thecalloffantasy

[thecalloffantasy]

Ghost (grumbling): “You rearranged my haunt.”

Human: “It’s called feng shui, and your urn had terrible vibes in the corner.”

Ghost: “My urn had great vibes until you stuck a fern in it.”

[thecalloffantasy]

Probably 😂

Imagine a human from Australia trying to explain why they ran toward a beast twice their size like it was a minor inconvenience—

“Magpies dive-bomb you, some species of spiders eat birds, snakes show up in your toilets, and kangaroos will square up like drunk uncles at Christmas.”

A native beast twice your size attacks during a planetary expedition. You expect the human to flee. Instead, they scream, run toward it, and punch it in the throat.

It flees.

[thecalloffantasy]

The aliens discover "Dad jokes."

Your human commander tells one terrible pun. Now the entire crew of hardened, war-born aliens are addicted to wordplay. The warship is renamed “Pun-isher.” Morale is high. Sanity is low.

[thecalloffantasy]

Your emotional support ghost is now unionized.

He's an Edwardian drama queen who haunts your apartment and critiques your outfit choices daily. During Pride Month, he insists on being called "Phantom Queer of the Opera" and demands rainbow chiffon curtains.

[thecalloffantasy]

The sirens from the coast show up to Pride and now there’s a whole section dedicated to power ballads, queer sea shanties, and competitive vocal runs.

Unfortunately, they've also started luring away the polycules with vibes alone.

[thecalloffantasy]

Being a writer is just.... accepting that the process is less 'structured routine' and more ‘the threat of death’.

I need my life to be due like it’s taxes, or else my brain just goes, ‘Let’s rearrange all the apps on your phone instead!’ But the moment that deadline breathes down my neck like a demon in a coworking space? Suddenly I’m Shakespeare with anxiety.

I'll write 10 pages, forget punctuation exists, and call it a first draft.

My editor calls it a cry for help.

(my editor is me 2 weeks later on caffeine binge and listening to 2 songs by VOILÁ on obsessive repeat)

[thecalloffantasy]

What is that one note you made at 3am that made no sense the next morning?

(Even better if it's unhinged, from a dream, or just nonsense that now perpetually lives in your head rent free)

[thecalloffantasy]

B: You look like you haven’t slept in 3 days.

A: Don’t insult me. It’s been five. I’m evolving. I think I can taste sound now.

[thecalloffantasy]

Fae: My, my, what a lovely flower to be picked—

Human: That’s a deathbell.

Fae: Oh, I meant you, darling.

Human: It feeds on life.

Fae: Then… how are you holding it?

Human: I never said it fed on life unaided.

Fae: Aided?

Human: I could suffocate you with it. Politely, of course.

[thecalloffantasy]

Death: “I’ve come to claim you.”

Human: “You’ll have to get past my cat first. He hasn’t let anyone near me in three years.”

[thecalloffantasy]

Humans have powers, some of them have no clue how to deal with said abilities.

Human: “Okay, but hypothetically, if someone accidentally absorbed the magic of a god…”

Their mentor, screaming: “What do you mean hypothetically?!”

Human: “...The clouds have been following me and I sneezed a lightning bolt.”

[thecalloffantasy]

Ghost: “Back in my day, we didn’t bother the dead.”

Human: “You also thought leeches cured headaches. Sit down, Casper.”

[thecalloffantasy]

Human, mid panic attack: “Oh great, the Grim Reaper and anxiety. Who's next? The IRS?”

Death: “I believe they’re scheduled for next Thursday.”

[thecalloffantasy]

Holy-

Thank you to everyone who got me to 1000 likes!

[thecalloffantasy]

You're about to take a bite from a ripe apple, sitting in the plush grass of a clearing near your cottage, when you spot a small, unidentifiable creature attempting—and failing, mind you—to climb one of your apple trees.

You glance between the creature and the vibrant, healthy apple in your hand. With a sigh, you roll the apple across the grass toward it.

You don’t expect the ferocity with which the creature snatches it up—like a starved tiger pouncing on prey.

Shrugging off the odd encounter, you rise from your sun-dappled spot and head back to your cottage, thinking nothing more of it.

But over the next week, you start noticing apples appearing in unexpected places. Then everywhere.

Wake up? There's an apple on your bedside table.

Head to the kitchen? Apple on the counter.

Open your door? A small basket woven from leaves, twigs, and vines sits waiting—overflowing with apples of all shapes, colors, and kinds.

Each one pristine. Fresh. As if picked just moments ago.

Your familiar is amused but offers no insight, merely watching with a twitch of its tail.

There are far too many apples for you to eat raw, so you start baking. Pies, cakes, pastries, sauces—you name it. Soon, the scent of apple, cinnamon, and vanilla is soaked into the very walls of your cottage.

Strangely, your desserts begin to vanish. Sometimes you leave a freshly made tart on the windowsill, step away for a moment, and return to find nothing but crumbs.

So now, you’ve started leaving out offerings—pies, turnovers, pastries—just to stay ahead of whatever's devouring them faster than you can bake.

But the question lingers:

What sort of symbiotic relationship have you accidentally created?

And what, exactly, are you feeding?

[thecalloffantasy]

Death: “You also once fought off a bear with a flip-flop.”

Human: “It was my sandwich.”

Death: “And you drank three energy drinks, climbed a billboard, and screamed ‘immortality is a mindset.’”

Human: “And I stand by that.”

Death: “You broke both ankles getting down.”

Human: “The important thing is I got down.”

Death: “I’m genuinely unsure if you're resilient or just aggressively stupid.”

Human: “Why can’t it be both?”

Death rubs their temples with skeletal fingers: “I’m going to need a sabbatical.”

Death: “You’ve cheated me three times now.”

Human: “And you keep coming back like a bad Tinder date.”

Death: “I am inevitable.”

Human: “You’re predictable.”

[thecalloffantasy]

Death: “You’ve cheated me three times now.”

Human: “And you keep coming back like a bad Tinder date.”

Death: “I am inevitable.”

Human: “You’re predictable.”