The Phoenix

“Call me Ishmael” the doll said, though its path had never led it to the ocean and it had little regard for water. It thought that it was clever even so, and Ishmael was a better name than the one its witch had given it when he stitched its wings.

Ish (which was what the other dolls called it, and which it held was because they had no flare for the dramatic) was a aeronaut aboard the great ⸢Remembrance of Her Unwilling Blessing⸥. A sky-ship one hundred and sixteen meters from bow to stern, with a wingspan thrice that! The culmination of a witch’s craft, powered by banks of witchwork hearts driving it forward and pumping reality away with their every bone-shuddering beat! Vast and powerful, held together only through the unceasing effort of a dozen lobotomized witch-houses …

Events At The Estate

At 9:34 PM, the party in the red hall was asked to pause their activities and take part in a minute of silence to honor those who died to make their meal possible.

They declined.

By 10:20 PM it became obvious that the estate was in danger of becoming understaffed.

As the estate’s primary objective is the satisfaction of visiting parties, it refused requests from the remaining staff to deploy countermeasures at 10:22 PM, 10:28 PM, 10:31 PM, 10:32 PM, 10:33 PM, and 11:01 PM.

Compost Heap

“Oh!” Kassie exclaims, her trowel half-buried in warmth, “Mx. Squirmy Wormy! I didn’t realize you were here!”

The worm bleeds, not especially politely, as Kassie pulls her trowel back out. Its bifurcated halves squirm; its eyes brim with pain.

“There’s no need to be rude, Mx. Wormy!” Kassie lowers her voice, eyes flicking across the variegated heap. She’s pretty sure none of the others can see her; all she can see of them is wingtips blazing with light. “It was an honest mistake.”

Graveyard Life

The doll wakes up.

This is the first mistake she makes each day.

The second mistake is sleepily grasping for her phone, hands moving in long-conditioned reflex: swipe through the pattern and tap the brightly-colored little icon—

Many wild species use bright colors to indicate danger. It is meant as a warning against attack: you may hurt me, they say, but you’re going to have a fucking awful time afterward.