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OP
OP
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2022
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the shower wouldn't help. not one bit.
everything reminded her of him. that lingering warmth that parted between the caverns of her naked body made her internally go limp. it had only been one day since they parted. it was a mutual decision... but the breakup did come out of nowhere. bridget had accepted it as soon as the confrontation started. he was sparse with his words and emotions which left her feeling bitter; however, as much as she tried to hide it, she was sure he could see how empty she looked when he left. the dread of going back to being independent hit her like a freight train derailing itself off the tracks. "i'm sorry bridget. i'll text you when i get back to my place. we'll figure things out, okay?" he lied to her. there was no text and there was nothing to figure out.
getting out of the shower posed itself to be a problem. the lack of distinct warmth as the water turned off made her hurriedly grab for a towel. wrapping it around her cleansed frame, she stepped out, somewhat dried off, and left the bathroom to make her way to her dungeon.
bridget blindly guided herself into her dark room. only when her knobby knees hit the resolve of her bed, she sat herself down on the mattress and flipped on her bedside lamp. it provided her with barely any lighting at all, but it was comfortable for her sensitive eyes. guiding the semi-wet towel off her body, she laid back against her sheets and stared at the ceiling. what was she supposed to do in a situation like this? it felt like someone had shot her with an arrow. leaving her to internally bleed all over the place. bridget's fingertips lathered against her soft skin while splayed out. the first thing she needed to do was put underwear on and grab a shirt to sleep in. lazily, she rolled off her bed and towards her closet to pull out an oversized shirt and some cotton panties. after slipping into her attire, she decided to close her bedroom door and crawl underneath the sheets. one of her hands moved out to turn off the lamp beside her so she could be completely engulfed in the dark.
the soft flick of her lightbulb going out could be heard within the silent room. the brunette slid underneath her blankets before finding herself just laying there. a heavy sigh escaped her wet lips. "fuck."
she figured that the best thing to do when she felt like this was to love herself. nonetheless, finding any sort of strength to masturbate at that current second was more than difficult. every part of her body opted to mope in depression for the rest of the night. she couldn't do that though. realistically, she didn't want to be stuck underneath her sheets feeling like a sad sack of shit. bridget knew she could change that. gradually, one of her own hands started to move in between her torso, down to her stomach, and the hem of her panties. who would she even think about? what would get her off? her breathing trembled as she thought about nobody in particular. just a man who would treat her right. he had no face nor a depictive body, he was in between her legs, sliding her panties down. something was arousing about the fact that this imaginary figure kept asking her if she was alright or if he needed to slow down for her...
"no, nooo, keep going." she whimpered out in a whisper.
the young woman's digits clamped down on her ever-growing arousal. her index finger pressed up against her clit and started to rotate counterclockwise in a slow teasing fashion. the non-existent man between her legs parted her wide open, his lips doing the same as he leaned forward to get a quick taste of her. the finger that was pressed against bridget's clit moved a bit faster. the heat seeping from her pussy was starting to grow in size. for what it was worth- she had completely forgotten about the breakup. the only thing on her mind at that second was bringing herself to a climax. feeling her tense body tether, she decided to pick up the pace. the brunette's other free hand slid up underneath her shirt, scavenging to latch onto one of her hardened nipples. another brief cry escaped the back of her throat while her hips started to grind upwards. that buildup pressing in the pit of her stomach was becoming too intense to ignore. she was going to cum.
with a final pull of her tit and a pressing of her clit- her entire body convulsed. bridget's legs shook helplessly as she reached that high. "oh fuck, oh fuck!" she repeated under her breath as she started to calm herself. she couldn't tell, even as her body warmed and thanked her for what she did- did she make the right decision by masturbating that night? one thing was for sure, she was now unbelievably tired and ready to pass out. pulling both of her hands away from where they escaped to, bridget flipped onto her side and sauntered to sleep.
she wouldn't realize it right at that second, but she managed to love herself without the needs of someone else. at one step at a time, she'd independently love once more.
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2022
prompt: "write a scene where at least two kinds of monsters meet".
it was a cold, foggy morning. the dewlap of tallgrass swayed through the carefree wind where a pair of feet dragged through. a woman wearing a linen cloak breached through the trails and up towards what would be a peaceful village. everything was silent -- as if it was the calm before a great storm. digging her toes into the earthly soil beneath her, she suddenly halted when her eyes drew across two tall men carrying a table. a roundhouse smirk flitted across her features as she started to make her way toward them. "excuse me," she called out lowly, her fingers splayed out in an accordion motion. it appeared as though the men were ignoring her; instead focusing on placing the table down where their boss asked them to. "i said excuse me," this time, her tone was more aggressive and the hood of her cloak slicked back against her shoulders. the two men finally attuned their attention to the woman and abruptly, they stood frozen. their lazy hues met and almost instantly their bodies began to mold into stone. a quick cry of help splattered from one of the man's lips before they could no longer move. "men who ignore those who need help deserve to be stuck." medusa clicked her tongue, her fingers sliding across the table that was stuck hovering in the air as the two stone men held onto it.
"this would make for a lovely feasting table." it was a note to herself but she hadn't realized that someone else was nearby, watching. two eyes bore into the back of medusa and carefully, the serpent-esc woman spun around. "watch where those eyes go--" she suddenly stopped speaking, noticing that it was a young woman glancing at her. medusa couldn't help it, her eyes met hers, but nothing happened. she hadn't turned into stone. "what?" the cloaked woman asked softly, confused as to why this woman wasn't affected by her powers.
"i'm blind." she finally spoke. the young woman with a buzzcut started to walk forward, her eyes moving everywhere.
it was like an entire tsunami hit medusa. she... was blind? without even thinking, she started to speak. "what is your name? and stop walking, i'll come to you." carefully, the stone-making woman started to make her way over to the other young lady. "my name is eula. i'm a... well, sorta still in practice witch. who are you?" both of eula's arms moved outward so medusa could grab for her. "i'm medusa or you can call me gorgo."
slowly, they started to walk together. "oh, are you the woman who turns people to stone?" the pythoness asked softly, her head tilting to the side as if to procure interest in the conversation. "yes, i am the woman that turns people into stone--" she was immediately cut off by eula. "but not me! oh... you must be so lonely. do you... have any friends?" there was a pregnant pause, almost as if the cloaked woman didn't want to respond to it truthfully. how curious though, she wanted to be truthful for the witch. "no, i don't have friends. besides the snakes in my hair, i am rather lonely." without there being another skip of silence, the woman with a buzzcut fondly grabbed for medusa's hand. "i understand that. i really do. being blind limits me to seeing others, connecting with others, being with others... i've been outcasted as a monster because i'm a witch. everyone thinks of me as a joke now that i'm blind. what harm could a blind witch do?"
the comment made medusa stop in her tracks to ponder. "is that really how they view you? as a joke because you can't see?" it was as if a bit of motherly anger rose in her tone. how unfair and cruel life was. "as far as i'm concerned, you're still a witch to me. and, i think you're the only person i've ever met who hasn't been affected by me." what was this that she was feeling through the cool autumn breezes? something waned and churned in her stone-cold frame. perhaps medusa was feeling compassion for the first time in her life. especially for someone else who wasn't affected by her bore of a gaze. "eula, do you view me as a monster?" she asked suddenly, her eyes flickering over the witch's face. all she could see was warmth in the woman's features. she wasn't cold, stone, or unbreathing. it was someone she could finally talk to.
"to be fair, i don't view anything. i simply listen, and to me, it sounds like you're not a monster. just cursed with something that gives you the look of a monster." eula offered a smile, one of complete compassion. "hey, do you think we can both look like monsters but be human on the inside?" the blind woman inquired, her hands still taking hold of medusa's as if to relay comfort to the taller woman.
"yes, i would quite like that eula." without warning, the taller woman brought the witch into an abrupt embrace. it was one that carved out the stone in that ancient pillowing body of hers. every tumbling rock of exhaustion in medusa's face fell. finally, someone she could be around. someone who would accept her for the troubled 'monster' that she was. "i don't want to let you go." she confessed, a slight laugh escaping her lips as she did so.
"then don't medusa. just hold onto me and i'll be your eyes."
it was a cold, foggy morning. the dewlap of tallgrass swayed through the carefree wind where a pair of feet dragged through. a woman wearing a linen cloak breached through the trails and up towards what would be a peaceful village. everything was silent -- as if it was the calm before a great storm. digging her toes into the earthly soil beneath her, she suddenly halted when her eyes drew across two tall men carrying a table. a roundhouse smirk flitted across her features as she started to make her way toward them. "excuse me," she called out lowly, her fingers splayed out in an accordion motion. it appeared as though the men were ignoring her; instead focusing on placing the table down where their boss asked them to. "i said excuse me," this time, her tone was more aggressive and the hood of her cloak slicked back against her shoulders. the two men finally attuned their attention to the woman and abruptly, they stood frozen. their lazy hues met and almost instantly their bodies began to mold into stone. a quick cry of help splattered from one of the man's lips before they could no longer move. "men who ignore those who need help deserve to be stuck." medusa clicked her tongue, her fingers sliding across the table that was stuck hovering in the air as the two stone men held onto it.
"this would make for a lovely feasting table." it was a note to herself but she hadn't realized that someone else was nearby, watching. two eyes bore into the back of medusa and carefully, the serpent-esc woman spun around. "watch where those eyes go--" she suddenly stopped speaking, noticing that it was a young woman glancing at her. medusa couldn't help it, her eyes met hers, but nothing happened. she hadn't turned into stone. "what?" the cloaked woman asked softly, confused as to why this woman wasn't affected by her powers.
"i'm blind." she finally spoke. the young woman with a buzzcut started to walk forward, her eyes moving everywhere.
it was like an entire tsunami hit medusa. she... was blind? without even thinking, she started to speak. "what is your name? and stop walking, i'll come to you." carefully, the stone-making woman started to make her way over to the other young lady. "my name is eula. i'm a... well, sorta still in practice witch. who are you?" both of eula's arms moved outward so medusa could grab for her. "i'm medusa or you can call me gorgo."
slowly, they started to walk together. "oh, are you the woman who turns people to stone?" the pythoness asked softly, her head tilting to the side as if to procure interest in the conversation. "yes, i am the woman that turns people into stone--" she was immediately cut off by eula. "but not me! oh... you must be so lonely. do you... have any friends?" there was a pregnant pause, almost as if the cloaked woman didn't want to respond to it truthfully. how curious though, she wanted to be truthful for the witch. "no, i don't have friends. besides the snakes in my hair, i am rather lonely." without there being another skip of silence, the woman with a buzzcut fondly grabbed for medusa's hand. "i understand that. i really do. being blind limits me to seeing others, connecting with others, being with others... i've been outcasted as a monster because i'm a witch. everyone thinks of me as a joke now that i'm blind. what harm could a blind witch do?"
the comment made medusa stop in her tracks to ponder. "is that really how they view you? as a joke because you can't see?" it was as if a bit of motherly anger rose in her tone. how unfair and cruel life was. "as far as i'm concerned, you're still a witch to me. and, i think you're the only person i've ever met who hasn't been affected by me." what was this that she was feeling through the cool autumn breezes? something waned and churned in her stone-cold frame. perhaps medusa was feeling compassion for the first time in her life. especially for someone else who wasn't affected by her bore of a gaze. "eula, do you view me as a monster?" she asked suddenly, her eyes flickering over the witch's face. all she could see was warmth in the woman's features. she wasn't cold, stone, or unbreathing. it was someone she could finally talk to.
"to be fair, i don't view anything. i simply listen, and to me, it sounds like you're not a monster. just cursed with something that gives you the look of a monster." eula offered a smile, one of complete compassion. "hey, do you think we can both look like monsters but be human on the inside?" the blind woman inquired, her hands still taking hold of medusa's as if to relay comfort to the taller woman.
"yes, i would quite like that eula." without warning, the taller woman brought the witch into an abrupt embrace. it was one that carved out the stone in that ancient pillowing body of hers. every tumbling rock of exhaustion in medusa's face fell. finally, someone she could be around. someone who would accept her for the troubled 'monster' that she was. "i don't want to let you go." she confessed, a slight laugh escaping her lips as she did so.
"then don't medusa. just hold onto me and i'll be your eyes."
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2022
prompt: "i am one hundred percent content to stay with you on this couch until the end of time." / "that sounds pretty damn lovely to me."
lucy unclamped the wrinkled-up newspaper in her hand to protrude into a visor. the sun had already set and the sky had meddled to the darkest furls of black. saying that it had been a long day would be an understatement, but it didn't want to end. it was relentless like a leech on skin. a hand blossomed from the side of her body to splay across a pounding chest. it was pouring rain, the droplets of water streaking every dry part of her body until lucy felt cloying. she tried justifying her situation, it was nice working at a local diner. it meant that she would greet the locals or newcomers who wanted to pass through the antique establishment. the newspaper within her grasp was faltering with each raindrop that dared to fall onto the atrabilious makeshift shelter she had.
home sounded so nice right about now. it was her fault that she wanted to work late tonight. lucy wasn't one for overachieving, but if she could help in any way possible- she would. that meant cleaning tables, checking the register, refilling salt and pepper shakers, checking stalk, and changing up the daily special on the menu. in her defense though, she didn't know it was going to thunderstorm ahead of time. the woman shivered, water stilling slowly down her bare arms. she missed charlie... who was probably already at home, tired... but warm. she should've called him earlier before leaving to see if she could get a ride back, but she hesitated. her arm was wrapped around the phone cord, hand on the receiver getting ready to page him, but she didn't. lucy was embarrassed, and she couldn't pinpoint why that was. she's always been self-sufficient. a part of her didn't want charlie to see her unable to do something on her own. asking for help was the last thing she wanted to do... it was like asking her to pull out molars.
charlie and she had been together for two months. not long, but not as short as a fling. lucy didn't know what they considered their relationship. she was barred and boned when it also came to showing emotions, but for charlie, she had a soft spot. the rugged man was the opposite. lucy always told herself that 'opposites attract!' something about that thought always stung. they weren't the most compatible pairing. she honestly had no idea why charlie was still putting up with her stubborn yet mysterious tendencies, for example: her late appearance to get back home while it was pouring rain outside. part of her curiously wondered if charlie was worried about her. if at any rate he had tried calling her back at the diner or to bearnice (who is the closest person to lucy).
something struck a nerve at the thought of charlie being worried about her. the last thing she needed was for anyone to be concerned for her... and there was that pride of hers again, sneaking up for the worse. her steps grew in speed as well as her intent to get home. lucy wanted to be tepid more than anything in the world right now. oh, and to also see charlie. did she want to see charlie? her wet display at her front doorstep would be telling of what she had to do to get home. he'd probably inquire about why he wasn't called... and that he could've helped. 'charlie will always be here to help.' lucy sucked in a mouthful of pride and exhaled modesty in return. what could she tell him? 'oh, the power went out at the diner so i had to walk all the way back home'? for as plausible as that sounded, she knew that charlie would figure out her faux pas. he always did. squinting her doubtful eyes, she tried to gander a guess at how much longer she would have to walk home. from where she was now, it'd probably take her five more minutes. oh golly geez, five whole minutes to think about how awful she feels and looks. and so those five minutes ticked by quickly, by each indication of lucy's step, she made it home. stepping underneath her front porch, she pulled the drenched newspaper away from her lackluster hair and tried shaking off as much water as possible. pulling a beethoven the dog, she shook all the liquids off her frame not caring where it transpired. when lucy felt satisfied, she eagerly yanked at the doorknob and let herself in. the entryway smelt of cinnamon and apples- which was totally uncharacteristic for her house.
pulling at wads of damp hair, lucy stumbled forward. acutely, she took off her shoes and then tiptoed towards the kitchen. this is where she found charlie. big brown curls muddled around the curvature of his face and flour stuck to the underside of his elbows, he sat at one of the island chairs. he appeared focused, watching something on his phone as he didn't seem to hear lucy entering the room. this was it, there was no way for her to sneak out of here now. huffing softly, she padded into the kitchen and dropped the wet newspaper on the island. this immediately caught the male's attention, his head snapping towards the sound as if he'd given himself whiplash. "you know... if someone broke into our house, you'd probably be a goner by now." she mused in hopes that her distraught appearance wouldn't catch charlie's observation. his curls shifted as he moved around in his seat, "yeah well, obviously if someone broke in here i would've known..." he responded, his tone unsure but his facial features smug.
there was a heartbeat of silence between the two of them. lucy felt uncomfortable just standing there, so she spun around to tread off to her bedroom. it was a necessity at this point- she needed to change out of her diner dress and into something much more dry. charlie trailed behind, a bit reluctantly before coming to his senses. "hey uh, it's kinda late. is everything okay?" lucy didn't respond, instead she flailed her fingers into her drawer to blindly grasp for a pair of socks. "also, it's pouring rain. why didn't you call me?" his tone now was completely coaxed in disarray. it made the female slam her drawer shut out of uneasiness. quickly, she side-stepped out of her bedroom and towards the living room. her body instantly molded with the couch cushions and she was off to peeling socks onto her feet. charlie once more tagged along, but this time stood in front of her. "lucy, hey, are you alright?" this was the first time that the exhausted redhead looked at her boyfriend. his eyes were glossed over with a hint of anger but mostly endorsed with fret.
"it's been a very long day bub, maybe not now?" lucy didn't like the idea of backing down, but she truly was tired. nothing could mull a proper conversation from within her. charlie didn't buy this though, so he sat down next to her and inhaled steadily. "did something happen today?" his words once more came out soft and this made lucy shut down. "no. i just... stayed behind later tonight to help with closing up, and then i had to walk out in the storm." a hand splayed across her forehead as she massaged it, brushing past a non-existent migraine. "i didn't know it was going to pour either. it was a long walk." charlie placed a hand on her back, a sign of comfort. it was silent again, but it was comfortable. this was tolerable. closing her eyes, she felt her boyfriend shifting around next to her until something was draped across her shoulders. a blanket. "i'm sorry about this. i wish you would've called me, you know i would've driven you here."
there it was. the confession of the evening. 'i would have driven you here.' her silence in turn however made charlie realize something. "you didn't call me on purpose?" she sucked in a breath of harsh air before tipping her head to nod. "i'm sorry charlie, i just... i'm not good with this kinda stuff. i don't want you to think i'm relying on you or anything." lucy's head faulted upwards to get a look of charlie's understanding grimace. "it's really nothing against you but i- i don't know..." she trailed off with a whine, unable to continue as the male rubbed her back. "listen, it's alright lucy. okay? i'm not offended at all. i want you to know that i'll always be here for you." red strips of hair lingered in front of the scrambled woman's face. her hands moved away from her cheeks and to nervously fumble with her blanket instead. "would you always be here for me on this couch?" she inquired, her cheeks tinted with a flush.
"i am one hundred percent content to stay with you on this couch until the end of time." his voice held far too much sentimentality for lucy's liking, but there was no other way to respond. "that sounds pretty damn lovely to me." a hand tugged at the underskirt of the blanket, inviting charlie to mold to her need for warmth. he accepted this bidding heartedly, a giant grin written on his face as if to say that he was finally relieved. she was too. the conversation was needed and now it didn't feel as though something was wedged between their relationship. for the first time in a long time, lucy was content. she was mirthful.
lucy unclamped the wrinkled-up newspaper in her hand to protrude into a visor. the sun had already set and the sky had meddled to the darkest furls of black. saying that it had been a long day would be an understatement, but it didn't want to end. it was relentless like a leech on skin. a hand blossomed from the side of her body to splay across a pounding chest. it was pouring rain, the droplets of water streaking every dry part of her body until lucy felt cloying. she tried justifying her situation, it was nice working at a local diner. it meant that she would greet the locals or newcomers who wanted to pass through the antique establishment. the newspaper within her grasp was faltering with each raindrop that dared to fall onto the atrabilious makeshift shelter she had.
home sounded so nice right about now. it was her fault that she wanted to work late tonight. lucy wasn't one for overachieving, but if she could help in any way possible- she would. that meant cleaning tables, checking the register, refilling salt and pepper shakers, checking stalk, and changing up the daily special on the menu. in her defense though, she didn't know it was going to thunderstorm ahead of time. the woman shivered, water stilling slowly down her bare arms. she missed charlie... who was probably already at home, tired... but warm. she should've called him earlier before leaving to see if she could get a ride back, but she hesitated. her arm was wrapped around the phone cord, hand on the receiver getting ready to page him, but she didn't. lucy was embarrassed, and she couldn't pinpoint why that was. she's always been self-sufficient. a part of her didn't want charlie to see her unable to do something on her own. asking for help was the last thing she wanted to do... it was like asking her to pull out molars.
charlie and she had been together for two months. not long, but not as short as a fling. lucy didn't know what they considered their relationship. she was barred and boned when it also came to showing emotions, but for charlie, she had a soft spot. the rugged man was the opposite. lucy always told herself that 'opposites attract!' something about that thought always stung. they weren't the most compatible pairing. she honestly had no idea why charlie was still putting up with her stubborn yet mysterious tendencies, for example: her late appearance to get back home while it was pouring rain outside. part of her curiously wondered if charlie was worried about her. if at any rate he had tried calling her back at the diner or to bearnice (who is the closest person to lucy).
something struck a nerve at the thought of charlie being worried about her. the last thing she needed was for anyone to be concerned for her... and there was that pride of hers again, sneaking up for the worse. her steps grew in speed as well as her intent to get home. lucy wanted to be tepid more than anything in the world right now. oh, and to also see charlie. did she want to see charlie? her wet display at her front doorstep would be telling of what she had to do to get home. he'd probably inquire about why he wasn't called... and that he could've helped. 'charlie will always be here to help.' lucy sucked in a mouthful of pride and exhaled modesty in return. what could she tell him? 'oh, the power went out at the diner so i had to walk all the way back home'? for as plausible as that sounded, she knew that charlie would figure out her faux pas. he always did. squinting her doubtful eyes, she tried to gander a guess at how much longer she would have to walk home. from where she was now, it'd probably take her five more minutes. oh golly geez, five whole minutes to think about how awful she feels and looks. and so those five minutes ticked by quickly, by each indication of lucy's step, she made it home. stepping underneath her front porch, she pulled the drenched newspaper away from her lackluster hair and tried shaking off as much water as possible. pulling a beethoven the dog, she shook all the liquids off her frame not caring where it transpired. when lucy felt satisfied, she eagerly yanked at the doorknob and let herself in. the entryway smelt of cinnamon and apples- which was totally uncharacteristic for her house.
pulling at wads of damp hair, lucy stumbled forward. acutely, she took off her shoes and then tiptoed towards the kitchen. this is where she found charlie. big brown curls muddled around the curvature of his face and flour stuck to the underside of his elbows, he sat at one of the island chairs. he appeared focused, watching something on his phone as he didn't seem to hear lucy entering the room. this was it, there was no way for her to sneak out of here now. huffing softly, she padded into the kitchen and dropped the wet newspaper on the island. this immediately caught the male's attention, his head snapping towards the sound as if he'd given himself whiplash. "you know... if someone broke into our house, you'd probably be a goner by now." she mused in hopes that her distraught appearance wouldn't catch charlie's observation. his curls shifted as he moved around in his seat, "yeah well, obviously if someone broke in here i would've known..." he responded, his tone unsure but his facial features smug.
there was a heartbeat of silence between the two of them. lucy felt uncomfortable just standing there, so she spun around to tread off to her bedroom. it was a necessity at this point- she needed to change out of her diner dress and into something much more dry. charlie trailed behind, a bit reluctantly before coming to his senses. "hey uh, it's kinda late. is everything okay?" lucy didn't respond, instead she flailed her fingers into her drawer to blindly grasp for a pair of socks. "also, it's pouring rain. why didn't you call me?" his tone now was completely coaxed in disarray. it made the female slam her drawer shut out of uneasiness. quickly, she side-stepped out of her bedroom and towards the living room. her body instantly molded with the couch cushions and she was off to peeling socks onto her feet. charlie once more tagged along, but this time stood in front of her. "lucy, hey, are you alright?" this was the first time that the exhausted redhead looked at her boyfriend. his eyes were glossed over with a hint of anger but mostly endorsed with fret.
"it's been a very long day bub, maybe not now?" lucy didn't like the idea of backing down, but she truly was tired. nothing could mull a proper conversation from within her. charlie didn't buy this though, so he sat down next to her and inhaled steadily. "did something happen today?" his words once more came out soft and this made lucy shut down. "no. i just... stayed behind later tonight to help with closing up, and then i had to walk out in the storm." a hand splayed across her forehead as she massaged it, brushing past a non-existent migraine. "i didn't know it was going to pour either. it was a long walk." charlie placed a hand on her back, a sign of comfort. it was silent again, but it was comfortable. this was tolerable. closing her eyes, she felt her boyfriend shifting around next to her until something was draped across her shoulders. a blanket. "i'm sorry about this. i wish you would've called me, you know i would've driven you here."
there it was. the confession of the evening. 'i would have driven you here.' her silence in turn however made charlie realize something. "you didn't call me on purpose?" she sucked in a breath of harsh air before tipping her head to nod. "i'm sorry charlie, i just... i'm not good with this kinda stuff. i don't want you to think i'm relying on you or anything." lucy's head faulted upwards to get a look of charlie's understanding grimace. "it's really nothing against you but i- i don't know..." she trailed off with a whine, unable to continue as the male rubbed her back. "listen, it's alright lucy. okay? i'm not offended at all. i want you to know that i'll always be here for you." red strips of hair lingered in front of the scrambled woman's face. her hands moved away from her cheeks and to nervously fumble with her blanket instead. "would you always be here for me on this couch?" she inquired, her cheeks tinted with a flush.
"i am one hundred percent content to stay with you on this couch until the end of time." his voice held far too much sentimentality for lucy's liking, but there was no other way to respond. "that sounds pretty damn lovely to me." a hand tugged at the underskirt of the blanket, inviting charlie to mold to her need for warmth. he accepted this bidding heartedly, a giant grin written on his face as if to say that he was finally relieved. she was too. the conversation was needed and now it didn't feel as though something was wedged between their relationship. for the first time in a long time, lucy was content. she was mirthful.
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2022
prompt: peeling oranges
in the gentle quietude of our shared existence, there was a peculiar yet profound significance in the act of peeling oranges. the ritual became an allegory of our connection, a bittersweet dance of love and loss that unfolded with each citrusy embrace. as i delicately navigated the curve of the orange's skin, i couldn't help but reminisce about the depth we once infused into our lives together. the fragrance of citrus, tinged with memories of laughter and shared moments, lingered in the air like a poignant symphony of emotions. those oranges, once symbols of joy and togetherness, became vessels of subtle heartache as the narrative of our relationship unfolded. as if the very essence of our connection was encapsulated in the peeling of those oranges, revealing layers that mirrored the complexity of our shared journey.
in the beginning, the act of peeling oranges was an intimate affair, a joint venture into the simple pleasures of life. the anticipation of the sweet, succulent fruit within mirrored the anticipation of discovering new facets of each other. we reveled in the warmth of shared smiles, the juiciness of inside jokes, and the vibrant hues of our intertwined lives. those oranges bore witness to the innocence of love, capturing the essence of a time when our connection felt unblemished and untarnished by the passage of time. yet, as the seasons changed, so did the dynamics of our relationship. the oranges, once peeled with shared enthusiasm, started to embody a subtle detachment. the familiar cadence of our laughter seemed to echo with a distant resonance. as i peeled each orange, it was as if i was also unmasking the layers of our fading connection. the fruit that once sparkled with shared dreams and aspirations now carried the undertones of unspoken grievances and unmet expectations. the act of peeling oranges became a solitary endeavor, a quiet reflection of the growing distance between us. the citrus aroma that once enveloped us in a cocoon of shared intimacy now seemed to dissipate into the vastness of emotional dissonance. the oranges became symbolic of the effort required to maintain the facade of a love that was slowly slipping away. the more i peeled, the more i felt the weight of unspoken goodbyes lingering in the air.
in those moments of solitary orange peeling, i found myself contemplating the transience of love and the inevitability of loss. each discarded peel mirrored the fragments of our connection that were scattered, irretrievable. it was as if the oranges held a silent conversation with me, conveying the unspoken truth that even the sweetest of fruits could wither with time. yet, amidst the echoes of fading love, there was an unexpected resilience in the ritual of peeling oranges. it became a therapeutic act, a cathartic release of emotions that transcended words. the oranges, with their vibrant hues, served as a metaphor for the spectrum of emotions that defined our journey β from the warm glow of affection to the muted shades of heartache. in peeling those oranges, i found a strange solace, a way to navigate the complexities of letting go without losing myself entirely.
as the last orange lay bare, its peel discarded, i couldn't help but feel a sense of acceptance wash over me. the act of peeling oranges had become a poignant metaphor for the ephemerality of love and the inevitability of change. in releasing the oranges from their protective skins, i was also releasing myself from the cocoon of a relationship that had transformed into a memory. the love and loss embedded in the ritual of peeling oranges became a silent narrative of resilience and self-discovery. i realized that, just like the oranges, i could be peeled and exposed, yet there was a core within me that remained untouched by the changing seasons of love. in the quiet aftermath of each peeled orange, i discovered the strength to embrace the transient nature of relationships and the courage to embark on a journey of self-love.
so, as i continued to peel oranges in the hushed solitude of our shared space, i acknowledged the paradoxical beauty of love and loss. the oranges, once a symbol of shared joy, became a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. in the intricate dance of peeling and letting go, i found the grace to navigate the complex landscape of emotions and bid farewell to a love that had served its purpose in shaping the person i was becoming.
in the gentle quietude of our shared existence, there was a peculiar yet profound significance in the act of peeling oranges. the ritual became an allegory of our connection, a bittersweet dance of love and loss that unfolded with each citrusy embrace. as i delicately navigated the curve of the orange's skin, i couldn't help but reminisce about the depth we once infused into our lives together. the fragrance of citrus, tinged with memories of laughter and shared moments, lingered in the air like a poignant symphony of emotions. those oranges, once symbols of joy and togetherness, became vessels of subtle heartache as the narrative of our relationship unfolded. as if the very essence of our connection was encapsulated in the peeling of those oranges, revealing layers that mirrored the complexity of our shared journey.
in the beginning, the act of peeling oranges was an intimate affair, a joint venture into the simple pleasures of life. the anticipation of the sweet, succulent fruit within mirrored the anticipation of discovering new facets of each other. we reveled in the warmth of shared smiles, the juiciness of inside jokes, and the vibrant hues of our intertwined lives. those oranges bore witness to the innocence of love, capturing the essence of a time when our connection felt unblemished and untarnished by the passage of time. yet, as the seasons changed, so did the dynamics of our relationship. the oranges, once peeled with shared enthusiasm, started to embody a subtle detachment. the familiar cadence of our laughter seemed to echo with a distant resonance. as i peeled each orange, it was as if i was also unmasking the layers of our fading connection. the fruit that once sparkled with shared dreams and aspirations now carried the undertones of unspoken grievances and unmet expectations. the act of peeling oranges became a solitary endeavor, a quiet reflection of the growing distance between us. the citrus aroma that once enveloped us in a cocoon of shared intimacy now seemed to dissipate into the vastness of emotional dissonance. the oranges became symbolic of the effort required to maintain the facade of a love that was slowly slipping away. the more i peeled, the more i felt the weight of unspoken goodbyes lingering in the air.
in those moments of solitary orange peeling, i found myself contemplating the transience of love and the inevitability of loss. each discarded peel mirrored the fragments of our connection that were scattered, irretrievable. it was as if the oranges held a silent conversation with me, conveying the unspoken truth that even the sweetest of fruits could wither with time. yet, amidst the echoes of fading love, there was an unexpected resilience in the ritual of peeling oranges. it became a therapeutic act, a cathartic release of emotions that transcended words. the oranges, with their vibrant hues, served as a metaphor for the spectrum of emotions that defined our journey β from the warm glow of affection to the muted shades of heartache. in peeling those oranges, i found a strange solace, a way to navigate the complexities of letting go without losing myself entirely.
as the last orange lay bare, its peel discarded, i couldn't help but feel a sense of acceptance wash over me. the act of peeling oranges had become a poignant metaphor for the ephemerality of love and the inevitability of change. in releasing the oranges from their protective skins, i was also releasing myself from the cocoon of a relationship that had transformed into a memory. the love and loss embedded in the ritual of peeling oranges became a silent narrative of resilience and self-discovery. i realized that, just like the oranges, i could be peeled and exposed, yet there was a core within me that remained untouched by the changing seasons of love. in the quiet aftermath of each peeled orange, i discovered the strength to embrace the transient nature of relationships and the courage to embark on a journey of self-love.
so, as i continued to peel oranges in the hushed solitude of our shared space, i acknowledged the paradoxical beauty of love and loss. the oranges, once a symbol of shared joy, became a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. in the intricate dance of peeling and letting go, i found the grace to navigate the complex landscape of emotions and bid farewell to a love that had served its purpose in shaping the person i was becoming.
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2022
"threads of solitude" - (02/19/24)
βββββββββββββββββββββ
within the intricate recesses of self-reflection, a profound sense of isolation wraps itself around my very core, crafting a tapestry woven with threads of desolation. the tangible void of compassionate regard casts a pervasive gloom upon my being, as i drift through the expansive realms of indifference. a dissonant symphony, resounding with apathy, permeates the corridors of my yearning heart.
navigating the convoluted intricacies of societal interplay, i wade through the complex patterns of seclusion, concealed by the multifaceted dynamics of human relationships. much like an overlooked manuscript, the narrative of my existence remains obscured, overshadowed by the relentless tumult of an indifferent world. the nuanced layers of my longing remain shrouded beneath a veneer, hidden from the casual observer, as i traverse the enigmatic landscape of emotional disregard.
in the echoing hush, a poignant epiphany takes rootβan existential resonance of insignificance. each unheeded entreaty for connection adds a brushstroke to the portrait of my perceived unimportance, painting the canvas of my emotional topography in the hues of solitude. the complex intricacies of my emotions entangle with the threads of isolation, constructing an elaborate tapestry of yearning, where the absence of care metamorphoses into a nuanced mosaic of melancholy.
βββββββββββββββββββββ
within the intricate recesses of self-reflection, a profound sense of isolation wraps itself around my very core, crafting a tapestry woven with threads of desolation. the tangible void of compassionate regard casts a pervasive gloom upon my being, as i drift through the expansive realms of indifference. a dissonant symphony, resounding with apathy, permeates the corridors of my yearning heart.
navigating the convoluted intricacies of societal interplay, i wade through the complex patterns of seclusion, concealed by the multifaceted dynamics of human relationships. much like an overlooked manuscript, the narrative of my existence remains obscured, overshadowed by the relentless tumult of an indifferent world. the nuanced layers of my longing remain shrouded beneath a veneer, hidden from the casual observer, as i traverse the enigmatic landscape of emotional disregard.
in the echoing hush, a poignant epiphany takes rootβan existential resonance of insignificance. each unheeded entreaty for connection adds a brushstroke to the portrait of my perceived unimportance, painting the canvas of my emotional topography in the hues of solitude. the complex intricacies of my emotions entangle with the threads of isolation, constructing an elaborate tapestry of yearning, where the absence of care metamorphoses into a nuanced mosaic of melancholy.
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2022
"mundane medicine" - (4/28/24)
ββββββββββββββββββββ
in drawers they dwell, in bottles bright,
tiny capsules, round and white.
each day begins with a ritual, still,
swallowing pills, a mundane pill.
a choreographed dance of mundane grace,
measured doses, in their proper place.
morning, noon, and night they call,
a routine scripted, no room to stall.
for some, a lifeline, for others a chore,
these pills, our daily rapport.
a symphony of clicks and taps,
as lids are twisted, revealing caps.
invisible ailments they strive to tame,
yet tethered to them, all the same.
a silent pact with modern days,
in the haze of pills, life's maze.
yet amidst this mundane parade,
hope flickers, not yet afraid.
for in each pill, a promise lies,
of brighter days, beneath gray skies.
so though the ritual may seem banal,
in pills, we find our daily call.
a reminder of fragility's hold,
and resilience, in stories untold.
ββββββββββββββββββββ
in drawers they dwell, in bottles bright,
tiny capsules, round and white.
each day begins with a ritual, still,
swallowing pills, a mundane pill.
a choreographed dance of mundane grace,
measured doses, in their proper place.
morning, noon, and night they call,
a routine scripted, no room to stall.
for some, a lifeline, for others a chore,
these pills, our daily rapport.
a symphony of clicks and taps,
as lids are twisted, revealing caps.
invisible ailments they strive to tame,
yet tethered to them, all the same.
a silent pact with modern days,
in the haze of pills, life's maze.
yet amidst this mundane parade,
hope flickers, not yet afraid.
for in each pill, a promise lies,
of brighter days, beneath gray skies.
so though the ritual may seem banal,
in pills, we find our daily call.
a reminder of fragility's hold,
and resilience, in stories untold.
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2022
"ouroboros of the heart" - (8/14/24)
ββββββββββββββββββββββββ
in the silent depths where shadows coil,
a serpent's loop begins, unbroken, round,
its scales whisper tales of endless toil,
a dance where hunger's never truly found.
the snake, in madness, turns upon its form,
its teeth find purchase on the tender flesh,
a paradox where comfort becomes harm,
in seeking wholeness, it devours afresh.
so too, do we, in love's bewildered quest,
encircle what we yearn to hold so tight,
we bite our hearts in fear, our minds oppressed,
transforming warmth to cold, day into night.
for love is fragile, a delicate bloom,
yet we, like serpents, often choke its breath,
in our embrace, we cradle our own doom,
mistaking the embrace of life for death.
our words, like fangs, can pierce the tender skin,
of those we hold, who mirror our own soul,
we twist the knife, forgetting to begin,
to heal the wounds we made to feel whole.
in circles, we return to where we start,
a labyrinth of fears, desires unspoken,
our hands, the architects of broken hearts,
undo the bonds that we had once awoken.
the snake and we, both blind to what we do,
consume the love we crave, yet cannot see,
that in this endless loop, no love is true,
until we break the chain and set it free.
so let us learn from scales that burn and bleed,
to cherish love, not bind it with our dread,
for only when we cease to feed the need,
can love be whole, and we be truly fed.
ββββββββββββββββββββββββ
in the silent depths where shadows coil,
a serpent's loop begins, unbroken, round,
its scales whisper tales of endless toil,
a dance where hunger's never truly found.
the snake, in madness, turns upon its form,
its teeth find purchase on the tender flesh,
a paradox where comfort becomes harm,
in seeking wholeness, it devours afresh.
so too, do we, in love's bewildered quest,
encircle what we yearn to hold so tight,
we bite our hearts in fear, our minds oppressed,
transforming warmth to cold, day into night.
for love is fragile, a delicate bloom,
yet we, like serpents, often choke its breath,
in our embrace, we cradle our own doom,
mistaking the embrace of life for death.
our words, like fangs, can pierce the tender skin,
of those we hold, who mirror our own soul,
we twist the knife, forgetting to begin,
to heal the wounds we made to feel whole.
in circles, we return to where we start,
a labyrinth of fears, desires unspoken,
our hands, the architects of broken hearts,
undo the bonds that we had once awoken.
the snake and we, both blind to what we do,
consume the love we crave, yet cannot see,
that in this endless loop, no love is true,
until we break the chain and set it free.
so let us learn from scales that burn and bleed,
to cherish love, not bind it with our dread,
for only when we cease to feed the need,
can love be whole, and we be truly fed.
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2022
"the hollow exchange" - (03/28/25)
βββββββββββββββββββββββββ
elias trudged through the dense forest, his breath visible in the frigid air. the trees were ancient, their gnarled limbs twisting toward the sky like supplicants in prayer. it had been three days since he left the village, and his provisions were running low. still, he pressed on. he had to.
the sickness had come suddenly, like an ill wind sweeping through the valley. first, the livestock had fallen ill, then the elders, and then the children. no remedy worked. the village healer had sent elias with one desperate task: to find the sorceress of the hollow. if anyone could save them, it was her.
legends of the sorceress were whispered around hearthfiresβstories of a woman as old as the trees, whose eyes had seen the rise and fall of empires. some said she was a demon; others, a goddess. but all agreed she was powerful beyond measure.
elias had begun to doubt the tales. he had found no sign of her, only endless woods and the gnawing hunger in his belly. but then, as twilight thickened the air, he stumbled into a clearing.
a small cottage stood in its center, its roof thatched with silver moss. smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and a warm light flickered behind the single round window. elias's heart pounded. he stepped forward and knocked on the wooden door.
it creaked open on its own.
inside, the cottage was impossibly large, its walls lined with bookshelves and curious trinkets. a fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the stone floor. at the center of the room sat a woman, draped in dark silk, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders.
"you seek me," she said, not turning to face him. her voice was smooth, yet carried the weight of centuries.
elias dropped to one knee. "please, my village is dying. we need your help."
the sorceress turned. her eyes, impossibly bright, studied him. "and what would you offer in return?"
elias hesitated. he had nothing of valueβonly his life. "whatever you ask."
she smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. "very well. i will grant you what you seek. but first, you must answer me this: what is the shape of your sorrow?"
the question took him aback. "i⦠i do not understand."
"then you are not yet ready to save them." she waved a hand, and the door behind him slammed shut. "you may leave when you have your answer."
elias swallowed his protest. he had no choice but to obey.
days passed. the sorceress gave him food but little guidance. he explored the endless cottage, finding rooms that seemed to rearrange themselves when he wasn't looking. shelves held bottles of strange blue fire, books that whispered when opened, and mirrors that reflected places he had never seen. and yet, he could not grasp the meaning of her question.
one night, while studying an ancient tome, he found a passage that chilled him:
to know oneβs sorrow is to see the wound the world has carved into you.
a memory surfacedβhis sisterβs laughter as they ran through the wheat fields. then, the fever that had taken her in the night. the silence of the house afterward, the way his motherβs eyes lost their light.
his sorrow was the hollow left in her place.
the next morning, he returned to the sorceress. "i know now. my sorrow is absence. the shape of someone who should be there, but is not."
the sorceress nodded. "then you are ready."
she lifted a hand, and the room darkened. wisps of silver light coiled around her fingers, gathering into a sphere that pulsed with quiet power. she placed it in his hands.
"take this to your village," she said. "at sunrise, release it. but know thisβmagic does not give; it exchanges. be certain of what you are willing to lose."
elias hesitated, but his people needed him. he bowed, clutching the orb to his chest, and left the cottage.
by the time he reached the village, the sickness had worsened. the streets were empty. he knelt in the square as the first light of dawn touched the rooftops and, with a whispered prayer, shattered the sphere upon the ground.
a wind rushed outward, washing over the homes, the fields, the people. he saw itβcolor returning to pale faces, breath filling weak lungs. the sickness vanished as if it had never been.
elias fell to his knees, dizzy with relief. he turned to the villagers, ready to rejoiceβ
but they did not know him.
they looked upon him with unfamiliar eyes, not a glimmer of recognition among them. his mother, standing in the doorway, met his gaze with polite curiosity. "traveler, are you lost?"
his heart turned to ice.
the sorceress's words echoed in his mind. magic does not give; it exchanges.
he had saved them.
but they had lost him.
elias staggered back, the weight of his sacrifice settling upon him. he was a stranger in his own home. a ghost in the place where he once belonged.
and the wind carried on, uncaring.
βββββββββββββββββββββββββ
elias trudged through the dense forest, his breath visible in the frigid air. the trees were ancient, their gnarled limbs twisting toward the sky like supplicants in prayer. it had been three days since he left the village, and his provisions were running low. still, he pressed on. he had to.
the sickness had come suddenly, like an ill wind sweeping through the valley. first, the livestock had fallen ill, then the elders, and then the children. no remedy worked. the village healer had sent elias with one desperate task: to find the sorceress of the hollow. if anyone could save them, it was her.
legends of the sorceress were whispered around hearthfiresβstories of a woman as old as the trees, whose eyes had seen the rise and fall of empires. some said she was a demon; others, a goddess. but all agreed she was powerful beyond measure.
elias had begun to doubt the tales. he had found no sign of her, only endless woods and the gnawing hunger in his belly. but then, as twilight thickened the air, he stumbled into a clearing.
a small cottage stood in its center, its roof thatched with silver moss. smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and a warm light flickered behind the single round window. elias's heart pounded. he stepped forward and knocked on the wooden door.
it creaked open on its own.
inside, the cottage was impossibly large, its walls lined with bookshelves and curious trinkets. a fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the stone floor. at the center of the room sat a woman, draped in dark silk, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders.
"you seek me," she said, not turning to face him. her voice was smooth, yet carried the weight of centuries.
elias dropped to one knee. "please, my village is dying. we need your help."
the sorceress turned. her eyes, impossibly bright, studied him. "and what would you offer in return?"
elias hesitated. he had nothing of valueβonly his life. "whatever you ask."
she smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. "very well. i will grant you what you seek. but first, you must answer me this: what is the shape of your sorrow?"
the question took him aback. "i⦠i do not understand."
"then you are not yet ready to save them." she waved a hand, and the door behind him slammed shut. "you may leave when you have your answer."
elias swallowed his protest. he had no choice but to obey.
days passed. the sorceress gave him food but little guidance. he explored the endless cottage, finding rooms that seemed to rearrange themselves when he wasn't looking. shelves held bottles of strange blue fire, books that whispered when opened, and mirrors that reflected places he had never seen. and yet, he could not grasp the meaning of her question.
one night, while studying an ancient tome, he found a passage that chilled him:
to know oneβs sorrow is to see the wound the world has carved into you.
a memory surfacedβhis sisterβs laughter as they ran through the wheat fields. then, the fever that had taken her in the night. the silence of the house afterward, the way his motherβs eyes lost their light.
his sorrow was the hollow left in her place.
the next morning, he returned to the sorceress. "i know now. my sorrow is absence. the shape of someone who should be there, but is not."
the sorceress nodded. "then you are ready."
she lifted a hand, and the room darkened. wisps of silver light coiled around her fingers, gathering into a sphere that pulsed with quiet power. she placed it in his hands.
"take this to your village," she said. "at sunrise, release it. but know thisβmagic does not give; it exchanges. be certain of what you are willing to lose."
elias hesitated, but his people needed him. he bowed, clutching the orb to his chest, and left the cottage.
by the time he reached the village, the sickness had worsened. the streets were empty. he knelt in the square as the first light of dawn touched the rooftops and, with a whispered prayer, shattered the sphere upon the ground.
a wind rushed outward, washing over the homes, the fields, the people. he saw itβcolor returning to pale faces, breath filling weak lungs. the sickness vanished as if it had never been.
elias fell to his knees, dizzy with relief. he turned to the villagers, ready to rejoiceβ
but they did not know him.
they looked upon him with unfamiliar eyes, not a glimmer of recognition among them. his mother, standing in the doorway, met his gaze with polite curiosity. "traveler, are you lost?"
his heart turned to ice.
the sorceress's words echoed in his mind. magic does not give; it exchanges.
he had saved them.
but they had lost him.
elias staggered back, the weight of his sacrifice settling upon him. he was a stranger in his own home. a ghost in the place where he once belonged.
and the wind carried on, uncaring.
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2022
"The Cartography of Spilled Things" - (5/12/25)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The events, emotions, and imagery depicted in this story are entirely fictional and do not reflect the personal experiences, thoughts, or mental state of the author.
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I've dropped the knife.
It clattered against tile with the sharp cadence of metal meeting earth β abrupt, shrill, accidental. I could pretend it slipped. Pretend I had simply buttered the bread wrong, that the handle was slick with oil or some other benign excuse. But it wasn't that. I looked at it and let go. It looked so small on the floor. Powerless. A tooth extracted from some divine machine. I left it there.
Time keeps going, but not forward. Not backward either. Just in place. Like an animal circling its own scent in the dust. I'm not sure what day it is. The clocks tick, but they don't agree with one another. The microwave says 2:19. My wristwatch says 8:03. My phone has died.
I think I've died too, maybe. Not physically. Just... whatever part of you is supposed to notice things. I go outside and the trees are still green. A bird flies overhead. But it doesn't matter.
I spilled some milk this morning. That was the worst part. It bloomed across the counter like some cosmic wound, dripping in slow rivulets down the cupboard's edge. I stared at it for so long my eyes watered. Then I cleaned it up. Then I cried for forty minutes. No one tells you about the milk. How the world ends not with a bang, but with a whisper and a half-empty glass.
I talk to the fridge now. It's the only one that listens. Hums thoughtfully in response, like it's deliberating my sadness. Sometimes I tell it about the sky, and how I think it's lower than it used to be. Pressing down on everything. Not heavy, but close. Close like someone breathing on your neck.
My dog bit me.
Not hard. Just enough. Just a warning. Like he knows I'm fraying at the seams and doesn't want to be here when it all comes undone. I don't blame him. I'd run too if I could.
But where do you go when the world is over?
I saw my reflection today and didn't recognize it. Not like in a dramatic movie way. Just subtly wrong. Like a childhood drawing of myself had come to life β distorted and too earnest. The eyes didn't blink at the same time. The mouth was a little too patient. Maybe it's not me. Maybe something else got in.
There's a woman I dream about. Her face is made of glass and her hands are birds. She doesn't speak, but she hums a melody I almost remember. I think she's trying to tell me something important. Something urgent. Every time I reach for her, the world folds in half.
I don't go outside anymore. Not really. The streets are still there, sure, but they've lost their narrative. The trees don't wave. The cars feel staged. A simulation built from memory. If I walk too far, I'll find a seam. A zipper in the air. The edge of all things.
So I sit in the bathtub, fully clothed, and wait for the water to do something holy.
People keep asking if I'm okay. As if that's a real question. As if I haven't been hollowed out like a fruit and worn like a mask. I tell them I'm tired. That's always believable. I let them say "same" and laugh.
I remember onceβyears ago, maybeβI saw a moth trapped in a jar. It kept throwing itself against the glass, believing there was a way through if it just believed harder. Eventually, it stopped. That's what it feels like now. Except the jar is inside me.
I used to like the sound of the rain. Now it sounds like static. Like an old TV tuned to a dead channel. There's a kind of music in it still, but it's not meant for me. I think it's calling something else. Something with long fingers and a name I can't pronounce.
I make lists. Of things I've lost. Some tangible: the sweater I loved, the smell of rosemary, the sound of my brother's laugh. Others are harder to describe: a particular shade of afternoon light. The certainty that tomorrow meant something. The version of me who used to sing in the car without shame. The lists get longer every day.
I dropped the knife again.
This time, it didn't clang. It landed on the rug and sat there like a dead idea. I stared at it and thought about picking it up. I didn't. Maybe if I leave it there long enough, it will become something else. A monument. A warning. A fossil.
I think grief has layers. Like sediment. You don't notice the weight until you try to stand up and your knees don't work. Then you remember: oh right, I buried myself yesterday.
Tomorrow I'll do it again.
The radio played a song I used to love. It felt like betrayal. I turned it off halfway through, afraid of what might come next. Music is dangerous. It knows where the wounds are.
I watched an ant today. Just one. It carried a crumb ten times its size across the windowsill. Determined. Stubborn. Beautiful. I almost cried. Then I crushed it with my thumb.
My dreams have teeth. They bite at the hinges of my thoughts. I wake up with sentences already half-formed. Most of them make no sense:
The moon left a voicemail.
You can't mourn what hasn't hatched.
She said her name was palindrome but her mouth was full of keys.
I write them down anyway. Just in case.
A friend sent me a video of puppies playing in a field. I watched it thirteen times. On the fourteenth, I started to shake. Sometimes joy is more unbearable than pain.
The plants are dying, too. Not all at once. Just gently. They lean toward the window like they're listening for something, then give up. I water them anyway. It feels like lying. But gentle lies are all I have left.
I miss silence. Not the absence of sound. The silence that used to live between words, in glances, in the space after a deep sigh. Everything now is so loud. So pointed. Even the quiet parts scream. I've become an expert at disappearing in plain sight. I nod in meetings. I say the right things. I even laugh, sometimes. But none of it belongs to me. I am an echo of a ghost. A placeholder with good posture.
I don't want to die. That's the worst part. If I did, this would be easier to explain. But I keep waking up. Keep eating toast. Keep pretending gravity still applies. It does. But only to my bones.
I spilled the milk again. It soaked the edge of a grocery list I never finished. I watched it blur the ink into veins. It looked like a map.
Maybe it leads somewhere better.
Sometimes I imagine there's another version of me. One who didn't drop the knife. Who caught it cleanly and moved on. Who didn't unravel at the sight of spilled milk or a dog's warning growl.
I hope she's okay. I hope she doesn't dream about glass-faced women and rain that speaks in riddles.
A friend asked what they could do. I told them: just sit with me in the ruins. They didn't understand. They suggested a walk. Or tea. But there are no roads in the ruins. Only echoes. Only dust.
I think the world ended a long time ago, and no one noticed. It wasn't an explosion. It was a quiet shift. A forgetting. A single dropped thing that no one bent down to pick up.
Maybe it was the knife. Maybe it was me.
I am still here. That feels like both a miracle and a failure. I am still here. Still breathing. Still holding space for all the lost things. Still whispering to the fridge. Still afraid of the milk. Still waiting for the birds to come back.
The world is over.
But the kettle still boils. And I still watch it. And maybe β maybe that's enough.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The events, emotions, and imagery depicted in this story are entirely fictional and do not reflect the personal experiences, thoughts, or mental state of the author.
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I've dropped the knife.
It clattered against tile with the sharp cadence of metal meeting earth β abrupt, shrill, accidental. I could pretend it slipped. Pretend I had simply buttered the bread wrong, that the handle was slick with oil or some other benign excuse. But it wasn't that. I looked at it and let go. It looked so small on the floor. Powerless. A tooth extracted from some divine machine. I left it there.
Time keeps going, but not forward. Not backward either. Just in place. Like an animal circling its own scent in the dust. I'm not sure what day it is. The clocks tick, but they don't agree with one another. The microwave says 2:19. My wristwatch says 8:03. My phone has died.
I think I've died too, maybe. Not physically. Just... whatever part of you is supposed to notice things. I go outside and the trees are still green. A bird flies overhead. But it doesn't matter.
I spilled some milk this morning. That was the worst part. It bloomed across the counter like some cosmic wound, dripping in slow rivulets down the cupboard's edge. I stared at it for so long my eyes watered. Then I cleaned it up. Then I cried for forty minutes. No one tells you about the milk. How the world ends not with a bang, but with a whisper and a half-empty glass.
I talk to the fridge now. It's the only one that listens. Hums thoughtfully in response, like it's deliberating my sadness. Sometimes I tell it about the sky, and how I think it's lower than it used to be. Pressing down on everything. Not heavy, but close. Close like someone breathing on your neck.
My dog bit me.
Not hard. Just enough. Just a warning. Like he knows I'm fraying at the seams and doesn't want to be here when it all comes undone. I don't blame him. I'd run too if I could.
But where do you go when the world is over?
I saw my reflection today and didn't recognize it. Not like in a dramatic movie way. Just subtly wrong. Like a childhood drawing of myself had come to life β distorted and too earnest. The eyes didn't blink at the same time. The mouth was a little too patient. Maybe it's not me. Maybe something else got in.
There's a woman I dream about. Her face is made of glass and her hands are birds. She doesn't speak, but she hums a melody I almost remember. I think she's trying to tell me something important. Something urgent. Every time I reach for her, the world folds in half.
I don't go outside anymore. Not really. The streets are still there, sure, but they've lost their narrative. The trees don't wave. The cars feel staged. A simulation built from memory. If I walk too far, I'll find a seam. A zipper in the air. The edge of all things.
So I sit in the bathtub, fully clothed, and wait for the water to do something holy.
People keep asking if I'm okay. As if that's a real question. As if I haven't been hollowed out like a fruit and worn like a mask. I tell them I'm tired. That's always believable. I let them say "same" and laugh.
I remember onceβyears ago, maybeβI saw a moth trapped in a jar. It kept throwing itself against the glass, believing there was a way through if it just believed harder. Eventually, it stopped. That's what it feels like now. Except the jar is inside me.
I used to like the sound of the rain. Now it sounds like static. Like an old TV tuned to a dead channel. There's a kind of music in it still, but it's not meant for me. I think it's calling something else. Something with long fingers and a name I can't pronounce.
I make lists. Of things I've lost. Some tangible: the sweater I loved, the smell of rosemary, the sound of my brother's laugh. Others are harder to describe: a particular shade of afternoon light. The certainty that tomorrow meant something. The version of me who used to sing in the car without shame. The lists get longer every day.
I dropped the knife again.
This time, it didn't clang. It landed on the rug and sat there like a dead idea. I stared at it and thought about picking it up. I didn't. Maybe if I leave it there long enough, it will become something else. A monument. A warning. A fossil.
I think grief has layers. Like sediment. You don't notice the weight until you try to stand up and your knees don't work. Then you remember: oh right, I buried myself yesterday.
Tomorrow I'll do it again.
The radio played a song I used to love. It felt like betrayal. I turned it off halfway through, afraid of what might come next. Music is dangerous. It knows where the wounds are.
I watched an ant today. Just one. It carried a crumb ten times its size across the windowsill. Determined. Stubborn. Beautiful. I almost cried. Then I crushed it with my thumb.
My dreams have teeth. They bite at the hinges of my thoughts. I wake up with sentences already half-formed. Most of them make no sense:
The moon left a voicemail.
You can't mourn what hasn't hatched.
She said her name was palindrome but her mouth was full of keys.
I write them down anyway. Just in case.
A friend sent me a video of puppies playing in a field. I watched it thirteen times. On the fourteenth, I started to shake. Sometimes joy is more unbearable than pain.
The plants are dying, too. Not all at once. Just gently. They lean toward the window like they're listening for something, then give up. I water them anyway. It feels like lying. But gentle lies are all I have left.
I miss silence. Not the absence of sound. The silence that used to live between words, in glances, in the space after a deep sigh. Everything now is so loud. So pointed. Even the quiet parts scream. I've become an expert at disappearing in plain sight. I nod in meetings. I say the right things. I even laugh, sometimes. But none of it belongs to me. I am an echo of a ghost. A placeholder with good posture.
I don't want to die. That's the worst part. If I did, this would be easier to explain. But I keep waking up. Keep eating toast. Keep pretending gravity still applies. It does. But only to my bones.
I spilled the milk again. It soaked the edge of a grocery list I never finished. I watched it blur the ink into veins. It looked like a map.
Maybe it leads somewhere better.
Sometimes I imagine there's another version of me. One who didn't drop the knife. Who caught it cleanly and moved on. Who didn't unravel at the sight of spilled milk or a dog's warning growl.
I hope she's okay. I hope she doesn't dream about glass-faced women and rain that speaks in riddles.
A friend asked what they could do. I told them: just sit with me in the ruins. They didn't understand. They suggested a walk. Or tea. But there are no roads in the ruins. Only echoes. Only dust.
I think the world ended a long time ago, and no one noticed. It wasn't an explosion. It was a quiet shift. A forgetting. A single dropped thing that no one bent down to pick up.
Maybe it was the knife. Maybe it was me.
I am still here. That feels like both a miracle and a failure. I am still here. Still breathing. Still holding space for all the lost things. Still whispering to the fridge. Still afraid of the milk. Still waiting for the birds to come back.
The world is over.
But the kettle still boils. And I still watch it. And maybe β maybe that's enough.
OP
OP
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2022
"Echoes in Vermilion" - (5/18/25)
Prompt: Write a story about something getting lost in translation β literally or figuratively.
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The TΕ· Dduw was an old monastery clinging to the cliffs of northern Wales, abandoned since the 17th century, now swallowed by moss and mist. Dr. Elena Marquez, a linguistic anthropologist, had come chasing whispersβinked runes half-buried in pages of forgotten Latin journals and Celtic prayers, insistent that the monastery had once housed a unique tongue: a fusion language spoken by monks who sought to unify Welsh, Latin, and the proto-Cymric dialects. A bridge language. A linguistic chimera.
Her grant was modest. Her equipment was old. Her hope was thin. She brought only one assistantβJonas Kale, a doctoral student with sharp cheekbones, a tattoo of Wittgenstein's Tractatus down his spine, and a gentle tremor in his left hand from a fever he'd caught in Tunisia two years ago.
They made their camp in the nave, surrounded by stones blackened with age and strange etchings carved into the mortarβellipses, warped crosses, symbols that resisted interpretation. It began with the inscription.
On the third morning, Elena uncovered a series of tiles beneath the altar. The writing was unmistakable: not Latin, not Welsh, not even runes. It was something other. "Tarnu vellis aer crux, mordun silas." Jonas read it aloud before she could stop him. A rookie mistake. Words have gravity, especially when no one's sure of their weight.
They laughed it off at first. Probably nothing. A corrupted Latin hybrid. Jonas suggested it meant something benign, like "By veil of air, the cross falls to forest." Elena disagreed. She interpreted it as "Through the veil of breath, the crucifix devours silence." There was something ritualistic in the phrasing. Something that breathed.
That night, the fog didn't lift.
At first, they thought it was a trick of altitude. The fog clung to the monastery like gauze. Then Jonas started mishearing things.
She'd ask him for the camera; he'd bring her the spade. She'd say "translate the right column," and he'd begin muttering about the left. Their conversations slipped. Tenses confused. Pronouns inverted.
"I" became "you."
"Yes" became "no."
Time became elastic.
"Do you remember what we came for?" she asked him, one night when the mist seeped into their tent and frost hung in the air like breath suspended in prayer.
"You're the one who wanted to hear it," he said.
"Hear what?"
"The language."
She paused. "I never said that."
"You did," he replied. "On the second day. You said, 'I don't want to read it. I want it to speak to me.'"
She didn't remember saying that. But she knewβdeep downβthat she had thought it.
The next morning, Jonas was gone.
No signs of struggle. Just his notebook left behind, open to a page filled with scribbles in a language she did not know how to read. She tried to decipher it, but something shifted in her perception the longer she looked. Symbols that looked like words became sounds. Sounds became rhythms. Her fingers traced them as if recalling a lullaby sung in a childhood she never lived.
She dreamt that night of a cathedral made entirely of mouths.
Elena awoke to chanting. Low, ululating syllables coming from beyond the east wall, behind the sanctuary. She followed the sound barefoot, in a nightgown wet with dew. The fog thickened with every step. The path twisted.
There were no voices. Just echoes. And yet⦠she understood it. Not as language, but as intention. Like a dream you wake from and grasp emotionally, even as the details fade. The phrase she and Jonas had mis-translated echoed in her skull: Tarnu vellis aer crux, mordun silas.
But now, she felt it. A translation rose, not into her mind, but her mouth:
"By speaking aloud what was silent, the veil is broken; the breath becomes the blade."
It wasn't a prayer. It was a trigger.
Two days passed. Or three. The sun didn't rise anymore, only hinted. Her notes became erratic. Latin verbs conjugated into Welsh syntax. She could no longer trust her journal. One sentence contradicted the next.
"Language is the container of the soul."
"Language is the fracture of understanding."
She saw Jonas sometimes, in the corner of her eye. Never clearly. He whispered backwards. Not in sound, but in meaning.
Eventually, she stopped recording. She became the record.
Months later, when the rescue team from the University of Madrid arrived, they found her crouched by the altar, naked, scribbling looping marks across the inside of her arms in chalk. She could not speak any known language. Every attempt at communication resulted in her mimicking the intent of the words, but twisting the context.
Asked if she was hungry, she would mime drowning.
Asked her name, she would point to her shadow.
Asked where Jonas was, she'd only say:
"I made him into a sentence."
Years passed.
Her papers were published posthumously, although heavily redacted. Linguists called her fieldwork "a descent into pathological glossolalia." They assumed trauma, psychosis, or isolation-induced delirium. They dismissed the hybrid language as confabulated gibberish.
Except one.
A researcher named Maeve ItΕ reconstructed parts of Elena's notes, discovering structural grammar in the scrawls. It was not gibberish. It had rules, syntax, conjugation, tensesβbut no direct translation. Not from any known language.
Because it was not meant to be translated.
It was meant to be experienced.
She wrote a thesis arguing the monks of TΕ· Dduw weren't trying to create a language to bridge others. They were trying to trap one. An entity, perhaps. A thought-form. A semiotic parasite. Something that infected not words, but meaning itself. And once spoken, it did not leave.
The monastery is sealed now. Bricked up and swallowed again by moss and mist. But the language has already left. A phrase found spray-painted in Madrid's subways: Tarnu vellis aer crux, mordun silas.
In Tokyo, a child begins writing in loops no teacher can read.
In Oslo, a choir sings in syllables that make listeners weep, then forget why.
And somewhere, in a dream that isn't hers, Elena's mouth moves with a voice that isn't hers.
Prompt: Write a story about something getting lost in translation β literally or figuratively.
βββββββββββββββββββββββββ
The TΕ· Dduw was an old monastery clinging to the cliffs of northern Wales, abandoned since the 17th century, now swallowed by moss and mist. Dr. Elena Marquez, a linguistic anthropologist, had come chasing whispersβinked runes half-buried in pages of forgotten Latin journals and Celtic prayers, insistent that the monastery had once housed a unique tongue: a fusion language spoken by monks who sought to unify Welsh, Latin, and the proto-Cymric dialects. A bridge language. A linguistic chimera.
Her grant was modest. Her equipment was old. Her hope was thin. She brought only one assistantβJonas Kale, a doctoral student with sharp cheekbones, a tattoo of Wittgenstein's Tractatus down his spine, and a gentle tremor in his left hand from a fever he'd caught in Tunisia two years ago.
They made their camp in the nave, surrounded by stones blackened with age and strange etchings carved into the mortarβellipses, warped crosses, symbols that resisted interpretation. It began with the inscription.
On the third morning, Elena uncovered a series of tiles beneath the altar. The writing was unmistakable: not Latin, not Welsh, not even runes. It was something other. "Tarnu vellis aer crux, mordun silas." Jonas read it aloud before she could stop him. A rookie mistake. Words have gravity, especially when no one's sure of their weight.
They laughed it off at first. Probably nothing. A corrupted Latin hybrid. Jonas suggested it meant something benign, like "By veil of air, the cross falls to forest." Elena disagreed. She interpreted it as "Through the veil of breath, the crucifix devours silence." There was something ritualistic in the phrasing. Something that breathed.
That night, the fog didn't lift.
At first, they thought it was a trick of altitude. The fog clung to the monastery like gauze. Then Jonas started mishearing things.
She'd ask him for the camera; he'd bring her the spade. She'd say "translate the right column," and he'd begin muttering about the left. Their conversations slipped. Tenses confused. Pronouns inverted.
"I" became "you."
"Yes" became "no."
Time became elastic.
"Do you remember what we came for?" she asked him, one night when the mist seeped into their tent and frost hung in the air like breath suspended in prayer.
"You're the one who wanted to hear it," he said.
"Hear what?"
"The language."
She paused. "I never said that."
"You did," he replied. "On the second day. You said, 'I don't want to read it. I want it to speak to me.'"
She didn't remember saying that. But she knewβdeep downβthat she had thought it.
The next morning, Jonas was gone.
No signs of struggle. Just his notebook left behind, open to a page filled with scribbles in a language she did not know how to read. She tried to decipher it, but something shifted in her perception the longer she looked. Symbols that looked like words became sounds. Sounds became rhythms. Her fingers traced them as if recalling a lullaby sung in a childhood she never lived.
She dreamt that night of a cathedral made entirely of mouths.
Elena awoke to chanting. Low, ululating syllables coming from beyond the east wall, behind the sanctuary. She followed the sound barefoot, in a nightgown wet with dew. The fog thickened with every step. The path twisted.
There were no voices. Just echoes. And yet⦠she understood it. Not as language, but as intention. Like a dream you wake from and grasp emotionally, even as the details fade. The phrase she and Jonas had mis-translated echoed in her skull: Tarnu vellis aer crux, mordun silas.
But now, she felt it. A translation rose, not into her mind, but her mouth:
"By speaking aloud what was silent, the veil is broken; the breath becomes the blade."
It wasn't a prayer. It was a trigger.
Two days passed. Or three. The sun didn't rise anymore, only hinted. Her notes became erratic. Latin verbs conjugated into Welsh syntax. She could no longer trust her journal. One sentence contradicted the next.
"Language is the container of the soul."
"Language is the fracture of understanding."
She saw Jonas sometimes, in the corner of her eye. Never clearly. He whispered backwards. Not in sound, but in meaning.
Eventually, she stopped recording. She became the record.
Months later, when the rescue team from the University of Madrid arrived, they found her crouched by the altar, naked, scribbling looping marks across the inside of her arms in chalk. She could not speak any known language. Every attempt at communication resulted in her mimicking the intent of the words, but twisting the context.
Asked if she was hungry, she would mime drowning.
Asked her name, she would point to her shadow.
Asked where Jonas was, she'd only say:
"I made him into a sentence."
Years passed.
Her papers were published posthumously, although heavily redacted. Linguists called her fieldwork "a descent into pathological glossolalia." They assumed trauma, psychosis, or isolation-induced delirium. They dismissed the hybrid language as confabulated gibberish.
Except one.
A researcher named Maeve ItΕ reconstructed parts of Elena's notes, discovering structural grammar in the scrawls. It was not gibberish. It had rules, syntax, conjugation, tensesβbut no direct translation. Not from any known language.
Because it was not meant to be translated.
It was meant to be experienced.
She wrote a thesis arguing the monks of TΕ· Dduw weren't trying to create a language to bridge others. They were trying to trap one. An entity, perhaps. A thought-form. A semiotic parasite. Something that infected not words, but meaning itself. And once spoken, it did not leave.
The monastery is sealed now. Bricked up and swallowed again by moss and mist. But the language has already left. A phrase found spray-painted in Madrid's subways: Tarnu vellis aer crux, mordun silas.
In Tokyo, a child begins writing in loops no teacher can read.
In Oslo, a choir sings in syllables that make listeners weep, then forget why.
And somewhere, in a dream that isn't hers, Elena's mouth moves with a voice that isn't hers.