A chilling story by one of our great writers @briantheinsomniac

Cinderella's Enduring Legacy A Kingdom of Dreams and Inspiration A Cinde...

April's short story is up now!

It's horror/thriller kind of piece

Jonah hasn't heard from his mother in a while. But one day she calls, asking him to meet her for dinner with her new friend. It's only dinner. How much could go wrong?

Frankly if you’re not a trans man/ masc I don’t want to hear your opinion on how we talk about our abuse at the obgyn and other reproductive health centers. Fuck off

Michael Langdon in "The Morning After"

American Horror Story: Apocalypse

I Still Love Him • Kai Anderson

"And I remember when I met him

It was so clear that he was the only one for me

We both knew it, right away"- "I Still Love Him" monologue by Lana Del Rey.

Kai Anderson x Female Singer!Reader

Warnings: Drugs mentioned, obssesion,emotional attachment.

Words count: 911

It's just a little part of what i have in mind, if you guys like i can continue.

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Since I remember I have this intense desire of being loved, since I was a little girl I was always searching for love in different persons and places, for the longest time I didn't know why, I just never was a sociable kid, I was so afraid of embarrassing myself and that if I did anything wrong or something that they don't like I would end it alone and without anyone by my side, everyone always liked to remind me of how quiet and shy I was, some people even reprimanded me giving long speeches of how this would difficult my life in the future. Some of them even mistook my shyness and quietness for ingenuity and innocence, that was an obstacle in my life for a long time, I wanted to be someone who they wanted to close, I wanted them to see how capable I was of succeeding in what I want, I wanted to be desired and loved by everyone.

In my teenage years I started to search for love and desire everywhere and in everyone that where close to me, but never in my family, I loved them, still love them, but I was so afraid of disappointing them and for some reason I was so scared of showing them my feelings that I started to search for this love and desire outside my house. Frequently i was out in exotics places, with some sick and twisted people, but at the time there was the place where i feel completed, in parties and gatherings in weird locations, like abandoned buildings or in the middle of nowhere like in the side or road and inside forests. In these places I felt most desired than loved, i liked how i could do anything without feeling judged, i liked how i felt desired for some of them even though if was only a quick hookup inside of one of the cars or inside abandoned rooms, and most of all i liked how things that their sell and distributed make me feel a happy and energetic for a period of time, right there i found a loyal group of something i could finally call friends, and one of them took me to him.

Kai Anderson.

The way he makes me feel was just like the drinks and drugs on these parties, or even better. He was the love and desire that i was searching in my whole life. The way that he looked at me when we first saw each other, and the way he talked to me that day made me desire him, desire his touch and his love, i wanted him, i loved him and nothing or anyone was going to take me from him.

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These two are cultists for two different Lovecraftian entities, they get along super great (lies)

So, I may have made designed the children’s book franchise Skippyjon Jones into a psychological horror novel as part of a design project.

So it's been long enough since I posted this last and so now I re-present a story I wrote for a rusty quill competition which I can proudly announce did no rate a mention or an email back. What follows is a gross little tale I call windows about an awful little guy and the bad time he has. It's body horror in theme and is one of the more actively yucky things I've written. There's other stories too including the meat forest which I keep pinned and a fun story about subway tuna that's on my substack. Anyways, please read and if you so choose enjoy this fun little story about a horrible little man who through every fault of his own has a bad time.

Peering through windows is a little treat most people will indulge in to varying degrees; from the very shallow end of looking through the newspapers stuck on the windows of a store being refurbished, all the way up to looking into the living rooms of a house at night from the footpath and watching a person at rest. Windows are for looking through and while we would all agree it’s pretty good to look out and see what's around outside, universally it’s uncomfortable to have the outside peer in. It’s like a secret knowledge to look back in though, particularly if you can do it unobserved. There are idiosyncrasies of a person at home they wouldn’t even be aware of but if you catch a glimpse through a cracked curtain enough times you’ll eventually piece together more about what makes them tick than even their loved ones would know.

For a particular Peeping Tom, this is what it’s about. He’d be quick to point out that isn’t something tawdry, watching people in states of undress for titillation but a much more intimate knowledge about a person and who they are. There is a limit to how much you can learn about a person from outside a window, and no matter how much you poke through their garbage or track them online the most illuminating information is within the person. What he wants is hidden even from the observed. It’s just beyond the last frontier to the most private and intimate patterns within their mind and, if you believe in such things, their soul. It’s a desire to see through and bear witness to the unaware internals which has driven him to a dangerous threshold.

Turns out watching a person in their sleep only reveals how much noise they make, faint hints of nightmares and dreams so very close to the secrets bubbling away under their closed eyes. That's the window, the one that matters to look through: the eyes. Of course he wants to see through those windows of the soul, however it is impossible to look in without them looking right back at you, and to be discovered now would be a fate worse than death for him. No one can ever know what he does or see him do it. It is in this frustrated state of mind that Peeping Tom languishes, unable to either let it all go as an impossible desire or progress further to attain this goal.

Recently; in a laneway near where some of his subjects live, between two skip bins, something odd has started growing on the wall. Of course it catches Tom’s eye - very little of interest escapes his notice. He thinks it's a mushroom at first, taking foot in the brickwork. Little white orbs pushing out from the webby strands anchoring to the wall. He hasn’t seen something like that before but it's only a passing fancy as he makes his way between the apartments he spends evenings peering into from fire escapes. The sanitation team from the city has also noticed the growth on the wall: one of the newer members, a young man whose coveralls name him Joe, takes particular interest, encouraging the others to leave it alone, and takes photos of its progress. Tom watches Joe’s enthusiasm, and it provides a new avenue of discovery. He eventually manages to track Joe online, finding photos he posts to different mycology groups trying to identify the mysterious fungus. Experts argue on what it could be and no one has a clear idea. Such a little thing causes so much drama. They wait for the fruit to bloom fully and finally answer the mystery. Joe says he’ll burst one of the less developed orbs and film it. This is met with a mixture of support and condemnation. By now Tom is fully invested in the outcome of this investigation, a mystery with an answer which will come Thursday evening. Joe is off shift and Tom sits waiting, Joe brightly lit by a portable ring light smiling directly into the camera and Tom squatting in the darkness watching. The growth is slick and glossy, bright white like bone, with Joe beaming next to it introducing himself and the fungus to a crowd online. After an overly long preamble he produces a long dessert spoon and starts to nudge the wobbly orb; he lists the different features of the various suggestions from experts saying what should come out when he bursts the fruit. With a dramatic face he pierces the fruit and lets out a strangled cry. The spoon sticks where he stabs it but flicks left and right as the eye growing out of the wall looks around frantically with clear goo gushing out. Quickly grabbing his equipment he scrambles onto his feet and runs away. The other eyes open and focus on the injured eye, the spoon clanging onto the ground as it slips out. Tom watches with morbid fascination, disgusted but elated at something so new and novel. After an hour, the injured eye has fully deflated and the clear white of the sclera is dark and papery. Tom creeps up to the eyes in the wall and looks at them. He knows disgust, specifically what it is to be the object of disgust, and a feeling of being needed and useful but hated. The strange sensation of understanding what it is to be a shelter to vermin, rejects of society and of a strange predator who stalks without killing. He looks away, and the laneway comes back into focus. Steeling himself he looks back into the dimly aware eyes. To be a laneway is not to really exist as a singular thing but rather a holistic collection of spaces and barriers forming a place and function but with baggage. Blinking, Tom walks away from the eyes he had gotten lost in. Time has barely passed but it feels like hours. He vomits as the adrenaline crests and falls out of his body. It's like the first time he had gone into the room of one of his sleeping subjects but this time there's payoff, not the cold emptiness of an unanswered question. It strikes him: he's done it, he has peered through the windows of the soul and seen what it was to be an alleyway. He comes back and looks at but not into the eyes. He looks at the spoon and sees the goo of the burst eye has anchored into the beginning of a new fruit. Tom puts the spoon into a ziplock bag he keeps for his occasional foraging and vanishes into the night.

In little over a month Peeping Tom has learnt how to inoculate objects with the eyes and care for them while they matured. The eye will eventually open on its own and softly look about its environment and then Tom stares into the eye, passing through into the soul of the object. The spoon is a simple thing to know; he learns over time that the older an object is or the more complicated it’s relationship with the world the deeper he can go in understanding. Discrete objects in the room dimly reveal a secret where the room itself tells a grander story. Tom has fully abandoned his human subjects to pursue this new line of investigation. Antiques and abandoned spaces hold the most illuminating stories and secrets. The most beautiful is that of a derelict car from the seventies that has been slowly rusting in a lot cut off from the roads since long before Tom was born. What he experiences is looking back at a long life mixed with care and neglect; it was at one point the focus of love and pivotal to adventures; a baby had been born in it. It was precious and kept parked off the road when it wasn’t being used, admired for its beauty. Then it seems - and this feels more immediate - the love and care stopped, its safe parking space became an oubliette and it was more or less forgotten. Then animals and bugs started calling it home, small plants grew in the shelter of its chassis and as the rain and the elements took their toll its body became one with the ground it stood on. Finally he feels himself and its sudden spark of importance again to a person. It’s only a thing, but Tom feels a pang of empathy and sadness at the fate of it, looking at the car as a whole with its shattered windscreen grotesquely bedecked with staring eyes.

Eventually, as always happens when he finds a new line of inquiry, he becomes complacent, bored and greedy. He sits, staring aimlessly through his own window along with parts of his flat which had been given eyes months ago. A taboo plays across his thoughts - it seems wrong somehow, and for someone who transgresses boundaries so often this is a new and uncomfortable feeling - to give the Soul Eyes to a living being, assuming you could do that. For reasons he can't articulate the thought of inoculating a creature feels somehow forbidden as if it breaks some kind of universal unspoken rule. However the temptation to do it, and then learn the mysteries, is acute. His desires and hesitations chafe at each other, neither quite suppressing the other. Then circumstance makes the choice for him. Hanging from the ceiling, as plump as a cupcake, is a spider. Eight eyes sit in neat rows across its flat face, a ninth eye looking out from its swollen abdomen, blinking with bristly eyelids. Tom doesn't notice it immediately and lets out an undignified yelp when he stands and sees a singular monstrous eye staring him in the face. When he regains his composure he sees the spider climbing back up its silk and walking across the ceiling. The eye on its back is like the many others in his home but this has a different quality to it. A more palpable energy. It looks around more energetically and seemingly with more purpose although thankfully, much like the others, it does not appear to see what it's looking at. Any misgivings about deliberately infecting a living thing with the eyes vanish. It had been done without his hand in the matter and he is blameless. It is unreal, a dizzying experience, unlike any other he's had. The motives of the spider are relatively simple and based around survival but how it thinks of itself in the world is intriguing. It knows that it is separate from its environment and that other entities exist, some of which are dangerous and others not; in many ways it's much how Tom views the world. There are no great mysteries revealed by the spider’s soul; its life is too short and scope narrowed by its lifestyle so that it is similar to the smaller everyday objects Tom has looked into. But crucially it's so much more vividly intense, overriding the feeling of the car.

He yearns to go further and try it out on other creatures but the feeling of extreme doubt and active evil whenever he tries to plan for it overwhelms him, smothering his actions. But not the want. Tom just can’t bring himself to do it; his hands recoil and stomach churns. He has to return the rescue dog he adopted specifically for this purpose. Shame hangs around him like wet rope leaving him exhausted and cold. Why is he like this? All his wants and actions have led to this point, paralysed with worry, unable to rest with this unknowable desire to know everything. Never before, despite near misses and the laws of society, had he felt a twinge of guilt but now… what is this barrier and why can’t he either accept it and stop or move past it? Revelation, an epiphany! Tom knows exactly how to find the answer. He had never considered that he would contain secrets, mysteries unknown to himself. How could he be so short sighted? It's true of all his subjects and yet here he is, never once having considered looking within himself. The barrier to action doesn’t exist here it seems; he feels no hesitation. If anything he feels burgeoning euphoria. It seems fitting to place it within his belly button, from a practical aspect the inoculant can pool without risk of spilling across his body and more spiritually a third eye to navel gaze into has a symmetry about it. It takes a week to grow and it hurts the whole time. Fevers wrack his body and he feels himself becoming weaker. The skin around the growing eye is a livid red and he keeps a sterile bandage and patch to protect the eye from injury as he lays in agony, waiting. Then under the cotton he hears the gentle sound of eyelashes grazing the material. It worked and is now ready. Before the pain had set in fully Tom had prepared a space in his studio putting all of his stalking paraphernalia into the alley. In the center of the room lays a simple rug ringed with candles and a singular mirror fixed to the wall. It is in this sanctum that he will gaze within. He wishes he had prepared more, maybe anointed himself and really put the effort in. This would be the great human revelation, it deserves more ritual. However pain took those choices from him and he doesn’t want to risk painkillers on the developing eye just to get essential oils and an appropriate robe. He lights the candles and sits cross legged on the rug facing the mirror and removes the bandage, steeling himself. He takes a deep breath, wincing in pain and looks down into the eye that looks up at his face.

A subject of a story, an invented monster transgressing the boundaries of good and evil, not as an allegory but as entertainment. An unseen hand and unseen audience both unknowable and watching in perfect anonymity privy to his thoughts and motivations. He is a puppet, not even a person, forced into his choices and to pursue his goals without agency. Dawning realization that there is no greater truth to answer the gnawing question of why he could not get past his disgust, it was like this because of who he is: a monster in a horror story. And the unseen audience is bearing witness and watching the story unfold. He tries to tear his eyes away but is unable to as the eye looks back into him, bringing the true reality of his situation into focus: he is slowly fading away, horrified at what became of him but jealous of the special insights the anonymous audience of his story have. Tom stays stranded at the bottom of a dark well locked in introspection watching himself, watching himself being watched by himself.

santa maria, ina ng diyos

ipanalangin mo kaming makasalanan 

ngayon at kung kami’y mamamatay

amen

— AMERICAN HORROR STORIES S02E07.

File Size: 234MB. Like or reblog the post of it was useful. Your interaction shows me that I should keep making screencaps. And if you want me to post some in separate posts, tell me! ♡

someone tell this mf Ryan Murphy how to take a hint

//oooh mr samp0 k0ski i miss your as- i mean your tit- i mean...

you.