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titsay
Three Goblin Art
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@theartofmadeline
Cosmic Funnies
Jules of Nature
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Xuebing Du
tumblr dot com
styofa doing anything
$LAYYYTER
Show & Tell
if i look back, i am lost
JVL
Mike Driver
d e v o n
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trying on a metaphor
blake kathryn
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@porkchophemingway
Stay weird and happy scrolling!
Note: This is an original content writing sideblog, so it can’t follow back. It does occasionally explore mature themes and uses [tumblr]’s built-in content labels accordingly. Still curious? Read about this blog’s purpose and the art and people that inspire it.
What if you open the zipper of your spine and let me come inside while you arch your back and moan my name from the pit of your throat?
Morchella
Under the cover of night, a woman wanders into the forest and strips bare before the largest morel she can find. The mycelium threaded her veins for months before she finally understood it as hunger.
She circles it — once, twice — the way an animal does before it lies down. Then she lowers herself over the honeycomb cap until it kisses her swollen vulva. She waits. How wild she looks in the moonglow, naked and straddling the damp earth, ravenous in ways she’s never known.
Finally, the morchella pushes inside her.
Its delicate ridges slowly swell to fill her, sending long, undulating waves of pleasure throughout her body. She had not expected the rapture of it.
Unable to control herself, she collapses to all fours and bucks and moans into the night. Pulse after pulse courses through her limbic system as it and the morel entangle. She feels herself extending downward and outward, connecting to the ancient mycelial network beneath the forest floor.
Tears roll over her lips, which open in perpetual orgasm. The inside of her thighs drip sweat and come that the earth eagerly drinks. The air smells rich and vegetal. The tang of her own arousal mingles with the deep, loamy scent of the soil, and she can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.
Her final orgasm causes the entire mycelial mat to tremor.
The morel exhales its reproductive spores into the night air — an invisible cloud rising around her, settling on her skin, in her hair, on the wet of her lips.
The forest inhales.
Above her, the canopy sways despite the windless night. The woman stays where she is for a long while, forehead pressed to the earth, breathing reestablishing a more human rhythm.
But the thread remains. She can feel it still: woven into the meat of her, running all the way, all the way down.
The hospital walls are lined with the skins of patients who “checked out early,” their faces frozen mid-scream. The orderlies call it “the gallery of echoes.” I press my ear to one’s mouth and listen. The doctor smiles as he stretches black latex gloves over his too long fingers and assures me the process is painless. Behind him on the wall, an empty space awaits.
The morgue attendant lets me hold my own death certificate, just to see how it feels. My cause of death is listed as complications from being alive. He offers to let me keep it, says most people do. I fold it into a paper crane and place it on my nightstand. It unfolds itself by morning.
The sandwich I took home from the deli three weeks ago is still in my fridge, perfectly preserved. When I tug open the door — in the milliseconds before the light turns on — I hear it whisper, “Eat me.”
Reaching out across the space between our posts
The sink’s drain gurgled, then coughed up a key I’d lost in a dream.
I got the biotech tattoo on my hand to monitor my vitals. And that’s exactly what it did until one day, it opened. But not like a wound, like an eye. Now it watches me watch it, blinking slowly in sync with my breathing. Sometimes, when I press my palms together, I see flashes of a man I’ve never known, a door, a hand, a hook, a car door. The app says my stress levels are normal.
Home Depot paint guy: “What kind of yellow are you looking for?” Me: holds up the Backrooms image
Do you think our blogs ever explored each other’s <𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢>s?
It's because you’re always noclipping into those damn backrooms.
Yesterday, I found a single human tooth in the corned beef. And it wasn’t the first time.
One Rueben, please!
A stranger will call you by a name you’ve never been called, and you will answer to it instinctively.