thanks for stopping by, bring by snacks if you can next time | she/they | twitter refugee? | forest creature stuck in the city | occasionally writer / artist, permanently anxious
Hi! I’m Arabella, transfem 18yo high school student (with no clue where to next) from Leipzig, Germany. Writing is my main hobby, I love spending hours in a coffee shop creating little stories at a table in the corner. Other than that, I love doing pencil sketches and dm’ing ttrpg’s with friends.
I mostly still post on twitter (@ vibe_but_tiny) until they let me into BlueSky, but this is where i go for writing / art stuff and fandom media.
Now, little intro to writing stuff i do, and all of my wip’s!
Angel of Small Death // Devil of Forgotten Things
My main wip! It started out as inspiration by a Hozier song (“angel of small death and the codeine scene”). The starting idea was a romance / opposing narratives between a security person and a thief in a Sci-fi / Cyper Punk dystopia. I don’t like writing the hard systems of Sci-fi and didn’t want to set this story with the elites, so the main conflict evolved into what it is now. Mars became the setting mostly because of how dismal life in a mars colony would actually be (and the current, frankly already dystopian plans for a corporate kingdom on mars that are driving private space ventures). I’m on 4 chapters, 5k words.
After a heist gone almost wrong in a facility way too secure for how unknown it is, Felix’s life is spared by an stranger on the security team he nicknames “Angel”. They keep encountering each other as Angel tries to prevent a major leak without killing Felix or alerting his teammates and Felix slowly uncovers the truth of how eldritch gods from the darkness beyond want to extinguish life and how the elites in space stations above made a deal with them for temporary fortune.
Like a Moth to the Stars
This started out as a self insert short story after I read a webtoon i really liked but thought had more potential (or, tbh, i was just getting impatient with waiting for updates). I’ve since written a proper framework, and mc2 is no longer just me.
Aimless high school graduate (yeah ok that part is still just me) Amelia suddenly changes her life when a temporary gig at a festival let’s her meet celebrity rock star Maria. (For complicated reasons) the two fall in love, and Amelia is lifted from her life to a turbulent maelstrom of celebrity drama and tours against both their wills (bc the label thinks it’ll boost Maria’s image mostly).
All that we Intend is Scrawled in Sand
Here I go again with the Hozier lyrics. This is just a writing exercise (start of a first chapter), but i think it has potential.
Gods don’t die, not really, but they crumple into basically humanoid beings with only small scale powers. That is as close as you can get to killing a god. A strained couple, a god of forests and one of the night, both killed by a new-fangled city god after one betrayed the other, must now set out to accomplish just that to save their god-children and, incidentally, the world.
Romance over Coffee
Despite what the *everything* about this might imply, this is actually not self-insert fic. It’s just inspired by a real series of events i actually experienced, where i started writing in a cafe, started dating the barista, applied for a job there and was rejected shortly after we broke up. It was just so fic-worthy, i had to. I’m one chapter in and have only the roughest of plans on where to go next.
No summary, i’m not an inch further than what actually happened to me.
Some others:
- Glimpses of a Venice Beyond the Veil (God apologises for past relationship misdeeds with scenic retreat to eldritch horror Venice to watch a world ending event like fireworks)
- Catching Fire on her Burning Heart (Girl accidentally becomes messenger from the beyond bc she can travel the path between and her new fae girlfriend asked for her help)
i was honestly so giddy for these boys, and the character of their banter slowly changing was honestly perfect. but the overwhelming feeling i’m left with is a sense that something is missing. them not getting to be official feels so empty bc their public perception and their reaction to it was such a huge point of joy, and his dad did not deserve redemption in 50 pages. made Bailey seem almost complicit in parental abuse / gaslighting. i felt more dread at the dwindling page count than i did catharsis, and that hurts.
also, fun fact: this book is not to be confused with the very straight romance Icebreaker my sister read last summer, that i had right next to it on the shelf.
i mostly picked this book for the really pretty cover (i mean, look at it). took me a while to get over the survival mindset (bc this book is miserable if you agonise over the details of survival) and the boys a while to get beyond being-the-same-person-with-different-quirks, but as soon as they were out of that cabin and Jamie was in love, i was fully on board. shed a tear for the ending, even. they deserve their beautiful life together.
My god, this was an emotional rollercoaster. I never quite the happy sensation of romance, I felt like Hunter was being wayyy to forgiving (very Canadian of him) and the transcribed accent launched me multiple times, but in the end, I still cried happy tears for the resolution. Which wasn’t really a happy ending outside some reconciliation, and the ending only being a restoration of where we were at before kinda sucks as a person reading a story, but it is comfortably real, much more so than the other two books.
funny story, i accidentally picked up the display copy, so it’s had a rough time already
intensely beautiful story that had me dreading every page, in a good way. immaculate use of biblical prose in introspection and of emotive writing, especially in detailing both struggles i knew in words i didn’t and struggles i am never to know.
it had these moments of tender closeness that almost pulled me out of the harsh world of the early chapters, but they crushed my heart in the beautiful and tragic inevitability of Benji’s story.
the only thing that kinda bugged me is that the story is clearly Benji’s in all its beautiful and tragic glory, but the text doesn’t seem to realize that. Nick’s story feels entirely powerless, all its narrative steps impotent against the torrent.
also, gonna read this book to my girlfriend. she’s losing the ability to read and i want to share this beautiful emotion with her.
i was honestly so giddy for these boys, and the character of their banter slowly changing was honestly perfect. but the overwhelming feeling i’m left with is a sense that something is missing. them not getting to be official feels so empty bc their public perception and their reaction to it was such a huge point of joy, and his dad did not deserve redemption in 50 pages. made Bailey seem almost complicit in parental abuse / gaslighting. i felt more dread at the dwindling page count than i did catharsis, and that hurts.
also, fun fact: this book is not to be confused with the very straight romance Icebreaker my sister read last summer, that i had right next to it on the shelf.
i mostly picked this book for the really pretty cover (i mean, look at it). took me a while to get over the survival mindset (bc this book is miserable if you agonise over the details of survival) and the boys a while to get beyond being-the-same-person-with-different-quirks, but as soon as they were out of that cabin and Jamie was in love, i was fully on board. shed a tear for the ending, even. they deserve their beautiful life together.
My god, this was an emotional rollercoaster. I never quite the happy sensation of romance, I felt like Hunter was being wayyy to forgiving (very Canadian of him) and the transcribed accent launched me multiple times, but in the end, I still cried happy tears for the resolution. Which wasn’t really a happy ending outside some reconciliation, and the ending only being a restoration of where we were at before kinda sucks as a person reading a story, but it is comfortably real, much more so than the other two books.
funny story, i accidentally picked up the display copy, so it’s had a rough time already
i was honestly so giddy for these boys, and the character of their banter slowly changing was honestly perfect. but the overwhelming feeling i’m left with is a sense that something is missing. them not getting to be official feels so empty bc their public perception and their reaction to it was such a huge point of joy, and his dad did not deserve redemption in 50 pages. made Bailey seem almost complicit in parental abuse / gaslighting. i felt more dread at the dwindling page count than i did catharsis, and that hurts.
also, fun fact: this book is not to be confused with the very straight romance Icebreaker my sister read last summer, that i had right next to it on the shelf.
i mostly picked this book for the really pretty cover (i mean, look at it). took me a while to get over the survival mindset (bc this book is miserable if you agonise over the details of survival) and the boys a while to get beyond being-the-same-person-with-different-quirks, but as soon as they were out of that cabin and Jamie was in love, i was fully on board. shed a tear for the ending, even. they deserve their beautiful life together.
Hi buddy! I'm sending another round of questions for Sunday Writeblr Ask-A-Thon! My question to you is: Do any of your ocs hate or love certain weather?
AoSD//DoFF basically only has massive, deadly sandstorms. Felix and Balmer hate them because Balmer wants to do stuff and Felix has trauma. Bell loves staying inside and pestering the other two, though.
For Romance over Coffee, Alex loves the snow reminding him of skating on the lake with his sister. Finley hates the rain, she’s a sunshine kind of person.
Hi there! Its Week 1 of the Sunday Writeblr Ask-A-Thon! I'm Athena, my question for you is: Have you ever been inspired by another writeblr or author not on tumblr/twitter?
Well, Jane Austen and Edgar Allen Poe probably aren’t not-dead enough to have a writeblr.. Also some poets my teacher suggested, which, unfortunately, makes my writing really dense.
i finally wrote something again! I’ve been reading so much, but all this romance inspired me to finally start writing Like A Moth To The Stars. I’m gonna make the concept page / doc open soon, but here’s a preview (sorry, the names are cringily literal):
Io (small town college kid in a tiny band, playing in a club in this scene, he/they transfem enby)
X
Sterling (celebrity child with a music career, arguing with the owner in this scene)
1: Hide Away, Little Moth (first paragraph bc that’s how far i got after concepting)
The base resounded through the plastik-y black walls, through this empty corridor, through Io’s pounding skull, every hit of pain in sync with the party lights breaking the grimy darkness. Red letters on the door he leaned on scolded him: “EMPLOYEES ONLY”. He breathed easier…
On anon but. I'm someone who has detransitioned. I just want to say that, I was on HRT for about a year. It changed my body in ways that I absolutely love. I have a deep voice, and sharper features, and I have new perspective on my identity and how it interacts with the world. Being trans is a journey. From when I was five up to when I was 17, I fullheartedly believed I was a boy. I was, in that moment. But now, I'm a girl, too. I feel better as a girl - prettier, comfortable. But when I was a boy, I felt good too - in that moment, I was handsome, and I felt so so strong. It's not as scary as it seems. People ebb and flow and change. You can be what you want to be, and if ultimately you want to go back? You can. Just don't discount your experience as a mistake. In the moment it felt right. In the present is what matters.. You'll reflect on it, and maybe you won't ever change. Maybe it'll be what sticks. And that's a lovely thing in and of itself. You will find the you that fits. You will become someone you love by letting yourself express. I promise. Holding back will just mute everything that makes you, you - don't feel like you need to medically transition, either. It was right for me, but research is key, in all things. You'll be beautiful no matter what. Your experiences will shape you - as long as you allow yourself the freedom of expression. I promise.
this is so beautiful. the word detransition does seem to have a negative connotation in certain spaces and im really happy to hear u sharing your positive experience.
its so important to stress that you can simply try it. and if it isnt for you, you can stop.
(i will not be tagging 9 ppl. do i even have 9 writeblr mutuals?)
thx for tagging @phynewrites ! just gonna copy your template.
Three ships
1. i do not like suffering from yearning so
2. all my ships are cannon and i’d just be listing off queer romances, sorry
3. some /reader stuff i’m not ready to admit
Currently Listening: Hotel California by The Eagles
Last Movie: Nimona or ATSV, i’m not quite sure
Currently Reading: All That’s Left In The World by Erik J. Brown (or rather, i’m about to read it. it’s at the top of my summer reading pile)
Currently Watching: The Crowded Room and Demon Slayer, if i’ll bother
Currently Consuming: Lemonade and sadness (see book review)
Currently Craving: waffles! i need a good breakfast!
Last Thing Search (for Writing Purposes): i haven’t been at it for a bit, i think it was about the process by which plants grow through concrete or something.
(my screenshot cuts off here, i know there’s one more prompt, i ain’t going back now tho)
Tagging (no pressure): @hallwriteblr @wrenofthewords @requiemforawitchking @the-stray-storyteller @anonymousfoz @deadgirlnarrative @fictionalbullshitter @karolinarodrigueswrites @canadjester (nvm, there’s 9. sorry if you were tagged or left out unjustly, this is in qwerty order. also sorry if you didn’t want to be tagged)
i was honestly so giddy for these boys, and the character of their banter slowly changing was honestly perfect. but the overwhelming feeling i’m left with is a sense that something is missing. them not getting to be official feels so empty bc their public perception and their reaction to it was such a huge point of joy, and his dad did not deserve redemption in 50 pages. made Bailey seem almost complicit in parental abuse / gaslighting. i felt more dread at the dwindling page count than i did catharsis, and that hurts.
also, fun fact: this book is not to be confused with the very straight romance Icebreaker my sister read last summer, that i had right next to it on the shelf.
Hi buddy! Its Athena, I'm sending this out to all my mutuals - what got you into writing, what inspires you, who inspires you and what music inspires you to write? what do you love about writing?
thx! i actually have quite the exhaustive list:
- i started writing at 5, if you’ll believe it. the thing that got it started was my grandma getting me a Bonita (the store) notebook. it’s a shame i lost it, i barely remember the story of Bonita. i know the first scene is her crashing down to earth from heaven tho. religious kid writing bible fanfic, who’s surprised?
- i’ve been religiously listening to several audio dramas (especially hfth), and seeing them succeed always gives me hope. also, This Is How You Lose The Time War, bc it’s just that good. i wanna do that.
- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/50c3bmukCovn6FKbMqZTdI?si=hvyCOHPYTHGOobiJmqRwmQ bc idk, there’s not much in common. a lot of Hozier.
- i love seeing the glimpses that fill my head become whole, but even more i love reading back over my own writing and enjoying it as a reader hoping sometimes others will too.
just remembered something. i used to not post my writing, so this Hello From The Hallowoods fan episode i didn’t go through with just sort of sat here. but now i’m on writeblr!
pls reblog, i don’t have a lot of mutuals yet. thx!
Intro: CHILD OF THE ABYSS
The black rain falls softly on the darkened grass of an elaborately structured garden, and the dandelions remaining alone in color dare to mirror the night sky above. A brush dives into the night's darkness, the last greens of the forest, the flowing red of life, and carves out the shapes of your world upon simple hide. And in the disturbingly unshaped depths of your sleeping mind, dreamer, one far older than me drips you little drops of his vast observation, not unlike how the work of his companions’ craft taints your world.
I hope I shall join him in your nightmares tonight. I am an artist, shaping space into crystalline forms, painting colors across skies and in the corners of your vision. I mold reality as a brush to color galaxies, a pencil to sketch constellations, a pen to bring your story to paper. I am the disloyal intern to the threshold of the abyss, and your questionably loyal host, Rithithaim, arranging the stars to spell Hello from the Hallowoods.
Right now, my greater eye rests upon a garden. Children play around bushes of black roses. Their minds shape worlds far better than their own, and they are happy. Adults in dark garbs watch over them. Their guns may be ready to kill, but their hopes craft worlds for them too. Only one sees my vision's fractal distortions, for his craft is to observe. The theme of tonight's episode is good causes.
Story 1: CARE FOR THE LAND
Jamie Gravér did not like the color red. He prefered thinking about that as he stuffed another one of the intruders into the large, black, plastic bags. It was the color of all the bad things from outside the bountiful garden. It lay in the eyes of the froggy raiders that came from the water last week. It was the color his work always got onto his pristine white dress shirts, and he only had so many of those left. It was the color of the sun above, blinding him even on this cold winter day.
He pushed down his gray cap that said groundskeeping, one of his greatest finds, and continued on his groundskeeping. The next two were barely worth removing, half consumed already by the black rose stocks. They had, in a desperate struggle, almost pushed them over. Jamie noted that down on his clipboard for later, both for work and for himself. Why were these ordinary people so desperate to hurt the children of the garden, as the prime being told him?
Those thoughts he definitely shouldn’t have had and the music on his walkman, another one of his distractions and a privilege to have within the garden, almost let him not hear the voice calling out in the now quiet morning. Oh, but he heard. And this made everything so much more difficult. Aphrodite's Child scratched to a stop in his hands. They grasped the prime’s gift tightly. He hoped it was just another child of the garden coming running with another problem.
“Walt..?”, the voice repeated in front of him.
Jamie’s heart began to race. The voice had called from somewhere in the thorny dark bushes. His gloved hand parted the planted bulwark, but he already knew what he’d find. Olive eyes stared back at him from the darkness, oddly glowing but barely focusing on him as if peering through the bi-weekly fog. In an instant, he banished all thoughts from his brain. He could say traitorous words, he could do traitorous acts, but he could have never thought traitorous thoughts. “Do not think.”, he whispered to himself through gritted teeth. Then, finally, he turned to the boy he had to save, because the prime being would have him killed.
They found themselves face-to-face. The olive-eyed boy began to move his mouth again, but Jamie was, for once, quicker than the worst path of fate. He placed a soft hand over his rescue’s beard stubbles and as softly as the wind in the leaves around them, whispered: “If you wanna live, keep your mouth shut. You can be lucky Jones is out cold from the fight, but the new driver will still shoot you if you make yourself this obvious.”
The boy seemed to release some tension, although how there was any power left in his muscles anyways was as big a mystery to Jamie as the world beyond the treeline. From the tote bag he was given for “waste disposal”, Jamie produced a pair of finely engraved silver scissors. Usually, they served to carve the garden’s terrible spawn into appreciable shapes, but today they worked instead to cut away the black claws on his mind and the grasping branches on the poor soul before him.
He allowed himself one look at the intruder now shaking and gasping for air before him and watched his mind go through the usual steps for children of the garden he had to save. Barely distorted, but malnutritioned and a broken leg. Bleeding. He’d need to get him to the Sisters of the River-
“Don’t think of that now. Get him to safety.”, he forced out to himself. His small hut, cramped in on the hillside under the common housing, wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of safety, but it was better than the common grounds, constantly guarded by the shades in dark hoods and their assault rifles, or even worse, the forests outside.
He grabbed one of his gigantic trash bags, pulled it open and with a gasp from both him and his rescue, lifted the outsider inside. Only ever handling the dead didn’t exactly make him graceful with the living, so he placed a gloved finger on the stranger’s lips before pulling the bag just short of shut. Trying his hardest to look like he wasn’t carrying a whole person, Jamie put the newly packed and luckily not squirming package under his arm and emerged into the cold wind outside the hedge.
Winter’s gust knocked the breath out of him almost as much as the realization of his betrayal threatened to. Sturdy boots left another trail of steps in the snow back to the pickup. Another three bags onto the pile on the back. Music, deep breaths of freezing cold air, calm. A heart beating slightly less blazingly fast. Jamie swung into the free seat.
“Out of bags.”, he got out, trying not to make eye contact with the new driver. She adjusted her suit’s sleeve and pushed back her hat.
“But we just got here…”, she replied, her piercing voice filled with disappointment.
“Out of bags, Marissa,” Jamie shot back with a tired glare. Her blue eyes met his, green framed in black, for a few seconds. She looked down. The ignition fired.
He may be reported for skipping work, Jamie thought as the truck began rolling across the garden’s listless winterscape, past beds of unripe fruits of power and beauty. That was the good outcome here.
Jamie Gravér did not like the color red. But, among the black and white of the garden, the outside world had shown him a color he did like. It was a vibrant olive-green.
Interlude 1: FREE MUSEUM ADMITTANCE
Nature is beautiful, dreamers. The forests truly are their own artists, creating beautiful shapes, graceful beings and scenes like from a script. Appreciate the vibrant exhibit in the background to your mundane life, and be even more glad you get in for free.
Keep an eye open especially around the western beaches of the Hallowoods, where other artists have joined nature for a collaboration. Misshapen animals, bleeding plants and lighting intensely framing one spot no matter the time of day are a good sign you’ve been charitably let in to view one of their new collections.
This is a great honor, dreamers, and you should mind your etiquette in the following moments. Screaming and running away from your distorted, dying reflection is considered extremely rude. Instead, simply stand and appreciate the work, hmm-ing occasionally. Stay quiet, and most importantly, never touch the artwork. Their art demands your respect. We go now to one who must be respectful.
Story 2: HELP ON THE BED OF A PICKUP TRUCK
Dark clouds lingered around Sammy. Literally, as they were shaping them to hang above the portrait, figuratively over the stout old farmer to be painted. They pushed back their round glasses and examined their paints. There was nothing new to be seen in the smeary spots of gray and brown, it told no stories about the motif, but even staring down at the rotting boards of the porch would’ve been more helpful than looking back up at their customer.
John T. Cald was a supremely annoying man to work with. He saw no beauty in the world, claimed it had gone bad and heaven was the only good left to be painted. All around spiteful and bitter, not least because he must’ve skipped a century to end up with his views. And today hadn’t made it any better.
Sammy looked back up, careful to avoid the old man’s sour glares. Where they found furrowed brows, they depicted a heroic gaze, where they found a slumped down posture, they sketched a head carried on high.
John had said the storm gathering on the slopes above was hurting him in the bones, but John said a lot of thruthless things. The letter had laid open on the solid-oak dinner table all morning. What part of the message from up north disturbed their patron didn’t really bother Sammy, but the man had been in the mood for colors less bright than his off-white tablecloth, so his state of mind must be dark. To Sammy, too, the news were black as crypt, but for wildly different reasons.
Another glance up let the brush color in leather vest and flannel shirt, elegant swings shrouded them in holy light. There was little to be done about the man’s terrible sense of style in dress and art. This was the agreement, and John was a rigid man. Sammy looked down at their paint-stained boots, the old green and yellow spots. Hope. There was hope to bend the agreement.
Without looking up, the painter raised their voice. Not far, mind you, but they did raise it. “I’m leaving after this piece, y’know.. Sir.”, came across their dry lips. John's expression soured from spoiled milk to lemon. “You will do no such thing, girl.” came the response from behind the canvass, the last word spat out with contempt. “You’re not running back to your little scout camp before you’re done here. Besides, without our man around, they should do just fine to survive without you.”
Sammy had been dunked into a little black stream once, as a child. This didn’t feel much different. There was too much coming at them, and they couldn’t focus on it. Don’t let him slow you down with the water, he’s still holding you down. “I’ll unload half the corn. Most of the work is done anyways. Please sir, they’re in danger!”, they yelped back.
There was a tiny lie in there, as white as a daisyflower. The truck with the motorcycle, their bags and the corn had been primed to depart since the sun crested the arc it was now ending in the shingles. Guilt had struck them last minute, and they’d unloaded half the corn already.
The farmer heaved his weight up from the lawnchair. His downward glare had no disapproval left, that dark green tone had now been covered over by the flaring red of anger. “They’ve always been. You don’t get it, do you, girl? I am not allowing you to leave. That is final.”, he indignantly yelled back. An explosion of movement followed. Sammy barely noticed him lunging forward before the paint and canvas were thrown aside, leaving a white streak like a healed scar across the graying porch boards.
unique sfx here, a bell or alarm rings, Rith gives in as if it is a command and a sort whistling can be heard
the next segment should also have slightly higher audio quality (+ ad-read tone obv)
Marketing: THE SPONSORED SEGMENT OF REALITY
Pity to halt a story in motion, but now for a brief intermission. Tonight's terrible visions from a higher power are brought to you by Forbidden Knowledge, a Gate to the Abyss product.
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To sign up, simply yell at the void above you and sleep in sight of the stars. If the phrase you used includes a curse on my name, you’ll even receive your first three months free of the horrors unveiled to you by knowledge beyond your feeble mind’s limits.
And if that’s not enough, my dear listener, in my name you’ll even receive the premium subscription Omniscience for only 3 mortal inspirations a month for the first year. Despite what the reviews may say, Omniscience is 100% safe and approved by what’ll remain of the FDA for another year or so before the madness consumes them.
We return now to Sammy, the painter.
Story 2, Continued: HELP ON THE BED OF A PICKUP TRUCK
The sudden lunge pushed Sammy off their feet. Their vision swung from the darkening blue of the sky to the red in the clouds as their head was thrown back, and then, with a cacophony of dry cracks in the railing, from red to black.
Even dazed, enveloped in this void, Sammy’s emotions raced from worry, to fear, to panic. Not just for themselves, their own creation and their life, but also the home they left behind starving and down half their fuel to a gamble. But the void had not come to stay.
With the color’s return in a swirling, senseless ocean of hues, came also sound. It was muffled, but far less abstract than the painting before their eyes. The rushed steps of farmhands crossing the dusty yard. A pained groaning, filling them with a twisted joy.
Feeling returned next, the feeling of weathered hands pinning them down, the weight behind those hands, and the shapes of the hard, dry earth stabbing into their back. Sammy‘s mind ached trying to put everything back upright and in order. Through the chaos of sense broke a gruff voice.
“…get her inside, and make sure she doesn’t leave. Mat, the truck. Wouldn’t want her running away.”
Panic burst out of the void to join them here. If these assholes took the truck, there‘d be no way out. No way back to the people, the home that needed them. They called on all the strength they had, but they were a scrawny kid, up against more weight than they could ever lift, and they could barely move to begin with. Darkness crept back onto the corners of their vision from the strain.
Their fingers scraped in the dirty mixture of dust and paint for grip. To no avail. Again, as always in this damned life, all they could do was paint.
They let darkness back into their mind, filled this time not with fear, but with thoughts. There was some power in painting, as Cald had said. That asshole was receptive to it, that‘s what this project of his was for. It was a longshot, but it was the only shot they had left.
Dismissing the abyss, with all the world swelling over them, there wasn‘t much artistry to be done in dry earth and drying paint. Two simple motions, barely notable to the not so temporary workers rushing over to lock them away.
Their vision had not quite returned, but their other senses screamed in unison as they were thrown across the yard, slamming into every one of the dirt's many ridges and tracks along the way. Their vision went red again, and not from the glow of the retreating sun, as the uncaring eyes of the cosmos were left almost alone to glare down at them now. Everything burned, and that kept them aware. A tiny victory lap for that and the sounds of cracking wood as the farmer had smashed through the deck, would be in order, but for now they just had to push on.
The stretching shadows of the farmhands and their shouts of witchcraft had already reached them when they were finally out of the dent they had made in the side panels of a truck. No thought was left in their ringing skull on whether it was the right one, they just swung through the door and reached for the key.
The trusty leather wrapped grip turned. Short jubilation filled their heart. The motions of departure were dismally routine, and the passing glimpses of the gearstick, the gas pedal, the man with the shotgun in the window, the driveway and the man blocking it barely passed their mind as they went through it. A final meaty thud shook the truck and their soul, and then the red ford rolled down the highway, trailing red along a crimson dusk, and toward a new magenta dawn.
Interlude 2: A WILDLIFE WARNING
Dreamers, the Hallowoods forest service would like to remind you that, no matter how cute or helpful they may seem, at the end of the day, the endemic “hearses” or “black cars” are carnivores. They are dangerous, and your behavior around them should take their extraordinary ability and drive to kill into consideration.
Recommended procedure during a car encounter is, importantly, not to run or hide. You cannot outrun the animal, and hiding reveals only your weakness to its prying eyes. Back away to the grasping treeline or any other available cover and remain agile and ready to dodge if it charges. Attempt to appear large and threatening, making the vehicle less likely to see you as prey.
In these forests, a well prepared hiker's backpack should always include traffic cones, though white paint will do if you don’t have any. Pay attention also to the time of year and your surroundings. In the spring or summer, you may run into cubs or two-seaters, which, while harmless, should be treated like adults, because their nearby mothers are even more deadly. In the winter, if you find yourself near junkyards or parking lots, maintain caution. Cars may not be dangerous, resting there with their engines off, but if you wake them up, they will likely have quite the appetite. We go now to one dealing with hunger.
Story 3: SERVICE WORK
Rob was startled awake by the ringing of a tiny silver bell afixed above the glass door. Immediatly, without even having raised his head of blond hair tucked under a branded cap, he resented the customer. Sleep on a greasy fastfood resteraunt counter wasn‘t good, every part of him regretted the choice to sleep at all, but it was better than the alternative. Everlasting shifts didn‘t leave many options.
With all the energy he could muster, and against the vehement protest of his neck, he rose. The round tables, the leather couches and barchairs and the huge clouds of dust in the stuffy room’s air became faintly illuminated in golden light as his view swept across them to the entrance. There, it carved two tense, cowering figures out from the early mornings darkness. The light made them jump. The tall one in a tattered tuxedo reached for what could only have been a gun.
Robert Smith, the cashier, dug deep within him and found a smile suitable for costumers. Light flooded from deep within, and with a snap, the resteraunt awoke. Neon lights screamed alive on the ceiling, and with a voice from somewhere behind him, Rob filled the dining area with a booming, slightly radio-distored upbeat phrase:
„What can i get started for you today?“. Tuxedo raised a once-shiny revolver. His partner grabed his shoulder, bare through the tears in the fabric. „We just need spot to hide,“ that small one in the skirt managed to return. Their faces were clenched, and Tuxedo seemed ready kill.
Already exhausted, Rob simply smiled and waved them along „Right this way, you two.“ came through his bright smile. The glow began to fade already. A quick glance to the giant, 8-shaped shift clock, and he added: „And hurry along, we have a routine customer coming in shortly. We will discuss payment later.“ The smile remained on his lips, the new-arriving seriousness surely revealing it to be a mask.
He wanted to ask what these odd fellows were doing along the long quieted freeway outside, but everything left of his life held him back: The energy shortly needed, his managers watchful, though unwatchable, presence, even a tiny little fear for his life in the face of a revolver.
The customers hurried through the now dark establishment to a heavy, metallic door. Clattering could be heard behind, slowly seizing with the fading light. Suspicious glances and a barrel tracked him as the figures rushed across the open space, keeping to shadows cast by the neon sign outside. When it finally fell shut, stirring up a huge cloud of dust, Rob and the room had returned, almost, to sleep.
He paid the survivors no mind again already. They were not a threat to the brand, and the faint glow among the rafters had deemed them unimportant. His light illuminated only the clock, and exactly as the third pointer struck four a regular visitor emerged, at first as a violet dot at the end of the parking lot. It took that suited menace only three strikes of the pointer to cross that mile-wide barren landscape. And then, already, the figure stood imposing, just a bit taller than the door it peered through. Again, the front came to life, a huge letter blazing above the intruder like a twisted halo of a terrible god’s blessing. The door swung open, and the usual exchange began, every word dripping with the contempt of people perfectly capable of murdering each other, extinguishing each others history completely.
„What can i get started for you today?“
„I am here to discuss aquisition.“
„My manager will be with you shortly. Please take a seat.“
„Hurry them up, won‘t you? The Botulus Corporation would be extremely disappointed to hear that I have been left waiting.“
Outro: GOOD CAUSES
Causes. A grasp for purpose in your insignificant heart. A small thing, cascading beyond itself, or a small thing wanting to do so. You see so far beyond them in every image of your future, but they are the saplings to your dreaming aspirations. They are the drive beyond all that wishes, some yours surely wish to quench. Hold on to yours, dreamer, for among those that love and that know, they surely must be good.
Mine too are, of that I am certain, for holding some beauty when the abyss brings all to rest is the only reckoning we have in the face of its grand totality. Rest assured, dreamer, that I am letting your causes flow into mine, and that those who attract my eye shall see their strings completed for this grand tapestry. Leave now to strive on your own once more, and the string will be spun a little further on your return. For these visions grand upon your dreams diminutive, I am your loyal host Rithithaim, waiting faithfully for your return to the Hallowoods.
