A new Tesla in the drive sprouts an overzealous environmentalist overnight but Liam sees past his hypocrisy. He knows nothing’s changed at all because the guy across the way was, is now, and will continue to forever be just another smug butthole.
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Gender is a construct. Rebel. Put on mother’s dress. Take a voyage through identity, liberation, and self-acceptance as mapped by this story’s lens of whimsy.
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For the past nine years, Zayan has spent Furlough’s Eve with his dead husband. The face isn’t quite right, but everything else is exactly Jaxel. Their tenth night of Furlough will be just like the others. Won’t it?
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Something wicked is afoot-foot-footing where no one seeking daylight is a-looking. Has apocalypse forsook me? How does a soul bloom a single—or even sometimes two—of the thorny wicked rose? Isn’t it, though, particularly peculiar, looking down from up below?
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A legend everyone knew; one with roots running deep in our small town. I spent my whole life refusing to believe in The Orchard In-Between…right up until the day I needed the story to be true.
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The first warning from Shahalavane speaks of the Trucovee Tree and the cursed Vale beyond — where the Muckleshings wait beneath black waters to stir once the sun goes out and casts the vale in cursed dark… patience is the predator.
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Lost in the sewerpipes, The Boy wades through sludgewake, calling out to The Kid With The Flashlight. The beam flickers once, twice & vanishes into the folds of the darkness as he wades deeper in the foultide…here, it seems the walls breathe & something unknown lies lurking in the rippling, quiet offal.
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It didn’t arrive with a label. No note. Just a box, waiting. Inside was the face I’d asked for…almost. Close enough to make my breath catch. Close enough to wear. And when I slipped it on, it blinked when I blinked. It smiled when I smiled. Everyone believed it was me…the real me…Even me.
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We were mid-moan, tangled in sweat and sheets, when I looked up—and it was there. Too tall. Too still. Watching with eyes it doesn’t have. I didn’t scream. I couldn’t. I just kept choking on fear while he kept moving, unaware we weren’t alone.
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He moved like no one I’d ever seen on the dance floor and that night, in the forest, we kissed and then did more…and I knew he meant it. He was different. It doesn’t matter how many men or women I find myself entangled with, lustfully beneath the light of the moon…I’ll never forget the first.
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It's too late to wake...The Voidspire has you now.
You've joined a cult. Yes, this is a cult. Oh what a nightmare!
You! Of all people! What would your mother say?
You may think this happened against your will, but I assure you, it didn’t. You agreed when I lured you in with my charm, a gift or your own curiosity. Whatever. Who keeps track? What's important is you're stuck here. This tale is endless and you're part of my story now.Â
You're about to find yourself where every Unboundling begins: an entry-level Lürkmire with dark aspirations of rising through the ranks. Feel free to complete your profile or leave it blank, we've no profile completion expectation---actually, there's two rules here...the first is, don't get overwhelmed. I will be around to answer all of your questions along the way. You're in my netherscape now but I won't let any harm come to you...probably...the second rule is: keep Him everdreaming, placid, coiled and always endless sleeping.
Welcome to the Voidspire Consortium
Don’t care to be immortalized as the protagonist in one of my wicked tales?
...well, I assume I don’t have to explain how to close a browser window. Run along if that's the case.
