Category: story

Conditioning

Written

A lot of men hit on her, failing to understand what will happen. Some of them lose interest. Others freak out. But eventually she’s in a room with two of them who haven’t given up. Latched on like dogs. Two straight males in a back office of the facility. Lights off. The blinds slice evening across their bodies in sickly orange bars.

“So what? Are you going to make us fight?” And that is interesting, already; seeing which one tenses, and which one is prepared to do violence. She wonders if that dynamic will stay true.

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xrafstar merch splurch

Written

I made a Cancer character reference site! it is very shiny and cute and I put a lot of work into it…

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xrafstar killers game preview…

Trotula’s office features fully reflective floors and all the psychometric testing you could ask for…

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selling a limited run of INNOCENT stickers here, with delicious art by Vich.

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Cancer Dancer

Written

The dancer is a patient and must be made to comply. They cannot be trusted with their own sensory perceptions. They suffer from hallucinations of pain and delusions of exhaustion. There is no such thing as malpractice when it comes to the dancer. You cannot be punished enough. Your skin is an interface for needles and pressure cuffs. Your skin exists only to alert him to your mistakes. You must dance in a state of exposure, so he can inspect you for bruises, stains of clumsiness. Do not think your body is something to be admired. You are a disgusting male. But you are not a man. You are stunted. Your anorexic ribs are a kind of descended gynecomastia. Your bulge is sexless, juvenile, and clownlike. Your body is the mannequin and the dress at the same time. Beauty can never exist for you as a noun, but it might as a verb.

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cunt toward enemy [s3e9] escapement

Written

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The father keeps a tube of lipstick on his nightstand. Lazur sees it on the rare occasions he is called upstairs, to carry the man’s briefcase or do his tie when the man is falling over drunk. Lazur always assumed it was a memento of the absent mother, until he saw how every trace of her was removed from the house, except for the subliminal rubbish in the basement.

Rich men are freaky. But he’s driven the man to secret and depraved gatherings, and never brought him back with makeup on. The lipstick feels wrong to look at. A sense of something black, congealed, and burnt—yet oozing with endless, leechlike intelligence. The walls must be flaking with toxic pigment. Cadmium red. Lazur holds his breath, and knots the tie.

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Closed Tear

Written

You are in the library.

No. Sink deeper. Before you were sprayed with the nasty corrosive gunk of ego and culture. Before you were covered in linguistic contaminants. Before you were sterilized and cauterized, and the wounds of your mind were still open and fresh.

You are on a distant island of this fantastic but mundane empire. The sun is fading through the windows, smeared into burning droplets. You came for shelter from the rain, and the mosquitoes. They lay their eggs in standing water, so all week they have been breeding and you don’t want to get bit or have to drink bitter quinine to stave off super-malaria.

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Coffee Shop AU * act 1

Written

I work at the strip mall coffee shop. Scratchy black shirt that itches on my clammy back. Slacks my ass looks too big in. Baseball hat that crushes my sweaty black hair into my ears.

I lean forward to hide my tits. I’ve become a goblin thing, using my shoulders and the bagginess of my shirt to pretend there’s nothing there. Hides my name tag too. HI I’M CANCER. My black cap pulled over my head, just an acne-scarred mouth, they think I’m a high school boy. I mumble so they can’t hear my cleft palate wheeze.

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