finniganmcginnigan

[finniganmcginnigan]

Stelle

i just think they’re neat

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Happy Kafka day!

This startedout as a background study but in honour of her banner FINALLY arriving...

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Sometimes I catch my own Reflection and I think, 'Oh why aren't I painting this body more,' Because sometimes I forget I'm a canvas too, Haha!

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Barber's chair

PART 2 OF 2 CW: bodily fluids and disturbing imagery ... I took a look in the corner of my gaze to see the person a couple metres away from me still getting his hairstyle. He seemed off. His mouth was a little too long. I couldn't see the bags under his eyes, but they were too heavy. Rough day at work. I played that idea in my head. Nine to five really take a toll on people, especially Wednesdays. I gaze further over to notice the hairdresser. Her fingers. Oh heavens, her fingers. They were long, not her nails or her thumb. Just her fingers. I get pushed back to face the mirror with a hand on my shoulder, gently patting it. Without saying one word, “sorry”. I knew exactly what he was saying. I recoiled my thoughts to how my hair looked to forget about my odd sighting. Time passed as I rubbed my eyes to clear the build of tears from my non-audible yawns. As the barber finishes the final cuts of my hair, I feel my eyes close. Slowly drifting into slumber. I get jolted awake by a slight nip from the thinning scissors. For a man so delicate, he did pull some hair while thinning out my hair. I yawn again. What little amounts of noise fell from my throat apparently stabbed the ears of my barber and probably everyone else in the room. While I knew it's been quiet for a while now, it's eerie. More quiet than quiet. A silence only created by the lack of particles and atoms in space. The barber stops. Gently he takes off my apron, flakes off the hair that managed to squirm down my neck and walks me to the front to cash me out. His placement didn't let me see the crime scene from the locks that fell from my hair. He passes me to the cash, only to be greeted moments later with a receipt. I haven't even paid yet, but without a word, he insisted that I had. Tiredness makes you forget, I guess, makes you see things, zone out, and make you less aware. As I left the store, I took one quick glance behind me. Where I sat seconds ago morphed into some kind of god-awful surgeon’s chair. The room was light blue with white lights beaming from wall to wall like some psych ward. I'm not crazy. I find myself reasonable. Able to reason with illusions and mind tricks. But I still yet to understand why a body is being dragged to the chair. Eyes tightly shut and mouth pouring with some kind of black ooze. What was worse was seeing someone talk only to have a barber widen the customer's open mouth to slurp whatever was inside. I like to think I was lucky. My barber was kind and gentle. He kept me safe. One question stabs my mind on occasion even to this day. How long was I asleep before the barber woke me up. -Finn

[finniganmcginnigan]

Barber's chair

Horror Short Story CW: bodily liquids, disturbing imagery.

Barber's chair

I’m always excited to get my hair cut. Something so strange and so small yet makes such a big impact on your confidence and appearance. I just sat into the slightly used leathery barber's chair feet resting on the foot stool that stays attached to the spinning chair. It’s so fun playing with them when your barber leaves for a moment, I remember as a kid I’d spin all the time till I felt dizzy. This time, not three moments after I sit down, a broad-shouldered mountain of a man walks behind me. Not necessarily tall. But sitting down beside him, he sure seems like he could crush anyone with his bare hands. He turns towards my seat, his aura sending vibrant chills of every colour and shade down my spine. He leans to open his small floating desk of tools, razors, beard balm, and styling spray. The glance at his back gives me a sense of calm. He has no tattoos or facial piercings but a lovely well-presented beard and slightly long hair that passes no further than his mouth, put up into a styled bun. From one glance, you see that he cares for his craft and shows it with himself. My hair is still damp from the wash another hairdresser gave me about seven minutes ago. I still have yet to see his face as a whole. The silence is thick, only broken by my forceful acknowledgement of the other people near me chatting about their day. Nothing I can make out. The words hit my ears as a mash of sentences and sounds. My lips start to open, feeling the chapped top lip clinging to the lower lip until the two sides let loose with more force. I begin a sentence hoping to break the tension, just a casual introduction and a "How are you doing." Before the air could leave my windpipe, he points to the mirror without saying a word. I glance over, seeing my own reflection. The reflection appeared normal. I noticed while attempting to peek at what was behind me, a note. One the size of a pinky. "Quiet zone", the message read to me. I decided to not say a word. I didn't understand why or how I never was told about this "Quiet zone," but I didn't care to intrude and disrupt. Probably sensitive to noise, I make myself believe. The barber picks up his tools, his left hand holding clippers and the right a comb. Luckily I was only coming for a trim as I wanted to grow my hair out after shaving my head last summer. He stands behind me. His presence takes up nearly the entire body-length mirror. Not literally. While he was a big guy. He certainly couldn't take up that much space. His presence there made it near impossible to focus on the surroundings. I forgot to mention the backward cape as my friend liked to refer to, it was already strung around me to allow the hair to slide right off. The barber gently taps me as if to warn me that he is starting. The buzzer turned on ever so quietly as he dug it into my hair. He was gentle. His muscled hands lay firmly around my hair. If I were asleep, I would have mistaken it for a cat's tail. A couple minutes in, I'm a little bored. The silence irritates a little, and it was clear my legs and fingers became restless. Finding anything entertaining to occupy me, I looked through the large reflection only to be greeted by the barber's face. Nothing odd. At first. His eyes were covered. Not by a hat or glasses or anything like it but by the way he is tilting his head down to cut my hair. His beard covered his mouth and most of his cheeks. It was a brilliant black beard. Ink black like the sky on a clear night. No stars, obviously just a clear dark sky. I'm curious as to what he looks like but refrain from moving my head so as to not disrupt his workflow. He looked invested, caring for every hair like a piece of modern art. On his way to get a spray bottle, he  nudged the chair slightly to the right, and it was only then did I realise the noise of the clients stopped. PART ONE OF TWO -Finn

[finniganmcginnigan]

The June Calendar

CW: Slight body Horror and implied dissociation

The June Calendar 

Painting for sale. The art on my calendar faces back at me with the reminder that I haven’t changed the page for 3 months. I never even wrote in this calendar yet. Too busy. Or just not active enough. Seeing my room as a shithole of my creation, I wonder how it returned to this state. Mugs and plates are piled up to the ceiling. Clothes in hampers, not knowing if they’re clean or not. Random half-done projects scrambling around my room, making me aware of my presence to not destroy any of it with my steps. I sit. Fossilized in my bed, head against the cold wall waiting for something to happen. My bones feel brittle, and my muscles feel stiff. Not moving my head, I look around the room. I notice my door. I notice my suitcase from last month’s vacation. I notice my half-empty bottle of melatonin and how the “e” has one of those lines on top of it. I notice my legs half embedded into the mattress as if they lived there for years. I noticed my computer. Turned off, it’s screen pitch black with no reflection. Nothing unordinary except for the monitor light was missing. The blaring red light that twinkles in the night. During the day, you could still see it but not now. Now it’s off. Looking at the wires, they seem connected. The computer too. The LED that would shine past its power off-stage seemed to have fallen asleep as well. I muster the energy to move my body. Still, I’m met with no result besides the feeling of dryness shooting across my nerves. A silence still fills the air, more noticeable than the hour before this one, as I see my watch loosely strung around my wrist. The arms frozen in time as I seem to always forget to put new batteries in, but the time struck me oddly. 10:35 AM, December 17th. I could have sworn we weren’t in December. The window to my right showed maple trees full of newly fabricated vibrant leaves, no snow in sight, and the wind from the open window was breezy. But nothing close to a winter’s grasp. I looked back to my watch, trying to adjust my eyes to acknowledge my awareness of the date. It’s when I noticed how the watch is being held  onto my wrist. I never remember my wrist so small. The watch band loosely swayed in the wind, being saved by my heavy watch head. I look down still with no head movement as it was too much energy to bear. I notice, however. My buttons from my cotton button-up have given out. Leaving an opening where my chest would have been. What I saw was not skin. But black bone and leftover muscle tissue like you’d see after a wolf finishes its feast. I panic. No sweat dripping off my face. No facial movements. Just looking. Seeing right through my chest to a cavity of leftover bones. My bones. Black. Brittle. Dry. Bones. I now no longer want to know how long I’ve been here. Five months I’ve been here, and god knows how many more I’ll be here for. Waiting to be buried. Maybe then I’ll be set free from my skeletal trap. For now I sit endlessly looking at my watch. The only thing which no time passes. Maybe then I can lose touch with reality until my last moments above the earth. I sit. I watch.

-Finny

[finniganmcginnigan]

Black Tar on a Monday Evening

A short story (TRIGGER WARNING BODY HORROR)

Black Tar on a Monday evening.

There it was. Leaching from my hair. A black ooze. A thick vial-looking liquid secreting from my pores as I look into the mirror for the fifteenth time today. 

The light bulb flickered again. Taking my gaze away from my eyes that stared at me from my reflection, my peripheral barely catching the details of the ooze that had reached my cheek. I stared back from the moth fixation to nothing. The ooze vanished. Like if it left no trace on me. I still felt it. I knew it wla reflection there. It's warm, its embrace touches my skin as it trails A kind of warmth you get when you’re slightly ill and can’t stand the heat your body radiates, yet struggles still for warmth. The more I look into my eyes, the more I wonder why it’s taken me so long to notice the ooze. Was it always there? Those questions come through, stabbing into my sides as the ooze returns, filling the wounds of the only sanity inducing part of my body, I feel the backs of my eyes bulge as a teary pressure releases from my water ducts. What came out. Tar. Black. Goopy. Rotting Tar.

I hear a breath leave my pharynx, creating a sound of what you’d listen to when a smoker breathes for what amounts of air they can still pack into their tar filled lungs. Then it started. My throat. Raspy for liquid as if something had deprived it of water. I caught covering with my elbow to only see dark grey ash left on my arm where saliva would be. Focussing back onto the only sanity inducing part of my body, I feel the backs of my eyes bulge as a teary pressure releases from my water ducts. What came out. Tar. Black. Goopy. Rotting Tar.

 I never looked in the mirror for long after that incident. I debated telling my parents. Wondered how I could bring it up without them thinking I’d gone crazy. Caught some mental illness maybe.

Looking back, I knew my parents would believe me. I didn’t believe me.  Being 6”4, I no longer look at my dark pupils. In fact, I can’t even see my head. Just a body. Some random body. Mocking my movements. Somehow so perfectly. I wonder what happened to my reflection. Maybe I frightened it more than it frightened me. The ooze gives me comfort now. Not that I ever see it. But I still feel it lurking. Moving. Magling around my bones and muscles and fat. I feel it in my brain. I think back to that Monday evening when I first saw that ooze. I wonder what would have come from it if I said something. What If I tell someone today. I believe in myself. The ooze is in me, and I plan to take it out.

By Finny

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Before I forget

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[finniganmcginnigan]

them!!!

(i literally can't get mona lisa out of my head and this scene is so!!!!!!!)

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Silly little thing being silly

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:)

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maybe one day I’ll have a third follower that isn’t a porn bot... one day

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PRETTY WOMEN PRETTY WOMENT PRETTY WOMEN!!!!!

(no boobs because idfk how TOS on Tumblr works)

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guys fr why are so many fucking porn accounts following me!!! PLEASE LIKE BRO IM ASEXUAL

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ART TRIBUTE TO MY FAVOURITE ARC ON AN SMP I WAS ON