Micropasta: That Which Kills the CatMicropasta: That Which Kills the CatMicropasta: That Which Kills the Cat by ShackleSoul
You painted this picture
Weaving your words of fantasy
Into a web of misery
Breaking into every nerve
Making me realize what I deserve
But no matter how hard you try
I won't die
I won't die
I won't die
- Bullet of Reason, “Judas”
Bad things happen to good people, and while Herman Pallad may not have been a shining paragon of humanity, he still felt that he didn’t deserve this.
“I’m going home now” his coworker Iris said.
The pair of coworkers had been observing the test compartment via a combination of video feed and direct observation, just in case Heisenberg’s old uncertainty principle came into effect in regards to the cameras. Their monitoring station was protected from the strange painting and its attached po
Micropasta: Because a Rock Doesn't BleedMicropasta: Because a Rock Doesn’t BleedMicropasta: Because a Rock Doesn't Bleed by ShackleSoul
My attic used to be empty, just wasted space in a house I wasn’t even spending very much time in to begin with. So between that and the fact that it had no windows and bore excellent soundproofing, naturally it was the best place to set up the Apparatus.
“Why was I created?” it says to me, as I tinker with the machine which gave birth to it.
The creature is disgusting, too disgusting for mere words, even to my wholly objective eyes. The Apparatus no more understands the intricacies of sentient life than I do, so when I utilized the thing for its intended purpose of creating life from inanimate filth, the result turned out about as well as you could expect.
“Why was I created?” it repeats.
I am normally not this cruel. Really, I swear. But like a Human, sometimes I do horrific things without even really knowing why. I simply carry out the action without paying any heed to the ever-important questi
Micropasta: Dead to HerselfMicropasta: Dead to HerselfMicropasta: Dead to Herself by ShackleSoul
She looked perfect. Her pale skin, ashen hair, and grey eyes all spoke a monochrome language of beauty. It was a darn shame that she happened to be dead. The only marring facet of the thirty-something's beauty was her wrinkled and slightly bloated flesh, a distinct giveaway to the manner of her death.
The practically-opaque sheets of rain outside and constantly booming thunder made it hard to hear, especially given the constant creaks of the basement of this old bordello that was now being used for a distinctly different purpose.
“Tilt her neck a little, that’s not a natural positioning. Yes, yes, like that” the photographer stated, giving directions to his understudy of sorts in their cramped studio.
And yet, this wasn’t the lair of a serial killer. Not in the slightest. The year was 1881, and Death Portraits were still the only practical method of photographing a person. After all, dead people don’t twitch or fid