Holy Shit- Actually, Those First 3 Paragraphs Plus That Stray Sentence That Technically Is It's Own Paragraph

Do Memories of Your Religious Upbringing Leave You Feeling Afraid?

Do you know the story of the city of sodom in the bible? You know, in Genesis 19? You know how angels warned Lot and his family to flee the city and not look back? How in the end they were riding out of the city as it was being destroyed, but the wife could not help but look back, and was turned into a pillar of salt as punishment? That story upset me terribly as a kid. It seemed so cruel, and just for what? That sick feeling in your gut that makes you watch on even though you know you shouldn't?

I mean, I know now why it upset me so much. I would've looked too. It's absurd--

Not the other wild claims that were preached to us, interpretations rather than written word, while we all sat there drinking in the words like they were absolute. It was the damn pillar of salt that got me, that just ate me up inside. I can't help myself, I have to look. Every time. It's a real damned if I do, damned if I don't situation and all my life I've been told this ache to reach into the unknown horrors is wrong.. at least until I moved, anyways.

How could a deity punish something as wonderful as free thinking? Or curiosity? These stories make me wonder where the real harm was, or was it just simply another story to inspire fear in the hearts of men from as long back as fear possibly existed.

I want to be divorced from the inner child in me that still deep down believes it, and is half is expecting to be  struck dead for breathing life to such thoughts

And then there's the thought that's just outside of my periphery of "Oh, well what would you do of you had that level of power, Jules? Hmm?" And that just makes my brain buzz with anxiety because I know I'd doom us all.

Attention Fictionkin & Fictives of Tumblr, and Discord

I have a strange request that I have finally decided to put out there into the ether. I have found myself in the unique position of having strong feelings and possible memories without knowing the source, and this has been weighing on my mind for a while.

How this happened was that I viewed and interacted with a currently popular piece of media, which I related to and falsely led myself to believe that I was connected to that media in a way that I wasn’t, and then went on to join a discord server centered around said piece of media only to find that I was inserting myself somewhere I did not belong.

That being said, while I have learned that I am not fictionkin of who I thought I was, interacting with the many wonderful systems and individuals in said discord server has left me feeling that something there was familiar. The only problem is that some of the fictives and such that I interacted with were not all from the aforementioned source that the discord was created for, and I have absolutely no idea what set off this feeling. 

Now, if you haven't already scrolled away, here is where my proposal comes in– 

I would like to interact with some of you who are fictionkin, fictives, or have experiences similar to what I mention in this post. One such way I offer we do this is that you direct message me, or send me an ask in anonymous if you are uncomfortable sharing your blog name, just keep  in mind I will be unable to respond without posting the information you give.

If you choose to contact me, anything you share with me will be private and not shared on my blog. I will hold your memories, your secrets, your fears close to my heart as if they were my own. I will have a lot of questions, questions specific to whatever media you come from, questions in general about your specific experiences and your feelings pertaining to said experiences- so please be mentally prepared for a lengthy interrogation if you do. Some topics and main points in the last media that lead me to believe I was fictionkin of that material was;

*Horror 

*The feeling of being in a doomed timeline, and sense of dread. Like imminent death is irrevocably upon us, in mere days.

*A sense of crippling guilt. I feel as though I've gambled the very lives and souls of- not only myself, but of those closest to me. I want to remedy this, if I truly have created the irreparable damage that I feel so strongly

*A possible fourth thing that I'm holding close to my chest right now because it spoke to me profoundly and it just feels.. personal, in a way it shouldn't. It should be rather mundane and something I should be able to talk about and yet I can't. 

These may be helpful to take note of during our interactions, if you ever feel yourself lost on where to start. I possibly have one singular memory, but it was the tipping point on what made me realize I was not the fictionkin I thought I was, and so far I have not seen any matches in media so this may be largely unhelpful.

 Another suggestion on how we may interact is through fictionkin discord servers. If you are okay with the possibility I may not be from your media source, feel free to send me an invite to your discord server. This will be unfortunately a one sided relationship where I will be looking for information from you all but not offering to share any information about myself, because I am a deeply paranoid person.

I am overall uninterested in marring my perception of things with unnecessary biases such as feelings. That being said, I will be a model discord member, and be sure to follow all of your rules. Despite what I said above about not being willing to share anything about myself, if you are on an 18+ discord server and wish to invite me, I am willing to hand over verification information. 

If you are worried about how I will conduct myself in your server, I can have those from the last server I was in vouch for me if need be. If you are wondering  why I am so intent on finding my identity in this strange way, I need to feel like no matter what I've been through, no matter  what I've done, that there is an answer. If I don't have an answer, if I truly don't know, that just feels like death. I can't accept that. 

I know this post is probably a bit chaotic, and makes me come across as untrustworthy, so if you take a chance on me,  I thank you. 

I don't get why nothing is working, I was supposed to get better this was supposed to work. Why am I not grateful? I nearly died just a month ago and somehow I'm discontent with my life and I'm discontent in my own body, I don't get it.

Your Earliest Experienced Memories As Alterhuman, Fictionkin, etc!

I have admittedly been bogged down to my work, so I apologize for the silence. I'm married to my job and academic courses first and foremost...

After having so many wonderful conversations with you all, I would like to open a conversation to any and all who see this post. Recall your earliest memory that you experienced. Was it when interacting with something that triggered your memories? Was it when viewing a television program, or reading a chapter from a book in a dark corner of the library? Perhaps it came to you in a dream. However it came to you, I would like to hear all the details that you are willing to provide because you all have such remarkable stories, some that have been left unsaid. You deserve it to yourselves to share your stories, to let yourselves be known.

If I may also give a recommendation for sources; the SCP Foundation, and a bunch of its canons, have a ton of 'doomed timeline' stories. I am specifically more versed in the Church of the Broken God and Sarkicism groups of interests, but I would also recommend looking into the O5 Council as what you have described may align more with them.

-@sssssaarn

I apologize for the late reply, I wanted to take a proper amount of time answering this one because truth be told, I had a bit of SCP phase back in the early 2010s, and of course I happened to take a peek into the fandom once again when liminal space aesthetics and ‘The Backrooms’ rose to prominence. I remember back yesteryear, how my peers would all sit around one kid while they played the game and desperately wishing for that kind of kinship, but I digress. There is something that certainly allures me about the SCP fandom as a whole. The aesthetic, but also the anomaly classification system.The idea of bringing order to something so naturally chaotic really intrigues me. All you need to do is just look at one symbol in the classification system and you immediately know what source material you’re interacting with.. Thank you for the recommendation, I certainly will consider it.

A List Of Fictional Crushes I've Had Since The Age Of 9

It’s actually rather funny

My love life is near nonexistent, and it’s understandable why; I’ve never exactly been a looker, the idea of intimacy sets me on edge because how can you trust someone enough to hold that level of companionship with them? That being saaiiiid..

The nice thing about fictional crushes is that they can never leave you, or disappoint you (or even worse, you disappoint them!) Yes, I held the characters I read about all near and dear to my heart. So, here’s a comprehensive list of all the fictional crushes I’ve had since the age of 9, all in chronological order for your convenience:

Morticia Adams (The Addams Family 1991)

Frank Zhang (Heroes of Olympus Percy Jackson series)

Delores Claiborne (Title Name, Self Explanatory)

Monica Geller (Friends)

The Reporter Courtney Cox Played (Scream. This Crush Probably Wouldn't Have Happened if I Hadn't Watched Friends)

Peeta Melmark (The Hunger Games Series, Book Version Only)

Olivia Benson (Law and Order SVU)

Griffin (The Invisible Man 1933, Movie Version Only) ((I also need to clarify that a lot of my thoughts about Griffin are admittedly out of character))

Sam Tully (ASoIaF AND Game of Thrones)

Whoever It Was Rosario Dawson Played in (Death Proof)((It was the damn kick at the end)))*

Samwise Gamgee (Mostly the Movie Adaptations of Lord of the Rings)

If there's anything writing this down has taught me, it's that I have a clear type in both genders, and I'm of the opinion that the two of them would make the perfect couple, somewhere far *far* away from me 

(Feel Free To Reblog With Your Own Fictional Pinings)

Mitochondrial Gene Study on Mice Has Revealed Possible Links to Memory

Researchers used mitochondrial gene editing to model genetic disorders in mice. While previous attempts have been made, in-depth phenotypic changes resulting from mitochondrial gene knockout, for example the alterations in observable characteristics when a specific gene is inactivated, remain largely undocumented. So, researchers used a programmable DNA base editing technology to analyze the genotypic and phenotypic impacts of knocking out the ND5 mitochondrial gene, and they found profound impacts on brain function, metabolism, and thermoregulation. They employed a specialized DNA editing tool to induce mutations in the ND5 mitochondrial gene, disrupting energy production and causing learning deficits, hippocampal atrophy, and obesity. I just found this incredibly fascinating as this is the closest we've gotten to documenting when a gene is inactivated like that.

The fact that I've seen nearly every film on this at least once, if not multiple times.. haunts me

The Colors of Horror Movie Posters: The 2025 Update +white and black The original.

A Dream About A Moose

I would like preface before we begin with the details of exactly what I dreamt the other night, that I am uncertain if this is in fact a memory or if it was simply a stress dream brought on by my anticipation of finals, and the steady balance of the different aspects of my life that all come to a head around the holidays. This is going to be a fairly dark read. It taps into the very real horrors of the waking world and yet it was abstract, and so odd in the way these concepts presented themselves. So if you're easily disheartened by themes of body horror, hunting, and losing your sense of self, it's best you turn away from this particular post. Last of all–

I'm aware how bad this looks for me if it is a memory. I'm aware I may lose some friends I've made online, but after talking it over with someone who gave me a new perspective to look at it from, I've decided I'm going to share anyway.

 I remember it started off with me feeling dazed, like when you're lost in thought for a while and suddenly your focus is violently broken. The room was so dark that the shadows stretched and overlapped with each other, making ominous pulling figures that looked like they could snatch you at a moment’s notice. 

The ceiling fan is nothing more than a dark star, churning the heavy, high tension that's in the room, a tension I almost don't understand…almost, until I saw her. She looked to be in her thirties, a mousey little thing with beige brown hair in messy curls around her crown. Her gaze is locked on me, and she is terrified. I mean it makes sense that this dream person would be scared; a random person showed up in her room, but even stranger is that she doesn't make a single move to get up and confront me, make a run for it, or show any self preservation. She just lays there, head propped up by an almost absurd amount of silken pillows, her eyes wide and nearly unblinking– like she's afraid if she does, something awful will happen.

It's then that I realize with a start that she should be scared. I'm here for a reason, and I'm only delaying the natural progression of this dream. I read a study once that said you cannot create a new face in a dream. Every face that appears in a dream is one you once seen and retained in the subconscious parts of your mind. Yet she seemed so real, and so distant in my memories. So I move closer. I don't know why, but I'm waiting for some sort of revelation. Like she’ll suddenly remember me, or maybe she'll tell me how she found herself in such a predicament in the first place. Most of all, I'm holding on for her words. I need it, like a damn second wind. I feel it like an ache in the pit of my stomach, and only she can make it right, if she just tells me why I'm here. 

Why am I here, Cassandra? 

Why am I here? 

Instead, she just sucks in a sharp breath, in that way that makes the collarbone have more depth and prominence. I can see it in her eyes, she knows why I'm here. She stares up at me, her pupils trembling in the brown iris, the pallor of her face. I reach up my hand to her face- and really it's a wonder how I'm so calm during all this. I look at my hands.. I don't know if they're my hands. They look wrong. They don't look human, but of course I don't even have time to panic over such trivial things, when more important things are right in the room with me. So I gently wipe the stray tear that's running down her face, and then, I jam my finger right into the pupil of her eye, and watch my fingers melt down into the dark space, far off into fragmented realities we dare not revisit, for fear that history could repeat itself.

And then just like that, I'm in the woods. Have you ever heard of Golden hour? It's around the time when the sun is level with your eyes and everything is awash in yellow. It's actually one of the better times to hunt deer because deer often use the sun's position to their advantage. Deer will move into the setting/rising sun so any potential danger that could be dangerous ahead of them is silhouetted. I knew this because I was a deer hunter, and in fact I took so much pride in being a female hunter that I had several bumper stickers on my car referring to this fact.

..But that wasn't right… I am not a deer hunter, and I'm certainly not… but I look at my shaking slender hands, with chipped nude nail polish, and a wedding ring, and it's all true. More importantly, I am without my hunting rifle, and I'm running from something, farther and farther into unfamiliar territory. The woods are quiet, so deafeningly quiet, but somehow I was certain that I had not lost whatever was chasing me. My heart racing, I look around for somewhere to hide, and am only greeted by a vast sea of thin pines, with sparse branches. There is nowhere to hide. This is the last gasp of breath I give, while looking down the barrel of a shotgun. 

But I'm not- Cassandra’s not ready to die. She watched her husband die to that thing, that stalks the treeline, that may have once called itself a moose. She wasn't going to let it kill her too, not without a fight…but the hunting rifle was gone, and I was greatly outmatched in terms of strength. Have you ever seen a normal, average moose angry? Do you even know how much they weigh? I feel my breath hitch in the back of my throat in a sort of frenzied crescendo, when my eyes finally lock on a smattering of large, jagged rocks there hidden amongst the trees, on the incline of the mountain. Cassandra was definitely small enough to squeeze between the rocks. All she needed was to arm herself. So that's what she did, she frantically did a once over the forest floor before finally grabbing a sturdy enough fallen branch, and wedged herself in between the rocks, sitting low with her knees up, her back pressed against the rocks as she tried to control her breathing.

Somehow she knew the moose was watching her, she could feel its sour breath on her soul, hunting her, ready to take back from her what she had taken from the forest’s precious ecosystem. As dusk settled into a burning red in the last dying light, the malnourished outline of the moose took form. The moose was malnourished, yes. That much is true, but it was large, and it's limbs seem to bend in ways a moose’s legs should not be able to, the knees going back farther and farther as it drunkenly stumbled amongst the trees, eyes glowing in it's feverish search for Cassandra, who was now holding up her stick in a position to strike. 

The blood of her husband still stained the moose, the matted coat clotted in dark red and made a macabre crown around his head. The beast’s lips curled into a snarl revealing the sharp teeth of a carnivore, much like a big cat’s or even a bear. The moose began to circle the boulders, nose snuffling as it took in the bursting embers of Cassandra's mounting dead, and as the moose slipped out of her line of vision between the gap in the rocks, time seemed to stop. Every second seemed an eternity, as twilight slipped slowly into night like a forming bruise. I watch the sun set, as the eye of our tormenter eclipses our view, having finally found us-

And then Cassandra is screaming me awake, screaming as if she was right back in that moment of being prey to something bigger than she could ever dream of being. She knows screaming is her only chance of being rid of me, and she's apparently right because that's when I woke up from the dream, having felt like she was so very real. Maybe it was bit naive, but I actually had to sit up and look to make sure I was in my room and not that dream. There was this sour acid taste in the back of my mouth too- and I downed about three glasses of water right there at the kitchen sink that night. 

This dream has left me shaken and lost. That's not the right word though, lost. I know exactly where I am, but I'm so fragmented, so stretched thin that it can hardly count that I am here, right now. All I have is my words, and I hope that's enough for you.

Do you ever see a post that makes you feel sad, and you can't place your finger on why..?

Do you ever wish you could take the steam with you?