Fluff

“Pathetic mortals! Hear my demands,” Corvina intones, feathers raised is a posture of challenge, “and despair, for the will of the night is unstoppable! Your compatriot has made a mockery of our alliance! You must,” her voice shifts, a faint squawk betraying a feather-covered blush, “make her let go of me.” Maria, Halberd of Noon, peers up at Corvina. The villainess, once barely taller than her, has grown beyond all reason in the weeks since the Tremorlord ate the sun and plunged the world into an eternal and moonless night. “Is Anne being a problem?” “Yes! I mean, uh,” she tries to compose herself, “yes. Remove her, lest a worse fate befalls her! I will drop her in the ocean to freeze, see if I don’t.”

“Has anyone ever done this for you before?” “No. Uh, a bit lower …” Sparrow barely holds in a moan as their hands find the right spot on his shoulders. “Really? A cute morsel like you … well, I’m honored you chose me, then.” “Um. Could you, uh.” “Yes?” “… u-use a different word. For me.” “Oh, of course! What would you prefer?” “U-um. Something, uh,” he hides in face in his hands, not that it matters much, “something masculine?” ...

(once, long ago, there was an Empty Spaces Anthology. This was the longer of my two stories in it.) There is a type of rot that breeds in silences, a moist decay that drips through the cracks in your life and softens your thoughts with its insidious warmth. It’s the sort of thing that lingers long after it was first welcomed in, that never quite leaves— “Miss,” the doll’s plaintive voice echoes through the bedroom door, “are you in there?” ...

Originally posted to Twitter on March 1st, 2022. She wanders into the kitchen midway through your preparations, drawn by the warm scents of cooking meet and browning bread and your heartbeat’s happy rhythm. You tug the blackout curtain closed as she does, walling out sunset’s last beams before they can touch her grey skin. “Hey!” you cheerfully greet her sleep-mussed hair and hollow eyes, “do you want some coffee? It’ll be ready in a minute.” ...

Originally posted to Twitter on February 22, 2022. Each day you walk past the dollmaker’s store, past those wide glass windows full of carefully constructed cages. They almost look like they’re not cages at all, just dollhouses, but you know better: you’ve spent enough time watching to notice the bars. The dolls gambol and dance, climb their furniture and nestle in little display cases almost like they weren’t alive at all; sometimes you even pass by as they’re having a tea party, a matched set drinking in unison. ...

“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. She’s cleaned up, mostly, freshly showered. Her still-wet mane looks faintly depressed with so much of its volume gone. It smells good, though, like a tropical vacation that she’s never had the money to have. ...

When doll slips from the confines of her bed-box and stumbles downstairs, there’s an odd rectangle waiting at the table: a folded sheet of thick, creamy paper. It’s for her, obviously—why else would her miss have put it there, next to her oatmeal and tea? But doll isn’t sure. “Miss, what’s this?” Across the kitchen (a distance which doll’s eyes easily skip over and her body has never managed to cross), her witch doesn’t glance up from the stove’s vast fire. Doll smells the ashy tang of crumbling pine and the rich, rotting musk of burnt deer. ...

This week the witch is living in a half-destroyed warehouse right on the edge of one of the impact craters, close enough that your phone won’t stop interrupting your conversation with alerts about impending exposure. She says it’s fine, though, so you just swipe them away. The city is always a bit too aggressive about geofencing their alerts, so it’s not like you’re unused to being told to ignore them by people who really should know. ...

“Hey babe”, said the witch, “mind helping me with this? I think I cracked a bone the other day.” The doll looked up from her book. “Sure, but isn’t that the third this month?” “… yeah.” “Shouldn’t you have someone look at your spells? Wood should last longer, even without plasticizing it.” “No, I’m fine. I just … look, give me a hand? It’s one of the supports in my chest, I’ve already got the replacement out.” ...