Hey there! I'm trying to make these silly creative endeavors into a living!
master(ish) list !
The Ol' One-Two
Three Swords
Paying The Price (Pt. 1.)
Cysaen
tags !
daily transmissions -> me rambling/updates/general yappery/etc
lend me your ears -> soap box type rambling
queue is for quasar -> queued post, may not always be time relevant
important !
If you see stories on here that are suddenly taken down, it's either because I'm submitting them to a magazine that does not allow simultaneous submissions/other publications, or because I no longer feel as if the work represents who I am as a writer. If you miss a work though I might be able to scrounge up an unpublished PDF of it or somethin.
ALSO--I do not consent to having my written work be scraped for AI, I do not consent to anything regarding my work being used for AI for any means.
buy me a coffee? (or help with the electricity bill)
fuck, marry, kill—the color grader for The Odyssey, the sound designer for The Odyssey, and whoever decided to characterize Athena/Helen/Circe like that for the Odyssey
and annotate them with who is in the photos and when and where the photos were taken!!! your extended family 50 years from now will be grateful, and so will you if you end up forgetting any details
I’m watching that new season of The Bear and the scene where Carmy drops a plate and visibly gets his mind shunted to the Betweenworlds and he’s freaking out and for just a moment we're expecting the same Very Bad thing he's expecting...and then everyone in the kitchen goes "it’s okay man, we got you" —ngl that healed a part of me
there’s this movie theater I frequent and one of the Progressive commercials they have has something wrong with the coloring so everyone is just…all this vibrantly, Paul Bettany as Vision, colored red and I feel the madness overtaking me whenever I see it. Why are they red. Why is this normal for them. I’ve tried looking it up online and it really is just exclusively my theater that has this edition. Wild.
the magnus archives: statement of dipshit mcidiot regarding some spooky happenings that absolutely without a doubt did not actually happen. recording by jonathan sims. i hate my fucking job.
malevolent: OARTHUR HIDE THE CORPSE IN THE CLOSET. SHOOT THIS MAN IN THE HEAD. MOVE OARTHUR MOVE!! [soft piano music] LEFT!! THE OTHER LEFT OARTHUR!!!!! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.
Summary: Rafferty and Kinzleigh were some of the best of the best in the nonlethal hitman business, but the one thing they couldn’t account for was dyscalculia.
Word Count: 1987
Tags: silly sci-fi action, we gettin GOOFY, I support they/thems wrongs
Warnings: irreverency, misconstrued catholic religion, drinking and smoking
PDF Version
Rafferty and Kinzleigh were some of the best of the best in the nonlethal hitman business, but the one thing they couldn’t account for was shitty architecture.
The particular mission they were on, assigned to them by The Pope—no, not that Pope; his name will make sense later—involved sneaking in through a window. The attempt to silently climb through the window of a discrete room of their target was brutally ruined by the offending window sill splintering off, sending Kinzleigh tumbling into the room with Raff falling on top of them. Still, it was a rather common scrape during a mission, no reason to call it off.
Even if it was a reason to call it off, there was no way either one of them would consider it. The payment The Pope promised the duo was worth more than any currency. He had promised information. The whereabouts of their, for lack of a better term, Archnemesis. Brendan. That bitch. Every good hero needed a solid revenge arc, and for Raff and Kinzleigh, this was it. They would do whatever it took to get their hands on the man that ruined their life.
The mission in question: They were to crash The Pope’s ex-girlfriend's baby’s first birthday, give her reheated french fry of a new boyfriend “the ol’ one-two”, and potentially grab a beer on the way out. Easy enough, the most difficult part was tracking down which party they were supposed to crash. Lots of people had babies in this universe.
So, in an attempt to save their element of surprise, they both scrambled through what should have been a doorway to a closet. Instead, they ended up scrambling directly into the living room, aka the party spot. All the adults, dressed in classy evening wear, tittered in confusion and anxiety. The mother-slash-ex-girlfriend demanded to know what was going on. And the birthday infant was disturbed at the lack of attention it was now receiving and began to wail.
Okay, not ideal, but definitely not the most disastrous.
The most disastrous, if you had asked Rafferty, was two years ago, when he and his friend had been tasked to jump a motorcycle gang which resulted in three separate buildings being destroyed, second degree burns up the wazoo, and a semi-truck thrown a thousand feet when the gas station they were at had spontaneously combusted. (“Spontaneously.”)
Kinzleigh, on the other hand, would likely answer that the worst detour the two had been tasked to go on has yet to happen. Kinzleigh was optimistic like that.
They were, however, unimpressed with the table full of snacks that sat at the back of the living room. There seemed to be no chocolate cupcakes, which was unfortunate, seeing as they planned to swipe one or two at some point during the mission.
“N-nice going, gen-ius!” Raff snapped over the crying infant and the malcontented party guests. The face of his TV head had a tendency to glitch when he was in high stress situations.
Kinzleigh rolled their eyes, not that anybody could see under the Cat mask they currently sported. “Well how was I supposed to know the door would lead here?”
What lingered in the air was the unspoken question, what was going to happen now? In the split second of nonaction, Rafferty and Kinzleigh took the initiative and decided to do what they did best: Punch the problem until it goes away.
Rafferty tore through the house, grabbing victims with reckless abandon by the collar of their shirts or dresses and giving them a solid knockout punch. Kinzleigh spun through faces before settling on one that represented a demon. With a devilish grin, they sprung into action, spouting spurts of fire, nipping at fingers, and crawling on walls with their head spinning and a deep chuckle rumbling in their throat.
If this were a normal world, perhaps this affront would be ninety seconds tops. But because the two were in Universe-1124, in which roughly 60% of the population was a mercenary of some kind, the party guests had bite.
The mother in particular brought out a hunting knife and swiped at Rafferty. He jumped back, before grabbing her wrist and twisting the knife out of her hand. Coming up behind him was a friend of hers, who landed a solid kick on his spine. For a brief moment, his screen flashed magenta as he yelped in pain.
“Raff, here!” Kinzleigh launched themself from the ceiling and landed behind the boyfriend, firmly grabbing his shoulder. They swung their fist and punched him so hard he crumpled to the ground. Raff fought his way through the party guests and fell onto the boyfriend. He gave his share of hits, before pushing himself up and linking arms with Kinzleigh.
“Didja get a marker?” he asked.
“Saving it for you,” Kinzleigh answered playfully, giving one more solid kick on the boyfriend’s ribs.
Raff bent down and delicately plucked the askew wire glasses from the boyfriend. He held them up proudly for Kinzleigh to survey.
Kinzleigh beamed, before their expression dropped dramatically. “Watch out!”
At their warning, Rafferty dropped to his knees just in time to avoid another knife throw. That was their cue.
Rafferty made his own exit by throwing himself through the large bay windows in the living room. Kinzleigh settled for taking a couple of the less-delicious-than-chocolate flavored cupcakes, before scuttling out of the newly formed exit.
From there, they took the effective-if-not-atrocious route to the Metropolis via the sewer at the crossroads of Main St. and Cherry St. Making sure there were no cars nearby, Raff forced the manhole cover open and Kinzleigh, who had since switched back to their favorite Cat face, bounded into it.
They dropped straight through the sticky, brown water and landed, on their feet, in a place whose coloring would give a mini-golf course a run for its money. The sun was more like a giant blacklight. The denizens varied from “decently human shaped” to “holy SHIT WHAT IS THAT!??!?”, and all around, in the middle of streets, hovering above dumpsters, poking out of trees, glowing portals swirled.
Raff fell through the glowing red portal, just behind Kinzleigh. He was not as agile, and ended up on his knees. His friend helped him up.
“Wanna stop for udon, or do we just want to get this show on the road?” Raff asked.
Kinzleigh shook their head. “Let’s just finish this.”
They walked along the sidewalk of Main St., avoiding incoming hitmen whenever they could.
Their destination was a large cathedral, painted in blocks of pinks, oranges, and greens. Rave music bled from the inside, intermingled with hoots and hollers of party goers.
“I hate going to church,” Kinzleigh sighed.
The two shoved their way through thick hordes of individuals. Somewhere along the way, Raff had procured a cigarette for himself and held it up to Kinzleigh with a pleading expression on his screen. (Something like ;-; ? )
Under their mask, Kinzleigh rolled their eyes and spun their head until they came to a dainty and polite dragon face. They inhaled deeply and huffed a thin line of fire over the cigarette until the end glowed warmly. Raff’s face lit up ( :D ) and they mashed the end of the cigarette against his screen and inhaled ( :o ).
They climbed the handrail-less stairs and found a booth overlooking the perpetual party below. In the middle was the man who went by The Pope, sourcing it as a title used in his old Universe that he wanted to bring to his new home. His long limbs stretched out over the back of the booth, bony legs kicked up on the table.
“Ah, my favorite kiddos, come come.” His voice shook with age, but his conviction always powered through his words.
The two figures sitting on either side of the man shifted to make room for Raff and Kinzleigh, who sat on the edge of the booth.
“Do you want drink?”
“I’ll take an abstranthe and nothing for my friend here.” Kinzleigh patted Raff’s shoulder.
The Pope snapped his fingers, and one of the figures floated off to get their drink. Then he leaned in close. “Did you do what I asked?” The two friends nodded. His face split into a grin. “Excellent.”
“Do you have what we need?” Kinzleigh asked back. “We’re kind of in a rush.”
“First…the marker. The problem with working with kiddos is that they try to pull one over on you sometimes.”
“You don’t have to worry about that with us,” Kinzleigh replied, trying to keep annoyance out of their voice. “Raff, the marker?”
As Raff dug through the pockets of his leather jacket, the figure returned with an ornate glass full of liquid that was constantly shifting hue. Kinzleigh thanked the figure and switched their face to something that could better appreciate the drink.
Raff took out the wire glasses they had stolen and victoriously slammed them on the table space in front of The Pope. Immediately, the man’s face crinkled into one of suspicion and disgust.
“You are trying to pull one over on me,” the man said quietly.
“Hm?” Kinzleigh cleared their throat of the burning liquid. Their tongue was buzzing with numbness. “What? Dude, we went to the universe, we found the boyfriend. There’ll probably be a news report or something on it tomorrow, we’ll go back and get it if you want.”
“The man I sent you after doesn’t wear glasses,” The Pope spat.
Raff and Kinsleigh’s expressions fell. ( 0_0 ). Then Raff shook his head. “Well maybe it’s been a minute,” he argued. “Scan it. It’s from U-1124.”
“1124?” The integer came out as a choked whisper. “1124? It’s Universe 11124. Three ones!”
“Ohhhh…shit.” Raff blinked. “Okay that one’s my bad. Sorry Kinz.”
Kinzleigh had been working on the abstranthe and was honestly in no position to be upset at anyone at the moment. They giggled and gestured for the figure to refill their glass.
“Okay, concept for you–” Kinzleigh swiped the pair of glasses off the table and slammed both hands on it. “You give us the information out of pity and we go back and get the right guy–the three-one guy–on our way back from our thing.”
“The baby’s birthday will be over then so there’s really no point, seeing as you won’t be able to humiliate him in front of friends he’s been trying to win over.” The Pope made a gesture with his hands, like he was shooing them away.
“We can still orchestrate somethin’,” Kinzleigh pressed. “Truly we’re the…the best in the biz. The greatest in town. Real up-and-comers, that’s for sure.”
The Pope sighed. “No, I think I’ll have to just kill him. You,” he snapped his fingers at the figure that had been sitting next to him the whole time. “Remove them.”
“Wait.” Raff held up his fists. “What about the information?”
“You’ll just have to make do without it, I guess. Do you honestly think I’m gonna reward you for disappointing me?”
The figure getting Kinzleigh’s drink returned with a second one. They eagerly reached out for it before getting shoved out of the booth.
“Raff…Raff wait…” Kinzleigh downed this new drink in two gulps. They wiped off their mouth. “That’s stupid, why can’t we…?” They turned to The Pope.
Raff said, “Look, you’re gonna give us what we want in one way or another. One, you can give us the job and we make a fair trade. Or two, we can just. I dunno. Make you give it to us the unpleasant way.”
The Pope scoffed. “I’d like to see what your version of ‘unpleasant’ is.”
Kinzleigh looked up at Raff. “I’m drunk enough for it.”
A malicious grin split across his screen. He cracked his knuckles. The two turned back towards the old man. Whether The Pope accepted it or not, the two truly were the best in the non-fatal hitman business.
I've never understood the phrase "on the warpath" until this very evening when I discovered someone has drank all of my black tea who are they where are they I demand BLOOD
An encounter I had at work that I’d like to log somewhere and I thought it was sweet, though bittersweet. It may be a little too heavy, it involves a brief mention of premature death.
So this father and his two year old daughter walk into the theater. I have a soft spot in my heart for father-daughter duos. Her name was Jasmine and she was just toddling around in circles, looking at posters, and doing half-attempted-cartwheels. She was out of the way and not fast enough to do any damage, so it was really cute.
The father would talk to her conversationally, very gentle, and very sweet. He asked her what she wanted to see, and she answered “Young Washington.” Definitely not a movie she’d like. He smiled and turned to me and laughed and whispered, “I love this kid, she said ‘Young Washington’.”
Obviously he wasn’t going to get her that ticket, and the next available showing was the new Minions. She had been pointing and staring at the poster, and despite her interest, he seemed really hesitant. Makes sense. Guy like him wouldn’t really be into a movie like that, I guess, but then he explains, “it hurts my heart, and not the way you expect.” He had a son, whose favorite movie were the movies in that series, and unfortunately he had died. But. His daughter wanted to see it, and he wanted to see the movie with his daughter. So he got the tickets “honor his name, whaddyou say, Jas?”
(Also, less important, but something that stuck out—idk how in character this may seem for me, but with my pattern recognition I end up interpreting certain things to be messages from. Whatever. Y’know? And when I saw that the change I owed him was $3.33, that meant something. I thought it was serendipitous. It felt warm, like this little boy was there with them, ready to see the movie too. But, who knows. I’m a sap when it comes to spirituality.)
Anyways. I hope those two are doing well. I know I’ll likely think of them for time to come.
