Alexander’s stomach rebels. It cramps and spasms as his body struggles to contain the wrongness inside him. Sweat beads on his smooth skin; his muscles ache and his mouth forces itself open. The bathroom’s tiled floor is cool and peaceful, and he desperately wishes that he could let himself collapse onto it, to curl up and dissociate until it’s all over, but he can’t, he really, truly can’t. He is here and this is now and everything is happening so much. ...
Her stomach clenches and she desperately holds her mouth shut, hands clamped tight over her thin surgical mask. Some of the other passengers glance at her; she’s breaking public transit’s unspoken agreement, drawing attention to herself. It’s fucking embarrassing. It’s really not helping.
originally posted to Twitter on September 8, 2021. The liquid roils within its flask, fighting against the thick rubber stopper. Pink and purple and green glimmer on its surface, fleeting highlights against its deep reflective black. It’s trying so hard to get out—but it doesn’t stand a chance. Spell-etched glass and a binding circle burned into your countertop make sure of that—even if it broke the stopper, it would be trapped. ...
Drip. Drip. Drip. There’s been something wrong with the showerhead all week, the valve not quite sealing no matter how tight you turn the knob. Not a big issue, not really, the landlord pays for the water, but … It just keeps on dripping. And dripping. Drip. Drops falling down to splatter on the tile floor, little bursts of watery noise echoing out through the closed door, falling and hitting and falling and hitting and— ...
False-color blood flows in neon spurts, rivulets painting her cheek in a tie-dye tapestry her ruined eyes will never see. She knows her own taste all too well, can’t help but letting her tongue dart out to grab a few more drops, to soak up the vibrance pooling on her lips— Of course she can’t see you looking, but she notices nevertheless; tilts her face up, gore-filled sockets staring into your too-eager eyes, licks her lips one last time, and— ...
Warm slime puddles thickly around your legs as you kneel before her, as her body emerges from all the tiny cracks in the walls where she’d hidden herself all, welling up from the gaps in the courtyard’s paving stones and the shadows beneath rocks. A tiny piece of her even emerges from the tight tie holding your hair back, leaving a warm trail down the small of your back as it descends to return to its proper home. ...
It is understood that ⸤distillation⸣ is a process by which ⸤slimes⸣ maybe be both concentrated and made more amenable to their ⸤purposes⸣. However, this process does not reduce their ⸤curative properties⸣ when applied to a ⸤garden’s components⸣. Through the application of a ⸤purpose-made object⸣ to a fully ⸤distilled slime⸣ a form of thread may be produced with minimal cost to the surrounding ⸤garden⸣. Such thread is suitable for lacing through any ⸤damaged components⸣, and noticeably prolongs their ⸤life⸣. ...