#Spectral Reverie

[xxspringmelodyxx]

Satoru sat nervously at a corner table in the quaint café, fiddling with his coffee cup as he stole glances at the girl across from him. She was animatedly discussing her favorite book, her eyes sparkling with passion. Satoru found himself captivated by her enthusiasm, her words weaving a tapestry of imagination and wonder.

Yet, amidst her lively chatter, Satoru couldn’t shake the lingering feeling of your absence. Your memory lingered like a ghost in the air, casting a shadow over his newfound happiness. He tried to push aside the guilt that gnawed at him, but it clung to him like a stubborn shadow.

Certain things the girl did, her mannerisms, her laughter, it all reminded him of you. His mind began to drift back to memories of you – your laughter echoing in the corners of his mind, the soft touch of your hand, the warmth of your embrace, your gentle kisses, all of it. He could still hear the sound of your voice, gentle and soothing, like a melody that once filled his days with joy.

The girl’s laughter interrupted his reverie, drawing him back to the present. She smiled at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she leaned forward, her enthusiasm contagious. “Isn’t it amazing?” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with excitement. “The way words can transport you to another world?”

Satoru nodded, offering a faint smile in return. “Yeah, it’s… it’s incredible,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He wanted to immerse himself in her enthusiasm, to lose himself in the magic of her words. But a part of him couldn’t shake the feeling that he was betraying you, that he was moving on too soon.

The girl tilted her head, her gaze softening as she studied him. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice gentle and concerned. “You seem… distant.”

Satoru forced a smile, trying to push aside the turmoil churning inside him. “I’m fine,” he replied, his voice barely concealing the tremor of uncertainty. “Just… lost in thought, I guess.”

Suddenly, after he spoke those six words, it was as if everything went still, like time stopped completely. Satoru didn’t seem to notice, his eyes still locked on his coffee cup. That was until he heard a voice he never thought he would hear again.

”Hello, my love~” You said, your voice echoing throughout the room.

Satoru’s gaze swiftly shifted, and there, across from him, he beheld your apparition seated beside the girl. Your eyes, brimming with love and understanding, met his, casting a spectral presence amidst the ordinary ambiance of the café. You appeared like an angel descended from above, adorned with a radiant glow enveloping your form, your hair and eyes as resplendent as he remembered. Truly, you were ethereal in every sense.

Your presence was unmistakable, your soul reaching out to him across the void to deliver a message of love and acceptance.

Satoru's breath caught in his throat as he looked into your eyes, not sure how this was happening. But all he knew was that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, your presence a bittersweet reminder of the love he had lost and the pain that still lingered within him.

He reached out a trembling hand, wanting to touch you, to feel the warmth of your presence one last time. Tears welled in Satoru’s eyes as he whispered your name, a prayer on his lips. “Y/n…”

You smiled up at him, holding your hand out for him to grab. His fingers quickly laced with yours, a warm and comforting feeling running all through his body as he felt your touch once more.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you, my sweet Toru~” You spoke softly, caressing his face from across the table.

Tears were overflowing his face, his heart breaking every second that passed as he felt you.

”Wh-what are you doing here? H-How are you even here?” He questioned, but you just bring his hand up to your lips, giving him a quick peck.

”Do not worry about that, my love. There are other important matters I want to talk to you about before I take my leave.” You finished, caressing your thumb over the back of his hand.

”Leave? No, please, don’t leave me again, Y/n. I…I can’t live without you. I miss you so much.” He begged, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled softly at him, a soft chuckle emitting from your lips. ”I will never leave you, Toru,” you replied, your smile never faltering. “I’ll always be with you, in your heart and in your memories. And wherever you go, whatever you do, I’ll be watching over you, guiding you along the way.”

Your presence lingered, even as Satoru’s attention turned back to the girl sitting across from him. He couldn’t help but notice how her eyes sparkled with genuine warmth and kindness, how her laughter filled the air with joy. And yet, despite her charms, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she paled in comparison to you.

As he looked back at you, your hands still intertwined, he felt a pang of guilt wash over him. How could he move on with someone else when his heart still belonged to you?

“She seems nice,” you spoke, your voice soft and gentle.

Satoru nodded, his throat tightening with emotion. “She is, but she’s nothing like you, Y/n. I…I think I need to cut ties with her before it’s too late. I can’t imagine going out with someone else who isn’t you,” he admitted, tears still falling down his face.

You smiled again, your touch like a soothing balm on his wounded heart. Gently, you leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss against his tear-stained cheek.

“Toru,” you whispered, your voice filled with love and understanding. “It’s okay to let go. It’s okay to find happiness again, even if it’s in someone else’s arms. I want you to be happy, more than anything in this world. I mean, It’s been five years since I’ve passed…it’s time for you to embrace the life that awaits you. You deserve to be happy, to find love and joy once more.”

Satoru shook his head, unable to accept the truth of your words. “But how can I move on without you? You were everything to me, Y/n. Without you, I’m lost.”

Your smile softened, a gentle reassurance in your eyes. “You were and still are my everything too, Toru. But love is not confined to the boundaries of this world. It transcends time and space, connecting us in ways that defy understanding.”

As your words sank in, Satoru felt a glimmer of hope flicker to life within him. Maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to honor your memory while still embracing the future that lay ahead.

“But what if I forget you?” he whispered, his voice tinged with fear.

You shook your head, giggling a bit, your hand tightening around his. “You could never forget me, Toru. I will always be a part of you, woven into the fabric of your being. And no matter where life takes you, my love will always be there to guide you.”

Satoru’s heart ached at your words, torn between his longing for you and his desire to move forward. But as he looked into your eyes, he saw nothing but love and acceptance, a silent blessing for the path he had yet to tread.

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way, my love. But I cannot change what has happened. What I can do is help you find your peace. And help you realize that no matter what, I will be waiting for you on the other side with open arms when its your time. But for now,” You began, slowly fading away, your form dissolving into the stillness that surrounded them. You grabbed his face and looked deep into his eyes, going in for one last kiss.

“It’s time to move on and be happy again~”

Satoru watched you go, his heart heavy with sorrow yet buoyed by a newfound sense of peace.

”I love you, Y/n~” He whispered as he felt your hand disappear.

”I love you, my Toru. Forever and always~” You finished as you finally disappeared into thin air.

After your ethereal presence faded away, leaving Satoru with a bittersweet ache in his heart, the world around him slowly began to stir back to life. Time resumed its steady march forward, the hustle and bustle of the café gradually filling the air once more.

Satoru blinked, his gaze drifting from the empty space where you had been sitting to the girl across from him. She watched him with concern, her eyes reflecting the warmth and compassion that had drawn him to her in the first place.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft with genuine concern.

Satoru nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yeah," he replied, his voice steady. "Yeah, I think I am."

And with those words, he reached out to her, his hand finding hers in the space between them.

As they talked, the café buzzed with life around them, the clink of cups and the murmur of conversation blending into a comforting backdrop. And in that moment, Satoru realized that he wasn’t just sharing a cup of coffee with a girl – he was opening his heart to the possibility of a new beginning.

And as they sat there, hands entwined, Satoru realized that he wasn't just letting go of his grief – he was embracing the possibility of a future filled with love and happiness, guided by the memory of the one he had lost but never forgotten.

He looked out the window, seeing your figure once more with a bright smile on your face as you saw him learning to move on.

“Until we meet again, my love~” You whispered, disappearing back to the afterlife.

_____________________

Currently crying and throwing up after writing this T.T

[boobo13cambridge]

Skyfall | Kylian Mbappé

Pairing: Kylian Mbappé | OC

As she gazed out of the window, her eyes lingered on the sprawling cityscape of Paris below, a tapestry of lights and shadows. With a resolute heart, she made a silent vow to herself - to live fiercely, to be the champion for those silenced in the shadows. The path ahead was fraught with challenges, but her resolve was unyielding, a debt of honor to the one who believed in her when doubt cast its long shadow. He had been her mentor, her guardian; he had taken her under his protective wing at a time when skepticism clouded her every step. His unwavering presence had been her fortress, standing valiantly by her side, a solitary defender against a sea of naysayers in those echoing halls of judgment that was the Assas.

A solitary tear, a crystal testament to her inner turmoil, traced a path down her cheek, caressing her skin like a whisper of the past. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply, though the city's air was tinged with the bitter notes of reality, but mostly pollution (and was that piss?). A sudden, sharp cough, rattled her body, breaking the spell of her reverie. A rueful smile touched her lips as she mused on the cinematic trope of the enigmatic lawyer, solitary and contemplative, gazing out over a city - a scene far more inspiring in a James Bond movie than in real life.

With a finger raised towards the dark sky, the young woman whispered a prayer into the night. 'Vae victis,' she breathed, her words a soft caress against the chaos of the world, 'woe to the conquered.' Her whispered incantation rode the winds, a spectral force, stirring an unseen tremor that resonated through the city, a silent herald to those who would stand against her. 

Chapter One

August 12th, 2023

Parc des Princes

8:00 p.m.

One hour before kickoff, Laila was seated in the office of President Nasser Al-Khelaifi, wishing he would just get to the point. She had to admit, Kylian Mbappé possessed an almost uncanny ability to send the club's president into bouts of extreme hypertension. The obsession with the young French star seemed borderline obsessive to Laila, almost creepy. She often marveled at how Mbappé managed to maintain his composure and resist the urge to confront the old geezer. From a business standpoint, however, she could grasp why the PSG president was so adamant about retaining the French prodigy; after all, money makes the world go round.

Despite her desires to be anywhere else, fate had different plans. Her late mentor had insisted that she start her so-called mission with the French football club for reasons he didn’t entirely foreclose. It was in these moments, she felt a deep kinship with Harry Potter who also had a mentor who seemed to leave the world with more questions than answers despite the world going to shit. Even from beyond the grave, he seemed to enjoy watching her struggle in this unexpected role. Being a lawyer for PSG was far from what her teenage self had envisioned for her future. But such was life.

“Je ne peux pas croire qu’après tout ce que nous avons fait pour ce connard, il ne veut pas renouveler. Il veut quoi de plus put-” the president grumbled in his accented french.

“Avec le plus grand respect, Mr. le président,” Laila interjected, “vous devez comprendre que les résultats du PSG après le mercato n’étaient pas satisfaisant. Vous lui avez promis un bon mercato, et pourtant, ils ont été éliminés dès les huitièmes de finale en ligue des champions. Et pourquoi? Parce que vous avez mis tout l'accent sur l'acquisition de stars. Sérieusement, qu’est-ce qui vous a traversé l’esprit en voulant avoir Messi, Neymar, et Mbappé dans la même équipe? Et vous pensez vraiment que Messi allait s’essayer si proche de la retraite?”

The words tumbled out of Laila before she could stop them, her frustration with the president's incessant complaints reaching its peak. Sometimes, he acted like a petulant child.

“Et alors, c’est de ma faute ça ?” President Al-Khelaifi retorted defensively.

“Si vous voulez des stars dans votre équipe, Mr. le Président, vous devez avoir un entraîneur capable de gérer leurs égos astronomiques. Messi venait du FC Barcelone, et il était évident le respect qu’il avait pour le PSG. Malheureusement, un coach comme Christophe Galtier ne fait qu'empirer les choses,” Laila countered.

“En tout cas, passons à autre chose. Je veux que tu ailles voir Mbappé et sa famille et que tu essaies de le convaincre. Ils vont être là ce soir pour voir le match.” (As usual, the president didn’t want to discuss anything that put him in a bad light)

“Peut-être que la première chose à faire serait de lui dire qu’il ne sera plus dans le loft?”

“Oui, oui, dis-lui qu’il peut revenir, mais je veux qu’il reste. C’est compris?”

“Sí, señor,” she replied sarcastically, exiting the room swiftly as she noticed President Al-Khelaifi’s eye begin to twitch.

As Laila stepped out of the president's office, she let out a deep sigh and made her way down to the Salon Louvre. Truly, Nasser should’ve been smarter than this but money does have a way of blinding a person. Regardless, she had a job to do and if it meant that she had to play Nasser’s little games, she would do it. Laila knew exactly what the end goal was and she wasn’t going to get distracted. 

As she made her way to the Salon Louvre, where Chef Arnault had promised to reserve some of his renowned crème fraîche and caviar deviled eggs for her, she couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement for the match. Parc des Princes always pulsated with infectious energy and passion, which she adored. The stadium itself was incredible, and the Ultras knew how to light up a stadium. Every time she scrolled through Twitter or Instagram, she saw the tifos they made. The huge banners were truly works of art, and she deeply admired and respected the fans for the effort they put into them.

Her thoughts drifted to her three musketeers, her closest friends, and how carefree they had been before life's harsh realities had intruded. She reminisced about that summer night of August 14th, 2021, when they had come to watch PSG vs Racing Club de Strasbourg, the first match after COVID restrictions were lifted. How different things were back then. She yearned to reconnect and mend the fractures time had caused, but deep down, she knew it was perhaps a futile wish. With her eyes brimming with unshed tears, Laila wandered through the hallways leading to the salon, lost in her memories. Absorbed in her thoughts, she didn't notice the figure in front of her and walked straight into what felt like a very warm wall.

“Tabarnak-,” she swore, instinctively rubbing her nose.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” a voice apologized.

Startled, Laila looked up and found herself face to face with the French captain. Flustered, she took a step back, momentarily at a loss for words. Kylian Mbappé stood before her, and she couldn't help but notice how strikingly handsome he was. Dressed casually in a white Dior t-shirt and paired with stylish brown pants, which complemented his athletic build. His confident posture and the easy smile playing on his lips added to his striking appearance. He naturally carried a certain air of charisma that left her with a dry throat and a racing heart.

And God, those dimples...

How was she supposed to argue with this living reincarnation of big dick energy? Much less, convince him that he would be better off staying in a club where it was quite unlikely that he would ever win a Champions League, forget a Ballon d’Or. Her professor was so lucky to be lounging in the afterlife, because when she did find him, she would make him pay for putting her in this situation.

Kylian's gaze met Laila's, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes at her evident surprise. "You okay?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

"Yeah, just... wasn't expecting a human roadblock," Laila joked, trying to mask her nervousness. The corners of his mouth twitched in a smile, those famous dimples making a brief appearance.

"I've been called worse," he chuckled. Kylian's smile took on a knowing edge, his gaze sharp yet playful. "So, Laila Soltani, the lawyer Nasser has brought in to convince me to stay at PSG, eh?"

Laila's eyes widened slightly,  her eyebrows arching in surprise."Yes, that's me. How did you know?"

Kylian leaned in slightly, a playful grin spreading across his face. “See, now I’m more inclined to be offended. Athletes can read too, you know?” he teased, nodding towards her badge.

Laila felt her cheeks warm. “Oh, n-no, that’s not... I mean, I wasn’t—” she stammered, her words tumbling over each other in her fluster.

He laughed, a light, easy sound that seemed to echo around them. “I’m just messing around with you. Besides, it’s not every day the president hires someone specifically to deal with me. You must be quite persuasive.”

Laila laughed, a sound more relaxed than she felt. "I'll take that as a compliment, Mr. Mbappé. But yes, that's why I’m here, in part. Though, convincing someone of your caliber to stay... that's a tall order. My greatest adversary so far."

Kylian's eyes glinted with amusement. "Greatest adversary, huh? Sounds like you’re ready for battle. Just remember, I'm not so easily swayed."

"Oh, we'll see about that," Laila retorted, her own eyes sparkling with the challenge. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Looking forward to it, Mademoiselle. May the best person win."

With a final chuckle, Kylian turned and strode away, leaving Laila to ponder the intriguing encounter. She shook her head, a smile lingering on her lips, and continued her journey to the salon Louvre. As she entered, she was immediately greeted by the buzz of fans, whose enthusiasm seemed to infect her immediately. The modern design boasted a sleek and refined look, with geometric light fixtures casting a constellation of warm, ambient light across the polished floor.

She found Chef Arnault behind the mini bar, a silver-maned sage in the world of haute cuisine. With the twinkle of seasoned joy in his clear blue eyes, he beckoned Laila over with a broad grin that seemed to know more than it let on.

"Well, well, if it isn't our lawyer," he teased, the light in his eyes matching the mischief in his tone as he took in her flushed appearance. "You look like you've just spent the whole evening sweating in a sauna. Let me guess, Mbappé charm in action?"

Laila rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth turned upward involuntarily. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to those who know," he chuckled, presenting her with a plate of deviled eggs, each a small culinary work of art with creamy filling and a crown of caviar. "Here, I made these just for you. They might just give you the boost you need for the evening to deal with the capitaine."

Laila decided to just brush off Arnault's teasing and, not wanting to wait another second, she tossed back a whole deviled egg. The taste was amazing—so good it almost made her moan right there at the bar.

With a quick thanks to the chef, she slipped through the crowd of fans as she heard Michel Montana's voice encouraging the Ultras to cheer for the team. Their chatter was just noise against the hum in her head as she moved to her seat. It was pretty close to the president's spot, giving her an incredible view of the field.

She dropped into her seat, taking in the low buzz of the stadium and the distant echo of the players getting their game faces on. The excitement was kicking in. This wasn't just another day at the office for Laila; it was like stepping onto a chessboard where every move counted. The match was about to start, and she wasn't just thinking about the football. It was game time on all fronts.

___________________________________________________________

A/N: Hello, my lovelies. I'm back 😘

[yeoszee]

In the Whispering Embrace of Rain

In the sanctuary of her twilight chamber, she emerges as a wistful nymph, entwined with the hushed cadence of raindrops pirouetting on her window. The rain, a tender confidante, graces her haven with liquid sonnets, each droplet an ephemeral stroke in the silent poetry of her solitude.

Yet, amidst this lyrical ballet, a nuanced hesitancy surfaces—an ephemeral reluctance to embrace the thunder's turbulent entrance. The storm's thunderous exclamations disrupt the delicate choreography of raindrops, an unwelcome interlude in the orchestrated serenity she cultivates. It's not a fear but a preference for the mellifluous refrains of rain that weave tales in muted whispers.

In the heart of her refuge, she invokes a ritual—a cup of coffee, more than a mere libation, a ritualistic elixir of warmth and introspection. The aroma, an olfactory tapestry, drifts through the room, a prelude to the silent symposium that ensues. With each sip, she immerses herself in the profound hush, allowing the coffee to become a tacit companion to her contemplative musings.

Movies materialize like dreams on her screen, casting a subdued luminescence upon the walls of her sanctuary. Characters metamorphose into spectral companions, their narratives entwining seamlessly with the rain's melodic undertones. Her room transforms into a clandestine cinema, where tales unfold in harmony with the rhythmic dance of raindrops.

She is not merely a spectator but an alchemist of her own aesthetic tranquility. The rain, coffee, and cinematic whispers are not mere constituents; they are vessels of introspection, each contributing to the eloquent tapestry of her existence. In this poetic convergence of rain, coffee, and quietude, she discovers not merely a physical space but an ethereal sanctuary—a haven where she is both the scribe and the protagonist, and the delicate beauty of life unfolds in every drop, every sip, and every frame.

As the raindrops persist in their celestial dance, her room becomes a sanctum where the external world dissolves into a spectral tableau. Here, she is not solely a girl who adores the rain; she metamorphoses into a guardian of the delicate interplay of rain, coffee, and cinematic reveries. In this sacred space she has conjured, she is the curator of an aesthetic opera, where the elements harmonize into a symphony of serenity, and her heart echoes the poetry of solitude.

[cho-aaacho]

(Flufftober 2023) Learning a Craft

Main Masterlist I Archive of Our Own

Flufftober 2023 Masterlist I Prompts List

Tags : Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Learning a Craft, Dreamcatcher, Umbrella Luis, Flufftober 2023, Reader is genderless

(Flufftober Day 13)

Languishing in the doldrums of his creativity, Luis sank warily into his mind. With trembling hands, he snatched the paper from his desk. His eyes wandered into the luminous gleam of his computer screen, trying to find an exact reason for him to jolt his motivation.

Desperately, he's trying to observe other crafting bloggers, revisiting them to read their content. But he found nothing to match his desire to make a cute dreamcatcher.

An aura of defeat hung heavily on his mind. He sank into his chair, trying to hush the boredom. Lost in the reverie, his eyes grazed at you, and he cherished an endeared view where you, magically, were having a small chit-chat with a fellow researcher in the Umbrella Laboratory. The spectral glow from the laboratory lights cascaded upon your presence, weaving a tranquil evening.

You and Luis were a team in the upcoming project ordained by Dr. Wesker, and as the days progressed, fate threw you into Luis' life, and you two are getting closer to each other.

He found strong happiness whenever he shared his days with you. Some are just random stories, but sometimes he shares his private life, his favorite music, coffee, and more about Leon. From that day on, a connection between you and him was tied up strongly by red strings from his pinkie finger to yours.

However, for some reason, your happy life is starting to turn upside down, falling into a shadow of despair. An amalgamation of nightmares and pain is born in your life due to a deadline from Dr. Wesker.

A dreamcatcher. 

At first, Luis is making fun of this, saying that you would be fine by Dr. Wesker's deadline. But he was seized by pain after he recognized you getting unmotivated at work.

A silly idea slipped into his cubicle mind. Remembering that he had this item when he was a little innocent kid.

And he thinks of making one.

It was like a random idea that slipped his mind. Perhaps it would help you spark your spirit. After all, you were Luis' partner in this project. He couldn't bear to let you be sad about Dr. Wesker's exacting methods.

Luis once again found himself in a cubicle full of butterflies. His eyes are relentlessly between the computer screen and an unfinished dreamcatcher. A metal wooden hoop, a roll of ebony ribbon, dainty feathers, glue, and chestnut gemstones—all of this was based on Leon's recommendations.

Luis' desk is so messy and chaotic with this stuff; he's sure that Dr. Wesker's fury will lead Luis into trouble. Dr. Wesker might even unleash a torrent of sulfur dioxide on Luis' face.

In that suspended moment, your time stretches into infinity as you see Luis drowning in his very mind. You saw him snatching a piece of wood and getting angry all of a sudden.

With a graceful move, you come close to him and ask. "Dr. Serra?"

Your voice emanates from the room, creating an electrifying tension between you and Luis.

He widened his eyes after realizing that you were near him.

"Eh, Dr.—good evening." He jolted from the sensation. A panic filled him from head to toe. A cold sweat dripped down his nape.

"Are you okay, Dr. Serra?"

Panic. He nervously scratches his neck and has a weird eagerness to run from the scene.

"I'm trying to make a dreamcatcher." He mused, gazing at the table. "I think it would help you, Dr.—since you mentioned nightmares, I wanted to offer you a little help."

"Oh!" A lukewarm smile curls your lips. With a gentle sigh, you touch an unfinished dreamcatcher. From your perspective, the dreamcatcher wasn't as bad as it might have seemed; the form was still recognizable.

"Dr. Serra. Thank you for your concern. I think I made you feel bad about my recent condition. But don't worry about me; I'm okay for now."

"Um, Dr.—"

A joyous atmosphere surrounds you as you reach Luis' shoulder and whisper calmly.

"I purchased a new oven last week. So... maybe I could invite you to my apartment to eat cake with me? If you're free, I'd gladly take that dreamcatcher. And who knows, I might finally have a peaceful sleep, dreaming of you." 

[inherstars]

Gears of War | Memento Mori (1 of 3)

I'm doin it, but I'm mad about it. Little follow up to Rise and Fall. It's not gonna be super long, I just need something to chew on.

J.D. seemed fine, at first.  She thought she’d gotten him properly sorted with some tea, a salve, a good night’s rest. Forgetting that things weren’t always that simple.  Problems weren’t always that easily resolved.

He coughed more than she liked, overnight, so strenuously that it woke her up as he convulsed with effort.  He always settled after a few minutes, sighing softly back into sleep as she fingered smooth his hair, so it must have been fine.  Come morning he was even alert, bright-eyed in a way that didn’t trouble her, and they each showered and reconvened for coffee and something other than bowls of sticks and seeds in the community mess.

He was maybe a little more quiet than usual.  Reserved, especially for J.D., who usually had no end of companionable hassling to dispense.  But Del didn’t seem bothered, when he joined them.  Maybe a little surprised where he’d spent the night, but not bothered.

“Did he do that thing where he sneezes like forty times in a row?”

“I think he got up to eight,” Kait agreed.

J.D. picked his head up, offended, a spoonful of oatmeal paused halfway to his mouth.

“It’s not--like, twelve is the record, okay?”

“Twenty is the record,” Del corrected.  “I know because I counted, and you couldn’t remember your name or where you were afterwards.”

They laughed, and it was fine.  He was fine.  And then he wasn’t.

Del had left by then, and as Kait nursed her coffee she watched J.D.’s eyes slowly lose their polish.  The lay of his shoulders was too heavy, his breathing not quite right, as if he was having trouble processing everything from the texture of the oatmeal in his mouth to the way the spoon sat in his hand.

She reached out, cupping his hand where it lay limp on the table.

“J.D…?”

He sparked a little, a weak connection that brought him out of reverie, but when he looked at her his eyes were spectral blue with fever.  He didn’t even have it in him to brush off her look of worry, and that frightened her more than anything.

“Hey.  I wanna… go lie down again.”

She took him home.

Continued here

[immeasurable-depths]

Sooo I had to write something when Laura made it canon that Imogen has seen Jester’s bug. This is pretty bleak in the beginning but Laudna makes everything better in the second part I promise 🖤

Suddenly she isn’t lying on the couch staring at her fingers - her mind explodes into the memory of standing beneath the darkened canopy of the stable eaves, magic bursting purple and white out of her fingertips in a terrible flash. With a wave of revulsion, Imogen feels the ripple of energy coursing through her fingertips, illuminating those lightning streaks into iridescent purple as they glow and lightning erupts from her. The bright light puts the silhouettes of the townsfolk into stark contrast with the rapidly sinking sun behind them, suspicion and anger etched on their hardened faces. Another flash: she sees the look of pain and resignation plastered across her father’s face, feels the wave of disappointment, of hurt. The suffocating thoughts of history repeating billow off him like storm clouds, battering Imogen’s consciousness with their intensity and anguish, threatening to bowl her over. Another flash, and in her mind’s eye, she sees him shake his head slowly. Another flash, and he turns his back, disappearing into the night to trudge back through the fields towards the empty farmhouse. Defeated. Alone.

And through it all, Imogen’s fingers shine with that spectral purple glow.

She jolts back to consciousness with a quiet whimper. That damned sofa is still scraping against her skin as she draws in a shaky breath.

Must have fallen asleep again, Imogen thinks to herself. She tries to ignore the tears that slide silently from between her clenched eyelids, hot and wet and stinging as they spill over the bridge of her nose and splash into the scratchy fabric below her.

Need to stop doing that. Drifting off.

Still.

What else is there to do?

She isn’t sure which is worse, at the moment. The disturbing dreams of red dust that sneak in at night; the feeling of panic and loss of control as the wind picks up and threatens to whisk her away. Or the crippling, yawning numbness she feels during the day - especially when Laudna is away.

Imogen is pulled unceremoniously back into her body by a faint tickle across her forehead. She is torn from her dark reverie with a jolt: her eyelid flinches instinctively, and she realises the tickling is caused by the legs of a tiny insect across her cheek. She swats at it half-heartedly, too slow to catch it but stirring the air enough that it takes flight. The buzz of tiny wings permeates the air and Imogen flinches again, irritated. Her eyes track its flight path from where she still lies, horizontal, to where it lands on the dilapidated staircase a few feet away. Iridescent wings fold neatly on its back and it begins its trek, skirting along the grain of the partially rotted wood. Imogen realises it is carrying something on its back: a crumb of bread from the meagre meal they’d had the night before, clenched precariously between two microscopic front legs. It clambers along the horizontal before pausing, readjusting its vice grip before hauling itself vertically up the step. It continues, painfully slowly, but relentless.

Imogen stares, unable to take her eyes off it. The crumb is bigger than the length of its body, but it persists, heaving it up and along and up and along.

What are you doing? You’ve got wings, you dumbass. Why don’t you just fly up?

It takes Imogen a moment to register that she’s reached out instinctively with her mind. Blearily, she realises it doesn’t have enough of a consciousness to answer her.

Oh. I’m talkin’ to a bug.

Great.

She drifts.

———

The happy part is on AO3 ☺️

[thetinyboio]

Welcome Home [Cult of The Lamb A.u]

Hey yall before I get in to this I have been working on this with another friend of mine for a little while and feel we are at a good place i can start publishing parts of this au!! I'm so excited to share my brain baby with! Please forgive my formatting im not used to posting text on here yet! ^^; Prologue [Part 1]

In the midst of a boundless, dark void, a colossal figure floated, shrouded in obscurity. The void itself held nothing but a series of windows that served as gateways to other realms. This enigmatic entity bore chains around arms while around their neck, two smaller, shadowy figures stood guard. Amidst the desolation of the void, the central figure hummed a haunting tune, seeking to occupy their thoughts and stave off the unending solitude.

The figure's solemn humming slowly transitioned into a melodic song that echoed through the emptiness: "I know this dream of life is never-ending, It goes around and round and round again. You know the sun is rising while descending, It goes on and on and never ends..."

As the song faded, the figure returned to the hushed solitude, their reverie interrupted when one of the windows displayed the approach of an unknown presence. Intrigued, the figure turned toward the window.

"Well, you two are not where you are supposed to be. What entertainment can you two bring me?" the figure inquired.

In another realm, two small puppets, one resembling a sheep and the other a humanoid figure, stood nervously. The sheep puppet addressed its companion, Wally, with trepidation:

"Wally, this... this is too dangerous. We should go back to the holding and wait until nightfall."

Determined, Wally responded, "We are so close, [Redacted]. We can't go back now. It would be risky either way."

Reluctantly, [Redacted] agreed, "Right, okay..."

They both stood before a peculiar pedestal adorned with a velvet pillow, upon which rested a black crown adorned with crimson jewels that shimmered like house windows. Wally attempted to pick it up, but it emitted a searing buzz, causing him to hastily let go.

[Redacted] used their hooves to grasp the crown and declared, "I've got it, Wally!"

As they held the crown, the ground beneath them trembled briefly, prompting them to exchange anxious glances before breaking into a run.

Meanwhile, in another realm, a decaying kingdom languished in suffering and enslavement. Small creatures ranging from foxes to rabbits, alongside humanoid beings, toiled ceaselessly, attending to the ruling class. Among these oppressors were the wealthy and powerful, as well as religious figureheads revered as pharaohs and bishops, each serving a distinct purpose.

These oppressive figures watched with cruel amusement as they tossed scraps of food at two small jackalope creatures. These unfortunate beings were tasked with the unenviable duty of maintaining the royal halls' cleanliness.

In the oppressive halls of privilege and power, Thoth, the younger of the two, diligently wiped a window clean while enduring the relentless laughter of the higher class. Their mother, too, shared in this degrading task, both of them subjected to the mockery of those they served. As they wiped, they glanced at their own reflections in the window, revealing the callous figures behind them. A sense of pitiful resignation washed over them as they contemplated the monotony of their daily lives.

Amidst this grim reflection, Thoth's attention was drawn to an unusual sight—a figure, as if in a spectral projection, running frantically. Suspicion flickered, and they cast a discreet look over their shoulder, wondering if anyone else shared this eerie vision. Satisfied that they were alone in witnessing it, they returned to their duties, their eyes locked onto the unfolding drama within the window's pane.

In a hushed whisper, Thoth couldn't contain their intrigue, "Mother. Mother! Look. What is that?"

His mother's response was curt and dismissive, "Hush, child. Get back to work."

"But..." Thoth stammered, horror in their eyes as they spotted their cruel master chasing the fleeing figures in the reflection of the window, "Mother, is that the Master?"

His mother's tone grew stern, "What? Thoth, get back to work or else you'll catch a lashing again. You're too old to be playing pretend."

One of the disdainful royals added to Thoth's misery by tossing a grape at him, cruelly taunting, "Get back to work, brat! Listen to your mother. Or I'll teach you a lesson Milan should have taught you a while ago." His lecherous gaze sent shivers down Thoth's spine, compelling them to return to their cleaning, their eyes watching as the strange "projection" faded away for the time being.

Moving along the corridor, Thoth entered the Holy artifacts chamber, dimly illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight and the full blue moon just beyond the window. As they worked, they hummed a tune to themselves, finding solace in the empty room and savoring the meager comforts they could find in their wretched life as a personal slave.

After meticulously tending to the chamber's floors, they returned to the windows to clean them as well. But just before their rag could touch the glass, they noticed an unusual vibration, as if an unseen force was at play. The mysterious "projection" from earlier began to fade back into existence before their bewildered eyes.

In the dimly lit chamber, Thoth's gaze remained fixed upon the unfolding drama within the window's pane. Their master, Milan, had apprehended the sheep puppet, scrutinizing the captive with a predatory gleam in his eyes. Fervently, he rifled through the puppet's pockets, his voice dripping with anger and impatience, "Where is it, mortal?! Where is the artifact?"

The puppet, fear-stricken, could only muster a feeble response, "I don't have it..."

Milan's rage escalated, his words descending into a sinister proclamation, "Useless thing... Things like you are just a plague to be eradicated, only good to be sacrificed."

However, Milan's ominous tirade was abruptly interrupted by a sudden strike to the back of his head. He turned swiftly, only to behold Wally, now adorned with The Crown Artifact upon his head, his once-neat hair now disheveled, and a wild, unfamiliar look in his eyes. The transformation was stark, and Wally seemed almost twitchy and erratic.

A fierce battle ensued between the two, Wally proving to be an almost even match for Milan. Some of Wally's movements seemed unnatural, as though he were being puppeteered by unseen forces. Another Bishop, perhaps, was assisting him in this fight, though Thoth could see only four of them.

Thoth watched the scene in utter shock. It was an unprecedented sight to witness anyone lay a finger on their seemingly untouchable master. Though convention dictated that they should be outraged, an unanticipated spark of hope ignited within Thoth's very soul. A wicked smile crept across their lips as they silently cheered for the blue-haired figure, finding themselves inexplicably drawn to the rebellion against their oppressive master.

As they watch they notice the crown upon Wally's head they notice that the symbol on it matches the ones in the room they're in. Looking behind them they see the royals are distracted by something on the "sacred looking glasses". Unaware they were also watching the same fight Thoth was seeing. Thoth's mother standing next to the royals holding a wine tray for them. Thoth goes back to watching the fight.

Amidst the intense battle, Wally landed several powerful strikes on Milan, slicing through his robes and leaving painful wounds. Milan, initially amused, now looked at Wally with disbelief and fear. Gathering his bearings, Milan opened another portal, and through the sheep's thoughts, Wally followed.

They emerged on top of a speeding train in the sheep and Wally's original world. The sheep, reaching out for Wally, witnessed the toll the artifact was taking on him. Dark tendrils, inky black and tinged with orange, began to constrict around Wally's form, starting from his left foot. Milan materialized in front of them, his arrogance thinly veiled, as he declared, "You're not worthy of the sacrifices required to wield such power. You mortals are nothing compared to us."

The Sheep challenged him, "If you're so powerful, then why was it so easy to escape and steal from you?"

The onlookers, witnessing the escalating confrontation, gasped in shock. Milan's amusement swiftly shifted to annoyance at the sheep's audacious words. With a swift motion, he seized the sheep once more, using his dark, orange-tinged tendrils. Wally, determined to defend his ally, lunged at Milan. However, at that critical moment, the Bishop conjured a weapon with lightning speed.

In the blink of an eye, the sheep was released from the grip of the tendrils, tumbling helplessly. Initially oblivious to what had occurred, the sheep descended for a moment before everything turned blindingly white. Wally, wide-eyed and stunned, watched as the sheep's head landed a short distance away.

For a brief, surreal moment, Wally stood there, taking in the shocking scene before him. Milan, raising his weapon and ready to strike, found himself thwarted as Wally abruptly turned towards him. Windows cracked, and the viewing glass shattered into shards, leaving the nobles who had been observing the spectacle in horrified silence. Milan's face contorted from amusement to sheer terror once more. .

.

.

.

Thanks so much for reading so far! Hope to see yall around for more as I edit and format the pages I have so far! special thanks to @kittydoodlearts for being my amazeing cowriter and helping me out!! Edit: oh also i have changed the names of the bishops as i prefer not to have Names of deitys as the villian characters just as my personal preferance!

[dustedmagazine]

Joe Goddard — Harmonics (Domino)

Photo by Louise Mason

Hot Chip’s Joe Goddard enlarges a euphoric, body-moving electronic aesthetic on this third solo album by inviting in collaborators, and though results vary, the best of these partnerships are extraordinary.

Some of these meetups are not surprising, as when Alexis Taylor and Al Doyle turn up for “Mountains.” Here a plurality of Hot Chip join in a blippy, boppy, spirit quest that asks existential questions amid rave-y bursts of synth and drum machine. Wild Beasts’ Hayden Thorpe, too, seems like a natural choice in “Summons,” executing wild operatic arcs of melody atop grumbling synth bass and pounding keyboards. But a couple of tracks featuring Goddard discovery Findia fall flat; they’re not terrible but feel a bit like by-the-numbers dance pop.

In fact, the further Goddard gets away from what you might expect, the better these cuts work. It’s the oddball entries that catch your ear.  Tom McFarland, of the UK dance-pop ensemble Jungle, flutters soulfully over eerie, trebly keyboard auras in “Ghosts,” stretching words into fluid glissandos. McFarland, perhaps reflecting the title, is a spare, spectral presence, but the chorus kicks in with a gospel weight and certainty, a triumph over frailty and doubt. The jazz saxophone player and pop collage-ist Alexander DePlume is another unexpected choice, blowing in over the glitchy flicker of “Revery” with slow, vibrato-laced tones, a florid, faintly old fashioned sound in an electronic forest. But the best of all is “Miles Away,” an unearthly mesh of the Guinean singer Falle Nioke’s resonating tones and the chiming of mbira. If there were a whole album of just this, I’d be all in, 100%.

Goddard sometimes tinged his old band’s tunes with melancholy taking the vocals, for instance, on the moody, soulful “Hungry Children,” but Harmonics reaches for positive affirmation. “Progress,” aided by Ibibio Sound System’s Eno Williams, percolates with good feelings. Its heavily effected vocals soaring over pulsing, tonally intricate Konono 1-style percussion and swinging brass. It lifts off effortlessly and takes you with it.

In the end, it feels wrong to call this album a solo record, since it is defined and elevated by the people Goddard works with. He’s been adventurous in seeking out partners, choosing some familiar ones and some that no one would have predicted, and the risks, especially, have paid off.  

Jennifer Kelly

[insane-in-the-membranee]

Celestial Reverie

In realms ethereal, where starlight gleams,

Angels dance in cosmic dreams.

Their wings aglow with spectral moonlight,

They navigate the celestial choir.

In whispered verses, truths unfold,

Their wisdom ancient, tales untold.

With quills of stardust, they inscribe,

The secrets of the cosmic tribe.

They waltz through nebulae, with grace,

Adorning galaxies in lace.

Their minds, a tapestry of thought,

In realms of light, they're ever sought.

Through aeons vast, they've witnessed time,

They ponder riddles, reason, rhyme.

With eyes that pierce both space and soul,

They fathom mysteries, untold.

Yet, in their wisdom, tempered might,

They keep the balance, day and night.

For angels know, with insight keen,

That knowledge wields a tempered sheen.

So, in the firmament they dwell,

Guardians of a cosmic spell.

Their laughter echoes 'cross the sky,

Infinite wisdom, ever nigh.

[auburniivenus]

27.  NIGHTMARE :  for one muse to comfort the other after a nightmare.

Phobetor, the embodiment of nightmares, traverses the realm of the subconscious like an ethereal specter disguised in the nocturnal nuances of indigo. His ever-changing and protean countenance evokes the profound fears of humanity. Within the realm of dreams, he choreographs a grotesque ballet, inflicting night terrors on somnolent minds with an almost sadistic delight. Morpheus, the supreme architect of dreams, undertakes a dual function, possessing the capacity to manufacture both delightful reveries and sinister nightmares. His siblings, Phobetor and Phantasos, bring forth the phantoms of fear and surreal visions, creating a trinity that blurs the boundaries between dreamscape and inferno.

The ethereal threads of slumber wove a disquieting veil, transforming her subconscious into a theater for the phantoms lurking within the depths of her apprehensions. The moonlight, intermittently softly embracing her dormant body, now beheld the convulsions of her disoriented sleep. Tangled filaments of auburn hair outlined a visage marked by arched brows, a canvas painted with the hues of a disquieted mind. As she lay ensconced in the ephemeral sphere of dreams, a specter of unease cast its pallor upon her delicate features.

In the nocturnal realm of her psyche, the familiar landscapes of her daily existence distorted into absurd caricatures. Faces she held dear contorted into masks of sorrow and despondency. Tatsuki’s piercing gaze bore the weight of haunting wistfulness, and Ichigo’s visage, usually a bastion of strength, crumbled into an expression of profound heartache. Echoes of laughter, once boisterous and unhindered, now took on a dissonant cadence, an incongruous refrain that propagated through the corridors of her dreamscape. The vivid hues of her environs progressively deteriorated into a more somber pallet of grays and shadows. Orihime felt the tendrils of apathy twine around her, tightening with each passing instant. She journeyed through a phantasm of her imagination that paralleled a distorted portrayal of her apprehensions, a terrain where the boundaries between reality and nightmare became indistinguishable, forming a blurred haze.

In a delicate manner, she perceived the touch of his calloused fingertips as they gently rubbed against her shoulder in a caress analogous to a whisper. The contact, tender and comforting, illustrated the essence of his implicit commitment—a pledge to serve as the protector, shielding her from the nocturnal horrors that sought to ensnare her mental state. A murmur, scarcely audible, escaped his lips—a melody woven with serene reassurance. A spectral resonance penetrated the liminal space between dreams and reality. His voice, an unwavering beacon, reached her beneath the curtains of sleep, an anchor cast into the tempestuous seas of her delusions. His grasp, acting as an anchor, encircled hers, bridging the fleeting chasm between the dreamworld and the tangible domain.

As Ichigo’s whispered assurances permeated the camouflaged sanctum of her dreams, a subtle transformation unfurled across Orihime’s countenance. The furrowed lines of distress softened, replaced by the tranquil repose that accompanies the banishment of night terrors. Like a ship navigating turbulent waters, she emerged from the depths of her horrors, guided by the compass of Kurosaki’s touch.

With a breath that mimicked the release of a held sigh, her eyelids fluttered open, revealing the clarity of awakening.  “Ichigo.” Inoue whispered, sensing perspiration upon her comely visage. She positioned herself on the disheveled bed and reflected upon him, his attractive appearance illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through the partially ajar window. The remnants of the previous war persisted within the depths of her consciousness, and occasionally fear would manifest itself in her dreams. The repercussions of the conflict would require a considerable amount of time to diminish, resembling a wound that necessitates a significant healing period. “I’m glad you’re here.” Her sweet voice affirmed as her delicate arms encircled his figure, enveloping him in a embrace. “Never, never leave.” @ikurosakii

HER LOVER, HER SAVIOR.

[lithellyl]

My dreams were full of majik last night

On yon mystic eve, in the realm of slumber deep, I wove enchantments of profound mystic keep. Within the ethereal tapestry of night's embrace, I clasped the ephemeral reins of the tempest's grace.

Whispers of zephyrs danced through spectral fingers, Guiding unseen vessels, where the dream realm lingers. Liquid tendrils of aqua bowed to my command, As I sculpted their essence with a sorcerer's hand.

The very earth quivered beneath my sovereign decree, A symphony of fractures sang, a chaos born of me. To verdant kin, I beckoned, a silent call so sweet, Their stems arched proudly, a dance to dreams' heartbeat.

With the flicker of thunder, a celestial spark in hand, I cast a hex, a tempest, on those who dared withstand. In guise of the crone, the triad-faced specter spoke, An ancestral spirit, through the nightly veil awoke.

Thus, in the shadows of reverie's embrace, I, a dream-weaver, left an indelible trace. Last night's arcane ballet, in slumber's tender seams, A testament to the potency of nocturnal dreams.

[nothingunrealistic]

gotta love the rare occasion when a news article is shown on screen in billions and the text isn’t even an attempt at a fake article but is instead taken from some existing work of literature. see: this financial journal article and the word document behind it that are actually excerpts from two of h.p. lovecraft’s short stories, “pickman’s model” and “beyond the wall of sleep”.

Entertainment

RETROSPECTIVE SHOWS ARTIST’S VERY PERSONAL PROGRESSION

BY CHRIS MORRIS

You needn't think I'm crazy, Eliot- plenty of others have queerer prejudices than this. Why don't you laugh at Oliver's grandfather, who won't ride in a motor? If I don't like that damned subway, it's my own business; and we got here more quickly anyhow in the taxi. We'd have had to walk up the hill from Park Street if we'd taken the car.

I know I'm more nervous than I was when you saw me last year, but you don't need to hold a clinic over it. There's plenty of reason, God knows, and I fancy I'm lucky to be sane at all. Why the third degree? You didn't use to be so inquisitive.

Well, if you must hear it, I don't know why you shouldn't. Maybe you ought to, anyhow, for you kept writing me like a grieved parent when you heard I'd begun to cut the Art Club and keep away from Pickman. Now that he's disappeared I go round to the club once in a while, but my nerves aren't what they were.

Don't ask me what it is they see. You know, in ordinary art, there's all the difference in the world between the vital, breathing things drawn from Nature or models and the artificial truck that commercial small fry reel off in a bare studio by rule. Well, I should say that the really weird artist has a kind of vision which makes models, or summons up what amounts to actual scenes from the spectral world he lives in. Anyhow, he manages to turn out results that differ from the pretender's mince-pie dreams in just about the same way that the life painter's results differ from the concoctions of a correspondence-school cartoonist. If I had ever seen what Pickman saw- but no!

(this omits several paragraphs from the original short story, between the third and fourth paragraphs here.)

——————————

I have often wondered if the majority of mankind ever pause to reflect upon the occasionally titanic significance of dreams, and of the obscure world to which they belong. Whilst the greater number of our nocturnal visions are perhaps no more than faint and fantastic reflections of our waking experiences - Freud to the contrary with his puerile symbolism - there are still a certain remainder whose immundane and ethereal character permit of no ordinary interpretation, and whose vaguely exciting and disquieting effect suggests possible minute glimpses into a sphere of mental existence no less important than physical life, yet separated from that life by an all but impassable barrier. From my experience I cannot doubt but that man, when lost to terrestrial consciousness, is indeed sojourning in another and uncorporeal life of far different nature from the life we know, and of which only the slightest and most indistinct memories linger after waking. From those blurred and fragmentary memories we may infer much, yet prove little. We may guess that in dreams life, matter, and vitality, as the earth knows such things, are not necessarily constant; and that time and space do not exist as our waking selves comprehend them. Sometimes I believe that this less material life is our truer life, and that our vain presence on the terraqueous globe is itself the secondary or merely virtual phenomenon.

It was from a youthful revery filled with speculations of this sort that I arose one afternoon in the winter of 1900-01, when to the state psychopathic institution in which I served as an intern was brought the man whose case has ever since haunted me so unceasingly. His name, as given on the records, was Joe Slater, or Slaader, and his appearance was that of the typical denizen of the Catskill Mountain region; one of those strange, repellent scions of a primitive Colonial peasant stock whose isolation for nearly three centuries in the hilly fastnesses of a little-traveled countryside has caused them to sink to a kind of barbaric degeneracy, rather than advance with their more fortunately placed brethren of the thickly settled districts. Among these odd folk, who correspond exactly to the decadent element of "white trash" in the South, law and morals are non-existent; and their general mental status is probably below that of any other section of native American people.

Joe Slater, who came to the institution in the vigilant custody of four state policemen, and who was described as a highly dangerous character, certainly presented no evidence of his perilous disposition when I first beheld him. Though well above the middle stature, and of somewhat brawny frame, he was given an absurd appearance of harmless stupidity by the pale, sleepy blueness of his small watery eyes, the scantiness of his neglected and never-shaven growth of yellow beard, and the listless drooping of his heavy nether lip. His age was unknown, since among his kind neither family records nor permanent family ties exist; but from the baldness of his head in front, and from the decayed condition of his teeth, the head surgeon wrote him down as a man of about forty.

From the medical and court documents we learned all that could be gathered of his case: this man, a vagabond, hunter and trapper, had always been strange in the eyes of his primitive associates. He had habitually slept at night beyond the ordinary time, and upon waking would often talk of unknown things in a manner so bizarre as to inspire fear even in the hearts of an unimaginative populace. Not that his form of language was at all unusual, for he never spoke save in the debased patois of his environment; but the tone and tenor of his utterances were of such mysterious wildness, that none might listen without apprehension. He himself was generally as terrified and baffled as his auditors, and within an hour after awakening would forget all that he had said, or at least all that had caused him to say what he did; relapsing into a bovine, hall-amiable normality like that of the other hilldwellers.

(struck-through portions are obscured in the screenshot.)

[everythingiwishtobe]

Spectral Reveries

Conceive the crystal consciousness

(experience you can't express)

with numbered, nimble, neon lights

(so colorful, so bright it blinds)

making macabre maniacal mandalas

(it makes one quite delirious)

filled with frenzied, feverish fury

(in the end, we're our own jury)

[sethd8]

/// Luminous Echoes: A Samsung Galaxy S23 Ultra Tale

In the dim-lit sanctum of pixels, where reality blurs into abstraction, we encounter the enigmatic light beings. Their presence defies the mundane; they are emissaries from realms unseen. Here, in 777 words, we unravel their story:

/// The Arrival The room, bathed in cool hues, cradles these spectral guests. Their forms—ethereal, fluid—meld with the fabric of existence. Are they remnants of forgotten dreams or cosmic wanderers drawn by curiosity?

/// Quantum Choreography Imagine them pirouetting across the monitors. Their trails—stardust spun by celestial looms—tell tales of quantum leaps. They dance Schrödinger's waltz, existing both as particles and waves. Uncertainty weaves their steps.

/// Threshold Guardians These light beings stand sentinel. Guardians of imagination, they beckon us to peer beyond the veil. What lies in the interstices of reality? Parallel dimensions? Alternate versions of ourselves? Their glow hints at answers.

/// Pixel Whispers Pixels, once mere data points, now pulse with life. The blue light—their language—transcends screens. They murmur secrets: equations etched in light, love letters to the cosmos. We strain to decipher their syntax.

/// The Viewer's Pact As witnesses, we forge a pact. We become interpreters, co-authors of their narrative. Emotions stir—awe, wonder, trepidation. Are they benevolent guides or cosmic tricksters? Our gaze shapes their purpose.

/// In this pixelated reverie, we honor the light beings. They remind us: reality is but a canvas, awaiting our brushstrokes.

/// Feel free to linger, explore, or add your own strokes to this cosmic tableau.

+ O|E|C ::...

+ OBSERVE | EXPLORE | CREATE ::....

+ DR PLEASE DSM THIS FOR ME ::....

[musicarenagh]

Feast on Ferocity with Living With The Storm’s 'New Animal Culture' In the savage storm of musical mediocrity, Jim Bryant as Living With The Storm "New Animal Culture" erupts like a voltaic bolt, riotous and unapologetic. This art-pop colossus soars within its pixilated crescendos before crumbling into an effervescent sea of synthetic symphonies; electronic pop rendered with feral beauty. https://open.spotify.com/album/4svZd4RGKLbElf9Od0za1U "Mewling kitten to roaring puma in nine dizzying tracks!" The album ignites ferociously with "No Maps," weaving ghost whispers from forsaken refugee camps. It pirouettes on the edge of discordant catharsis, voicing unheard echoes against faceless oppression. Stark realism cut with electronic tempered steel but swaying findly as a dervish caught in populist melody. Snap! Just as gravity loses strength under feathery synths and celestial harmonies -- we crash back to earthbound mortality: “When did it get so dark?". This electro-dirge bathed incandescently in light laments teetering between haunting entropy and hopeful dream-state elation encapsulates Bryant's lunatic audacity – tickling us till laughter bleeds into tears! [caption id="attachment_55508" align="alignnone" width="1105"] Feast on Ferocity with Living With The Storm’s 'New Animal Culture'[/caption] Fearlessly slamming soulful evocations alongside algorithmic tonality - motley flavors mashed-up inside a hallucinogenic Richardsonian prism 'til they bleed eidetic turquoise. Astonishing! Short yet ample enough for gourmands to feast upon this delirious spectral banquet--a smoky tourmaline aurora that will continue to dance maddeningly behind closed eyelids at dawn’s first blush. Wash your ears aggrieved by today’s sludge-red homogeny in this Sea-of-Forgetfulness-green melody-shower — Living With The Storm ecstatic phantasmagoria: A reverie echoing through intersections of Byzantine electronica, baroque pop stagecraft and damned-if-I-care lyrical audacity; Scorn-euphoria-rapture! Each palaverous note a scintillating dervish spinning out cosmic insights, daring you to tame this 'New Animal' – welcoming you boldly into the eye of its storm...one sonic cyclone at a time. Follow Living With The Storm on Facebook and Twitter.

[imaginarygrooves]

"Ephemeral Escape", a faux album by Abyssal Reverie

Tracklisting:

"Transient Prelude"

"Flickering Shadows"

"Illusion's Embrace"

"Whispers in the Mist"

"Vanishing Horizons"

"Shifting Realities"

"Ephemeral Escape"

"Chronicles of the Void"

"Spectral Serenity"

"Temporal Labyrinth"

"Echoes of Departure"