Fanmade Chaos Insurgency Item: Grandmotherâs Ring
(TW: themes of suicide, mentioned/implied domestic violence)
Item: Grandmotherâs Ring
Size:Â Size 8
Type:Â A wedding ring of unknown era
Living:Â No
Sentient:Â No
Potential/current hazards: Can induce madness, can cause death
Location:Â Base Five
Reported Anomaly: Mind altering cognitohazard
USAGE
The Insurgency currently has no use for Grandmotherâs Ring.Â
REPORT
Grandmotherâs name is an ornate, diamond Victorian wedding ring. It was a family heirloom before being collected by the Insurgency. While it appears to be nothing out of the ordinary, there are multiple written testimonies of its anomalous properties. Grandmotherâs Ring should be kept in a standard felt ring box and should not be worn by anyone under any circumstances.Â
If a married person assigned female at birth puts the ring on, they will be driven to madness. If a person assigned female at birth is not married, the ring will have no effect.Â
If a person assigned male at birth puts the ring on, they will be strangled by an unseen force.Â
The entity attached to the ring cannot be seen by anyone not wearing the ring and cannot be captured by cameras. Our only knowledge about the entity is from first-person accounts and interviews have proved unsuccessful.Â
A picture of Grandmotherâs ring before it was put in storage.Â
SCP-6760 has not shown any signs of aggression since the initial incident, when researcher âââââââ unfortunately lost his life due to his own negligence. His aggression toward SCP-6760 was uncalled for and unprofessional.Â
I understand the apprehension toward working with 6760, but through testing, experiments, and therapy, it has been successfully rehabilitated and shows unwavering loyalty to the Foundation. It remains hesitant to interact with any staff not associated with myself and my assistant. Caution and patience is encouraged when interacting with SCP-6760, though it has shown no aggression toward humans after the initial incident and has expressed a fascination with mankind. Itâs for the best that 6760 is allowed to explore and observe Foundation staff, as knowledge of its surroundings keeps it from lashing out in its confusion.Â
Many of you know, SCP-6760 was instrumental in securing site ââ after its disastrous containment breach. Iâve consulted with my colleagues and higher ups, and we came to the unanimous conclusion that 6760âs anomalous properties should be utilized in the case of future breaches.
I understand that this is a controversial decision, and I understand that 6760 could pose a threat to aggressive personnel. Think of it as a police dog: If you give him no reason to attack you, or me no reason to initiate an attack, you will not be harmed. Feel free to contact me with any concerns you feel need addressing, and we will work together to secure, contain, and protect.
Item is an amorphous, black entity made of an unknown substance. It calls itself Scorn. Staff are encouraged to call it by its preferred name, as addressing it with its item number results in negative reactions. Testing has come back inconclusive, and staff has since given up on trying to understand the itemâs DNA. When put in a dark room, the item will expand to fill it and take on whatever shape it so desires. 6760 has the ability to inflict catastrophic damage on the facility, though itâs always insisted itâs âjust stretchingâ when it expands. Though it can expand under light, the entity has expressed that it âburns too bad to moveâ.
hi all ! i havenât posted in Forever, which sucks. i doubt thisâll reach much of my initial following, but iâve taken to writing on my main blog @gowoshusoul
at the moment, the majority of my writing is going to be in the SCP fandom, though i am working on an original novella in the background. iâll probably post about that once i get a little farther into it. ïżŒ
feel free to follow me over there if you want SCP content, and shoot me a message if you want an article written for your fan made SCPs ! i love writing them and even more than that i love to see how creative this community is.
i apologize for the lack of suggestions and poetry. iâve simply moved onto another style of writing.
Iâm finally gonna talk about why Iâve been inactive for months.Â
This post is going to be solely about me, not my poetry or writing. Itâs going to include themes of suicide and mental illness, as well as drug abuse and self harm, so be careful reading.Â
The last time I posted was in October, and thatâs when things started getting worse. I was prescribed valium, and I fell in love with it the first time I took it. I still love it. I would be high every moment of every day if I could be. But the valium would eventually run out, so I started smoking weed as well. I was working one job at the time, but eventually got another one.
These two jobs were what ended up breaking me. Some days I was working fourteen hours, which was far too much for I think any seventeen year old. My grandparents were constantly out of town. I was living in a three story house by myself, with these dogs that were never happy because no one was ever home. That house is too big to be so empty, and coming home to no one after exhausting myself hurt more than I ever thought it would.Â
I was smoking every night to go to sleep, just so I could get some quality sleep. Recalling that time of my life is still triggering today.Â
My breaking point was my eighteenth birthday. I was off one job, and got a piercing with a friend. I tried to enjoy myself, but had to go to my other job directly after. I got to work at 4:30 and didnât get home until 2AM.Â
The roads were icy. It was dark. I was going ninety in a sixty-five. I was bone tired, and I was convinced this exhaustion was going to be the rest of my life. Iâd been planning for a month at this point to pull the steering wheel and hope my death looks like an accident. I was so fucked up that I spoke to my friend about it. He knew a shitton more about cars than I do, and he said itâd be easy for me to die in a crash.Â
In his defense, he told me this with the thought that I would try to fix some of the issues.Â
I called my mom instead of killing myself that night. I laid in the floor and cried, and I donât think Iâve ever cried so hard.Â
I did this for the next two nights. Three nights my mom had to hear me tell her I was going to kill myself with nothing she could do about it. She was on the other side of the country, after all.Â
My grandmother was in town at the time. She was meant to be flying out of town Monday morning, and I texted my aunt, her daughter, and 3AM the night before telling her I was planning to kill myself and I shouldnât be left alone. I was afraid of telling my grandmother, and rightfully so. She was at the airport when she finally answered my auntâs calls and she lost it. She was furious, and I was the one that got screamed at over the phone. I texted another friend and went to her house.
I still feel shitty about this. Iâd just told everyone I was going to kill myself and then I disappeared, but if I hadnât left I would have killed myself in that house.Â
I stayed at my friendâs for a couple hours and played with her dog. Eventually, she and my mother convinced me to go home.Â
I did, and my grandmother was waiting for me, more scared than mad now and crying harder than Iâd ever seen. We spoke, and she drove me to a hospital. She stayed with me until a car came to pick me up to take me to a mental hospital. They wouldnât let me have my phone in the car, so I stared at the moon for an hour and a half and listened to the driverâs godawful music until we got there.Â
When we did, I sat in a room for close to an hour crying my eyes out. Iâd gotten there during a shift change, so it isnât really their fault that I had to wait for so long.Â
Alex was the nurse that finally helped me. She had a pride pin on her uniform and the sweetest smile, and I was such a bitch to her because I was scared. (I later apologized and she said she took none of it to heart and that it was alright.) I disclosed my transness to her and she made my roommate the only other trans guy there. Weâll call him T. Once I finally tried to sleep, that was after roaming the day room for an hour to wear myself out. (It was 2AM at this point and I should have been tired, but my nerves were shot because my intake was traumatizing.)
I woke up the next day to T falling into his wheelchair. He mustâve noticed me roll over because he laughed and asked if he woke me up, to which I responded, âJust a little.â
He laughed a lot louder than before, and excused himself to the bathroom with the warning that he might need help getting back into his wheelchair. I was more than fine with helping him, and I did. We bonded that morning.Â
He came with me to get a composition notebook from the front desk and boldly wrote my name and pronouns on the front of it. He seemed so happy to me, and oh so very willing to help.Â
I never would have guessed that T successfully killed himself. He was dead for two minutes before they brought him back, and he was pissed off about it. I think about him every day. I miss him every day.Â
He introduced me to B, who had discovered during their stay that theyâre nonbinary. I congratulated them, of course, and sat around and talked about gender with them. I have their contact info. I watch their streams sometimes.Â
I need to talk to them more, because I think about them every day, too.Â
We went to the gym one day, with a boy weâll call Q. He was eighteen, same as me, and lanky as all hell. He didnât seem like the type that I would get along with, and Iâve never been more delighted to have been wrong. Q loved the idea of the occult, and I am a balls-to-the-wall pagan with a lot of stories to tell. We made a tarot deck with uno cards and I read our fortunes in the day room. We talked about the concept of god with B. It was a great time.Â
I need to talk to Q more, too. He witnessed me drunk on seroquel for the first time, where I confessed my platonic love for him and told him he was my type. I have a boyfriend, so I wasnât hitting on him.Â
Iâm just dumb, and drunk me never knows when to shut up.Â
I mentioned my medication, so Iâll talk about it now. At the hospital, I was diagnosed with bipolar type two. I knew this would be my diagnosis. Iâd known I was bipolar for years. My mother is, and now weâre on the same medication.Â
I wouldnât say itâs necessarily gotten any easier, but my struggles are different and interesting now, so Iâm less inclined to kill myself.Â
Q left the day before me. He wasnât much of a hugger, so we very seriously shook hands while I told him how happy I was.Â
A lot of people left before me. A woman Iâll call C, who held me like a mother would when I cried and told her I didnât think I could do it anymore. There was a woman Iâll call P, who was a carbon copy of my mother. Hugging was frowned upon, but I probably held her for half my time there. Another woman Iâll call N. She didnât want to talk to anyone, a real hardass about opening up. I sat in front of her and told her my story, and she told me hers. the first day we met.Â
I checked up on the elderly patients every change I got, which was a lot. They usually half smiled at me. I could tell it meant something to them that someone cared enough to tap their shoulder and tell them good morning. An elderly women Iâll call D always called me sweetie in the smallest voice and to this day the memory makes my heart melt.Â
It wasnât all bad. Iâve been out for about two months now. My grandmother is making a real effort to understand my mental illness, because it isnât an easy one. My mother came to visit when I got out of the hospital and also for christmas. It was good seeing her.Â
I quit my jobs. No call, no show while I was in the hospital. I could have fought them, but I let one of them fire me. Iâm still unemployed, but Iâm volunteering now. I work with a dog rescue on Saturdays, when Iâm in town. I made a road trip from Colorado to Arizona and met my boyfriend in person for the first time. Iâm in Montana while Iâm writing this, contemplating how lucky I am to be alive.Â
At the end of the day, itâs difficult. But Iâm glad Iâm not dead. Iâm struggling more with mania than depression now. My violent intrusive thoughts are prohibiting me from working with dogs as much as I want, but Iâm figuring it all out.Â
Iâll never really be okay, but I hope I can be stable one day. I hope I can have more good days than bad days and more mild episodes than batshit.Â
Iâm going to text B and Q today, and when I get home and find my notebook, Iâm going to text T, too.Â
This is a rough ideas list for what a suggtober list could look like. I literally have no idea what Iâm doing but it could be fun so? Suggestions are welcome!! (Sorry for no readmore, Iâm on mobile) note that this isnât exclusive to suggestion blogs, anyone with a writing blog can join in!
words can be used to inspire a suggestion/be used in the suggestion
Remember the deity that rocked you to sleep all those nights. Feel its hands tenderly caressing your face, perhaps brushing away a stray hair. It may have hummed a strange melody and it soothed you. Remember the feeling of safety and security of its presence. Now, seek out the same deity. Whistle the tune it used to hum to you. Tell it all the stories you remember it telling you. Go and get a coffee together or something
I write on the twentieth of September, and to-day there is an ache in my breast, one that speaks of a coming death, the singing of angelsâ trumpets, of a cold hand walking me to my saviorâthat man they preach about in churches, where men think as often as they are faithful and lie as often as they boast and brag; these men in these churches preach of that holy man, that perfect man whom I can only hope will one day save me. What is there to save me from, thoughâis it even possible to save a man such as myself, who walked willingly into a vixenâs snare, one who sat idly as he was forsaken, forgotten, replacedâReplaced by a man like Harry, no less. Is there any saving for fools like myself, for nonbelievers like myselfâa man that would trade Heaven and God away for another evening spent painting at the side of Dorian Gray; for any perfect man they preach of may not compare to him, not with his golden hair, plucked from an angelâs scalp and sewn into his skin, nor with those crystalline eyes of Dorian Gray, those eyes which not even the Hope Diamond can compete withâand surely, there will never be anything in competition with how empty his head his; there will never be a thing in existence with eyes more vacant or tongue less thoughtful than that of Dorian Gray. My heart races as I write, and still there is an ache in my breastâI shouldnât speak so harshly of Dorian, not when he is so young and there is so much more of life for him to discover; certainly not when Harry holds his soul in the palm of his fist, has him trapped in this fantasy, this foul, faux romantic life.Â
Yet, am I not trapped in a faux romance as well? One of my own creation, that is the differenceâDorian had no say in the creation of his, nor does he realize the hurt that should befall him when the curtain closes, when the charade is over and Harry is done with him. I choose to live in my daydreamsâfiery colored daydreams of Dorianâs breast against my own, of golden hair caught between my fingers and those rosy lips so daintily parted against my ownâmaybe he should whine for me with that boyish voice of his, maybe he should need me in all the same ways I need him; and cool toned daydreams of waking up to Dorian in my arms, of reveling in the airheadedness of his sing-song voice as we lounge in the garden, hand in hand, heart to heart, where I have the luxury of listening to him, whether heâs venting what troubles that pretty little head of his or proclaiming his love for himself yet againâthe manner of his talking never matters so long as he does; even Dorian Grayâs meanest words send my heart racing and my cheeks flushing.Â
Should he ever know how badly I desire him?âeven on his worst of days, when all he can conjure is meanness, a narcissus in his own rightâand any man with the looks of Dorian Gray has that right to be a narcissus, it should be a crime to deny them of that. There is heartache that comes with Dorian, as it is with every person, but stillâthat is not to say that I donât most long for good days, for fingers intertwined and chaste kisses and whispered âI love youâsâoh, how I long for my Dorian to share my love.Â
I without he is anathema to me. Itâs such a sad sight, truly, an artist with no museâit is the same as the seas with no water, a sky without light, no sun nor stars nor moon to illuminate the ground; I without Dorian Gray is an abomination, and a sad one; one that makes that ache grow and throb with the beating of my heartâI fear it should kill me should I continue to write, but I find myself too alone to refrain from such a passionate act; if I cannot hide myself away in the portrait of Dorian Gray, then I should hide it away on paper, perhaps hide that paper away with a flame. I shudder to ponder him finding thisâhe would never understand, never even try in the way that sometimes non-artists do and always fail, for a non-artist can never love in his heart the same way that artists doâand if thatâs the case, I truly am a fool to vy for Dorian Grayâs love, for it will never amount to mine. No, should he find this he would turn his nose up to me, regard me with contemptment, as something beneath him, something smaller, lesser than himâthere is nothing but pain waiting for those who love Dorian Gray, because should he not treat me lesser, he would still break this fragile heart of mineâperhaps by indulging me, by making me a game, a plaything, a parrot to echo the words of a narcissus back to himâall things Harry has taught him to do.Â
Yet still, I find myself trembling at the thought; oh how lovely it would be to be loved by Dorian Gray, even if only in a superficial way. How selfish, how foolish am I?- to so willingly be used only for the risk of being touched, perhaps even caressed by someone I loveâthe only person Iâve ever loved, truly and with my whole heart, the only thing that has ever given my art meaning.Â
That ache in my breast has spreadâmy throat burns with tears yet to fall, tears swelling in the name of my Dorianâmy Dorian who Harry stole away from me, who chose blindly to abandon me, the only man ever to love him for more than his pretty face; although, I do love that face of his, that form, his hands, the ever-so-rare freckleâ⊠That isnât the point is it, though?-that I love Dorian Gray?-rather, the point is his lack of love for me.Â
i may have hypothetically written a journal entry in the point of view of basil from the picture of dorian gray, and i might hypothetically think itâs the best thing iâve ever writtenâ
a suggestion blog insnât necessarily the place to post 1000 word things, so i might turn this into a writing sideblog instead of strictly posting suggestions/poetry.
so uhhhh gimme feedback ! tell me what you wanna see from this blog ! tell me if you wanna see my try to emulate oscar wildeâs writing style because i think i did an ok job !
fun fact: this is exactly why i wrote this poem. i visited rocky mountain national park and i encountered a deity or entity there that wanted me gone.
i couldnât leave when it told me to and it haunted me the entire time it was there. i felt it in every animal i took a picture of. every tree i touched when i was climbing. it was one of the most powerful things i ever encountered.
the area was gorgeous. fucking breathtaking. a sight i would love to see again. but respecting these old gods is more important.
