Caught

Precious little witch-to-be, caught in a trap—

Cold iron teeth cling to her ankle, slowly warming in her blood’s heat; she doesn’t have the strength to move, can’t drag herself across the smiling tiles. The door’s right there: those few feet might as well be miles.

She can’t think how this happened.

Just moments ago she was out on the street, wandering through autumn’s dripping red and yellow, just enjoying the season. Cold, crisp air filling her lungs and the warmth of her oversized caterpillar of a familiar around her neck.

After The Sigils Dry

(This story is also featured in my collection Joyous/Decay   )

For the last few months she’s asked you the same question every week.

“Are you sure you don’t want it to be a tattoo instead? Something permanent?”

Each time you answer more or less the same way. You’re sure, you really are; she doesn’t need to ask. You’d tell her if …

You’d tell her.

But you won’t need to.

Moonstruck Toys

Moonstruck toys staring up at pale silver eyes, lost in wonder as the sky’s thin shell cracks and the void rushes in …

Dolls can’t drown in the dark places Between, don’t fade away into dusty memories—but their gears seize up, and their screams find no purchase on the void.

Worlds crack like dying bubbles and spill their precious cargo out into cruel emptiness. They do exactly what they were made to do, and the things Outside eagerly drink them up.

“A Machine for Removing Unwanted Minds”

content warnings: medicalization, institutional xenophobia, genocidal and carceral logic, child abuse, the project of upholding whiteness and the horror implicit within it.

It squats spider-like over the building which was meant to contain it, vast legs cutting the sky to pieces as soon as you step within its outermost extents. Only its teeth (its drill? its proboscis? it’s unclear) are hidden from view.

Every year it’s easier to find yourself inside it. They keep on having to move the plaque marking its limits and pull back the barricades another few painful blocks.

Pleasure’s Golden Haze

Light falls across the couch in thick golden beams, filtering in through dusty windows thrown open to catch the setting sun’s warm breeze; there’s dust in the air, and smoke, and the thick musky scent of slowly drying sweat. When you first got here the smoke was the woody stink of distant fires, but now it’s just good clean weed and and the strangely layered perfume of vaped DMT.

The world doesn’t feel real, hasn’t for a long time; reality trickles away with each breath you take and each time your friend passes you the blunt. She’s the only person you really know here, the only reason you were invited; usually you’d feel awkward, but everyone’s so hazy and high and the couch really is so comfortable …

Something Is Here

“Wake up, doll. Something is coming.”

Her words echo in the doll’s mind as she wakes, just as they have for years—ever since the doll’s new mistress ate her old one and dragged her back into its lair.

Such a small memory to be burned so deeply, but she’s thankful for it.

Today she wakes as she always does, words echoing in her mind and the monster’s looming vastness crouched on spindly legs above her stony bed. A drop of venom sizzles on her skin, another hole burned through her ruined dress.

Chalk

(This story is also featured in my collection Joyous/Decay   )

The doll shivers in your arms, trembling like a candleflame in the wind, like you used to shake and shudder when you knew you had sinned, when you could feel rejection’s creeping despair just around the corner.

Her big button eyes stare up at you, pleading, blue thread fraying from the knotted mass at the center of those dark disks; her mouth moves in soundless whispers, the same words over and over again–