sure child leashes are weird and raise uncomfortable questions but consider: child magnets
At the zoo we have some preschools that do field trips, and they have these long ropes with plastic handles, and the kids each have a handle, and a buddy (who holds the other side of the handle). If they have empty spots they know there are kids missing.
They look like giant baby centipedes and they are a huge pain in the ass to every other zoo visitor, and employee.
I’ve seen those and they are my favorite thing ever. They’re terrible, but you’re right—they’re centipedes made of children. Still not as fun as being able to summon a baby with huge magnets like Thor’s hammer, but I’ll take my small delights where I can get them.
You are probably depressed, yeah… but have you considered the possibility that you’re transforming into a cat?
You cannot dismiss this theory without first testing it. Get up and run through your house as loudly as you can, stopping only to make brief, terrified eye contact with anyone you pass. Knock something over. Chew on a shoelace. Stretch real good with your butt in the air and find a patch of sunlight to lick your own leg in.
If it feels ‘right’, I think you have your answer.
Me, looking over the architecture plans for my evil organization’s base: “Hmm. Looks good, but there’s just one one problem. The vents need to be bigger. Make those air ducts easily accessible and large and strong enough for a well-muscled adult man to crawl through them.”
Henchman: “Isn’t that a security risk?”
Me: “What? No. Also, make sure they form an unbroken connection between all the most important rooms in my lair.”
Me: “Actually, now that I think about it, why not add plush carpeting to the floor of the air ducts? Something soft and cushioning beneath knees. Can you place drinking fountains throughout? Maybe scatter some protein bars.”
Henchman: “Um… boss?
Me: “And one of those motivational posters! Is the ‘hang in there’ kitten too cheesy? Maybe… maybe I should leave handwritten notes taped to the walls. Flowers? Is flowers too much? What about tic-tacs?”
Henchman: “Jesus, boss! Do you want me to go ahead and hang up an artistic nude oil painting of you in the air ducts?”
Me: “Ooh. Do you paint?!”
Excuse me…?! Why, I never! Who do you think you are? Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you think such a thing? Disgusting. You have such a filthy, depraved mind. Gross! Ew! Ew ew ew! I built this death trap to KILL my nemesis. That’s why I included a deactivation switch in easy reach. And sexy, sexy straps… so that I can see that they’re not hiding any secret weapons, of course! I’m all business. I’m all about business. Now, get out of my sight. I need to take a bath with my nicest bath bomb and scented oils.
Henchman: “Are you alright, boss?”
Me: “Hm? Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
Henchman: “Well. I mean. You’ve been listening to ‘Genghis Khan’ by Miike Snow on repeat for sixteen loops while watching yourself sexy-cry in front of a mirror.”
Me: “And?”
Henchman: “Sir, have you… considered making an online dating profile?”
Me: “Uh, no. What for?”
Henchman: “I just thought it might make it easier to, you know… meet cute guys.”
Me: “Don’t patronize me, you useless fool. I know how to meet cute guys. That’s easy! You just take the mayor hostage or build a bomb that looks like your face and they come running.”
Henchman: “Okay, okay, fair enough, you know how to meet cute guys. But what about getting them to stay? I really think an online dating profile could help with that.”
Me: “It’s not MY fault they’re always carrying lockpicks!”
Me: “Well. It’s happened again. He left me… he shot me in the leg… I just don’t know what he wants anymore!”
Henchman: “Perhaps you should learn to take a hint, sir.”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Henchman: “Well, I think ‘a bullet’ is a pretty strong hint that he’s just not into you.”
Me: “How can you be sure of that?! He’s so wily and complicated. He uses bullets all the time – it could mean anything!”
Henchman: “Sir, do you know why I continue working for you after all these years?”
Me: “….job security?”
Henchman: “No.”
Me: “The atmosphere?”
Henchman: “God, no.”
Me: “The… uh. Retirement benefits…?”
Henchman: “You’ve got to be kidding me…. ugh! Just shut up and remove your pants so I can dig that bullet out.”
Me: “I can’t believe this! My own right-hand man, betraying me in my hour of triumph! After all this time—why, you back-stabbing snake?! I made you! I brought you to glory! You could have had everything you dreamed of and more… why turn on me now?! You viper! You scorpion!”
Henchman: “‘Why’? Well, my lord, because there’s only one ‘love language’ you seem to understand.”
Me: “Ha! I speak all the Romance languages fluently, snake. I am exceptionally well-educated.”
Henchman: “And yet you are a miserable fool. I am tired of this charade. Step away from the doomsday machine and fight me.”
Me: “But it’s… we made this together… it was important to us…”
Henchman: “I can’t let you activate it, sir. I have a world to save.”
Me: “That’s not your job! That’s his job!”
Henchman: “He isn’t here right now. I am. You may be oblivious, but surely you’ve noticed that.”
Me: “Are you… are you suggesting…”
Henchman: “Coffee? No. That’s not your style. There’s a laser tag arena down the street, I could sneak in some adult beverages, we could see where a little competition take us, and… well…”
Me: “This is so fast, I… I don’t know what to think…”
Henchman: “Give yourself time. Sure, you could destroy the world, but if you do that, if you press that button, there won’t be any more laser tag. No more retro discotheques, either. In the immortal words of ABBA, take a chance on me…”
“‘No’?” echoed the space emperor. “‘No’?! No one. Ever. Tells me. ‘No’.”
He advanced, close enough that the threads on his rich robes could be counted by the naked eye. After a furtive glance over his shoulder, he dropped his voice to a desperate whisper and said, “Could you… could you do it again? Please?”
“No.”
The space emperor’s eyes shone like embers as he leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of his face. “So this… this ‘democracy’ you speak of. You’re telling me that people might… disobey me? They wouldn’t have to do everything I tell them to?”
“Not if they disagree with you.”
“They can do that?!” He licked his lips, trembling with excitement. “And voting! You say I… you say I could lose?!”
“Yeah, uh. And you probably would.”
“Incredible,” he breathed. “Why, I could kiss you!” With a surprised laugh, he stopped himself mid-step. “But—you wouldn’t like that! Right? You’d have an ‘opinion’? Gosh… do you think other people have those?!”
The space emperor let out a long, melancholy sigh and turned to the hero, his lip trembling with delicate misery. “I’m going to miss you,” he sniffed. “I don’t think I’ll watch, you know, when they… when they do it.” The tear that had been clinging valiantly to his eyelashes finally broke free and rolled down his cheek. “Oh!” he cried, and threw his arms around the hero’s neck with a great, shuddering sob. “Yours will be the only skull I drink from ever again—I promise! I will think of you every time, and I’ll pretend you’re still here with me!”
“Or you could just… not have me executed.”
The space emperor inhaled sharply and took a step back, his face red and puffy from crying. “That’s an option?!”
The serving-woman stood with her back ramrod straight and her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Every muscle in her body looked tense, and only the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders betrayed her terror.
“You’ve ruined my gown,” said the space emperor, regarding the growing purple stain on his sleeve. “These fibers were harvested on Lutoya-29, a planet that was demolished six units ago. There is no other like it in the galaxy. I could have you harvested for washing-water for this.” He looked up and met the hero’s eyes, his thoughtful expression melting into a delighted grin. “But I don’t have to, do I?”
“No, Your Incandecense,” whispered the woman. Her sweat-beaded skin had grown translucent with fear.
“I don’t even have to have you killed at all!” he exclaimed. “I could… I could…” he cast around the chamber, as though searching for inspiration in the lavish furnishings.
“Please, Your Incandecense.” The woman’s voice was low and unsteady, but her gaze remained fixed on the floor. “I’ll do anything, please, forgive—”
“Anything! You’re right!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, stamping his feet in a little dance. “I could do anything! In fact—” he reached over the table and clasped the hero’s hand in his own. “Nothing is anything! I could do nothing! Nothing at all!” He giggled merrily and then froze, gingerly releasing the hero’s hand and leaning back. He tapped one bejeweled finger against his temple and gave an exaggerated wink. “Oh, right. Consent.”
The serving-woman’s eyes flickered to the hero’s for a moment, nervous questions burning in them. The hero gave a barely-imperceptible shrug and a very tiny, reassuring smile. The emperor did not seem to notice.
“Is there more wine?” he asked. “Splendid. Please. Do it again.”
“What…?” The woman’s skin flashed an alarming yellow.
The emperor gestured enthusiastically between himself and the crystal pitcher. “The wine. My gown. I think you should reacquaint them.”
“He wants you to spill the wine on him again,” explained the hero. “No, really. He’s, uh… he’s having an interesting day.”
“I am learning so many things,” said the emperor. “Did you know that you have feelings, too? It’s not just me! My new friend has feelings, that man over there has feelings, that… whatever that thing is has feelings!” He stood up and threw his arms wide in a sudden, emphatic motion, flinging droplets of purple liquid from his soiled sleeve. “Maybe everyone has feelings! Maybe robots! Maybe my enemies! Maybe—” he stopped, and the delirious grin vanished from his face. “Maybe the Lutoyans have feelings…” His voice dropped to a whisper, and he stared at the hero with a strange expression. “But… there aren’t any more Lutoyans…”
The space emperor took his breakfast in bed, bathed in sweet oils, allowed his hair to be combed and coiffed and his face painted with rare minerals, and then sighed in delicate frustration.
“None of this seems right,” he confessed to his wardrober, after rejecting the seventh gown he was presented with. It was deep blue silk, studded all over with crystals that glinted and sparkled like a night sky. “It’s just not working for me today.”
“That is one of the finest gowns in the galaxy, Your Incandescence,” said the wardrober. “It is an accurate starmap of the constellations as seen from your boyhood home, rivaled in beauty and quality only by your other raiments. But perhaps this is more to your impeccable tastes–” It offered an eighth gown, a trailing cascade of iridescent blue-green fabric layered with shimmering, diaphanous beetle wings. “A species of rare insect went extinct for the construction of this one,” it said. “It was considered sacred to the inhabitants of that world. Wearing this gown declares your might and majesty to the galaxy.”
The space emperor pursed his lips. “Hmm,” he said. “Not that one, I think.” There was an unfamiliar twisting sensation in his gut when he looked at the gown.
“I hope the feast is to your pleasure, Your Incandescence. We did not have much time to prepare before–”
“It is not to my pleasure!” cried the space emperor, lashing out and knocking the platter to the floor. The attendant winced as the tureen shattered and bent to clean it up. “I want to go back!”
“That would be inadvisable,” said the war magnate, rolling her eyes. “It is not yet safe for you to return planetside; there may be traps or other assassins lying in wait. I’m sure your friend is fine.”
The entire palace was climate-controlled, including the military wing, so there was no reason for the space emperor to feel so cold as he walked through the halls. It was just another concern to bring up with his doctor later that evening, along with the pain in his chest and difficulty swallowing around the tightness in his throat. He so rarely fell ill–even as a child, the diseases of the common rabble had never touched him.
The doctor would have to wait. He had more important business to attend to.
He ran his thumb along the special weapon the General had given him. It was simple in design, as unlike the ornate ceremonial laser he always wore at his hip as it was possible to be. He didn’t understand exactly how it functioned, but he didn’t need to; all that mattered was that it worked. The General assured him that it would be a most fitting punishment.
“What?” said the space emperor. “What just… happened?”
The General bowed his head and held out his arm. The space emperor took it numbly and allowed himself to be led from the room, away from the acrid smoke rising from the dead robot. “You must forgive me, Your Incandescence. I will bear the blame for this… unfortunate oversight. Walk with me, if you please, and I will explain.”
The sprawling facility seemed to become oppressively small. The space emperor sucked in an unsteady breath and discovered that oxygen had suddenly stopped working while he was distracted by the screen. “Air,” he wheezed, stumbling toward the turbolift. “I need air.”
“‘No’?” echoed the space emperor. “‘No’?! No one. Ever. Tells me. ‘No’.”
He advanced, close enough that the threads on his rich robes could be counted by the naked eye. After a furtive glance over his shoulder, he dropped his voice to a desperate whisper and said, “Could you… could you do it again? Please?”
“No.”
The space emperor’s eyes shone like embers as he leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of his face. “So this… this ‘democracy’ you speak of. You’re telling me that people might… disobey me? They wouldn’t have to do everything I tell them to?”
“Not if they disagree with you.”
“They can do that?!” He licked his lips, trembling with excitement. “And voting! You say I… you say I could lose?!”
“Yeah, uh. And you probably would.”
“Incredible,” he breathed. “Why, I could kiss you!” With a surprised laugh, he stopped himself mid-step. “But—you wouldn’t like that! Right? You’d have an ‘opinion’? Gosh… do you think other people have those?!”
The space emperor let out a long, melancholy sigh and turned to the hero, his lip trembling with delicate misery. “I’m going to miss you,” he sniffed. “I don’t think I’ll watch, you know, when they… when they do it.” The tear that had been clinging valiantly to his eyelashes finally broke free and rolled down his cheek. “Oh!” he cried, and threw his arms around the hero’s neck with a great, shuddering sob. “Yours will be the only skull I drink from ever again—I promise! I will think of you every time, and I’ll pretend you’re still here with me!”
“Or you could just… not have me executed.”
The space emperor inhaled sharply and took a step back, his face red and puffy from crying. “That’s an option?!”
The serving-woman stood with her back ramrod straight and her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Every muscle in her body looked tense, and only the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders betrayed her terror.
“You’ve ruined my gown,” said the space emperor, regarding the growing purple stain on his sleeve. “These fibers were harvested on Lutoya-29, a planet that was demolished six units ago. There is no other like it in the galaxy. I could have you harvested for washing-water for this.” He looked up and met the hero’s eyes, his thoughtful expression melting into a delighted grin. “But I don’t have to, do I?”
“No, Your Incandecense,” whispered the woman. Her sweat-beaded skin had grown translucent with fear.
“I don’t even have to have you killed at all!” he exclaimed. “I could… I could…” he cast around the chamber, as though searching for inspiration in the lavish furnishings.
“Please, Your Incandecense.” The woman’s voice was low and unsteady, but her gaze remained fixed on the floor. “I’ll do anything, please, forgive—”
“Anything! You’re right!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, stamping his feet in a little dance. “I could do anything! In fact—” he reached over the table and clasped the hero’s hand in his own. “Nothing is anything! I could do nothing! Nothing at all!” He giggled merrily and then froze, gingerly releasing the hero’s hand and leaning back. He tapped one bejeweled finger against his temple and gave an exaggerated wink. “Oh, right. Consent.”
The serving-woman’s eyes flickered to the hero’s for a moment, nervous questions burning in them. The hero gave a barely-imperceptible shrug and a very tiny, reassuring smile. The emperor did not seem to notice.
“Is there more wine?” he asked. “Splendid. Please. Do it again.”
“What…?” The woman’s skin flashed an alarming yellow.
The emperor gestured enthusiastically between himself and the crystal pitcher. “The wine. My gown. I think you should reacquaint them.”
“He wants you to spill the wine on him again,” explained the hero. “No, really. He’s, uh… he’s having an interesting day.”
“I am learning so many things,” said the emperor. “Did you know that you have feelings, too? It’s not just me! My new friend has feelings, that man over there has feelings, that… whatever that thing is has feelings!” He stood up and threw his arms wide in a sudden, emphatic motion, flinging droplets of purple liquid from his soiled sleeve. “Maybe everyone has feelings! Maybe robots! Maybe my enemies! Maybe—” he stopped, and the delirious grin vanished from his face. “Maybe the Lutoyans have feelings…” His voice dropped to a whisper, and he stared at the hero with a strange expression. “But… there aren’t any more Lutoyans…”
The space emperor took his breakfast in bed, bathed in sweet oils, allowed his hair to be combed and coiffed and his face painted with rare minerals, and then sighed in delicate frustration.
“None of this seems right,” he confessed to his wardrober, after rejecting the seventh gown he was presented with. It was deep blue silk, studded all over with crystals that glinted and sparkled like a night sky. “It’s just not working for me today.”
“That is one of the finest gowns in the galaxy, Your Incandescence,” said the wardrober. “It is an accurate starmap of the constellations as seen from your boyhood home, rivaled in beauty and quality only by your other raiments. But perhaps this is more to your impeccable tastes–” It offered an eighth gown, a trailing cascade of iridescent blue-green fabric layered with shimmering, diaphanous beetle wings. “A species of rare insect went extinct for the construction of this one,” it said. “It was considered sacred to the inhabitants of that world. Wearing this gown declares your might and majesty to the galaxy.”
The space emperor pursed his lips. “Hmm,” he said. “Not that one, I think.” There was an unfamiliar twisting sensation in his gut when he looked at the gown.
“‘No’?” echoed the space emperor. “‘No’?! No one. Ever. Tells me. ‘No’.”
He advanced, close enough that the threads on his rich robes could be counted by the naked eye. After a furtive glance over his shoulder, he dropped his voice to a desperate whisper and said, “Could you… could you do it again? Please?”
“No.”
The space emperor’s eyes shone like embers as he leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of his face. “So this… this ‘democracy’ you speak of. You’re telling me that people might… disobey me? They wouldn’t have to do everything I tell them to?”
“Not if they disagree with you.”
“They can do that?!” He licked his lips, trembling with excitement. “And voting! You say I… you say I could lose?!”
“Yeah, uh. And you probably would.”
“Incredible,” he breathed. “Why, I could kiss you!” With a surprised laugh, he stopped himself mid-step. “But—you wouldn’t like that! Right? You’d have an ‘opinion’? Gosh… do you think other people have those?!”
Vampirism. Not a virus, not a monster, but a parasite.
The parasite starts its life cycle… somewhere. The soil, perhaps. Perhaps the act of burying and unburying your dead exposes you to the dormant parasite, and you become its first host. The parasite worms its way into your brain and starts making adjustments to your physiology and behavior. Maybe it exudes its own chemical pheromones that have been adapted to be wildly attractive to humans, or maybe it boosts your own magnetic characteristics. Maybe the parasite is photosensitive, or cannot tolerate temperatures much warmer than the average human body – you find yourself avoiding the light and sticking to dark, cool places during the day. Maybe the parasite feeds upon some minerals or proteins or other components in fresh blood, so you find yourself craving human flesh to replace the nutrients being robbed from your own system. Maybe the parasite must be transferred from its primary host to a secondary host before it can reach the final stage in its life cycle. Perhaps it enters your saliva and is transferred to the bloodstream of your prey, where it consumes them from the inside and reproduces in their dying body before being returned to the soil during to start the cycle anew. Perhaps complicated burial practices aim to halt the parasite’s life cycle at this stage, and vampirism only spreads when these practices are shirked.
Colorful and evocative language is the backbone of writing. Instead of “she had blue eyes”, write: “she possessed shimmering cerulean orbs that functioned as optical sensory receptors in hex #007ba7”.
One the one hand I hate it, on the other, there’s part of me that loves it and I hate that I love it.
You survived crucifix nail nipples. You can survive hex #007ba7 globular photon receptors no problem.
you guys don’t know how much hotter written porn would be if people started describing stuff like nipple tone in hex codes
“The erectile tissue of his mammary papilla responded to the tactile stimulation of her hydrostatic oral muscle, darkening to hex #cd5b45 and tumescing with vasocongestion.”
*softly but emphatically* what the fuck.
is this my cue to get involved somehow bc im attracted to the cursed energy like a moth to porchlight
