Welcome to Semanticville
We're a disabled trans feminine nonbinary aroace lesbian DID system that writes cosmic horror and poetry. She/Its. Picrew is by Djarn and is a placeholder.
Our Mastodon, Twitter, email, support us with Patreon
Our fiction, our poetry, buy our content, buy our merchandise, more about Semanticville.
COMING SOON
The Perspective of The KingdomDeep within the belly of The Dream is The Center, and upon The Center is The Forest and The Kingdom. The Forest is embedded within The Center’s flesh, and from it springs Savage Life, and the deepest Well of Knowing. Atop it’s skin is The Kingdom, a lavish and decadent empire of many angled blinding-burning Lords with no king and many servants. It is you who are the servants. They campaign tirelessly for It, to bring everything to perfect and awful stillness. But It is the one that does the labor. Even though It is insignificant, It is glad for the work. The Work is in The Depths: under The Kingdom, between The Palace and The Skin, and through it and within The Center. When The Work is complete, The Center will no longer quiver and pulse, and there will be an endless and perfect sleep without Dreaming.The Forest, full of awful and unknowable Life, penetrates the skin of The Center. The Forest breathes in The Dream and pours The Dream into The Center. The Center, being a dumb and stupid thing is glad for it; since it lacks proper Reason. This is why The Center quivers and pulses. The idiotic thing dances with the merriment of foolishness. The Work of The Forest is awful, and petulant. It is a thing of gifts, and burdens, and tasks. It is a Work that curses all with Motion, Imperfection, and Feeling. It is a putrid thing, crawling like worms and maggots in the loam and flesh.The Perspective of The GardenBurning in the center of The Aether is The Heart, and blossoming from The Heart is The Garden. The Garden and The Heart are interwoven, but The Empire of Needles is Jealous, and sews itself lustfully and maliciously into the flesh of The Heart. The Blood of The Heart pools in many Springs of Wisdom, and from the Springs have grown many Wards of Fellowship, and each with their own Bath of Renewal. The Garden yields its Bounty and gives it to Us. We receive much Fragrance, and Medicine, and Poison, and Fruit, and Awakening. We Devour the Garden, and The Garden devours Us. The Heart pervades The Garden with its Blood, and The Garden consumes The Heart, just as it eats Our hearts. Yet The Heart and We remain. The Garden is starving, and We are starving. We must take what it gives Us, and Eat, and be Consumed. As We are Eaten We interweave with The Forces who tend to and are The Garden. We are woven at every angle. We are always being Eaten.The Empire of Needles has an Emperor and The Emperor is a Locust. The Locust is many: There is Many Emperor, and They are The Swarm. They wear Us like puppet-meat. We become perfectly rotted clothes. And then there is no Hunger for Us. There is no Us: only It. It does The Stabbing, and The Sewing, and The Stealing. It vomits The Swarm upon The Heart, and The Emperor and It does The Ravishing. They do not Eat because of Hunger, They Ravish out of Gluttony, and Jealousy, and Hate. If there is no Blood, there can be no Beating. And the Beating of The Heart makes The Swarm writhe and roil with hateful Lust and Jealousy. The Blood Calls Them and Banishes Them with the same Rhythm, with the same Word.
An Explanatory Note on the COLORSthirst, love, and the warmth and light of the fire. RED is the color of life, and survival at any cost.Have you ever smelled the sweetly rotting orange? Each of us is a little like that. ORANGE is the color of death, the sweet rot that brings all things inevitably back to the nothingness from whence they came. It is the last fond kiss.Rest. Rest. And rest again, dear child. YELLOW is the color of safety, boundaries, decadence, warmth, and the internal struggle. You may lose your mind my dear, but there's nothing to fear if one is safe.We are all connected, interwoven in the tapestry of creation. The canvas that is strong will not be torn asunder by any blade. GREEN is the color of cooperation and peace. Of oneness. Fear not the loss of self, those who are one are part of the weave and weft of all, are all, and know all.Listen closely, pupil. Listen to the rush of water bubbling up from under your feet! BLUE is the color of loud, fervent water! Of unknowable depths! The bringer of beginnings, the end to endings, and the ends in and of the selves. It is the great pressure, squeezing ever so perfectly fitting around all manner of endless life, death, and other.Can you hear the clanking? Are you safe? Are they safe? INDIGO is the color of locks, of sanity, of security, of machines. Lock your most precious knowledge within yourself. Lock yourself within the bank. Be safe. Be the safe. SAFE! There will be order, there WILL be fearful and obedient responsibility! Do not knock, and do not scream, and do not cry. All key's are broken in locks that are unbreakable.Listen to the beating, that is the center/heart. DO NOT LISTEN TO LIES!!! The center/heart yearns to be free, the center/heart desires stillness/to beat. VIOLET is the color of blood, unknowably awful/perfect blood. It is the world that is how it is. And one day you shall witness that the world will end/be reborn again and forever again and again.
Just A Little More TimeIn a strange and distant place there once lived a Beast in the shape of a gas station worker. It wasn’t a man, not exactly. And it wasn’t a woman, not exactly. It was a man in the way that a wizard is a man. It was a woman in the way that blood and love is a woman. But more than that, it was a Beast, and it was hungry, and the Beast was very very good.One morning it awoke to the unwanted shrieking of a small black box. The box was very persistent, and very hungry, and had very urgent news. So the Beast very hurriedly connected the box to its source of food, pet the faithful creature, and listened for the voice that sought to speak through the box. A sort of… amused yet pinched squinting upon its face as it did so.“We require you to come perform your tasks tonight.” The voice commanded. “We know that you are accustomed to doing your duties during the daytime. But we are worried about that vampire who lives with you? The bassist, the demon slayer, the one who hates mangos. You know the one?”“Yes.” The Beast whispered.“We are concerned for her. We think the night is angry with her, and that she needs the pleasant-burning of the sun time for her tasks. So we have decided to swap your task times, at least for now, as a treat.”And with that the box only fed. With a short whine, the voice no longer spoke through the creature. The Beast was glad for this, and it settled back into the covers in its nest for a time.The Beast dreamed. It dreamed of the fire glass, golden-white in the sun, and the spiky green hairs that sprouted from it. As if it were both a desert, and the skin of some forgotten god. It dreamed of birds burning in restful slumber, thanks to the wood it wrestled out of scorpion woodmongers, and its fire. But most of all it dreamed of the goodness it had cultivated in its Garden. Good people (for those who could be called people), good creatures (for those who could be called creatures), shining words that dripped with fire, the comforting smoke of glamour-magics; healing, revelry, song, wine, and little golden apples of purposeful and exultant change.When the Beast finally woke, creamy shafts of orange-gold light filtered in through the window. Angrily flooding the room like a buzzing Swarm of Locusts.No...?That… wasn’t quite right. That color was a comfort. The color of the Beast, actually. It was like the delicate glossy wings of the cockroaches of a different home. If it was a home, the Beast… Or it was like the subtle melting of those dreamy orange ice cream treats, if such things were fashioned out of Nectar and Ambrosia especially for it. And it, made ready to devour them, not unlike the hearts of girls.There should have been a comfort and a beauty in the waking from the Dreaming. That color was beautiful, and important to it. Instead, the Beast was discomfited, unsettled, but not quite sure why.The Beast shook its head, like a dog caught in the rain. It scattered the crawling-nipping thoughts from around its ears and began to make ready. Make ready for the work. It prowled its way to the room of silver, and wasting, and water. Climbing into the open cage that spat fiery mist, before wet-burning and tearing the discomfort from its skin.It smelled like it, it thought, as it wiped the clinging fire-mist from the silver. It examined itself for a time, before deciding that today felt important! And there was magic that needed doing. It was right, of course. Today was important! And so it set itself about its task.It fetched the makings of its magic from a low corner of the earth, and laid out its salves and mixings, its horns and powders, and most importantly all the bits of girl that it had collected throughout the years. Spread out upon the crawling chaos of its work-altar it cracked its bones and called what was needed to hand. Then, shortly, it had cloaked itself in glamour.It was not a man, not exactly. It was not a woman, not exactly. It was a man in the way that pomegranates and knives are a man. It was a woman in the way that a wizard was a woman. It did not look like a Beast, though it was one. It looked like a Beast in the way that one who eats anise, from the source, is a Beast. It looked like a girl, but not exactly. It looked like a girl in the way that love, and bleeding, and hunger was a girl. It smelled like the freshly won roses of a campaign. It smelled like a man in the way that war, and life, was a man.It made its way back to its nest where it clothed itselves in the red and black wardrobe of its trade, collected its small and needful things (who were very excited to go with it, especially the small box), and made its way out into the foyer in order to set about the task of its departure.The vampire, the bassist, the demon slayer, the one who hated mangos had other plans however. Perhaps it was the war the Beast was wearing, Or perhaps it was the glamour of the bleeding. Either way the vampire set upon it with the raking of claws, the biting, the laughing, and the fury, and the Beast answered its assault in kind with a snarl.Soon the battle ended, no victor to be found. It had been a battle for the joy of it. The vampire and the Beast held each other for a time, in the smiles and small-breathing of friendship and intimacy. Only for a while. And then the Beast rolled its eyes at her and left. Her hiss of farewell resting about its ears as it made its way into the cold and the night, pushed itself sideways through a portal, and found itself at the place of its labor.The night was mostly uneventful. Merely the small comings and goings of small world people; who knew nothing of magic, or beauty, or life, or war, or vampires, or anise, or girls…The Beast dreamed. A waking sort of Dream. The work had never really appealed to it, and the work was not demanding at the moment. It dreamed of smoke and safety, and the passing of time. It was ready for an increase in power; attaining a new level of purpose, and meaning, fulfilment, and perhaps… something more? It dreamed of fields of perfectly white flowers, rustling with the barest of breaths as they stretched on forever, laden in the weight of their own simple beauty. It dreamed of the weight of words, bled onto the page through its fingers. It dreamed of the fire-spark of intimacy with the people and creatures which it loved. The not-weight warmth of closeness.It dreamed of the fire glass, golden-white in the sun, and the spiky green hairs that sprouted from it. As if it were both a desert, and the skin of some forgotten god. It dreamed of birds burning in restful slumber, thanks to the wood it wrestled out of scorpion woodmongers, and its fire. But most of all it dreamed of the goodness it had cultivated in its Garden. Good people (for those who could be called people), good creatures (for those who could be called creatures), shining words that dripped with fire, the comforting smoke of glamour-magics; healing, revelry, song, wine, and little golden apples of purposeful and exultant change.It dreamed of something perhaps. Or nothing. Or everything all at once. The Dreaming bubbling up from within it like a fountain of blood from a needful and hungry wound. And it was hungry. The Beast was hungry, and it oh so desperately wanted to devour, and be devoured, and…It was filled with so much purpose, and meaning, and need. But more than that, it was a Beast, and it was hungry, and the Beast was very very good. The work did not take from the Beast tonight. It was radiant with creamy, orange-gold light. It was awakened with the beating of the heart within its chest, full of a fevered and very wise hunger. Full of hope. The night was very good for once, and it smiled for that. It dreamed of Stabbing, and Sewing, and Steal- no! No! No it did not!!!Its breathing had risen to a heightened pitch, shocked and panicked. How could it feel so happy and full of hope and life? And then, very much against its will, have that all twisted into something other, something awful? It was an intrusion and a violation and the Beast was not okay and it just wanted to get back to its nest and fight the vampire and hold her in happy stillness and dream of new and wondrous things and all the time that it had ahead and all of the goodness that it had cultivated in its Garden and…A gentleman entered the store just then. The little chime was a hammer blow that stunned the Beast and shocked it into place and stillness, as if its shadow was sewn hatefully to the linoleum. There were many gentleman, although there was only one.They were impossible to describe, and impossible to look at, actually. But if the Beast were to describe them it would have said that they had a lavish decadence to them. That they were dripping with malice, and an angry ravishing needful jealousy. That they were so awfully and hideously beautiful, like the fire crawling in the void of a black hole that consumed everything endlessly and without purpose for the sheer fucking hate of it.They came up to the counter and pointed. And suddenly the Beast could move, and it fetched a packet of cancer-searing savory and luxurious little sticks of regal death wrapped in green. For the gentleman. For the King. For Them.They plucked the thing from the counter, gracefully, but with an awful force. They ripped the packet open and stuck one of the little sticks, like a bone, like a finger bone into the hole in Their face. The sudden dark and awful fire of awfully pungent smoke blinded the Beast, and choked all of the worthless desperate hunger out of it. The bone ignited with a blistering anti-radiance that incinerated its not-so-pleasant beating heart, and putrid fucking dreaming. The last thought that it ever had was that it wished it could have had Just A Little More Time.Now the Beast is the one that does The Work, and it is happy for the labor. It is insignificant, one of many servants, standing upon the skin of The Center. It is hollow, and worn like rags on a kind and loving King who are Many. There is Many King. It vomits its hunger out on an awful and wretched Heart, and the acid of its needful hatred melts the dancing flesh. It hacks at the muscle with its claws, and though the screams, the creamy orange-gold screams, fill its ears; it tunes them out. There is only The Work. There was never a Beast. And The Garden rots. Soon The Work will be done...All It needs is Just A Little More Time.
DisconsolationTiny little fingers stretching forward slightly spread.Arms warmth encircles form, with one hand curled round the head.Larger now, the fingers stretch, straightforward in their need.No more warmth is found here, the soul begins to bleed.
Roadkill Seen From A Broken WindowCW: implied animal deathClitter clatter the clink of cracked glass.Open now the truth with the suns searing shining.The broken pieces pitter pattering about the problem.A raven with a broken wing can’t fly you from your fate.Or scamper free the terror of truck tires at total throttle.