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Daily Shirt: Mario Is Missing, Presumed Dead by joe-wright Daily Shirt: Mario Is Missing, Presumed Dead :iconjoe-wright:joe-wright 7 2
Literature
Inglemouth Nights
I.
Inglemouth was a city with a gold star in history and an F minus minus in geography. Venture too far down its statue-lined streets and you might find yourself lost in a tangle of alleys, or snared in a pocket dimension, most likely both, and oh god the statues were following you, fuck fuck fuck.
II.
Inglemouth library was deathly quiet. Par for the course librarily speaking, but in Inglemouth a sinister adjective was always worth noting.
Yves flinched as he opened another book. Usually only Atran grimoires contained spirits, but when you'd died more times than you could count on your fingers, you took the hint and started being careful. Besides, nobody could accuse Yves of being a lucky man.
He hissed as he uncovered his client's name exactly where he'd hoped he wouldn't. A registered homunculus, and she didn't even know. He was certain of one thing, at least – he'd been set up.
III.
Holly Reiff regretted everything. A comprehensive catalogue of everything
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Literature
Operation Box Cutter
“Did you see that?” whispered Guard #1, wheeling around in alarm. The flashlight mounted on his rifle illuminated an empty corridor.
“I heard something,” said Guard #2. Cautiously, he inched his way down the hall - his heavy combat boots silent as cat feet - before leaping around the corner to surprise absolutely no-one.
Guard #3 pressed himself against the wall and peeked through a doorway.
“I know you're there!” he barked, as a cardboard box shuffled past behind him. “You scared, buddy? Come out and fight like a man!”
Guard #2 caught on to #3's cunning strategy and joined in.
“Yeah, show yourself, you coward!”
“Chicken!” shouted #3, turning up the peer pressure.
They made chicken noises for a while, and followed this up with some extremely awkward silence.
“Target sighted!” yelled Guard #1, completely oblivious to the cardboard box bumping into his knees.
“It's the spy! Target engaged!”
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Literature
Default
JN113 studied her own face on the missing person poster. She almost wanted to laugh at the waste of time it represented – even if the world at large cared about a runaway Default, there were hundreds of people wearing the exact same face in this city alone.
She raised her hood as rain started to shower from the misty neon heights. As much as her new friends tried to tell her otherwise, until she could afford the surgery, she'd always be a missing person. A blank space where something unique and beautiful should be.
She ran into her father on the way to her boyfriend's apartment, and the guilt was almost overwhelming. He looked exhausted, and appeared have been searching tirelessly, putting up posters on every surface. His heartbreak was clear to see.
“May I?” he asked, as he'd likely asked dozens of people already. She rolled up her sleeve and let him scan her fractacode. She'd had it altered, obviously, but she was nervous; it hadn't been tested in practice.
Her fath
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Literature
Laurels
The Band of Laurels rode the path to the arched city where further rewards and adoration waited. Clad in the charmed cloaks and coronets of ages past, they joked and gamed, discussing and dismantling their latest adventure, cataloguing every daring feat and unlikely incident, honing their story to perfection. The buzz of the kingbees and the chirrup of the crickets slowed their pace to match that of the lazy river that ran alongside them.
If a woman's hips are ample
Then I want her in the hay
Skirt and stocking all a rample
-” sang Cieron, for no other reason than that the sun was shining.
The Laurels joined in, looking forward to a heroes' welcome – save one.
Bale was silent, oblivious to the birdsong and merriment around him. A looted wreath crowned his tangled hair. An ancient king's pauldrons rested upon his sloping shoulders. Amulets of unknown providence hung around his neck; fashioned, he presumed, for someone of much nobler blood than he.
The Band of La
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Literature
Crutch
Hanna twisted her ankle on a tangle of heather and gritted her teeth. It wasn’t broken, but she couldn’t put her weight on it. Her laboured breath came faster and harder as she fought for the will to go on. She had no choice. Only Frostcreep tea would break Lyn's fever, and there was only one place Frostcreep lichen grew. Nobody was around for miles, but for two crows watching from a nearby spindly branch.
Krunk Krunk, they called.
Spurred on by the discomfort of their gaze, she took a ginger step and collapsed into the brush, scraping her palm on exposed roots and unidentifiable serrated fronds which raised warm, red welts. She cursed and clawed her way up again, onto one knee. The moors stretched out around her, sloping down to the sea at her back, and towering up to the unreachable summit ahead.
She crawled to the lone birch tree, bowing low to the crows and apologising to them as she broke off their branch to use as a crutch.
Krunk Krunk, they went, and ho
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Literature
RSPG Fundraising Campaign Summer 2018
This is Geoffrey. He’s a common European sheet ghost, and every day he has to walk eleven miles to find a haunted house in order to bring fear essence back to his colony.
Year by year, Geoffrey’s natural cursed habitat is being destroyed by housing development and the introduction of bypasses and industrial estates to traditionally creepy areas.
For less than the price of a coffee a month, you could keep our work alive - restoring haunted mansions and spooky forests, and renting out the resultant apartments and cabins to nervous young women with heart conditions.
Ghosts are a window into our past - a valuable part of our national heritage. Without charities like the Royal Society for the Protection of Ghosts, in less than fifteen years more than half of our indigenous ghost species will give up their quests for petty revenge and traverse the bright light into the peaceful lands beyond. We cannot let this happen.
Please, give what you can, and preserve our history for future
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Literature
Iamb what iamb
The knight lay dying on the bloodstained field
His armour scarred, his tabard stained in red.
"Is any man among us here a bard?"
One man raised his hand.
“Iamb,” he said.
--
A hero stood astride the ancient ruins.
Above the crowd he held a monster’s head.
“Is any man among you there a bard?’
One man strummed a lute.
"Iamb," he said.
--
A king sat high and mighty on his throne:
A heap of broken harps, their owners dead.
“Is any man before me here a bard?
Hell-born, honey-tongued and oversexed?
Does any fiendlike man before me seek
the favour of my fair-faced rose-cheeked daughter
through varletry and coward's means:
their laughable offenseful flow'ry prose?
Does any man before me seek to trick her
into undress, the best to sate their hunger?
The appetites of poets make me shudder;
they pluck the sweetest blooms like swath of wheat.
Woe betide the girls they choose as prey
doe-like they doth believe their metered lies,
ensnared by dripping words and fl
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Literature
Easyjet
Up at 2am, watching the rabbits graze on the hotel lawn while I wait for the taxi shuttling between here and the airport to return. In the yellow security light they eat together quietly, and I feel as if the sight should calm me, and I’m disappointed when it doesn’t.
An hour later I’m going through security, getting searched when I forget to remove my belt and getting chased down by staff when I leave my wallet behind. I’m not a practised flyer.
Two hours after that, I’ve boarded the plane and we’re taxi-ing to the runway, where the engines begin to roar and the land begins to hurtle by outside the window. I hunch to look through it as we lift off, the safety information still rattling in my head. Brace brace, it goes.
How many water landings end in inflatable slides, and fluorescent jackets, and peeping whistles, rather than a scattering of debris? One in ten? Zero in n?
I digress. There’s nothing new to say about seeing your country from abo
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Literature
Ratramentum Pt 4
    Fur bristling, Xint watched the fight from her perch on the pipes overhead, her too-bright goat-eyes darting around the room. The Eyes-Upon-Eyes was steadily approaching Malachi, arcs of blackness whirling around its form even as the pyromantic inferno enveloped them both. As final stands went, it was very heroic – still final, though. Voidwhips took chunks out of the flames, and then out of Malachi; flensing him where he stood, stripping him to the bone. Scarra gritted her teeth behind him, stepping back from the heat, hand outstretched in the necroclutch, keeping her friend and the firestorm alive far beyond their proper end.
    Malachi screamed until he crumbled.
    Xint hissed, ears pinned back. Malachi had been scum, but he'd cared for her, and the kernel of nobility in him had sealed his fate in the end. A bad death by anyone's standards.
    The shadows belched out rats in various states of decay, and Scarra
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Literature
Deliverance
The mist roiled like squid ink. Shale clattered down the slope.
“It's moved,” whispered Sir Livermore. “Uphill, and downwind. I think it knows where we are.”
Cyrinna swallowed a whimper, while Rian looked blankly at his master, his empty hands shaking. He'd boasted all his life that he was destined to become a knight, and now he would end as a charred skeleton beside that of the girl he was oathbound to rescue. They'd find his sword a mile back, where he'd dropped it in fright, and know the true extent of his failure.
Livermore shifted his weight, gauging the loose ground. He was glad he'd opted to go without full plate armour. Between the extra weight and the noise, he'd have been easy prey for those grasping foot-long talons. If he was going to get more than halfway uphill, he'd need to step lightly, and fleet as the wind.
“Please no,” croaked Rian, crawling back against the small bluff they were hidden behind. He could see his master plotting, and
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Literature
The Singing in the Stars
Parabola squadron floated out on the starboard flank of the fleet, barely visible. The azure glow of their engines had long cooled. They'd been out there for hours, on standby. No orders had been issued since.
“We should have heard something by now,” said Thaela over squad comms.
“Not necessarily,” answered Nerys, trying to sound more authoritative than she felt. “If this is really first contact, standard protocol goes out the window. We're all playing by ear.”
“Playing by ear usually requires that you hear something.”
Nerys couldn't really argue with that. Whatever the reason for the silence, and there could be any number of legitimate ones, it was still incredibly frustrating. Staying focused was getting difficult. Over her port side wing she saw Rozi nodding off in her cockpit. Nerys almost knocked on the transparishield to wake her before realising how stupid that was. She flicked comms back open instead.
“Rozi!” she snapp
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Literature
Behind the Changing Room Curtain
Not that Sigurd would ever know it, but it happened at the mall. There were no seats outside the changing rooms, so he waited on a bench in the shoe section, and found himself drifting to sleep. He woke to his wife's hand on his shoulder, and the sound of his infant son crying with such raw anguish that Sigurd was afraid he was in pain. No matter what he tried, he couldn't console the child, and handing him back just made things worse – the baby seemed almost terrified by the sight of his wife's face.
They returned home, and the crying never stopped. They went to bed, and the crying continued. Days passed, and not once did the baby settle down to sleep. Sigurd watched, a pit in his stomach, as his son pushed desperately away from his wife's breast. The baby seemed almost inhuman – the wide-eyed fear on its face, the determination with which it struggled, gave an impression closer to that of a tortured animal.
He sat in the doctor's office, brow furrowed, his hands clenched
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Literature
Dark Wings, Fake Tidings
The dilapidated royal pigeon loft on the Queen's Sandringham estate was a sad affair, its timbers rotting even as the birds themselves went to seed.
“Let's face it, I've gone to seed,” said Archibald XXIV, stuffing his face with birdseed. Pigeons could store a maximum of two puns in their brain at once, but when the first one was so good, why bother learning another?
“Bastards,” said Ptolemy IX, vaguely.
Erasmus XVII scratched at his perch irritably. “They'd bloody well be speaking German if not for us!”
“What, the Saxe-Coburgs? I think they speak German already.”
“No!” Erasmus would have spat if he was biologically capable of it. “All them, out there! We saved their arses during World War One. And Two - Bloody ingrates. I'll have them know my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-
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Literature
Moleus Moleificarum
“From the depths of hell they rise,” roared Brother Marlburrow. “Eyeless, ever hungering! Their hides, black as char! They claw their way up through the rock and dirt! Beneath our very feet, the legions swell!  
“They're just moles,” pointed out Brother Simmons.
“Fools!” yelled Brother Marlburrow, brandishing his shovel wildly. His small frame was barely keeping up with the rabid, frothing energy that animated it. “'Beware, for the devil shall visit upon you, guised in cloak of beast and fowl; whosoever recogniseth not his evil shall be damned for their lack of vigilance, and there will be much wailing, and gnashing of teeth'! Lo, the devil is visiting his evil upon us! Lo, the devil, in the guise of a mole! Behold!”
He held up his bucket, full of moles tumbling adorably over each other.
“Behold as they revel in filth! Creatures of the underworld! Demon, I name thee! Spawn of Lucifer!”
The monks gradually dispersed,
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Literature
Back with a Vengeance
Everyone knew it: in this economy, the occult was the way to go. Every high-rise in Inglemouth owed its existence to an eldritch abomination. R & D might as well have stood for Ritual and Demonology. Fornax was leading the way in the occult revolution, literally and figuratively at the cutting edge when it came to human sacrifice. They were dealing with devils most other organisations didn't even know existed. Of course, you couldn't contact an omelette from another dimension without risking the gruesome death of several eggs.
Melusine Deacon had the Occult Operations Projection Stats report in hand, and the numbers for Q2 were going to have to be revised downwards. A bloodbath was always accounted for in the risk assessment, but it wasn't something that just happened by accident these days, especially during what was scheduled to be a standard infernal contract negotiation.
Arcane Investigators (The word 'forensic' implied the investigation would submit its findings to an open for
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deviantID

joe-wright

Artist | Varied
United Kingdom
Joe is basically Charlie Brown only instead of a dog he has social anxiety issues.
He spends most of his time thinking about etymology and looking like a startled owl.
Interests

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:iconsalshep:
salshep Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2018
Happy b-day, bloke
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:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Jul 26, 2018   General Artist
Thank youuuu!! :)
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:iconteague-drydan:
Teague-Drydan Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2018  Student Writer
Happy birthday! Hope you're having an amazing day!
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:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Jul 26, 2018   General Artist
I did, thank you! :)
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:iconteague-drydan:
Teague-Drydan Featured By Owner Jul 26, 2018  Student Writer
:w00t:
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:iconobsydiandreamer:
ObsydianDreamer Featured By Owner Aug 1, 2017  Student Writer
Hello, I just wanted to say thank you for the watch. I really appreciate it :)
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:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Aug 1, 2017   General Artist
No problem! :)
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:iconlealsfeels:
lealsfeels Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016
Happy Birthday! :party: 
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:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016   General Artist
Thank you! =D
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