#icee anecdotes

[jackfrostbitten-writes]

"Well I hate 'ta break it to 'ya, X, but I have aces."

Xisuma looked over and found that Joe did indeed have a pair of aces.

"We're playing Uno, Joe," Cleo sighed.

Jevin bobbed his head, raising a sticky eyebrow, "I thought we were playing seven books?"

"So is it just Joe and I playing poker?"

"I was playing Texas Holdem," Joe shrugged as chat exploded into laughter.

Xisuma looked around the inside of his ribcage base for any sign of--

Aha!

Xisuma grabbed the floating eye from behind, pulling it towards him, "Found you."

You're no fun!

The group heard Grian and Scar laugh as the eye vanished with a pop.

"So what game did we /actually/ decide to play?" Xisuma chuckled.

You agreed on Poker.

"Told you!"

#creative writing #hermitblr #hermitcraft #icee anecdotes #mcyt

[jackfrostbitten-writes]

A story, a story!

The universe demands,

The poet sighs and asks what they'd like to hear,

The story of a story!

The universe grins,

And the poet speaks,

"Once there was a man with a story in his mind,

He wished to explore it, so he made a house,

A sprawling manor with imagination on its side,

But the manor was cold and cruel,

And it whispered of things terrible,

One day three young men inhabited the house,

One with a growing mustache, the second with slicked-back hair, and the third with a smile brighter than the sun.

The smiling man grew old and fell in love with a seer in the house of imagination,

But he was prideful, with hubris coating his tongue like honeyed arsenic,

And he drove the seer away,

She ran with the moustached man,

Who had long since grown old, touched with the insanity of war,

Though he hid behind a childlike joy,

And the slick-haired man grew tired,

As he watched his sister run with the moustached man,"

What happened then?

The universe inquired,

"The smiling man's smile fell away, and he turned into an Actor,

A facade built on a house of cards,

And he listened to the house which whispered in his ear,

And found he could no longer die,

And then there was a party,

And then there was a shot,

And now all three are trapped in the house,

As it plays a faithful game,

And pretends the Actor is the director,

It calls to the observers with twisted joy,

Here, here, I have a story for you..."

#markiplier egos #markiplier #creative writing #icee anecdotes #who killed markiplier #a heist with markiplier

[jackfrostbitten-writes]

The shepherd frowned at the figure in the distance.

It was a young boy, maybe ten, running across the desert sands toward the shepherd.

The shepherd was used to mirages; he was used to the tricks of the desert. He had driven caravans from Cairo filled with tourists, traded with the Arabs in Saudi Arabia, and crossed the Sahara to bring goods to the northern Congo villages. The deserts were old friends of his.

He respected them and they, in turn, respected him.

The boy stopped at the edge of the shepherd's herd, peering up at him with mismatched eyes. One was a vibrant blue, and the other was a murky brown.

The boy knelt and gently scooped up a handful of sand. He carefully approached the shepherd. The shepherd opened his hands, and the boy poured in the sand.

It was real. It was soft and dry in his hands. The boy waited with his hands at his sides.

"I believe you," He told the boy, "You are not one of the desert's tricks. What are you doing out here?"

"I was trying to find you," The boy replied.

"The nearest village is easily two-thousand kilometers away," the shepherd gestured north with his crook, "How did you get here?"

"I followed a caravan. They dropped me off at the oasis a ways south of here. I needed to find you."

"Why?"

The boy gestured to the shepherd's sheep, "I wanted to buy a sheep from you; I wanted to buy the one with the missing eye."

"Mohammad?" The shepherd pointed to a sheep at the front of his flock. It was missing its right eye.

The boy nodded, "You bought him from my sister five years ago. I wanted to buy him back. My sister has cancer. She wanted to see her favourite sheep one last time "

The shepherd paused before shaking his head, "You can take him for free. He's old. I doubt he has many journeys left in him. Where do you live?"

"In Cairo."

The shepherd looked over at the one-eyed sheep. He fished a lead out from his pack, tying it around the sheep's neck. He pulled the sheep over to the boy.

"I have money," The boy said as he took the lead.

"I do not want it," the shepherd shook his head, "Mohammad is old. You'll find better use for him than I will."

"He would be good meat."

"So would all the others."

The shepherd waved the boy off, "Go. There's a caravan coming this way from the south of Algeria. They'll take you back to Cairo."

"When?"

"In a week and a half. Head to the caravanserai east of here. That's where the caravan is stopping. Tell them you're a friend of Al-Faiyum's."

The boy nodded, "I'll make it up to you one day."

"Alright," said the shepherd.

The shepherd gathered his sheep as the boy began to walk east. The one-eyed sheep followed close by him as they walked off toward the dunes.

----------------------------------------------------------

The shepherd stood close to the merchant's stall.

The merchant was an old friend that the shepherd had met when he traveled with a caravan across the Sahara to Lesotho.

A Saudi boy had just finished trading with the shepherd for wool when the shepherd saw her.

A woman was standing by a stall with a purse in her hand. She had the same mismatched eyes as the boy in the desert.

She saw the shepherd, walking over to him with an old man trailing behind her. The man's right eye was filled with cataracts, with a long scar trailing diagonally over it.

The woman opened her purse and handed the shepherd a gold ring with the diamond on its face.

"Thank you for the sheep," she said.

The shepherd was going to protest such a lavish gift, but when he looked up, the woman and the old man were gone.

He held onto the ring.

Two days later, his sheep were confiscated just as he was leaving the borders of Saudi Arabia. They were dressed in black and had eyes like death.

The shepherd went into the next town and sold the ring for several dozen sheep.

He swore that the person that had sold him the sheep had mismatched eyes.

#creative writing #writing #icee anecdotes

[jackfrostbitten-writes]

Ren was certain something was wrong with Pearl.

In Double Life, the way she slunk around. How death and destruction followed her around like a black cat. The ravens cawed and clocks ceased their ticking when she grew near.

Eventually, three hours was up, and he and Pearl returned to Hermitcraft.

It wasn't a graceful landing, by all means. It felt more like the universe had haphazardly tossed him away like a loose sock.

Pearl was back in her garbage man uniform. That didn't stop her from having an aura of death.

Ren questioned her, asking about demons. He prodded until Pearl left to go mining, and had come up without a single answer.

Until that night, at least.

He dreamt of Pearl, standing before him in a white void.

The moon had turned black and cold, and the light it radiated wasn't light at all. It seemed almost as though the moon was sucking out light instead of providing it.

Pearl grinned, but her smile was too wide--her teeth too sharp.

Quartz erupted from the white void, creating a cage of solid crystal. Ren moved away from it, but he felt as though he were moving through molasses.

He head was foggy. He tried to speak but his tongue was heavy in his mouth.

Pearl grinned and she was there beside him in his cage of quartz.

"There are a lot scarier things out there than a demon, Ren."

And she grinned a little too wide, and laughed a little too loud.

And then Ren woke up.

#hermitblr #hermitcraft #mcyt #icee anecdotes #creative writing

[jackfrostbitten-writes]

Ah what a shame Wilford can break the fourth wall,

For it makes it a pain to write about him,

Without him hearing.

#markiplier egos #wilford warfstache #icee anecdotes #creative writing

[jackfrostbitten-writes]

Marvin the Magnificent fucking hated poetry.

A spell written in prose was hard to read, and even harder to cast correctly. He drew himself a summoning circle and tried once, but the words caught in his throat.

He hated the long, meaningless words that stuck in between sentences like lettuce stuck in one's teeth.

He tried again, but the words still stuck.

Rhymes were meant to roll off the tongue, and yet he couldn't find a rhythm that matched the swapping of words and twisting of syllables.

And he tried a third time.

With a huff, he tossed the book away and flopped down in the summoning circle.

Why was poetry so fucking hard to read?

And elsewhere, in a little study in an office building, The Host grinned to himself.

#marvin the magnificent #jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye egos #the host #markiplier #markiplier egos #icee anecdotes #creative writing

[jackfrostbitten-writes]

I'm from Tennessee.

That's what Joe says. The issue is that Tennessee doesn't exist.

Some ask if that's a village from the End or the Deep Dark. Others ask if that's a bastion. Joe always answers the same.

"Not really," he shrugs, "My home is a long way away from here."

Chat knows. Some of chat is from Tennessee. They find amusement in the confusion.

Some are curious. They ask and pester and prod until Joe tells them more about his homeland. He talks of little restaurants on street corners and pinball machines in a pawn shop.

He doesn't mention you only get one life.

He doesn't mention the videogame with mechanics that are frighteningly similar to the ones he lives with.

He doesn't mention his family.

And most of all,

He never mentions how he got to Hermitcraft.

#icee anecdotes #hermitcraft #hermitblr #joe hills #mcyt

[jackfrostbitten-writes]

A snippet!

A snippet for the newest part of the Xisuma's Server For The Magical, Mystical, & Downright Strange series

Please enjoy

The harvest is an important time of year for many.

Throughout the spring, when the snow begins to melt, farmers sow their seeds. They dig ditches in the dirt before the vernal rains set in and turn the ground muddy. Glaciers lose their winter coat, shedding long sloughs of ice that melt into rivers that flow through irrigation channels.

Farmers tend the crops through the summer. The grape vines are pruned, the leaves sprayed to keep greedy aphids and caterpillars away. Tomatoes and strawberries begin to ripen in the hot sun. The irrigation ditches are still filled with the melting snow, though their waters are lower than they were in the spring.

Fall arrives and the farmers celebrate with great feasts as they shuck corn and pick apples and tear thick stalks off cinnamon plants. The smell of sugar-coated apples in freshly-baked pies, turkey and salmon deboned and cooked to perfection, potatoes covered in chilli powder and butter.

The feasts slow and the final morsels of the harvest are hidden. Peaches in mason jars, locked in a cold cellar to keep them fresh. Corn and wheat is ground into flour and stored away. What remains of the meat is coated in salt and tucked away in a cooler full of brine.

Stress knows this cycle well.

#hermitblr #hermitcraft #mcyt #icee anecdotes #creative writing #writblr

[jackfrostbitten-writes]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40400448

Howdy howdy, most recent work in the Xisuma's Server for the Magical, Mystical, and Downright Strange is here!

This one centers on Stress and Iskall in the past as they are invited onto Hermitcraft by Zedaph, and as they get a mysterious stranger on their doorstep.

Universum Invenit Viam

#icee anecdotes #creative writing #hermitblr #hermitcraft #mcyt