Else

author archive

Sometimes I write.

From Beneath Her Skin

The call's coming from beneath her skin. It's not yet ready to be dead, not ready to be buried and forgotten, grave bell ringing with wild abandon. Louder with each heartbeat, louder with each breath, an electric shriek filling the too-still air—!

She was walking through a park when it began, big and open and public, and now she's cowering in a public restroom: single-occupancy, filthy, soggy paper ringing a piss-streaked toilet. Something's waiting inside the rim, something that stinks like death and gurgles like an empty stomach longing to be filled.

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"This one isn't everyone"

"I'm sorry you had to see me like that. I never wanted you to know that side of me. I wanted," a drop of blood slides down her perfect teeth, "I wanted to keep you safe."

This isn't when the doll found her in the woods, covered in stolen blood. This is some time after.

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Eyes in the Dark

"You have the most fascinating eyes, little sprout. I think I'll take them with me."

Claire wakes with a start into an emptiness more profound than any darkness she has ever known, a void utterly unlike her bedroom's greyscale night.

For a moment she thinks that she's tangled her blankets around her head—that the silver-eyed darkness has forced its way into her parents' house—that she's fallen under the bed. But she feels nothing against her cheeks, nothing but clean air on her face and blankets on her body.

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Broken Horns

The forest floor is cool against Claire's cheek, sun-warmed ground no match for the fearful heat radiating from every inch of her body. Her wounds burn, sharp and dripping; her eyes brim with tears and her unwise fingers still clutch the flower.

Yellow and gold rise around her like a buzzing tide, each little bee-body blazing like a jewel in the sun's bright light—a mob nerving itself for the first strike, eagerly awaiting the violence that will follow as soon as some brave soul gives the rest permission—

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Incandescent Rage

That was a mistake.

What was she thinking?

She hasn't yet brought herself to drop the flower—could she even if she wanted to? Its broken stem oozes with something that's not honey, sticky and warm against her sweaty fingers, gripping tight—

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Festooned in Flowers

Breakfast is icy.

There's something wrong with the house, something beyond the crushed lawn and torn siding outside. Claire struggles to swallow half-frozen scrambled eggs and too-chunky orange juice; her parents don't fair much better.

Finally, finally, she reaches the end of her mandatory presence (denoted by her father getting up to do the dishes, and her mother receding into her morning emails). Neither of them notice when she leaves. They never do.

She tells herself that she prefers it this way.

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Outside Your Window

Bonk.

Claire pulls her blankets tighter, burrows a bit deeper into her bed's comforting warmth.

Bonk.

She pointedly turns her back on the window.

Bonk.

Her patience breaks.

"Will you stop already?! I'm trying to sleep here!"

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The Pheonix

"Call me Ishmael" the doll said, though its path had never led it to the ocean and it had little regard for water. It thought that it was clever even so, and Ishmael was a better name than the one its witch had given it when he stitched its wings.

Ish (which was what the other dolls called it, and which it held was because they had no flare for the dramatic) was a aeronaut aboard the great ⸢Remembrance of Her Unwilling Blessing⸥. A sky-ship one hundred and sixteen meters from bow to stern, with a wingspan thrice that! The culmination of a witch's craft, powered by banks of witchwork hearts driving it forward and pumping reality away with their every bone-shuddering beat! Vast and powerful, held together only through the unceasing effort of a dozen lobotomized witch-houses ...

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Events At The Estate

At 9:34 PM, the party in the red hall was asked to pause their activities and take part in a minute of silence to honor those who died to make their meal possible.

They declined.

By 10:20 PM it became obvious that the estate was in danger of becoming understaffed.

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Mycelium

"There! Do you see that?"

An endless twisted thread; a mat writhing beneath the surface. Sprouting bodies receding into the rotting soil; corpses blossoming into ghostly light. Ribs crunch beneath Abigail's feet; a smile lights her face.

Her companion tarries, unwilling to venture in; Rob's mothers told him so many times to stay away from the burial pits, not to risk whatever ordinance might yet be buried among the numinous dead.

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