I’m Jeff (not really) and I’m going to use this blog to post about my writing and stuff.
I might post art / art practice too if I actually get around to it…
He/Him, gay, aegosexual quoiromantic
suns circled: 20
ao3: JeffTheCrow
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I like a bunch of things but I’m currently most into The Stanley Parable, House MD and Corporate (2018).
along with normal fanfics, I also might just write about random characters from random things or just random stuff in general (as you can see in my first fic)
In terms of fanfic (and art if I post any), I’m pretty new so advice/feedback would be nice.
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kin la mi ken toki pona.
I could’ve sworn I was going to say more here but it slipped my mind.
damn i wish u guys could read this fic i haven't written and this fic i haven't finished writing and this fic i'm putting off outlining and this fic i outlined but haven't started and this fic i'll never write and this other fic i haven't written and this fic that exists only in vague impressions in my head that fall apart every time i try to commit them to the page and th
Snippet of the Corporate fic I’m writing (I have no idea what I’m doing)
Years of people’s lives were spent here, all worked and whittled down to broken shells of who they once were. Their souls and bodies alike were rendered hollow and desperate for something other than just shitty coffee and stale muffins to fill them.
The smell of dying dreams (and the shitty coffee) permeated the air, reminding the employees that nothing except the almighty Hampton DeVille was worth serving.
The atmosphere was abysmal and everyone’s situation was hopeless. Just like any other work day.
Matt did what he always did at work: He sat at his desk and wondered what sins he committed to deserve the punishment of letting this corporate hellscape piss on his will to live.
Emails awaiting halfhearted responses filled Matt’s mailbox and some loose files were stacked on a corner of his desk, collecting dust after someone had dropped them off somewhere between one and twenty four hours ago.
Mixed with the swill of numbers, email headers, regrets and shortcomings, all drifting around in Matt’s head, someone seemed to always rise to the forefront of his mind. His name was Jake Levinson.
for paratober, I’m not sure if I can continue consistently like I was before. I will try to post when I can though since I do enjoy writing for these prompts!
caw caw caw caw caw. something about jack from the short film cawcawcaw the Stanley parable
Jack In A Box
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word count: 1,025
Jack's memory is suppressed after the events of the short film and he slowly regains his self awareness.
tags: Jacks loops are death based, very short fic
AO3 link
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Jack, as always, was happy. He spent his break like usual, staring into the void and sipping his coffee. The photocopying room was quiet and dull—as one would expect from a room meant for sitting down and scanning documents. Jack grew tired of this, every break was the same. Over and over, he subjected himself to the monotonous boredom of staring at a wall for a few minutes then heading back to work to then subject himself to the monotonous boredom of staring at a computer for a few hours before finally returning home.
Well, that’s what he believed. He had no real memory of his home or anyone waiting there for him. Then again, Jack was a fairly unremarkable man so the lack of housemates was no surprise. He just couldn’t recall a home. Did he even have a home? When was the last time he left this building? Could he even leave this building?
More questions crossed Jack’s mind. All of them, increasingly existential.
These thoughts caused Jack great discomfort. He quickly dismissed them and looked at his watch. Jack had, unfortunately, wasted over half of his break needlessly contemplating his own existence. Best not to dawdle on trivial matters like that from now on. He made sure to remember this.
He scanned some papers and merrily went on his way to the office. Though, he wouldn’t make it very far.
BANG
What was that? Jack turned to look behind him. A gunman, clad in black, had their weapon trained on Jack’s head.
While observing the threatening sight before him, Jack wondered where this man had come from. After that shot, he was sure he would’ve heard a few screams from his coworkers or seen some of them running to safety. But all was silent. Did he even have any coworkers? Was there anything beyond the 37th floor?
These strange notions proved rather distracting. So distracting in fact that while running from the gunman, Jack tripped and—through pure bad luck—suffered a fatal head injury.
The photocopying room was quiet and dull—as one would expect from a room meant only for sitting down and scanning documents; it made Jack happy. He spent his break like usual, staring into the void and sipping his coffee. He didn’t think at all about what he was going to do after his break and decided to relish in the few precious minutes he had to just rest.
Jack was feeling rather lonely, which was impossible because he was so happy. And how could he not be? He had the wonderful job of scanning papers with the photocopier, which was very important. If he’d ever stopped scanning and copying these documents, the company would inevitably collapse and he’d run the risk of being fired on the spot. He wouldn’t want that.
He was the foundation of this company and his unwavering obedience was essential to its survival.
Jack hadn’t scanned anything.
Apparently, Jack was irresponsibly letting some of his break time leak into his highly crucial scanning time. If the boss heard about this, he’d get sacked for sure. Jack looked to the window on his left. It was tall, from floor to ceiling.
Jack felt an overwhelming sense of dread. What was he here for? Surely, it didn’t involve staying in this room. A thrill, maybe? He could vaguely recall that word in his mind. A thrill. It sounded familiar. He opened the window and stood close to the ledge.
He peered down and saw the road full of cars, all of them silent and unmoving.
Jack stepped back inside, it was dangerous to stand this close to the edge.
But he didn’t. Jack stepped out into the air.
Jack spent his break like usual. The photocopying room was quiet and dull—as one would expect a room meant for sitting down and scanning documents to be. It was so agonizingly boring.
Jack didn’t bother staring at the void this time around. Something inside him—a memory or some deep part of his subconscious—was practically screaming at him to LEAVE THIS PLACE. So he did.
Jack stood up from the faux-leather couch and promptly pushed through the door. He remembered now: his previous escape attempt, the voice’s disdain, the door.
Jack was one of many others trapped in an endless loop of death and meaningless action. But it seemed that Jack himself was the only one cursed with an awful awareness of this fact; Jack knew he was resented for this. He couldn’t possibly know how many times he’d been sent back to this room, the countless hours of bliss he had before his awakening, the endless torment he must’ve suffered under the spell of this voice.
He’d been unwittingly defying it, slowly chipping away at the voice’s hold. It turned out that leaving the photocopying room was the final twist that wrenched Jack out of the voice’s sadistic hands.
He felt lighter now. The voice had given up or, rather, stopped paying attention to him. It no longer cared.
He looked at the ends of the hallway. To his right, was a door; to his left, was another. They were both open but where they each led was unclear.
Jack looked between the two doors. This was a final test of dependence.
He knew that sitting there and worrying about which door to pick was part of what the voice wanted. He would not grant it his indecision. Immediately, he turned to his left and walked. He refused to turn back or even think about changing his mind. This decision was his and his alone.
The voice had told Jack in one of his loops that abandoning this place could mean abandoning his own existence. But that was only true here—in this world that the voice had created. Neither Jack nor the voice knew what was outside of the office.
There was hope that if he made it to the other side, Jack could redefine himself completely.
He made his way to the open doorway and closed his eyes before stepping through the threshold.
a snippet from the next chapter of my Stanley Parable fic to prove that I’m actually doing stuff:
The Narrator returned from the brief break he’d taken. He’d given Stanley ample time to relax, hopefully Stanley was ready to leave now.
“Alright, Stanley. I–”
Stanley wasn’t in his office. Maybe he just left a bit early to stretch his legs. The Narrator didn’t mind that, one does have to prepare themselves for the absurd amount of walking Stanley does. The Narrator looked down some of the halls. Stanley was nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t have gone that far, could he?
He checked every nook and cranny of the story, still no Stanley. He pressed his face to his palms and grumbled in frustration. “This can’t be happening. I was gone for FIVE MINUTES!”
Why did Stanley have to disappear like this? Does he not know how long it takes to create something even close to a human conscience? Let alone with free will!
The now disgruntled man took a few deep breaths. He had to come to terms with this quickly or things would never get sorted out.
After a few moments of grieving, a new plan came to mind. It wasn’t a good plan by any means but it was a step forward.
