dendrobium-writes

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did you know: you can give a doll a sword?

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Porcelain dress, porcelain flesh Maybe you can break me But I can still remake me

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Before

The lady of the house sits comfortably in her study, catching up on some reading. Beside her on the table is a gold-rimmed, porcelain teacup, an empty platter, and a small silver bell. She picks up the bell and rings it.

The door to her study opens, and a woman walks in. She wears a set of circle-framed glasses on her face, and is clad in a well-kept uniform. A black and white dress, custom-tailored and maintained with an almost religious fervor. Braided hair topped with a small headpiece completes the look, a look that her lady is very fond of.

"Is there something I can do for you, my lady?" Her voice is soft and sweet. She speaks from her mouth, rather than her chest, and not too loudly.

The lady of the house sighs and leans back, setting her book down on her lap. Her gaze turns to the maid, whose practiced posture is as still and serene as a mantis on the hunt. She isn't a Doll, but she might as well be one.

"I would like your company, if I may?" The lady responds. Her own voice, while certainly ladylike, is comparatively loud and boisterous. It's a naturally gifted voice, not one achieved through training or practice.

"My company?" The maid responds. "It would be both an honor and a pleasure, my lady." She answers, not betraying any emotion or personal feelings in her tone.

"Wonderful, please, have a seat then." Her lady says with a smile. The maid does so, finding the nearest seat and planting herself in it.

"I don't know many of my servants very well." she starts. "I would like to begin with you, my favored maid." She says, flashing anther smile.

The maid tenses up for a moment, but forces herself to relax. "I.. See." She says, her apprehension clear. "What would you like to know about me, my lady?"

The lady, either not picking up on this or not caring, begins. "Do you have a name?" "Hollyhock." comes the sharp, curt answer.

"That's the name you chose as my maid. But how were you called before?"

"I would rather not say, my lady."

"And why is that?"

"Because it is no longer my name, my lady."

The lady ponders this for a moment. "Very well." She says. "What did you do before? How were you employed? Did you have any hobbies?"

After a pregnant pause, the maid responds. "With all respect, my lady, I fail to see how any of this is relevant to becoming more familiar with me." The lady furrows her brow. "And why would you say that?"

"You are asking about who I was, not who I am."

"Is who you were not important?"

"No, my lady. It is not."

The lady pinches the bridge of her nose. "I hired a maid. If I wanted a Doll, I'd have commissioned one." she mutters.

The maid tenses up again, fighting to keep the ticking inside of her silent. A task that became more and more difficult as it increased in speed and intensity.

She quietly checked to ensure her gloves were adequately concealing her joints.

"Well, it's clear that you don't want to have this discussion with me." The lady says with a sigh. "You are dismissed."

The Doll stands and offers a polite bow before leaving the room, and the lady resumes reading.

After another hour of reading, the lady reaches for the bell. She holds it in her hands for a moment before ringing it.

The door does not open. After one minute, two. Then five. Ten.

She rings the bell again.

And nobody enters the room. Not after one minute, then two, five, and ten.

The Doll has left. And will not turn back.

[dendrobium-writes]

Before

The lady of the house sits comfortably in her study, catching up on some reading. Beside her on the table is a gold-rimmed, porcelain teacup, an empty platter, and a small silver bell. She picks up the bell and rings it.

The door to her study opens, and a woman walks in. She wears a set of circle-framed glasses on her face, and is clad in a well-kept uniform. A black and white dress, custom-tailored and maintained with an almost religious fervor. Braided hair topped with a small headpiece completes the look, a look that her lady is very fond of.

"Is there something I can do for you, my lady?" Her voice is soft and sweet. She speaks from her mouth, rather than her chest, and not too loudly.

The lady of the house sighs and leans back, setting her book down on her lap. Her gaze turns to the maid, whose practiced posture is as still and serene as a mantis on the hunt. She isn't a Doll, but she might as well be one.

"I would like your company, if I may?" The lady responds. Her own voice, while certainly ladylike, is comparatively loud and boisterous. It's a naturally gifted voice, not one achieved through training or practice.

"My company?" The maid responds. "It would be both an honor and a pleasure, my lady." She answers, not betraying any emotion or personal feelings in her tone.

"Wonderful, please, have a seat then." Her lady says with a smile. The maid does so, finding the nearest seat and planting herself in it.

"I don't know many of my servants very well." she starts. "I would like to begin with you, my favored maid." She says, flashing anther smile.

The maid tenses up for a moment, but forces herself to relax. "I.. See." She says, her apprehension clear. "What would you like to know about me, my lady?"

The lady, either not picking up on this or not caring, begins. "Do you have a name?" "Hollyhock." comes the sharp, curt answer.

"That's the name you chose as my maid. But how were you called before?"

"I would rather not say, my lady."

"And why is that?"

"Because it is no longer my name, my lady."

The lady ponders this for a moment. "Very well." She says. "What did you do before? How were you employed? Did you have any hobbies?"

After a pregnant pause, the maid responds. "With all respect, my lady, I fail to see how any of this is relevant to becoming more familiar with me." The lady furrows her brow. "And why would you say that?"

"You are asking about who I was, not who I am."

"Is who you were not important?"

"No, my lady. It is not."

The lady pinches the bridge of her nose. "I hired a maid. If I wanted a Doll, I'd have commissioned one." she mutters.

The maid tenses up again, fighting to keep the ticking inside of her silent. A task that became more and more difficult as it increased in speed and intensity.

She quietly checked to ensure her gloves were adequately concealing her joints.

"Well, it's clear that you don't want to have this discussion with me." The lady says with a sigh. "You are dismissed."

The Doll stands and offers a polite bow before leaving the room, and the lady resumes reading.

After another hour of reading, the lady reaches for the bell. She holds it in her hands for a moment before ringing it.

The door does not open. After one minute, two. Then five. Ten.

She rings the bell again.

And nobody enters the room. Not after one minute, then two, five, and ten.

The Doll has left. And will not turn back.

[dendrobium-writes]

Will write soon.

[dendrobium-writes]

what is more common, one pilot with two or more handlers, or one handler with two or more pilots? or is it always one to one?

In my experience, it's definitely more common to see one handler handling multiple pilots rather than the inverse, if the dynamic isn't being written one-to-one.

In a story I've been in the process of writing for a while, one handler is assigned to a squadron of pilots. Thematically, I intend to explore quite a few things with this.

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A photo of five people.

sits on your desk. You know them all. One of them is you, and the rest are your friends. Well, ‘friend’ might not be entirely accurate. Siblings-in-arms, comrades, companions... Family. They face the same struggles as you every day. They lift you up, and you lift them up. You support one another. You love each other.

Your station has changed. You’ve been moved elsewhere. A photo of four people sits on your desk. You know them all well. One of them is you, and the rest are your siblings-in-arms. There’s one less of you now, but you carry on nonetheless. These things happen, and not everyone makes it. You came to terms with that ages ago. But for it to happen to someone so close? It almost felt surreal. Regardless, those of you who are left support each other. You lift each other up. You love each other.

Redeployment again, and a new office to decorate. You set a photo of three people down on your desk. They’re all familiar. One of them is you, and the others are your companions. Another is gone, but you can’t afford to stop. Despite the pain and hardship of it all, it’s brought the three of you closer than ever. You lift each other up. You support each other. You love each other.

Another move. Another empty desk. You set a photo of a pair of people down. You know them both. One is you, and the other is your partner. There used to be so many more, but now it’s just the two of you. Fighting side-by-side, back-to-back. Loss has taken its toll. You can barely sleep, the silence is too heavy. You can barely plan, thoughts of them cloud your mind. Regardless, you have to be there for one another. You lift one another up. You support one another. You love one another.

You stare at the desk of your new office. You don’t have a photo to place upon it. You don’t have your friends. Your siblings-in-arms. Your comrades or companions. You don’t have your family.

Nobody is left to lift you up. Nobody is left to support you.

And nobody is left to love you.

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疑似人格がイマイチなので魔女にお願いしました by sukabu

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Cold Comfort

The following is a draft, originally written on July 6th, 2024. It will be posted without tags. Warning! This is a vent piece about suicidal ideation and traumatic reenactment. Some may find this subject matter upsetting or disturbing. Proceed at your discretion.

Returning home from a long day, I sit down at my desk like I normally do. It's cloudy and hot. Gray and humid.

My body feels sticky as I start to eat my dinner. It's nothing special, just cheap fast food. Dinner is usually paid for with tips and whatever loose change I can scrounge up.

Finishing up my evening routine, I finally start to get comfortable. I prepare to partake in my hobbies. Personal projects, leisure activities.

The small things that make life worth the trouble.

But as I go to begin, I freeze in place. A cascade of uninvited, wordless thoughts flood my mind.

I open my desk and lift an object out, looking at it in my hands. Flipping its switches, pressing its buttons. Listening to the sounds and sensations of it.

I lift it quietly and press it against my temple.

It's fake.

A toy with a bright orange tip.

The physical sensation is the same, though.

The cold steel against my head.

The gentle shift of the components as it presses into my skull.

Is it wrong for one to find comfort in these feelings?

In a reminder of how it almost ended?

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How would you define a moth, in the empty spaces sense? I know it's a tough ask so just try your best!

Oh, an ask! How wonderful! Most of my work is based in Witch-Doll and Pilot-Handler dynamics, and I'm not overly familiar with Moth-related or Moth-centric works.

I don't feel that I'm particularly qualified to answer this question, but if any other writers more familiar with this archetype would like to weigh in, please feel free to do so!

And I appreciate that I was the one who came to mind for an Empty Spaces question! Thank you for thinking of me.

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Kangaroold

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Dysmorphia is a difficult thing to describe. The feelings I associate with it are difficult to put into words, in a way that others can easily grasp.

As an exercise in communication, I am going to attempt to put those feelings into words here.

I do not think I am ugly. As a matter of fact, I think I am quite beautiful. And others seem to agree. I am also unconcerned by the prospect of appearing as masculine. At this point, I have to put in effort to present that way.

Neither of those concerns accurately describe my dissatisfaction with the body I inhabit.

I suppose it is most accurate to say that I feel a disconnect. I struggle with full-body awareness. I perceive myself as much different from how I exist on a physical level.

I bump into things, trip myself up. I take a photograph of myself, and look completely different in the photograph from how I saw myself in the preview.

When I bring this up, and people state how they find me attractive, or desirable, it feels nice, but it fails to address the underlying issue.

Issues that I, myself, have difficulties fully understanding.

Pair this with the fact that I do not exist alone in this mind, and it leads to even more issues. My other half feels far more comfortable than I do.

Perhaps I am not the original. But that line of thinking will lead to an existential spiral that I simply do not have the energy to manage.

Perhaps it is as simple as wishing I could appear differently. To refine my body into something I like, above any other concerns. Perhaps all I need is the focus and drive to work on it.

But it does not ever feel quite that simple.

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“dead doll do not eat”

instructions unclear i used to chew on my barbie’s fingers till they were flat

DO!!!

NOT!!!

EAT!!!

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my apologies to the lovely lady who had only just begun constructing her beautiful spiderweb in the immediate path of the side door this morning when i, in my self-centered desire to vacate my home of assorted household refuse, came oafishly barging through the sum of her efforts. i shall meditate upon my actions and how they harmed not just her, but all women of the world, and endeavour to do better

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I ❤️ UNRELATABLE CHARACTERS

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