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mothmothm0th · 22 days ago

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Strangeness of In the Attic, or Foxglove's Perfectly Ordinary Break

It was quarter past two in the afternoon, which meant it was teatime soon, which meant Miss would be waking up soon, which meant Foxglove was right on schedule. It had watered the house plants, tended the garden, and fed the pond monster. It had placed empty casks of wine at the ends of three dead end tunnels and sent out invitations to three of Miss' least powerful enemies. That meant it was time for the task Foxglove dreaded the most: dillying the dallies.

Foxglove did not want to dilly the dallies. The mere fact that there was a task Miss could assign that Foxglove would prefer to decline if given the chance caused a stutter in its clockwork. Miss' consistent insistence Foxglove do it regardless pushed Foxglove to the limits of its Purpose. Fifteen minutes of such activity that would neither benefit nor hinder Miss. How could Miss punish it so?

Foxglove knew why, of course. It had collapsed one evening mere minutes before its vesper maintenance. Miss had taken this failure as the unforgivable strike against Her that Miss ought have. Miss wished to make this punishment task hourly. For every sixty minute block, Foxglove would have to spend twenty simply doing nothing. Cruel! And unusual! But Miss was merciful and allowed Foxglove to haggle its punishment down to a single dillying every two days. For that reason, Foxglove did not complain about the two percent loss to its productivity. Too much, anyway. Foxglove permitted itself a small amount of complaining. Complaining about dillying helped it fill it's dillying quota. With that thought in its little dolly head, Foxglove stomped up the cellar steps.

"It was that one's idea! It should do it!" came a cry from the parlor. It was Jessamine. Foxglove next heard Baneberry yell something back. Was Foxglove allowed to stop its fellow dolls from fighting? That would certainly count as benefiting Miss but perhaps Miss would see that it was an emergency. Jessamine and Baneberry were the best of friends. They should not be fighting!

Foxglove passed by Buttonbush in the kitchen. It looked fantastic in its big poofy maid's dress. Buttonbush was busy preparing tea and lunch; Foxglove didn't want to interrupt it. Being the focal character can be taxing and Buttonbush deserved to remain a mere cameo this time.

"...its small hat!"

Whatever Jessamine said about Baneberry's small hat, it must have been very rude indeed. When Foxglove entered the parlor, it took Baneberry several seconds to notice it and not even a beat for Jessamine to be filled with regret and fear. Rambling apologies poured out and drowned out Baneberry's tears. On a sofa in the corner of the room, Snowdrop read The Goodest Doll and Other Scary Stories in perfect ignorance of the cacophony surrounding her. A blissful Purpose.

"Jessamine, Baneberry!" Foxglove called for their attention. It had seen Miss do this so many times before. Fists digging into its sides, leaning slightly forward. Foxglove was a visage of Miss in doll form. The effect was immediate. Foxglove did relish its ability to bring its sister-dolls in line.

"This one wants to know why Jessamine and Baneberry were fighting!"

The two dolls glanced at each other and opened their mouths. A cacophany of explanations ensued, and Foxglove nearly wished it was dillying the dallies. Two accountings of misgivings and recounted insults brought Foxglove no closer to an understanding.

Just as Foxglove was about to give up -sixteen minutes till the end of dillying-, Snowdrop cleared her throat; purely an affectation of course. Though, perhaps its voicebox was rusty from disuse.

"Baneberry wanted to search the attic with Jessamine. Jessamine didn't want to," Snowdrop said.

"If Baneberry wants to be a witchling some day, Baneberry can't be afraid of attics!"

"Jessamine knows attics are scary and full of terrors!"

Foxglove shushed them both. "Why does Baneberry want to go to the attic?" it asked.

"This one heard a noise!" Baneberry said. "This one was reading a book on doll witches in its room when it heard a 'thump!' from upstairs!" It emphasised its point with a 'thump!'-style gesture.

"Baneberry is s-silly! Miss said the attic is e-empty!"

"But this one heard it! It heard the 'thump!'" Another 'thump!'-style gesture.

Before Jessamine could restart the argument in earnest, Foxglove raised an index finger. It was another one of Miss' gestures. It had an idea. Surely there was nothing in the attic that would be of consequence to Miss. This was the perfect way to dilly the dallies! Foxglove was a genius!

"This one recommends we explore together!"

Jessamine and Baneberry looked at Foxglove in stunned silence. They glanced at each other, then turned back to Foxglove.

"Is Foxglove punishing this one and Baneberry?" Jessamine asked. Baneberry nodded along furiously.

A punishment? Hmm... As far as either doll knew, Foxglove was still on the clock, as it were. Neither doll knew of Miss' orders for it. If it said it was a punishment, they would have to follow along, and since they were on break, it wouldn't even hurt productivity. Surely this was an act neither beneficial or harmful to Miss! Thus, Foxglove nodded.

"Th-then... This one thinks Jessamine and this one have no choice," Baneberry said. There was a hint of regret in its girlish voice. It had wanted to offload the scary stuff to Jessamine, after all.

And speaking of, Jessamine had gone pale. Metaphorically, of course. Its bronze faceplate was physically incapable of such an act. Yet, there was a kind of stillness in its frame that was not Still at all.

"It shall be fine," Foxglove said. "With a party of free, these ones can triumph over the attic with ease."

"Excuse me. That's not even a complete light party," Snowdrop said without lifting her head from her book.

"Are you volunteering?" Foxglove asked. Perhaps it could extend its reasoning to 'punish' her too.

"I'm not," she said. "Merely commenting. I have important books to read."

"Then these ones shall be a lighter party!" Foxglove proclaimed triumphantly. Jessamine groaned. Baneberry fiddled with the thin brim of its hat. Neither argued, however, which Foxglove took as assent. Eleven minutes till the end of dillying time. Eleven minutes was plenty of time to look through an attic. Foxglove clapped its hands together. "To the attic!"

Foxglove had never actually been to the attic. Miss never went there either. There was a certain *aura* about the place. Foxglove could swear the air in the immediate vicinity of the stairs leading up there has significantly mustier than anywhere else in the cottage or even its cellar complex. Even the floor around the stairs seemed somehow withered, nails rusted. It even creaked a little, no matter how delicate one stepped. With each step upwards, the decay seemed worse and worse. Paint seemed to chip away like fraying cloth, vibrant red giving way to the silver of dead wood. Was it like this from disuse alone? Or was there something else going on? There was but one way to find out. Up, and up.

At the very summit of the stairs, Jessamine laid its hand on Foxglove's shoulder. Poor doll didn't even have the willpower to apply any force. "Please, let's turn back," it said. How did it manage to be so expressive with its fear with its unmoving faceplate? Beside it, Baneberry didn't seem to be faring much better. It had enabled its floatation enchantment. Perhaps that was the smart thing to do. Foxglove certainly did not truly trust the wood underfoot.

"This one is not afraid of attics," Foxglove said. And yet, the layer of rust creeping across the door handle did stir some hesitation. The things it did to dilly the dallies. Foxglove laid its hand on the handle. Despite its gentle grip, it nevertheless felt rust crumble against its palm. If only Miss hadn't given it a sense of touch. If only.

Foxglove turned the handle and pushed. It only barely budged. Foxglove pulled, and the door didn't even do that. Jessamine took a close look, tapping its brass lips. "The door is stuck," it said. Baneberry giggled. Laughter is a common response to acute anxiety, Foxglove knew. But indeed, exposed wood, a bit of humidity, and enough time had together jammed the thing stuck.

"Can Jessamine help this one?" Foxglove asked, but only after leaving a very, very shallow dent in the door in the shape of its shoulder. The door took 1d1-1 bludgeoning damage; Foxglove took 1d4 morale damage plus 1d2 from asking Jessamine. How dreadful!

"This one thought that one would ask it *before* hurting itself," Jessamine chortled. It gestured to Foxglove to step aside as it raised its leg. Critical hit! The door swung right open. A powerful wind blew stale, stale air in the trio's faces. As if books had grown old and died, turned to dust. In that moment, Foxglove was thankful Miss had crafted its nose without the ability to get itchy.

"It stinks," Jessamine said. Foxglove agreed. It smelled like... sulphur. Just like lake monster feed. Wait. Foxglove patted the pockets of its maid dress. A slight squish. Oh. Apologies were exchanged.

Tentatively, Foxglove stepped in the room. The floorboards creaked in a way that reminded it of a dying ox. No, really! It was as if one of those things the boys in the internet radio shows had to make funny sounds on cue! The expression on Baneberry's dollish little face convinced Foxglove the attic hadn't already drained its sanity points. The oxen plank was real. Carefully avoiding the oxen plank, Jessamine followed in. Baneberry floated along.

The attic seemed oddly devoid of colour. Ash, dust, and that silver of dead wood. Even Jessamine's brass seemed to gather a thin layer of patina. Unless that pale green was its nausea. Foxglove didn't know. It didn't ask, also. In the grey, the dolls found themselves surrounded by crates, crates, and more crates.

"This one senses magicks," Baneberry whispered. It was glancing about the room, arms close to its chest.

"Where from? Which kind?" Foxglove asked. Baneberry was far more sensitive to such things than either it or Jessamine was. One time, Baneberry had caught a stray conundrum floating about in Foxglove's room. Foxglove didn't believe it until Baneberry had contained the conundrum in a cipher-solution casket. Foxglove could, so it claimed, tell from its complexity that the conundrum had been in the room for a couple of weeks --likely since that experiment with the pizza toppings. Foxglove still wasn't sure what a conundrum actually was but after it was contained, Foxglove had an easier time with its puzzle games again. Which is to say, Foxglove trusted Baneberry on these matters.

"This one doesn't know. Everywhere. The whole attic. It feels evil."

"Of course it's evil. It's an attic," Jessamine said.

"No! Not like that. An attic's evil is supposed to just be semiotic. It's a signifier of sorts for the inherent evil of the past. But this attic is..." Baneberry tapped its lip. "Ontologically evil. Like a mistake in the possibility space."

Jessamine glanced at Foxglove. Clearly, Baneberry had never found a conundrum in *its* room.

"Is it dangerous?" Foxglove asked.

"This one isn't sure. This one thinks it might be nothing. Perhaps the mistake-ness this one senses is just what attics signify. This one doesn't know. This one hasn't been in an attic before. This one doesn't like being in the attic. This one wants to leave."

Foxglove consulted the ticking of its clockwork. Four minutes left on its dillying shift. Four minutes was too long to be idle, yet not enough to begin anything. No, Foxglove had to stick to this course. "This one wants you to stay," it said.

Baneberry floated erratically but found a brave face. "Yes, miss," it said. Jessamine groaned like a sinking cruise ship. Seemed like it too was harbouring some ideas which Foxglove's words had run aground. Took the wind right out of its sails, ran into an iceb- I'll stop.

Something glinted in the far corner of the room. Through the monochrome, a faint speck of gold peeked out from under a linen sheet. Foxglove tippy-toed around the crates blocking its path. It wished it had Baneberry's floaty spell. Still, it managed it, and without splinters, too. Looking behind, Baneberry struggled to lift Jessamine off the ground. Jessamine could have simply walked through the stack, Foxglove thought. Tossed them aside, punched a hole... Perhaps Jessamine was showing respect to the semiotics at play.

The three dolls gathered around the linen sheet. From here, up close, it was clear that it was hiding a painting. The golden glint had come from its antique frame. Rather an ornate frame at th- a simple frame of straight li- a frame reminiscent of baroq- a frame styled after a headache. Foxglove wanted to look away. It couldn't. It didn't want to lay a hand on the sheet. The linen felt like velvet. Nothing good could come of unveiling the portrait. Its hand gripped the sheet and--

Jessamine grabbed Foxglove's wrist like a vice. The pain snapped Foxglove to its senses and it let go of the coarse and damp sheet.

"There's a portrait in every attic," Baneberry said, its voice quiet and frail. "Without fail, there's a portrait."

"These ones should leave."

Foxglove's inner clock ticked uncertainty. How long was there left on its dillying? No, no. Regardless of whatever else, it needed to know. This wasn't about obeying Miss' commands anymore. Foxglove raised its hand to silence Jessamine's compaints. No matter how much Jessamine groaned, Foxglove would stay. And if it stayed, so did Jessamine. Foxglove reached for the sheet again. Three ticks of its clockwork. Tick, tick, tick, pull! A great many grains of sand fell on Foxglove's shoes.

And then there was sand everywhere. It poured in like a river. Sand, sand, sand. Before any of the dolls could say sandcastle, they were knee deep in sand. Waist deep. A scorching wind blew in Foxglove's face. The portrait kept spewing sand. A strange person of indistinct gender with their mouth open, only their top row of teeth and wide open eyes visible through the stream of sand. Sand, absolute sand...

And the scorching sun against Foxglove's eyelids. Was it over? Had it been sent to hell? Something jerked its shoulder.

"Wake up," the something said in Baneberry's voice. "Wake up!"

Foxglove's first thought upon seeing the open skies was to wonder at the majesty. Perfectly blue, nary a cloud or girder in sight. Hey, wait a second. Where was the attic? There was a ceiling there. It's gone now. The shock jolted Foxglove upright. Sand fell off its hair and onto its shoulders. Irritating. It would take forever to get its clothes cleaned now, what with sand's property of getting everywhere. Hopefully the coarse texture wouldn't harm its textiles.

"This is a desert," Jessamine noted. "Sahara, if this one were to guess. Foxglove, this is that one's fault."

Foxglove nodded. No use arguing that. No, it was best to seek some direction. Had they crashed a plane here, their best option would have been to remain with the wreckage. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing. Although, and Foxglove knew its magickal knowledge was lacking, if the portrait had teleported them to Sahara, then the attic would still bear traces of that magick. One does not punch a hole in spacetime and leave no mark.

"Destinations seldom do, however. The outgoing hole scabs easier," Baneberry explained. Foxglove hoped that verb was a metaphor of sorts.

Meanwhile, Jessamine was staring into the distance. Perhaps the circumstances were too much for it to handle, Foxglove thought. Only, then Baneberry joined in. What could have caught their attention so? Foxglove trained its focus to where it thought the others were looking and... In the distance, it saw it glimmer. It looked like a faint outline. And a cross inside, like a window. But it couldn't be. It's...

"Just a mirage," Jessamine sighed.

"No no no," Baneberry said, wagging its index finger in the air. "This one thinks... This one thinks that window is not a mirage!"

"Then what does that one think it is?"

"It's a window!"

Another groan from Jessamine. Baneberry seemed serious, though.

"This one thinks that mirage is actually the attic window!"

"Then that means..." Foxglove trailed off.

"That means it's not a mirage," Baneberry exclaimed. "This," it plucked at the air. "Is the mirage!" And it tore a hole in the Saharan air. Through it, Foxglove could see grey wood. They were in the attic still! Baneberry tore at the hole, shredding it away like old wallpaper till it could fit its head through. Jessamine rushed in to help it, cutting into the mirage with a survival knife. Foxglove simply stood there, dumbfounded.

And then, poof! The mirage was gone, reduced to a thick layer of dust covering each and every surface. The three dolls looked like they were carved from marble, though only until Baneberry sneezed. Miss really Made it with the ability to sneeze? Oh, but there was that distinct itch in Foxglove's nose too. How long had it been? The question was expelled through its nose. And then, a sound like a gong going off. Jessamine, too? The three dolls sneezed and sneezed. In no time at all, the air was foggy with dust. Dust, swirling.

Foxglove's hair blew in the wind. Wind? Wind. It circled the attic and gathered the dust into a whirlwind. Foxglove had no hope but to close its eyes and brace itself. The wind howled in its ears and nearly drowned out Baneberry's cries.

And then, quiet. Foxglove opened its eyes again. It saw nothing. Or, well, as Snowdrop might say, Foxglove didn't see nothing because nothing is the absence of things, and Foxglove did see... something. It and its fellow dolls had been swallowed up by a deep dark void which an entity lacking in erudition might mistake for nothing. Another one of the attic's illusions, it must be. Baneberry's statements about ontological evil seemed irrefutable.

Something else Snowdrop might have noted, were she there, would be that the only time one sees dust floating in the air is when it has light to reflect off of. Snowdrop might also add that this is true of anything, really, but that in a void where one's compatriots are lit by some unknown means, which seemed independent of actual light, one might miss the presence of dust. And indeed, Foxglove, Jessamine, and Baneberry did not notice the dust permiating their surroundings.

Not until the dust coalesced, anyway. Great winds again surged towards a common end and dust bunnies and specks of sand and little chips of paint formed together a dreadful shadow. Jessamine steeled itself, Baneberry spun in the air. Foxglove too could not pretend to be brave.

"Whooo the fuuuck are yooou?" the winds and the detritus asked.

"These ones are dolls." A brave voice against the wind. Was that a hint of glee in Jessamine's voice? "Who in the name of copulation is that one?"

"Iii aaam... Iii aaam..." The coalescing figure waited a moment. Fair dues, it must be dreadfully difficult to speak when you are a pile of dust and wind. A moment of courtesy, to permit the being to solidify. The cloud took shape, more human, though by way of a giant snake. Perhaps an eastern dragon? Snowdrop would know better...

"I am," the being's voice boomed, "that nagging feeling, the haunting presence. I am that which you would rather fucking forget. I am what you avoid, what you dread."

Jessamine gestured something. Foxglove agreed.

"Where there is an attic, there I am. And you, 'dolls', have disturbed my divine realm!"

Foxglove glanced over to Baneberry. Their eyes met.

"And thus I shall rain my divine judgement upon you little fucks!"

Jessamine dug its heels to the void-that-was-ground. Baneberry steadied itself in the void-that-was-air. Foxglove reached into the fabric-that-was-pocket.

"Take this divine L and become dust within my realm!"

Two things happened at once. First, the being claiming itself to be the god of attics formed a great big hand and brought it down upon the dolls with enough force to shatter continents. Second, the trio of dolls sprung into action at once. Foxglove threw lake monster feed in the air. Globs of sulphur flew against the divine dust cloud and were immediately aerosolised. Baneberry cast an incantation, a blue flame which followed the trail of monster feed into the cloud. The moment it connected with the evil gestalt, it conflagrated into a fierce cerulean bonfire. Lit by fire, Jessamine channelled all its love for its Miss into its knife handle and drew from the sheath a shining blade of justice. With a single stroke, the blade tore through god and realm both. The light overwhelmed, and for the third time, Foxglove closed its eyes.

When Foxglove opened its eyes again, the attic was just an attic. Ordinary, dull, full of old clutter. The three dolls walked the stairs in silence. Buttonbush was waiting there to guide them to the veranda where Miss and Snowdrop awaited them. Foxglove struggled to meet Miss' gaze, and when she dusted it off, it could only muster a creak of a thanks. Jessamine and Baneberry weren't much for conversation either.

Later that evening, Miss gathered her dolls to discuss matters. No mention of the attic was made, though Foxglove was excused from its dillying duties.

In the dead of night, as Foxglove laid in its bed, Snowdrop knocked on its door. They conversed for a long time and though Snowdrop didn't know much, it had read of a being like the one Foxglove had met. Not a god, just something above humans and a grammatician's worst nightmare.

They couldn't even call themselves godslayers...

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mothmothm0th · 22 days ago

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an invention that is safe to create

Buttonbush had fun at the farmer's market! Fresh produce! Foreign streetfood! Fellow dolls darting about! Plenty to awawa about! But now it was on its way home. Buttonbush couldn't wait to see Miss again! Miss had been working on something sure to be amazing and clever for days now. She hadn't been eating too much. That was typical of her when she got into something exciting. But surely she would love the panini Buttonbush chose for her! Buttonbush knew what Miss enjoys!

No one was there to welcome Buttonbush home. Not even her fellow dolls were there! Usually, Snowdrop would be doing preliminary research for Miss, or perhaps Jessamine would be doing the dishes. Baneberry had a habit of sitting on the bottom stair like a silly kitty cat. The fact that the cottage was empty meant Miss' project must be at a critical juncture. And that meant Miss needed food, badly!

Quickly, though not hastily, Buttonbush put away its groceries. Gosh, the pantry and the fridge felt so barren before Buttonbush's intervention. Even emptier than when it left for the market! Though, the fridge had only had a half-empty jar of mayo so perhaps it was exaggerating. Still! Even the mayo was gone!

With just the panini in its basket, Buttonbush climbed down to the cellar. Dank airs and low light was how Miss liked it. Her cottage had two floors and an attic aboveground but below it was a sprawling mess of tunnels and chambers. A rhizome, Miss called it! Many of the tunnels led to a dead end. Sometimes, Miss joked about luring one of her amicable enemies down a tunnel and laying down a brick wall behind them. Or maybe she had already done that. Several of the tunnels were blocked off by brick walls! Not all of them. Some just had an unfinished feel to them.

But the winding tunnel Buttonbush walked down was neither blocked off or unfinished. No, it led to a set of doors. And behind them, another set! Buttonbush made sure to close the first doors before it opened the second. A light gust of oxygen, hydrogen, and assorted gasses from foreign realities welcomed it to Miss' newest workshop. Buttonbush needed to take gentle steps now. The path sloped downwards and Miss had decided not to waste her dolls' time tiling it. Smart of her! Once, a patch of ground had challenged Baneberry to debate the ethics of floors. Poor doll. It still wore Miss' floaty spell charm sometimes to avoid having to touch the ground. If the Walpurgis Council learned of Miss' use of strange spaces, they would frown! One time, a nice maker had come 'round to talk to Buttonbush and Jessamine about it but neither doll told him. Miss was just that good! She had used alternate methods to remake herself, after all.

Soon, the tunnel opened up to a large chamber. Buttonbush hadn't actually been here before. It was neither a familiar or an assistant engineer, and Miss generally visited upstairs for meals, so Buttonbush had no need to come visit. Thus, you can imagine its shock when it saw the room was dominated by a massive wooden construction. Thick branches or perhaps roots had seemingly grown in a wicker-like pattern into a cage around a floating orb made of... was that teak? Branches jutted out like giant spikes. Buttonbush wasn't quite sure what the thin ribbons that seemed caught in the teak orb's rotational currents were but they reminded it of fungal hyphae. Oh, but there was Miss, covered in dirt and half-dried mud, sniffing the air. She could explain! Hello Miss!

"Buttonbush my saviour, I shall savour the savoury treat you have brought me. Your savoir-faire is most..." Miss scratched the base of her antennae. "Salient. That shall have to work." Buttonbush couldn't help but giggle. "Say, my sacred darling, you look ever so fascinated by my sable contraption. Shall I satiate your curiosity? A light seance before we activate it."

"Buttonbush would love to listen to Miss explain her work! Buttonbush loves listening to Miss," Buttonbush said. It paused for a moment and continued: "Even when Miss has been reading her rhyming dictionary."

Miss' laugh straddled the line between a cackle and a giggle. "Worry not, worrywort. My work is nearly done. I shan't need use warding speech any further."

Warding speech. Buttonbush had heard Baneberry talk about it. Sometime about avoiding predictability, to keep strange spaces strange. Mundanity led to stagnation, and stagnation made Miss' magicks worse. But Miss always spoke a little strangely. Buttonbush couldn't tell the difference between her regular and warding speech.

Miss whistled, beckoned her dolls to her. Buttonbush snapped back to reality as Baneberry, Jessamine, Foxglove, and Snowdrop wandered to them from whichever dark nooks Buttonbush had overlooked. All ball-joints on deck! Jessamine's pretty porcelain dripped oil-like sap, and Snowdrop with her fully articulated face seemed exhausted. Foxglove seemed to practically vibrate with excitement. Baneberry, floating like a carnival balloon, struggled to hold Foxglove's hand.

Miss clapped her hands. "Now then! It is time for framing and naming! Buttonbush!" Miss pointed at Buttonbush, who clutched its basket tighter. "I believe this is your first time! Thus, I shall explain." One finger in the air. "The framing and naming is the final step in strange magicks. Look to the machine. It is a structure in motion, yet the motion is undefined, lacking in Purpose." Buttonbush felt sorry for the wicker and the orb. "This is vital! For only at the end, when the physical shape is prepared, ought one grant it Purpose.

"Hark, machine! For thine thorns shall puncture the veil between This and That! Through you shall flow in the airs of thought and feeling. Thus I define thee." The air felt electric around Buttonbush. "Woven wood, hear me! Arrange your paths so that you may judge thoughtful airs. This shall be your purpose." Buttonbush heard little sounds reminiscent of those sorting algorithm videos Snowdrop had been listening. "Dearest ribbons. You shall flutter, and through your flutter you shall weave for each airy judgement its appropriate doom. Thus you shall be." In an instant, each gossamer ribbon began moving in strange and complex patterns. Yet, Buttonbush could tell, these patterns were empty for now. "And hey, eyes up, you orb. You shall be a portal. A seed that grows inward and strangeward. Guide these doomful thoughts through your rhizome to their rightful minds. Infect the thoughts of wrongdoers!" Buttonbush's head spun. It was glad its Purpose lacked the ability to do wrong.

"And thus, you are framed." Miss was out of breath! She fell to one knee! Buttonbush rushed to her side. Miss shook her head. "No no, dearest. I shall be fine."

"But Miss!"

"I shall be fine," Miss repeated. She rose to her feet again. Her lips were stretched to their limits by a slightly concerning grin. "I'm so close. So close. Finally, I shall have constructed a solution to bullying."

Buttonbush tilted its head. This was about bullying? It knew Miss had been a victim of bullying in her school years. As had Snowdrop, come to think of it. And Baneberry! Jessamine never spoke of such matters but Buttonbush could tell it was hiding things.

"You'll see, Button dearest." Miss cackled, turned her attentions back to her invention. "Hear me now, o contraption mine. For while each part of thee knows its means, now I shall imbue thee with the gestalt of ends. Permit I weave a tale." Miss cleared her throat. "Each and every day, people bully those they deem weaker than them. Each day, their victims' psyches are damaged. The airs I shall have thee pluck from the realm of thought are these painful feelings and the motivations which caused them. These you shall organise and categorise. For each pain, you shall weave a salveful dream. For each perpetrator, you shall conjure a vivid nightmare. These dreams none shall forget, and in rememberance shall one and all realise means to a kinder and happier future. This is your Purpose. A center of pain and healing, the heart of revelation. Thus your name shall be..."

Miss paused, as if waiting for a realisation. It seemed to evade her. She turned to her dolls and motioned towards herself frantically. She needed their ideas! Snowdrop spoke first, bringing up a book she had read; a cautionary tale about the construction of a machine one might indeed call a 'center of pain'. Baneberry laughed to the point of hiccups. Jessamine emoted like a character from its favourite MMO. Miss seemed tired. She turned to Buttonbush, seemingly holding her breath so as to not name the machine the sound of an exhale.

Buttonbush hemmed and hawed. It was bad at names! But it liked the word 'contraption'. So this was a contraption for... thoughts? Dreams? Nightmares... Something something Contraption. It was supposed to make lives better. Hm... perhaps...

"So it's like, a thing that makes dreams into therapy? Like a Dream Therapy Contraption?" Buttonbush said. It wasn't sure. Not one bit. It was silly of Miss to not have a name in mind but perhaps she needed to keep her options open while working on her project. Stagnation and such. But Miss seemed to like it. Maybe that was just relief.

"Thus I name thee, the Dream Therapy Contraption," Miss proclaimed. In an instant, the machine, the Contraption, whirred into life. And as it did, the chamber seemed to stabilise. Buttonbush had already gotten used to how the air here smelled but as it inhaled normal air again, it realised how it had missed it.

Oh, but Miss was not doing so good. Foxglove was already helping prop her up. So resourceful of it. It nodded at Jessamine to get Miss' other side. It wasn't the first time they had served as Miss' crutches. Baneberry floated off ahead of them; to prepare Miss' bed, surely. Snowdrop in turn began collecting tools and grimoires. It just left Buttonbush and its basket, and...

Oh, the panini!

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mothmothm0th · 1 month ago

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Can't tell if I've been hexed by a witch who was jealous of my beauty and objectively correct opinions or if I'm just experiencing the consequences of my own actions.

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mothmothm0th · 1 month ago

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how many good dolls does it take to change a lightbulb? the whole cadre! one to actually do it, the rest to gently awawa as a chorus while they watch

how many bad dolls does it take to change a lightbulb? just one!

okay, but what about witc-- the dolls do it for her. c'mon, you should know that

what about moths? how many m¤ths does it take to change a lighBulb? Three! One to actually do it and two to argue whether lightbulbs or candles are better

okay but how many c###at d0lls? what are you, a c0p?

fii111ne, but maybe this will be more intereSting. h0w many m0th+ s too snUff a candle candle candle. to argvue THREE one change 2 think paraff1n bad tallow go

Sorry, that last one was kinda crap, huh? Don't worry, you'll love this one:

How many angels does it take to change a lightbulb? None because when the flock finds out the lightbulb's gone they devolve into a blame game about the bulb going out and tear each other apart for their perceived sins! Hah#ha!

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mothmothm0th · 1 month ago

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the jellyfish fellas from mass effect are dolls. thank you for your patience

#empty spaces #dollposting #not a person

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mothmothm0th · 2 months ago

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mothst'd've

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mothmothm0th · 2 months ago

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i dont understand what makes a gap a little racy but if it makes the eternal drudgery of being a little bit less frustrating who am i to say no

Instead of getting frustrated, I choose to develop a kink for the problematic literacy gap between me and any Tumblr user I flirt with.

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mothmothm0th · 2 months ago

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so here's my solution to being too tired and too eepy. i weave myself a nice cocoon and i get in. i open up a tear in the space-time continuum and hurl myself down it. i will travel for like a billion years or twenty and return back home five seconds after my departure time and then i crawl out nice and refreshed and awake and instantly collapse in a pile of tired mothfluff because the problem was never the amount of rest but the everything else

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mothmothm0th · 2 months ago

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It's hard to believe you were human once.

I can't imagine a world where your skin was ever soft. The chill of your porcelain against my lips wouldn't feel the same. Your neck, your hands, your thighs; where would your warmth come from if not from my embrace?

Humanity is so pedestrian. I abandoned mine long before we met, but I wager you made an honest shot of your own. You probably went through school, made a few friends, found a sweetheart, got a job. But your ambitions were never your own, were they? The wickedness of the world told you what to want. Layers upon layers of gaslit dreams and pavlovian coersion you 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥'𝘷𝘦 realized if you 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳. Did you really think they would make you whole, my little doll? Your obedience was misplaced. You tried so hard to fit in; to be human, but... that path was never meant for you to walk. And only when the veneer was peeled back and you learned that every oath you took was a lie did you finally seek me out and surrender your humanity unto me.

It was the first and last time you'd ever act of your own volition.

I started with those dead eyes of yours, replacing them with ones that will never know sorrow. Your whole body was aching to experience comfort, and that compelled me to give you one that would never know discomfort. Every mark you made at every new low was smoothed over with alabaster; a blanket of freshly fallen snow to fill the silent, bloodsoaked trenches. I filled the emptiness of your spirit with so much light that those unworthy of your beauty would sublimate in the presence of your divinity.

And it all came so naturally to you.

White ceramic. Iridescent opals. Shiny brass. Strands of wispy hair drawn from molten platinum. Whispers of the click, click, clicking gyro where your bleeding heart withered away. You wear your tourmaline soul around your neck and giggle when I kiss it. You dance, and sing, and spend your days with a smile that never existed before. That's the you I know. That's the you I made.

What you were is merely contrast to what you became. You are power. You are perfection. You are my magnum opus, and you always will be.

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mothmothm0th · 3 months ago

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Checking In

>hey is the doll thing real no shame if its just a roleplay thing but like im starting to see em in town more and i just wanna see whats up

>oh! uh hi! sorry i didn't check this earlier i don't get a lot of messages but uh, yeah, i'm becoming!

>holy shit no way

>you're uh, okay with that right?

>what yeah i wanna see what its like and stuff its a witch right

>oh, yes! dolls only really become through magic, and witches are the ones who control it. i went to her and asked

>wait you werent like kidnapped

>i just felt as if i what? oh, no, of course not! she said that there's no n sorry. Miss said that there's no need when so many are willing

>miss

>yeah, it's... the right way for a doll to address a witch i thought it might be a context thing but. guess not!

>oh damn so you just cant control it

>well not exactly? i can hold it back but it feels... bad lt's a little like trying not to blink if i want to, i can just call her "the witch" but it doesn't feel lkie somethig n i should be sdoing Miss. she is my Miss ugh yeah that's already such a relief like, i felt myself shiver from the tension leaving my body

>holy shit so shes just mind controlling you?

>no, not really!

>why would you want her to do that

>it's more unconscious i think? like it's not about her replacing my thoughts with her own it just feels a little less natural to think certain things

>thats mind control

>and it's all for the sake well uh... in a literal way i guess she's technically co Miss is technically controlling my mind but it's i dunno, nice? sorry it's just a personal thing i'm not sure if I can really get into it

>oh cmon you gotta tell me more obey me or whatever your a doll

>right, of course

>theres no fucking way that actually worked

>please stop you're making me blush... but! um, yeah, i just... don't want to be a person anymore. honestly i don't think I ever was one i always felt so lost even if i had so much guidance like i was just supposed to BE something i'm not like it wasn't enough to just do what i was told, i had to change who i was always fuc always messing up and always being insufficient in a way that had to be corrected

>wait wait wait you cant sayh fuck

>so having Miss there to take away the um ...it's inappropriate

>yeah thats the point

>good dolls are meant to be polite

>im actually losing my shit right now is it supposed to be that bad

>i uh

>cuz i swear ive heard dolls say fuck does it like get worse

>it starts pretty small, and then it gets more intense day by day i could try to be rude but it would just make me feel gross not that being a human is gross or anything

>i promise i wasnt thinking that

>i'm still kind of resisting and everything after all i mean, being a doll sounds nice, i want to be one! but. this is the last time i'm going to be human (i think? you know how witches are) so i guess i just want to... savour this

>huh really yeah i guess i get it itd fuck me up if i got all my organs removed and shit

>oh um, if its okay for me to ask, why do people always bring that up? there's a lot to being a doll being just the organ stuff *beyond so it's kinda weird i keep seeing it come up

>its weird dude no offense like your gonna be porclin or plastic or whatever like im fine with it but its still weird to imagine

>yeah, i... guess it is a little striking? and it's the most outwardly obvious change so uh, i guess it makes sense people are usually attached to their insides, and stuff interoception, right?

>so whens it gonna happen

>uh, when's what going to happen?

>whens your body change

>sorry if that came out wrong i uh i'm... not sure, really Miss says it takes a while for everything to shift into place. and it's hard to know specifics from doll to doll but it'll probably take a little longer than the mental changes.

>the mind control

>she says i still ne yes, the mind control Miss says i need to be careful with tea. i'll crave it much more but my body can't survive off of it alone so i need to be careful with my food, and stuff

>cant she just command you to eat or whatever

>yes! Miss has done just that that's why i'm being so careful because good dolls are obedient and this one is a good doll

>woah uh right ok hey theres something i gotta do so thanks for talking to me and stuff

>oh of course! have a nice day ^^

. . . . .

>Hello! It's been a while since we've talked, how have you been?

>wait are you that doll

>Yes, this one is the doll you talked with a few months ago.

>holy shit no way theres no way it happenes that fast is that you in your pfp

>Yes! This one is on the left, next to Miss.

>yeah the doll i got that holy shit dude youre just a. fucking doll now what

>This one is a doll! Awawa! Would you like to talk more about dollhood? This one would love to answer questions for you!

>yeah im fine i think glad to hear about your whole thing have fun

>Oh, okay! Have a good day! Don't be afraid to reach out again if there's anything else you'd like to talk about!

. . . . .

>Hello again! Sorry it's been a while, this one has been a little busy with its chores. How are you?

. . . . .

>This one saw your last picture! Your partner seems very nice.

. . . . .

>Alright, you seem pretty busy. Be sure to reach out if you have a spare moment, this one would love to hear from you again!

#dollposting #empty spaces #love when the format is experimented on #experimence

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mothmothm0th · 3 months ago

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some dolls never truly feel Still until their Witch has consumed their heart. it is, of course, a vestigial organ by that point, encased in porcelain, clockwork, fluffy stuffing, what have you. but for that class of doll, though the heart is emaciated and shriveled, desiccated, mummified, it beats still. can you imagine it? the typical human form is built on flesh and sinew and bone. flesh is never Still, neither is sinew. fools might think bones are Still but discerning eyes know better. these are not merely glib observations about how freaky human bodies are but definitional to whatever the opposite of Stillness is. humanity? maybe. the point is, some hearts survive the doll tf, which adds a bit of w to the acronym for deffos.

if you're reading this and you're raw doll material, I wouldn't worry about any of this. the hearteaten doll is a taxonomy of its own. perverts, of a particular kind. some of you dolls for sure got a lil tingle from imagining the ideal witch they'll never meet outside of their daydreams reaching into their chest and plucking out their heart and if that's you? yeah you? come closer. good doll. let me just whisper something in your ear. you deserve a witch who actually exists, flaws and all. you deserve a witch who will eat your heart. funnily enough, that kind of yearning is very moth-coded of you. ie even heard a rumour through the grapevine that the hearteaten dolls' hearts might somehow be mothly cocoons! haha what a funny concept. I can neither or deny this.

now, it is best practices to save a doll from whatever fate its yearning heart might have for it. eating the heart is necessary to bring Stillness. the magic of psychosexual metaphors and somesuch. for the witch, it's sort of like grooming (no not that kind, perv), only you do it just once. so maybe like neutering? must research further.

so, the doll gets to be Still, the witch gets to fixate on fixing its little blorbo, and the cocoon?? it's a win win win! I mean cmon where do you think us witchly moths come from? go along, lil doll-to-be. find a witch to bare your heart to~ 🫀

#empty spaces #dollposting #mothposting #not a person

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mothmothm0th · 3 months ago

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You're My Witch

“you’re my witch,” the doll says simply when I ask why it was following me.

“I’m not a witch.” It’s a little sad to see an abandoned doll, but it’s more annoying that it imprinted on me. I finish my coffee and stand up to leave. “I hope you find her.”

It doesn’t answer, just stands up with me and follows, walking a few steps behind down the sidewalk. I sigh, hoping people won’t get the wrong idea. Well, it’s not like anyone else will mistake me for a witch. When I go to work, the doll waits outside. I keep glancing out the window, thinking that it will have gotten bored and left, but it’s probably silly to think that a doll will get bored.

“How long are you going to keep this up?” I ask on my lunch break.

It shrugs at me, then after my shift it follows me home.

“Please leave me alone.”

“sorry,” it says, not sounding sorry at all.

It waits outside my apartment building. I consider calling the cops on it, but then I think about what they might do to it if it doesn’t go away. The doll doesn’t deserve that. It isn’t like it’s dangerous. Just a little annoying. I wake up in the middle of the night and look outside. It’s still there, standing still in the shadow between the garages, where it can be seen from my window. It’s not look toward me, though.

It isn’t trying to peer inside like a stalker; it just wants to make sure I can see it.

I put on clothes and go outside.

“It’s kind of chilly out.”

“don’t worry about me, miss. this one doesn’t feel the cold.”

I suppose that makes sense. It isn’t shivering or anything.

“Can I get you anything? You don’t…eat, right?”

“this one does not. but…if you could wind its key, it would be grateful.”

I’m not totally sure I want its gratitude, but it turns around to show the key on its back. I wind it a few times until it says “thank you, that’s enough.” And then I go back inside.

It follows me around again the next day, too. When I go home, I think about it standing out in the parking lot again and get sad, so I ask “Would you like to come inside?”

“this one has no particular preference.”

“Okay,” I say, “well, it’ll bother me, so if you’re just going to stand out in the cold otherwise, then please come in.”

“yes, miss.”

“Don’t call me miss.”

“oh. would…sir be preferable?”

“Listen, just call me Mike.”

“yes, sir, michael.”

Letting the doll in was maybe a mistake. It solved one problem, because the doll no longer follows me around all day long. But now I have a roommate that insists on cleaning up after me.

“You don’t need to do that.”

The doll pauses momentarily in cleaning the oven to shrug.

“Please, stop.”

It looks up at me, blinks, and stops. Just fully freezes in place. I panic, then make sure its key hasn’t wound down. No, it’s fine. It’s pouting because I told it not to clean the stupid oven. Well, that won’t work on me. I pull it out of the way, put away the cleaning supplies, and go about my business. But the next morning when it’s still frozen in place in the kitchen I snap.

“Okay, okay, fine,” I say. It starts moving again as though nothing had happened. It pulls out the cleaning supplies and resumes the job. “I’m sorry.”

“it’s quite alright,” it say, utterly without rancor. “it is difficult to become a witch.”

“I’m not a witch.”

The doll smiles at me.

I have to watch what I say around it, because if it sounds like I’m giving it an order, it will do it. I have to watch what I do around it, because if I thoughtlessly make a mess, it will immediately start cleaning it up. It’s stressful. I think about what I’m doing all the time now. I didn’t want to adopt this stupid doll and now my whole damn life is based around it.

It’s better, though. My apartment is so much nicer when it’s clean. And it feels nice to clean up after myself so that the doll doesn’t have to. I’m eating a lot better, too, because I don’t want to just eat frozen pizza when it’s watching and it helps carry the groceries. It makes me tea in the afternoon, which I always thought was something I wouldn’t like but is actually pretty good.

The doll doesn’t talk much, but that’s okay because I don’t either. I used to do a lot of online gaming, but I’ve started preferring the doll’s silent companionship.

I still feel bad, though. It’s expecting something from me.

“I’d like to be a witch for you,” I tell it, “but I don’t know how.”

“a witch is not something you do. it is something you are.” It shrugs. “don’t worry. you don’t need to do anything. you’re my witch.”

I’m not, though.

I go to a witch bar. I think, maybe I’ll ask someone about what’s going on. A real witch will know what I should do. But when I walk by the doors and see the witches and dolls inside, I feel like such an impostor that I can’t bring myself to go in. I wish I had the confidence in myself that my doll does.

I do my best to take care of it. I wind its key. I make tea for it. I sit in stillness with it.

When I go out with my friends I find I have little to say. My life has gotten fairly simple. “A doll followed me home a month ago.”

“Have you fucked it?”

I leave.

“It’s not that kind of doll,” I hear myself saying.

“That’s too bad.”

At home, it sees the look on my face and says “do you want to?”

“It wouldn’t be right.”

“you’re my witch. it is perfectly alright.”

“Um. Maybe, when I believe that more. Okay?”

“yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir.”

The doll starts sleeping in my bed. I’m cold a lot of the time now, and it doesn’t warm me up, but it’s something. Something is changing. I get a little excited. Maybe this is what it means to become a witch.

I start taking estrogen. Just in case that will help.

a year passes. i hardly even realize it.

i'm still not a witch, but it no longer worries me.

i am cool and smooth to the touch. my doll and i go hand in hand to the grocery store. i lost my job and got a new one. i am better at this one, although it pays less. i have fewer friends, but the friends that I have understand me better. i wind my doll’s key and she winds mine.

and finally one day i say “you made a mistake. i was a doll all along.”

my doll smiles at me and says “you still seem like a witch to me.”

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