“Can you two really not see anything?”

The girl answers for me: “She can’t, I can just see a little.”

“Do you know a way out?” I ask the older woman.

I see her flames moving, almost as if shaking her head: “No, unfortunately not. Though I believe that now that we’re not alone anymore, we will find a way out much easier.”

I guess she isn’t the one who has brought us here, if it even was someone.

“Let me come with you, we might find our way out quicker.”

I look at her flames and nod.

“My child, how were you able to see me, if you can’t see anything else?” The old woman asks questioningly.

Before I can answer, the girl does it for me: “She keeps saying that she sees the flames in other’s eyes. Still it’s probably just-“

“So you can see the flames of other people’s souls?” The older woman doesn’t allow the girl to continue.

I shrug: “I don’t know… it’s probably just all in my head. I’ve never seen anything like that in my ordinary life outside of this place.”

“Here’s a mirror. Can you hold it by yourself?” The old woman shoves a cold and heavy object in my hands, almost having me slip it out of my hands. Hurting my fingers to keep it steady.

I try to look at it, but there is no reflection of my own flames, if I even have them.

“Well, do you see them?” the lady asks, way too enthusiastic.

I shake my head and answer with a plain: “No.”

Both of them take a stand next to me, probably looking in the mirror.

Then I see something inside of it.

The flames.

Their flames.

So… I don’t have them?

Could it be that… I’m soulless?

“So? What do you see?”

“I see nothing, but the reflection of yours.” I answer honestly.

“That’s unfortunate.” The woman says, sounding deep in thought: “Could it be… that you had a not so fortunate life?”

As I remain quiet, she apologises: “I’m sorry, it’s not my place to ask such questions. But if you need someone to listen to you, I’m more than willing to help you lighten that burden of yours.”

“Thanks.” I say, though slightly annoyed. I don’t like people poking into my problems.

The old woman leads us through the hallways, making sure, neither I nor the girl end up falling over something.

“You two should be thankful that you can’t truly see this place. Something horrible has taken place here.”

“I see.” I answer coolly.

“Don’t be like that!” The girl starts panicking.

The woman laughs joylessly: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Why did you have to say that? Now I can only imagine all the shapes as dead bodies.”

The woman remains quiet.

So that must be the case.

Still, there don’t seem to be enough to cover the entire floor. Since the older lady is able to guide us through them so well.

“Gosh, this seems to be a dead end.” The woman sighs.

“Really?! I don’t want to go back there!” The girl cries out.

Carefully I let go of the girl’s hand, something has taken my attention.

There is something shining dimly straight ahead of me, it’s unlike the flames of my two companions.

Somehow friendly and familiar.

“What’s over there?” I ask while straying away from the others.

“You shouldn’t go there!” The girl calls out, but even though her voice sounds terrified, I don’t listen.

I feel like the light is calling me.

“My child! You shouldn’t venture there!” The old woman calls out to me, her ancient voice trembling in anguish: “Terrible things have happened there!”.

But I ignore her as well.

I feel myself walking into something like a puddle, too thick to be water, but I decide not to think about it.

The light is getting closer and closer, brighter and brighter.

“Ma’am, please get back here!”

“You’ll hurt yourself if you continue!”

I feel something sharp digging itself into my right leg.

Quickly I kneel down to push whatever it is away, but it starts digging deeper into it.

It hurts.

It hurts so fucking much!

Every time I try to reach it, my hands seem to slip away, whatever I’m standing in is way too thick to be just water.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about it!!!

As I’m finally able to take out whatever it is, I notice that little lights are dropping down.

I try to look at what I believe to be up, only to find out that the small lights are coming from me.

I smirk, I guess I’m not soulless after all.

I hear both women behind me yell at me to return, screaming for the fear I might get hurt or lose my life.

I don’t pay it any attention and continue.

The light I see behind that door.

My own tears seem to be leading me there as well, dropping quietly without sound, slowly they turn dark like everything around me, just showing small pieces of my path.

I reach out my arm for the light.

But instead of holding something warm, it’s something cold.

It’s an old door handle.

Very, very old. Something I would expect to find inside an ancient castle.

As I hold it, all the light fades once more and I open the door.

Really beautiful one-shot! Really captures those dreamy ‘noticing’ moments of early love.

okay so this is not the fic i teased a few months ago cause ive been too busy to dedicate the time needed to finish it, but apparently not busy enough to stop me from writing at all

here's a very short 1.9k narumitsu one shot

i promise you that 10k 5+1 thing that i was writing will get finished at some point so help me god

also THANKS CHEL AND SABER FOR BETA READING THIS ONE AS WELL I LOVE YOU GUYS

Aliit

Somewhere along the way, the Bad Batch picked up not only Omega, but another young girl too, though older than the female clone. She reached just below Hunter’s shoulder, and wore a drastically severe, short haircut, that not long ago included a braid.

A former Jedi Padawan, survivor of Order 66, cast into the Galaxy with no protection, and her previous allies, her friends, sent out to hunt the girl down. By some miracle, she managed to avoid them long enough for Clone Force 99 to stumble across her, and none of them had the heart to abandon the rather reckless, passionate little Jedi. So, she became one of their own; an elder sibling to Omega, and a second adopted child to the group.

But the girl, whose name was Mai Kryze, (she claimed the name had no connection to the former Duchess Satine, but Echo thought she looked eerily similar to Obi-Wan-Kenobi,) did not have Omega’s innocent disposition. Mai had seen the war, watched her people slaughtered, and been on the recieving end of the clones’ persecution.

One night, aboard the ship, the crew rested after a particularly arduous mission. Most of them by now were asleep, apart from two: Mai, and Hunter; however, he was only awake because the quiet sniffling from the cockpit refused to be ignored. He tossed and turned for ages, feeling guilty for leaving the girl alone, but unsure of how to help. She gave him a run for his money when it came to keeping emotions close to her chest; though he supposed it was the Jedi way.

Eventually, once the sniffling turned to sob, Hunter left his bunk and carefully worked his way through the ship, not wanting to disturb the others. Especially not Omega. When he reached the cockpit, he saw Mai’s hunched form in one of the seats, curled into a ball as her shoulders shook.

“I know you’re there,” she mumbled, head buried between her kness.

Hunter sat down next to her, awkwardly leaning on his thighs. He knew how to comfort Omega, now he had practise, but Mai never seemed to need any reassurance or comfort. Though he knew it had been an act, sometimes they all forgot, despite being a Jedi, Mai was only sixteen.

She wiped her face, head angled away from him as she tried to control her breathing. “M’sorry if I disturbed you.”

“Don’t be. I’d rather know something was up than sleep while you cried. Wanna talk about it?” Hunter asked, remembering a piece of advice Cut gave.

For a moment, Mai held his eye, uncertainty crossing her own. Then she brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, staring out into space. “During the mission, I...I saw a wanted poster for the Jedi. Only two of the faces hadn’t been crossed out; Master Yoda, and my Master, Obi-Wan. The rest...so many. Even Master Windu.”

Hunter watched her expression contort, an array of emotions flashing across it in an instant. His eyes widened at this, as she never let anything truly register on her face, and now...

Blazing anger reared its head, and Mai clenched her jaw, her hands gesturing wildly. “They’ve destroyed my people, my culture, everything! They’ve taken everything from me, and they won’t stop. Not until every single person in the Galaxy hates the Jedi, until they tarnish our memory forever. I will never be safe, safe enough to practise my beliefs, to help and to be who I trained to be my whole life. I can’t do anything. For anyone.”

She took a breath, calming herself, using the techniques her Master taught her. Anger came rarely to Mai, but when it did, she needed to work hard in order to control it. Brushing hair from her face, she glanced at Hunter.

“I know the Jedi aren’t perfect, believe me, I know. But so many of us were just good people trying to do what was right, to save lives and...I don’t know, try and bring hope to the Galaxy. Everyone makes mistakes, even Jedi, so we didn’t always get it right. But we truly care for each person in the universe, would lay down our lives for them; and yet, this is how the Jedi fall? Betrayed by one of our own, and hunted down by our friends. Sometimes I wonder if the will of the Force isn’t just some joke made up to make us feel better when things fall apart.”

Hunter wished he could take this pain away from her. The way it tore across her face, dug into her heart...she felt differently to others, he knew that. Force users connected with the world in a strange way, more deeply, and when something hurt, that pain ripped them apart. “Kid, I...I don’t think there’s anything I can say to make this any better. I saw Order 66, what happened to our Jedi...we cannot imagine what it was like for you. I’m sorry, truly sorry. The only thing I have to offer is...us.”

Mai raised her eyes to him; they glistened with tears, but her confusion at his words momentarily halted their fall. “What do you mean?”

“You lost a family, your people,” Hunter said, grasping her shoulder gently, “and we can never replace them. But we can offer you a new home, a new family, one where you are still free to be a Jedi. None of us will ever think less of you, or try to change you. Us lot may be a bit odd, but we’ll do our best to look after you, Mai.”

In the dark cockpit, their faces only illuminated by the stars outside, Hunter felt a connection, something had reached out and touched him in the silence. It took seconds for him to realise it was Mai; he recognised the presence, and smiled. She returned it, albeit shyly, and fought back a yawn.

“Thank you, Hunter. I don’t think you know how much it means to me that you all care so much. And I’m sorry I don’t really show how I feel in return...it will take time for me to get used to you guys. You bear your emotions so freely...that was a downside to the Order. No matter how deeply I cared for the people around me, I could never say it.”

Hunter hesitated a moment, then carefully pulled Mai into his arms, cradling the youngster with as much care as he would give Omega. She tensed, and he wondered if he had gone too far, then her arms wound around his middle and she clutched onto him. The way Mai clung to him, Hunter realised she’d probably never been hugged in her life, which only made him hold tighter.

For her part, Mai couldn’t have been more thankful for them. With these men, her new family, she might get the chance to heal, to continue her training in peace, knowing she was protected and cared for, so that one day, she could save them, as they had saved her.

Holding onto Hunter as if he’d vanish if she let go, Mai smiled, recalling a word in Mando’a Cody once taught her. Aliit. She had one of her own, now.

short story? (fictional..I guess)

Tuesday, 1:45 pm

Today was a windy day on the East bay. My feet are crunching the blank ground beneath my feet. I’m wearing a jacket but it’s so cold! The wool socks I’m wearing are a bit wet, and that was when I remembered I had hot chocolate at home. As I was on my way home, I see these to people close together. What are they doing? Why are they kissing? Aren’t they a bit close? Are they friends? I don’t know what to think.

I spot someone else across the street, and I could sense their jealousy of the close two. Then I heard the the two say, “I love you, my sweet sunshine!”, at the same time, but it wasn’t exact.

They’re in love. Love! What utter bullshit. 

I hurried along the snow, almost frustrated. Okay, not almost, I was frustrated. I AM FRUSTRATED! Why am I so frustrated?! Oh I’m home. Great.

My stiff discolored hands reach for the doorknob. It’s so cold and metallic. As I open the oak doors to my home, I close it just as quickly. 

SIGH

My mind is carrying a weight that I don’t to be true. I can’t fall in love. Well, at least, I don’t think so. Oh how I wish I could feel those wonderful feelings.

I enter my disheveled room, not prepared for anything, so I collapse onto my bed in all my warm clothes. 

Wednesday, 3 am

I’m hungry. My eyes are a bit blurry, so I rub them, so I can see once again. It’s 3 AM!! My stomach hurts, so I go to the kitchen, and look at my fridge.

It’s empty. Great! Just great.

I spot a remote to left and pick it to turn on my tv, then I hear my ringer go off. It’s my best friend, Jean. Well, I have a few best friends, and I love them so much. It’s not romantic...is there a word for that? ...I mean there can’t be...can there?

I pick up my phone and this is how the conversation goes:

Me: Fitz?! Isn’t it a bit late?

Fitz: lol Jet lol, why r u up at this time?

Me: I...I couldn’t sleep. 

Fitz: lol same.

Me: Fitz, I need help? 

Fitz: okay bestie! what u need help with?

Me: Well...I think I’m broken?!

Fitz: WOAH THERE!!! Who are you and what did you do to my bestie?!

Me: pfft...OH GOD it’s 4 am already!!!

Fitz: 9 pm over here baBY!

Me: I can’t fall in love...is that bad?

Fitz: Bro...why’d u thing it was wrong?

Me: because I’ve been told that I’ll fall in love with somebody, but it is yet to happen.

Fitz: u could be...aromantic? #noromo

Me: I’ve gotta feel a little attraction...right?

Fitz: Mate, calm ya tits, and look the damn thing up!

Me: okay okay...I WILL :{

.....

...

Fitz: Good night Jet, you’re an amazing friend :O

Me: Thanks, gn

Fitz: ‘night

12 hours later

OH shit...I fell asleep with the tv on! And yesterday...oh GOD!!! I miss Fitz. They were such a good friend...and I guess I’ll take their advice...not that I want to. I open up my computer and start typing in “Signs I might be aromantic?” and “What does it mean to be aromantic?”, and lastly “Am I aro?”. I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole, but OOO!

Th-that’s me...THAT’S ME!! Fitz was right...I am aromantic.... Wait there’s other like me. THere’s a whole spectrum?! ARE YOU SHITTING ME?!! WHY aren’t we taught this earlier?! If only I found out sooner...then everything would have hurt less. Well, it’s not like I can change much, so I guess I’m glad I came to this strange conclusion?

So yeah yesterday was cold, but now I feel a bit warmer knowing a bit more about myself. So HAH! Take that world! I’m gonna soar beyond and create my own path because I don’t need to fall in love to be human. Why is it shown so much though? The media is weird. Okay....a lot of things are weird. 

I forgot about this short wip, I hope I didn’t lose the actual document now

I wrote this short story a while ago, intending to submit it to some magazines, leaving it to decay chill until I had time off from uni to edit it. Currently busy af w *shiny* new novel, but  I wanted to share some of it on here to motivate me to work on it. Alors,,,,,,

genre: spooky lit-fic logline: Trudging through the barren Arizona desert after a night out partying, a group of friends come across a cupcake shop owned by a creepy old lady and her cannibal husband.  TW: drug use, dead rats, disturbing cupcake ingredients, murdery elderly people.

Everything had been going well up until I lost my pink sneaker. It jumped into an Uber and drove off waving, never texted or called, leaving me to live my life without protection from sharp objects or raccoon shit lying around my frilly socked feet. Then we missed the last bus.

Keep reading

I wrote this short story a while ago, intending to submit it to some magazines, leaving it to decay chill until I had time off from uni to edit it. Currently busy af w *shiny* new novel, but  I wanted to share some of it on here to motivate me to work on it. Alors,,,,,,

genre: spooky lit-fic logline: Trudging through the barren Arizona desert after a night out partying, a group of friends come across a cupcake shop owned by a creepy old lady and her cannibal husband.  TW: drug use, dead rats, disturbing cupcake ingredients, murdery elderly people.

   The slope was 90 degrees and we were rock climbing, harnessed to a frayed string that tugged our shoulders. Desert on all sides, not a single car. One cactus, ten yards away, frilled with spines. When a café tiled with orange bricks sprouted above us, we first mistook it as a mirage. The sign read Cupcake Shoppe and assured us they were sustainably sourced and organic—probably made using soy milk or that green powder Julie mixed into milk with a golden spoon. I tried it once; it tasted like marbles.

Wip Intro: Yellow Houses

I should start by saying that this project is shelved. I’m currently too busy to devote it the time it deserves while juggling uni and another novel. Hopefully, I’ll pick it up one day in the future, but for now, let’s just let it age like a fine wine on a USB stick, shall we?

Genre: Lit-fic/mystery? Logline:  Ellen, an aspiring university journalist, finds an envelope in her mailbox filled with photographs of upper-class houses. When she visits these addresses she finds they’ve all been vandalized -- painted a neon, school-bus yellow. When the two vandals engage with her via a virtual chatroom to propose that she cover their ‘art project’ for the local newspaper, she must do her best to write a non-biased recollection of the conflicts that ensue. Literal Logline: A bunch of young hipsters create pretentious art and go on tangents about eating the rich. Also, there is a creepy/psychopathic mayor candidate always wearing a signature yellow jacket and tie having an affair with Ellen’s mom! Fun!

Setting: Takes place in a small, fictional town in British Columbia. But a lot of scenes also take place in a chatroom, with virtual urban cities like Tokyo, New York and more. 

Excerpt from the chatroom scene! TW/NSFW warning: mild sexuality. Also I haven’t line edited much yet, oops!

My baby pink VR headset landed me 2050, Chinatown; a street puddled with neon lights swimming in oily water, reflecting a Tetris stack of knockoff Balenciaga retailers. A couple Hello Kitty shaped arcade machines silhouetted a bar window, casting a pink and blue grid over my friends, who caught sight of me and waved. In only 330 hours, 20 minutes, 12 seconds, I’d come to know them better than their own families. If I hovered over their bodies, too creamy and poreless to be truly photorealistic, a timer would reveal when we’d clicked accept, invited eachother into our second lives.

Cassie’s heart shaped face grinned, her bejeweled teeth blue in the ink of store lights. She tossed her metal bat up high, and caught it on her index finger, balancing it there. Jada’s newly installed robo arms were translucent plastic. There were wires tangled inside.

           Across the plaza, next to some motorcycles collapsed like dominos, a tall woman with a black veil over her face dragged a leash with a crawling half naked man in a bunny mask on the end of it, shuffling clumsily to keep up with her long strides. When she greeted us with nod, Jada let out a squeak before muting her microphone to safely burst into giggles.

           “So many weirdos tonight,” Cassie said lowly, staring at the slave’s bony butt disappear around the boba shack. “Alors.” Her hands came together in a prayer. “Matching tattoos. Glowing ones, from the new update. And don’t even think about saying no, I have enough coins for all of us. You’ve got no excuse whatsoever.” She linked her arm through mine and Jada slung her robo arm over my shoulder and they steered me across the street. A group of white-haired teenagers, teardrop wings trailing along their bare feet drifted past us at the traffic lights, which only existed to flash ads for fast food chains or reduced phone plans at the pedestrians. One of them poked out her tongue at me. Pastel blue and pierced with a tiny metal seahorse.

Novel Moodboard: Neon Chatroom.

A little preview of a moodboard for my shelved novel, Yellow Houses. Although this project is now shelved I'll be making an intro for it soon so stay tuned!

collection of stolen books

    When I stole my first book, I was still a stubborn, puffy-haired little girl with knobbly knees and a deadened stare. It wasn't difficult or particularly dangerous, as I simply borrowed it from the library one day, with the intent to never return it.

     I relished the buzz of peeling the transparent tape down the spine, flicking off the bar code on the right-hand corner. I recall pulling out the slip of paper pocketed inside to skim through the stack of names, as I pictured who had once borrowed it. How they'd sat spraying ketchup on its pages, maybe wiping a stray booger on there as well. Something waxy was stuck between page forty-four and forty-five, that red stuff wrapped around cheese wheel snacks packed in children's school lunches. I remember it all so well. 

    I hate consumerism, in fact it’s my reasoning for stealing as often as I do, so one might question why I once stole from a library. There is no excusable answer, it’s simply what my roots are. The book in question still remains on my shelf, crouched between hardcovers wearing crisp, matte jackets, like an abused child. It smells of sweat, love and apples; a distinct, addictive scent that will draw you to it and make you feel like some sort of pervert. The rest of my collection, still ‘hot off the press’, reflective headers blaring, New York Times Bestseller,  have no such detail of warm, of endearment. 

Note: something fictional I wrote tonight while bored. :p

no socks

are allowed in the red-room

no pretty pink flowers

are allowed

at the woods at night