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Message Undeliverable
I am the goddess of the Sticky Note. I long thrived on all of the words humanity would generously pour into me. I feasted on their cursive, their block letters, their chicken scratch. Penmanship came in many flavors – each one a fresh treat, each one an act of devotion. Each message as unique as the human hand that scrawled it in their haste. People never seemed to feel that they had enough time. But I had all of time to enjoy their scribblings. Messages to themselves. Messages to each other. Messages meant for the void. So many fleeting moments I enjoyed along with my loyal followers – soaking in their ink and their graphite a
The Word She Could Not Say
Once, there lived a girl who dreamed of wings. Every night she soared up to the highest clouds and gave each one of them a hundred kisses. She danced alone on the wind, higher than the entire world, where she tried to catch every falling star. But these were only her dreams. The girl would still wake each morning – her face tickled by long strands of her hair – and she would pat her empty shoulder blades in utter disappointment. She began to grow weary of these dreams of hers only being dreams. On the hottest day of the summer, the girl walked into the shade of the forest near her home, where she came across a very tall tree. Sh
For a moment, I lost years.
Bed Dweller (Sanji x Reader) [Flashfic]
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Finally, it was time to call it quits for the long day on the sea. Anchored in calm waters; with Usopp on watch in the eagle's nest, the rest of the crew headed for bed. In your living quarters, you stripped your dirty clothes off and changed into clean sleepwear. You were ready to have a nice long date with your bed, until you noticed you weren't alone. "What are you doing in my bed Sanji." You weren't even mad that he most likely watched you get undressed. "Well, I know you worked hard today, I just thought you'd be more c
Captain Sushi (Levi Ackerman x Reader) Crack/Flash
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ It was a little strange, being rung at an ungodly hour in the late night; it was past midnight and Captain Levi Ackerman wanted you to report IMMEDIATELY to his office. Why? Why you asked, over and over again in your head. Over the phone, he sounded a bit strange, as if his words were slurred.. but you ignored it, thinking nothing of it as you walked fast-paced down the corridor in your night gown. Standing outside Levi’s office, you heard a slight hiccup from the other side of the door and the sound of glass hitting wood
The fox had been hungering for quite some time: its fur was growing thin, a dull blanket over starving ribs, and it walked with the careful steps of one who has but little strength to spare. It limped as it walked, for its left forepaw had been hurt some time before by the trap of a hunter. It had escaped the trap with its life intact: but now it hungered, and could no longer hunt. Today it had caught a carrion scent on the breeze, sweetish, cloying: the smell of rot. It was a hope, and the fox was limping towards it as quickly as its meager strength would allow. Surely it could find something to scavenge from a kill so old. But as it follo
The Old Man and the Sparrow
Once, there was an old man who never left his library. He spent hours and hours just reading and drinking his tea and occasionally sleeping. One day, a little sparrow landed on the edge of a windowsill – the man had neglected to close the window that morning – and then it chirped loud enough to cause him to look up from the page he was engrossed in. “Hey you,” said the talking bird. “There is a huge exciting world out there, and I’ve seen you cooped up in here, day after day. You should maybe visit it sometime.” The man, who did not seem at all surprised by the appearance of a talking bird –
Glass hearts collided with stone faces.
The Source and Her Shadow
There was once a man named Altair who was forced to walk down every road. He was cursed as a boy to do so, and while the curse granted him immortality, it also compelled his compliance. When he arrived at dead ends, or found himself in dark alleys ending with brick walls, he would simply turn right around and continue walking. He was always drawn towards the roads that he had yet to travel on. His immortal feet never tired, neither did they become sore, but after many years his heart did. He stayed so briefly in each new place that he never bothered to remember the faces of the townsfolk, but he did memorize the names of every street and l
Johannes and Margarethe
It would be easy enough to flee. The only bond that ties Margarethe to the blind old woman is her love for her brother. But he is all she has left, now, and she will not leave him. Johannes sits in a cage of bones, eating canned mandarins and jars of sour cherries, awaiting his death. Margarethe visits him there when the old woman is out. “I’ll save you,” she says. “I’ll find a way – somewhere we can flee to, somewhere she can’t follow. I’ll steal the key from her.” The cage is held together with steel cables and padlocks and barbed wire. There is no escaping from it. “You know wha
When It Stopped
The rain went on for years. When it stopped at last, he walked in the sunlight, and his heart broke to see that she remained in the shadows.
Songbird and Statue
In days before the dawn of time, two gods struggled for control over all that was. One was named Order, who strove above all for stillness and perfection. The other was named Chaos, who strove above all for motion and change. When Order set the spheres upon their paths, Chaos sent out comets to knock them astray. When Order called land out from the water, Chaos tore it asunder. These gods fought ceaselessly, yet they had formed from the void as twins and each was as strong as the other.     “This battle is futile,” said Order one day, after countless aeons of struggle. “We must settle our differences by some other means.&#
The Chase
         Run.           Cold, damp air seeps through skin to bone. Soil stained soles pound along a winding, barely-there path among the trees. Trees. A laughable word for behemoths that, at the smallest, is four times as wide around as she is. Swaths of leaves shape a dark green expanse, blocking out nearly all of the sky. The light that does find a way down is weak, pinpricks suffocating in the umbrage. This is a true weald, dark and deep.          Run.          She wishes she could deviate from the path; delve into the endless shadow and hide. A ruinous wish. Thin strings threaded with countless trinkets crisscross all empty spaces.
Hummingbird Bones
Once there was a girl who grew flowers in her hair. The flowers were as beautiful as the sunset, their petals held every color of the rainbow, and they smelled sweet and fresh and lovely. One afternoon, the girl walked through the forest. After some time, the wind tickled her neck and she glanced behind her. Butterflies landed in her hair; their wings unfolded like pages in a book. Soon, hummingbirds joined, visiting each blossom with reverence. Her heart pumped almost as fast as their wing beats. Branches snapped. A man wearing antlers and moss and mud emerged from the trees and stared straight at her. The girl froze in place under that ga
California James and the Chapel of Rome
“Come on, Squat Runt!”     “Can we rethink my nickname, Doctor James? I feel as though it crosses the line from affectionately disparaging to actually hurtful.”    “There’s no time! We have to reach the Sistine Chapel before that albino monk gets—”    A hooded figure stepped out from the doorframe. “My ears are burning,” said the monk.    “Well, I’m not surprised,” said California James. “It is an exceptionally sunny day.”    The monk made an annoyed little noise. “That’s not what I meant!”    “Yeah,” agreed Squa
To take her freedom, she must first forget herself. She begins with her hair. Each snip of the scissors cuts away a piece of her past. Here a childhood summer, the glow of poppies under the sun. There the meekness they bred in her, the timidity they trained her to. There again the wedding, the kiss, the night that followed. Her life flies away on the breeze. The birds will be glad of it, she thinks: all the things that brought her pain will line their nests with comfort. - Comfort is a thing she’ll learn to do without: one of many. She lays out her silks and furs and velvets where the fire will burn hottest. Her purpose is twofold:
A Timeless Eternity
Hand in hand, I walk towards the prison. The people I pass stand still as statues, frozen mid-step, mid-motion: they are timeless in the light of my candle, helpless until the flame goes out. I alone can still walk in this frozen world, still live, still breathe. I alone, because of the hand in my hand and the candle held between its fingers. My breath mists before my face as I walk. It is a cold day today, so cold that spittle freezes when it strikes the ground. The doors of the prison, and all the doors within it, are locked – of course; but all doors are open to me. I wave the hand before them, perhaps brush its closed fingers agai
Dragon Child
Dragon child, they called her, because she was slow and still and silent, because she stuttered when she spoke, because her hands fluttered like drowning birds when she could find no words for her thoughts. It was not an insult but a threat, a promise. Every seven years the dragon demanded a sacrifice, and Lily would be next to die. She was Rowan’s sister. The dragon made its home in the labyrinth beside the city. It had been a holy place once; its centre was a temple, once a shrine to old forgotten gods, now a cairn for those who had been sacrificed before. The dragon did not bother the people, much. Once in seven years it took what
Such Beautiful Wings
The sun never sets in Bool. Nor does it rise. The sky is painted in perpetual twilight, all blushing and bruised, and here the air always smells of petrichor. Children never seem to find the way in; their unprepared hearts divert them, and draw them into the darkness – into lands full of frightening things – until their fears return them to their proper beds, if they survive out there at all. Only grown-ups will see the path that leads to this place, and even then, only they can pass through the gate unhindered. I know this, because I am one of them. I have been absent from this land for months, but the thought does not distr
The boat… (→1) The sea… (→2) 1. …passes smoothly through the waves, parting the ripples of moonlight on either side. The sea shimmers like silver: an endless trove of coins, intangible, out of reach. The boatman watches the glints of silver, thinking of the coins he did not steal, and of the boat he did. He does not know where he is running to. He only knows that he is running. A winding shadow follows alongside the boat under the waves. He reaches for it… (→14) He attacks it… (→7) He flees it… (→3) 2. …ripples with moonlight, and rising bubbles shimmer from the de
He waited for reality to collapse.
Annie Says
My favourite game is Aunt Florence Says. I play it all the time. Originally, there was a boy named Simon, but we don't see Simon anymore. Aunt Florence looks at me oddly when I try to ask about him. She showed me his headstone once, but that tells me nothing and it doesn't look like a head either way. The game goes as follows: you do as you're told, by Aunt Florence. You have to say both 'Aunt' and 'Florence', otherwise, the game doesn't work and you can't do pretty much anything anymore. But yes, this is how I like to go about my day: Aunt Florence says: “Get dressed before breakfast”, Aunt Florence says: “Chew your food
cracked foundation
Every day starts the same. In the dark we are still, huddled inside a box together. The first stirrings in the Universe happen with the cacophony of bells: light follows swiftly, and the ground beneath rumbles as the gods awaken. We are laid out bare on the floor, picked up and inspected close up one by one. Most times, we are forced to reveal our innards, spewing them onto the gods, who huff and curse lest we eject our contents a millimetre wrong. Sometimes, after a particularly bad performance, we end up in the Asylum, a mish-mash jenga-hell where broken friends mingle with putrid waste and crooked bodies of strangers. It is a place we d
Skins, once woven, do not keep. She has learned to weave them quickly, then, to suit them to the moment and to the parts she has on hand; it is a matter of minutes now to slip into whatever shape will serve her best. She weaves this one from shadows and starlight and the scent of pine: night-black feathers and hollow bones, light enough to ride the wind over the guards and the palisade and the fire. She knows the roof she seeks by the wail of the child and the mismatched scent (for the senses she wove into her skin are stronger than those of an ordinary bird), and she lands on the thatch unseen, unnoticed. Inside, the parents are doting ove