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yourwitchmama · 2 years

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The house I grew up in was haunted. But not in a bad kind of way. It was 100 years old, a turn of the century house, and the property was suffused with its own time. The soil in the back was mixed with coal dust, and even to the day we moved out you could still find shards of black coal from the age of steam where you heated a hour with roaring flame and damned the consequences. The kitchen was victorian in design - hot and unfit for life. The laundry room was a poorly cobbled additon of the 70's. The bathroom had its original tub, complete with brass griffins' feet to keep it off the tile.

I never knew the story of the house, at least the story before I was in it, but I knew the story I lived. The house had an unfinished 2nd floor - technically an attic that had been long converted into usable bedrooms to make up for the lack there of below. And it was this attic, wherein my childhood bedroom reside, that gave home to a ghost.

I know not when I first became aware of him, but I think he was aware of me long before then. He simply had always been. He saw us come into the world, saw up play, and he was always kindly to us, watching us grow. He was an old, shortish, roundish man. A bowler hat and grey coiffed mustache, wearing what I'd later learn to be fine Victorian fashion: dark coat, light slacks, and polished shoes.

He never showed when the day was bright, and so my awareness of him was less when I was younger. But as I got older, I'd met him on the way to bed on many a dark, southern night.

In middle school my course load became unbearable. The school was going through accreditation and they took it out on the children. I pulled my first 4am deathmarch in 8th grade, for a science teacher who hated me. Exhausted and depressed from flames of frustration that had long burned to ashes, I marched up the stairs for a few desperate hours of sleep before the 6:30 alarm that would get me to school by the 7:15 first period. The 5th step creaked like it always did, and I stopped a breath. The 15th would too, and I'd risk waking my brother who went to the same school and was having no better a time in the special ring if Hell called 6th Grade. There were 18 stairs between the floors, a number id counted nearly every day of my life, a number that frustrated me for how incomplete it felt. I wondered, standing half way up, if 3 hours was worth the 18 frustrating, creaky stairs and looked up to my destination - the landing which became bedrooms - to see a familiar, shadowy figure.

Never could I catch his expression. He wasn't that clear to me. But a sense of concern washed through me and I knew I'd worried him for being up so late. I worried him by being so tired, so frustrated, so defeated at only 13. The ghost had seen me grow up and I'd always felt comfortable - even reassured - by his presence. In my mind, he might as well have been family - though I doubt his line and mine were connected.

Like the gentle hand of a grandparent, his presence that night - or morning - reminded me to take care of myself. So I climbed those stairs and went to bed and went to school later that day. My work went off without a hitch, and I'd come straight home that day to sleep comfortably through dinner, knowing I wasn't alone, even when my family sit downstairs, eating.

I sometimes wonder who that gentle old man had been, but it passes with the breeze. I don't crave explanation because to me, he will always most importantly be the Ghost of the Landing, of my Childhood Home.

#submission #my big mouth #ghost story #thanks for letting me tell this story #ive loved that ghost a lot over the yesrs

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gods-and-punks-gallery · 2 years

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My vTuber Model

Mihoshi is my streaming model, but honestly I use her more in a virtual classroom setting than traditional content creation x’D

#vRoid #vTuber #mihoshi #sep22 #my big mouth

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linktoo-doodles · 3 months

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i'll strangle you or i'll kiss you on the mouth

#laius thorden #laios touden #kabru #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #my art #Linktoo art #labru #narrative foil yaoi my weakness.... anyway #the way he grabs that guy and begs him to stay and begs like please LISTEN to me #its so funny how kabru‚ someone who prides himself with understanding people and their motivations #just can't handle having some random guy like laius with a big prophecy on his head remain a mystery to him #the way laius just entirely evades him it drives him crazy. kabru puts motivations and assumptions in his mouth in any attempt to Know him #hes so scared of this man yet simultaneously drawn by being unable to discern his thought process #meanwhile #laius is just autistic

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glass-sky-inn · 5 months

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Moving into Watermelon Street...

Somewhere, down the street a ways, in a section perhaps you've never been to - perhaps you haven't been to in a long time - stands a stately white house. Old by make, well-traveled by the mix of flowers and ornaments and general busyness in the front. And among them stands a sign, modest in comparison - two timber legs, a board with a curve at the top, simply painted - that reads "Welcome to the Glass Sky Inn" with the words "Long Stays Welcome" written underneath, and added to the bottom - a little hanging sign of its own - says "Restaurant".

How long has an Inn resided here? Or was it even here yesterday? It must have been, a plantation house doesn't build itself in a day. Right?

Well, whatever the mystery of this place may be, you might as well come in. The smell of home-cooked food is escaping out the cracked front windows. Corn bread and warm meats, spiced vegetables, and -oh the smell of Pies.

A young person with sky-blue hair waves at you on the street, standing on the porch as they water the various flowering bushes. A tall blonde man steps out from the door and catches their attention, and they smile together, and share a laugh, and retreat inside to whatever wonderful mayhem may come to be; though not before the blue-haired one casts one last, warm, smile to you.

Glass Sky Inn

Is a large plantation mansion that's been converted into a bed and breakfast sort of deal. The ballroom is a dining room for the home-style restaurant that's open to the public, serving whatever you might ask for - to the best of their abilities. There are 7 rooms for rent, not including the master bedroom on the top floor, at the top of the stairs, where the proprietors live. A husband and partner who are equal parts mysterious as they are madly and sweetly in love with each other. This is something of a retirement for them. You don't ask how they can be retired when neither looks past their 20's.

Aivis

They/Them | 20's by appearance | Queer The main proprietor of the Glass Sky Inn. It was their idea to make the inn, and they seem to love it quite a bit. "A little piece of solace" they say. Aivis has light blue hair, which shows no signs of dye work, gold-rimmed glasses that take up most of their pale face, and generally wears nothing but overlarge soft sweaters and jeans. They have the air of a graduate student, and can often be found reading when not doing the Inn's book work or helping with the housekeeping. Aivis has a laid-back way, and finds happiness in a lot of simple things. They can be a nurturing person at times, but generally will stand back and let things play out - unless so egregious a situation occurs that they actually grow frustrated and take action. In general, however, they are live-and-let-live.

Adrian

He/Him | 20's by appearance | Queer by association The co-owner and husband (you presume) of the main proprietor of the Glass Sky Inn. He enabled his beloved's wish to have an Inn and see many people resting and having a good time. "It was your wish, my Starlight," he replies. Adrian is tall and handsome, with dusty blonde hair that falls to an past his shoulders. He's generally comfortably dressed - though you're not certain for what era. Peasant shirts and slacks, he might be a RenFaire actor, you could guess? He is more easy to annoy than Aivis, and has a touch of a sarcastic and teasing streak. He likes to try to get a rise out of his beloved, and sometimes pushes them too far. He is generally well natured, however, and genial enough to the guests. If anything, "aloof" is a descriptor you might hear in the town. But he is ever the puppy for his dear Aivis, and you might at times find them curled up in one of the overlarge antique armchairs - Aivis asleep against his broad chest - as he reads, his partner's glasses rescued from their slumber.

#my big mouth #cheshire castle library #glass sky inn #watermelon street #application

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cheshire-castle-gallery · 6 months

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Progress on the "Impatient Machine"

Me committing one of the cardinal sins of Tumblr 2013 era? More likely than you think! Hopefully the modern video upload is better now a days, but anywho, here's where we're at so far

The cardboard is going to be used to pour 2 resin sidepieces, and I'm really happy with the shapes I got in that. It feels very complete, aesthetically, at least from these sides, and at least through shape language.

The crank was for the purpose of demonstration, but it might stick around if I actually figure out the changes that were kind of think-tank'd in critique yesterday. I'm just worried it reads "crank organ"? But no one said that in crit, and I was afraid to offer it to them. And like? What would the harm be, if it did read crank organ? I'm not sure its a crime, especially since the words "music notes" and "piano" starting floating around, and like that wasn't even the first time I've heard this about those fingers. So I'm not too upset.

I need to decide colours and what significance they have and then a plan of action, because we don't have a lot of time before this class is in final presentation phase, so I need attainable progress that leverages having access and designated time in the workshop. Which sounds like it might be resin time (doo doo doo). Oh and reprinting the cams time, that's going to be important.

#my big mouth #cheshire castle log #cheshire castle gallery #kinetic sculpture #sculpture #fine art #art #lgbtq artist #neurodivergent artist #queer artist

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akanemnon · 1 month

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Something tells me this isn't Flowey...

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

#deltarune #undertale #crossover #utdr #crossover comic #undertale fanart #deltarune fanart #twin runes #twin runes comic #my art #kris dreemurr #susie deltarune #frisk #so much for avoiding fights #how are they supposed to get past that thing?#things are only gonna gett weirder from here on out #also great job susie #you and your big mouth #unsuspecting tiny thing turning into a big monster is the trope ever

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starlightstorytelling · 9 months

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i. Nightmare and Memory

Unnamed Space Opera Project @gods-and-punks | @cheshire-castle-library 2,933 Words

Bel woke from a horrid nightmare, fleeting with every gasping breath as his consciousness wrestled with the grasping arms of the dim dreamscape, and the warmer than he'd like sunlight streaming into his bedroom from the crack in the curtains. There was more sun than would make sense for an early morning, and somewhere in the back of his always-on mind, he stored that little tidbit of information; just like he stored the exits, the defensible positions, the location of civilians and security cameras, and where he could be out of line of sight from the “uninitiated”.

As his mind was freed from the tendrils of sleep, he came to grips with the dream. More of a memory, twisted by stress and the lateness of the night before. It was the first summer he spent with his Uncle, the summer his life changed. His uncle had a conversion van, and was "fondly known” as the "family vagabond" back then - traveling town to town, busking and taking up odd jobs, not yet ready to settle down and decide what he wanted from his life. Well that wasn't the truth, not even remotely; and Bel felt the lies in is bones. Not what they told his mother - all the excuses over the years - and not what his dreams spun them to be.

Bel's body still stung and tingled from the disconnected sensations of the dream from his body that paralyzed him as he woke, his brain awake with pain in a part separated from the body that could actually do something about it. The dream was a wash of suffering, but in that dull way that somewhere inside you know it's not actually happening. The difference between a dream where you feel the need to pee, and actually wetting the bed. It amazed Bel how the brain could soften memories like that so they don't cause the same scars you get when they happen.

A decade ago at that point, he'd been left unattended in his uncle's conversion van, all of eight years old, and he'd found something he shouldn't have.

It was in a time when Bel's parents were "having trouble", but not the kind of trouble normal people have. Not the "making ends meet" kind of arguments, not the "12 hour work days" kind of stress. Somehow it was "what yacht should we buy to maintain appearances", "who is this floozy", "which one of us married into which family"; and at the time Bel didn't fully understand it. How could he? He was eight! But he understood some of it - more than his parents would have liked - and he'd asked, in that way children can in all innocence, questions regarding the nanny and his father; and everything exploded.

Suddenly there was no nanny, which was a lesson in instant loneliness for Bel; and suddenly "Mommy and Daddy need to go out of town". And so, unceremoniously, Bel found himself in the care of his Uncle. His uncle who was all but disowned for his "lack-about ways", his uncle who was the laughing stock of the family for living in his van and being a "drain on society" and was absolutely ignored by the media. His uncle who, under any other circumstances, would never be allowed within a city block of Bel without supervision due to his mother's distrust (read as "inability to control") for her own older brother.

But her brother wouldn't "seduce her husband", Bel assumed, looking back. As if it weren't her hateful tantrums that traumatized both Bel's father and the nanny enough that they could take solace in each other. Bel felt guilty for thinking that. That was his mother, and regardless of the ways she treated him, he couldn't help but love her. Live with her. Figure out how to appreciate the parts of her that were good, and figure out how to almost not internalize the screaming. That's what his father eventually did, he was sure. After that summer, his parents had never been closer. The tantrums cooled down - not completely gone, but who can really discipline a rich daddy's girl politician's daughter?

But his parent's weren't the only ones who came back from that summer changed. At one point, he'd been left in the van, told "don't touch anything" as if that means anything to an 8 year old but "go find the thing I'm terrified you'll find", while his uncle ran into a little shop somewhere in Nevada for a few minutes. Of course Bel was too young to think about how suspicious it was that his uncle had parked the van behind that little shop. That shop which was the only one not boarded up and abandoned in the who ghost town of a shopping center.

As soon as his uncle was out of sight, closed into the windowless backdoor of the yellow-brick building, Bel started his mission. He'd noticed something a few days earlier, but his uncle had the same eyes in the back of his head that Bel's mother had; and caught him three times when the boy tried to get to it. The van was smaller than expected on the inside, and Bel was no stranger to the jabbing jokes his family made about the "conversion van" and "converted to a shoe box"; which didn't completely make sense to Bel at that age. But in those thicker walls, there were panels that didn't match. Outlines like there should be cabinets if you could just figure out how to get the doors open. The inside of the van was the worse texture of blood-orange faux fur, covering everything in scratchy nylon fibers that made the van retain smell so badly that when the van gets hot is always smells like Burger King onions. The back seat was a large mattress dressed in clashing and equally potent colours of green and purple; and if you lay on your back and look at the abnormally low roof, there was a square seam in the orange hanging fur that could be seen only by the way the fur parted strangely around its perimeter.

Standing on the mattress with his arms over his head, the kid started working tiny kid fingers around the seam, trying to figure out how it comes out and in what direction. He discovered that there was some kind of lip around it, if he pressed hard enough against the orange fur. He traced all along it. Square but with rounded corners, like there was some kind of box buried in the lowered ceiling. He started pressing against the bottom most panel, pressing both hands and trying to push it up. Nothing. He tried sliding it like one of his dad's wooden puzzle boxes. Nothing. But then his hand slipped into something odd. There was a pocket in the fur lining, and something under there. It was just big enough for his hand to fit in there - not thinking about how this would be too small for his uncle's hands. Inside was something smooth and glassy, and not quite as cool as you'd expect. He tried to worry it out, but it wasn't a knob. In truth, it was a DNA scanner, that made use of tunneling electrons to scan an appendage pressed to it; but Bel wouldn't come to know that for several years yet.

The scanner did its job, boring a stream of entangled electrons into the child's hand almost undetectably - sans a little warmth - and reading the interactions from the paired electrons within the device, doing complex analyses to determine whether the user is similar-enough genetically to the keyed operative. Like most of Terminus' technology, it was designed by an Phrontan engineer - the Phronta being widely regarded as the most intelligent race in all of Terminus Space. They were also the most prolific single culture to create quality of life and security devices in the entire territory. Unfortunately, they were also raging bigots, with equal measure of eugenics and genetocentrism. Any race younger than 10,000 generations is considered "under developed". Any culture that hasn't managed sustained space travel is considered unintelligent. And therefore any race suffering both is beneath study. "It would change too much between now and when the race was actually developed. What point would there be?"

And so the scanner read the 25% genetic likeness of a nephew to his uncle, and erroneously deployed the container - an error that is now rectified, and a certain Phrontan engineer ostracized for making an error that every other Phrontan would have made; but such is the Phrontan culture. The lowermost panel, which Bel had previously been pressing on, began to descend in a controlled way. The boy leapt out of the way, bonking his head on the windowless wall of the conversion van. Once he'd reclaimed himself, he turned to see a tray suspended from poles into the cavity of the van's converted back seat. The fog of a freezer billowed around the tray, and a small metal box - black with pink circuit lines tracing around its edges - sat in the center.

Now why his uncle was hiding a puzzle box inside the not-so-secret compartment of his van was beyond 8-year-old Bel; but he'd seen things like this sitting on his father's desk before, and he was suspiciously good at getting into them. To the point that his father had replaced all the boring shiny objects inside the one's at home with hard candies! And since Bel's mother hated the idea of her son on sugar, it was a secret between the "men" of the house. Good for the flexibility of a growing boy's mind and a form of quiet resistance against the neuroses of a spoiled débutante.

Bel took the metal up in both hands and sat hard on his rear, knowing the mattress would cushion his fall. A quick glance here and there to make sure his Uncle wasn't going to catch him, and then he started at it. Tiny finger tracing the circuit lines, trying to find seams to work off of. Bel was behind most of his class when it came to spelling and maths, and his impatience was the bane of everyone but his now ex-nanny; but Bel had an incredibly sharp kinemorphic intelligence. Of course that's not something schools measure, so its possible only his father really understood Bel’s early mastery of fine-motor control.

It took mere seconds for Bel to detect the only way this box could open. A nearly undetectable ridge, a way part of the box shifted in a different way than the rest, the way the weight shifted as he rotated it in all directions. He'd barely sat when he found the nondescript panel that slid to one side, releasing the lock it had on an orthogonal panel and then, done. Bel was almost annoyed with how easy the puzzle had been compared to how hard it was to get out of the secret vault. Of course, this wasn't meant to be a puzzle, and in fact was just a locking mechanism that was mildly difficult for larger species to access - the Phrontan being one of the "Decigrade" races of Terminus Space, standing only about 4 Earth inches high.

The metallic walls of the "puzzle" box bloomed open to reveal something that looked a little like a small, grey Brazil nut. Bel was even more confused. All that trouble for something that looked boring. He shifted the weight of the box to sit in his hand, still trying to hold the box roughly the size of an orange up close enough to his face to discern small details. With his left, he poked the object. Nothing strange. Then he tapped it a few times and-

The brasil nut jolted. He flinched, dropping it - case and all - and failing to scoot back further than the van wall, gaining only inches distance as the grey prism melted into a puddle and then collected itself, launching at the boy like a high velocity garden slug. His hands shot up to protect his face, and the angry silly putty slapped against his hand, searing his soft uncalloused skin and making the boy yelp in shock and discomfort. It felt like a hot coal or the wrong end of Gram's cigarette that she wasn't supposed to be smoking around the children pressed deep and deeper into his palm. The boy held his wrist and gasped, every neuron firing in desperation to escape the cause; but it was too late.

The device had initiated an emergency protocol which Uncle Maddok had barely listened to in the briefing. He was permitted to use the device temporarily to defend it against theft, so it was set to activate on opening. And so it did.

The slime made a pin-hole into the boy's hand, squeezing into his veins and leaving traces of itself as it went. Network of nanofilaments traced as this gel dissolved into his blood and found its way through his body in moments - consuming material here and there to self-replicate and perform its function - creating constructs - psudo-organs - that melded with nerves and bone and brain-stem. Bell's screams faded into numbness - his brain flooding distance between the overwhelming sensation of the body and his perception of it. He found his consciousness in a small, cool room, dark and empty, but not frightening, not lonely. It was a dim fantasy, locking the experiences of the body away from the mind. He looked out of the walls, that weren't quite windows and yet he could see through it - through his eyes. Someone had come to the van - his uncle and some other guys. One with a mustache that Bel recognized as someone his Uncle worked with. The other in a diver’s suit or something. They were fussing over him, picked him up and carried him into the beige windowless door his uncle disappeared into. Was that long ago? Time didn't pass to Bel, no amount of time and yet all of eternity had passed through him.

He suddenly felt so tired, but he watched - enthralled with the sci-fi program playing out through the dark walls of his safe, cool, mental place. A high-tech dentist chair? Lights and tools he didn't recognize. He thought he should be afraid, but he wasn't. Actually he wasn't anything. There were words said around him, but they were muffled. Not real. Not directed towards him. Not important. He was so tired.

"Notice: Host partial compatibility error." The voice was familiar, but emotionless. A voice inside his room? Who's was it? Bel's mental image of himself stood, looking away from the wall he was seeing through. "Whose there?" Did he say that out loud? Or just in the fog of his mind-room?

"Notice: Autexousious Mutagenic Framework, unit identifying. One zero zero zero one."

Bel peered into the deepest part of the shadow of this room of even and yet no lighting. "Autex?" "Notice: Accepting host code name - Autex."

As Bel squinted in the dim fog inside his mind, he caught a glimpse of something shiny, glossy. "Come out here..." He said, reaching into the darkness and grabbing something. A hand? An Arm? He pulled it out of the shadow - not that there was a light source in this imaginarium that could shed light on it; but he could see it now, emerging from the shadow. It was... himself. But pink, glassy. Like the precious glass animals, his mother collected. Delicate and fragile, cracked with some imperfections that traced like the lines of the metal puzzle box that started this mess. Bel momentarily remembered what happened, but it faded as unimportant. Un-real.

"Notice: Host compatibility error resolved."

Confusion flooded his consciousness and Bel's grip on the glassy wrist slipped. "Notice: Initiating host recuperation cycle. Stand by."

Bel faded into foggy darkness, caught by the glassy doppelganger - though he'd struggle to remember that fact. The Autex recorded the interaction for further data analysis at a later time.

***

Bel woke thinking he was at the dentist. The laughing gas thing over his nose smelled bad - like rubber and chemicals. He flopped an unresponsive arm across himself to drag it away. Nothing in his body felt right. It was heavy and lumpy and both easier and more difficult to move than he remembered. He barely made it upright without pitching over, but he saw his uncle slumped in a chair on the edge of the room. How had a bad tooth made him hurt so much? “Made him hurt”? Did he hurt? What had happened.

It took Bel literal years to make heads or tails of the groggy memories and the "emergency dentist visit" on that first summer he spend with Uncle Maddok. It was dreams like the one he'd just woken from that unraveled the truth, honestly. The brain stores memories in our skin and muscle, as much as in our brain, so even if the conscious mind can't recall the details, our flesh knows what we've forgotten.

Bel roused himself from his seat on the edge of his bed, realizing he'd been sitting staring at the floor with his head heavy in his hands only because of the knock on the door. "Kiddo? Weren't you going out this afternoon?"

Afternoon? "Yeah, Kari's game is at 1," Bel groaned towards the cracked door.

"Think you missed that, son," his dad chuckled incredulously as he continued down the hallway.

Panic rocketed through Bel’s chest and head, before a sigh pushed it down and he stood to get dressed. Right, that’s why the sunlight through the curtains felt wrong.

#scifi #sci fi writing #writeblr #writing #my big mouth #lgbt #lgbt writers #neurodivergent writer #neurodivergent

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