Cat Got Your Tongue_A Splatter on the Tracks_Sleep, Supernova_Cartographer
Catalog Guide:
Cat Got Your Tongue
“Hey.”“Hey yourself.”“No, I got you something.”“Okay.. And why?”“Because I just think you’re pretty neat.”“No, I mean why.”“That is the reason.”“But I’m not ‘pretty neat’.” “That’s my opinion, and I’m entitled to it.”“Someone is in a bad mood.”“How am I in a bad mood?”“What, you want me to play nice just because you got me something that you refuse to even tell me about? It must not be so great since you seem so embarrassed about it.”“That isn’t why. I just don’t think that your mom would like it.”“What is that supposed to mean.”“It’s supposed to mean that she’d have a bad reaction to it.”“I t...
A Splatter on the Tracks
His heart raced, "had anyone seen me?" But, of course not, he knew they hadn't; no one dares look at a fellow stranger on public transportation. So he sat alone, watching through the train's window as the sun rose in the east. He fiddled with a rubber band on his wrist. It had become automatic; he did it subconsciously. As thewww.onedoor.cc train began to move, he felt a touch of relief, but only a little. He was leaving the past behind him, yet he couldn't cease worrying it would somehow catch him, if not here, then later, perhaps at his next destination? No, he knew that wouldn't happen. It wasn't possibl...
Sleep, Supernova
Content Warning: sexual assault and violence implied.Soft light creeps in through the narrow slits of the softly waving blinds, dancing off the fresh, cream walls and baptising the youthfully familial scene in warmth, a love tinted lens. A new mother, hands still shaky, eyes still flighty, gently pushes and pulls the wooden crib that rocks her infant daughter. She finds herself subconsciously whispering words and sounds that exist at the midpoint between song and coo, brain disconnecting as instinct begins to take over (though she doesn’t trust it one bit). Her primary emotion, of course, is l...
Cartographer
What is the sky, but dying stars? One step and the next—Valianne moved her feet, keeping in line with the others. A hundred prisoners of war. She breathed heavily as she worked, the hot sun weighing her down. Until nightfall, it’d be labour until exhaustion. Stone after stone until collapse. The fort would be paved on top of corpses. And do burdens not sleep best in their graves? A hand tapped her shoulder. Scrawny fingers and a desperate touch. Valianne ignored it. She continued the work of laying stone, bare feet burning against the sands, throat as dry as dust. The fingers tapped her once m...