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Mike Driver
DEAR READER
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Love Begins
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@bodoramzap
Hello, my name is Bo! (she/her) This blog is just for me to connect with other writers! I love seeing writing from others, or just connecting over a shared interest in writing. I very much encourage and enjoy interaction. This can be from tag games, ask games, random asks, or just messaging!
Hash and the Statue
Once upon a time, there was a shapeshifter. Now, in this day and age, her kind are dead, slain by the humans for their sins, but she's a special case. A very, very special case.
You see, her name was Hash Brown, and if you're thinking of a certain deep fried good right now, you'd be all too right. I know not if she named herself after the dish or if it was named after her, though. She is old enough that it could have been either. Should she tell you the story, do come running to me, for it is one she has long resisted letting me hear. I promise I will reward you quite aptly for such an act.
Hash Brown spent her days amongst the mortals, playing tricks on humans for her entertainment. This was one such day, a fine summer in southern Luxatia, where the zcaccha-blossoms were awake and raining purple upon the straw-hatched town of Emry.
The statue of the Witch of Emry stood proud in the town square, bearing her staff and hat. Light touched the beautiful gemstone set upon her staff, reflecting a rainbow upon the townsfolk.
Or, it would have if it had been there. But, it wasn't! Poof. Kaboom. Wham! No gemstone.
What, you think the special effects are childish? I'll have your head for that, sirrah. I'm the storyteller, and if you don't want to hear my story, you don't deserve to live.
Now, as I was saying, before I got so rudely interrupted, this was not, in fact Hash's fault. I know what you were thinking, heathen. Stereotyping our dear heroine, I see. Tch.
She had arrived in town late at night, in the form of a slinking housecat, soft and sweet, carrying nothing but her own soul. And that was a very light burden indeed, given how lacking it was.
Three youths stood in that town square, one balanced upon another's shoulders, prying the jewel out of the staff. There is a joke to be had in there, but I am afraid it is too coarse to be told by my fine tongue, so just imagine I said it.
When stone cracked and the jem came rumbling down, she was there to catch it, arms outstretched as a lithe woman. “Hail,” she said to the shocked children. “Wha’ do ya lot think ye're doin' here?”
Yes, she does really speak as such. There is an art to the twisting of the tongue that her people perform, and I have taken great pains to replicate her kina’ilra slurring. Observe, I can pronounce the phrase ‘y’all’re’ without any struggle. Do applaud for me.
The youths looked up and down at each other. “We're saving the world,” one, a girl, ventured, in tones so confused he might well not have believed his own words. “The Serpent comes to kill us all.”
“Serpent? I ain't heard of no serpent. Who told ya about this serpent?” Hash watched, unamused, as the kids climbed off each other and landed on the ground.
“The King's messenger warned us about it just the day before. Lady Emry's soulstone is said to repel danger, and we thought…” Underneath her icy gaze, the boy shrank back. “I'm Palian, miss,” he offered, by way of appeasement.
“Hash,” she replied, smiling the smile of a being who saw her day's entertainment serve itself on a platter. “So ya really need this stone?”
“Yes!” The other boy nodded. “Please give it back, Hash.”
“Hmm…” She inspected the jewel, holding it up under the moonlight. “Ah think not. It's pretty, may-be it'll be mine. I know a man who likes pretty things, afte' all.”
At this, all three children burst out into terrible babbling, reaching out for her and trying to snatch it back. She took one look at them, and fled. A most suspiciously Hash-like ferret took the jewel, and it was never to be seen again.
What, you wanted a better story? I just told you about how I got my most beautiful gemstone! Was that not good enough for your high standards? Fine, fine, I will allow you to hear what happens next.
My dearest Hash brought me her gift, and I mounted it upon this throne. Look how it glitters. The Witch of Emry must surely be rolling in her grave, and what a joy for that. I never met her in person, but I have heard nothing but foul words about her. She did not make many friends during her short stint in this world.
To this day, I know not of what serpent they feared. Luxatia is a land far beyond my circle of control, and if any danger arose there, it was surely conquered before it could reach this side of the continent. I have a suspicion, of course, but it is hardly worth sharing with a morsel like you. Some things are beyond the concerns of ilra like you.
What is that? You still insist? Have you not pushed me far enough? Are you not imposing upon your host? To shame, sirrah. To shame. Guards, help me chop off this little soul’s head. Do not give me that look, Miphala. Wayward children must be punished. Perhaps it will make him more polite in the future.
Hash and the Statue
Once upon a time, there was a shapeshifter. Now, in this day and age, her kind are dead, slain by the humans for their sins, but she's a special case. A very, very special case.
You see, her name was Hash Brown, and if you're thinking of a certain deep fried good right now, you'd be all too right. I know not if she named herself after the dish or if it was named after her, though. She is old enough that it could have been either. Should she tell you the story, do come running to me, for it is one she has long resisted letting me hear. I promise I will reward you quite aptly for such an act.
Hash Brown spent her days amongst the mortals, playing tricks on humans for her entertainment. This was one such day, a fine summer in southern Luxatia, where the zcaccha-blossoms were awake and raining purple upon the straw-hatched town of Emry.
The statue of the Witch of Emry stood proud in the town square, bearing her staff and hat. Light touched the beautiful gemstone set upon her staff, reflecting a rainbow upon the townsfolk.
Or, it would have if it had been there. But, it wasn't! Poof. Kaboom. Wham! No gemstone.
What, you think the special effects are childish? I'll have your head for that, sirrah. I'm the storyteller, and if you don't want to hear my story, you don't deserve to live.
Now, as I was saying, before I got so rudely interrupted, this was not, in fact Hash's fault. I know what you were thinking, heathen. Stereotyping our dear heroine, I see. Tch.
She had arrived in town late at night, in the form of a slinking housecat, soft and sweet, carrying nothing but her own soul. And that was a very light burden indeed, given how lacking it was.
Three youths stood in that town square, one balanced upon another's shoulders, prying the jewel out of the staff. There is a joke to be had in there, but I am afraid it is too coarse to be told by my fine tongue, so just imagine I said it.
When stone cracked and the jem came rumbling down, she was there to catch it, arms outstretched as a lithe woman. “Hail,” she said to the shocked children. “Wha’ do ya lot think ye're doin' here?”
Yes, she does really speak as such. There is an art to the twisting of the tongue that her people perform, and I have taken great pains to replicate her kina’ilra slurring. Observe, I can pronounce the phrase ‘y’all’re’ without any struggle. Do applaud for me.
The youths looked up and down at each other. “We're saving the world,” one, a girl, ventured, in tones so confused he might well not have believed his own words. “The Serpent comes to kill us all.”
“Serpent? I ain't heard of no serpent. Who told ya about this serpent?” Hash watched, unamused, as the kids climbed off each other and landed on the ground.
“The King's messenger warned us about it just the day before. Lady Emry's soulstone is said to repel danger, and we thought…” Underneath her icy gaze, the boy shrank back. “I'm Palian, miss,” he offered, by way of appeasement.
“Hash,” she replied, smiling the smile of a being who saw her day's entertainment serve itself on a platter. “So ya really need this stone?”
“Yes!” The other boy nodded. “Please give it back, Hash.”
“Hmm…” She inspected the jewel, holding it up under the moonlight. “Ah think not. It's pretty, may-be it'll be mine. I know a man who likes pretty things, afte' all.”
At this, all three children burst out into terrible babbling, reaching out for her and trying to snatch it back. She took one look at them, and fled. A most suspiciously Hash-like ferret took the jewel, and it was never to be seen again.
What, you wanted a better story? I just told you about how I got my most beautiful gemstone! Was that not good enough for your high standards? Fine, fine, I will allow you to hear what happens next.
My dearest Hash brought me her gift, and I mounted it upon this throne. Look how it glitters. The Witch of Emry must surely be rolling in her grave, and what a joy for that. I never met her in person, but I have heard nothing but foul words about her. She did not make many friends during her short stint in this world.
To this day, I know not of what serpent they feared. Luxatia is a land far beyond my circle of control, and if any danger arose there, it was surely conquered before it could reach this side of the continent. I have a suspicion, of course, but it is hardly worth sharing with a morsel like you. Some things are beyond the concerns of ilra like you.
What is that? You still insist? Have you not pushed me far enough? Are you not imposing upon your host? To shame, sirrah. To shame. Guards, help me chop off this little soul’s head. Do not give me that look, Miphala. Wayward children must be punished. Perhaps it will make him more polite in the future.
Thousands of starfish had washed up on the beach, and a little girl was diligently throwing them back into the water, one at a time.
A man came up to the girl and said, "You'll never save all of them. What you're doing is pointless. It doesn't matter."
The girl threw another starfish into the water. "It mattered to that one."
The man snorted and walked away.
The girl kept throwing starfish, one after another.
To throw one starfish back into the ocean takes a trivial amount of effort, but to throw ten, or fifty, is much less so. The girl had not learned much of biomechanics, but she began to feel the strain in her back. Her skin had softened from the seawater, and the starfish themselves were abrasive. Her fingers had pruned. Her shoulder hurt. She was cut, twice, on her fingers, as the same storm that had stranded the starfish had also brought up broken shells and crab carapaces. The skin of a starfish was like sandpaper.
She tried switching hands, and could throw the starfish less well, and it wasn't long before she had mirrored all her injuries. She was bleeding, though the blood wept rather than flowing, briefly staining the starfish pink before they were tossed into the ocean.
It seemed as though there were just as many dying starfish as when she'd started.
After three hours, the girl was sunburnt. A passing man had told her that she should stop what she was doing, and had offered her some water, which she took, but he hadn't helped to throw the starfish back.
The girl's hands were cracked, scraped, and raw. Saltwater found the wounds, but she'd gone numb, and her motions became more mechanical.
"It mattered to that one," she thought to herself, "It mattered to that one," over and over, like a mantra. Her muscles ached, but the ache became familiar. When she'd started, her throws had been beautiful things, guided by purpose, but now they were sloppy and threatened to pull her off balance.
She did fall, more than once, landing on sand that was filled with jagged debris, and sometimes she was slow to get up. But she did get up, because there were more starfish to save, tens of thousands of them.
Night fell, and it was harder to see the starfish, but they were still in need of help. She was tired, and the cuts on her fingers had multiplied. The skin had been wet for too long, and in one place, on her palm, where she had gripped a thousand starfish to throw them, a piece of white skin had come off.
Still, she kept throwing starfish.
Her mother didn't find her until after midnight.
"Hi mom," said the girl. Her voice croaked. She had been saying, "It mattered to that one" under her breath for long enough that her vocal cords had strained. She threw another starfish into the ocean.
"You need to come home," her mother said.
"These starfish will die without me," said the girl.
"I know," said her mother. "But you need to come home, because if you keep doing this, you'll collapse on the beach, and like a starfish, you'll need to be rescued too."
The girl stooped down, back aching, and picked up another starfish. Many of them had died by this point, but there were still uncountably many that lived. The rough skin of the starfish grated at her tender skin, but she rose and threw it, arm protesting, and watched it fall down into the water.
Her mother grabbed her gently by the shoulders. "I'm bringing you home," she said. "It would be better if I didn't have to carry you, but I will if I have to."
"I don't want to be the sort of person who leaves starfish to die," said the girl, shrugging off her mother. But a part of her did want to be carried, because she'd walked for miles along this beach, one stooping step at a time.
"I know," said her mother. "But to survive, you have to be. Save as many as you can, but take breaks, get good sleep, eat well. Then go back and save more."
The girl swayed where she was. She was close to passing out, though maybe it was because her rhythm had been interrupted.
Her mother held out a hand, so they could walk together, like they'd done when she was smaller.
And it was then that she noticed the scars on her mother's hands, the calluses and rough spots, the places where cuts had healed. She had seen her mother's hands many times before, but had never asked why they were that way.
The girl slipped her hand into her mother's and began to cry as they walked back home.
Moving On.
The necromancer looked at the old man behind the opulent desk.
"Commission me?"
"Yes. Once I'm dead, of course, but I'll pay you in advance."
"To call you back to address your family?"
"You can do that, can't you?"
"Yes, of course. To say farewell?"
"To clarify any questions about my will."
I’m sitting on the floor, my eyes filled with tears. I don’t have the strength to deal with this anymore. Once again, you left and didn’t come back. You left me alone and filled me with loneliness without an answer. For months now, it’s been the same loop. you leave and return, every time for a different reason. I don’t have the emotional strength anymore to feel forgotten by you, to feel alone, to feel unloved. Sometimes I even feel like I hate you because of it. How can you just keep living your life knowing I’m there, sitting alone in the dark, simply alone? Sometimes I even hate the fact that I fell in love with you. I never wanted to open my heart again, and when you came into my life, I decided to try. To let myself be vulnerable. This is the last time.
I stood up from the floor, leaving the vodka bottle I had been drinking from for days lying there, maybe hoping the bottle would understand how I feel, because you don’t care. I walked to the kitchen, opened one of the drawers, and stared at one of the knives. I looked at it for a full minute, my thoughts racing like a train in Japan.
“What are you doing?”
Suddenly I heard your voice. I turned around in panic and shut the drawer.
“Nothing. Not that you care,” I said coldly, hoping you wouldn’t notice how swollen my eyes were after days of crying.
You slowly walked closer to me.
“My love, you’re the most beautiful girl in the world. I love you. I’m so sorry I left you like this.”
You tried to touch my face, and I pushed you away. You looked startled by my reaction, and your eyes suddenly looked sadder.
“Just leave me alone already. I’m tired of this. Every time you leave and come back. You don’t love me.”
Your eyes looked vulnerable.
“Even when you’re angry at me, you’re still the most beautiful thing in the world. I’m so sorry for the heartbreak I keep causing you.”
Again, you tried to move closer to me gently, and I looked at you angrily but didn’t move away. You didn’t touch me, you only looked into my eyes.
“You’re beautiful when you cry. You’re always beautiful. But when you cry, your eyelashes stand out more, and your nose gets a little red. You’re an angel. And I’ve never loved anyone or anything the way I love you.”
You said it in your usually quiet voice, but this time even softer.
You noticed I wasn’t saying anything anymore. I wasn’t pushing you away either. So you gently touched my cheek, whispering that you were sorry over and over again, and just like always, I fell for your charm.
The only question is how much longer I can survive this.
You’re like a drug I would never want to recover from.
“I miss the way you used to be with me. Lately you’re always busy, and I hate it. You don’t even answer your phone anymore,” I whispered while looking into your eyes.
“I know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t. It’s hard for me to deal with the guilt. I never forgot about you. I’m sorry. I love you.”
You kept stroking my cheek and wiping away my tears.
Suddenly I moved your hand away from me.
“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” I said sharply.
“I’ll accept any decision you make. I’ll always love you,” you said softly.
“I love you. You’re my wife.”
My expression suddenly turned angrier, and my tone became sharper.
“You don’t make your wife feel like this. I honestly don’t understand what you think you’re doing. Every time you come back here and apologize over and over again, you end up doing the exact same thing. Every single time there’s something new. Every single time there’s someone else to save. But me? Nothing. I’m just nothing.”
I poured myself more vodka. there was barely anything left in the bottle. and drank quickly.
“One time it’s family, one time it’s the internet, one time it’s your friends, and one time it’s yourself. But me? Never. I never need saving, right? Because I’m just nothing. I don’t believe a single word that comes out of your mouth anymore. I’m tired of loving you.”
I said it louder this time, and your eyes looked sadder than ever.
“I’m begging you, let me hold you. Or at least rest your head against my chest and listen to my heartbeat. I miss you so much too, but I truly can’t. I really, really love you. And I’ll come back. I’m so sorry.”
A tear rolled down your cheek.
My expression softened again. Your emotions always melt me.
I hugged you gently, and you hugged me back. You held me tightly and whispered that you love me and that you are sorry over and over again while crying. I cried a little too.
I listened to your heartbeat and realized that everything you were saying was true.
I just don’t know how to handle it.
Oyster mermaid~
ah fuck, so sorry ma’am-
The Price of the Rose
Centuries ago, a faerie, soft-haired and luminous, became so enamored with perfume that she traded her immortality for a single rose to bloom in perfection, night after night, for the span of her mortal life.
Tonight, she knelt again among the ancient, crumbling walls and the spiderwebs. Ivy thick around her, moss yielding beneath her knees. The flowers had withered, as they always did...
She leaned close and gave them the last spark of her magic.
The petals flared blood-red beneath the moon, caught in threads of starlight—then fell to dust.
The scent remained. Perfect. Sweet. Unchanged.
She closed her eyes, smiling, as her wings unraveled into mist and drifted into the dark.
The bargain had always been this.
Racer part 3
TW: human slavery, cannibalism, err racism/bigotry, I guess? Idk Racer is a really strange story
Synopsis: In a world where some humans are pathologically incapable of hurting others, a young woman refuses to give up and let herself succumb to the victimisation that society tells her is her biological perogative. There's also man-eating angels, generational trauma, and grave desecration <3 Inspired by a dream I had!
Word Count: 2.4k (for this part)/6.8k
Read part 1 here and part 2 here!
Dragonfly: Foot of the Mountain
Zoey took a second to breathe as she massaged her legs. She sat down on an oddly-shaped rock near the upward-sloping side of the path up Mt…she would have to double-check the name when she left. Her legs burnt with lactic acid, real lactic acid, and it made her smile, but then groan as they hurt to even massage.
“It’s good exercise, just take each step as it comes. Wes told you what was at the top. Just got to go up there and get it, right?”
Zoey looked forward, toward the other side of the path and past the railing. The slope cut down sharply, but past that ridge was a sea of trees blowing and shifting in the wind. Near the edge of the woods was a line of residential buildings, followed by medium-rises, and then skyscrapers barely bigger than the nail on her little finger. She checked.
Zoey searched through her backpack, pushing aside a first aid kit, a flare gun, and a copy of a book she didn’t remember bringing. At the bottom was a cell phone.
“There you are. Let me just…” She took a picture of the landscape that unfolded before her. Beneath the photo she captioned it, “Absolutely gorgeous landscape, can’t believe the work that goes into making this place beautiful. Already looking forward to coming here again and just staring at the forest. 5 stars!”
He's worried about stepping on flowers. He loves nature.
Racer, part 2
TW: human slavery, cannibalism, err racism/bigotry, I guess? Idk Racer is a really strange story
Synopsis: In a world where some humans are pathologically incapable of hurting others, a young woman refuses to give up and let herself succumb to the victimisation that society tells her is her biological perogative. There's also man-eating angels, generational trauma, and grave desecration <3 Inspired by a dream I had!
Word Count: 1.8k (for this part)
Read part 1 here!
Surfacing Monuments 🌊 'Let the current take you there' Prints | Ko-fi | Patreon | Bluesky ⭐
Racer: Part 1
TW: human slavery, cannibalism, err racism/bigotry, I guess? Idk Racer is a really strange story
Synopsis: In a world where some humans are pathologically incapable of hurting others, a young woman refuses to give up and let herself succumb to the victimisation that society tells her is her biological perogative. There's also man-eating angels, generational trauma, and grave desecration <3 Inspired by a dream I had!
Word Count: 2.6k (the full story will probably be about 10k, though)
There were uncountable books in the library, none of which I knew. I picked one at random and read the blurb.
"A cosy fantasy?"
"Yes," said my host.
I picked another. "Cosy mystery?"
"Yes."
"Are all your books cosy?"
Cthulhu shrugged. "If you'd seen what I've seen, you'd want comfort too."
this party sucks
