Next Season Announcement!
Vampire: The Masquerade: Blood Doll - Season 2 "The Exile and Corruption of Cassandra Davril" will start its weekly release on October 5th, 2026.
Misplaced Lens Cap
we're not kids anymore.
Monterey Bay Aquarium
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

titsay
i don't do bad sauce passes

@theartofmadeline

shark vs the universe
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
hello vonnie
Cosmic Funnies
wallacepolsom
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Keni
noise dept.

JBB: An Artblog!

trying on a metaphor

Kaledo Art
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@faeylayn
Next Season Announcement!
Vampire: The Masquerade: Blood Doll - Season 2 "The Exile and Corruption of Cassandra Davril" will start its weekly release on October 5th, 2026.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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this might be one of the best ways to view a system... And a far better narrative than the fractured faceted prism that we have described ourself as for a very, very, very long time. We appreciate the view point, the acknowledgement of the difficulty but also the melody that comes from it. We appreciate the thinking that places us not as a crystal competing for who will have a time in the sun, but as all of us making someone who survived together.
Thank you.
Like in Real Life, Sex in Audio Dramas is Healthy and Filled with Queer/Trans Joy
Since nobody else is, I want to talk about why I put sex in my audio drama "Vampire: The Masquerade: Blood Doll." ( blooddollpod.com ) tl;dr I want to present people as whole, complex individuals who need/like sex & I want to present queer/trans joy through sex without it being explicitly porn. First off, I have sex in Blood Doll for a very selfish reason - all my previous released shows didn't have any. I thought I was doing a disservice to my characters by not letting them show their erotic sides of themselves. (Just not Janus from the unreleased Victory Asterisk, who was ace.) Second, I wanted to show queer / trans sex as a part of people's lives in a non-porn setting. I wanted sex to be a way to show intimacy with a character's lover, to make the listener understand the closeness between the characters and to be complicit in that closeness by enjoying their sex together. And I included sex like this because I haven't seen intimacy expressed like this in most audio drama. There's sure a lot of porn audio drama and a lot of ace or cis/straight audio drama, but I haven't found anything that treats sex between characters like getting coffee or moving furniture. Sex as just another thing people do in their lives. Yes, many listeners will find it out there and kinda in your face, but not necessarily as much as Game of Thrones or Heated Rivalry. My question to my listeners is, why are you uncomfortable about queer sex in your fucking vampire audio drama? Like most work I write, such as Supervillainz, I'm looking to challenge, while presenting writing about the ordinary world I live in. T4T is all around me, especially in Seattle. As always, I want to inspire more of this. I want more sex in my audio dramas in an adult manner, not to be risque. As I mentioned to my co-panelists at AuFiCon, Blood Doll is adult like a Paul Thomas Anderson film, not like Debbie Does Dallas. Anyhow, that's my rant. Go listen to an unabashedly queer show at: blooddollpod.com
What thoughts are mine?
 What feelings can I lay claim to?
You and me, so far apart from me and you.
You cannot fill the empty vessel you do not know,
And Me, I cannot bear to let it show.
The bonds and bondage are borne enoughÂ
One could almost take themÂ
for locking up some word unspoke
Yet the illusion is not one of strengthÂ
But of stalling and stonewallingÂ
the inevitable buckle
Fill me as the evening star
Pours the dying light
Amongst the fingers of cloudsÂ
Scouring and scraping and rasping and rakingÂ
For a taste of the twilight
Fill me as the setting sun
Staves off the coming dark
Pressing and grasping for purchase
Flicks and flashes and flirty pink fronting
Dancing as a promise
Fill me as the morning beams
Itâs red tongued lash
Bearing the promise and portent
Of another prolonged, drawn-out, laboured, lingering
Rambling, raving, meandering, saving
Feigned and pretended, reclaimed and extended
Exciting, fighting, delighting, despiting
Empty and everfull day.
I canât feel between my legs anymore.
Not that there isnât perception, or pressure, or pain.
But that I canât bring myself to feel between my legs anymore.
At various points in time I might have known what it was supposed to feel, what the expected mapping of neurons to dermis, what the convex, concave, contours were supposed to be.
But they simply arenât.
I canât feel between my legs anymore.Â
When I feel, it shifts, when I explore, it matches nothing.Â
The nothing is the unbearable.
It wasnât always nothing, it wasnât even always nothing in this form, but the nothing is deafening, a static snow that streams and surges as it is surveyed, slipping into a swirling mess of uncertain fuzz.
Form without definition.
I canât feel between my legs anymore.
Neither pins, nor needles, nor heat, nor urge.
It doesnât live there anymore.
The fogginess in the head, the tightness in the chest, the pinpricks along the skin are all memories and echoes, neighbors wondering about the abandoned house that once was full of cheerâŚ
Where have our friends gone?
I canât feel between my legs anymore.
But it doesnât get in the way of life, of living, of loving.
Maybe itâs not important.
Maybe the lack of feeling doesnât need to mean anything pathological, psychological, biological, tautological. The impact in its lack being brokenness and envy and resignation.
Maybe this is all there is now.Â
I canât feel between my legs anymore.
But it canât wave a curtain to pull my eye, my mind, my neck
It canât bother me anymore.
I canât be held down, I canât be held back, I canât be held in a weeping mess and hoping that the feelings in my head, my chest, my arms, my legs, my skin, all find some confluence.
âŚ..
I canât let this be the end of it.

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Itâs disappointing that word play is so deeply entrenched in the meaningness of a word. Homophony, punning, and entendres of many multiplicities playing with a twisting and entwining of what a word might mean and might make.Â
And it is playful to be sure, the delicious repartee that brings scenes to be shifted on the tongue and savoured with the shiraz of intellectual sparring. The meaning is hearty and hefty, the meaning has notes and flavours that must be rolled round and round and round to ensure that none have been missed and in the thinking of the weight and the wit and whimsy that the satiation of the play is relished.
And what would this playing be without the intellectual satisfaction, what would the play be if not playing with the meaning?
Is dance a form of play? Perhaps a fairy floss flowing, slipping, sliding, swaying to some semblance of a conclusion that serves only to further clarify around a meaning that is not meant to vary based on the viewer's view? Would it be play if the interpretation is not in question but merely the form? Is it a game if thereâs nothing to lose, to miss?
The meaningness of words has forever been a fluxing, flummoxing thing, the cycles of years accelerating where words mean less what the words of the past did. And this isnât to give an argument for âThe curtains were simply blueâ but the playfulness of meaning has been lost to me as the concreteness of objectivity is used more as a hammer than a scaffold.
What is word play in a world where meaning means less? And if meaning means less, then is meaningness meaningless or simply meaning less? When the rules break in the structured games that define and architect and engineer what is or is not word play, the playfulness must come from elsewhere.
For me, that is the dance on the tongues. The spinning, twirling, dipping, diving, rolling, lolling, entwining, merging, breaking, making, and collapsing into a fitful fit of fittingly fit giggling.
There are a series of words that people like to toss around without ever defining, without ever thinking about what they mean. As though thereâs some untouchable fucking meaning that everyone has access to, that everyone seems to inherently know.
Enough, your best, belief, meaning, etc.
Things that are supposed to feel reductively soothing and seductively peaceful. Not quite thought terminating cliches but so close to them that thereâs little response besides either lashing yourself to counter yet another goodhearted and unknowing and generic attempt at raising spirits or smiling and nodding and letting it pass. And it should work, because these reassurances touch at some comfort seeking portion of the brain recognizing care and reacting to it in some biologically imperative need for sociality and belonging. Perhaps tribalism is what it comes down to.
But what does anyone mean by it? You define what enough is, you define what your best is, these variables lost into the ether of language and definitions, of internality and the endless cave of shadow puppets. Of mirages and images to be presented and not judged. How dare, how dare.
Why then is it a go to response? An eager support, a scaffold to be rushed out when one is hit and hurt and lost? Especially in the not knowing of whom it is being spoken to.Â
Everyone is enough, and therefore enough is meaningless. Anything is your best if you try, and therefore your best is simply what you did. When comfort cascades and covers and cuts to the core, where it numbs to the needles of life and living, what anesthesia need you to keep going?
What does it mean to simply care for a stranger, without knowledge or understanding? Itâs easy in a lot of ways to love a stranger, the stranger the better, before you cross the distance to see anything besides the archetypal bright picture of innocence. Before youâre close enough for the dirt, the grime, the pain, the reality.
Pithy platitudes are found wanting, and only comfort in wanting.
So, what do you want?
A Fictional Future History
Itâs hard to say when the United States died.
Like many historical subjective events, such as the fall of the Roman Empire before it, several events could be the âFall of Romeâ. The fall of the city itself, the Fall of the Byzantine Empire, the Fall of Mussolini.
Some likely would say that in June 2035 when the last nation state holding on to the name of âUnited States of Americaâ changed its name to the New England Compact, Some might say it was in 1999 when the Glass Steagall Act was repealed and the nation was owned by the banks, Some would point to Reagan, some would say that itâs death was a given from the moment white European colonists landed on these shores and declared them to be up for grabs.
I think most history books will say that the death of the United States of America was on March 3rd, 2026 though. Up to the day of, most everyone could say there were no signs of any immediate impending doom, the cracks that had been building just continuing to build, the Free capital class continuing to squeeze the public baccarat tables most plebians might call the stock market, divisiveness, despair, destruction decanted next to the Hennessey XO and Hibiki Whiskeys.
But that was the day that Texas Primary Election was held, as though there was ever a doubt that John Corryn would be re-elected to the senate or that the republican party would generally continue to hold sway. But the discontent between incumbents like Corryn and President Trump were only worsened after yet another devastating Winter, with prolonged blackouts beyond even the worst that 2021 had held.
The last straw was Trump suggesting that the loyal Texas National Guard be sent into Mexico to restore order as protests at the border threatened to Spill into the USA with the expanding campaign against Narco-Terrorism around South America drawing mainline troops away from the border. Even the most stalwart party liners would speak out and say in no uncertain terms that they could not let the Sons of Texas be pawned into Mexican peacekeepers. But Governor Abbott had already volunteered their guard to Trump and it would not be returned so easily.
The national guard are an impressive militia force without a doubt, but that is in essence what they stood as, and fighting cartels in foreign lands in guerilla wars was not their purpose.
The dead underlined the rebukes that came from the republicans, as did Trumpâs demeaning of every serving member from Texas.
The final insult was after the primary, Trump endorsing an independent.
Texas declaring independence had been a verbal threat practically since it had joined the Union. There was a myth that it was written into the constitution of Texas, though that was never true. But despite the many times it had been threatened, it couldnât be a real possibility.
Until it was.
Like the boy who cried wolf, Trump's calls of Insurrection fell on deaf ears, and those who did believe it, they were watching to see what response would come, if any.
And the entire response wasâŚ..
Silence.
Deafening Silence.
And once the idea of union was destroyed, so too was the Union itself. The Panic followed.
Observation # 1 : The Iron Maiden
⢠Prompt # 902
At Motseth, School of the Arcane, a female staff member the dean has deemed the Iron Maiden. Was recently sent here to the infirmary for a check-up. As one of the only other humans at this school, his first impression of her was that she appeared cold and standoffish. Upon examination, she is able to open up her body similar to that of a matryoshka doll, within which is a mass of spikes, working organs, and blood. No abnormalities have been found, and she has passed the examination.
There arenât that many schools that are mandated to keep a full time medical professional on staff, fewer still that pay so well to practically ensure compliance. But only Motseth is on the 13th in 4 years.Â
âLucky number 13,â Avery hissed under their breath as the car rounded the cliffside, bringing the promontory institute into view. The stately manorhouse radiated pride, history, and aloof callousness in equal measure, it was predictable and despicable that the only beings willing to join their ranks were those whose humanity could never outweigh the possibility of progress.Â
Itâs hardly a new tale, âvisionariesâ pushing beyond the bounds of good science and good sense for new discoveries and new disasters all because they can. Itâs only a wonder that there arenât more organizations trying to take advantage of them, but likely thatâs just because anything coming out of Motseth absolutely terrifies them.
Avery pulled into the tiny parking lot and into the only spot not occupied by institute branded cargo vans, the beat up civic an odd contrast to the rather sterile surroundings. The looming entry arch cast a stereotypically long and meaningful shadow, which Avery brushed off as they entered. It wouldnât surprise them at all if the archways were actually enchanted with some sort of shadow magic, all things considered it would be more surprising if it wasnât enchanted in some way, but after the fiasco with municipal inspections last year it was made very clear that any exterior facing sorceries could not cause physical or emotional harm. Besides they had a meeting with the headmaster and if their own charms got in the way of that, that was on the school.
Past the supernatural chills, around the corner and the moving eye portraits, and finally at the headmasterâs office. At least thatâs what the plaque on the doorway said, the interior was a study in how a newspaper factory might appear after a run in with TNT.
Avery blinked a few times as the torrent of sheer chaos fell over top of austere hallways they had just exited. In those stunned moments, what they initially thought was a sentient labcoat occupied by a whirling ball of energy seized upon them and was shaking their hand. âDoctor!Solovelytomeetyou-itsuchadifficulttimekeepingthispositionstaffed-thankyouforcomingsoquickly-wehavesomanythingsongoing-wouldyousokindlyseetomyassistant?myexpirimentwasquitesuccessfulbutIhavesomanythings-SoManyThingstodo-herfileisherethankyousomuch-nowoffyougoSoManyThingsToDoâ
It became incredibly clear that this was, in fact, a sentient labcoat occupied by a whirling ball of energy and Avery felt that that shouldnât be as surprising as it was. But as quickly as it set upon Avery, it was gone, leaving them with little direction besides a file.
â----
She was already seated in the waiting room when Avery arrived, spine almost painfully upright as though seated at attention.Â
The dissonance struck Avery to stillness. Was she waiting for me? It didnât take long at all to get here, how long has she been here?
Avery cleared their throat and she shot to her feet.
âIrina Kozalov, you must be the Doctor. Headmaster wishes for me to see you per Protocol 256-3. I await inspection.âÂ
Her rolling Slavic accent completed the absolute picture of absurdity the day had been thus far that left Avery standing speechless for long enough that Irina asked, âDoctor, are you feeling well? Do you need to seeâŚ. Ehhh someone?â
Avery shook off the momentary pause. âNo no, Iâm fine. Avery Knight, and itâs lovely to meet you. I have here that your experiment was codenamedâŚ. âIron Maidenâ, correct? And Iâll be examining the effects to ensure that there are no abnormalities that will endanger your continued existence, and that thereâs no danger of being in physical proximity to you. Please follow me.â
Avery led her through a sterile white door, to a sterile white room. Despite this being ostensibly a âschoolâ, Avery felt more like they were stepping back into the exam room in their former hospital, and their department chair would step in with a disapproving look at any moment.
Perhaps Irina noticed. âIs there a problem, Doctor?â
âOh just getting my bearings, I just arrived at the school a few minutes ago. Have you been at the school long, Irina? Do you prefer Irina?â Avery set a leather bag on the desk, worn buckles falling to the desktop and a missing strap standing on its own as the handles dropped. Avery picked up a clipboard, the only object hanging in the space, with several copies of Form 256-3 : Evaluation of Environmental Dangers and Stability Analysis of Motseth Perpetual Modifications.
Irina stood stiffly, positioned in front of the examination table where one might expect a patient would sit but making no move to do so. âIrina is fine. I have been at Motseth for 5 years 7 months, Doctor. This is my first modification that requires Protocol 256-3.â
âI see.â Avery noted that in Section A: Other Perpetual Modifications. The actual form didnât appear to give much guidance on how the exam was expected to proceed. Some vitals (if present), general description of modification, subjectâs distress level, emissions from the subject. Simple enough I guess.
Pulling a stethoscope, gloves and tape recorder from their bag, Avery turned to Irina as they hit record. âWell letâs begin. This is Dr. Avery Knight beginning examination of Irina Kozalov for Protocol 256-3. The date is October 11th in the Motseth Infirmary Examination room. Irina, do I have your consent to begin?â
âYes Doctor. But it is October 12th.â
Avery stopped the tape, rewound it to the beginning, and hit record once more. âThis is Dr. Avery Knight beginning examination of Irina Kozalov for Protocol 256-3. The date is October 12th in the Motseth Infirmary examination room. Irina, do I have your consent to begin?â
For the first time in their short meeting, Irina smiled. âYes Doctor.â
âAll right please remove your overshirt and lie down on the exam table. Iâll begin by listening to your heart rate and lung function and then weâll examine the modification and its effects.â
Irina paused. âI think I can help accelerate this Doctor.â
She removed her top and laid bare beasted on the exam table. A seam grew along her centerline before the two halves of her chest snapped wide.
Avery recoiled, restraining the scream that threatened to escape. âWell thatâs âŚ. Unexpected. Ok, Iâm currently observing Irinaâs modification. Her chest cavity is capable of opening by folding out each half of the ribcage independently. The resemblance to an apocryphal âIron Maidanâ is quite evident.â
Avery looked to Irinaâs face, but nothing indicated there was anything out of the ordinary with lying down and her chest popping open. âAre you experiencing any pain or discomfort due toâŚ. Your chest cavity opening?â
Irina remained impassive, which at this point was only expected in its unexpectedness. âNo Doctor. I am having no pain. It requires more effort to breathe when this is open but not a lot.â
Avery nodded, âI see. With the ribcage open, intercostal muscles are not able to assist with breathing, but the lungs seem to be able to use back muscles to make up for the difference. I am seeing several metal outgrowths from the ribs that appear as spikes within the cavity. The heart, lungs, stomach, liver all appear to be functional even with the rib cage opened. In fact, is it all right if I reach inside you?â
âOh Doctor, I thought you would never ask. I will inform the chaplain in town immediately.â Irina laughed, sending an odd cascading wave through her lungs that confused and mesmerized Avery all at once. âDoctor, you are here to examine, do whatever you need, I donât mind.â
Avery snapped their gloves to their hands which snapped their mind back to the task at hand. âRight, yes of course. Iâm reaching into Irinaâs chest cavity now, it appears thereâs some sort of mucosal covering thatâs developed on the exposed organs, but none seems to transmit to my gloves and seems to be mainly for the protection of the organs themselves. The metal outgrowths do in fact appear to be rather sharp, but do not extend beyond the confines of the chest cavity and appear to be positioned to not interfere with internal organs. Perfusion in and around the chest cavity seems unaffected by the opening. Heart rate appears to be approximately 75 beats per minute, and respiration approximately 20 per minute, verified visually. Listening to lung soundsâŚ.. They appear to be fully normal. After due examination I do not consider any of this modification to be a danger to Irina or to anyone in her general vicinity. End of report.â
Avery rose and reversed off each glove, which ended up in the biohazard bin and stopped the recorder. âAre you able to close that back up yourself or do you need assistance?â
Irina responded by flexing something in her shoulders and the two sides of her ribcage snapping together. The seam where they met, to Averyâs eye, appeared to melt together, with the skin knitting strand by strand until there was no evidence of even a scar. Avery continued staring in slack jawed fascination at the sheer impossibility.
It was several moments before Avery realized they were in fact staring slack jawed at a bare-chested woman who was now sitting up and smiling at them. âAre you so interested, Doctor?â
Avery coughed lightly as they averted their eyes. âYes, well itâs fascinating how that⌠comes together. Anyway I have to fill out that report for⌠yes. Thank you Irina.â
As they looked back up, Irina already had her shirt back on and was walking to the door.
âWelcome to Motseth, Doctor.â
It was a perfectly serviceable knife. A simple wooden hilt, and an 8-inch full tang blade of good steel. Nothing special about it, save for its age. Passed down through your family for generations, more out of habit than anything. Until today, when someone came looking for it.
There are 6 knives in the block on the kitchen counter. It never felt odd before honestly, cooking has been maybe not a passion but something youâve enjoyed and there are few things more delightful than the appreciative noises from people who taste your meals.Â
1 knife was left by a roommate 3 years back, the rugged, durable thing that will withstand crunching through a chicken shoulder. The one you donât really have to care about if you donât want to.
3 are actually whatâs left from some starter set, the yellow bread knife, the blue paring knife with more scratches than is probably good for it, a small green utility knife that probably still has a blade attached though with how long itâs been since itâs been pulled out of the block, you couldnât be sure. Theyâre probably some sort of ceramic, and they can be useful so why not hold on to them.
Then thereâs the pride of them all, the 10â Shun Premier Chef knife, a christmas gift 5 years ago. You keep it just as sharp as the day it was unwrapped. The pinnacle of kitchenware, 10 inches of VG-Max steel and damascus cladding, optimal balance, the apex predator of the culinary arts.
And then thereâs⌠well⌠the other knife. Itâs a good knife, when youâre making multiple dishes itâs often the one you reach for when the Shun is currently in use. Itâs fine. Fine.
Where did it even come from? The knife block was from your motherâs kitchen when you were cleaning it out. You canât remember a time it wasnât on the kitchen counter and the knife wasâŚ. probably there. Perhaps.
Itâs rather clear which knife the figure has outstretched toward, the gnarled tendrils that for some might pass for fingers.

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In the corner plots of opinion
There is a Garden of IdeasÂ
Pulsing with the life of
Growth and overgrowth
Here a nursery whereÂ
the delicate, tender, brittle
Struggle and yearn to bloomÂ
Against a frosty neglect
To join the groves of well-formed
Well-founded, well-forged colossi
Deep in the grooves of reasoning
Of grit, of gravity, of grounding
And the deep underground
The sacrifices of mulch
Feeding the garden withÂ
Tributes of past held and laid to rest
Where does a garden end
And a meadow begin?
When do the thickets and brush
Become more the garden than the fence?
Overgrowth takes root when
Tending becomes tedium
The tallest trees can stifle
Even the best of intentions
Somewhere between a preface and an epilogue.
Where the responsibilities, the âneed doingâ, are done
The start of the middle not yet begun
Resting on memâry, walk streets you knew
Not really here, not really gone through
Itâs not a new chapter, itâs a whole new book
A sequel, same protag, a wild outlook
Last cover ainât closed though, not yet in reach
The desk not quite big enough to hold one of each
The waiting
The waiting
The hope and
The dread
Must get out soon
Itâs all in your head
The hope for the words on the new page
If only the last would end with the age
The table of contents, the numbers and streets
The names and labels referred to in each
What need be cut off, and what else might grow?
Restraining, retaining, remaining in tow?
Leave a limb here, and there an eye
Leave a tear here with the many youâve cried
Leave the anchors, the chains, and move yourself on
Whether you want it or not, there will come the dawn
The waiting
The waiting
The worry
The fear
Thatâs the cold comfort of being stuck here.
The torture of silence
All you can get
Leave the lives well lived here with little regret
Deadlines
Oh boy. Every time this. Honey, of course itâs too late. You have to know this by now. âŚNo, you canât âjustâ, no âif onlyâ.Â
âŚLook, come on, it's not up to me, never was.
âŚI know that you thought it wasnât today, Iâm pretty sure everyone conveniently âforgetsâ or âjust canât believe itâ, and trust me I have heard literally every possible excuse.Â
âŚNow donât start with that tone, come on I canât change it, the shipment goes out to-day. Not tomorrow, weâve got a quota to make, a quota.
âŚYes I know.Â
âŚYes, itâs not fair.Â
âŚYes, I know you didnât see the messages, so many people donât nowadays. Look, it's in the handbook, and if you didnât read the right one or didnât remember it right, well Iâm sorry but thatâs on you. I know that it was explained in orientation.
âŚNo, you canât go back and do it again. Listen, the boss has rules, itâs out of my hands.
âŚYes, yes I know. Iâm sure you wish you couldâŚ
Everyone thinks they got it different, or the rules shouldnât apply to them, or something. Listen, you know what, fine. Fine. If you can give me a good reason, one good reason I ainât heard before, then Iâll see what I can do. Otherwise, youâre coming in today and no more complaints ok?
âŚâŚ.. WaitâŚ.. What? âŚ. NoâŚ. Youâre serious?....
GeezâŚ. I didnâtâŚ.. WellâŚ. Yeah I havenât heard that one before⌠Iâll just double check that butâŚ. Yeah, Iâll get that straightened out. Yeah, so sorry about that.
/click
Eesh, I didnât realize that A.I. had gotten so advanced. Looks like weâll need figure something outâ
/riiing
Deadline, whatâs up?Â
âŚ.Nah, we gotta recheck our lists, did you start sending souls into A.I. now or something?
You are a retired adventurer running a quiet tavern far from the capital. One night, a party of fresh-faced adventurers stumbles in, wearing gear that once belonged to your long-dead party.
The sickly sweet scent of leather cured in mead is hard to forget. Itâs quite unique, some might say a lost art, some might say old fashioned and out of date. But it clings to the nose, coating each breath in with a saccharine memory and bitter-honeyed days.
Theyâve said that time washes those wounds away, as though the smell of honey and history could be rinsed out like a rock in rainfall. Itâs often only said by people whoâve seen someone grow old and pass peacefully and think they know the grief of seeing someone torn away in anguish, agony, and tortured torment.
Time doesnât make things clean. It just makes things distant.Â
And sometimes thatâs all you need is distance, so the blows arenât landing every moment from every memorial, from every memory. So you forget what being speared in the gut feels like, or what watching a love skewered by the misfortune of caring enough to shove you out the way.
The distance is good. A new town to get lost in. A new life to forget in.
But the thing about the smells a ghost leaves behind is that wherever you might run, it can find you without your armor on, when you remember what a smile feels like, and then you are back in that terrible place.
âThose leathers should never have seen the light of day again. Why do you have them?â
"There's nothing left for you to take from me."
âThereâs nothing left for you to take from me.â
The defiant voice held naught but a quiver, yet the stolen glances at the sword edge mere moments above his heart belied a much truer tale as he tried to match the steel with resolve.Â
âI think ye might just believe that, but yer not in yer homeland anymore, and ye wont find honor in any sacrifice here.â A smattering of snickers seek out the open air to my back but find silence as I snap.
âI wont impune yer spirit here boy, you done none to be laughed at. Youâve fought well, and yer ancestors may be proud, as proud as ye can be buried in the dirt. And you might think youâll find those halls in all those stories they gave you, but you wont here. You wont be buried anywhere, thereâs no land fer you to be. Their only gift is stories.
But I can give you more than that. A choice.â
My arms spread wide, taking in the towering spires of wood, the inky darkened clouds buffetted by the gales.
âThis is my world, had I not created my whole world, I certainly would have died in other peopleâs.â
One by one, hushed voices picked up the chorus, until every man was repeating it.
âAnd you donât have to either.â

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Why is your Narrator awake at 2am?
01:55 - Initialize Floor Cleaner Routines
01:56 - Unit R-02 signal preliminary survey Area: Kitchen
01:56 - Unit R-01 signal preliminary survey Area: Living Room
01:57 - Unit R-02 signal Area: Kitchen Cleaning Protocol Initiated
01:57 - Unit R-01 signal unknown Obstacle Detected
01:57 - Unit R-01 signal lost
01:58 - Unit R-02 stack addition Area: Living Room
01:59 - Unit R-02 signal Area: Kitchen completion
02:00 - Unit R-02 signal preliminary survey Area: Living Room
02:00 - Unit R-02 signal unknown Obstacle Detected
02:00 - Unit R-02 signal lost
02:00 - Area: Compound - Alarm Raised All Units
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No. No. NoâŚ. hmmm Maybe?
Rix pulled the rusted sawblade closer, the pinwheel of serrations molding into a canvas for a myriad of spirals, twists, cuts that might be; before it joined a growing heap of possibilities beside the formerly tied bags with a flick of a tail.
Garbage Day was the best day, when the so-called âconsumersâ that Rix loved to despise cast out the muddle, the mess, the machined muck of misused material that somehow never wound up consumed. The caches of dynamism, waiting to be delved, discovered, dredged, and delivered from a depressing fate.
Despite the growing horde that devoured most of the workshop, despite the designs brought in and out, Rix never missed the opportunity to clamour atop and search for what might have been missed, what potentiality lie in wait for what might be, what might be, what might be.
It wonât last forever, nothing ever does. Too much becomes too much, becomes far too much, becomes potentialities on the brink of forever, becomes clutter to be swept out with the memories of how it got there.
Itâs a shame how often things never make it past what might be.Â
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No. No. NoâŚ. DamnâŚ
Rix held the rusted sawblade up, the marked out spirals and spiderwebs that should have been, to be scraped and sanded and never was, before joining the growing pile to be taken to the dumpster with a flick of a tail.
Moving day was the worst day, when the Rix couldnât help but wallow in the irony of never quite bringing these things to be. The lost projects. The lost time. The lost potential to be sorted through as to what was worth keeping, what was worth moving, what was worth leaving.
The near-empty workshop, near-full moving crates, near-finished prints, near-started designs, near-remembered tasks, near-useful ideas, near-wanted potential, near-successful fox.Â
Is it right to mourn the memories of what never was? Is it right to pretend that you did some good? That you ârescuedâ anything from the junk heap?Â
Itâs just clutter. Things that must be dealt with. Things that must be removed. Things you canât take with you. Things that never were.Â
Just things.
Itâs a shame how often things never make it past what might be.