rosarymutt
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The static never truly stopped.
It breathed through the speakers even when every channel lay empty. Mercer had grown used to it over the years. The sound became a part of the lighthouse itself—like the wind moaning through stairwells or waves collapsing against the cliffs below. Sometimes he imagined the island slept beneath it. Sometimes he imagined the static was the island dreaming.
In which a lonely lighthouse keeper loses himself in the endless hum of the sea.
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The prayers lived in his throat like rot, heavy and unsayable, leaking from him instead as breath and silence.
The silence was holy, he told himself. A god could dwell in absence as easily as presence. But that absence pressed into his chest until he thought he might break open beneath it.
Perhaps he already had.
In which a man kneels in endless prayer to a distant god.
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- Part 3 of oneshots
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- English
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She sat beneath the yellow light and touched his face. Cold. Not dead-cold, not yet. His soft skin gave slightly beneath her thumb.
"You're still warm," she whispered, her voice warm too.
The boy did not answer.
She lowered her head. Her mouth found his hand first.
In which grief becomes an appetite.
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- Part 2 of oneshots
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- English
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- 1,034
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A Second Grave by rosarymutt
Fandoms: Original Work, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
05 Aug 2026
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Wet soil clogged his throat, packed beneath his tongue and into the delicate spaces between his teeth. When he inhaled, the earth inhaled with him. Cold mud slid down into lungs that should not have been breathing at all.
The first thing he felt was hunger.
In which a vampire is born.
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- Part 1 of oneshots
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