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@maosboo.bsky.social
blood begins to drip from the end of the witch’s nose
https://maosboo.com
https://maosboo.com
The big darknesses—the void, underground lakes, old basements—are bad, but shallow, less bad than the concentrated deepness of the small darknesses—the shadow between your fingers, the black sphere lingering just outside your peripheral vision, the hollow of the slightly-overlong pause from your mum
July 20, 2025 at 6:46 PM
The big darknesses—the void, underground lakes, old basements—are bad, but shallow, less bad than the concentrated deepness of the small darknesses—the shadow between your fingers, the black sphere lingering just outside your peripheral vision, the hollow of the slightly-overlong pause from your mum
Sorry for the lack of posting—my despair came back, like an old lover’s embrace, cold arms reaching out of the shadows
July 19, 2025 at 7:46 PM
Sorry for the lack of posting—my despair came back, like an old lover’s embrace, cold arms reaching out of the shadows
Do not strike the clown, for its body will simply split into two smaller, weirder clowns
July 3, 2025 at 4:10 PM
Do not strike the clown, for its body will simply split into two smaller, weirder clowns
Centuries have passed since Earth went silent, and somehow the abandoned rockets here on Mars have woven themselves into a cable-tangled forest. Many folk, foraging in the depths of the winter, have claimed to see the same thing in the highest portholes—an Earth child’s face, lips moving silently
June 30, 2025 at 6:01 PM
Centuries have passed since Earth went silent, and somehow the abandoned rockets here on Mars have woven themselves into a cable-tangled forest. Many folk, foraging in the depths of the winter, have claimed to see the same thing in the highest portholes—an Earth child’s face, lips moving silently
The furnace's interior keeps changing colour, and keeps talking to me, even after I ride the elevator upstairs to my flat, and even as I now lie tossing in bed, smoke creeping up from beneath my bedroom's door, smoke that is talking in splendrous colours
June 29, 2025 at 5:34 PM
The furnace's interior keeps changing colour, and keeps talking to me, even after I ride the elevator upstairs to my flat, and even as I now lie tossing in bed, smoke creeping up from beneath my bedroom's door, smoke that is talking in splendrous colours
I hate the way that our dog looks at me, with those still black eyes, and the way that his legs just seem to keep getting longer. I've been feeding him dark chocolate, and grapes, and have buried his still body under the sycamore three times now, but he keeps coming back, each time a little taller
June 28, 2025 at 6:15 PM
I hate the way that our dog looks at me, with those still black eyes, and the way that his legs just seem to keep getting longer. I've been feeding him dark chocolate, and grapes, and have buried his still body under the sycamore three times now, but he keeps coming back, each time a little taller
Death is a sound, a pure tone that I follow through the mist, through the fields, through the industrial estate, to the tall factory wall, where the sound abruptly lowers in pitch, as if I must start digging
June 26, 2025 at 4:35 PM
Death is a sound, a pure tone that I follow through the mist, through the fields, through the industrial estate, to the tall factory wall, where the sound abruptly lowers in pitch, as if I must start digging
The peekaboo man lives in the book I take out to look at when I'm alone, but he's growing too big, and soon will be big enough to come out of the book, and then I'll have to live in it, and he will look at me, with those eyes like chameleons' tongues
June 2, 2025 at 6:19 PM
The peekaboo man lives in the book I take out to look at when I'm alone, but he's growing too big, and soon will be big enough to come out of the book, and then I'll have to live in it, and he will look at me, with those eyes like chameleons' tongues
The stars are wheels, and, if you attend carefully, you can hear their spinning and sparking, within your head, and may, with continued focus, be able to detect the other wheels, too, such as those that constitute most people's faces, the faces of those from whom you must run, faster than the wheels
May 31, 2025 at 8:57 PM
The stars are wheels, and, if you attend carefully, you can hear their spinning and sparking, within your head, and may, with continued focus, be able to detect the other wheels, too, such as those that constitute most people's faces, the faces of those from whom you must run, faster than the wheels
The small man who appeared at my door pretending he could not speak—nonsense. The bird I saw through the window that was flying backwards—nonsense. The man's voice suddenly speaking in my bedroom in the middle of the night about my dead mother—all of it nonsense, not a lick of sense in any of it.
May 29, 2025 at 8:32 PM
The small man who appeared at my door pretending he could not speak—nonsense. The bird I saw through the window that was flying backwards—nonsense. The man's voice suddenly speaking in my bedroom in the middle of the night about my dead mother—all of it nonsense, not a lick of sense in any of it.
It sounds horrible, but I was relieved when I flushed my miscarriage down the toilet—that is, I was relieved, until much later that night, when something small and wet climbed into my bed, making a sound that was a bit like crying
May 18, 2025 at 5:25 PM
It sounds horrible, but I was relieved when I flushed my miscarriage down the toilet—that is, I was relieved, until much later that night, when something small and wet climbed into my bed, making a sound that was a bit like crying
It's been so long: am I still able to write?—I think to myself as the AI surgically extracts the last dripping segment of brain tissue from my skull cavity
May 17, 2025 at 5:46 PM
It's been so long: am I still able to write?—I think to myself as the AI surgically extracts the last dripping segment of brain tissue from my skull cavity
The bones of spring jut from the mud, florid with fungus, rippling with worms, the only colour and motion in this flower-filled field that admits the full truth of the season
May 16, 2025 at 5:29 PM
The bones of spring jut from the mud, florid with fungus, rippling with worms, the only colour and motion in this flower-filled field that admits the full truth of the season
I know I shouldn't be thinking about it, but I can't put the hole in the dirt beneath the electricity pylon out of my mind—its warmth, its softness, its voice telling me it is thinking about me too
May 15, 2025 at 6:14 PM
I know I shouldn't be thinking about it, but I can't put the hole in the dirt beneath the electricity pylon out of my mind—its warmth, its softness, its voice telling me it is thinking about me too
I'm becoming a witch—my brim is sprouting from my temples, and my hat tip is extruding from my forehead. I'm going to be so jaunty
May 15, 2025 at 3:00 PM
I'm becoming a witch—my brim is sprouting from my temples, and my hat tip is extruding from my forehead. I'm going to be so jaunty
My teeth are softening daily, bending like warm wax as they begin to dissolve. Gelatinous agglomerations of enamel coat my throat like lumpy custard. I smile
May 14, 2025 at 6:52 PM
My teeth are softening daily, bending like warm wax as they begin to dissolve. Gelatinous agglomerations of enamel coat my throat like lumpy custard. I smile
This pedestrian underpass is much longer than I expected, and much too dark, and by now the sounds from the road overhead don't sound anything like cars
February 28, 2025 at 8:11 PM
This pedestrian underpass is much longer than I expected, and much too dark, and by now the sounds from the road overhead don't sound anything like cars
They don't want you to know this but you can eat your computer and get the AI's dreams
January 8, 2025 at 4:29 PM
They don't want you to know this but you can eat your computer and get the AI's dreams
The ash-veined sky weeps ghost acorns, as if in mourning for the falling of the last tree. I cup my hands, and the cloudy acorn falls right through, to be grasped by ghost roots writhing out of the ground, the dead woods still hungry to grow
January 5, 2025 at 5:27 PM
The ash-veined sky weeps ghost acorns, as if in mourning for the falling of the last tree. I cup my hands, and the cloudy acorn falls right through, to be grasped by ghost roots writhing out of the ground, the dead woods still hungry to grow
It seems like the right thing to do, to wade through the tall reeds, and to just keep on walking—I don't really understand why, but you have promised to explain everything, once we're both deep beneath the black water and are silent together
January 4, 2025 at 7:36 PM
It seems like the right thing to do, to wade through the tall reeds, and to just keep on walking—I don't really understand why, but you have promised to explain everything, once we're both deep beneath the black water and are silent together
None of my friends from school want to come with me to visit the old woods. But that's OK—I have made new friends there, who I haven't seen yet, but who whisper from the shadows in the canopies of the old karri trees, saying that I will see them soon when they come to visit my school
December 19, 2024 at 8:34 PM
None of my friends from school want to come with me to visit the old woods. But that's OK—I have made new friends there, who I haven't seen yet, but who whisper from the shadows in the canopies of the old karri trees, saying that I will see them soon when they come to visit my school
All I remember is climbing down this ladder into fog-thick darkness, hands slipping on steel rungs from the heat, sweat making the straps bite into my shoulders—straps securing the chain that hangs below, whose weight goes slack, as if something is climbing up
December 7, 2024 at 8:32 PM
All I remember is climbing down this ladder into fog-thick darkness, hands slipping on steel rungs from the heat, sweat making the straps bite into my shoulders—straps securing the chain that hangs below, whose weight goes slack, as if something is climbing up
I know he was blind drunk, I know he was gunna tear out to her shack out bush, I know the shack was just ashes the next day—dunno where those two are, dunno why the parched trees round the shack didn't burn, dunno how those gloves got strung from every bloody tree, pointer fingers all jabbing down
November 10, 2024 at 7:03 PM
I know he was blind drunk, I know he was gunna tear out to her shack out bush, I know the shack was just ashes the next day—dunno where those two are, dunno why the parched trees round the shack didn't burn, dunno how those gloves got strung from every bloody tree, pointer fingers all jabbing down
Growing up, we never talked about it, but we all knew it was there, inside Mum, until one day it came out, seeping out her skin, and she ran outside, and took her clothes off, and stabbed our sister with a meat thermometer in the face. Mum died not long after that, and now we don't know where it is
November 8, 2024 at 10:27 PM
Growing up, we never talked about it, but we all knew it was there, inside Mum, until one day it came out, seeping out her skin, and she ran outside, and took her clothes off, and stabbed our sister with a meat thermometer in the face. Mum died not long after that, and now we don't know where it is
Once a century, the flower emerges from the deep, opening its petals beneath the moon, revealing the city of the dead, dragged up from below, whose inhabitants simply pick up their hats and go about their day, until the moon blurs into the dawn, and the flower swallows and descends once again
November 6, 2024 at 8:56 PM
Once a century, the flower emerges from the deep, opening its petals beneath the moon, revealing the city of the dead, dragged up from below, whose inhabitants simply pick up their hats and go about their day, until the moon blurs into the dawn, and the flower swallows and descends once again