No Gods, No Titles

Disappointing you since 1984

[reattachedstrings]

Doll with a Journal

This one was tidying when it came across something. A worn journal covered in faded red canvas, bound with dissolving black thread and petrified glue. The book felt like a sugar cookie in this one’s hands. Like it might crumble to pieces if it gripped too hard.

Dust made microscopic snowbanks where this one’s fingers brushed across the cover. A faint brown stain on one corner felt no different from the corner where the canvas had peeled off to reveal its bare threads and raw cardboard prize. 

The cover had a name on it. Not one that this one recognized, but one that felt familiar to it. Like there were memories attached to it which had been long removed. It was just a book, buried and hidden under countless other personal-made-impersonal belongings by the chance and grace of time. There was probably nothing significant about it. Surely nothing for this one to care about, at least.

The doll opened the book. The inside cover had a date- years in the past, but not many- an address- down a ways, but not too far- and a name- the same one on the front. This one traced its fingers over the words, as if looking for some hidden meaning in them. They were meaningless. This was nothing. The page was bleached with age and fingerprints and sweat. 

It turned a page. Written in ink which was faded when it was new was a testimonial to the life of a man. He was neither a doll nor a witch, and was unhappy about his lot in life. The first page told a story about him not being able to make friends. He resented how he couldn’t connect with people. Something about him was off, he said. This one didn’t like the story much, but something compelled it to move to the next page.

The trend continued. Every page recounted some failed opportunity or missed connection for the man writing the words. He was unfulfilled, he was unable to keep up appearances, and he didn’t know why. 

This one wanted to put down the book, but it couldn’t. Its eyes kept moving over words drawn by fleshy hands, even when its eyes unfocused and it forgot where it was. Another page. Another. Another misery. 

Behind the doll, her witch’s voice appeared like a runway. This one moved faster than it has before and slower than ever to face her. She was just checking up on it, she said. She wanted to make sure the cleaning process was going well, that everything was able to be properly sorted. This one couldn’t respond. It just held out the book. The smile that its witch was wearing melted when she realized what it was. The witch, of course, knew what the doll was able to forget. 

The witch didn’t have to tell this one that the man was who it used to be. That he had become it. Its witch just held her doll close and whispered gentle praises into its ear. Its witch told it that it was good, and strong, and that it was beautiful now. Its witch told it that she loved it. Her doll responded by wrapping its arms tighter. Its witch told it that she would erase the memories that it read today, that it would go back to how happy it was before. This one nodded into her shoulder. Then she said that she would get rid of the journal. This one refused.

This one is happy to be a doll. It is happy to serve and it loves its witch more than anything in the world. It is endlessly grateful that it gets to forget worse times, that it can let its witch deal with the past. But for some reason that it can’t explain, it keeps that old journal tucked away underneath its dresses and plushies. It will never read it, it hopes, but it needs to have it. It needs to have the choice. It is grateful that its witch trusts it enough to have it.

[effemimaniac]

I feel like walking someone on a leash should be like the perfect example of "kink in public" that can't and shouldn't be banned or controlled like it should be the poster child for free expression of sexuality in public that doesn't hurt anyone but instead it's somehow what ppl seem to rail against the most? doesn't make sense

[jessicamarbles]

Glamour

Your heart beats hard when she’s around, so hard you’re scared she’ll hear it. You wonder if that’s in her power. You wonder many things. About her, about her kind. You wonder at the graceful, supple way she moves through crowds, at how the throng parts, like cattle shying from the tiger’s claw. How can they know, you wonder? She gives no outward hint of her true nature, not to those she keeps as strangers. Her beauty is the only rumour she allows of something more. Her body draws your eyes, then burns them with the guilt of your impertinence. You dream of her. Her curled onyx hair falling round her breasts like Lucifer from heaven. Her high Cathedral cheekbones inviting you to worship. When she deigns to speak to you, you are transfixed by the ruby rivers of her lips. Light moves faster than sound, and you must know her thoughts, her needs, her commands an instant sooner. Or perhaps you just fear her gaze, lest you fall deeper into the emerald darkness of her eyes. She’s close now, always, even when she isn’t there. She’s in your head. You think less and less of other things and more and more of Her. You wonder what you’d do, if She asked you to. You wonder what you wouldn’t. You know the myths. You know what people say it is that Her kind wants. And you are sure now, more than ever, of what She is. She’s shown you. Fangs and subtle magics, inhuman strength and lightning movement. When you’re alone, she shares such pretty secrets with you. It seems rude to be afraid. Is this how glamour feels? A gnawing need to give Her something, to give Her anything? To give yourself to Her, entirely. She could just take you. You’re as small and weak and finished as the mouse becomes, the cat’s paw on its tail. Yet you sense, somehow, that She will never steal you. It would be beneath Her. She does not need you. She maybe wants you, perhaps, please, you hope She might want you, but only ever as an offering. You’ll offer. Soon. You must. Once this last voice of fear and reason fades, you’ll tilt your head, brush back your hair and whisper please, whilst trying to hold still. You wonder how you’ll taste. You wonder if it hurts. You wonder how it feels, to lose yourself completely.

[i-am-the-quintessential-queer]

100% this. Like I cannot stress this enough how much of a delay you can have in processing things that impacted us when we were younger. There’s still plenty of shit I’m processing from high school, things that until I really sit and think about it I don’t even realize were fucked up. Give yourself time, every day is another chance to heal a little more 🖤

[dykemd]

the lack of dykes n more specifically butch dykes in post apocalyptic media is bizarre bc every single lesbian i know is the most prepared person in any room n not even for survivalist reasons we do that shit for fun

[dykemd]

exactly

[jessicamarbles]

This is Mad Max: Fury Road erasure

[guerrillatech]

Stop trying to be productive

[beholdingslut]

this from the guy who wrote the sting pain index, a scale he constructed after letting himself be stung by insects

[beholdingslut]

“why did i start this list” pleaseeeeeee this is so funny

[caracalliope]

his descriptions were extremely on-point, and frankly inspiring when writing a hurt/comfort scene

Instagram poets could never!

[dashinginterjection]

These images come from the appendix of his book.

Full collection below:

[soemptyshaped]

A Doll put together hastily, given every order under the sun. Contradictory, difficult, uncomfortable, the Doll did its best regardless.

It had been chastised and overcorrected at every turn until its screws came loose and fell between the cogs that had kept its poorly designed body going.

The sound of metal grinding against metal was gentler than the tone of the Mechanic, and loud enough to drown it out. It tried to keep going, if only to hold onto this accidental reprieve, this painful sort of peace.

Its clockwork motor got stuck, jammed, it was impossible to turn the key in its back. It was only then that the Mechanic decided to take a look inside.

They stepped away with nothing but a sigh. They didn't even attempt to repair it. Not their fault, they'd said. When they had designed the Doll, it was working properly.

The Doll wondered when that time could've been.

[andrearrrrr]

Prince Rupert's drops are toughened glass beads created by dripping molten glass into cold water, which causes it to solidify into a tadpole-shaped droplet with a long, thin tail. These droplets are characterized internally by very high residual stresses, which give rise to counter-intuitive properties, such as the ability to withstand a blow from a hammer or a bullet on the bulbous end without breaking, while exhibiting explosive disintegration if the tail end is even slightly damaged.

In nature, similar structures are produced under certain conditions in volcanic lava

Prince Rupert's drop - Wikipedia

[salubrious-sybarite]

[pileofknives]

"I bet it doesn't hurt that bad, I don't have time for this shit."

[ampersandvich]

"at least one"

[sexhaver]

now this is a gender binary i can get behind

[carnival-phantasm]

Very generous of them to describe it as the "Thinking Period"

[retiredmahoushoujo]

They correctly excluded the outlier Electroshocks Georg

[sophiamcdougall]

They were right to exclude him from the study, but I do wish they had further investigated what was going on with Electroshocks Georg.

[scumrunner]

Hey I just wanna point out that the study was of students, and the age range listed for "men" is 12-18. That's not men. That's teenage kids. I assume the "women" were similarly aged.

[sophiamcdougall]

Twelve OF eighteen. Not 12 to 18. I assume the scientists know what children are.

[thehmn]

A lot of people around me are having kids and every day it becomes more apparent that hitting your children to punish them is insane because literally everything can be a horrible punishment in their eyes if you frame it as such.

Like, one family makes their toddler sit on the stairs for three minutes when he hits his brother or whatever. The stairs are well lit and he can see his family the whole time, he’s just not allowed to get up and leave the stairs or the timer starts over. He fucking hates it just because it’s framed as a punishment.

Another family use a baseball cap. It’s just a plain blue cap with nothing on it. When their toddler needs discipline he gets a timeout on a chair and has to put the cap on. When they’re out and about he just has to wear the cap but it gets the same reaction. Nobody around them can tell he’s being punished because it’s in no way an embarrassing cap, but HE knows and just the threat of having to wear it is enough.

And there isn’t the same contempt afterwards I’ve seen with kids whose parents hit them. One time the kid swung a stick at my dog, his mother immediately made him sit on the stairs, he screamed but stayed put, then he came over to my dog and gently said “Sorry Ellie” and went back to playing like nothing happened, but this time without swinging sticks at the nearby animals.

[objectlessondujour]

The psych nerds found out ages ago that punishments that make the child think for a few minutes (about one minute or year of age until they're tweens) is much more helpful to develope social intelligence and understanding than punishments which prevents thinking, like the ones that involve pain. In fact, corporal punishment encouraged lying, extreme reactions, violent outbursts, go figure, they don't trust you.

[bogleech]

This is all really fucking serious and important and I'm mainly reblogging for that, because this correct mentality needs to be spread around more, but I'm also reblogging because I absolutely lost it at the child who dreads having to wear the normal blue hat of shame.

[shatteredgoddessdoll]

Trial

A witch sits on trial.  The judge reads her crime - violation of the “Consent Before Life Act”.  A doll sits in the courtroom, the witch’s victim.

Long ago, in the dark ages, witches brought others into this world without their consent.  Baby witches, dolls, other creatures, all forcibly brought to life.

A century ago, a new spell was discovered.  Witches could now communicate with souls in Eternity, asking if they wished to experience the painful jolt into her world.  What they found there astonished most witches.  Nearly all souls preferred to remain in Eternity.  Very few considered the sparse joys of this world to outweigh the immense suffering tied to existence.

Witches started discussing the ethical implications of these findings.  Within a year, most witches held the belief that no being should be born or created without their consent.  This sentiment slowly meanered its way into law.

A doll sits in tears knowing how easily its suffering could have been avoided.  Its witch looks down, understanding the catastrophic nature of her mistake, prepared to receive her punishment.

[murderousmeow]

In a tree!

A doll climbing in a tree!

And its witch laying on the grass under it!

She is reading a book, a very old book, a book about flowers.

The doll is at the top of the tree now, the highest point in all directions.

Its an old combat doll, sniper class. Formerly equipped with long range weapons and stealth tech.

The doll keeps its witch safe, always looking keeping on lookout, even out here in the warm sunshine.

The witch knows no danger will come. But she enjoys seeing the doll joyfully climbing about.

The two are safe now. The war has long since passed this region.

The witch gave the doll a new Purpose when the military tossed it away.

The witch whistles thrice, and the doll climbs back down the tree. It stands next to the witch, waiting.

“Time to go back home sweetie. You did so good protecting me today, my doll”

Back home the two go, the doll half a step behind its witch, still on the lookout for signs of danger.

The witch smiles to herself, proud of her lovely little protector.

[jessicamarbles]

A witch whose doll is so far away. Each morning She whispers her longing into a huge red vase. She whispers her hopes. She whispers ‘I miss you’, ‘I love you’. She whispers healing words and prophecies. She whispers stories of games She’ll play with the doll when they’re together at last. Then she fills the vase to the brim with water, her emotions fizzling in the pot. The witch walks to the forest edge and pours it out, a feast for the roots of the great old oak. 'Neath wheeling stars and smiling moon, the leaves whisper: “I love you too, Miss. We’ll be together soon.”

[hyacinthdoll1315]

Imagined Doll

A doll forgotten by everyone, even its witch.

The doll was made of What Ifs and Could Be, but its witch added nothing that was. with nothing but What Ifs, people could not see it; Because it was not, it could only be a possibility.

It lives in the alleyway now, between two buildings, singing solemn songs of what was and what could have been. Sometimes a person may notice, walking down the street. Not the doll, of course, but the alleyway that seems so full of options.

They might see a garden, a house with a flowerbed, the back side of a restaurant, the entrance to a dollmakers shop, a small hotel, the front of a bar, a rundown grocer, a stage for buskers. Whatever they see, it is soon forgotten unable to be remembered for long.

A fleeting memory of a possibility. The doll continues its solemn song.

[murderousmeow]

In a tree!

A doll climbing in a tree!

And its witch laying on the grass under it!

She is reading a book, a very old book, a book about flowers.

The doll is at the top of the tree now, the highest point in all directions.

Its an old combat doll, sniper class. Formerly equipped with long range weapons and stealth tech.

The doll keeps its witch safe, always looking keeping on lookout, even out here in the warm sunshine.

The witch knows no danger will come. But she enjoys seeing the doll joyfully climbing about.

The two are safe now. The war has long since passed this region.

The witch gave the doll a new Purpose when the military tossed it away.

The witch whistles thrice, and the doll climbs back down the tree. It stands next to the witch, waiting.

“Time to go back home sweetie. You did so good protecting me today, my doll”

Back home the two go, the doll half a step behind its witch, still on the lookout for signs of danger.

The witch smiles to herself, proud of her lovely little protector.

[jessicamarbles]

Weight

It moves as if learning to walk again. I give no signal that I see it. Just let it stumble toward me, exertion dripping from each clumsy jolt.

“I found it harder today, Miss” it says, smiling weakly.

“Oh?” I feign surprise, holding out my hand for the cup. Whisperbone with gold pleats, so thin it’s near translucent. Fragile to the point of decadence. It places the tea onto my flat, outstretched palm, trying to control the shaking in its exhausted limbs “Sounds like you need another.”

The glint in its eyes darkens and I feel my mouth go wet.

“B-but-” it begins.

I quiet the protest with a raised eyebrow.

I tie the straps tight - two on each arm, two on each leg, one across its forehead, a gag across its mouth – then test the HotPoint. A single, blistering white dot radiates from its tip.

“Pain is a process.” I remind it as I make incision. It tries to flinch, squirm. I know this is not rejection; our bodies play saboteur to the lives we yearn for. And I *am* sheering open its calf with a laser hot enough to melt lead, after all. A little resistance is expected.

The HotPoint is as exact as it is excruciating. Seven dermal layers down I find the sweet spot: loose enough for an insertion but too deep to remove the weight without it clawing itself open. “We need you strong” I remind it “You want to be strong for me, don’t you?” It cannot speak, nor nod, nor move, but it blinks at me.

The sheet is an ultra-condensed steel alloy. Magnetised, but the Doll needn’t know that. I push the weight under its flesh and let the serrated edge do the work, curving round the shin bone till its leg is wholly encased by the metal.

I’ve told the Doll the weights make it stronger, and it’s true. They have. Any place but here they’d make it superhuman. But I control the Station, every aspect, and I adjust the magnetic fields in direct proportion to its increasing muscle mass. Thus its body feels heavier and heavier after each operation, its limbs more rigid, its movements more tiring, even as it gains in power under my employ.

All the effort, all the overcompensation, sharpens its mind, not just its body. It will join its first combat with the wrath and fury of an unchained god. I hope, then, it will understand why it was lied to.

“All done” I whisper, leaning close, as I unbuckle the Doll and watch it try to rise. It falters, naturally. It’s carrying an extra thirty kilos in its left leg, even without the magnetism. I place my arm around its waist and help it back towards its quarters, my face a mask of kindness. “I’ve left something for you on your bed. You may need it tomorrow.”

The next day, it crawls to me, fighting tears. My tiffin is balanced on its brand new saddle. It is too tired to stand, too weak now to fight the weight I’ve put inside it. I take my tea and cake directly from its back, never acknowledging the grunts and shudders my table makes. I turned the magnets to high this morning. It can barely hold itself up.

“Better today?” I ask at last, my face the portrait of innocence. Even exhausted, the Doll knows better than to hide its eye from me when it speaks. It meets my gaze, sweat livid on its brow.

“I am as you wish me, Miss.” It answers, sweetly, without a hint of reproach.

I sip my tea and wonder if it knows.