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Misplaced Lens Cap
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@thatchickcanwrite
I NEED MORE PEOPLE TO TEAD THIS SERIES SO I CAN TALK TO PEOPLE ABOUT IT!!!!
Constantly trapped between not wanting to make anyone worry about me and desperately needing someone to ask if I'm okay
Me: [telling my husband about how I've been experiencing symptoms of my disability all dau]
Him: Do you think it's a flare up?
Me: [completely genuine] Nah, it's probably unrelated
Him: 🤦♂️
The sera is not tonin tonight, y'all
Botanical horror is for the gays
On day 37 of my period.
Someone please just end me.
I’m writing this so there’s some kind of record in case I die. When I die, maybe. The longer this has gone on the more inevitable that has felt. I don’t know why this is happening or who is doing it to me. I wish I could point a finger at someone so the cops or whoever finds me after all this is over can get the bastard doing this, but…there’s nothing. Nothing!
I think I’m getting ahead of myself, though.
I’ll start at the beginning.
No one gets regular mail anymore. Everything is done through email or DMs. I mean, people still get junk mail and stuff, but not like mail-mail. I think that’s what made me so curious when I got the first envelope.
It didn’t have my address on it, or any stamps, or even a return address. Just my name written in a tidy script in the very center of the white rectangle. It wasn’t a legal envelope—more like the kind birthday cards come in. I don’t know why, but at the time it unnerved me. It wasn’t anywhere near my birthday, and the handwriting didn’t look like anyone’s I knew.
The envelope isn’t what’s important, though. I mean, it kind of is, but what was inside the envelope was more important.
The flap was tucked into the envelope, unsealed. When I opened it, two Polaroid pictures spilled out into my hand, one after the other in an eager cascade. If I didn’t know better, I would have said they jumped out of the envelope.
Curious and more confused by the moment, I flipped the pictures over.
The first one looked like something out of a horror movie. It showed a large concrete (or what I assumed was concrete) room. Concrete walls, floor, ceiling. In the center of the room was a hooded lamp hanging down over a person, naked, and tied to a chair. They were slumped forward, body weight straining against the ropes that bound them to the non-descript metal chair.
I blinked down at the thing, confused and more than a little worried. I had no idea why someone would send this to me. The shadows in the picture were too thick to make out the person’s face. I wondered if it was someone I knew, if this was supposed to be some kind of ransom demand, but there was no note accompanying the photos. My heart was already hammering as I looked at the other photo, hoping to find answers.
Instead, I found a picture of my face.
There, in halide and plastic, was my fucking face.
A pit opened up in my stomach as I stared down at it and my brain went blank. It refused to comprehend what was in front of it. In the photo, a gloved hand held a fistful of my hair, yanking it backward so my limp head rose enough to make me recognizable. My features were slack, like I was half-asleep or maybe drugged. I looked back to the gloved hand, but the wrist and arm were both covered by the sleeve of a sweater, making any guess as to who they were impossible.
It felt like the air had been punched out of me. I realized I was shaking, but couldn’t bring myself to look away from the half-lidded eyes—my eyes—in the picture.
I thought it had to be Photoshop—what else could it be?—but how do you Photoshop a Polaroid? It was one thing to create a Polaroid effect in the program, but that didn’t mean you could create a physical one. I’m not gonna lie, I don’t know much about photo editing, but I supposed it was possible to Photoshop something like this and then take a picture with the Polaroids. But I couldn’t see anything in the pictures to indicate they weren’t legitimate. Either way, I couldn’t stomach whatever sick joke someone was trying to play.
I tossed the photos in the trash, and tried to put it from my mind.
And before you ask: yes, I thought about going to the police, but I didn’t think they would do anything. Technically speaking, no crime had been committed so even if I insisted on making a report, and even if I could convince them to dust for fingerprints or whatever cops do, I had little confidence that whatever this was wouldn’t be filed away and never see the light of day again. And, I guess, part of me just wanted to forget about it. Can you blame me? Those pictures freaked me out and I just wanted to pretend it never happened.
A week later, thought, there was another envelope in my mailbox. Same nondescript white envelope, unsealed, with my name written in unfamiliar, tidy handwriting.
My first instinct was to toss it into the trash without looking at the contents. No way in hell did I want to see more freaky pictures made to look like I was being held captive or…or worse.
To this day, I wish I had listened to my gut and thrown the envelope away—better yet, I wish I had burned it.
But I didn’t.
I can’t explain it. Even if I was a better wordsmith, I don’t think I could put into words the compulsion I had to open that envelope. It would be easier, even, to say that it was as if I was possessed—that it wasn’t really me unfurling the flap that had been tucked into the stiff white paper backing, or like I was being controlled when I pulled the next two photos out of the sheaf. But none of that is true. It was me. I did those things and I will never—never—stop regretting that I did.
Like last time, there were a pair of Polaroid pictures in the envelope.
But the images were…not like last time.
It was still my face in the images, and as best I could tell they—I?—was still in the concrete room. The same black-gloved hand had a grip on my hair, but this time…
(Jesus fucking Christ even just typing the words is hard; my hands are shaking just remembering it)
This time it looked as if I had been beaten bloody. The face—my face—was beaten almost beyond recognition. The only thing I had to really indicate that it was still me was the bone-deep feeling of recognition I had with the person in the image. My lips were swollen, bleeding from a split in the corner of the bottom lip. Bruises darkened my face, a cut on one cheek bone indicated where I’d been hit especially hard, and the eye on that side looked swollen and bloodied. Blood dribbled from my hairline and ran in rivulets down the side of my face.
Just looking at the picture made me feel like I needed to bolt. I wasn’t sure where I would go or for how long, but the need to get out of my home and go somewhere—anywhere else—was intense. But how could I go? I had no way of knowing who was doing this. They could be anyone I spoke to on the street. Someone I knew. A stranger. Where could I even go that would be safe?
I fought to control my breathing as I paced in my kitchen, needing to move my body before I screamed. It took all of my willpower just to stay indoors instead of running out into the streets and just run, run, run.
Finally, I looked at the other image.
A second hand had entered the frame, wearing black gloves like the first one and holding a pair of pliers. The rusted metal tips were inside my mouth, clamped onto a bloodied tooth already halfway out of a socket. My face was still swollen and beaten, lips stretched wide in a silent scream that I could all but hear. Tears made clean streaks through the rivers of blood on my face.
I remembering swearing over and over, my spine slick with sweat as I looked at the image over and over, trying to discern anything that could help me find out who was sending these fucked up images and why, but there was nothing. It felt like there was too much air in my little kitchen and yet I couldn’t get any of it into my lungs.
That was the first time I’d had a panic attack.
I didn’t know what it was until my friends found me a short time later, huddled in a corner and hyperventilating. In full honesty, the rest of that night was a blur. I remember my friends helping me drink water, trying to talk me down from whatever ledge they thought I’d climbed to. Despite my fears and uncertainties of who could be sending the pictures, I made the choice to trust them. Desperate for someone to see what I was seeing and help me figure out what to do or who to talk to, I tried to show them the Polaroids, but when they looked at the pictures, there was only a square of darkness, as if whoever had taken the picture had left the lens cap on.
The pictures were gone.
And yeah, I get the whole ‘pics or it didn’t happen’ thing. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to convince my friends or the police without proof. The next time the envelope showed up, I tried to take pictures with my phone. The one after that, I tried to record a video. It didn’t matter. No matter what I did, the files were corrupted, unusable, or gone. Just gone. Deleted themselves so thoroughly I couldn’t even dig them out of the trash folder in my phone gallery.
At that point, I thought I’d lost my mind. I couldn’t think of a single logical reason why or how this was happening. Not for the Polaroids, or why no one else could see them, or what was going on with the digital files. None of it.
Meanwhile, the images in the Polaroids were getting…worse.
A sick feeling rolled in my stomach daily. As much as I wanted to believe these were some kind of deep fake, there was something about it that felt so undeniably real. It got to a point where I couldn’t go out to my mailbox without the anxiety forcing me to empty the contents of my stomach. I had to wait until someone came to visit and ask if they could get my mail for me. And there was always an envelope along with whatever junk or bills that had been piling up. Every. Single. Time.
The stress made my life impossible. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t go to work. I couldn’t even leave the house most days. If I did, there was always the chance that my tormentor could find me and make good on all the threats they’d been sending me. At that point, that was all I could think of those Polaroids as: promises of violence.
Even now, I feel like I’m marching toward an inevitable pain. A future filled with only pain and suffering and that no matter what I do, there’s no stopping it. Only delaying it.
But I digress.
One of my friends said I needed to get help. Maybe I should have listened to them back then, but I was convinced that if I couldn’t get proof of the pictures themselves, then I would get proof of whoever was putting the envelopes in my mailbox. I figured I could at least that that to the police.
I ordered one of those self-installation security systems—the one with the off-brand Ring doorbell, cameras on my front door, mail box, etc. I even bought extra locks for my doors and windows. I spent the rest of the day setting up and testing my new security system. By the end of it, I felt pretty proud of myself. I was certain I was going to catch whoever was doing this and could turn them into the cops and all of this would just be a big bad dream. But I was wrong.
Sure enough, the security system picked up on movement around midnight that night. The new motion sensor light on the porch sprang to life, illuminating a figure wearing a dark hoodie. I jolted as fear struck me like lightning. They were tall, wide, imposing. They seemed impossibly large. Unavoidable. Undeniable.
I was watching them through the lens of a camera with two locked doors between us, and yet I felt as small and vulnerable as if they were in the room with me at that moment.
My eyes roamed the figure over and over, trying to find some kind of distinguishing features, but they angled themselves so the light shone from behind them. They became a dark silhouette—a shadow of death.
They stood there, still and stone for what seemed like hours. Even with the video on fast-forward, they hardly even swayed. Near 3AM, they turned, very slowly, toward the camera as though they knew exactly where to look for it. With agonizing slowness, they reached a gloved hand into their pocket and pulled out three polaroid photos. The camera refocused as the figure brought the pictures closer to the lens.
The first picture showed me duct tapped to the same chair with the figure standing behind me. Instead of pliers, they held a knife. The figure on my screen held up the second photo. In one hand they held the knife. In the other, an ear.
I wanted to look away, wanted to delete the video and crawl deep, deep under the covers of my bed, but I couldn’t move. I was transfixed at a cellular level as the figure showed the third picture. The same bloodied knife hovered over the image of my downcast head. For a moment, I thought all that had changed between photos was the position of my head, but I soon realized something else had changed. The ear in the hooded figure's hand...it was the other ear.
My hands were shaking as I watched the figure pull the photo away from the lens. They dropped them onto the doorstep and walked away into the night.
I was practically soiling my pants but I took the security footage down to the police. When I pulled it up to show them…you guessed it. The file was corrupted and unusable. The police told me that without evidence or a suspect, they couldn’t even make a report. Useless bastards. No wonder people don’t like cops! I was basically trapped in my house, terrified, at my absolute wit’s end, and they couldn’t even make a report?!
Anyway, like I said at the beginning, I’m writing all of this in the inevitability of my death.
It’s been a few weeks since I was able to capture that first video, and my large friend has been on my doorstep every night. They don’t always have pictures. Sometimes they just stand there, staring at the camera lens as if they can see through it and into my eyes. My soul?
On the nights when they do have photos, they’re…I can’t even say. Each one is worse than the last, detailing my slow and steady dismemberment.
I can’t explain why, but I know that once the photos finally detail my death, that this figure is going to come for me. It isn’t going to matter how many locks I have on my doors, or how many weapons I horde in order to protect myself. It’s going to get in here and it’s going to take me and it’s going to do to me every single thing that happened in those pictures.
I still don’t know how or why this is happening, only that I can’t avoid it any longer.
I’m scared. God, I’m so fucking scared, but I don’t know what else I can do. If there’s even anything that can be done.
My friends have given up on me and I don’t have any family. Not even a pet. I’m alone. Just like in those photos. So, if you’re reading this, know that they’re my last words. I needed someone else—anyone else—to know what happened to me. I don’t know if you’ll believe a word of it, but if nothing else, can you do me a favor? Remember me. Please. I’m so alone and so afraid and I know that eventually I’m going to disappear. I just don’t want to be forgotten, too.
i like working at plant store. sometimes you ring up someone and there's a slug on their plant and so you're like "Oh haha you've got a friend there let me get that for you" and you put the slug on your hand for safekeeping but then its really busy and you dont have time to take the slug outside before the next customer in line so you just have a slug chilling on your hand for 15 minutes. really makes you feel at peace with nature. also it means sometimes i get to say my favorite line which is "would you like this free slug with your purchase"
@holyknuckled you get it. lterally what are we here on earth for if not to occasionally impose gastropods upon unsuspecting customers. this story is delightful
@holyknuckled like that?
oh? my god???
yeah, Exactly like that
I work in outdoor education, and you would not believe how often I get to do stuff like this (I love it). But imagine you also have 8-16 very excited elementary schoolers who all also want to hold the slug, or snail, or worm, or [insert bug here], and you have to protect the little friend from a horde of screaming, overly curious children. It's actually kind of the best.
This is actually my coworker's hands, but they are showing off a little spider they found to one of our students.
Story concept I've been toying around with:
Maladaptive daydreamer is actually a dimension hopper or something, but the two realities keep blending together in weird ways, and then there is some kind of plot, too.
Totally not inspired by personal experience.
Rebloging because I can only assume the Simpsons screenshot is in reference to the people who get hung up on singular their being the ones getting dumber.
Because they are.
Because singular their is grammatically correct and has been established for centuries.
Anyone getting pissy about it is dumb.
Trying to get back into drawing after a decade-long hiatus.
This is Jessie from my story Passing for Fine.
I'm a traditional artist who has no idea how to make digital art.
This was just pencil and Crayola washable markers, so it's not exactly top tier, lol.
They’re scared because they know that the public is with Luigi.
They’re violating his rights because they need to maintain capitalism.
Keep talking about Luigi.
This is probably asking a lot, especially because it comes out of nowhere, but I figure if this story is gonna get even an ounce of traction, it'll be on timblr.
I'm a disabled, fat, queer, neurodivergent author who writes about disabled, fat, queer, neurodivergent characters and topics.
My current project, Passing for Fine, is about an agender ex-athlete named Jessie who develops fibromyalgia after a traumatic accident. They end up gaining weight, being totally abandoned by their teammates and people they thought of as friends, and moves to a new city to live with their overbearing, perfectionist mom.
While in this new city, Jessie meets a cadre of new friends who all, in one way or another, fall between the cracks, or don't fit the mold you'd expect.
Ryan is an ex-felon turned baker (literally looks like he could kill you but is actually a cinnamon roll) who struggles with the way he's percieved due to his plethora of tattoos (some of whoch are pretty scary). Ash is a wheelchair-bound transman who works at a gym and is the only one of the group who owns their own vehicle. Alexis is a Black woman who helps manage the local community garden and co-op but struggles to feel welcomed in Black spaces due to her lighter skin tone. Eddie is a non-binary phlebotomist who struggles to be taken seriously as a non-binary person due to xir masculine appearance.
Ultimately, it's supposed to be a rom-com, but the story also deals with Jessie's depression, internalized ableism, and self-doubt (all of which they work to overcome/adjust to/live with throughout the story) while they are also helping to save Ryan's café from gentrification and over reaching landlords.
I'm currently in the process of my second draft, but was thinking if enough people seemed interested by this initial post, that I'd start posting chapters here, too.
The cover was made by Carmilla from carmillacreates.com
I know this is going to make me sound pretensions but I have to get it off my chest. I feel an unimaginable rage when someone posts a photo and is like "this picture looks like a renaissance painting lol" when the photo clearly has the lighting, colors and composition of a baroque or romantic painting. There are differences in these styles and those differences are important and labeling every "classical" looking painting as renaissance is annoying and upsetting to me. And anytime I come across one of those posts I have to put down my phone and go take a walk because they make me so mad
In case you're curious here's what I mean.
Renaissance(distinct lines, stability and the individual man):
Baroque (bold, chaotic, dramatic):
Romantic(romanticize the simple hard working life):
Do you see the difference?
this post has re-wired my brain in the best way
I'm with OP. And also, romantic art/photography is some of my favorite. Gimme a reason to find art and joy in my day-to-day, please!
Daily fucking reminder that Luigi Mangione is innocent, completely and fully. He has been convicted of no crime. He has had no fair trial. He is a SUSPECT. Luigi Mangione is entirely innocent and everyone needs to stop parroting this insidious propaganda that he “committed” the crime he is only SUSPECTED of. He is not a murderer. He is not a criminal. He is an innocent man.
Put this out about Luigi Mangione.
I am a product of the 1990s and as such I grew up on a steady diet of mecha anime and weird sci-fi/fantasy stuff.
One of my favorite—and I mean FAVORITE—things is what I have always referred to as "bulky 90s future tech."
It's all the super big, chunky, clunky, takes up all the space it can tech that mecha anime and 90s sci-fi depicted as being available in the distant future.
The tech from Cowboy Bebop and Akira are really good examples.
AND APPEARENTLY Y'ALL ARE CALLING CASSETTE FUTURISM OR SOMETHING?! LIKE, WHOMST THE FUCK WAS GONNA TELL ME I WAS NOT THE ONLY ONE OVER HERE DROOLING OVER BULKY 90S FUTURE TECH?! THE GREEDY, GREEDY BARBARIANS KEEPING THIS FOR YOURSELVES!
What the media won't show
It’s actually pretty nuts how there is no real mass media coverage of the protests that are happening all over the US. It demonstrates fairly conclusively that the unlawful activities at the White House aren’t just limited to Trump. There’s a lot of wealthy people in powerful positions in the US and around the world helping to support the dismantling of the US federal government.
