You see a sentence
written in cyrillic. Some of the letters are familiar. You see the
meaning shimmering underneath the surface. You almost grasp it, but it slips away. The letters on the page mock you silently.
You know this Czech word. You’ve already learnt it in Polish. It is not the same word. It is a grave insult. Your slavic friends are shocked and embarassed for you when they hear you speak it.
There is a sentence in
Croatian. There is a sentence in Serbian. There is a sentence in
Bosnian. They are all the same sentence.
You have to write about your day in Slovak. You spend the night polishing the draft. You fail your assigment. It’s written in Czech. You don’t know Czech.
P is not what it seems. You have to remember that.
The Croatian sentence
does not mean what the Bosnian sentence means. They both mean the same in Serbian.
That word has a diminutive. The diminutive has its own diminutive. The diminutive of the diminutive also has a diminutive. Nobody knows what the final diminutive of a word is. Some say the knowledge had been lost in centuries past and matrioshkas are the echo, the tangible warning left for us to remember. No living creature should hold the means of diminishing something into nonexistence. Others say you may still find some of them in old soviet textbooks, if you dare to look in abandoned schools of Chernobyl.
Someone is speaking to you. Is that a he or a she? You aren’t sure. It’s an abstract concept. Why does it have gender.
You see a word in a
dictionary. It has seventeen letters and only one vowel. You close the dictionary very carefully not
looking at the phonetic transcription. The shape of it haunts you in
your sleep. You wake
up face damp with tears, a bitter taste on your tongue. The clock blinks 3:03AM. You do not dare look up that word again.
This word means the
same thing in the five slavic languages you’re familiar with. You use
it in the sixth one. That word does not exist in this language. It never
did. There is now a word-shaped void in the fabric of this language.
The natives look at you uneasily. There is a new quality to the silence and your palms start to sweat.
H is not H. H is not H. H is not H. H is not H.
One day you flip through your dictionary. A page is missing. What was the word? You can’t remember. There is pressure building at the back of your head. The clock blinks 3:03AM.
You write my name
is in cyrillic. There are shadows dancing on the walls. They grow
longer with each letter you write down. It is not cyrillic you’re
using. You keep writing my name is. The shadows now bleed from
the tip of your pen. It’s irrelevant. You need to remember the right
N is not N is not N is
not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N
is not… If only you could remember the letters. The letters are important. What was it, that wasn’t N?
There are nine different prefixes
you can add to a verb to change its meaning. There are fifty three different suffixes you have to add to a verb to make it
work. In the end the only thing left of the original is a vague shape
of one of its middle consonants.
You can feel the anguish radiating from the verb’s mutialted form. A desperate sob escapes through your clenched teeth.
You’re so, so sorry, you didn’t meant to. You didn’t. It doesn’t matter.
You now read a text in
Russian. You’ve never learnt Russian. Why are you reading that text? The words burn your eyes,
the meaning searing your mind.
There’s a shot of vodka in front of
you. You don’t drink alcohol. You don’t care. All existence is
meaningless, your soul’s in eternal pain. A broken matrioshka lays at your feet. There is no salvation, she says boring into your eyes. You open your mouth to answer, but there is only a burst of harsh rustle. It dies in whispering echoes a moment later. Your glass is empty again.
not sure if these are edited or not, but apparently this creepy-ass Bendy is in the hallway Boris hides in before walking out during the cutscene at the end of Chapter 2. Can any hackers confirm this? :P
Until someone shows me how to get around this Itunes encryption nonsense, ya’ll are gonna have to deal with these poopy quality gifs. How could they do this to me? And on the 7th night of Hanukkah no less…
okay so !! in you gotta die sometime, whizzer is replacing this nebulous concept of death – something that a man his age hasn’t had to worry about, nevertheless a man of his disposition – with Death, a fellow man, a lover, something that makes sense and that comforts him. whizzer, by all accounts, was never supposed to die in his twenties/thirties; he was a healthy, athletic young man who took care of his body, and so why would he ever have to worry about the sudden disappearance of his health?
and now, all within a matter of months, he has this IV in his arm and his mind is foggy and his ribs are sharp against his loose hospital gown. his friend, a member of this makeshift family they’ve finally created has to tell him that he’s dying, has to tell his lover that he’s on the edge of that very same bridge.
Of braiding hair and apology cards by @lotorn (Explicit) Lance’s long fingers thread through the soft locks gently, his nails scratching on the scalp. Lotor purrs. (okay so, not exactly fluff, but it is for this ship tbh lol)
Little Blue by @shiirxtakashii “Wait, are you flustered? Are you blushing?” Lance asked, leaning over to try and get a closer look at the other. “Flustered? Blushing? What are those?” Lotor asked, his head turning back, the flush still there slightly.
Moonflower by @noir-wing (yup, this one’s mine) (WIP) “Don’t swear at me in Galra,” Lance glared. The prince smirked, “Oh, it wasn’t an insult. If you were to translate it into your tongue… I suppose the word would be: darling.”
Altean! Lance AU Drabble by @raphidae Lotor and Allura are engaged in the name of an alliance, but neither want to wed one another. So what happens when Lotor meets her younger brother? (I’m putting this in multichapter because it’s a really long drabble series so it’s basically a fic)