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Neon Entanglements

She said it was too early to go home.

The words hung in the static-charged air between us, fractalized in the reflections of the rain-slicked skyline. Her eyes held the burn of corrupted memories, rerouted paths, lost packets of something that might have once been regret.I watched the city pulse behind her, the grid shifting in slow drifts of ultraviolet and noise. The club’s subsonic rhythms still echoed in my bones, but out here, in the fractured silence of the after-hours, it felt like we were standing at the edge of something vast — something neither of us wanted to name.

“We could walk,” I said, knowing we wouldn’t.

She smirked, a barely-there flicker of teeth and shadow, and turned back toward the electric sprawl. The night stretched ahead of us like an unfinished sequence, waiting for someone to press execute.

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The Gathering

The air is thick with the scent of burning myrrh and something sweeter, something more primal. The ground writhes with pale, grasping things—spectral figures that stretch upward as if begging to be saved or consumed. A hush lingers, thick and expectant.

Seven figures stand before you, clad in mourning black, their gowns swallowing the last traces of light. They are too beautiful, too terrible, and far too aware of your presence. Their eyes glint like wet onyx, and their lips—painted or stained?—curl in amusement.

A voice, smooth as honey but laced with razors, breaks the silence.

“Come closer, sweety.”

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In the radiant glow of a high-rise nightclub, the bass thrummed like a living entity beneath neon scaffolding. She stood at the center of the dance floor, haloed by LED strands glitching out in sync with her fluid movements.

Her hair caught every flash, throwing jagged highlights across her face as she locked eyes with me through the electronic haze. We didn’t speak. There was only the beat, the hum of distant data streams, and the slip of our bodies through the luminous storm of synthetic smoke.

The city blurred outside the club’s tinted windows – vertiginous skylines lit in pink and cyan – and for that single night, in that coded labyrinth of light and sound, we moved as though we might outstep time itself.

https://selix.net/posts/neon-entanglements-1

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The Rat King

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The Seeing Bloom

She doesn’t need eyes anymore.

Once, she searched for answers in books, in faces, in the shifting sky. But the world lied with its colors, its distractions, its easy deceptions. So one day, she stopped looking. And that’s when she saw.

Now, fire blooms where her vision used to be, bright and alive, searing through falsehoods like the last embers of a dying sun. She walks unshaken, unafraid, because nothing hides from her anymore. Not the truth. Not the ghosts of yesterday. Not the things people whisper behind closed doors.

She is beyond sight. She is knowing. And you? You might blink, look away, pretend you don’t see her coming.

But she sees you.

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The Dark Lake

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It watches.

A shadow crouched at the threshold, eyes burning like dying coals, caught mid-snarl or mid-prophecy. Maybe both. The kind of thing you glimpse at the edge of the firelight—half-seen, half-felt, waiting.

The moon dangles in its claws, not quite captive, not quite free. A pale offering. A predator’s prize. It’s always there, after all, pulling tides, twisting minds, keeping secrets that aren’t meant for daylight. Cycles and silence. Madness and memory.

The lines are raw, the textures jagged—like something scratched into bark with a shaking hand, like a warning left behind in a place no one was meant to go.

It means what it needs to. Some nights, it’s just a shape in the dark.

Other nights, it’s looking right at you.

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Hell Rode Shotgun

The dumb bastard thought he could take it. Just walked up, popped the lock, and slid behind the wheel, grinning like he’d won the lottery. He didn’t know what he was sitting in. Didn’t know the history baked into the leather, the ghosts stitched into the seams. Didn’t know some things aren’t meant to be stolen.

The engine caught, roared to life like a caged thing let loose, but the moment he dropped it into gear, the car fought back. The wheel jerked hard, the brakes locked, and the whole frame shuddered like it was coming apart at the seams. He tried to control it, but the machine had other ideas. Smoke poured from the hood, something deep in the guts of the car grinding and screaming. He wasn’t driving anymore – he was being driven.

Then came the heat. Not from the tires or the engine, but something deeper, older. Flames licked up from beneath the dash, the radio shouting things in a voice that didn’t belong on this side of the grave. He tried to bail, to throw the door open and roll, but the handle wouldn’t budge. The tachometer needle buried itself in the red. The last thing he saw was the road stretching ahead – straight as a preacher’s lie – before the world turned upside down.

And hell came to collect.