#toiling in the clockwork

[arachnixe]

Permanent

The witch who planned so hard to achieve immortality did not plan for the end of the world.

Her magic—the magic of permanence—proved itself more durable in the end than the clockwork of life itself.

Small consolation, she felt, bound forever to her own buried bones.

It was something of a surprise when her millenia of silent rumination about her own life were interrupted by a shifting of dirt and rubble.

Her eyes had long since rotted away, but senses beyond sight alerted her to the impossible touch of sunlight on her remains.

Her mind stirred. She shifted from her reverie to contemplation of the outside world again. With great effort, she cast awareness outward to bring her surroundings into focus and perceive the cause of this unexpected shift in circumstance.

She felt no life. But not nothing.

A small figure stood over the dead witch’s body, scrutinizing her in silence. A painted face that should have been bleached to nothing from years of sun stared at her bones. Limbs which should have seized up and rotted were covered in dirt from its labors.

She knew this doll.

A distant memory surfaced, summoned by that unforgettable face. Years of toil on this one culminating in failure. Early experiments in imbuing a form with permanence which disappointingly ruined a perfectly good doll. It was discarded with the other unsalvageable mistakes.

It should not have been moving at all. It should not have known where to find her. It should not have survived the ages with its body intact in a way her own was not.

It was unmistakably standing before her, having dug through the ruined remains of her tomb to find her.

“You are still here, aren’t you?” the doll asked at last. “None of the others are. You’re just a skeleton, but I can tell you're inside.”

It approached, limbs creaking slightly until it could touch her ribcage for confirmation with a dirt-covered hand.

The witch no longer possessed a voice with which to speak, but the doll answered for her anyway.

“Yes! Thank you for saving me! You’re the best doll I ever had, and I’m sorry I forgot that when I left you behind!”

“Oh, you’re very welcome, Miss. Let’s get you out of here.”

It should have been humiliating to be spoken for in such a way, but there was such wonderful novelty in hearing someone else speak at all after so long.

Her spirit was still too weak to reach out and make her own true words known, which did not faze the doll in the slightest.

“Be careful with my skeleton, Dolly. I’m very old and fragile!”

“Yes, Miss. I’m being super extra careful, see?”

It scooped up the skeleton with feather-touch gentleness and—careful not to hit her skull on any rubble—picked its way out of the hole back to the surface.

“You’re my only friend left, Miss, and I don’t want to accidentally hurt you like I did the others,” the doll continued. “I think all that napping made me real strong like you and now I gotta be extra gentle so I don’t hurt anyone any more.”

“You’re doing so good, Dolly.”

Come to think of it, the witch didn’t think she’d ever given such praise to her dolls before. Correct behavior was to be expected of them, after all. What strange side effects had her experiments on this one had on it?

What strength did it think it had?

The doll continued to converse with itself, speaking on the witch’s behalf in a way the witch never would have on her own. It propped her bones up against some surface rubble in a mockery of a sitting position and continued chatting away with barely contained delight.

It was nice, actually. Even when the doll put words in her mouth that she never would have spoken.

“You’re so good at stories, Dolly!”

“Thank you, Miss! I’ve been practicing!”

“You’re so pretty, Dolly!”

“Thank you, Miss! You made me this way!”

The happiness she felt from “her” words pleasing the doll was completely unfamiliar. She had been so much lonelier than she had let herself believe, and she found herself content to be in the company of such a chatterbox and pleased that the comfort it offered was mutual.

The world on the surface was so empty. The landscape was barren. Even the night sky had somehow died and become featureless.

But the witch’s heart was warmed by Dolly’s endless imagination and friendly conversation. She had come to think of the doll as a genuine friend too.

When Dolly held her bones and slept, the witch wished she could hold her back.

The first time Dolly whispered, “I love you, Miss,” the witch’s thoughts responded in unison with her doll’s narration, “I love you too, Dolly.”

#my writing #empty spaces #repost #dolls #witches #missy & dolly

[wellthebardsdead]

Clockwork heart pt1

Thank you to @quicksilverdrabbles for inspiring me to colour the gynoid text.

———

*deep in the bowels of the clockwork city, a corpse once flesh made metal hangs dormant in the lifeless wires of the now stagnant creation, a once living god now dead*

“I…ran out of time…”

*soft cracking ringing out through the silence and dust filled musty air as the corpse begins to slip from its wires*

“Neht is alive… he came back as I predicted… I tried to warn the others…”

*creaking as gears once still for hundreds of years begin to move once again*

“But they didn’t listen…”

*rattling of pipes as water begins to flow through them once more and a loud whirring rumbles throughout the heart of the city as life begins to return to the brass and steam*

“I made this realm as a gift to those I left behind… but I could not finish it”

*clanging as the corpse crumbles from its suspended position and turns to dust as it makes impact with the floor, a pile of bones, ash and metal clumped and scattered around a soft, fragile mass as it takes shape from the remnants of the past*

“And I ask you to forgive me little one… I leave this task to you…”

*geers turning rapidly as the door to the main chamber open, and a dwemer gynoid enters, body ridged and stiff in movement, clicking and sparking as it approaches the remnants of the clockwork god with only one objective programmed in mind, bring the child to life on the surface*

“Good luck… Little Seht…”

The gynoid: *halts hearing the cries of a baby in its audio receptors, strong and new as the living god returns to flesh. A child born with only one arm, the other lost at the shoulder, and only one eye, the other never formed, but a voice powerful and strong bellowing out so loudly it could be heard over the rumbling and whirring of the city as it returned to life* Lord Seht. Our lord has returned. Praise to the tribunal. Praise to house Sotha. *creaks as it bends over and picks up the baby, his fragile little body coated in ash and already freezing from the cold damp chamber* I will complete my task. Lord sotha sil. *carries the baby from the chamber, it’s metal cold against his skin and it’s gears and joints pinching and pulling at him cruelly as it moves with haste, seemingly desperate to complete its task before it falls to pieces*

*a few hours later in the dark of night*

The Gynoid: *clanking about through the city of Mournhold, amazingly unnoticed by the guards as metal plating falls loose and bolts begin to pop off, rusted from years of misuse. It’s arm hanging dangerously loose as it lays the baby down in front of the gates to the first building it sees, the temple* T-taask c-completed… *reaches into its chest cavity and removing a book, placing it with the baby* g-good- byyyye-e errrrrr *crumples into a heap with a loud clang, alerting the guards if the screaming baby hadn’t already done so too*

*6 years later in the city of Necrom, the vibrant white streets giving way to the dull and gloomy slums, filled with those left behind by those who died. Widows too poor to leave the city after burying their beloved ones. Those unable to afford the ceremonies they wish for their deceased and are left toiling away to pay off their debts. And the children left orphaned by the deaths of their parents… or simply… never having any at all*

Wyrm: *now a little elf boy of 6, dressed in a tattered piece of fabric with a rope around his waist, quietly seated outside the orphanage holding his book close and waiting, hoping for somebody to come by, not even noticing or caring about the guttersnipes stealing his ‘food’ as he keeps his one eye peeled on the streets* …

???: Oh what about that one?

???: What the one with one arm? What use will he be. He can’t haul in a line with only one.

Orphanage Matriarch: Wyrm?? Oh no. Unless you can teach him to read that damned book of his he’ll have no interest in you. If you can’t the ungreatful brat will throw a tantrum so violent if you try to take him you’ll be begging me to take him back.

Wyrm: *looks up to see the couple who’d arrived earlier staring at him, along with the orphanage matriarch* … *gets up and quietly shifts away hiding behind a crate fearing a beating if he stays in the way any longer* …

Orphanage Matriarch: Ugly little creature. We have some much more desirable little ones inside though if you’re looking for someone more robust for fishing though! *leads them inside*

Wyrm: *sniffles tearing up and hugging his book close* not ugly…

???: hey there little guy…

Wyrm: *looks up in a fright to see a handsome dunmer standing in front of him, soft cloud like white hair, eyes the most unusual colour of sky blue, and grey skin covered in splotches of gold, almost matching the shimmer of his armour* … *stands up sheepishly and steps closer*

Nerevar: well you’re a lot braver than you look! I’m Nerevar, what’s your name buddy?… are you hungry?… *holds out an apple to him*

Wyrm: I-I am Wyrm. *steps forward ignoring the food and nervously holds up his book* y-you teach me to read?…

Nerevar: *looking at his feeble little frame and then at the book in confusion* I- yes I’ll teach you, I-

???: I leave you alone for five minutes and you run off to-

Nerevar: Voryn can we adopt this one? He’s-

Voryn: *all three eyes locked onto the child, seeing the face of sotha sil that hell one day grow into* I- *clutches his chest and head in pain as the doom drum thrums loudly in his mind and his body seizes as if having a heart attack*

Nerevar: Ryn?!

Orphanage Matriarch: *steps outside to see Indoril Nerevar and Voryn Dagoth at her door, and her problem child holding up his book to them as Voryn seemingly recoils in pain* WYRM!

Wyrm: *jumps and suddenly runs for it, not wanting the beating he knows is coming*

Nerevar: *looks up to see the child fleeing* WAIT! NO COME BACK!

Voryn: *gasping for air as guards arrive hearing the commotion* S-Stop that boy!!

*meanwhile*

Wyrm: *running through the city, dashing through store fronts and tumbling over peoples feet, knocking over bolts of silk and smashing a priceless burial urn to pieces but not slowing down, even as people reach for him he dives out of the way and soon finds himself out of the city gates and at the docks panicking as he searches for a place to hide* n-no-no-no-am in trouble am not safe- *looks around before spotting a barrel with its lid askew* Ah- *hurries over and peers In to find it filled with apples but empty enough for him to squeeze inside* good- *looks up seeing ordinators run by followed by the pretty dunmer and the one he made hurt* oh no no- *climbs in and closes the lid, hugging his book tight with his crouched body and sucking his thumb, a habit he never kicked… only to nearly bite it clean off as he holds back a startled cry as the barrel is suddenly jostled about, lifted up, and carried onto the deck of a ship* …

*a few weeks later as the ship docks in windhelm*

Captain: *dragging Wyrm by his hair and throwing the little boy onto the frozen stone of the docks* Worthless s’wit! Off with you! *throws his book at him hitting the boy in the head*

Wyrm: *sniffles and stands up, whole body trembling from the cold, from fear, from pain. Just cries softly as he picks up his book and shuffles into the city, no other instincts available to his terrified mind beyond ask for someone to teach him, not for food, or for shelter, or for a mother or father, just a teacher, like his need to learn was greater than surviving* m-mr-? Y-you teach me?

Guard: *looks down at him not understanding dunmeri* get lost kid. Go back to the grey quarter and annoy your own kind.

Wyrm: *not understanding him either but understanding the boot to his side well enough* o-ow- *sniffles and shuffles away from him, his bare feet sticking and freezing to the cold stone as he moves along into the city, finding equally poor luck there too from both human and elf alike* s-someone?? Help me?… *looks around holding up his book as people walk by ignoring him* help me?…

*a few hours later*

Wyrm: *whole body trembling violently from the cold and too many big emotions as he walks across the snowy bridge and to the stables thinking someone might be able to help him there before tugging on the stable hands shirt* m-mr?… h-help me? *shakily holds up his book getting ready to be hit again*

Ulundil: *a kindly young Altmer, understands some dunmeri* hm? Oh, no sorry kid, I-I don’t know how to read your language.

Wyrm: *nods and looks down sadly* okay…

Ulundil: where are your parents kid? Aren’t you cold?

Wyrm: no parents… nobody… only Wyrm… *turns and walks off into the snow towards Kynesgrove*

Ulundil: I- *looks up to see the khajiit traders packing up their caravans* I- Kid wait! Come back!! *hurries over and picks him up before hurrying to the khajiit and handing them a bag of gold* I know it’s not a lot but he’s not going to survive on his own. Please he wants to know how to read just take him to winterhold? Or somewhere warm? He’ll have a chance there.

Khajiit Traders: *looks at him, then at the scrawny boy before nodding and taking Wyrm into their fold, wrapping him in furs and placing him in the caravan*

*a few days later*

Wyrm: *still filthy and dressed in rags, but left with a full belly and a warm blanket and shoes as he shuffles through the snow of winterhold, hoping from his brief encounter with kindness he’d find luck yet again… only to be pushed over into the snow by a much larger, meaner nord boy*

Young soon to be father of Korir: *kicks him while he’s down and grabs his book laughing as the smaller elf breaks out into wailing sobs* that’s what you get elf! That’s what you get for coming to skyrim! You ugly knife ears only make things worse! My homes gone because of you! My families dead because of you and that stupid co- *freezes as the book is yanked from his hands* … *looks up and literally pisses himself seeing the tusks of a very angry, young Urag glaring down at him*

Urag: Apologise. Boy.

Young Father of Korir: I-I’m s-s-sorry sir- I’m sorry! *runs off crying in terror*

Urag: *glares at him as he leaves before looking down to see Wyrm now on his feet, tears freezing to his face as he sobs and reaches for his book* here pup… *hands it to him and turns to leave only to feel a small hand tugging on his robe*

Wyrm: *using the little imperial he knows from speaking to the khajiit* y-you teach?… me?… p-please?…

Urag: *looks at him, then at the book again* … you want to learn?…

Wyrm: *nods sobbing as he steps closer* teach? Me? Yes?

Urag: *takes in the boys fragile little body, bones showing through his bruised frost bitten dark grey skin, one arm missing entirely as was an eye* … *gently picks him up wrapping him in his cloak* okay… I’ll teach you pup… what’s your name?…

Wyrm: *grips onto him with his little hand, feeling safe for the first time in this strange land* w-Wyrm. I am Wyrm.

Urag: that’s an odd name… but if it’s what you want… then so be it. *pats his hair* Hello Wyrm… it’s nice to meet you…

#Wyrm dragonborn #sotha sil #dunmer dragonborn #urag gro shub #skyrim

[ficfanatictrf]

Your Problem

It had started as a prank, a silly little way to mess with your lover as he continued to toil away at his desk on another one of his ideas. He had always been someone who had a one track mind, when he started working on a problem he would not stop till it was finished. Because of this, you just couldn’t fight off the urge to mess with him, his confused and flustered expression always being some of your favorites he would create. Silently sneaking into his lab, you weren’t surprised to see him hunched over his desk, not even aware that you were there as you tiptoed your way across the room. Waiting till he had paused his writing so that he wouldn’t flinch and mess up a figure he would need later, you covered his eyes with your hands, smirking slightly as he tensed for only a brief moment, realizing there was only one person he knew that would greet him in such a way. 

“What can I do for you, dear?” His voice was tired but there was still a hint of endearment in his tone. He also didn’t even move to remove your hands, just going along with what you were doing. 

“I’m hungry” As you said this you removed your hands, watching as he let out a heavy sigh and laid his pencil down before turning to face you. 

“Is this now my problem?” His brow quirked, eyes quickly assessing you from head to toe in search of something. Though what he was looking for you would never know. 

“Yes”

“I understand” He nodded to himself, turning to face away from you once more as he picked up his pencil. You would have thought he was ignoring you if he didn’t continue speaking only seconds later, a hint of something soft in his voice. 

“…gimme…30 seconds” 

“30 seconds and then what?” You teased, knowing he was always someone to postpone conversations that he didn’t really want to have. Perhaps this was one of those moments? But 30 seconds was an odd amount to ask for, that was hardly any time at all. 

“I’ll take you to get food. I’ll solve my problem” He said, putting an emphasis on the my. 

Well, that was not what you were expecting to hear. For a few seconds you couldn’t comprehend what had happened. It was always a nightmare to try and get him to leave his desk, but the moment it was about you he was quick to leave?

Like clockwork, 30 seconds later he finished up an equation that he had been working on. In one smooth motion, he got to his feet while scooping up his cane. As he took in your perplexed expression he frowned, confused at the lack of response and then the reaction. 

“What?” 

You quickly shook your thoughts free. As you took his arm, you snuck a kiss to his cheek, smiling as you finally got one of the reactions you were looking for as his ears turned a soft pink from the attention. 

“Thank you” 

“Yeah yeah, love you”

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

Authors Notes: I just suddenly had this idea in the shower when I should be getting to sleep. It's literally 2:24 am for me and I have class at 8:00 am. But yeah, did this in like 30 minutes.

#viktor x reader fic #ficfanatictrf #ficfanatic #viktor x reader arcane #arcane viktor #arcane viktor x you #arcane viktor x reader #viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor x you

[advernia]

The man asked, who are you. I am death, and I make all equal.

The day Jamil turned seventeen, he received a herb.

The herb was as long as his hand, its sheen a dark green, its leaves broad and scent something fresh. It was just a herb, and yet Jamil held it in between his fingers earlier with such a furrow on his brow and a frown on his lips.

"Oh, don't make that face," Najma says. "C'mon, if you don't know what it is or what it does we can just boil it or sell it."

Jamil sighs. "No need. I already know what it does."

"Huh. Then what's the problem? Who gave it you, anyway?"

"... My godfather."

"... You had a godfather?"

"Najma."

She dabs away at her eyes with a cloth, but she does not face him. Jamil crosses his arms across his chest and leans on the doorframe.

"... What do you want."

"... Your friend. Where does she live?"

Najma turns around, eyes red and glaring. Jamil does not flinch or move from where he stood, his figure ominous under the dim light.

"Why do you need to know?"

"What did you do!?"

Jamil pries Najma's shaking hands off his forearms, steps a few paces away from her. Stray strands of her hair are sticking to her sweaty face, her nose was red and running a bit. Her voice rasps with both exhaustion and shortness of breath.

"But... but... they all said... only three... three... three days left... but how...?"

Jamil looks past his sister, to the hut behind them. Through the open window one could see a family of three huddled together in a tight embrace - two adults and one healthy child in the center, all smiling and tears streaming down their faces.

"She's alive now," Jamil says, reaching out to rest a hand on top of Najma's head. "Isn't that enough?"

One day when Jamil was about to step out of the hut with a satchel strapped to his waist, Najma drops her half-woven blanket to run after her brother and tug at his sleeve.

"I'm coming with you," she says.

Jamil narrows his eyes. "You don't need to - get back to work."

"I'm going, whether you like it or not," she huffs.

They just stand there for a moment, glaring at each other until Najma pushes past Jamil and walks out of the hut.

"So where are we going?"

Light clinking sounds rung out from Jamil's satchel each step he took; no doubt coming from the pouch inside that held enough thaumarks that would feed them well for the rest of the month and then some. The sound was akin to little bells, one that Najma had her herself whistling along to as they walked their way back home.

"So its like a cure-all," Najma says. "like magic in fairy tales."

Jamil snorts at her comment.

"But both those things don't exist," he replies, moving onward.

"Hey."

"What."

"So what kind of person is your godfather, then?"

One could say that like anybody else, Jamil was a creature of habit. He was one whose mornings started with the bow and arrow at the crack of dawn, one whose afternoons were spent bargaining with the merchants of the markets and one whose evenings were knit deep with wool or thread until he had burned his midnight oil. His routine ran as steady like water and like clockwork was his every toil; but that was how he had lived the ten years of his life with his younger sister under his wing.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

Najma asks him this halfway through her meal, eyes round and blinking. Jamil had not touched his own portions yet, but both were warm and fragrant under his nose.

A loaf of freshly baked white bread. Stew with generous portions of meat and vegetables.

Removing the weight tied to his waist, he sets the satchel on one end of the table then picks up a slice of bread.

"The chief was looking for you."

"It's about his son, isn't it."

"Yeah. You going?"

"You're the one halfway through the door, though."

One could say that like anybody else, Najma had read fairytales. She was one who had read about wide kingdoms and kind rulers, one who had dreamed of knights and princesses and witches, and one who had wondered about magic and miracles. These are the worlds she had traveled to when she was still a small child wrapped in the warmth of her parents' embrace, but now that she was older and able to stand up on her own, she grew wise enough to learn that her world was vastly different from those in fairytales.

Maybe that is why she gives the old lady her shawl - it is perhaps too colorful, too long, too thin; but it is received carefully and with whispers of tearful thanks.

"Let's go," Jamil tells Najma.

A nod, but Najma's eyes still linger to the old lady - the shawl that Najma gave was now being wrapped around someone else's shoulders; around a young noble boy who was too pale, too small, too frail for such a large bed.

"Can I buy some cloth? One bolt of whatever material would do. Nothing colorful either."

"What are you making?"

"Gonna try making shrouds."

Three months.

It had been three months since they had left the comfort of their hut, their village.

Three months since they have gone around the country, visiting the ill or the ill finding them.

Three months since they have been sought after by kings, queens, nobles, commoners.

Three months since Najma had been making shrouds.

Three months since Jamil had met his godfather.

Three months.

The herb was as long as his hand, its sheen a dark green, its leaves broad and scent something fresh. It was just a herb, and yet Jamil held it inside his fist with such a furrow on his brow and a frown on his lips.

"Oh, don't make that face," Najma says as she draws her hand out from under the covers to swat at her brother's arm. When Jamil would not raise his head to face her, his head still so close to lowering itself on her mattress; Najma closes her eyes and her voice becomes something small.

"Ah... Has your godfather come to visit me, too?"

— godfather death. | 1812

2: going grimm's fairytales!au ft. twst cast for this month's ficathon! the indented text above is an excerpt the actual fairytale + a link to the full tale. there's also a link tied to the fairytale's title at the end of the fic - it shows the different translations/renditions of the tale in other languages. 3: a tl;dr version: godfather death is a story about a poor man with twelve children - when he had his thirteenth child, he immediately sought out a godfather. he meets two people: god then the devil, but he makes neither of them a godfather. instead the man chooses death as his child's godfather, and when the child had grown older death gives his godchild a herb as a present. death says he will make his godchild a celebrated physician. whenever there would be a patient, death would be there too: if death stands by the patient's head, then the godchild would say that the patient could be cured with the herb death had given. however, if death would stand by the patient's feet, the godchild must say that the patient cannot be cured - the patient would be taken by death, so the godchild must not interfere. 4: and since i don't want to clutter this space anymore or flood my tags, each story comes with post-reading notes!

#twisted wonderland #twst #jamil viper #najma viper #drabble.txt #it's... *checks calendar* MAY #may 3 to be exact in my timezone KSKSKSKSKS i am 2 days late oh yeah #though i get the feeling i may not be able to post on exact dates lmaooo oh well i'll just... push the others on june aha #idk if it's bc i haven't used it in a year but MAN tumblr u getting clunkier by the day #how am i supposed to do my formatting properly sobs still mourning the loss of the separator its been so LONG #oh wow community labels tho we be ao3ing here

[piratesgiftexchange]

The Fish Men Go to Therapy

by beemovieerotica, for @depressedvillainobsession

PROMPT: “The crew try to make Davy Jones go to therapy (can do a modern AU or have one of the crew be the unlicensed therapist lol)”

WORD COUNT: 5,218

“It’s a crying shame, what happened with Eugenia and all that.”

“Rest in peace, you old gal.”

“Too true, lads.  Though, could it have ended any other way, what with her being eighty-two, and Jones being—sod it, how old are we now?”

The crew men of the Flying Dutchman were gathered in the shade of a palm tree on the beach, a light breeze in the air, the waves lapping the shore.  Another cursed day in the Caribbean for the terrible fish men.  They looked down at their unique assemblage of digits and began a fruitless attempt to count off the years.  Maccus’s crab leg fingers clicked as he mouthed the numbers.

“One hundred and fifty…sss…seev—six?” Penrod asked, his antennae flicking in circles. 

“Oh my God, were you a 90’s baby?” Clanker asked.

“You too?  Damn!  Who else remembers the 1590’s?”

The group began chattering excitedly, caught up in nostalgia for decades gone by; but then from off over the sand, from the great cursed ship that was beached upon the shore, came an indignant, terrible shout.

“Get back to work!” Davy Jones’ distant voice echoed upon the wind.  “This isn’t a holiday!”

That much was true: it wasn’t anybody’s vacation.  No, the Dutchman had been stranded upon the shore—a loophole to Calypso’s prohibition against them ever “making port”—for the express purpose of removing a century-and-a-half worth of barnacles and gunk from the underside of the giant ship.

It had been a long time coming.  It was just that no one had ever wanted to do it.

The ship was disgusting.

Penrod snapped his claw in agitation.  “You heard the man.  Let’s get to it.”

The group groaned and sighed and made their way back to the hull where the other half of the crew was still toiling away, scraping off sea life.  By virtue of being practically sea life themselves, the crew had a paternal attitude toward the little creatures they removed from the ship.  It was incredibly slow work, taking the time to be gentle with each little barnacle, placing them into buckets to be safely transported back in the sea.  Jones hated it, but the crew wouldn’t stop.  Angler was currently enraptured with a tiny starfish in the palm of his hand, and he let out a giddy chuckle, the light on his lure flickering.

“This one looks like you,” Palifico said.  He turned to Hadras with a hermit crab pinched between his fingers, holding it up in the light.  Hadras leaned in very close to squint at it in judging appraisal, and then he let out a scoff. 

“My shell’s nicer,” he muttered.

The work proceeded, and the crew was not concerned with the time.  Because, truly, they had all the time in the world.  It was sometime near sunset when only a fraction of the ship had been cleared of hitchhikers that Jones suddenly appeared leaning out of the wood of the hull itself.  Ghostly men that they were, all could pass freely through the matter of ships, sails, and sea. 

“How far along is it?” Jones asked, the upper half of his body coming out at an angle, the wood warping around his torso.  He struggled to turn his head enough to see along the side of the ship without losing balance and falling out.

“It’s great,” Maccus said hurriedly, striding over.  “Peachy.  We’re running like clockwork, we are.”

Jones’ gaze was still fixed upon the ship, his eyes narrowed, assessing the hull as much as he could from that precarious angle.  The crew waited with bated breath for his verdict.  A shadow passed over Jones’ face: he didn’t like what he saw.

“Nine hours, and this is all you’ve done?” he cried.  He slammed his crab claw into the side of the ship beside himself, sending a reverberating thud throughout.  “None of you will rest tonight.  No man will be allowed back on board until sunrise when every barnacle is removed from my blasted ship.”

With one final squuooik from his octopus lips, Jones receded into the hull, the wood popping behind him.

The crew rolled their eyes toward the heavens and Maccus in equal judgment.  Maccus held up his hands in innocence.  “What?” he asked.

But he knew the answer from the faces on his men: it was the first mate’s job to keep everyone in line.  To ensure the conduit between captain and crew was smooth as always—that the captain was never too unreasonable, that the crew was never too unruly.  But lately, Maccus had been doing very little of either.  Something was amiss.

“You’ve gone soft, Maccus,” Palifico said.

“You need to talk to Jones,” Angler muttered.

“You’ve got to be mean to us,” Ogilvey chimed in.  “Teach us what’s what.  Kick us in the shins.  Steal Hadras’s head.  Shoot Penrod out a cannon.”

It was Clanker who came up beside Maccus and rested a hand on the silent man’s shoulder.  He squeezed him there with a firm understanding and looked deep into his eyes.

“Go to a goddamn doctor.”

The crew frowned in confusion. 

It had gone unremarked upon by all except Clanker that Maccus had been wearing a shirt for the past few weeks.  The crew would occasionally try on clothing taken during raids of other ships—they had fuckall else to do—and Maccus’s shirt-wearing had been understood as just another temporary fashion experiment.  But Clanker had prodded and pressed him, and even followed him when he wasn’t aware—and in the dark beside Maccus’s hammock, that’s when he knew—that’s when he saw the first mate’s terrible secret.

“Behold!” Clanker cried, and with a theatrical flourish he completely ripped Maccus’s shirt from his body.

Maccus instinctively threw his arms over his chest like a blushing maiden, though there was nothing to be covered there, for the real problem was on his back.  There, where his spine erupted into long crab legs, was the problem.

Oh, but they already knew about the crab legs; he’d had those for a century.  What they hadn’t seen before was how every single leg was curled in tight, like fingers balled up into a fist—rigid, unmoving, unable to open.

“Holy hell, Maccus…” Penrod breathed, scuttling around for a better look.  He gingerly tapped one of Maccus’s spine-legs with his claw, and the thing didn’t respond.  “Did you molt this year?”

“Yes, I molted,” Maccus snapped back.  He grabbed the tatters of his shirt from Clanker’s hand, and he struggled for a moment to distinguish the arm holes and the head holes and the new holes from one other before giving up with a hiss.  He balled up the shirt and chucked it into the sand.  “I’m fine,” he said.

The whole crew began tutting in judgment, and the tutting continued for some time.  They seemed to be enjoying the opportunity to make that sound at Maccus, more than anything. 

“You sit yourself down,” Clanker began, and he bodily shoved Maccus down onto the sand.  “You take a rest, leave the cleaning to us, and then we handle this all on Tortuga.”

Maccus looked up with dread in his eyes.  “What’s on Tortuga?”

Clanker replied with a grin.

——

The establishment owned by the mysterious Signora Isabella, purveyor of fortune, omens, and occasionally shrimp soup, rested on a lone hill on the island of Tortuga, surrounded by spooky trees.

Maccus lifted a finger at the strange vegetation.  “Are trees supposed to look like that?” he asked.

They were not.  In her boundless mystery, the Signora had trimmed every tree in a thirty foot radius so that only the branches facing toward her house remained.  What resulted were several dozen lopsided trees, weighed down and bent at the trunks, like so many bowing devotees gathered in praise of her.

“It’s a bit much,” Penrod said.

The trusted mates continued up the hill and arrived at the front door, which had been painted a deep red in strange, incomprehensible sigils.  Angler brought his hand up to trace the symbols.

“What do you think it says?” he whispered fearfully. 

“It says Remove your fucking shoes.  In Italian,” a voice called.

Signora Isabella, draped in a robe the colors of twilight, emerged from around the side of the house holding a broom, followed by two chickens.  Her graying hair was tied up in a bun, sweat flecked across her face, clearly having just been interrupted in the midst of some urgent chores.  She shooed the birds away and gave a hacking cough before spitting in the dirt, wiped her mouth with her hand and then opened the front door for the crew.

“Get inside, make yourselves at home,” she muttered.

There were two things about the Signora that the crew noticed first: one, she did not seem at all Italian—her accent was something adjacent to Maccus’s.  And two, she was completely unbothered by the arrival of the monster crew at her doorstep.  The crew decided not to address the first issue, and they gladly stepped inside…barefoot, of course.

The interior of the Signora’s house was riddled with clutter: it looked like she was both in the midst of spring cleaning while simultaneously adding more odds and ends to the mix.  Books, bottles, pots and pans, blankets, and even a giant cauldron sat in the middle of the floor, hot charcoal beneath it.  Penrod cautiously neared the bubbling broth and peeked one eye over the edge.

“Were you expecting us?” Clanker asked.

Signora Isabella turned around on her heel, her pointy-toed slippers squeaking on the floor.  “No.  Why?”

“Oh,” Clanker paused.  “I thought, you know, because you didn’t seem surprised at all about us showing up.  Given how we look.”

The woman—who on scrupulous examination couldn’t really have been more than forty, though they had been expecting a wizened old crone—cast her gaze over the cursed men with tight lips.  A tense silence followed.

“I’ve seen worse,” she finally said.

The crew exchanged bewildered stares.

“Right, let’s get to it.”  She swept what appeared to be balled-up dog fur off a chair and sat down with a sniff.   “What brings you here?”

Wordlessly, the crew turned to Maccus.  A moment passed before he carefully removed the shawl he had thrown over his shoulders and back, and he revealed the curled-up crab legs, as stiff as if they’d been boiled.

“By the stars and moon,” Isabella gasped.  She rose from her chair and hurried over, reaching out a hand toward Maccus’s back.  Maccus remained still, and he allowed her to tap her fingers along his back, testing the pliancy of the legs, prodding the skin around where they emerged from his spine.  The crew watched as she made her assessment, and she leaned back, picking at her lip in thought. 

“I’ve seen this before,” she murmured mysteriously. 

The crew reeled around in disbelief.  “What?” Penrod snapped.

“Oh, sorry,” Isabella cleared her throat.  “Of course I’ve never seen it.  Force of habit.  I just say that to make the customers feel better.”

The crew couldn’t blame her for this.  But she clapped her hands and rubbed them together, a new enthusiasm seizing her.  “What you’re suffering from is something that we like to call ennui.”

Maccus tilted his great hammer head.  “What’s that?”

“It’s a French word,” Angler muttered from a far corner, holding a cat-shaped tea kettle in his hands.

Maccus let out a cry of anguish.  “I don’t want no French disease!” he wailed. 

“It’s not a disease, it’s a state of being,” Isabella cut in.  “You’re suffering from a terrible thing.  You feel listless, sad, untethered—without a true place in the world.  Nothing is enough to fill the empty corners of your life.  You seek joy and the spark of existence but find only meaningless drudgery.”  She paused.  Maccus’s eyes had grown unfocused, and he was staring off into some unfathomable distance, his lips slightly parted.  “Do I have that right?” she finished.

Maccus blinked once.  “Nahh,” he said, and he let out a snort of laughter.  “Doesn’t sound like me.”

Clanker was the only one still truly present for the conversation, as the rest of the mates were poking around the psychic’s home, uncovering all kinds of bewildering treasures.  Angler had found a dining platter with a gold engraving of a giant penis on it, which he did not seem to want to part with, and Penrod was subtly dipping various items into the bubbling cauldron to see if it might melt them.

Clanker looked at Maccus with mixed condemnation and pity.  “You’re not even going to consider it?” he asked cuttingly.

Maccus shrugged.  “I dunno.  Depends on what the cure is.”

The two looked to Isabella, who frowned in thought.  “It’s a bit tricky,” she began, tapping one toe.  “Usually I would recommend someone go out and see the world, but—well, you’ve already done that.  What I think you need,” she said, and the corners of her mouth flitted up, “is a proper spa day.”

All the crew members in the house turned with their jaws open, gasping in excitement.  Angler almost dropped his dining platter. 

“Can we?  Can we, Maccus?” Penrod asked, scuttling over.  “Can we please have a spa day?”

“I do provide group discounts,” Isabella whispered.

Maccus let out a growl, eyeing the psychic and then his eager crew mates. 

Jones had been driving them a bit mad.  Too much work, too many unreasonable demands—and Maccus hadn’t been doing his job of tempering the captain’s anger.  Why he hadn’t been standing up to Jones at all—why, whenever the captain spoke to him, Maccus could only stare at the other man’s face, his heart booming in his chest, his throat gone dry—was a question not even he fully grasped.

“Alright then,” Maccus grunted.  “We’ll do it.”

The crew let out joyous cheers.  Relaxation was on its way.

——

Six crew mates sat in a small round hut filled with steam by the Tortuga river, with nary a care in the world.  The men had wet cloths draped over their heads and little glasses of fruity drinks in their hands.  Isabella was tending the fire, pouring cold water over hot stones to send hot fizzing air wafting up toward the rafters.  Maccus peeled up the edge of the cloth from over his good eye and squinted through the mist at the rest of the group. 

They’d had to rope Palifico and Hadras into it as well, as the discount was valid for up to six: Palifico’s coral arms were dripping like a tree in a rainstorm, and he shook them off, sending spray flying all about.  Hadras had removed his head entirely to let it rest on his knees, and he was now polishing his shell with his cloth while humming a tune—both seemed to be enjoying the unexpected day off.  Angler, Clanker, and Penrod were half-asleep in their utter relaxation, slumped upon their benches, and Maccus was—well, worried as always.  The rest of the crew back on the ship (and Jones himself) didn’t know any of this was going on.  Didn’t need to know.

Maccus strained his neck to peer back over his shoulder to try and assess the situation on his spine.  The legs were slightly twitchy.

“More steam,” Clanker mumbled.

Maccus was about to protest, his skin already feeling too hot, but he figured the discomfort was all part of the healing process.  He needed to get back into top shape before Jones realized anything was amiss.  Just the thought of disappointing Jones in any way—God, he felt a constriction in his heart. 

Isabella stoked the fire, and the hut continued to grow hotter.

“Hoo, I feel like a boiled oyster,” Hadras said.

Angler let out a snorting chuckle, and the other men shifted their lounging positions to get more comfortable.  All of them except Penrod.  Maccus leaned forward in his seat and peered at the little man. 

Penrod had not stirred for the last five minutes; Maccus had assumed the man had drifted off to sleep.  But Penrod’s mouth hung open with only the slightest flutter of breath from it, and his claws dangled limp at his sides. 

His claws…

His very, strangely…red claws?

Maccus leapt to his feet and let out a scream.  “We’re cooking Penrod!”

The healthy green-blue sheen on Penrod’s whole carapace had begun to turn red—a crustacean on the verge of boiling—and a last weak gasp escaped his parched throat. 

The crew sprang to his rescue, shouting, shrieking, tearing across the hut to fling open the door flaps and let the oppressively hot air out.  Isabella panicked and dumped a full bucket of cold water on the limp shrimp man before Clanker picked him up in one arm and raced out toward the stream.

The crew followed, breathless and near tears.

Clanker lay the shrimp man down in the cool water, the sunlight glinting along the surface, the dark river stones smooth beneath Penrod’s back.  He gently held Penrod’s head up above the surface to breathe as the rest of the man’s carapace sizzled beneath the rejuvenating, life-giving balm of island spring water.  A long silence passed as the crew watched and waited—and the most distressed of all was Maccus.

Penrod’s eyes fluttered open.

Maccus fell to his knees in relief, his face wet with tears.  He was sobbing openly now, his arms clutched to his chest.  Penrod reached out a quivering claw and laid it tenderly against Maccus’s cheek.

“Go…to…therapy,” Penrod wheezed.

——

Jones couldn’t care less that one of his men had almost been boiled alive. 

The trusted mates brought Penrod back to the ship—carried between Clanker and Angler on a blanket—and they resigned themselves to telling the captain the whole truth.  There was no way to really get around explaining what had happened.  And they had expected Jones to be outraged at the near loss of someone who had served him for over a hundred years, to fly into one of his signature tantrums, to threaten to whip the crew before promptly forgetting where the whip was and then stomping off to his cabin to brood.  But instead…he grew very quiet. 

He looked at Penrod lying like a wet rat in the blanket, his brows furrowed in displeasure.  He gave the smallest hm of acknowledgment, and then he turned and walked away.

The crew was baffled: Maccus most of all.

The first mate followed after him to the bow of the ship where the captain fished around in his coat for his smoking pipe.  He was completely nonplussed.  Jones lit the tobacco and puffed silently, the smoke rising around his face like hot steam.

Maccus clenched his trembling hands.  He had to just come out and say it.  “I’m not well,” he squeaked.

Jones raised a brow and looked back over his shoulder at Maccus.  “You’re unwell?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Maccus said.  He jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder toward his spine.  “My legs are all scrunched up.  They won’t move.  I’ve got a bad case of the ennui.”

Jones swiveled fully around and stared at Maccus.  “You’ve contracted a French disease?”

“Tragically,” Maccus replied.

Jones’ eyes flickered over Maccus’s shaking hands.  Was that a flash of sympathy?  “And what’s the cure?”

It was at this point that Isabella came up to the bow—she had apparently followed them all the way down the hill to ensure that her customer had not died—and she now stepped up beside the two and cleared her throat importantly.  Jones regarded her with undisguised suspicion.

“An acquaintance of mine practices the noble art of bone cracking,” Isabella began.

“Who is this?” Jones asked, gesturing his claw at the woman.

“That’s the psychic who almost boiled Penrod alive.”

“Chef,” Isabella corrected.  “I’m the psychic chef who almost boiled him alive.”

“That’s far worse,” Maccus muttered.

“His name is Doctor Stevens, and he achieves excellent results,” Isabella went on.  She produced a leaflet from her pocket bearing a middle aged man’s likeness along with an address and an extensive list of services.  Maccus’s eyes fell upon the one just beneath “bone correction”: therapy.

He glanced sideways at Jones.  And maybe it was a projection, or maybe it was the truest realization he’d ever had, but he saw in Jones’ sour octopus face the essence of a man who truly, desperately, one-hundred-years-ago needed therapy.  Why had they never tried that?

“Let’s get the doctor on the ship,” Maccus said.

——

Dr Stevens arrived not a minute behind schedule on the deck of the Flying Dutchman with his little medical bag in tow.  He was a tall, balding man with patient eyes and a crook in his spine—Maccus wondered if that was a bad sign for a doctor of a particular problem to have that particular problem.  He decided not to think about it.

“Good afternoon, gentleman,” the doctor said, giving a nod to the crew.  “I’m here to see…” he paused, and he drew out a little slip of paper from his pocket with something smudged upon it.  “Devi Johns?”

Jones swaggered over toward the doctor, snorting in disapproval.  “You’re here to see the first mate, not me,” he corrected.

“No no,” Stevens said, flapping the paper gently, “this says it was a double booking for the captain and first mate.  A two for one special.”

Jones frowned, and he opened his mouth to protest just as Maccus hurried over.  “Yep!” Maccus called out.  “Right this way, my good sir.”

He ushered the man toward Jones’ great cabin, and with an affronted blink, Jones stalked after them.  Maccus thought Jones might put up a fight, but the captain said nothing, merely glaring between them.  Although he was definitely not pleased to have his living space commandeered for the purpose of this visit, he was—surprisingly—tolerating it.  It was for Maccus’s well-being, and this, he seemed to care about a great deal.

The door shut behind them and the doctor wasted no time in beginning to clear off Jones’ great oaken desk in the center of the room for his purposes.  Jones let out a stutter and promptly took over stuffing his personal belongings into drawers.  Maccus caught a glimpse of numerous drafts of letters, the script flowery and effusive—addressed to whom, he had no idea.

“Please,” the doctor gestured to Maccus, “lie face down.”

With a glance to Jones, Maccus clambered up onto the desk and carefully lowered himself face down, his spine legs curling in upon each other like hands folded in prayer.  The doctor then pointed Jones toward a desk chair.

“You may take a seat,” he said. 

Jones settled down with a sigh in the full belief that he was merely waiting his turn for this unconventional bone cracking session.  Which—if he was being totally honest—didn’t sound all that bad.  He’d had a time of it, getting around on his pointy leg, which did no favors for his lower back.  He watched in keen curiosity as the doctor started on Maccus.

“So.”

The doctor ran the edge of his palm down the center of Maccus’s back, and the legs crackled in reply.  He let out a low huh, shrugged, and continued on unbothered. 

“Tell me about yourself, Captain Jones.”

The doctor brought his other hand up and began to knead the painfully tense muscles of Maccus’s back, to which Maccus let out a sad, puppy-dog cry.  He resisted the urge to dig his saw-like teeth into the edge of the desk.

Though Jones was normally allergic to small talk, he was aware of the necessity for good relations with one’s doctor…if one wanted good treatment.  He sighed and spoke in a mutter.  “I was born a very long time ago,” he began, “in Scotland, a century and a half ago, and now I am still alive, lingering on, with a crew and a ship with no purpose.”

An echoing crraack! sounded from Maccus’s back, and he let out a hooo in relief.  The doctor had pressed hard on the back of one of the man’s ribs, pushing it back into its rightful place. 

“Purpose,” the doctor said, not looking up from his work as he addressed Jones.  He tested the flesh on the back of Maccus’s elbows.  “Have you met many men with purpose?”

Jones frowned, his eyes not leaving Maccus’s ever-increasingly relieved face.  “Elaborate.”

“Meaning—” the doctor jerked Maccus’s left shoulder back, and another crriick sounded out, “—is there any man you’ve come across, who has such a clear and plain sense of purpose, that he can in every moment see the path toward the end of his days?”

The other shoulder now, this time louder.  Jones licked his lips.  “Such certainty does not exist,” he replied.  “No man can anticipate where fate will find him.”

“Then why expect the very thing of yourself?”

Maccus was in a state of bliss, every muscle cramp loosening under the doctor’s skilled hands.  He had begun to drool on the desk.

Jones considered the doctor’s words.  “I had purpose,” he began.  “I was the ferryman.  But with all that—that abandonment that followed, I am merely a wandering wraith.”  His voice dropped to a murmur.  “Only love may free me.”

“Ooohh, baby, do that again,” Maccus purred.  The doctor had cracked Maccus’s neck, relieving his perpetually stiff vertebrae from all that strain of holding up the weight of his terrible head. 

“Love, hm?” the doctor repeated.  “Love is not so difficult.”

This, neither Maccus nor Jones could believe.  Both swiveled their heads around in unison—to Maccus’s great surprise, he found his neck much more flexible than before.

“Love is literally the most difficult thing in the world,” Maccus said.

“Love is the cruelest, most unforgiving thing any person undertakes,” Jones added.

The doctor chuckled softly and reached into his medical bag to moisten his hands with oil.  “It’s very interesting how your skin is smooth in one direction and rough in the other,” he remarked.  “First patient I’ve had that might give me blisters.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Maccus grunted.  “What do you think you know about love?”

The doctor let out a breathy, longing-filled sigh.  He stood contemplating for a moment, rubbing his palms together, staring off toward the algae-covered back windows of the cabin where faint beams of sunlight still filtered through.  “Falling in love is oh so easy,” he finally said.  “But invoking that love…calling it into existence, taking the other person by the hand…well, there are men who would rather go off to war and face down a row of cannons than do that very thing.”

Jones and Maccus both went very quiet. 

Maccus’s heart had begun to beat very hard, and he wondered whom Jones was thinking about.  Calypso, probably.  He chanced a glance in Jones’ direction and saw the captain staring back—they both abruptly looked away, embarrassed—but something had stirred there.

“Deep breath out,” the doctor said.

He jabbed the base of his palm into Maccus’s lower back, and Maccus let out a howl. 

Jones stood up, a great concern washing over his face.  “That will be enough,” he said sternly.  “Do not push him beyond his limits.  I need him—we need him,” he stammered.  Another furtive glance at Maccus’s face.  “Our first mate is essential to the proper sailing of our ship.”

The doctor gave an abiding shrug and wiped his hands off on his trousers.  “Very well.”  He clipped shut his medical bag and lifted it, ready to head out the door.

“Hold, are you not giving the same treatment to me?” Jones asked as Maccus climbed off the desk.

The doctor tilted his head.  “No,” he said.  “The first mate was booked for bone adjustments.  You were booked for therapy.  Though, I can’t say we made very much progress.”

A pause.  The doctor’s gaze passed over the two men who were now standing side by side, and the corner of his lip twitched.  “Or perhaps we did.”

Jones and Maccus looked at each other.  And it was Jones who noticed first that the crab legs on Maccus’s back were moving once more, stretching out like so many spider legs, but now they were reaching toward a very particular person.

“Ah,” Jones cleared his throat.  “Maccus, your legs…”

Maccus looked back over his shoulder to see the tips of his crab legs brushing at the shoulder of Jones’ coat.  “Oh, apologies, excuse me, captain—” he took two long steps back and crossed his arms over his chest.  “There we go,” he said. 

They stared at each other across this little, forced distance.  Maccus’s crab legs were now arched over his shoulders in Jones’ direction, and neither had yet noticed that Jones’ entire beard was reaching out in reply.  It was like watching a spider and a squid try to hold hands.

The doctor gave a knowing smile and ducked his head.  “I’ll send you an invoice later,” he whispered, and he trotted out the door. 

Jones’ face had turned a deep green, and Maccus couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him that color before.  No, it happened when Jones was playing his music, thinking about her—

He folded his hands and began twiddling his thumbs in anxiety, his body erupting in a cold sweat.

Jones opened his mouth to speak, and the whole world seemed to stand still.

“I…” Jones began.

Maccus’s head was spinning.  He didn’t know what he would do if he heard it.

“I think that I…”

His knees began to shake.  Oh God.  Oh Christ.

“Maccus, I think I love—”

No.

“—I love my job.”

Maccus felt his entire existence go dark.

Jones went on, oblivious, a deep melancholy overtaking his tone.  “I miss aiding the souls of those lost at sea,” he said.  “I miss the purpose it gave me, the glimpses into the wellspring of life, crossing the veil to the other side where the spirits pass on.  Do you miss it too?”

Maccus steadied himself with a hand against the desk.  “Yep,” he wheezed.  “Miss it.  So much.”

He felt like he was going to die.

Jones looked to the dim light streaming in from beyond and slowly nodded his head.  “We will return to the care-taking of the dead,” he breathed.  “You and I, in service together.”

Maccus nodded vigorously, hoping that if he made his face a blur it would hide all the tears.  “Sounds swell,” he squeaked.  “Just excellent.”

Jones turned to walk out the door, and as he passed Maccus, he placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder.  Maccus felt a sob catch in his throat.

“You’re the best first mate a man could ever have,” Jones said.

And as the captain left the room, the door shutting behind him, Maccus finally fell to his knees and let out a strangled, kicked-dog wail.

“Why are men—” he cried into the ship’s creaking, uncaring walls, “—so FUCKING stupid?”The Dutchman, in her ancient, silent wisdom, had no reply for the heartbroken man.

#pirates of the caribbean #potc #fanfiction #maccus #submission #round 5

[sophisticated-creepy]

“Ouch!” The prick was sharp and sudden, drawing forth a droplet of blood, the surprise of the hidden thorn more shocking than the initial prick itself.

“My lady?” asked the matron housekeeper, her voice tinged with concern. The older woman’s head snapped up from her chores upon hearing the startled yelp from the lady of the Manor House on the other side of the drawing room.          

“A rogue thorn,” chuckled the first, going back to arranging the long stemmed roses in the decorative ivory vase on a table in front of the fireplace. “No need to fuss. A thorn every now and again never hurt anybody.”

“Except for my lady’s finger,” said the seasoned housekeeper. Walking over to the small settee where her mistress worked, she took the offended hand still buried in its labor amongst the roses to examine the damage, and with a measured exhale of timeless patience, guided the young lady of the house by her finger towards a small console table tucked under a bank of windows.

          “Tis only one drop of blood,” laughed the woman who dutifully followed behind the housekeeper.

          “I will have no stains upon these carpets.”

          “You fuss too much, Mrs. Marple.”

          “And you bleed too much,” quipped the house servant as she rummaged in the table’s drawer, whereupon she found a small kerchief of linen. Taking on the natural role of nurse, Mrs. Marple tied the length of cloth over the wound of the affronted, alabaster finger of her mistress. “Why are you rearranging the florals? Were the chrysanthemums not to your liking?”

          “Mr. Northcott prefers the chrysanthemums, whereas I enjoy roses,” the lady replied. “And while my darling husband is away on business, I see no problem in changing out the center pieces.”

          “Roses are harder to procure this time of year, I’m sure the expense---.”

          “The expense is worth my happiness,” Mrs. Northcott supplied, finishing the housekeeper’s beginning justifications of finicky seasonal flora. “That is, the expense is worth my happiness, until Mr. Northcott comes home.”

          Mrs. Marple watched the youthful glimmer of mischief dull from her employer’s eyes, the hazel exuberance of life and intelligence fogging over into a clouded shade of their former loveliness. As their hands were still clasped, she offered comfort to her friend, covering the delicate appendage with her rough and calloused palm hardened from years of toil. “We’ll keep the chrysanthemums in the east den for the time being until Mr. Northcott returns, then, we’ll switch them back so you may enjoy the roses in peace.”

          “Thank you, Mrs. Marple. You’ve always been a good friend to me.” Mrs. Northcott threw her arms around the housekeeper, hugging onto the wizened woman with whom she cherished.

          “Anything for you, my dear,” and Mrs. Marple squeezed back in equal measure. “Now, enough sentimentality. Go back to your roses. And no more bleeding,” she scolded, shooing away the mistress of the house.

          “I promise you,” laughed the other, returning to her vase, “that not a single drop of my blood shall blemish your precious carpets.”

          “See to it that it doesn’t,” Mrs. Marple harrumphed with playful animosity, and like clockwork, the two returned to their daily tasks of maintaining the upkeep of the large and stately Manor House.

*~*~*~*

          “My lady, are you unwell? Your dinner was hardly touched.”

          Lillian Eleanor Northcott blinked twice before recognizing the old and trustworthy butler Alistair standing to her side. Seeing his wrinkled brow furrowed in deep lines of concern, she smiled, hoping the gesture alone would smooth the worried creases. “I am well,” she spoke, reclining in the high-backed dining chair as much as she could manage, given the rigid furniture. The quiet of the dining room dragged on, the muffled ticking of a grandfather clock stationed in the foyer outside the lavish parlor softening the sound of silence between butler and lady. “It’s been two days. Mr. Northcott is to make his return on the morrow,” Lillian said at length.

          “So he is,” nodded the proper gentleman. He was patient, allowing the pauses of conversation to breathe between each of her thoughts.

          “He always keeps his affairs to three days. It’s a wonder these trips accomplish anything at all.”

          “Mr. Northcott is, indeed, a savvy business man,” Alistair said while continuing his affirmative nodding.

          “How much business could there possibly be in canning?” Lillian asked, a slight scoff to her question. “Surely he has suitable contracts with all the wharfs he needs.”

          “I hear there is prospect to the north,” supplied the butler. “A good opportunity for growth and expansion, I’d suppose.”

          “I suppose,” she repeated, her chin finding her palm in a melancholy gesture as she leaned over the polished dining table.

          “Are you unhappy with Mr. Northcott’s business?”

          “Of course not, the cannery has been nothing but a boon to this town,” Lillian remarked.

          “Then, you are unhappy because Mr. Northcott has been absent so long?”

          Lillian moved her stare from some unknown fixed point in the far off distance across the dining table to instead observe the old butler, her gaze tender as she took in the still present wrinkles etched across his weathered forehead. With a determine lift of her chin, she righted herself, and stood to face the oldest of the house servants eye-to-eye. “Alistair, how long has it been since the staff has had a night off?” she asked, the question, she noted, startling the frowned wrinkles of worry into raised ridges of shock.

          “The schedule is clear on who has the proper time off to make sure everyone is well rested---.”

          “I mean the whole staff? At the same time?” Lillian asked, cutting off the butler’s eloquent response. “When has the entire staff taken a night off?”

          “Never, my lady,” Alistair gaped. “That would be entirely improper.”

          “Take the night off,” Lillian declared. She watched in amusement as the old man continued to open and close his mouth without emitting a sound, and laughed at being the one to deliver him into such a rare state of dumbstruck. “I want the whole staff to leave the grounds of this Manor. Take in the evening sights. Enjoy the nightlife that Newberry has to offer.”

          “That is completely---.”

          “Generous of me?”

          “My lady,” Alistair sighed, finally regaining his bearings. He stepped forward to place gentle hands on his mistress’s shoulders. “Ellie,” he spoke, adopting the nickname borne from well-worn friendship. “I cannot grant this request.”

          “Can’t I, for one night, be alone in my own house?” Lillian whispered, an anxious force beginning to creep slowly upwards from the pit of her stomach to reach her fluttering heart. “Please. Give me one night to walk these halls at my leisure, to exist in these rooms without purpose, to meander without the threat of eyes following my every move.” She heard the hesitance in his hemming and hawing against her proposal, and so altered her request to alleviate any of his concerns. “You don’t have to stay out all night. At least…grant me one hour. Please.”

          “Mr. Northcott would not approve,” Alistair said.

          “It is because of Mr. Northcott that I wish for this solace.” Lillian looked away from the clear, gray eyes of the long-trusted Alistair as the shameful burden of despair lashed its cold yoke across her shoulders.

          Alistair’s heart broke with pity for the woman standing before him. He saw the pains this “marriage” inflicted upon the young mistress, and watched as month after month, turned year into year this once vibrant heiress of a coal baron withdraw into herself, becoming a wilted, shadowed version of her former glamor. If an hour’s time was all that was needed to grant his friend the small reprieve she so desperately sought, he could afford her at least that much succor.

          “One hour,” Alistair stated, “and Mr. Northcott need never know.”

          Lillian was a blur as she embraced him, and all he could do in that instance of vulnerability was hold her. In a matter of moments, Lillian was waving farewell to the retreating shadows of her household personnel, easily recognizing the bundled forms of Alistair the butler and Mrs. Marple the housekeeper who both dawdled as the caboose of their party, the two heads of staff lagging behind before eventually disappearing into the mist of winter’s night. The oppressive thoughts that sunk deep in Lillian’s mind of her husband’s inevitable return home vanished once Alistair agreed to her schemes, and giddy with a lightheartedness she could only remember ever having experienced as a child at Christmas, glided freely from one exquisite room to the next, laughter on her lips and joy lighting her every step.

          The Manor House, to say the least, was a sprawling piece of property, yet when Lillian laughed, a warmth filled the heavy structure of beam and wainscot. The crystal appeared to sparkle of its own fruition, and the timber in a musty hearth crackled with a soothing, sonorous lullaby of comfort and security. The spirit of the Northcott Manor House came alive at the sounds of its mistress’s mirth, and tonight, the house appeared to glow as she wandered the corridors. A strange urge compelled her to see each glittering bits and bobs as if experiencing the random assortments of bric-a-brac and trinkets for the first time, so she touched the gilded, delicate porcelain in a massive walnut hutch, and brushed soft fingertips over the textured cushions of a sitting room. Yet in one specific hallway, she tip-toed with careful finesse to place her ear upon the closed oaken door of her son’s bedroom, imagining him sleeping softly in his bed, dreaming delights only toddlers are able to wondrously conjure.

          Lillian paused at that particular door the longest, taking in one deep breath after the other, her ear continuing to press upon the sturdy barrier protecting her son, comforted with the knowledge of her offspring’s quiet slumber. She kissed the polished paneling, whispered a soft “I love you”, and then descended down the stairs to spend the rest of her free hour in the main level chambers. One of Lillian’s most treasured hobbies was reading. She rarely indulged in such luxury, however, as her husband found the activity a frivolous waste of time, scolding at the prospect of reading when a lady of her stature should have her time occupied in other matters. When pressed for opinions on what those matters entailed, Mr. Northcott either fumbled his response or changed the topic of conversation entirely before ignoring his wife to her own devices.

          Not one to be so easily snubbed, Lillian fought for her library, the room a constant reminder of her tenacious spirit, even if she avoided the tomes to spare herself a frosty condemnation. If anything, the library served as a mere status symbol, a box of four walls constructed of bookcases to house business partners in furthering the build of Newberry’s canning empire, and as much as she cherished her library, there lingered an unnatural, persistent chill to the room, her once proud sanctuary of quiet leisure turned hollow and neglected. Now, with the remainder of an hour on hand, Lillian decided to spend the rest of her time nose deep in the old, worn out pages of her favorite book. The main parlor off the foyer was the most intimate of the many rooms the house had to offer, providing ample space for the plush furniture to delight guests in the finer arts of entertaining. Lillian took note of the well stoked fireplace as she walked into the room, the grate alight in healthy flames prepared by one of her staff members before the granted upon hour of leave. The fire may have been bright and beautiful, but its reach of light, was poor, barely even visible enough to illuminate the hearthstones.

          The dim lighting was sure to cause strain on her eyes in a room so swathed in pleasant shadows, making the act of reading near impossible in such gloomy conditions, however, much to her delight, Lillian realized the lamps in this room had yet to be lit. One of her more eccentric quirks as lady of the house, was taking on the responsibility in the lighting of the lamps upon the fireplace mantel. The sacred, symbolic routine of welcoming in light and warmth brought a soft smile to her lips, yet there was a secret layer to the joy she received in the simplistic ritual of bringing light into her home, and that was the irksome fluster which beset her husband as the lamps were lit by her hand, as he deemed such a menial task was designed for the house servants, not the socialite she was meant to exemplify. To save himself the headaches and arguments with his wife, Mr. Northcott agreed to Lillian’s whims by allowing her the liberty of lighting only three lamps.

          Why he fretted over something nonsensical, Lillian would never understand, nor was she able to wrap her mind around his constant affinity to the number three, but those were thoughts she laid aside, for she did not want the figment of her cantankerous husband to rob what was left of her solitary peace. Lillian knew where to find the matchsticks for her nightly task, and set to work, striking the tip of the long, wooden match into a blazing flame to light the first lamp on the far corner of the intricate fireplace mantel in the cozy front room parlor. Once the first lamp was ignited, she floated over to the second lamp on the opposite corner of the mantel, lighting the oil-soaked wick to mirror its brother. Then, with careful precision, she carried the lighted matchstick over to her reading chair by the parlor window, where she next lit the third light.

~*~*~*~

          Lillian heard a “pop” come from the parlor window in front of her. Confused, she watched as spider web fissures slithered outward from a hole in the pane glass before her, the chill of winter seeping through the room to settle deep into her bones. The winds were bitter that night, howling and whistling in a dreadful moan, the icy air sinking deeper, and deeper, robbing Lillian of the ability to feel her body, let alone draw in enough breath to fill her lungs. The cold swept her up in a weightless surrender, moisture spreading out from a place between her shoulder blades while also dampening the fabric of lace and finery above her heart. She blinked once, then twice, and then closed her heavy eyes with thoughts drifting towards the caring Mrs. Marple, and the fuss she would undoubtedly make once she saw the stain of the saturated carpet beneath her.

Happy Friday the 13th, everybody! What better way to celebrate the spooky and supernatural than by debuting a new Newberry paranormal mystery??? If you haven't read the first book, dig back in my archives to read "Newberry at Night". That might help clear up some characters and backstories, but you don't have to read it if you don't want to.

I just have to say, I'm so happy to be bringing a new story for everyone to read! I will also warn you that this is a book in process, so chapter updates are going to be random at best, but I will try to get as many chapters out as quick as I can.

If you want to see what else I've got in the works, check out my past work in the archives, and follow along with my graphic novel "The Skeleton Keeper".

Thank you to all the readers out there who read my works! It's both terrifying and thrilling to get these characters out into the world, so thank you for loving them as much as I do! Leave me a like and a comment if you feel inclined! Share with some friends, but more importantly, have fun and stay spooky!

~Melissa    

#newberry at night #adventure #fantasy #romance #love #magic #witches #paranormal #paranormal investigation #ghost hunting #ghosts

[void-ink-studios]

Incarnations AU - Backstory

I think I’ve settled on the name Incarnations AU and will be tagging all art/fanfic as such from now on.  This is a Kirby gijinka AU, where I’ve taken the strange cannon lore, turned it into wet clay, and played with it on my stupid little pottery wheel.

You can check out the oneshots I write for this AU over HERE on AO3, but today, I’d like to try and rewrite the first chapter as an actual story.  When I first wrote it, it was pure stream of consciousness and trying to get thoughts on paper.  So, here’s my author redemption arc.  Enjoy!

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Within the land of Dreams, within that strange cosmic fog that lies beyond our own awareness, there lived a civilization split in two.  With minds and magic beyond all, these twin societies dominate, endlessly circling each other, endlessly building off each other.

In brilliant White and Gold, there were the Magi, musicians of reality, plucking the strings of magic, altering their world with their soundless songs.  In gorgeous Black and Silver were the Physicus, who toiled and tinkered with their minds and hands, forcing reality to their will.  Together, the two forged great artifacts of wonder, ones to better explore and expand over the cosmic fog in the land of Dreams.

The Physicus clicked together the gears of Clockwork Stars, while the Magi imbued them with the power of Dreams to grant wishes.  The Physicus crafted great ships known as the Starcutter Fleet, and the Magi put the wind of the stars into the sails.

The Magi, meanwhile, created a brilliant silver to see into other worlds, so the Psysicus refined and contained it to a great Mirror where they could see and journey forth.  The Magi captured the power of a Wishing Star’s nebula, and the Psysicus channeled it into a staff more powerful than much of their artillery.

At the center of all, the center of these two civilizations known now as the Ancients, there was Void.  Void, that great creator, from which the chaos of Dreams is given form.  Void, once dormant, now gazed out into the cosmos, within their gilded cage at the center of a galactic power.  Without Void, the Magi would have no great strings to pluck, and the Psysicus would have no Star metals to forge.  There would be no Ancients without Void.  But what would Void be without them?  It mattered not to Void.  What worth would it have to crush the ants that built their mound around them?

It is lost history, in how it happened.  Perhaps the Physicus experimented into forces that should’ve remained lost in shadow.  Perhaps the Magi plucked at the perfectly incorrect string.  Perhaps it was fate, or pure cosmic accident.

Regardless of the how, the what has left its scars across the land of Dreams.  For, one day, Void trembled.  It shuddered and cried and agonized.  And then it purged.  It purged, and then one became two.

A being of brilliant orange and gold and black spilled from Void that day, standing on trembling legs and wet wings.  It was thus that the first Incarnation was born.  It was the Butterfly of Paradise.  It was the silent watcher and end to all.  It was the Incarnation of Judgement.

It was Morpho Knight.

Morpho Knight had vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, but it had taken something important with it.  For now that one had become two, the one left behind was missing something.  Void had become a being without Judgement.  A creature without reservations.  A creature with no concern for the ants that stared in confusion and horror.

It was only through the combined effort of all Star Allies, and the creation of new and terrible weapons that the Ancients could face the beast now known as Void Termina.  The Star Sparkler, the Crystal Cannon, the Rainbow Sword, and the Love-Love Stick were all forged in the fires of desperation, while the Starcutter fleet fell one by one.

It was the creation of the Jamba Heart from the Magi and the Jamba Needles of the Psysicus that the monster was subdued.  Void could not be destroyed, not by mere mortals.  It would be foolish to hunt for Morpho Knight, even more so to think it could be forced to fight.

So, Void exchanged a gilded cage for a darkened cell.

And the Magi and Psysicus were reminded of just how mortal they were.

The two civilizations watched each other, as they tried to rebuild.  They watched the weakened states they were all in, with their core locked in a box with no key.  They watched as they realized that the other was defenseless.  It was only a matter of who would strike first.

It was the Psysicus, paranoid of magic, and emboldened by their weapons of science.  They would not need the Magi anymore, they had decided.  What if their magic strings caused yet another disaster?  What if they found a way to outdo their glorious machines?  The Magi, they decided, would be driven out, and they’d take that ticking apocalypse with them.  They split their great planet in two, and rocketed away the undesirables to the darkest, deepest corners of space, with only enough fuel to get them there.

The Magi found themselves surrounded by darkness.  There were no strings to pluck here.  There were no Wishing Stars to harness, no starlight to sail on, not even pinpricks of distant stars of old allies.  It was just them, and the darkness crushing them from above.

The bitterness took hold quickly.  A few managed to scrape together remaining Starcutters to find some escape, but most had decided to spit on the stars.  They turned inward, to a darkness that yet gave off light.  They began to worship what was once their doom.

And thus began the Cult of Void.

This worship, this saturation of hatred and despair, it woke something within what remained of Void.  And it trembled again.  As one pin was wrenched free, a deafening scream wailed throughout the darkest corners of the Land of Dreams.  Something was unleashed that day.  It was the darkness itself, a consumer of light.  It was the Incarnation of Despair.

It was Dark Matter.

Dark Matter was not a who.  It was a What.  A dark cloud of hundreds of eyes swirled around the Cult of Void.  The ones who didn’t go mad described the cry of millions of tears.  It was the deepest of melancholies.  As did its older kin, it fled quickly into the abyss.  But not before one lone Ancient was able to trap a piece into a once unremarkable crown.  This Ancient, who’s name is lost to time, placed the crown upon their head, and declared themselves a king.

The Ancients were never heard from again, after that day.  The Psysicus, so paranoid and proud, vanished in a blink.  Their great planet and cities were swallowed, seemingly by the darkness itself.  The refugees of the Magi drifted away, to fates unknown.  No one came back for the Cult of Void.  No one peered too closely into the Darkness as they continued their worship.

As they pulled on pins, twin Incarnations were purged from Void.  One was Dreams.  One was Fear.  The Incarnation of Dreams warped away as quickly as it arrived to pierce the veil of Dreams.  The Incarnation of Fear found itself a feast of screams.

It was eons before the Cult recovered enough to attempt again.  It was smaller than the others before it, and for a moment, the Cult had wondered if Void had weakened.  Then it spread brilliant feathery wings and attempted to carve its way to freedom.  The Incarnation of Ambition was bound in glittery gilded chains, and a dog was made of it.  It became a weapon, turned on whatever planets the Cult had wandered too close to.

Glittering horns grew longer, as did its resentment.  It turned on its captors the second they got lazy with their new toy.  It was only through their long ancient magics that they were not all wiped out, as the Incarnation was trapped in crystal only their kind could open.

Meanwhile, the Incarnation of Dreams had found itself trapped as well.  Its careless warping was bound to have its consequences eventually.  Warping had made the planet it had found unstable, patches becoming incompatible to life.  One couldn’t really blame the locals for trying to keep it contained.  They studied it, wondered, got curious.  And it was that curiosity that opened the door.

The Great Warp Event, a catastrophe and a blessing all at once.  The humans of the Forgotten Land were warped, in location, body, and mind, to a new home, a small nowhere planet called Popstar.  In a planet not known to them, in minds and bodies not known to them, a new civilization began to rise.  However, that warp was not without consequences.  Many of the animals were left behind, and the Incarnation was cleaved in two.  ID-F86 went dormant and ID-F87 fled into the newly abandoned world.

One more pin was pulled before the Cult of Void finally fell.  And from that pin fell the last of the Voidborn.  A small, nervous Incarnation, despite the fact he was meant to be the Incarnation of Bravery.  He bolted off, and there was no one left to stop him.  Only one of the Cult of Void still stood, but it is out of spite he continues to stand.

The remnants of the Ancients drifted through the cosmos.  The Master Crown fell into the hoard of the Great Dragon Landia.  The last of the Starcutters was discovered by a small alien, perhaps an Ancient descendent, named Magalor.

But the energy of the Great Warp Event rippled through the universe and back.  Many of the artifacts became drawn to it, the Dimension Mirror, the Star Rod, the Love-Love Stick, the Rainbow Sword, and several scraps of ships lost wedged themselves in the mountains, forests, and plains of Popstar.  The smallest of the Incarnations found his way here, his way home.

It was not the only one.  But Popstar had a defender now.  A dark mage from the heart of the dark hive was locked in a chest.  The devourer of Fear, once the nightmare of Bravery, now sits bound in a staff atop the Dream Fountain.

The energy of Void saturated everything around the tiny planet.  It swam, oozing from the Great Warp Event’s residual energy, from the artifacts that pulled energy from Void itself, from the Incarnations, there willingly or otherwise.  And there was Joy.  Joy from the people of Popstar, more powerful than the hate of the Magi.

And from that joy, a new Incarnation laughed.

And from the darkness, hundreds of eyes search for them.

#kirby #Kirby gijinka #kirby fanfic #kirby au #Incarnations AU #kirby lore #kirby morpho knight #kirby galacta knight #kirby nightmare #kirby dark matter #kirby fecto elfilis #kirby meta knight #kirby ancients #long post #fanfic #backstory

[brooklynislandgirl]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS.   repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want and feel free to add to the categories. The Nurse Shark || Beth Riley

THE SHAPE OF WATER : early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. self-righteous intolerance. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged. learning and adapting. raindrops on windows. bubbles rising in water. cats. taboo desires. tanks of water. kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater. silence. isolation. golden age Hollywood. sign language. scales. egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies. creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales. lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes. smog. dance routines. slices of pie. toxic masculinity. chains. government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues. deep, inexorable scars. gills. music from the 30′s. retro-futurism. bloody hand-prints. routines. record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD : a doll in a gilded birdcage. butter to bread. the death of a mother. cycles. hidden messages. a disruptive presence. longing. wedding gowns. posh control. post-war. brightly coloured socks. inner turmoil. poison. an air of quiet death. hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music. restrained anger. spinning out of control. artist and muse. dark love. pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection. wild mushrooms. giving up every piece of yourself. rags to riches. ghosts. new year’s. lingering gazes. needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound. being ambushed. ego. flowing dresses. a person out of place. defiance. ink to paper. an artist tortured by their art. obsessive personalities. peepholes. soothing elegance. silk. spiral staircases. driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST : typewriters. newspapers. tense climates. distrust of authority. internal battles. a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups. defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption. behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade. cramming and crowding. cold grays. war. fluorescent lights. treason. shuffled papers. the jungle. a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary. finding your voice. risking everything. propaganda. tough choices. exposure. type being set by hand. workplace rivalries. abuses of power. security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia. orders. clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter. cigarette smoke. precious cargo. vanished technologies. suspenseful conversations. facing charges. courtroom battles. suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR : never surrendering. duty. countless negotiations. the flash of cameras. beaches. historic buildings. guzzling booze. resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers. radio broadcasts. going against the odds. bathed in red light. a sense of humor. allies. shouting matches. small square windows. selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms. chandeliers. dust floating in air. righteousness. a poor reputation. an elevator surrounded by darkness. a world at war. needing a miracle. interruptions. a last hope. cigar smoke. quoting poetry. photos of a loved one. a single sunbeam. monarchy. vanity. rescue missions. refusing peace. pallid chambers. military uniforms. taking a stand. common folk. suicide missions. drums of war. tears down sullen cheeks. reluctance. complete collapse. evacuations. enveloped by fog. changing history. blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI : severe burns. police uniforms. sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect. facing threats. skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes. awkward dates. nasty rumors. claustrophobia. lush green pastures. molotov cocktails. the fire of anger and revenge. strangers. no remorse. bashing in windows. the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time. rundown old houses. grey morality. dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses. cruel laughs. the american flag. dive bars. guilty no matter what. buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting. chewing on fingernails. one versus many. black and red. not understanding another’s feelings. a mother and child. the pain of others. a quest of justice. abandoned billboards. a hardened gaze. driving to nowhere. small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

DUNKIRK : burying a body. warm cider. narrow escapes. a race against time. a small boat. all hope lost. being unable to come home. taken prisoner. shipwrecks. assuming the identity of someone else. setting fire to it all. smoke rising from a crash. sea foam. seaports. rendered blind. dropping to take cover. land, sea, and air. entangled in chain. toast with jam. suspense. waiting for escape. wounded men. laying in the sand. trauma. blank spaces. sinking ships. commended a hero. cocking a gun. swallowed by darkness. bullet holes. obstacles and delays. a hero’s welcome. planes overhead. the sounds of a ticking clock. bullets ricocheting off metal. people by the thousands. shell-shocked. the explosions of shells on shores. the sound of destruction. rising tides. head injuries. target practice. compressed time and space. the perennial threat of death. oil ignited into flames. lying for the greater good. blocking out the noise. primal dangers. taking command. sole survivor.

GET OUT : deer antlers. suburbs. hypnosis. strange behaviour. familial tension. chopping wood. uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight. blindness. survival. sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair. plugged ears. a failed handshake. car accidents. sunken places. something out of a nightmare. going hysterical. bingo cards. smoking cigarettes. static on a television set. doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will. overturned candles. wealthy garden parties. constantly looking over your shoulder. silence no matter how hard you scream. trances. catharsis. a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea. nosebleeds. addiction. last bits of life leaving a body. black and white photography. sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech. noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup. a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

LADY BIRD : california landscapes. budding romance. uniforms. consolation. plain and luscious colors. apologizing. boorish sex. prom dresses. secondhand dresses. strong personalities. the theatre. being simultaneously warm and scary. battling depression. 90’s fashion. dreaming of elsewhere. partying. signatures on a cast. living on the wrong side of the tracks. not being bound by any era. rejection. sparklers. thrift stores. high school. identity crisis. a place that looks like a memory. going behind backs. disappointed parents. catholicism. poverty. busy new york city streets. monotonous hometowns. shitty bands. teenage anarchy. drifting in and out of friendships. menial jobs. red hair. self-given names. coming-of-age. a broken arm. excessive drinking. first kisses. cupcakes. smudged eye makeup. strained relationships. screaming in the middle of the street. thoughtful letters. standing out. decorated bedroom walls. having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

TAGGED BY. @void-foxy {by technicality and thank you}

TAGGING. Be fae, steal memes

#Glowing Like the Metal|Dash Games #I'm Gonna Soak Up the Sun|Aesthetics

[scribhneoir-sidhe]

A Record From The Hands of Brilliance

7th Day, Month of Darkness, 1850

    History will remember this day. After years dedicating my genius to a single task, of pushing the boundaries of what men considered possible, I have done it. My Clockwork Soldier is complete!

I will be the first to admit, my initial design iterations were not bold enough. I was held back by the pitiful expectations of convention; a soldier must have a human face, two eyes to see what is in front of him, two arms with which to attack. Masterwork is seen not in the first scribblings, but in the completed creation. None may fault my process. The limbs alone! The counterweights, the finesse, the coordination required for each blade to avoid impediment while maintaining individual lethality. Years of toil and now my brilliance is vindicated.

Sokolov and Joplin failed. Titans that they were, names on the lips of history, and even all their esoteric mumblings, arcane rituals, and insipid dream visions could not conjure up anything half as brilliant as my Clockwork Soldier. No, they failed and I have succeeded.

*

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Hello!

The above is an excerpt from my contribution to the Karnaca Nights section of the 10 Years of Dishonored Zine, A Record From the Hands of Brilliance! In it you are invited to dive into the mind of Kirin Jindosh, Grand Inventor to the Duke of Serkonos, Prodigy, Visionary... Madman. These are his private notes, chronicling the development of his greatest innovation, the Clockwork Soldier, the dizzying heights of genius he rose to, and his abrupt and perilous downfall...

It’s been an absolute delight working with everyone at @10yearsofdishonoredzine​, I was so honored to be a part of this amazing project! Preorders are open NOW on our website, head to this post for more information: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/10yearsofdishonoredzine/690863802500120576?source=share If you love Dishonored then you’ll adore all of the great pieces that have gone into this project, it’s a real treat to be sure!

#Dishonored #Dishonored 2 #Dishonored: Death of the Outsider #fanfiction #zines #10yearsofdishonoredzine

[virgilsjourney]

Summary: On autumn & associations.

Tags: Ficlet, College/Uni AU, POV Logan, Character Study, Slice of Life

Content warning: Past unhappy home life (briefly implied)

Relationship focus: Friendship/found family for all; Logan/Patton (pre-relationship); Roman/Virgil (pre-relationship)

_____________

It’s while he’s walking home from the library that Logan notices it: the leaves are beginning to crunch underfoot. He doesn’t realise he’s slowed his pace until he comes to a complete standstill, and then he blinks and taps his foot on the pathway experimentally. The fallen leaves are curled, dry like paper; when he glances down, the sight of amber and brown surprises him, somewhat—he usually tracks the changing of the seasons with clockwork precision, but now autumn seems to have snuck up on him all at once. It’s an odd feeling, thinking back to the silent dread that would normally accompany this time of year: the nights drawing in and getting colder, leaving him unable to spend the evenings outside (away from home, blessedly alone). Something twists in his chest. Sadness, even remembered sadness, is hard to shake.

As he nears the tower block, he can see that the light is on in their apartment, a golden glow cast from the kitchen-cum-living room on the fourth floor. There’s the silhouette of someone in the window; Logan recognises it as being Virgil when the figure gives him a customary half-salute-half-wave.

Logan waves back.

When he opens the front door, it’s to be immediately greeted by the sound of chatter drifting from the kitchen. He smiles when he hears his name—“Yeah, well, Logan can be the judge,”—and calls out a greeting before following the voices into the room.

“Finally,” Roman says. His legs are dangling over the arm of the couch; he’s wielding a script that has multiple page corners folded over, sticky notes galore. With his free hand, he gestures expansively to the window and says, “Cast your eye over our toil.”  

Virgil, still by the window, scoffs. “You mean my toil.”

He presses something against the glass and as Logan gets closer, it’s clear why Virgil had been standing there to begin with: the window has been decorated with bats made from cleverly folded pieces of black card.

Logan settles on the couch, leaning on his knees; he shoves Roman’s legs out of the way as he does so, ducking to avoid Roman hitting him in the head with the script—a well-oiled routine. As he asks, “So, what am I judging?”, he peers over the top of the couch and finds Patton sitting cross-legged on the floor, grinning up at him.

“The bats,” Patton answers. Pieces of Halloween themed scotch tape cling to his fingertips, rows of smiling pumpkins—a little strip adorns the bridge of his glasses which, Logan thinks with affection, could equally be an accident or intentional.

“You need to be more specific, Pat,” Virgil says. “It’s between my bats,”—he nods at the upper half of the window—“and Roman’s.” He points further down, where a row of what looks like black amorphous blobs are stuck, to varying degrees of success.

“Ah.” Logan fights a smirk. “Well, it’s a close call.”

This time, he does not avoid Roman’s signature ‘script to the head’ move. “Rude! Mine have character.”

“Yeah, sure they do,” Virgil replies, “they’re works of art; Van Gogh’s got nothing on them.” It’s probably supposed to sound like biting sarcasm, but when directed at Roman, it’s like he can’t stop the fondness from colouring every word.  

“Judging matters aside, you are aware that it’s not Halloween yet?” Logan asks.

Virgil gives him a deeply unimpressed look.  

“If you value your life,” Roman says in a ridiculous stage whisper, “you’ll drop that question.”

“Too late,” Virgil says; and he gives an evil looking smile, all teeth, which might have been intimidating, once, if Logan didn’t know that the more terrifying Virgil acts, the greater he values the friendship.

Patton shuffles over to the window and places the rest of the tape on Roman’s ‘bats’ before standing up to point at Virgil, mock-stern. “No outright spookiness until Halloween.”

“Damn,” Virgil says with a shrug. “I’ll have to push back the crypt rental.”

“Surprisingly not the worst thing you’ve said today,” Roman says.  

“And on that note,” Logan says, “I’m leaving.”

He doesn’t, of course—he just goes to the kitchen area, leaning over the counter awkwardly to check that the toaster is plugged in.

“Uh, what are you doing?” Patton says.

Logan turns. Patton’s at the sink, filling up a glass of water.

“Making… toast?” Logan says, confusion growing. “It’s—I was late coming back, so I don’t really have time to do a full—”

“Yeah, but…” Patton sets down the glass then opens the fridge. He brings out a bowl covered in plastic wrap; there’s one of Roman’s sticky notes on top, with Logan’s name written in Patton’s hand. There’s also an entirely inaccurate doodle of Saturn. “I saved you some pasta,” Patton says.

“Oh.” Logan takes the bowl. “Um, thank you.” He almost leaves it there, but a little apologetic impulse creeps up. “You didn’t have to—”

“But I did,” Patton finishes. He winks, and it seems more understanding than teasing.

All of a sudden, Logan decides that he doesn’t want to point out that piece of tape still stuck to Patton’s glasses: it suits him, he thinks.

Logan heats the pasta up—underneath the hum of the microwave, he can hear Roman and Virgil still bickering playfully; when he glances over, he watches Patton begin to add his own attempt at bats to the window.

Logan turns back to the microwave, smiling.

The nights might be drawing in, but finds he no longer minds it quite as much.

#sanders sides fic #logicality #prinxiety #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides college au #sanders sides uni au

[yajmae]

       EACH FINGER BENDS, one after the other, the exposed tendons and bone beneath it coiling and stretching. his flesh moves like clockwork, quivering with every flinch of a joint, and roll of his wrist, everything in place as it should be. he curls his into his palm, and once satisfied, azrael begins to bind his arm anew in a fresh cut of bandages. luckily he is not wholly bound by his human skin, for despite its pitiful state, he can move his arm quite freely. perhaps he should return to the isles in order to complete the healing process--- at least that way, he wouldn’t have to contend with these accursed mortal wounds reopening and bleeding every half an hour.

       he does this where no-one oft ventures; his pain is none but his own, and he loathes the stares. wrinkling his nose, every pass of the bandage beckons a twitch of his lip, the fabric grazing raw muscle and sinew. the wounds are like fire in his veins, and he hates every second of it. however, it appears another has misjudged him for a friendly presence, and approached nonetheless. lowering his brow, the angel shifts his gaze aside, his arm only partially wrapped.

       he would have considered admonishing the presence... if it weren’t for a familiar face greeting him in that moment. recognition flashes across his features, staying his words... before he wrinkles his nose, averting that gaze. he permits no-one and nothing to his shame--- not even kimihiro.

             “  leave me.  ” he curtly dismisses the other, hoping to banish him so that he may toil in peace.

                                                              @existentialismee​.

#existentialismee #tw: blood #tw: gore #it's not like i might think of u as a friend or anything baka

[laconic-nightmares]

this is so helpful, christ.

I think im assisted by the fat my thoughts nowadays are less 'what ifa' and more... 'clockwork orange', thoughts that obviously arent real but that devastate me through their repulsivity alone.

ideally I'd hack that function of my brain and memories affected by it off and let that shard of me toil while I rest, recuperate, and then take it to get that whole thing fixed and ideally reintegrate that shard of myself? It would be a painful existence, but like... idk. if I knew it was not endless, and if I got to see me resting in a way I can't, I think I'd be able to manage?

I don't know what other options are available to me, but if its... an option, and if it will let me heal that part of myself and let the rest of me get to be a person, it seems worth pursuing? Idk where to start or if my preconceptions abt this are all wrong though.

again this is.... really a lot. it's either a light at the end of the tunnel, or relief that I'm not missing a way out I could've sought out. tysm.

they really can get quite disgusting, i know and i sympathize, sometimes it feels like having the worst fucked up horror movies just playing in your head 24/7 with no off button and it is completely understandable to be horrified and disgusted by them. i'm somewhat desensitized most of the violent/sexual ones these days because i decided to just. do art about it. oddly enough coping with fiction isn't just for the folks with ptsd, ahah.

obviously, you know your mind best, and you know yourself and your situation best. expectation and intent do have an effect on how these things turn out, even if there will always be things you didn't expect to show up. if you believe it would be compartmentalizing yourself to help you heal and rest, not just shoving them down into a box that never gets opened (by you, at least) again, that is a different story entirely.

and. well. just in general, even if it doesn't work out, trying sometimes is better than doing nothing. it really seems like you're at the end of your ability to cope alone and frankly even a 'bad' coping mechanism is still a coping mechanism if it's keeping you going.

i can try to rustle up some resources for creating headmates if you want/need me to. it's not something i talk about often because of the sysmeds but the r/tulpa subreddit is where we figured out we were plural, and we do have a 'tulpa' even if he doesn't really use the term anymore.

the other thing i would recommend you look into (or if you need me to do some googling, i will - frankly i'll probably have a look anyway for my own sake) is something called Exposure Response Prevention therapy. obviously these are 'best' done with a therapist/psychologist/someone who knows what they're doing, but sometimes just studying the thing can help to a degree if that isn't an option.

from what i understand ERP is considered the gold standard treatment for OCD currently, and i have seen anecdotal evidence to suggest it helps with intrusive thoughts.

other than that i just want to say that i am so proud of you for reaching out, and for taking steps to try and make things better for yourself. both of those things are so hard to do, especially with OCD brain

i can't promise super quick responses or that i'll have answers for everything, but our ask box is always open if you have other questions

#sickened answers #current nightmare; dmitri #sorry for the wait for a response waking up is not kind to our brain #takes a while for words to become useful

[0perfectimperfections0]

Friend: Why is your chapter so long? It's just fanfiction.

Me: Well...

<><><><><><>

The dolls looked behind the replacement with wide eyes. The new Lou turned to see his replica walking toward him, a disturbingly calm look plastered on his face. His hair had been fixed to its original form, clothes fully adorned and untainted by the toils of everything he’d been through the past few days. He looked brand new. The replacement clenched his fists and snapped his fingers. The robotic arms snaked their way toward Lou quickly and stopped short. He calmly proceeded on as they scanned over his form, and the light flashed green.

It worked.

Lou smirked at the shock on his copy’s face and proudly adjusted his cuffs as the robots slithered away. “I had a little glow up while I was gone. How do I look?” He gave a charming smile to his copy.

“You should be burning by now,” the other growled.

“That’s a weird way to say hello.” All he had to do was buy Nolan and the others time to get into position. The longer he kept his psychotic twin talking, the better chances this plan of theirs would see through. He walked along beside the cages, inconspicuously keeping track of where the locks were.

He was stopped abruptly by his replacement grasping one of the bars to block Lou with his arm. “You don’t belong here, remember? There’s a new leader.”

“Last time I checked, I’m the one with more experience in how to run this place. Unless you think you could do better. But, believe me, the isolation will eat at you.” Lou didn’t seem phased by the dominance his copy was exuding.

There was a laugh. “I’m not weak like you. This is our job. We wake up, we teach, we sleep and then do it all over it again the next day. It’s like clockwork.”

“Well, this clock doesn’t work like that,” Lou retorted. “These dolls don’t need you any more than they needed me. And they’ll realize that, too. You can hide it all you want to, but we’re worthless.” He leaned closer to the copy; eyes narrowed. “We’re nothing more than a money racket for the factory to promote their products—test subjects. You’re a lab rat, is what you are. Stuck in a cage to be experimented on while the products of your existence get to go on.” He walked around past the copy, “You’ll wake up, train, and sleep…and you’ll die here, too. If the depression doesn’t kill you first then the factory will.”

The other Lou blinked at the ground before shaking his head, “You couldn’t do it, but I can. I’m better. Mr. Everett made me stronger than you!”

“Did he?” Lou turned. “If you were stronger than me, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t even exist. The factory doesn’t make stronger prototypes; they make weaker ones. Ones too vulnerable to stand up against them. Ones too stupid and brainwashed to realize they have a muzzle around their mouth and a leash around their neck. We’re their puppets, slaves, lab rats, whatever you wanna call it. But we’re not their equals and certainly not their higher power. Even if I died—if all these dolls were destroyed—you’d still lose. Because at the end of the day, the entire means of your existence is to submit to the factory.”

<><><><><>

An excerpt from a point (IDK at WHAT point, exactly) in my novel. My friend told me to go ahead and write the scene I wanted to and this came out so...

Why do I feel like there's a deeper meaning behind this?

#uglydolls #fanfiction #wattpad #writing #lou #story #excerpt

[rxng]

He likes to sing. If you ever catch him alone, he'll be mumbling through a song.

Sometimes from Earth, sometimes Cybertronian. The Cybertronian songs are always either in Primal or toned by Decepticon toil.

He has certain ones he falls back on. Melodies he's memorized, harmonizing in his EM Field. Sometimes he even sings musical notes, clockwork enough to hit those tunes close enough.

If you want to brighten his day, bring a song to him. He'll immediately listen to it and start harmonizing.

#text #mobile;

[futuristic-coffinnails-x]

In London's grimy alleys, where fog hung like damp linen and cobblestones whispered secrets, lived the "Twisted." Not your typical plague victims, these souls bore the grotesque stamp of reality's cruel joke, flesh blooming with rusted sprockets and glowing tubes like macabre Christmas lights. Among them was Rosalina, a punk priestess with eyes that danced with electricity and a touch that whispered tumors onto skin, a reminder of reality's warped embrace. Yet, a sliver of hope, thin as a cobweb thread, clung to her: a cure brewed from stolen lightning and the phosphorescent slime of sewer creatures.

Across the Thames, in a palace sculpted from nightmares, lurked Claudius, a puppet king with a clockwork heart and eyes that thirsted for power. His skin, a canvas for whispered blasphemies, concealed a ravenous entity – a tangle of razor blades and clockwork teeth held at bay by an elixir older than time itself. Claudius, his ambition oiled with rust and malice, saw the Twisted not as victims, but as fuel for his twisted ascent. The Queen, a porcelain doll on the verge of shattering, stood between him and the crown, and the Twisted, with their groaning symphonies and whispers of a new world order, were the twisted instruments in his mad concerto.

Then there was Prospero, a tinker-mage with eyes that saw through the cracks in reality. Shunned for his heretical pronouncements of "entanglement," a theory that painted the Twisted as glitches in the fabric of existence, he toiled in his den, a symphony of whirring gears and flickering candles. He saw in the Twisted not monsters, but living metaphors, their mutations harbingers of a cataclysmic rewiring of the world itself.

As London thrummed with the pulse of imminent chaos, their paths, bound by the invisible threads of the Twisted, intersected like lightning strikes. Rosalina, driven by a hope sharper than a broken bottle, stumbled upon a truth as surreal as the mutations themselves: her touch, the very curse that ostracized her, held the key to rewiring the glitch, but only if she could forge an alliance with the man who lusted for power and orchestrated the city's descent into madness. Prospero, his pronouncements laced with the urgency of a ticking clock, offered a weapon, a contraption cobbled together from the very essence of the entanglement, but its use risked unleashing a digital apocalypse beyond anything the city had ever known.

In the neon-bleached alleys and rust-stained squares, a game of shadows and desperation unfolded. Betrayal slithered through the court like a datasnake, loyalties shifting faster than the flicker of a cathode tube. Rosalina, her revulsion a constant companion, walked a tightrope between salvation and oblivion, fueled by scavenged battery acid and the dreams of a better tomorrow. Claudius, his entity straining against its digital shackles, plotted and manipulated, his every move a glitch in the matrix of reality. And Prospero, his sanity a frayed wire hanging by a thread, raced against time to forge a weapon that could either mend the broken code or plunge the city into an eternal digital nightmare.

Would the Twisted be the harbingers of a new, warped reality, or could their suffering spark a revolution that rewrote the city's code? Would Rosalina overcome her revulsion and become the city's unlikely savior, or would she succumb to the digital darkness that pulsed within her own cursed flesh? And what of Prospero, would his gamble against the encroaching chaos succeed, or would he unleash a digital horror that would make the Twisted seem like a pixelated glitch in a fever dream?

The answers, like the fate of London itself, flickered on the screen of existence, as thin and fragile as the threads of reality woven between them. In the neon-drenched labyrinth of that crumbling city, where hope fought a desperate battle against the digital void, only one thing was certain: the line between salvation and damnation was as twisted and surreal as the mutations that marked the Twisted, and the dance of life and death had just begun. The city held its breath, waiting for the final stroke of the clock, ready to be rewritten, rebooted, or erased from the digital canvas of existence altogether. Buckle up, darlings, the apocalypse is about to get crusty, surreal, and oh-so-ecchi. Rosalina might just have to unleash the full, gooey potential of her curse to rewrite the city's code, one pulsating tumor at a time. As for Claudius, well, let's just say his clockwork heart might require some… unconventional maintenance if he wants to keep his digital demon in check. And Prospero? His contraption, a twisted spiderweb of wires and salvaged lightning, hummed with an ominous potential, promising to either mend the fabric of reality or tear it open wider than a screaming Banshee's mouth.

...in the end, it wasn't the grand clash of power, the grotesque symphony of flesh and steel, that decided London's fate. It was a whisper, a touch, a single act of defiance in the face of oblivion.

Rosalina, her heart pounding like a trapped bird, stood before the monstrous contraption Prospero had cobbled together. Its wires glowed an eerie green, humming with power that crackled against her skin. But instead of activating it, of unleashing its untamed potential, she turned. And she touched Claudius.

The flesh where her fingers met his skin didn't bloom with tumors, as it always had. No, it unraveled. The clockwork heart beneath, the razor-blade claws, the very essence of his monstrosity – it all peeled away like a discarded chrysalis, revealing a shivering, mortal man beneath.

The entity within him, enraged by its sudden freedom, lashed out. It tore through the palace walls, a writhing mass of teeth and metal, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. But Prospero, his sanity hanging by a thread, had anticipated this. With a flick of his wrist, he activated his contraption, not to rewrite the city, but to redirect the entity's rampage.

The palace shuddered, reality itself distorting around it. The entity screamed, a sound that split eardrums and cracked cobblestones, as it was sucked into the heart of the machine, pulled into another plane of existence, another twisted reflection of our own.

Silence descended, thick and suffocating. The fog, ever present, seemed to hold its breath. Then, a sound: a baby's cry, echoing from the ruins of the palace. Rosalina, ever the punk priestess, was already there, cradling a newborn wrapped in tattered silk. The Queen, miraculously alive, her porcelain doll's face etched with tears and relief, looked upon the child with a smile.

London, battered and bruised, began to rebuild. The Twisted, their mutations receding, returned to their lives, whispers of the "Savior's Touch" following them. Claudius, stripped of his power, haunted the shadows, a stark reminder of the cost of ambition. And Prospero, his eyes haunted by glimpses of the abyss, retreated to his den, to tinker with his machines, forever vigilant against the whispers of the darkness beyond.

But Rosalina? She walked the streets, not with revulsion, but with a newfound purpose. In her touch, she saw not a curse, but a potential, a bridge between worlds, a reminder that even in the grimiest alleys, even in the most twisted reality, hope could bloom, fragile and unexpected, like a wild rose pushing through cracked concrete. And in the eyes of the newborn, in the whispers of the city slowly healing itself, she saw a future, not perfect, not clean, but painted with the vibrant, messy colors of life itself. And that, in the end, was enough.

For London, the apocalypse had come and gone. But in its wake, it had left behind not an ending, but a beginning. A chance to rewrite the story, not in some grand, technological feat, but in the quiet acts of humanity, in the touch that healed, in the hope that blossomed, in the defiance of a single punk priestess with a touch that whispered life in the face of oblivion.

PLOT GENERATED BY AI

[omanxl1]

Toolroom Radio EP729 - Presented by Mark Knight

Digital Crate Digging Continues as we proceed and continue with this Music Monday edition of the O-Dog Day Party! The saga  / struggle continues as life goes on as the toil and strife goes on so a naysayer really shouldn’t even start with me! It’s rough out here, I’ll have to admit; I was even imprisoned by the theory of relativity. Good help is hard to find, victimized by awkward clockwork by…

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#AntLaRock #DarioNunez #discosoul #DJPP #EarthNDays #groovearmada #housemusic #jeromerobins #KidMassive #MarkKnight #MinnieRiperton #MusIcMonday #ODogDayParty