noasphodelon

[noasphodelon]

[noasphodelon]

When I grow up I wanna be upper middle class.

[noasphodelon]

Good morning, you have to be the thing that saves you

[noasphodelon]

todays straight character of the day is: nobody

[noasphodelon]

i thought i would never love again. i thought i would never be loved. you make me feel like i'm enough.

[noasphodelon]

i wanted to keep you like a keepsake. i wanted to always have you with me but never have to look at you, never not see you through the tears and hurt.

[noasphodelon]

i smiled wrong and it cut into my mouth

[noasphodelon]

I relate to what you're going through so hard. If there's anything I can do to give you a hand, let me know, okay? We'll get through this and get our books to the audience that needs them most. I believe in us. - @coffeewritesfiction

Like...I'm not even to publicizing mine yet. I just want my friends to have audiences also :'( And I already know the local bookstore picks books off a list given by major publishers and I'm not sure how the library does it but...I actually feel super betrayed right now. I keep ALMOST thinking I should maybe spend the years fighting for traditional publishing, but I know it would (1) crush me and (2) probably still make me do all the work or force me into obscurity anyway because I do not have the kind of luck that gives you big followings.

You're amazing, though, and I'm here for you also. You're right. We do what we have to and don't have a time limit or anything on trying to tell our stories. They're important stories and they'll be the perfect thing for someone (which was why I was hoping for libraries but...).

Thank you so much for this, seriously. Authors need to support each other <3 we've got this.

[noasphodelon]

hey hellsite

[noasphodelon]

AITA for 'outing' someone for writing inc*st?

I (20F) am in a moderately large fandom that got popular during the pandemic. Most of the fic for this fandom is gen and platonic pairings, which is a rarity and fantastic. One of the most popular creators in the fandom puts out a ton of gen fics that I really loved. Unfortunately, I learned after that they write fics on a different account, and not just any fics, but inc*st. I'm not talking about found family. These characters are literal brothers in canon. I can't believe anyone would ship them together, much less this person. I unfollowed them and now, whenever I see anyone talking about how much they love this creator, I inform them about the alt account and their ships. Ignorance may be bliss, but I felt awful when I found out and realized I'd been supporting them for so long and I don't want anyone else to feel that way. But someone replied to one of my comments calling me the asshole, telling me I was outing the creator, and to mind my own business. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[noasphodelon]

dad is (unintentionally) bullying me about religion again. i keep telling him i'm not playing the same game as him, but he keeps telling me how i don't know the rules. dad, i love you, but please. i'm not even keeping score. there's a chance that no one is keeping score. please keep playing, and leave the non-players out of it 😭

[noasphodelon]

my boss called me a disappointment today. sir, with due respect, i'm a salesperson. i sell phone cases. the sales revenue hasn't been affected since i've joined the crew.

for fucks sake. this guy is the whitest non-white person i've ever known.

[noasphodelon]

There is a cafe in the forest. Its lights are bright, it should not be there.

Something chimes. You don’t remember opening the door that swings closed behind you. You’re out of breath. Have you been running? Your brow furrows. There is mud on your boots. Clumps of dirt that dry and crack then fall away as you stand there, staring.

“May I have your name?” 

You look up. Your neck strains as if it hasn’t moved in days. Blink, flex your hands. Needles race up your arms like stabbing insects. The barista stands before you with limbs that are too long and a smile that reaches their eyes in more ways than one. 

“May I have your name?” They say again, like a name is a thing to be taken. 

Maybe it is. You are struck with the notion that you do not want them to have yours. With great effort you pause the words forming on your lips. When did you open your mouth? It doesn’t matter. You give them a name.

The barista’s smile widens, if that is possible. Their skin is ashen gray and the apron they wear shifts in a way that blinds you. “That isn’t your name.”

You shake your head. No, it isn’t. 

You are seated at a table. (Is wood supposed to bleed?) The menu is soggy in your hands. Syllables jerk twisted and raw from your mouth as you pick an order at random and read. A mockery of language, you don’t recognise your own voice. 

The barista nods slowly, “will that be all?”

“Yes,” you find yourself saying. “that will be all.”

They turn away and you are left with yourself. Roll a corner of the menu between your finger and thumb, yellow liquid oozing from its fibers. Your hand is shaking.

Something chimes, slams. A man stands in the doorway- He has mud on his boots, though he doesn't stop to watch it dry. He sees you and you remember then why you went running in the woods at night. Ordinary fear; of abuse and fists and gaslit-rage. You cringe in your seat. 

He is an animal made of popping veins and flying spittle. He stalks towards you and then-

“May I have your name?” 

Was the barista always there? You don’t remember them arriving, you don’t remember them being there a moment ago. They stand with a smile that is still too wide, hands outstretched in a beckoning motion. The man doesn’t notice, or perhaps he is too caught in his own rage to care. He shoves the barista, but he may as well be shoving at a pillar, or a mountain. They make the beckoning motion again and you’re not sure which of them to warn of danger.

“May I have your name?” 

The man scowls, giving it offhandedly as he moves to step past. Then he stops. You stare, transfixed as the colour drains from his face. His legs seem rooted to the floor. You steel yourself to meet his gaze but it's… hollow. The eyes you meet are that of a shell- a vacant, breathing corpse. 

You look away and the barista descends upon what remains. 

He doesn’t scream, doesn’t make a sound at all. The wet tearing of flesh is enough to keep your eyes on the floor. The tiles are stained a dirty brown. (Smack.) They have chipped in places, little cracks running through and revealing the loose earth beneath. (Thud.) A bug crawls from the dirt. Or at least, you think it’s a bug. (Tear.) A crimson puddle seeps into view; you decide to look elsewhere.

Happy, laughing things stare at you from a poster. The figures on it are almost human, smiling renditions of men and women if they had been sculpted by a child. The only accurate features are the teeth. 

The clock on the wall has eleven numbers. The hands rotate at random, spinning and stopping in opposite directions. You watch as it falters and picks up speed, never once coming to a point where it could properly mark the passage of time.

A clink against the table pulls you from your transfixion. There stands the barista, smiling. They're different now- the slant of their chin, the colour of their eyes. Those features are new, stolen from a man who is now something different.

They have placed a cup in front of you; the muddy red liquid swirling inside almost looks like tea. You pick it up (because what else are you supposed to do?) and run a thumb along the handle’s rough surface. It’s white, with a hundred organic ridges. The liquid inside is warm and distinctly metallic. You try not to think about it.

“Would you like a sample?” They slide a tray towards you. You're not sure what the things on it are, but you know that you want them. Desires, goals. When you ask if they are free the barista says nothing. When you ask for the price a curious expression crosses their face before they give it to you.

You decide that no, you wouldn't like a sample today.

The barista steps towards you clumsily, as if putting one foot in front of the other is something they haven’t done before. They take your hand. Their fingers are hard, smooth as ice and just as cold. They run an almost-thumb down your palm, bones growing and shifting, snapping into place as their limbs change to imitate your own. You yank your arm away. The cold of their fingers has forced you to focus, pulled you back to some semblance of reality. You stand, knocking over your chair in the process. It hits the ground with a dull thud and begins to gently sink into the earth.

The barista looks at you with eyes that were his and are now yours too. You hug your chest, bile rising in your throat. You have to get away. They don’t stop you, and perhaps that is the most disturbing thing of all. Calling out a simple “come again!” before you can flee, breathless, into the night.

In the dark and cold you think for a moment that you have stumbled into another hell, so sudden is the change. But no, there are outlines of trees; leaves beneath your shoes. This is the forest once more.

You turn, expecting a building but greeted by darkness. Blink, let your eyes adjust to the night. There is a corpse at your feet. It looks like it's been there a while. Mushrooms grow from its eyes, the slant of its chin. You stumble away.

 The rumble of traffic offers a clear direction. Lights flash in the distance and you realise for the first time that your hands are caked in dry crimson. Look away, focus on the treeline and the false safety it promises. The taste of copper sits heavy on your tongue.

‘Come again!’ The call was not a request, but a promise. Not tomorrow, if you’re lucky not for years to come. But you will return one day,

To the midnight cafe.

[noasphodelon]

remembering that one post i made about language and how learning math signs were basic knowledge. oh how wrong and naive i was.

[noasphodelon]

David Shrigley - I've Never Seen You (2021)

[noasphodelon]

i feel like the schooling experience of a mute person, especially an undiagnosed mute person, is so traumatizing and so specifically, vividly terrible that it’s very hard to explain why i never want to be on a campus again.

[noasphodelon]

wish that camera film wasnt so expensive rn. what the hell. i'd be taking shots of everything around me