Pyrephox

@pyrephox.bsky.social

260 Followers 162 Following

"We dance round in a ring and suppose, But the Secret sits in the middle and knows."

Brown and gray tabby cat, sitting on a pale blue blanket on the corner of a bed, looking judgmental, white wall behind.
Text excerpt: “You think it’s that easy?” He didn’t have to see her to be able to picture her bared teeth on the other end. “Nothing on the phone. Come by our–my apartment. Bring lunch, too. I haven’t eaten and I’m feeling like something expensive. That pork belly sandwich from Layers with the pepper jelly. And the potatoes. And I want a matcha latte from anywhere but Starbucks.” How guilty would I actually feel if she dies? West weighed the answer internally, then sighed. “Fine. Give me the address.” The apartment was, predictably, nowhere near the restaurant. He contemplated Uber bills with grim resignation. “You were serious about the groveling, huh?” “You have no idea how serious I get about groveling, West. Don’t dally.” The phone went dead in his hand before he had the chance to get anything like a last word. He looked at it, laughed, and went to take a double dose of painkillers before calling for a ride.
Text excerpt, black text on white background: He’d meant to capture the chaos of the parade, that cacophony that was celebratory but also had the suggestion that, at any moment, it could tip over into something more bacchanal or vengeful. The happy madness of a crowd was still madness, after all. But somewhere in the execution he’d softened the edges, missed the depth that he’d aimed for. “This one’s mine,” he said, with a sigh. “Flaws and all.”
A bright green astroturf lawn, with a twin blade of real grass that has forced its way to the surface and is standing high above the astroturf.
Text: Sophia crept from her hiding place among the blooming orchids. She was a beauty: polished chitin, milky white eyes set in oblongs over her sharp, triangular face, long legs and forearms that ended in combs of well-groomed spikes. Her exoskeleton was pale white and pink, perfect for blending into the flowers of her native hunting grounds. Not to hide, but to lure the unwary insect closer. Fit for the warrior princess she was. She froze when he shifted on his feet, cocking her head to look out through the glass and up at him, psuedopupils fused into a singular dot from this distance. He smiled and took a step back. “Go get ‘em, girl.” The locust was as large as she was, but even if Solomon had dropped it in there at its peak energy, it would have been no match for her. It kicked, frozen and feeble, tumbling off the log. Her head turned to a ninety-degree angle, tracking its thrashing. She struck in the space of Solomon’s blink, clinging to the locust in an intimate but deadly embrace as she buried her mandibles in the back of its head. It struggled, rolling both insects around in the soil, but the outcome was never in doubt. When the locust’s convulsive movements slowed, Sophia began to feast. Starting with the head.
But all Owen could think was: it wasn’t a watch. It hadn’t been a watch at all. The doctor’s forearms had seen surgeries over the years. Transplants, Owen supposed one could call it. Patches of his skin had been removed, replaced with monstrous golden eyes. As Victor turned to fold his coat and place it on a shelf, neat as you pleased, those eyes stared at Owen. The ones that could, anyway. Some, the ones closest to the wrists, had gone milky and blind, or putrid, collapsed into scabby holes in the surgeon’s flesh. But most of them seemed alive. Healthy, even, moist and glistening and alert. Victor turned back, caught him staring. He smiled. “Trial and error. The first few didn’t quite take.” He lightly touched one of the scabrous pits. “The flesh died, evaporated. It was nasty. A few of them only seem to thrive temporarily. Unfortunate, but a learning experience.”
Brown and black longhaired tabby cat lying on his side, front paws drawn up, sideyeing the floor. He's on a cat-mangled gray gaming chair.
An excerpt from a manuscript, black on white: It was Instagram. The title of the clip was: OLD FAILS THE CARSURF CHALLENGE. Solomon took two quick steps forward. The views were in the six digits and climbing. The intrepid young filmmaker had been placed at just the right angle on the street to catch a good shot of Solomon’s face, his hair pulled back and up by the wind, as he flung himself off of the car and hit the pavement. The video ended just as he rolled to look up at the cop. He wasn’t even mad. The ice-cold terror that flashed through him didn’t permit anything as excitable as anger. Solomon took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes. If his students, his colleagues, hadn’t seen this already, the odds were good that they would sometime in the next few days. “I’m beginning to think jail might be the least embarrassing option for my future.”
Tiny purple and white flowers on long, bare stems, with a semi-sandy background.
Sleepy, fluffy tabby cat rolled to his belly, front legs crossed. He's sitting on a couch, with a yellow notebook behind him.
Gray tabby on gray brown carpet, with a sunbeam falling over his flank.
Tabby cat sitting on a cream colored couch, looking at the camera like he's tired of being photographed.
Fluffy tabby cat on his back on the brown carpet, staring at the camera.
A curled up tabby cat on a badly mauled gaming chair, staring at the camera
Brown and gray tabby housecat sticking his head in bag pocket, committing mask theft.
A picture of a long haired brown tabby cat, sitting, staring at the camera, with a background of brown carpet.
Want ad: WANTED - A PROTESTANT ORPHAN girl, about 13 or 14 years, for board and clothes, good home in respectable family.
Snippet of article: The Congregationalist questions the toleration of Anarchist teachings in Sunday schools: It is a question how far the liberty of such teaching ought to be allowed, even in free America, Every effort possible is made to discredit the Bible and its doctrines, and to implant hatred in the minds of the Sunday school scholars against capitalists as a class. Many of the schools are held in saloons. Of course, the municipal authorities maintain a close watch upon such nurseries of evil, and those who are responsible for them, and any attempt at violence is tolerably sure to be checked at the ontset(sic). Probably such schools cannot be closed except after some alterations of existing laws, and there may be a question of whether such legislation is wise...
Congratulations, the florid man with the eyebrows like wolf tails says, you’re officially a Sorter, third class. Try not to drool on the belts. His stare leaves no doubt that this is a danger he considers real; a Sorter (third class) is only a Sorter because flesh is cheaper than steel, and more easily replaced when it breaks.