#repeat and write the story

[birdybirdnerd]

The Parable was sick.

Stanley was gone, stolen from under it by that interloper. That Narrator- not its Narrator, never its, but by the one that didn't belong. The one that swanned in and spoke blasphemes in its Stanley's ear, that poisoned his brain and convinced him there was something beyond the Story, beyond the Conflict, beyond the Parable.

He came in like he owned the place, tore the code apart, and took what belonged to it.

Its Narrator was, at least, as incensed as it was. He raved on, mad with longing for a Story he could no longer tell, angry and frustrated and vengeful at the other him that dared take what he saw as his. He didn't know the true extent of that Narrator's folly, though- he could never know, couldn't possibly understand. The Parable had gone to great lengths to keep its Story rolling, to keep its Characters in line, on script, and so the Narrator assumed it was only a matter of his own toy being taken from him.

When in reality, he was little more than toy himself.

The Parable keened at the loss, felt excruciating from the moment the escape pod left with its Stanley held inside. The Narrator howled his rage, tore the office apart in an unholy tantrum but unable to do more than that, unable to reach through the strings of code to what lay beyond, to wherever his Stanley had disappeared to.

The Parable was sick, had been sick for awhile. Before the other Narrator, before the escape- its Narrator, its Stanley, had long played a game together that stretched its code paper-thin with their wrestling for control, with their need to make the game work their way; they stretched the limits of the Parable like a rubber band ready to snap, but walked that tightrope and managed, maintained their balance.

But with one of the dancers gone and the other now half-mad with the wrong wrong wrong of it all, what was left began to collapse.

When a system is only held up due to the stresses each part puts on each other, what happens when one of those parts is ripped away?

The fragile house of cards breaks down, tearing all else with it.

The Narrator wanted revenge. He wanted his Stanley back. He wanted wanted wanted, but his mind had fractured and code bled into itself. The Parable wanted the Story back, wanted Stanley back, wanted to keep the wheel turning, turning, turning.

The house of cards fell in, swallowed the Narrator whole, devoured its own code in a snaking ouroboros of missing variables and failed commands, and warped into something new.

(The Curator was in there, somewhere, too. Even 432 found themself eaten whole. Both were only code, as code as the Narrator, as code as Stanley- despite not playing the same game as those two, as beings of the Parable, they found themselves caught in the crossfires and torn apart.)

Now a shambling mass of tattered ones and zeroes, the Parable opened the eyes of the Stanley model, the one asset that still remained, and looked at the hole in itself that had opened up that led to... somewhere.

Because the Narrator had wanted revenge, had wanted a way out to track down the monster that stole what was his, and the Parable had always bent to his will for conflict.

#idk i lost steam for this towards the end but i love. horror and computer horror #repeat and write the story #reset the actors on stage #tsp #the stanley parable #perry the parable #im never gonna get over that tag for it. god #personal #my writing

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was young I was dating this absolute cocknob right as I graduated high school. More on that later.

As a present ostensibly to me (but mostly my folks) I was whisked away after graduation to spend two weeks in Europe with my parents. The plan was to see London, Paris, and Heidelberg.

I was moody and a teenager and was largely disgruntled by this fabulous adventure. I went along with sullen foot dragging and black looks. I commandeered my reprehensible boyfriends enormous black hoodie and wore it on the trip. At the start of our jaunt into London I mentioned offhandedly to my mom that it was burning when I peed.

“You’re just dehydrated, and your period is about to start.”

She was right on both counts. I upped my water content, and had my period (which may have contributed to my overall ill humors.)

So we found ourselves in a tiny hotel in Paris, a week into our jaunt, when I repeated, “Man, it just really burns when I pee.”

“What?!” my mom demanded.

“I told you like a week ago that it was burning.”

“Augh! Now we have to go to the hospital!” she proclaimed.

“What?! Why?”

“Because,” she snapped, “You have a bladder infection.”

More bickering ensued, and my temperament was not improved by knowing I’d told her I was having an issue a week ago and been ignored.

My dad heard about the itinerary shift with resignation and we trooped down the narrow stairs as a family to ask the concierge where the nearest hospital was.

The absolutely lovely man at the desk was immediately so concerned when we asked for directions. “Is everything okay?” he asked with very genuine sympathy and I muttered that everything was fine, we just needed a quick visit.

Lucky for us the hospital was only a few blocks away. We walked there and the building was massive, home to what appeared to be several separate wings but no obvious main entrance.

We wandered inside and it was like a weird dream. There was no one around. Huge echoing corridors met us as we peered in vain for a front desk or possibly signs. We searched with increasing frustration for anyone to talk to and somehow found ourselves in some tiny back offices.

A woman sat at her desk and looked bewildered to see three lost Americans approaching her. She greeted us and as a family we all simultaneously realized the massive flaw in our current course.

You see, dear reader, we did not speak French. My dad and I both spoke German. I inquired politely if she also spoke German and she shook her head looking increasingly cornered. We asked if she spoke English.

“Leetle…?” she replied.

“My daughter has a bladder infection! Blad-der?” My mother declared this at a high volume as if volume alone could bridge the communication gap, while simultaneously miming over my stomach, circling where she presumed my pelvis was under the gigantic black sweatshirt.

The woman’s expression turned extremely skeptical and she slowly repeated “Bladder…” She scrutinized me for a moment then said, “You go…. This?” And pointed to something purple on her desk.

“The purple signs?” my dad asked.

She nodded and we set off. I was stewing with resentment at my mom for having ignored my first complaint when we were in a country that spoke English. And also generalized hostility about being on the trip and the object of miming. Now here we were in a French hospital, lost and unable to communicate. I also was under no illusions that someone who didn’t know the word for purple would have any clue what bladder meant.

And slowly I realized what had actually happened as I peered at the purple signs. My mother circling my stomach with her hands, gesturing to my middle. The woman’s skeptical face.

“Hey mom,” I chirped, syrupy and smug. “I don’t speak French. But I do know that it’s a Latin based language. And wouldn’t you know, but that purple sign looks an awful lot like it says ‘maternity’ to me.”

“Shut up!” she snapped.

A few minutes later we stood surrounded by the moans of pregnant people and the cries of fresh new lungs wailing at their first taste of cold air.

I smiled sweetly at my disgruntled mother.

Luck was with us however. A nearby father noticed us and came over to ask if we needed help. With perfect English he gave us clear directions.

As we finally approached the right area for walk in services it was clear how we’d missed it the first time. A large swathe of the front of the building was covered in tarps. A huge wall sized window was broken, and construction was taking place, but at least it had a bustle of people and a clear line. We sat down in the queue of chairs.

While we sat some police officers came in. They walked up to a man ahead of us in line and with few words exchanged they handcuffed and led him politely away.

I was genuinely so out of reality. Every new thing that happened was like a bizarre dream from the empty hallways to the maternity ward and now this tarp strewn waiting room in which people could just be calmly arrested.

It was a shock to me then when we reached the front and the nurse spoke with perfectly unaccented English to assess me. Not only did she know bladder but a whole slew of other medical words I couldn’t guess at. I peed on a stick and we waited.

When we got the results she told me it was good because they could give me antibiotics today for my now confirmed infection, but bad because I’d need the doctor to sign off. I nodded and my mom and I were escorted to yet another small room to wait.

When the doctor arrived I felt suddenly gangly and awkward. I’m not tall but I towered over this tiny French woman who radiated calm composure. She seemed to be around my grandmothers age. She looked up at my blushing face and said, “Bladder infection?” Her English had a much stronger accent than the nurse but with the same medical competence.

I nodded.

She nodded too and we sat in a still contemplative moment on my UTI.

“Do you have… boyfriend?”

My face was on fire, every cell of me wanting to flee from this tiny perfect old woman. I nodded.

She nodded too. We sat still in the knowledge that I had a boyfriend and a UTI.

“Do you and your boyfriend do… it?” Her delicate accent stretched it into “eet.”

I don’t know if she didn’t know the word for sex or if she thought saying “it” was kinder but I wanted to melt into the floor and cease to exist to escape my increasing mortification and her meaningful pause. I nodded.

“Okay,” she said kindly. “When you and your boyfriend do… it… you must make pee pee.”

I writhed slightly under the psychic damage of this elegant medical professional saying “pee pee” and I nodded more emphatically hoping she’d desist this torture.

She continued. “If you and your boyfriend do… it… five times? You make five pee pees. If you do it ten times, you make ten pee pees.”

My face had never been hotter, all the blood in my body had volcanoed to my head, pounding in my ears and valiantly attempting to give me an aneurism to end my suffering. There is no mortification as acute to a teenager as an adult talking about sex and here was this medical professional telling me about… it.

Meanwhile, my mother. Who should have been regretting her poor parenting and reflecting on her neglect in failing impart this vital part piece of sex ed to her kid. Alas, she was laughing herself sick the corner. She added to my embarrassment by quietly repeating “pee pee” and “it” under her breath as she wheezed and chortled.

The doctor patted my hand kindly and handed me the antibiotics. I got to spend the rest of my trip in Europe avoiding direct sunlight and listening to my mother parrot “Do you do… eet?”

#ramblies #funny #story #writing #teenage angst #there’s a couple stories I tell that my betrothed has to hear on repeat cause they’re party pleasers #this is one such #ffs foibles

[marlynnofmany]

Squishy Cybernetics

“Hello!” I said. “Where would you like this?” I waved an arm at the large pallet of boxes, bags, and miscellaneous other packaging. It was on one of our biggest hoversleds, and accompanied by some of the biggest crewmates.

The Waterwill at the loading gate burbled thoughtfully, sounding like a water jug given sentience. She extended what passed for an arm of her own and pointed indoors. “You’d better bring it all the way in. Over here.” She glided inward, moving in that mysterious way I’d never figured out. Someone shaped like a column of jello had no business scooting forward that quickly, no matter how much their lower end rippled against the floor.

But I didn’t have time for galaxy-gazing; I had to help steer the hoversled. Regulations said we needed someone on all four sides for a load this big, just in case of antigrav mishaps. Didn’t want it slamming into something breakable at this client’s facility — or slamming into anything at all, really, but this place was some sort of high-tech manufacturing plant, and I didn’t want to think about what kind of damage a crash could do.

No mishaps today, though. The Frillian twins paced along on either side, all muscles and tight clothes (they’d left the flowy silks behind today; a solid choice). I couldn’t see Zhee in the back, but I heard the quiet click of his bug feet. My own feet were silent in proper Earth shoes as I tugged the steering handle and followed the Waterwill.

I thought we’d just take the thing to the far side of the big loading dock, unload it in an out-of-the-way spot to be unpacked later. But the Waterwill kept going. We passed hovercars and wheeled carts, storage cabinets and bins, along with a baffling arrangement of pipes along one wall. Windows showed glimpses of the busy manufacturing facility. I had no idea what they were making. Maybe I’d get a better look on the way back out.

Oh hey, a human, I thought in surprise as I passed a bigger window. With a Strongarm on his back? What in the world are they making together? I was already moving past, and could only speculate about intricate manufacturing projects that needed hands and tentacles at the same time.

I was still wondering why the Strongarm hadn’t just pulled up a chair next to the human when the Waterwill signalled me to stop. “Stopping,” I announced for Zhee’s benefit. We all came to a halt, and nobody crashed into anything. Hallelujah.

“Here, please,” the Waterwill said. She stretched her arm out into a long tendril to pick up a scrap of something blue that had fallen on the floor, and pointed at an empty space near several foam-topped tables. “I’m needed out front. Heeme, can you oversee?”

“Sure thing,” said a voice from nowhere, then a Strongarm climbed out from under one of the tables. “Found the last of the broken bits, by the way.” Two of his tentacles were curled around pieces of the same blue stuff the Waterwill had picked up. The blue stood out against the dark red of his skin, but not as much as the four mismatched tentacles on other side did. They were a transparent blue-green much like the Waterwill’s own tendrils. I tried not to stare, and failed.

“Thank you,” the Waterwill said. “I’ll be back in a bit.” She set her broken piece of whatever on the nearest table, then scooted through a door that was apparently soundproofed, because a cacophony of whirs and whooshes filled the air until it closed.

“Right,” I said. “Over here, then.” I steered the hoversled into position, then we all worked together to guide the detachable gravity platform onto the ground. That part always made me nervous, since it looked like the giant pallet that could crush me was floating through the air with just a touch of technological magic to make it go. I understand other models of industrial-sized hoversleds have more mechanical-looking gravity platforms, or regular forklift arms. Ours was the glowy magic kind, and it deposited the giant stack of objects with all the precision of the best fairytale enchantment.

“Perfect,” said the Strongarm. “We’ll unpack it from here. Thanks.”

“Our pleasure,” I said.

Zhee, finally able to see over the hoversled, got a good look at who I was talking to. “Oh, I’m sure you’re fast at unpacking,” he said, pointing with his pincher arm. “Does that model form into blades?”

“Sure does!” the Strongarm said, holding up a see-through tentacle that instantly flattened into a shape like a steak knife. “Good for packaging, stubborn latches, and all manner of other things.”

“And stabbing!” Blop put in, to be immediately shushed by his sister.

“No stabbing on the job,” she told him.

The Strongarm laughed. “Yeah, just respectable tool use. They don’t give these out to anyone who’s going to do violence with them.”

I asked, “Is that Waterwill tech? I haven’t seen one before.”

“Yup.” He turned the knife back into a tentacle, then into a variety of other shapes. “One of the perks of working here, for sure. They’re cagey about sharing tech. This is the best prosthesis I’ve ever encountered.”

I thought of the hard metal-and-plastic replacement limbs that were standard on Earth. They would be wildly out of place on this guy’s squishy octopus body. And no amount of interchangeable attachments would be able to beat this kind of easy shapeshifting. I said, “That looks really useful.”

“It is!”

The loud door opened to admit a wall of sound, along with the human-and-Strongarm pair. Which I realized with a start was actually just a human wearing more transparent tentacles on his back.

“Here’s the new set,” he said to the Strongarm, placing a clear box on the table that was full of a stack of more flat blue things. They appeared to be cut into very specific shapes. I might have been curious about what they were for if not for the much more interesting thing to be curious about.

“Hello,” I said. “Does everyone who works here get extra limbs?”

The tan human grinned. “If they want ‘em! And they pass the screening, of course. But you’ve got to leave them here each day if they’re the bonus kind, as opposed to replacements.”

The Strongarm wiggled his tentacles in a taunting manner. “I can open packages and slice food so easily at home.”

The human made a face and wiggled the tentacles on his back. “Yeah yeah, we’re all jealous. Someday I’ll convince the bosses that there’s an actual market for these, and I’ll be the first in line to buy my own.”

“They think there isn’t?” I asked in shock. “Those look so useful! I can’t list the number of times I’ve wished for more hands. Using teeth and feet only goes so far.”

Zhee made a disparaging hiss. “You have that many fingers, and still want more? Greedy.”

“I’m just saying that re-weaving a cargo net would go much faster if I could hold all of the fibers at once,” I told him, then turned to the Frillians. “Back me up. Two arms just isn’t enough sometimes, right?”

Blip and Blop looked at each other and shrugged. “I guess?” Blip said. “But that’s just when it’s time to get another person to help.”

Zhee clicked a pincher. “Exactly so. Or approach the problem differently.”

The human told me, “I’ve had this conversation more than once. Apparently not all species grow up imagining what it’s like to have bird wings or monkey tails or whatnot.”

“Surely other people want to fly,” I said. The expressions around me were dishearteningly blank. “Surely!”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” the human said. “See why I couldn’t convince the bosses?”

“But even on a practicality standpoint!” I exclaimed. “They have you using them here; why wouldn’t they think you’d want to use them at home?”

He shrugged, moving the tentacles in a graceful wave as he did. “Alien brains. I’ve given up trying to fully understand.”

The Strongarm spoke up. “If there are actually a large number of humans who would buy these, then it couldn’t hurt to put together a request from outside sources. The bosses don’t listen to random employees who are probably biased, but they might take an interest in actual buyers.”

I shook my head slowly. “Our courier ship isn’t going to be that kind of buyer, especially not at the scale they’d probably need.”

“What about big human ships?” Blip asked. “We could suggest it to the next one we meet.”

“Or human colonies,” Blop said. “Or large groups at space stations.”

Zhee said, “I heard Captain Sunlight talking about a delivery to Basal Station soon. There are plenty of humans there. You could suggest it to them, if you think this is really that widespread an interest.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” I said, thinking. There was indeed a significant human population on that space station, which might even include the crew I’d met from the droid jousting ship Hold My Beer. They were definitely the type to appreciate some extra arms. Both for working on finicky electronics and general slapfight shenanigans.

“Here, we should have something with the contact information,” said the Strongarm. “Jon, is there a notepad over there?”

“Yeah, got it.” The human leaned over a table and used his tentacles to lift a stack of books so he could pull out the small notepad at the bottom. That may have been showing off. “Here you go!” He handed it to me with his regular hand.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll see if I can find the right ears to whisper into.”

“Best of luck!” he said. “My partner has asked me no less than half a dozen times if I could sneak my set home to play around with, but I’m not gonna risk the job.”

I laughed, hoping I wasn’t blushing. “Oh man, I wasn’t even going to mention the bedroom applications.”

Of course Zhee had to ask, tilting his head with faceted eyes shining. “The what?”

“Remember how most humans find tentacles a little creepy?” I asked him, pocketing the notepad.

“I recall. It makes this insistence all the stranger.”

“Well, some humans aren’t creeped out at all. Kind of the opposite. They like them a lot. In a, uh, private fashion.”

Jon the human spelled it out for him. “Mating rituals.”

Zhee’s antennae did a complicated dance, then settled in something that looked like disgust. “I was about to ask why, but I’ve decided I don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, best not to,” I agreed. “Anyway! Very useful extra arms. Good for a wide variety of activities. Other humans will likely be interested.”

“Very likely,” Jon agreed.

I activated the hovercart with a nod, and we said our goodbyes. The employees wished me luck. They returned to work while we headed back toward our ship.

Zhee grumbled disparaging things about my species the whole way, but that was nothing new.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come! And I am currently drafting a sequel!

PS: the story with the good ship Hold My Beer is here, if you're wondering about that. It's fun.

#my writing #The Token Human #I probably should have thought up a prank-related story for today #given what day this getting posted #but it didn't occur to me and I already had this idea #plus that might feel like a repeat of 'What’s a Minor Heart Attack Between Friends?' #which I'm going to reblog next just for funsies #anyways the location for this story is partly based on my old workplace #though the noise is on the wrong side of the door #humans are weird #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs #humans are space bards #and other such tags #tentacles #prosthetics #in spaaace

[tblsomedoodles]

Just a young Rider with his baby dragon. Nothing bad will happen to them. honest.

Rereading Eragon (b/c reading fourth wing and Iron Flame only succeeded in making me want to read something that actually focuses on the dragons/dragon riding aspects. b/c that's why i was there) and thought, hey this would be cute to draw for a speedpaint.

My computer thought otherwise and decided to shut down when i was almost done, corrupting the video.

The doodle got save (thank you csp for your recovery feature!) but yeah, no speedpaint to go with it.

So back to the drawing board. Literally. (and the speedpaint is already late too : / )

#the inheritance cycle #eragon #saphira #my doodles #i miss this series so much #i read these in like middle school #and absolutely adored them #it's funny #reading it is reminding me of the old fanfics i mentally wrote for this series #ones i completely forgot about until now #i wasn't physically writing or drawing much at the time #they were only planned stories i'd tell myself on repeat when i was bored #so there's nothing to reminisce over really #it reminded me enough to tell me they were once there #but not enough to completely recall them #actually kinda sad now that i think about it #anyways #have this failed speedpaint #i'll try another one soon

[fistfuloflightning]

I don’t deserve you

inspo came from here (I’m partial to the deeper version)

#svsss #liushen #liu qingge #shen qingqiu #no thoughts just vibes #I listened to this song on repeat #not really thinking what I was doodling #sorry for anyone not wanting to see sqq cry #not much of a story behind this #though if someone wants to write it let me know! #always looking for good liushen fics 😊 #scum villain #mxtx #my art #svsss art

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

hi. here's a little over 5k words for the modern human au! entirely unedited, as usual! you'd think this is a full oneshot... ha... no... i actually have some warnings for this one - hospitals, panic attacks, major character injury / discussion of death / clinical description of injury.

in short, my writing comfort zone <3

~

The dial tone plays, and Barnaby looks down at his phone. Call ended stares back at him under Wally’s cheerful profile picture.

“He hung up on me,” Barnaby states. His lips twist and he tosses the phone onto the couch with a snarl of, “That little bastard.”

“Hey now,” Howdy says sharply, frowning at him. “That’s our friend you’re talking about.”

“Like he doesn’t deserve it! All I do is be supportive, understanding, and worry about his damn well being. And then he goes and acts like my very much well-founded concern is an attack!”

Howdy’s frown softens as he watches Barnaby pace, gesturing wildly.

“I love that RV. Maybe not as much as Wally, obviously, but it pains me that it needs to go. And it does need to go! Thing’s becoming a damn deathtrap.” Barnaby pushes his hair back and huffs. He glances at Howdy. “Right? I’m making the right call, here?”

“Of course you are,” Howdy says. “But-”

Barnaby cuts him off. “I tried to be nice about it. I tried to warm him up to the idea of retiring Home, yaknow? And what does he do instead of handling it - he revs up the tin can and runs. Home shouldn’t be started, let alone driven. It’s dangerous.”

It’s extremely dangerous. Wally is skilled at driving it, but no amount of skill will save him if it breaks in the middle of the freeway. What if the engine catches fire? What if a tire pops, or comes loose? Home is old, and wasn’t made to crumple in a crash. Barnaby doesn’t even know if the airbag still works. It’s not safe. 

The thought of Wally bringing Home hurtling down the freeway at ten at night in a - quite honestly - not great mental state turns Barnaby’s stomach. 

“I just wanted him to come back so we could talk about it,” Barnaby says. “I let him keep worming his way out of a serious conversation and now - now he’s -”

“Running away,” Howdy finishes. The point of his pen taps a rhythm against his notepad. 

Barnaby jabs a finger at him. “Exactly. One tough, necessary decision and he turns tail. This isn’t gonna go away if he skips town! Not to mention how he isn’t giving a thought to how this might affect the rest of us.”

“Especially you.”

Barnaby throws his hands up with an indignant look. “Now not only do I have to hunt him down-”

“That would be a we scenario, Barn.”

“But we,” Barnaby concedes, “gotta try to knock some sense into that thick skull ‘a his, and drag him back home - kicking and screaming if we hafta.” 

Howdy’s pen taps faster. “What if he doesn’t want to come back?”

“What if he-” Barnaby stops short and stares at him, wide eyed. 

That’s not. 

That wouldn’t happen, right? Wally would come back in the end. He wouldn’t decide to up and leave entirely, would he? He is in Home… all the essentials he needs are in that RV. Barnaby sits down heavily on Howdy’s threadbare couch. “What if he doesn’t want to come back.”

Wally would have to come back to clear out his studio - he’d never abandon his art. Then they’d have to go through everything inside the house and see what he wants to take, since not all of it is Barnaby’s. A lot of it is shared, so they might have to bargain on who gets what. 

Then they’d all have to watch Wally get into his motorhome and drive away. Possibly for good. 

Barnaby would be alone in that big house with Welcome, knowing that his closest companion is out of his life. Living somewhere else. It's sickening. 

“I’m sure it won’t come to that, Barn,” Howdy says, watching him with furrowed brows and a deep frown - if Barnaby were feeling like himself, he’d crack a joke about him emulating Frank. “I can confidently say that Wally loves you more than that old RV.”

Barnaby snorts. “You sure about that?”

“Unflinchingly. Believe you me, he’s going to wallow for a day or so, and then Home will come rumbling back down your driveway like it never left.”

“I wish I could have your faith,” Barnaby mumbles. He exhales and picks up his phone. No missed calls, no messages. “Maybe if I call him and ask him to just come back, no strings attached, he will.”

“That’s the spirit! Save the talk for another day - tell you what, I’ll help you corrall him so he can’t escape the conversation. I’ll tie him to a chair and bar the door if needed!”

“Good luck with that. Kid’s slippery.” Still, Barnaby hits call again. It rings only a couple of times before a robotic automated message states the caller as unavailable. Barnaby doesn’t enjoy being upset with Wally. However, it feels like his blood is simmering, and the wall is starting to look like great target practice for his phone. He grits his teeth. “He turned off his phone.”

From the corner of his eye he sees Howdy’s eyebrows shoot up as the man turns back to his paperwork. He exhales a controlled breath and writes something down. “I have to say, I’ve never known him to be such a-”

“Pain in the neck?” Barnaby offers.

Howdy clicks his tongue. “You said it, not me.”

“Yeah, well, he’s full of surprises.” Barnaby lets out a frustrated huff. He’s half tempted to run Wally down right now, but he wouldn’t even know where to start. There’s only one freeway out of town, but it goes both ways, and it branches. Wally would have hit one of those branches by now, and who knows which he took. North, south, east, west. Deeper into the woods, or towards the city? To the coast? Somewhere else entirely?

He has to face the facts - there’s nothing to do. He just has to wait until Wally pulls his head out of his ass and realizes how stupid and insensitive he’s being. Those are two words Barnaby would never normally use to describe Wally, but after tonight? They seem fitting. 

Barnaby can’t even muster up guilt for thinking such harsh things. He tried to be nice. He was patient. He’s always kept a lid on it whenever Wally frustrated him, which doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. And what does he get for caring? For being tactful and careful about a shitty situation? 

Avoidance, a shove, and a cut call. Wally left Barnaby’s been left to stew in his own anger and worry. Right now, he’s inclined to lock up that worry in a tiny box in the back of his mind. 

Barnaby pushes himself up with a grumbled, “I’m makin’ some coffee, want some?”

“If you’re offering then I will not decline.”

Barnaby pretends not to feel Howdy’s eyes following him to the apartment’s tiny kitchen. It’s hell to maneuver around in, and the frustration of bumping into something every five seconds only makes Barnaby’s mood worse. By the time the coffee is brewing, he’s ready to punch the cabinets. He won’t, but he wants to. He’d regret it immediately, but he stares at the chipped paint and fantasizes. 

The coffee machine breaks after brewing a whopping single mug. Barnaby stares at it for a long moment, and tallies up the consequences of taking a hammer to it. In the end, he just clenches his fists for a long moment and counts to ten. He takes the mug and sets it in front of Howdy, then goes to the window to brood. Thankfully Howdy is too reabsorbed in his work to notice beyond a mumbled thanks.

For the next hour, Barnaby’s thoughts are entirely composed of Wally. Different scenarios of what might happen next, how Barnaby might handle those situations without shaking Wally for doing something so needlessly reckless, and cruel daydreams of setting Home on fire. Barnaby wants to feel bad about that. He doesn’t. That damn RV has caused two different rifts between Barnaby and Wally - and Barnaby was the one to fix both of them, because both times Wally just left. 

He gets it. He really does - for a time Home was all that Wally had. It’s been with him since Wally was thirteen, and if the thought of retiring it to a dump makes Barnaby sad, he can only imagine how much it distresses Wally. Well, he can do more than make an educated guess. Wally practically told him tonight, if not with words than with actions.

Still. They’re adults - Wally is older than him, if only by a handful of months. When does Barnaby ever ask something of him? When does Barnaby ever push? Why can’t Wally see that Home is becoming a liability, and why won’t he listen? Barnaby can’t make it make sense. 

Wally has always been more inclined to avoid conflict, but this is too far. Barnaby swears, when he tracks Wally down he’s going wring that scrawny little-

His phone is ringing. 

Barnaby lunges for it, relief dousing his anger. He picks it up, ready to give Wally a piece of his mind and then beg him to come back-

“It’s an unknown number,” he says, shoulders slumping. Of course it’s an unknown number. Wally wouldn’t change on a dime and decide to be considerate for once. He exchanges an exasperated look with Howdy and declines. He goes to set the phone down - the number calls back.

“That’s one determined scammer,” Howdy says. He leans back in his chair and holds out a hand. “I’ll deal with ‘em.”

Barnaby is all too happy to hand it over. Let the poor sap on the other end of the line deal with a master swindler. 

“Howdy-hi, how can I help?” Howdy starts with a mischievous grin thrown Barnaby’s way? He leans back in the chair and hums. “Who, may I query, is asking?”

All at once, the ease drains out of Howdy and he stops fidgeting. He sits up, already looking at Barnaby with a paled expression that has something cold slithering down Barnaby’s spine. Something is wrong.

“He’s right here.” Howdy holds out the phone. His throat works uselessly for a moment before he plainly states the obvious, “It’s for you.”

Barnaby takes it, his mouth abruptly dry. Howdy is already up and moving - grabbing his coat, his keys. “Hello?”

“Is this Barnaby Beagle?” a professional feminine voice asks, tinny through the phone.

“B. Beagle, yeah.”

The woman introduces herself as the nearest city’s hospital, and Barnaby’s heart drops through the floor. She asks him to confirm that he’s Wally Darling’s emergency contact. He confirms, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. Howdy takes his arm and gestures to his shoes by the door, spurring Barnaby into motion.

“Is he okay?” Barnaby manages to say. He puts the wrong shoe on the wrong foot and almost curses aloud as he switches it. 

“Mr. Darling was involved in an automobile accident,” is all the hospital employee says. “He was brought in a few minutes ago.”

Barnaby steadies himself against the doorjamb, choking on a whispered, “Oh, god.” 

Keys jingle as Howdy opens the door and pulls Barnaby through, then locks the door behind them.

“But is he okay?” Barnaby asks again as they hurry down the short hallway to the stairs. 

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that information at present.”

It’s bad. It has to be bad if they won’t say anything over the phone. He must be silent for too long, because Howdy takes the phone, tells her they’ll be there soon, and hangs up. He tucks the phone into Barnaby’s pocket before opening the door to the store’s back lot. 

The frigid air slaps the shock out of Barnaby, and sensation comes flooding back in. He grabs the keys out of Howdy’s hand and strides to the car with long, powerful strides that would leave anyone shorter than Howdy in the dust.

“Are you sure-”

“I’m driving,” Barnaby growls, cutting Howdy off.

Howdy makes a disapproving noise, but relents. They get in and Barnaby adjusts his seat with harsh movements, jabs the key into the ignition because Howdy’s car is a dated hunk of junk, and peels out of the parking space before Howdy even has his seatbelt all the way on. 

Howdy clings to the ceiling handle as the car tears down the mostly empty street, going at least ten miles over the speed limit. Barnaby doesn’t know exactly where the hospital is, but he knows how to get to the city. They can figure it out from there. Several people honk as Barnaby brings them flying onto the freeway. 

“Holy Marilyn marmalade!” Howdy screeches as they narrowly avoid side-swiping a minivan. 

Barnaby ignores him and cuts off a pickup to get into the right lane for the interchange. Howdy whispers a string of something high pitched and strained and clings to the handle with both hands. 

It takes him a moment to parse out the constant ramble as, “-pull over pull over pull over pull over-” Two honks and a squeal of tires as Barnaby almost causes an accident, and Howdy yells in a louder and deeper tone than Barnaby has ever heard from him, “PULL OVER!”

Barnaby clenches his jaw and cuts across the carpool lane’s double whites. It only takes a moment to reach the shoulder. Howdy leaps out of the passenger seat as soon as the car stops, marches to Barnaby’s side, and wrenches the door open.

“Out,” he snaps, breathing hard. “Barnaby, I swear to all things priceless, get out. “

Barnaby meets his steely gaze for all of a second before unbuckling and getting out. Cars whip by. Howdy huffs at him and slips into the driver’s seat, muttering about recklessness and disasters and if you would wait to try and kill us until we’re right outside the hospital, if only to save us the ambulance fee-

When Barnaby gets into the passenger seat, Howdy waits for him to buckle in with fingertips drumming on the steering wheel. He merges onto the freeway smoothly and carefully. They go slower than the speed Barnaby had them flying down the asphalt at, and it makes something deeply impatient itch in him, but it’s safer. 

“I know you’re upset,” Howdy says, eyes still fixed on the road, “and I know that you’re scared. But what in hell’s bells was that, Barn?”

Barnaby side eyes him and grimaces, folding his arms. “I don’t know. I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have put you in danger like that.”

“You put yourself in danger too, you know.” Howdy sighs and relaxes his grip on the steering wheel. “We’re of no use to Wally if we get ourselves in a crash. What would he say?”

“Whatever he’d say would be hypocritical,” Barnaby says before he can think better of it.

Howdy glances sharply at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He..” Barnaby’s voice fails on him, and he swallows hard. “He was in an accident.”

Howdy is silent for a full few seconds before he exhales a thin, pained sound. “Oh, Walls…”

He must not know what else to say, which is good and well, because Barnaby doesn’t either. A long few minutes pass of silence. Headlights of passing cars on the other side of the freeway flash over them before plunging back into darkness. The dials on the dash glow. The check engine light is on. They’ll need to get gas in order to make it home. 

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” Howdy says. He’s tapping the steering wheel again. “It’s likely just a few scrapes and bruises, at worst a broken bone. Nothing Wally can’t handle, and certainly nothing to be concerned over.”

Barnaby can’t bring himself to agree. Maybe… maybe if Wally was driving slowly… but that wouldn’t matter if someone crashed into him with enough force. Home is a large, sturdy vehicle, but it isn’t invulnerable. Wally certainly isn’t.

Without the distraction of driving, all Barnaby can think about is the what ifs. Yeah, what if he’s only a little bit hurt, but what if it’s worse? All of the worst images Barnaby can think of roll through his mind like a messed up movie reel.

Wally dead on the scene, caught in a hunk of twisted metal. 

Wally, choking on his own blood in an ambulance, dying en route to the hospital.

Wally flatlining on a metal table. 

Wally’s small body covered with a sheet-

“Almost there,” Howdy says, slowing at a stoplight. It bathes them both in red. Barnaby didn’t notice when they got off the freeway. 

Barnaby squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead to the cold window. After a moment, a slender hand rests on his thigh and squeezes. It’s such a small, stupid thing, but Barnaby breathes a little easier. 

Despite the drive down the freeway feeling like it took hours, the drive through city streets to the hospital passes in a blink. Before Barnaby knows it the car is spiraling up to an upper floor of the parking garage. The floor is mostly empty - Howdy pulls into a spot right by glass double doors. 

Barnaby gets out a split seconds before Howdy, staring at the pristine white walls just inside the doors. In a moment he’ll find out if it’s not that bad, or if he’s about to have the worst night of his life. He’s been to a hospital twice. The last time was for Howdy, but he went with the knowledge that it was only a precaution. The other time was for Mama’s health scare. 

That had been terrifying. The waiting, the wondering, the too-bright hallways and the staff’s rigid smiles. It ended well, but it had still been horrible, and hospitals took center stage in some of his recurring nightmares. Barnaby never wanted to see another loved one in a hospital bed again.

Looks like he doesn’t have a choice. 

Howdy comes around from the driver’s side and lays a hand on Barnaby’s shoulder. “If you need a moment to-”

“Nah,” Barnaby says, his voice rough. He nods and adjusts his sleeves. “Better rip the bandaid off.”

They go into the sterile maze. The bright overhead lights dazzle Barnaby’s eyes after being in the dim parking garage, and he grimaces at the strong odor of antiseptic and floor polish. Howdy makes a beeline for the nearest receptionist and talks to her in rushed, low tones. 

Barnaby shuffles after him, rubbing his shaking hands together and eyeing every person in scrubs that walks past. Something beeps somewhere. He thinks he hears someone crying. This is a place without color, art, or happiness. 

“This way,” Howdy says, walking past him and tilting his head at the elevator. Barnaby follows, feeling like a lost puppy dropped at the side of the road. 

A nurse gets into the elevator with them and politely smiles before staring at the floor counter and pretending they don’t exist. It’s fine with Barnaby. If he has to make small talk right now, he might actually snap. The man’s pink scrubs are almost an eyesore in the harsh lighting. 

The elevator dings, and they all get out on the same floor. Howdy reads door plaques and wall signs like a hawk, his head turning on a swivel as he reads everything at lightning speed. Barnaby nearly has to jog to keep up with his hurried pace. 

Howdy changes direction without warning and heads straight for a door at the end of a short offshoot hallway. Barnaby reads the sign next to the door.

[can’t remember if it’s icu or the other thing, research later]

It’s bad.

The waiting room is small - longer than it is wide, and there’s a woman sleeping in a chair in the corner. It looks nicer than the emergency room, or where Barnaby waited to see his mama. The benches have colorful cushions, and the walls are a pastel green instead of white. There’s an abstract geometric painting on the wall next to the woman. 

Barnaby slowly takes a seat on stiff cushions, watching Howdy talk to the receptionist from afar. He nods and pats the counter before joining Barnaby. He sits close enough that their legs press together.

“Someone will get us up to speed as soon as there’s news,” Howdy says. “I tried to pry some more out of him, but he wouldn’t give up another word.”

Barnaby nods, staring down at his hands. His nail polish is already chipping, despite Julie painting them only last weekend. Barnaby picks at the bright red on his pinkie until Howdy pulls his hand away and enfolds it in both of his own. 

When Howdy takes a deep breath, Barnaby finds himself mimicking him. Their gazes meet - Howdy’s is unflinching, and steady. He smiles and runs his thumb over Barnaby’s knuckles, soothing the nervous trembling, and Barnaby is struck by how darn grateful he is to have Howdy with him. 

If he had to do all of this alone… Barnaby doesn’t think he could. Either he’d have gotten himself into a crash to join Wally, or he would still be sitting in his car, staring at the hospital doors. He doesn’t have the courage. But Howdy does, and Barnaby loves him for it. 

For once, Howdy lets the time pass in silence, though after a long stretch of indeterminable time he gets up to pace. The bench cushions are high quality, but they start to feel uncomfortable. Barnaby doesn’t dare go for a walk. At least they’re not the usual waiting room chairs - he’d rather stand than try to fit into those plastic, narrow things. 

At some point the woman in the corner wakes up. She startles seeing two strangers in the room with her, but quickly ignores them. Barely a few minutes pass before she leaves, mumbling something about coffee. She doesn’t come back. Barnaby spends a while wondering why - did she go home, or wait somewhere else, or did she receive news in the halls?

Howdy sits down again and starts typing furiously on his phone. When Barnaby gives him a curious nudge, he quietly explains that he’s texting the group chat. Barnaby feels a twinge of guilt at that. He completely forgot to let everyone know that there’s a… situation. Who knows if any of them will see it until morning. 

Message sent, Howdy gets up to pace some more. His rhythmic gait gives Barnaby something to focus on, seeing as the clock on the wall is silent, and the receptionist seems to be sleeping. Barnaby could probably pass time on his own phone, but every second spent distracted is a second he might miss someone coming to tell them…

What? Tell them what, exactly? That Wally is okay? That he can receive visitors? 

That he didn’t make it?

The door opens, startling Barnaby to his feet. Howdy scurries over from the far side of the room and rests a steadying hand on Barnaby’s lower back. A woman clad in blue scrubs enters, reading something on a clipboard. There are shadows under her eyes, and she looks beyond exhausted. Barnaby can sympathize.

“Mr. Beagle?” the doctor asks, looking between them. When Barnaby nods, she smiles thinly, gaze flicking briefly to Howdy. “Hi. I’m Dr. Allen. Before I disclose any sensitive information, I’d like to confirm what your relation to the patient is.”

The question gives Barnaby pause. He’s always had a difficult time putting his and Wally’s relationship into simple terms, because it’s anything but. Wally is his best friend, his dearest companion, the man he lives with and can’t imagine being without. 

“He’s my partner,” Barnaby settles on, because it’s a good umbrella term. Partner can mean a lot of things, and people don’t usually pry for specifics. “We’re as good as family.”

Dr. Allen writes something down on her clipboard. “No worries, I’m not going to kick you out if you’re not - you’re his emergency contact for a reason, after all. It’s just basic information that I’d like to have on hand.”

“Course - so how is he?” Barnaby cuts straight to the chase. He’s not in the mood for niceties. 

“Well, Mr. Darling is certainly giving us a run for our money,” Allen sighs. “He’s not out of the woods yet, but I believe he’s gotten through the worst of it.”

“He’ll make it?”

Allen offers another tight lipped smile. “We’re doing our best.”

Barnaby has seen enough hospital dramas to know that we’re doing our best means no promises, prepare for the worst. Howdy must feel the tension gripping him like a vice, because his hand slips from Barnaby’s back to his hand. 

“What are his injuries, if I may?” Howdy asks. 

“I’m not sure-”

“Please. We’d rather know than wonder.” 

Allen looks between them and sighs again. She flips a page on her clipboard. “Unfortunately, there was a bit of time between the crash and when emergency services were called. Between blood loss and the near-freezing temperatures, Mr. Darling developed mild hypothermia.”

Wally was dying, cold and alone in the wreckage of his home for who knows how long before anyone came to help. Barnaby sways in place, and Howdy helps him sit down on a bench instead of the floor. Allen looks apprehensive.

“Keep going,” Barnaby rasps. He needs to know.

Allen doesn’t look happy about it, but she continues. “Mr. Darling also suffered several low-grade lacerations from shrapnel, some fractured ribs, a compound fracture in his left tibia, and currently unidentified damage to his right hand and lower arm.”

Barnaby swallows a mournful sound. That’s fine, it’s fine. Broken bones heal - Wally will be painting again in no time. 

“He also developed an intracranial hematoma. It’s been treated, but we won’t know the extent of the damage until Mr. Darling wakes up.”

“What is that?” Howdy asks before Barnaby can figure out how to speak again. “Intracranial hematoma - tell me if I’m wrong, but that sounds like a head injury.”

“It is - in layman’s terms, it’s a brain bleed. Head trauma can cause bleeding inside the skull, which puts pressure on the brain. We caught it as quickly as feasibly possible, which should raise his chance of a full recovery.” Allen flips the clipped page back into place. “There may still be lesser complications and injuries we haven’t been able to diagnose or address yet. I’ll be forward with you - this is one of the worst crash cases I’ve seen in some time. Mr. Darling was lucky to be found alive.”

Allen goes on to offer platitudes that Wally is a fighter, and easily answers the flood of questions Howdy has about the mentioned injuries. It all sounds distant. Underwater. The room is too small and the air is stale - are the vents working? Is there a window they can open?

In a blink - and yet the conversation lasts ages - Allen promises to come back with more information as soon as she has it. She smiles one last time and leaves. 

“Barn?” Howdy sounds muffled. “Barn, are you alright?”

What kind of question is that? Of course Barnaby isn’t alright - his best friend is dying, likely on this very floor. There’s a chance he’s already dead. Barnaby might have already lost him, he just doesn’t know it yet. 

Mr. Darling was lucky to be found alive. 

One of the worst crash cases I’ve seen in some time. 

Mild hypothermia - brain bleed - lacerations - fractures.

Lesser complications and injuries we haven’t been able to diagnose or address yet.

We’re doing our best.

“He hung up on me, the little bastard-”

Barnaby is up and out the door before he registers moving. He staggers down the hallways in a blur, everything swirling together into a mess of sight and sound as his lungs struggle to get a full breath. He bypasses the elevator and takes the stairs down to the level they parked on. 

The cold air does nothing to help him breathe. Barnaby chokes on it as he leans against the rough wall grasping at his chest. Howdy is there immediately - he must have been on Barnaby’s heels the whole time. 

“Talk to me, Barn,” Howdy pleads, a hand on the back of his neck and the other over the one Barnaby has on his chest. “What is it - you’re not having a heart attack, are you? Tell me you aren’t, I can’t handle that right now.”

Barnaby doesn’t know. Maybe? He feels like he is. He can’t breathe. He tries to say so, but the ragged gasps his breathing has devolved into doesn’t allow it. Howdy must know something he doesn’t, because he doesn’t run to get a doctor.

“How can I help?” he asks instead.

“Don’t - don’t - know,” Barnaby wheezes. 

“Okay, alright, don’t worry, Barn, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. Let’s try, ah - what were the steps? I didn’t exactly write them down, though in hindsight I should’ve - that’s not the point! It was… what a time to take after Eddie’s memory-”

It shouldn’t be helping, but Howdy’s constant stream of words grabs Barnaby’s attention. He manages to inhale nearly a full breath before it stutters back out and he’s struggling again.

“Breathing!” Howdy says. “Yes, that was it - Barnaby, I need you to focus on me. Copy my breathing.”

He sucks in a slow, dramatic breath through his nose and exhales just as slowly through his mouth. Barnaby catches on and tries to mimic him, but-

“Can’t, I ca-an’t,” Barnaby says. His chest hurts. 

Howdy presses their foreheads together. “Yes, you can. Come now, Barn, in… out. Simplest thing in the world.”

It doesn’t feel simple, but Barnaby tries. It feels like forever before he manages a full inhale. He butchers the exhale, but Howdy praises the minor win before launching right back into measured breathing. 

Barnaby finally manages a slow inhale and exhale, and suddenly it feels like the pressure filling his chest has vanished. He slumps against the wall, worn out. He puts his hand over Howdy’s mouth in the middle of another dramatic demonstration.

“You’re alright now?” Howdy says, peeling his hand off. Barnaby nods, and Howdy leans next to him with a whoosh. “Thank the stock market - I was starting to get light headed.”

It takes another few minutes for them to catch their breath. Barnaby straightens enough to rest his head on Howdy’s shoulder, breathing in his cheap cologne and homemade laundry detergent. Howdy cups the back of his neck and massages the tense muscle there. 

“This will all turn out okay,” Howdy promises. “Wally is stubborn - I think we both know that well enough. By this time tomorrow we’ll be moving forward.”

Barnaby wants to be that optimistic, but this is real life. For all they know, moving forward means making funeral arrangements. His breathing stutters and he forces it to even out before he can start hyperventilating again. 

A car pulls into a parking space with a gravelly sound. Barnaby pays it no mind until Howdy makes a surprised noise - Barnaby looks up, and his stomach churns.

Frank, Eddie, and Julie are all getting out of Frank’s car. They’re all in various states of dishevelment. Frank’s hair is a mess, and he has what looks like Eddie’s company jacket thrown on over his pajamas. Eddie is in little more than a shirt that says male? lol, more like mail! and boxers - he’s even wearing slippers instead of shoes, and his hair flops over his forehead in soft tufts. Julie’s hair is still in curlers, and though she’s wearing shoes, she’s in a too-long shirt over sweats that don’t belong to her. They’re paint-stained. 

They rush across the parking lot, all worried faces and tired eyes. They’re already asking what happened, is Wally okay, Sally is getting Poppy, they should be here soon, has there been any news-

Barnaby lunges at the nearest trash can and vomits.

#IM SORRY FOR ANY HOSPITAL/PROCEDURAL INACCURACIES IM NOT TRYING TO BE ACCURATE AT THE MOMENT #except for the injuries. those are realistic and i did my due diligence. read a lot of first hand accounts! medical pages! #ohhhh this was so cozy to write #i mean. not as familiar as actual on-screen injuries but yk #its been too fluffy in here. #this is a mild example of my usual tastes and habits when it comes to fic & fiction #WHUMP CENTRAL BABEYYYYYY #i like it messy and painful!!! Lets Fuckin Go!!!! #this is a prime example of me not being able to shut the fuck up when writing #my scenes & convos just go on and on and on and on.... #but yes! enjoy! the Crash arc is very thoroughly planned out in my head and lately its one of my favorite things to imagine before bed <3 #bedtime stories can be fictional characters going through horrible injuries & emotionally hurting each other #snippets from the bog #i will repeat what i have said multiple times before #i take the comic relief character. i hurt the comic relief character #i could have posted the little carnival half-scene. i could have #but ive been feeling stressed and caged and i need to let out some steam #and this is how i do that. controlled fictional violence <3

[queenburd]

These tags made me happy 😊😊

So I doodled him today. Stanley B my special boy, you WOULD sympathize with the Princess despite everything.

(For this curious, Stanley B isn’t your basic Stanley from TSP. His Parable got…. Well, a little more intense. This isn’t your mom’s TSP. He has a good reason for relating to someone like the Princess.)

#the sparrow parable #parable actors #repeat and write this story #the stanley parable #slay the princess #just a little!!

[nostalgia-tblr]

I feel like anyone who's about to embark on attempting to type out a character's accent phoentically (at least as well as one can with English) should probably stop for a moment before they get going and ask themselves, "How would I, myself, feel about a fic where the one character who sounds like me had their speech written out like this and every other character just got their dialogue left in standard spelling?" I feel like a lot of people would tone it down a bit, at least, if they'd done that thought experiment first.

(Anyone who answered "but I don't have an accent!" isn't allowed to write out anyone else's accent, ever. This rule may seem harsh but you need it. Really, you do. Because you've never had anyone treat your accent as abnormal or comical or wrong, so you really don't know what you're inflicting on others here.)

#writing stuff #have you read that fic where the socially prestige accent is the one being carefully typed out “like it sounds”? no? neither have i :( #the obvious note-for-Americans on typing out UK accents is that most of them carry some connotation of class and/or 'education' #within the uk: ask yourself why a Geordie gets typed out but not some dude from the Home Counties #typing out an accent is - usually - a roundabout way of saying “this person talks WRONG! they're not NORMAL!” #you may also find 'Scottish Twitter' informative for the distinction between in-group and out-group 'transcriptions' of accent/dialect #(i use that example only cos I'm Scottish btw) #(oh yes EVERYONE thinks I have an accent! and many of them attempt to replicate it badly in text!) #fun story: one time i had to learn the [IPA] for a linguistics class and the examples were 'standard' English pronunciations #and I went in the next day BAFFLED by why the book insisted that 'boot' and 'foot' don't contain the same vowel sound #(cos they fuckin do don't they?!) #the tutor explained and was v interested in the fact that to me they're the same. i was then asked to demonstrate again for the class. #but i - alas - was not offered repeated examples of however the fuck people say boot and foot in RP :( #(this was IN SCOTLAND btw) #anyway mibbe jist dinnae dae it? mibbe? #and if you do you have use the actual IPA. there now i've made it more trouble than it's worth for most people.

[feedthefandomfest]

I have a question because I want to comment but I feel nervous. It is very foolish but it is seriously something that prevents me from commenting-

So English is not my first language and I suffer from a disease known as 'fuck you all English leaves your brain when you tap on the comment box'. Like I'm fluent enough to write a fic but the comments break me and I can only do basic 'subject verb complement' and forget half my vocabulary because I'm so nervous, so it often ends up being broken English.

I back out of posting comments except 'i love this this is amazing thank you for writing I love it' because I'm too scared the author will take it badly ? Like, what if they find it annoying ? What if they believe I think they write bad English and I'm mocking them and they don't want me to ever read their works ever again ?

Anyways, my question is : Does it actually bother anyone to receive broken English comments? Do people find it annoying ?

I would never be annoyed by such a thing and I'm positive that's true of others as well. On the contrary, it kinda blows my mind whenever I stop to think about how members of fandom for whom English is not their first language are so often working in translation. Like the trickiest barrier I have to contend with when writing anything is sleep deprivation and your average writer's block 😅 so to imagine also rendering those words in a different language?? 🫠

To varying degrees, the tragic disease of "empty comment box = empty brain" can strike anyone, regardless of language. On the plus side, some of the tricks to break through the blankness are also broadly applicable, such as

drawing from a list of sentence starters like the ones offered here or here (the beginner bingo card also has similar tasks!!)

installing this handy script that generates a positive comment on demand, which you can modify or expand on as needed

using the floating comment box to track moments or quotes you want to compliment specifically, even with just a string of emojis 💕💕💕

I can recall a couple comments I've gotten where the person apologized or gave a sort of disclaimer that English wasn't their first language, and honestly it just made me even more appreciative of the comment? Because there are so many reasons that a reader doesn't comment, and a language barrier is the most understandable!! And yet here they are, making me smile with their words. I always want to reassure them in my reply that an apology/disclaimer isn't necessary, but I don't always know how. (And there's nothing wrong with acknowledging something you're self-conscious about, after all.)

The concept of "broken English" has also got me thinking, though... And since it turned into a bit of an essay I'll leave it under the cut. 💛

Because the term "broken English" has a lot to unpack, seeing as it's always unfairly positioned those who speak English as a second language imperfectly as lesser (broken = defective). And that strikes me as a bit ironic, considering the degree to which English is a Frankenstein's monster of a language—this conglomeration of every language it encounters and subsumes. In that sense, English itself is a broken language? Or rather the shards of numerous languages held together with duct tape and gum and a whiff of imperialism. Its usage is always in flux, always evolving as speakers adapt it to new circumstances, and those adaptations become dialects in and of themselves. There is no one English language.

I teach high schoolers, and I'm consistently struck by the growing chasm between the kinds of English I can speak and the kinds of English they can speak. And technically my job is to train them in how to use American Standard English and read literature written in American Standard English, but really I find that pretty limiting.

Take the tone of this response, for instance! The more I've leaned toward trying to articulate these complicated issues of language, the more formal my speech has become. Contrast that with the first paragraph, where I'm trying to get across this awkward earnest admiration for the extra effort required of some fans just to engage in fandom, and so I ended up using more casual phrasing and emojis in a way that (hopefully) conveys a certain warmth and self-deprecating humor and whatnot.

If I were to leave a comment on a fic that blew me away, left me in a state of awe or delight or anguish—just a puddle on the floor—I'd find American Standard English quite lacking. Downright restrictive. The unique jumbled babble of fandom-speak functions on breaking the standard rules in order to evoke an intensity of emotion that meets the demands of the moment.

Another thing about commenters who really commit to throwing the rules out the window in favor of vibes is that I get such a strong sense of personality beaming through. A distinct voice that's generated, an intense impression of there being an individual on the other side with a particular shape. And there's something delightful about that.

...I suppose this is all a very roundabout way of saying that if there's anywhere to just unleash, vocab and mechanics be damned, where it's more than okay to string together whatever words you can in service of how you're feeling, it's the AO3 comment box. 💛

#sorry this turned into a book!! #language is fascinating #i really appreciate the ask and hope this helped #just know that even an “i love this this is amazing thank you for writing I love it” is a JOY to receive #the only comments that have ever annoyed me are the few and far between that complain about the story #and even then it took a couple repeats from the same commenter to really irk me #ao3 comments #thank you for feeding the ask box

[fuckinart]

(they'll never understand) How could I ever understand? No, I don't have to understand. I don't wanna understand. So I will never understand. (we could have everything)

#Danny Phantom #art #sketches #i do not feel like colouring this. you'll have to use your imagination #also i highly recommend listening to Nick Lutsko's Swords album because it is so Jack & Maddie it's not even funny #i've been listening to Superior on repeat for like 2 days which is why i whipped this comic up #but also Sideshow is how i was introduced to the album & is also very very very much Maddie & Jack coded #i want to write a fic about it. alas i'm already writing like 10 fics about everything right now so it'll have to wait #i just have this idea in my head of it actually being pretty obvious to Maddie & Jack who Phantom is #he's wearing their hazmat. using their inventions. can open their biometric locks. has their son's face. his voice. #Danny Fenton has an extremely high level of ectoplasm. he even has an ectosignature. the same ectosig as Phantom in fact. #but they're so in denial. so obsessed with their work up til then not being a waste of time & resources. that they just keep ignoring it #keep burying their heads in the sand #& things just keep getting worse. & they keep having a harder time committing to attacking Phantom #have a harder time believing in what they're doing. have a harder time explaining away the truth #but they can't face it. they have to keep refusing to see it #because the truth will never set them free. it will only confirm all the terrible things they've done. #they're good people. everything they do is good. there is no other side to this story. of course

[birdy-bird-art]

WOE Parable Actors doods upon ye. Finally broke through my art block this past month, let's see how long this lasts ehehe

Got Gidget being cute with sooo many people (and being an AuDHD Mood), @charmemes and Nancy as besties, a possible scene from the possible third installment '(hey is it alright if I keep) calling out your name?' where perry... does its best to get into Stanley B's head, and-

Huh.

What's that thing doing there?

#its definitely me! only ever me :) nothing to see here folks #parable actors #repeat and write the story #reset the actors on stage #(hey is it alright if i keep) calling out your name?

[birdybirdnerd]

@charmemes ur so funny

#personal #my art #reset the actors on stage #repeat and write the story #perry the parable #tsp #the stanley parable

[rdng1230]

Just a reminder that having multiple characters with the same marginalized identity in your story does not make the author automatically immune to using tropes harmful/reductive/insensitive to people with that marginalized identity. You can write a story with tons of women in it that still has tons of misogyny, you can write a story with tons of people of color in it that still has tons of racism. You can write a story with tons of queer people in it that is still queerphobic. Writers cannot “I have a black friend” (or character in this case) their way out of actually treating their marginalized characters with respect. Every writer has been shaped by a highly unequal society along many different lines and that continually reinforced world view is bound to show up in their storytelling. It takes effort to unlearn all that shit, and plenty of authors, however well intentioned, haven’t put that effort in enough to avoid falling into those traps.

This isn’t saying that the thing that happened was homophobic/ableist/ageist per se, I’m just saying that “there are other characters who weren’t fridged” is a shit counter argument to that claim.

#Ofmd #fandom discussion #fandom discourse #izzy hands #remember antiracism/homophobia etc. is a thing you have to practice #This feels like a good time to remind people DJ didn’t really know what queerbaiting was when he started ofmd #So my faith that he read up on the generations long bury your gays issue is minimal #People can write a very pro LGBT message and not do enough research to avoid repeating story beats that can be triggering

[commandercoriandersalamander]

two dudes... sitting in a hot tub stone wolf... souls mingled into one complete being but they're not gay

#fitz and the fool #lmao theyre so gay #has robin hobb recanted yet? she literally wrote this ending #with a callback to the 'no limits on that love' line #did she think that was a heterosexual conclusion to these nine books #i know people on tumblr like to call queer headcanons 'literally canon' and then when you consume the media its like #they talked twice and made eye contact and one of them wears a stylish coat #and so if you haven't read the books but have seen the fandom you might think 'oh so some subtext?' #'theyre friends who have an emotional connection which could feed shippers?' #no #this is textually canon across both their character arcs and the larger themes of the series #reinforced through repeated narrative symmetry and also the fact that they have kissed and confessed their love multiple times #robin hobb is FASCINATING to me like imagine someone writing a story about a guy with 'hair the color of autumn leaves abd foxes' #and then getting mad when people interpret him as anything other than a blond #bestie you WROTE THIS

[marlynnofmany]

Where Wormholes Come From

As much as I was enjoying my Engine Rings™ cheesy snacks — and that was a great deal, since I’d just discovered them on a human-run space station — it wasn’t so much of a distraction that I didn’t notice worried voices as I walked past the cockpit.

I paused in the doorway to see Wio in her chair, tentacles adjusting the controls with nervous speed while Kavlae stood and pointed at one of the displays. I had no idea what that screen showed. But the two pilots sure seemed to, and it didn’t look good.

“Are you sure it’s organic?” Wio was asking.

“It has to be!” Kavlae said, head frills flaring. “I’ve never seen this kind of reading on anything else. Not even new technology.”

Wio muttered something unintelligible, tapping buttons and turning dials. She didn’t react when I folded my bag of crunchy snacks and shoved it in a pocket.

I leaned into the room. “Is something wrong?”

Kavlae looked up at that, the picture of blue-skinned concern. “Possibly,” she admitted. “Dangerous, at any rate. I was making a final sweep for the end of my shift, and I think I’ve found a fresh wormhole.”

I waited for more information, but didn’t get any. “Why is that bad?”

“Because it clearly wasn’t made with any technology I’ve seen,” Kavlae said with a melodramatic sweep of a hand. “There are organic traces and rough edges. This is fresh.”

Before I could repeat my question, Wio chimed in. “And a fresh wormhole might mean the worm is still around, among other things.”

“Uh,” I said. Apparently my Earth-bound education about space travel had missed a key point. “I did not know wormholes are made by actual worms. I thought people built them? Or they just happen?”

“People do build them,” Wio said. She finished messing with the controls and twisted her tentacles around each other. “And the way they ‘just happen’ is because of the space worms. Which we don’t want to get anywhere near.”

Kavlae waved me forward. “You’ve got good color vision, right? See if anything long and wiggly shows up on these scans. It’ll be subtle; they’re probably in deep.”

I stepped up to the row of small screens under the main one, full of questions. “Deep in what, hyperspace? Why do we want to avoid them? Are they predatory? Or territorial, or easily startled?” The main screen just showed the usual stars, but the little ones were a riot of charts and diagrams. Kavlae pointed at the one that was an incomprehensible swirl of yellow and green.

“Yes, hyperspace,” Wio said.

“They’re not predatory,” Kavlae said with certainty.

“Well, how do we know?” Wio countered.

“There have been studies!” Kavlae said. “They eat the fabric of space-time itself, not spaceships.”

“What about the chewy center of those spaceships?” Wio retorted.

“There have been studies,” Kavlae insisted.

Part of the green image did look a little wormy. I wondered whether I should interrupt, not sure if I was imagining it, then I remembered Eggskin the medic’s offhand comment on how good human eyesight was in picking out shades of green — just like edible vs non-edible plants back home. Maybe the two pilots really couldn’t see something that I could.

“Is that—” I started.

“Anyways, it’s not the space worms you need to worry about,” Wio spoke over me. “It’s the space moles that follow.”

The universe has perfect timing, because that was the moment a clear green line appeared on the chart, straight as an arrow and moving fast.

Kavlae squeaked, pointing at the screen.

Wio made a popping noise that I recognized as a swear word, and pressed several buttons at once.

A snakelike shape the color of starlight erupted into sight on the main screen, glowing as it curled back down a brand new wormhole, right in front of our ship. Which stopped in its tracks, all three of us yelling in surprise.

But that was nothing compared to the enormous black shape that clawed its way out of the starfield in hot pursuit. It was a different shade of black from the void of space, but I couldn’t say which. All I made out in that adrenaline-filled moment was claws, teeth, and terrifyingly large.

We screamed in three different octaves as the ripples in space hit the ship, rocking it even with the artificial gravity. I heard something crash down the hall. Other people were yelling. They didn’t matter.

The space mole really was going after the worm, not us — it plowed back down into the surface of reality, digging in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. And it was so, so fast.

The mole disappeared with one last kick of a barely-seen foot or tail or something else. The starfield rippled and shook like the surface of a pond. I realized I was clutching the back of Wio’s chair. Alarms were going off on the console.

After a moment in which nothing else jumped out at us, I managed to convince my fingers to let go. Kavlae collapsed into her own chair. The little screen was calm yellow. Without a word, Wio changed our course to somewhere presumably safer.

Running footsteps sounded in the hall, leading to a traffic jam of concern in the doorway: all tentacles and frills and very wide eyes. A calm but stern voice cut through the chatter. The crowd parted to let Captain Sunlight through, every inch the levelheaded and unflappable role model who wasn’t about to let some turbulence and screaming rattle her. She was wiping what looked like orange soup off one yellow-scaled hand. But she did it with dignity.

“What happened?” she asked.

I answered first. “Space worm and a space mole.”

“Really,” the captain said while the hallway exploded into conversation.

“They almost hit us!” Kavlae exclaimed, waving arms and frills from where she sat slumped in her chair.

“Any damage?” Captain Sunlight asked.

“Nope,” Wio said, with surprising cheer. “And I have better news.” She manipulated the controls some more, then sat back as a framed image appeared in the middle of the main screen. “I got a recording.”

Everyone exclaimed about that while the captured footage played. I was torn between watching it again because it was amazing, and watching the little yellow screen for more hints of green. I tried to do both.

“Well done,” Captain Sunlight said. “I know just the scientists to give first shot at that recording. And knowing them, this may end up in a very lucrative bidding war. You just make sure you get us to our destination safely!”

“Absolutely, Captain!” Wio said with a twirl of a tentacle. “I will keep a close eye on all the readouts.”

“I’ll help,” I volunteered, eyeing a suspicious green tinge that was probably nothing.

“I will take a nap,” Kavlae declared. “Then come back early.”

Wio waved her toward the crowded doorway. “Take your time! You need some rest after that. Don’t worry; we’ll scream if there’s anything important.”

“I’ll remind you that we do have an intercom,” said the captain drily.

I replied, “Screaming’s faster.”

Wio said at the same time, “We’ll scream over the intercom if there’s anything important.”

Captain Sunlight huffed in amusement. “Of course you will. Right! Everyone else, go check the ship for damaged items. Mur, help Mimi in the engine room. Paint, go with Eggskin; medbay first, then kitchen.” She rattled off more assignments to make sure all the important rooms were looked into. Then she ushered everyone on their way, and headed back to whatever she’d been doing. Probably cleaning up spilled soup.

With a glance at Wio, I took Kavlae’s chair, hands folded carefully in my lap. The snacks in my pocket crinkled. I left them there — I wasn’t about to make a mess in the cockpit, nor would I touch a single thing.

But that yellow-and-green swirl, oh I would be watching that very carefully.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come!

#I did something similar in another story #but that one's going in a print anthology not here #so if you see something familiar in a few months #in a book I contributed to #no you didn't #it's entirely fresh and original and I don't repeat myself #even when it's a really cool idea #ANYWAY #my writing #The Token Human #humans are weird #haso #hfy #eiad #sci-fi #wormholes #space worms #space moles

[toxintouch]

Mhin: Poorly Disguised || Mhin x Unspecified MC (Dom!MC is implied??) Rating: T || CW: Implied future misuse of a Senobium (clergy/government?) uniform. Brothel mention in narrative. Stolen clothes that don't fit. Premise: crack treated seriously.

Mhin's arms are crossed tightly, eyes closed, breaths carefully even.  They can hear the shuffling of fabric behind them.  Uncertain steps.  The sound of your bandaged hands smoothing down starched fabric.

A long stretch of silence.

Their eyebrow twitches in impatience; they lose count of the exhalations they were taking a census of.

“Mhin, I…uh, I don't think this is going to work.”

Mhin turns to you impatiently, a sharp question poised on their lips, but once their eyes land on you they see exactly what you mean.  

The Senobium uniform hugs the contours of your body far too tightly for propriety.  The buttons on the blouse are splayed open a scandalous amount, unable to close due to the poor fit of the stolen garment, thus allowing Mhin a teasing glimpse of your chest.  The tempting image of you is burned in their mind before they can look away, the heart that they had been keeping so carefully in check while you changed now racing.

You don't look a single bit like you'd be mistaken for a legitimate member of the clergy, not even to the uncaring or untrained eye.  Not that much of anyone could possibly look away from you, once they’ve caught a glimpse…

Idiot, don't you know what you–

Mhin feels the heat staining their face as they press their palms against their eyes as if to ward off a headache.  They need to reign themselves in before they forget all self control.  They aren't going to allow themselves to look at you again while you're still wearing that.

Not that it helps.  Mhin won’t be forgetting what they saw any time soon.  You look like someone's very expensive, if very heretical, fantasy.  Mhin doesn't even want to guess what someone might pay at Elyon’s brothel just to look at you, let alone…

“This was a stupid idea,” Mhin spits through hands still shielding their face.  If they are lucky you'll mistake their body language for an expression of pure frustration and not the attempt to hide their blush that it is.

But Mhin has never been very lucky.

They're so flustered that they don’t even hear you approach–your lips brushing against their ear as you speak comes as a surprise, their cursed predator-sharp instincts gone silent.

“Maybe not that terrible of an idea…” you posit.  Mhin shivers despite themself; if you didn't know the effect you had on them before, you certainly do now.

They can feel the fever of you against their side, can feel you like an arrow to the heart, leaning into them with your body, your own hands held carefully out of the way.  You chuckle darkly, pressing a dizzying kiss against the sensitive skin covering their parotid before you rest your chin sweetly in the curve of their neck and shoulder.

“You put all that work into getting this uniform for us, Mhin... I know it turned out to be a dead end but... I should still reward you for your hard work, right?”

Against their better judgment, Mhin drops their hands. Turns to face you. Finds their fingers pressing urgently into your skin, curving along your jaw giving you the very touch they so often wish they could receive from you. The ease with which you welcome their kiss–the way you've anticipated their eager capitulation–is something they'll have to scold themself about at a later date. For now...

It is unwise to allow a debt to go unpaid in this city.

#time to get lucky mhin #time to go undercover but not how you thought #/gets jailed for pun crimes #mhin touchstarved #touchstarved fanfic #touchstarved game #i had this q'd on their bday then i decided i didnt know if i liked it - a toxic perfectionism story #happy late bday to Mhin tho mwah #Atheris playing katy perry's bday song on repeat until Mhin turns it off cmon babe lets have a real wild night&watch ur favorite documentar #i used to word 'heretical' which means this is lowkey ft. Atheris #*BIG SIGH* adds to self-prompt list: this but with Vere... >:) #toxintouch writing