scribble-wyvern

[scribble-wyvern]

The King and his Council of High Wizards summon Otherworlders to help fight against the Demon King.

"Well met, heroes of the Other World, plucked from all manner of Time; we have summoned you here, and granted you the ability to speak our language, to help put down the Demon King!" The King says, greeting the confused people in the summoning circle.

"What is a Demon King?" An older gentleman asks, tilting his head and tucking his hands into his odd robe.

"A Demon King is a beast most foul, a King of a Monstrous Race that targets humans!"

"Ah, but what is a Demon?"

"A Demon is a Profane Race, with Devilish powers and a hunger for Human Flesh!"

"How do we know they hunger human flesh alone? Would poultry not suffice as well?"

The King, flustered, sputters before finally finding his voice again.

"We...we know because every human settlement they raid is bereft of humans!"

"I see!"

"Finally, you see!"

"But if there are no humans, how do you know they were eaten?"

"Hey old man, who are you?" One of the other Otherworlders asks, snickering.

The King cannot help but feel the snickering is at he himself, for which he should order the execution of that particular Otherworlder, but is too preoccupied with getting the name of the troublesome one.

"Oh? I am Socrates." With that, roughly half of the Otherworlders sigh and sit down, already looking an odd mix of bored, resigned, and intrigued. "Pray tell, Good King, I have further questions; if we do not know for sure if Demons are eating humans, and can therefore assume that they do not only eat humans, as if they did then they would not have enough energy to besiege your settlements and you would have far less people in this castle, as I too eat things that are not human, am I a Demon?"

"You are not a Demon," The King said flatly, feeling a migraine coming on. "You are clearly human."

"Is that so? Then, perhaps, do Demons have a certain look about them, an appearance I do not exhibit?"

"You have no horns, sir Socrates, nor a tail. You are clearly human."

"I believe I understand, then; we have had a misunderstanding."

The King felt hope flicker in his chest, but squashed it.

"We have? Do you call them something else in your world?"

"Yes, Good King, I believe we do; we call them cows."

[scribble-wyvern]

WANTED

You find the advert face down on the table. You’re picking up after your grandma. She insists her mind is sharp as a tack but her empty tea cups and loose handkerchiefs and day-old newspapers litter every surface. You scan the paper, and a part of you is sure there aren’t any more jobs like this.

The paper is yesterday��s paper and the various jobs match LinkedIn: nannying and dog walker and kitchen staff. The advert, the one, is stark against the others. You read the tiny printed words over and over, always getting stuck on the word WANTED.

Your friends told you not to go: what kind of job asks you to meet in the middle of the woods? What kind of jobs has no website or contact info? What kind of jobs were advertised in the goddamn paper? You friends wouldn’t get it.

Anastasia, your best friend since third class, tells you to keep your “Find My Phone” on and call when you get there. She really wouldn’t get it. Your grandma tells you that this is the world, the other version of it, and you are her granddaughter. So go.

You walk the three and a half miles in high heels. This job probably wouldn’t even expect high heels, but old habits die hard. You were once convinced in college your girlfriend cast a curse on you, the sleepless nights and a relentless rash proved it. Now that you’re an adult, an adult-adult, you don't think so anymore. If anything was a witch’s spell, it was LinkedIn. Hours and hours of youth wasted on the same go-around.

5 years of experience and 3 different references and no street parking but the bus is only a block away. You can walk, right? Unpaid overtime and shaving your legs to go sit for an hour in an uncomfortable plastic chair. That’s an unusual last name, is it a family one? Ah. I see.

You can walk for a long while. Your heels slup, slup, slup in the soupy ground and it takes you longer than you’d like to look around. The street lights dwindle. The trees gather. The path disappears. The woods are thick and unfamiliar and an iron fence rises in the distance. Despite the late summer heat, the air smells of frost. Maybe Anastasia was right–whether you are your grandmother’s descendent or not.

She comes out of the woods on rail-thin chicken legs. Her skirt is short, cut at a horizontal angle, and she looks like where the punk scene from the 80s went to die. She has a studded leather jacket and bleach-blonde asymmetrical hair. You shove your hands in your stupid suit jacket and check the skies. Half-moon, just risen, you’re right on time.

“You here for the advert?”

“It’s half-moon, isn’t it?” you say back and flash her a tight smile. You had had a sudden sinking feeling about her ability to write you a paycheck. 

She looks you up and down. “Spirit?”

“Ghoul.” You shrug. “Yaga?” She sticks out one of her stalky chicken legs. “Servant of one. Two gens back. On my father’s side.” Your strained smile gentles. “I’m Katie.” Her smile sharpens in response. “Stephanie. Come on, let’s take a walk.” “Was that a real advert, Stephanie?” You saddle up beside her despite yourself. “Cause if you’re just here to pull my leg, know that I'm pretty hard to put down.” She lets out a harsh laugh that sounds like it hurts. “I’m counting on it.” She winks. “Now, not sure I know your line so well, what’s the difference between a ghoul and a spirit?” What is a spirit or ghoul? What was a gig worker or a salaried one? Perhaps a whole length away. Stephanie pushes a bush aside to reveal a hole in the iron fence and leads you through. The grass turns from wild heather to manicured green and you emerge into a field of rolling hills. Your skin prickles. You might be hard to kill, but not to capture. You stay low to the ground.

“Can I be paid upfront?” Her breath smells of winter frost and fresh-turned soil. “You down that bad?”

You survey the trimmed grasses and gentle slopes, the unnatural prickle spreads through your skin to your bone. A house rises in the far-distance, and you swallow thickly. “Is this some Scooby Doo shit?”

“Come on.” She pushes your shoulder. “I’ll pay upfront. The only real question is if you’ve got a pair of lungs on you.” You toss your ponytail back. “For as long as you like. But, I gotta ask, are there really not any free banshees right now?” Stephanie’s smile falters for the first time. “Old world is dying,” she snorts. “Or just buried deep enough to feel that way.” “We’re still here.” “Still here.” She slips you two hundred and takes you to the side of a small lake. The water is murky and the edges form an unnatural drop. She hands you a lightweight dress, gauzy and impossibly white, and you wrinkle your nose. You looked back and forth between the far-distant house and the lake.

It took you the whole walk to place the gate and the house and the land: The Turnpikes. Built almost seven generations back and larger than ever. You couldn’t imagine. The old world was dying, but you supposed it was also just right there. You put the dress on and kick your heels off. Gathering your stuff, Stephanie gives you a big thumbs up and backs away. You take a deep breath, you don't need many, but you had a feeling it would count.

A light in the far-distant window turns on. You see your grandma in your mind’s eye, her tangled green hair and wicked little smiles. All this for two hundred? But a ghoul isn't a banshee. You jump in feet first.

The wet and the cold and the dank water with no memory swallows you. You submerge in the tiny manmade lake, and when you come out, you come out screaming.

The fear of ghouls is an ancient one–something hard to kill. That can walk forever, fight forever, go Without forever. And you think, as you toss your head back, drip water, and let your lungs rattle in your chest, that you might scream forever too.

For two hundred bucks, a ghoul can be a banshee and a world can be made old and new and when you scream, you can scream until you’re made real again.

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Newsletter 🧡 Pre-order my new book!

[scribble-wyvern]

The Princess can only be awoken from her slumber by her true love, but countless Princes have failed to do so. When a poor townsman is successful, the royals try to dispose of the man and convince the Princess that one of the Princes is her true love.

[scribble-wyvern]

no animal was harmed during the making of this video. not one. for the few minutes that we were shooting film, the guns of each hunter fell silent. the industrial bolt throwers observed a moment's peace and the jaws of every predator hung softly open. no fish bit any hook and the bait worms held off on drowning only until the cameras stopped. the tails of ruminants ceased to flick just as their attendant flies, in unison, landed on their flanks to catch their tiny breaths. a spider instantly stopped winding silk around a wasp, patiently waiting for the caesura to end. a young veterinarian paused with the syringe in their hand. somewhere, a colicky baby stopped biting its mother's nipple and nursed happily for the very first time. we're sorry. we're sorry it couldn't have been longer. we didn't know this would happen.

[scribble-wyvern]

this is a poem

[scribble-wyvern]

went to the conservatory today, and saw an actual, real live bumblebee in there, trundling from flower to flower. which makes me think that bee heaven probably resembles a conservatory---the flowers are always blooming; there are strange benevolent keepers who ensure it. winter never comes.

[scribble-wyvern]

Anyway here’s a poem I wrote about my cat

After “Do not stand at my grave and weep”, author disputed:

Do not stand at your bowl and meow. I gave you food. It’s in there now. I feed you at the dawning light, I feed you at the fall of night. I feed you kibbles mixed with meat And wet food for a special treat. I feed you even though you scoff At all the food within your trough. I feed you and still yet you yell Like as a beast from deepest hell. Do not stand at your bowl and cry. I gave you food. You will not die.

[scribble-wyvern]

Hmmmm hm. Okay. Worldbuilding/story idea.

One million years after humanity disappears, octopi and ravens have independently developed sapience. And one day an octopus child and an elder raven meet at the edge of the ocean.

Where is your mother and father? asks the raven. I have no mother or father, says the octopus, blushing pale. All octopi are children. Once we’re grown, we will mate and we will die. It is the first and the last thing our mothers tell us.

But that’s horrible, says the raven. It’s not all bad, says the octopus. We play, we hunt, we make games for ourselves in the deep. Yes, but who remembers your songs? the raven says. Who passes down your stories?

What is a story? the octopus asks.

And the raven thinks about this question. And finally it says: A story is how you remember things in the past. It is how you know where you come from, and what happened before you were born. A story can be a warning, or it can be advice, or it can be a silly joke told to make you feel good. Someone remembers the story and tells it to the next generation, who remember the story and tells it to the generation after them.

And the octopus thinks about this answer. And finally it says: Can you tell me a story?

And the raven tells the octopus a story. And it’s a good story. And the next day the octopus returns and asks for another. The next day it brings its octopus friends, and the raven brings its raven friends, and many stories are shared on the edge of the ocean.

Months later, the octopus returns to the raven. I am grown, it says. I am returning to the sea to find a mate and lay my brood. I will not be coming back. I’m sorry.

I will miss your company, says the raven.

I have one thing to ask you, says the octopus. In time my children will come to the edge of the ocean. I would like you to tell them a story I have made. And when they have stories of their own, I would like your children to remember them and pass them down to my children’s children.

Of course, says the raven. What is your story about?

And the octopus thinks, and says: It is about an octopus child and an elder raven who meet at the edge of the ocean.

And this story has been passed down to this day.

[scribble-wyvern]

The two of them are both very upset for a long time. The King cherishes his daughters, and all knew he would die for them if he had to. It's just that no one thought it would be... like this.

When she comes of age, the princess begins going on long sea voyages to explore distant lands. She's the youngest, after all, not the heir; she has more leeway in what she chooses to do with her life. And everyone agrees it's easier this way anyway.

She becomes an expert naturalist, studying samples of strange plants and animals to enrich the kingdom. Both trade and scientific knowledge are expanded due to her efforts. After years pass and nothing happens, the King and the Princess begin to relax. She comes home more often. Eventually they reconcile completely.

The king has a fatal anaphylactic reaction at the age of 80 when his daughter, returning from a sea voyage, prepares her beloved family an appetizer using a delicacy from the New World: peanuts.

a king has received the standard prophecy that his youngest daughter will be the one to kill him but instead of reacting as "get this baby out of my sight and abandon it somewhere in the woods for it to die" he accepts his fate and dinner time is made very awkward.

[scribble-wyvern]

yoooo guys these wings my dad made look INSANE i can’t wait to try them tomorrow

[scribble-wyvern]

Being good to each other is so important, guys.

[scribble-wyvern]

twenty years across the sea

[scribble-wyvern]

Here’s the horror comic I drew for this year’s 24 hour comic day/48 hour comic weekend, called “The Night-Mother”.

Content warnings: miscarriage, child loss, violence, death, nudity

[scribble-wyvern]

i've seen enough horror movies starring upper-middle-income white families stuck in spacious haunted mansions. gimme stories about millennials stuck in haunted studio apartments. consider the realism:

why is this protagonist staying in an obviously haunted building despite the glaring warning signs? because a week at a motel would send them spiraling into credit card debt, they'll take their chances with the vengeful spirits. why did they chose this apartment complex to begin with, despite the many many unexplained mysterious deaths that show up on the first page of a google search? hon some of us don't have the credit score to move away from high (paranormal) crime areas. how could i be so careless as to sign a soul-binding contract with a demonic entity? bitch they're called LANDLORDS

[scribble-wyvern]

When Jim Gordon asked Batman to hide a witness for a few weeks, B and Dick had thought Amity Park would be a great location. It was distant from Gotham, with a population just large enough for one or two new residents to go unnoticed, yet an almost nonexistent internet presence. The town's ghostly tourist gimmick had seemed harmless.

The Batcomputer hadn't pinged any local villains or even organized crime. And Constantine's 'helpfully' labelled "Magic Bullshit - Do Not Touch" map indicated very few occult hazards in Illinois. If there had been any evidence that the ghost thing had been based on truth, the two of them would have found it in the investigation phase.

Dick stood on the balcony of the safehouse, with the witness secure in the panic room (and maybe it should have raised red flags that the house had already had one). He stared grimly down at the street, mentally noting down for his report the things that should not have been there.

First, there was a delivery truck (crashed into a street lamp): not ideal, likely to attract attention and bring repair crews to the street.

Second, there was a teen in a black jumpsuit (flying, glowing, and shooting lasers from his hands): a bad sign, but if Dick was very optimistic he could explain it away. Maybe the kid had just received a Green Lantern ring and was having a hard time with control. That would be inconvenient, but one call and the Justice League could probably send Green Lantern out to discreetly orient him.

Third, there was a man with blue skin (flying, glowing, and telekinetically robbing the crashed delivery truck): this was pretty hard to write off as anything except a failure in their research. The guy looked like a blue-collar laborer from the 30s and talked like a supervillain from decades ago, back when most fights started with yelling your name and gimmick multiple times as loudly as possible to make sure the news reporters got it down right.

Forcing his grip on the railing to loosen, Dick turned and walked back into the house. If they'd missed something this big (ghosts? come on, ghosts?), Batman would want to hear about it immediately. And no matter what B said about opsec, there were a couple friends he'd be calling as backup.

He'd been planning to do his civilian schoolwork remotely, but if he enrolled himself and a couple friends in the local high school for a little while - under fake names, of course - they could do a proper investigation.

Hey, his mentor was the world's greatest detective, after all. He couldn't let this town's secrets ruin Batman and Robin's reputation for knowing everything.

I’ve been sucked into the DPxDC crossover fandom despite not keeping up with DC comics or shows in YEARS really, but I’m so into it lmao. One of the things I love is that depending on how everyone is aged, Danny is shipped with just about anyone 😂

But it’s always with Danny going to Gotham and dealing with the DC world. What if…

What if DC Character(s) of Choosing were the ones who moved to Amity Park for whatever reason? Maybe Wayne Enterprises is opening a location there, maybe taking over Axion Labs/Vladco or something, or maybe just simply one or more of the kids are doing a student exchange program thing. Whatever.

But what if it was the DC character having to deal with the strangeness of the DP universe instead of the typical other way around?

I just think that throwing Batfam into Phantom’s world could lead to interesting new stories.

[scribble-wyvern]

the trouble is you are a monster

The promised short: my take on the tale of Theseus and the Minotaur…from the Minotaur’s perspective. Warnings for blood, death, and a good dose of self-loathing. Full text and requested taglist under the readmore.

The trouble is, of course, that you are unwanted.

You know your mother’s name is Pasiphae, though with your bull’s tongue you cannot pronounce it. On your too-thick lips and too-sharp teeth, the word collapses, as do all others, and their meanings. Your first memory is of the way she looked at you when you tried and failed to speak what you knew to be true.

Of your father you have heard only rumors. The man who should have been your parent is named Minos, whom others call king and ruler and majesty, as they grovel at his feet and beg him for mercy. But when you approach him, he recoils with shame so strong it sickens you to your core. He cannot stand to be in the same room as you.

These two – your mother, and the father you never had, hide you away for the first years of your life. You grow tall, and broad, and horned, and your speech does not improve. When you ask, you are met with fearful eyes and cowering. When you cry out, you are met with the bright, bright points of spears. Soon enough you anticipate this; you lash out before they can strike you, and scream before they can hurl their insults. It hurts less when you harm yourself before they can.

At times, your door opens to admit a man with sad eyes and thin shoulders. You want to ask if he has lost something as well. They call him Daedalus, and he takes your measures, the span of your arms, the width of your chest, the finer details of your bull’s head and the mane which extends down your back. Daedalus is the only person to have touched your horns and left with hands intact. The others who have tried, they were not so lucky.

Always, your blood betrays you. Despite your human flesh, there is something of the animal in you, just beneath the surface. They chain you when they cannot sate you. When they can, still they crawl in fear away. Because they must, and you will make them, no matter what the cost.

Some nights you wonder if it would have been better to throw yourself at this Minos’ feet and beg, just as his subjects do.

The trouble is, of course, that there is too much of the bull in you.

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