Tulpa

Featured · Short Stories

You remember how it started? You were bored, browsing Reddit. You found this obscure sub. Tulpas. People there were using questionable techniques and pseudo-science to trick themselves into believing in imaginary friends. You thought back then: this is exactly like a church indoctrination. You browsed their guides, telling you to ignore the rational thoughts. To notice the “head-pressures”, to accredit parts of your thoughts to someone else. You got curious.

Eventually, you come up with this “tulpa” that you think of as a person much like yourself. All tulpa guides suggest imagining tulpas as attractive. Yours is alluring, you keep thinking of her curves. Your life is suddenly focused on this girl.

You see people pretending to be their tulpas in online chats; they call it “proxying”. You no longer wonder if they are engulfed in their fantasies. It is real for you too.

You try hypnosis as a way to “hear your tulpa” better. To feel what your tulpa feels. One day you catch yourself fapping to furry porn that she likes.

The more you talk to your tulpa, the more you want to see her around. You keep her diary and wear a friendship bracelet with her name; you even tell your closest friend about her. He thinks you’re weird. Whatever. You post online to convince people that what you’re doing is normal, that this “plurality” of mind is healthy, that your life is grand.

But you feel worse with every day.

The depression follows you. Your sanity fights with your imagination; sometimes you’re not sure who you are. Instead of being busy with your school, you spend most of the time with your phone, chatting online with people that understand both of you.

You try advanced tulpamancy. It gives no results—at first, but one day you see something in the corner of your eye—finally! A distorted shadow, could it finally be her? You turn your head to follow the shape, staring into the empty space, oblivious to the worried looks of your parents.

The shadow creeps away from your sight. What if it’s not her? Suddenly you think of demons.

First time in your adult life you pray before sleep. She says not to worry.

The shadows never leave you now; wherever you go, an occasional turn of your head brings uncanny motions that shouldn’t be there, every time your heart skips a beat.

You cannot focus on anything. You go online and plead, “HELP! Tulpa became malicious!”

The Reddit is supportive. They tell you to talk it out with her, but you cannot hear her voice. For once, your head feels empty. Happy with that, you get up to grab a cup of water… and you smash into the door. You saw it open, while, in reality, you closed it. Your nose bursts with pain, but it barely registers in the panic that engulfs you. You stare at your palms, shaking and covered in the blood.

Drops of blood fall on your sheets, and you wipe your nose again, wash your face. The voice comes back, “It’s not me. I’d never do this to you. I love you.”

You don’t trust that voice.

Days pass, as you try to forget about this tulpa bullshit, but you can’t get free, thinking of her favourite colours, her favourite food. You go vegan, and your parents share another worried look at the dinner table.

Your father finds the folder with furries. You have a long talk. He says he accepts your choices, but his voice is tired. You try to explain it to him. That it’s not you who’s into that. You tell him about your tulpa.

Wrong move.

He leaves the room, and you hear him talking over the phone. Words are muted, but the fear envelops you in a sticky cloud. You start seeing shapes again.

They drive you to the doctor. Your tulpa is sitting next to you. “Don’t tell him about me. I’m scared.” She smiles. “I’m pregnant, you know.”

You’re unsure how to react. You don’t know the guy whom she calls her lover. They chat online. Are you going to have another tulpa now?

The doctor examines you. You get a long list. Antidepressants, alprazolam, oxazepam, valium.

Now your mind is senile. Your tulpa turns into a whisper.

You’re reassigned to a class for kids with special needs. Doesn’t matter. You only need your pills. You don’t want the shadows to return.

But you won’t get rid of me.

Finally Complete

Featured · Short Stories

The memories scattered like water drops as she motionlessly traversed the endless void. Her previous life burned in a flash; the smell of grass, the thrill of a chase, her most precious memories evanesced, leaving her spirit naked. Liberated from most of the burden, it charged into the life where time made sense once again.

She flushed her eyes wide open and cried from the bottom of her lungs.

She matured, shaped into a young woman, calm and attentive; but her mind was always wandering. She couldn’t find peace, not in her violin, nor clinging to a new man in her bed.

Until one day she met a wolf.

She was escaping from a thunderstorm, speeding on an empty road between fields, when some movement grabbed her attention. She pushed the pedal to the floor, bringing her car to a screeching halt. The wind rumpled her blonde hair when she hopped out; her nostrils flared, her dark red eyes looked around. She saw a wolf resting at the side of the road.

As she approached it, the grim reality became clear. The animal was dying. She stroked over its rib cage, examining the broken bones, raised her bloodied hand. A sleeping thought deep inside her started to unwrap as she inhaled the thick scent of blood.

The wolf opened its eyes and looked at her. Its chest contracted one last time. She stared into its soulless eyes, imagining its spirit leaving the body.

And then her mind exploded with images and scents. She was running through the forest, her paws hitting the ground, launching her into the air, forward, faster and faster. She was free, finally, from all the superstitions, from all the obligations and morals.

Her spirit never let go of one little piece of her past life.

She howled, her voice breaking as her body fell to the ground, quivering from toes to ear tips. The pain was impossible to withstand, yet her mind didn’t black out. She glanced at her arms, covered in her own blood and white, irregular patches of fur. Another spasm twisted her, and she heard her bones cracking. That was the last thing her human ears heard.

She rose to her paws, shrugging off the pain. Arched her back, stretching, flicked her tail a few times, getting used to it.

Noticing the carcass in front of her, she nosed its muzzle and whined, but it stared into the sky with an empty glance. There was nothing here for her anymore.

Her tail swished as she breathed in with a full chest, opening herself to scents she couldn’t name. One, though, was familiar—a smell of hot metal.

She looked back at her car, reached into it and pulled the keys with her teeth. She kicked the door closed and strolled across the field, towards the nearby trees, wondering how the squirrels taste and if she can continue driving naked afterwards.

The Chilly Morning

Short Stories

Ohni woke up with a moan. Her slumberous eyes opened to a sight of dust and sparse vegetation—she was lying belly down on the muddy trail. She scuffled to get up, moved into a sitting position and examined herself: dirt under her nails, scratches and bruises on her hands. Her whole body felt sore. She shook the dust off her exposed breasts and stomach and sighed.

The morning sun shone on her through the trees. Ohni closed her eyes and focused on the surroundings. The breeze stroked her exposed skin, leaves rustled over her head, a cuckoo bird sang a song in the distance. She weaved her inhuman ears, covered with soft white fur, listening for any immediate danger, but everything was calm. Her nostrils flared, noticing a scent of a rabbit and her tail flicked against her best judgement. Her stomach growled.

It wasn’t Scotland, but she knew this place. A few months ago, her sister Alejandra had decided that it was time for them to reunite. She had called Ohni one rainy spring day and said she’d secured an excellent plot of land; it was in the US, though. Ohni enjoyed her life in eastern Scotland, but the longing for her sister was stronger. She had packed her few belongings and left two days after the call.
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The Feral Lust

Short Stories

The bar welcomed Michael, Joe and Mark with the prospect of drinks and chatter. It was crowded, but the guys managed to find themselves a table. Judging by the queue, the place attracted good-looking girls. They were determined to get drinks, meet some gals, and have a fun night.

They were marines, relaxing off duty. Confident, strong-minded, well-built guys, with a little glow in their eyes. Tough and cocky; they had success with girls—and they got some attention and smiles from a group of four gals chatting around a single table.

Michael was the oldest one. Tall posture, high forehead and broad shoulders. The short sleeves of his shirt were textured with bulging muscles. He had a busy life, never settled down; his only family was the military. He saw combat, death, suffering. Luck was following him throughout the years, keeping him alive as he travelled around the world, dealing with global threats.

In the short moments of stillness, he would rent an apartment and wander around the city. He enjoyed partying like there was no tomorrow. Bars, music, girls. Luck followed him there too.

That night his eyes focused on a single girl. She was sitting alone on the high bar stool, nursing a milky-white drink from a big saucer champagne glass with a thin slice of lime. It was strange that the other men kept a distance from her. Michael noticed a guy walking up to her and quickly retracting, without even making small talk.
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The Wakeup

Short Stories

She stretched her arms up and yawned, long canines flashed in the light of the morning sun. The window was open, and the bedroom was filled with the pine scents of the waking up forest. The cold gust of air ruffled her long white hair as she reached to the window-still and peeked out at the woods. The sun shined on the endless rows of trees; the place was dead quiet. She was absolutely alone there.

She smiled, and took a deep breath in, shook the hair off her shoulders and let the howl out. The clear sound echoed into the forest, changing tones, going up and down, beating, pulsing, turning into almost a harsh barking and then becoming clean again.
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The Love of the Emerald Island

Short Stories

Three scenes flowing the same time frame. I used the first one for the assignment; and just enjoyed writing the others. This isn’t a short story yet; but you can see the flow of the plot. Please consider these three parts reasonably independent still. The stories include openly erotic scenes; you’re warned.

Aurora left the terminal building, pulling a bag behind her. It was comfortably warm; soft breeze touched her cheeks. The cabs lined up just outside, and she hopped in into the first car. It was her very first visit to Ireland; she came to participate in the last photo shoot before the vacation. The money was good, and the mood was grand.
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Who let the dog out?

Short Stories

Where am I? That’s how my morning started back then — slowly coming to consciousness. I tried to open the eyes only to see some blurry shapes. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get them into the focus. The head ringed with pain, the tips of my ears almost burning with fire.

A slow, deep breath in. The panic was close, but I couldn’t let myself into its cold grasp. The air brought myriads of scents. Something strong, chemical. An antiseptic. It was all around me. Smells coming from afar, light tones of something sickening sweet — the odour of unhealthy bodies. My world narrowed down to the nose, closing my eyes and ignoring the pain I was able to feel things from the distance. Burning hair. More chemical things. I realised I’m in the hospital. The certainty of this guess flushed over the mind. I perked up the ears, slightly moving them back and forth to catch the surrounding sounds. The place was noisy, now that I realised it! People were talking, crying and shouting. Mechanical beeps, a phone, ringing in the distance, quick steps in the corridor. More people rushed past my door, accompanied by the screech of wheels.
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Violin Time

Short Stories

Half past nine. The neighbours are out to their offices, but you still have little time until you need to run. The violin case stands in the corner of the room. Sometimes you feel like playing is such a burden. Other times it fills you with joy. How will it be today? You don’t know. Yet. You take the case carefully; the instrument inside is very precious. To you, personally. Slide two zippers and open it. Take away the orange cloth; all covered in rosin stains. Some day you will clean it, but for now, you put it aside.
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