#cautionary-tale — Public Fediverse posts on home.social

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

#1987 #1987Writing #beautifulRuins #cautionaryTale #collapsingHouse #condemnedHouse #consequence #darkParable #decay #desire #flashFiction #GothicFiction #GothicHorror #gothicIllustration #Grace #Greed #hauntedHouse #humanWeakness #moralImagination #moralTale #obsession #Poetry #rewrittenDraft #ruin #shortStory #Sin #spiritualAllegory #Spirituality #survival #symbolicFiction #Temptation #vintageGothic #Wealth #WordPressTagsAvarice #Writing

#1987writing #beautifulruins #cautionarytale #collapsinghouse #condemnedhouse #consequence

Slow Mover @[email protected] · 2026-07-03 · 07:56 UTC

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

#1987 #1987Writing #beautifulRuins #cautionaryTale #collapsingHouse #condemnedHouse #consequence #darkParable #decay #desire #flashFiction #GothicFiction #GothicHorror #gothicIllustration #Grace #Greed #hauntedHouse #humanWeakness #moralImagination #moralTale #obsession #Poetry #rewrittenDraft #ruin #shortStory #Sin #spiritualAllegory #Spirituality #survival #symbolicFiction #Temptation #vintageGothic #Wealth #WordPressTagsAvarice #Writing

#1987writing #beautifulruins #cautionarytale #collapsinghouse #condemnedhouse #consequence

Slow Mover @[email protected] · 2026-07-03 · 07:56 UTC

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

#1987 #1987Writing #beautifulRuins #cautionaryTale #collapsingHouse #condemnedHouse #consequence #darkParable #decay #desire #flashFiction #GothicFiction #GothicHorror #gothicIllustration #Grace #Greed #hauntedHouse #humanWeakness #moralImagination #moralTale #obsession #Poetry #rewrittenDraft #ruin #shortStory #Sin #spiritualAllegory #Spirituality #survival #symbolicFiction #Temptation #vintageGothic #Wealth #WordPressTagsAvarice #Writing

#1987writing #beautifulruins #cautionarytale #collapsinghouse #condemnedhouse #consequence

Slow Mover @[email protected] · 2026-07-03 · 07:56 UTC

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

#1987 #1987Writing #beautifulRuins #cautionaryTale #collapsingHouse #condemnedHouse #consequence #darkParable #decay #desire #flashFiction #GothicFiction #GothicHorror #gothicIllustration #Grace #Greed #hauntedHouse #humanWeakness #moralImagination #moralTale #obsession #Poetry #rewrittenDraft #ruin #shortStory #Sin #spiritualAllegory #Spirituality #survival #symbolicFiction #Temptation #vintageGothic #Wealth #WordPressTagsAvarice #Writing

#writing #wordpresstagsavarice #wealth #vintagegothic #temptation #symbolicfiction

Slow Mover @[email protected] · 2026-07-03 · 07:56 UTC

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

#1987 #1987Writing #beautifulRuins #cautionaryTale #collapsingHouse #condemnedHouse #consequence #darkParable #decay #desire #flashFiction #GothicFiction #GothicHorror #gothicIllustration #Grace #Greed #hauntedHouse #humanWeakness #moralImagination #moralTale #obsession #Poetry #rewrittenDraft #ruin #shortStory #Sin #spiritualAllegory #Spirituality #survival #symbolicFiction #Temptation #vintageGothic #Wealth #WordPressTagsAvarice #Writing

#1987writing #beautifulruins #cautionarytale #collapsinghouse #condemnedhouse #consequence

Art of FACELESS @[email protected] · 2026-06-05 · 10:22 UTC

ICYMI: From the AOF Studio The Architecture of Displacement: A South Wales Case Study on Walled Gardens https://www.artoffaceless.com/the-architecture-of-displacement-a-south-wales-case-study-on-walled-gardens/?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=mastodon #Architecture #SouthWales #WalledGardens #CautionaryTale #UrbanDesign

#architecture #southwales #walledgardens #cautionarytale #urbandesign

Garden Writing and Other Wanderings @[email protected] · 2026-05-01 · 12:58 UTC

A Tale of Two Flowers

May 1, 2025

It is May Day, and the daffodils are having their day in the sun as well they should on this festival of spring. Over the years, I have accumulated many different varieties, and I’ve learned to plant both early and late bulbs so that the bloom time is extended. The planting usually happens on a late fall day when I realize that I need to get them into the ground before it freezes solid. So, I scatter bulbs here or there and then promptly forget where I did plant them until they pop up in the spring. I know I could use markers, but they are some of the first green shoots to lift out of the ground. Anyways, it is always exciting to have an unexpected discovery. One needs this in late February and early March when spring is still just a dream.

This year’s new blooms are a late variety with creamy white ruffled petals and a lovely scent thanks to a special order from Johnny’s Selected Seed in Maine. I used to think all daffodils are basically the same until I did a little research and found that there are over 26,000 cultivated varieties. They are all in the amaryllis family (Amaryllidaceae) which also includes alliums like onions and garlic. I guess there is zero chance of collecting them all.

Daffodils are poisonous to deer, and that is why they avoid them. I’ve read that if you plant daffodils around a deer delectable plant, they will keep away from it. It is important to note that they are also poisonous to humans. The leaves, bulb and stem contain the highly toxic chemical lycorine. I have never heard of a daffodil poisoning because who would think about eating one? We have this wise sense about us. It may be part of the sixth sense which tells us: Yes, it is lovely to look at and the smell is divine… but don’t even think of eating it. Ironically, this plant also contains an ingredient which is used in treating Alzheimer’s. Nature seems to have this thing with medicine disguised as a poisonous plant.

The term daffodil is interchangeable with the name Narcissus which brings me to the second part of my tale. Long ago back in grade school, we learned about the Greek god Narcissus. Well, at least some of us did. That was something we skipped right over at St. George School; and yet, somehow, we learned about it anyways. According to Kew Gardens, “The scientific name of the daffodil genus, Narcissus, is believed to come from the Greek myth of Narcissus who fell in love with his reflection in a pool of water. The nodding head of the daffodil is said to symbolize Narcissus gazing at his reflection.”

That’s just weird right. No one in real life would do something like that. But the myth is meant as a cautionary tale that warns us of the danger of thinking too much of oneself. I am realizing lately that there are a few too many narcissists hanging around in high places. I would recommend that they study the ending of Narcissus’ tale where he eventually dies from a heavy dose of self-infatuation. If one doesn’t want to look to the Greek gods for advice then perhaps one of the many thousands of daffodil types can help. There’s the Rip Van Winkle from the Victorian Era or the Original Poet’s variety. There is even a Trumpet daffodil if anyone is interested. There’s just one thing to remember… they are poisonous!

Sources:
Kew Gardens: https://www.kew.org/pla

#cautionaryTale #daffodils #flowers #garden #narcissus #spring

#cautionarytale #daffodils #flowers #garden #narcissus #spring

Garden Writing and Other Wanderings @[email protected] · 2026-05-01 · 12:58 UTC

A Tale of Two Flowers

May 1, 2025

It is May Day, and the daffodils are having their day in the sun as well they should on this festival of spring. Over the years, I have accumulated many different varieties, and I’ve learned to plant both early and late bulbs so that the bloom time is extended. The planting usually happens on a late fall day when I realize that I need to get them into the ground before it freezes solid. So, I scatter bulbs here or there and then promptly forget where I did plant them until they pop up in the spring. I know I could use markers, but they are some of the first green shoots to lift out of the ground. Anyways, it is always exciting to have an unexpected discovery. One needs this in late February and early March when spring is still just a dream.

This year’s new blooms are a late variety with creamy white ruffled petals and a lovely scent thanks to a special order from Johnny’s Selected Seed in Maine. I used to think all daffodils are basically the same until I did a little research and found that there are over 26,000 cultivated varieties. They are all in the amaryllis family (Amaryllidaceae) which also includes alliums like onions and garlic. I guess there is zero chance of collecting them all.

Daffodils are poisonous to deer, and that is why they avoid them. I’ve read that if you plant daffodils around a deer delectable plant, they will keep away from it. It is important to note that they are also poisonous to humans. The leaves, bulb and stem contain the highly toxic chemical lycorine. I have never heard of a daffodil poisoning because who would think about eating one? We have this wise sense about us. It may be part of the sixth sense which tells us: Yes, it is lovely to look at and the smell is divine… but don’t even think of eating it. Ironically, this plant also contains an ingredient which is used in treating Alzheimer’s. Nature seems to have this thing with medicine disguised as a poisonous plant.

The term daffodil is interchangeable with the name Narcissus which brings me to the second part of my tale. Long ago back in grade school, we learned about the Greek god Narcissus. Well, at least some of us did. That was something we skipped right over at St. George School; and yet, somehow, we learned about it anyways. According to Kew Gardens, “The scientific name of the daffodil genus, Narcissus, is believed to come from the Greek myth of Narcissus who fell in love with his reflection in a pool of water. The nodding head of the daffodil is said to symbolize Narcissus gazing at his reflection.”

That’s just weird right. No one in real life would do something like that. But the myth is meant as a cautionary tale that warns us of the danger of thinking too much of oneself. I am realizing lately that there are a few too many narcissists hanging around in high places. I would recommend that they study the ending of Narcissus’ tale where he eventually dies from a heavy dose of self-infatuation. If one doesn’t want to look to the Greek gods for advice then perhaps one of the many thousands of daffodil types can help. There’s the Rip Van Winkle from the Victorian Era or the Original Poet’s variety. There is even a Trumpet daffodil if anyone is interested. There’s just one thing to remember… they are poisonous!

Sources:
Kew Gardens: https://www.kew.org/pla

#cautionaryTale #daffodils #flowers #garden #narcissus #spring

#cautionarytale #daffodils #flowers #garden #narcissus #spring

Garden Writing and Other Wanderings @[email protected] · 2026-05-01 · 12:58 UTC

A Tale of Two Flowers

May 1, 2025

It is May Day, and the daffodils are having their day in the sun as well they should on this festival of spring. Over the years, I have accumulated many different varieties, and I’ve learned to plant both early and late bulbs so that the bloom time is extended. The planting usually happens on a late fall day when I realize that I need to get them into the ground before it freezes solid. So, I scatter bulbs here or there and then promptly forget where I did plant them until they pop up in the spring. I know I could use markers, but they are some of the first green shoots to lift out of the ground. Anyways, it is always exciting to have an unexpected discovery. One needs this in late February and early March when spring is still just a dream.

This year’s new blooms are a late variety with creamy white ruffled petals and a lovely scent thanks to a special order from Johnny’s Selected Seed in Maine. I used to think all daffodils are basically the same until I did a little research and found that there are over 26,000 cultivated varieties. They are all in the amaryllis family (Amaryllidaceae) which also includes alliums like onions and garlic. I guess there is zero chance of collecting them all.

Daffodils are poisonous to deer, and that is why they avoid them. I’ve read that if you plant daffodils around a deer delectable plant, they will keep away from it. It is important to note that they are also poisonous to humans. The leaves, bulb and stem contain the highly toxic chemical lycorine. I have never heard of a daffodil poisoning because who would think about eating one? We have this wise sense about us. It may be part of the sixth sense which tells us: Yes, it is lovely to look at and the smell is divine… but don’t even think of eating it. Ironically, this plant also contains an ingredient which is used in treating Alzheimer’s. Nature seems to have this thing with medicine disguised as a poisonous plant.

The term daffodil is interchangeable with the name Narcissus which brings me to the second part of my tale. Long ago back in grade school, we learned about the Greek god Narcissus. Well, at least some of us did. That was something we skipped right over at St. George School; and yet, somehow, we learned about it anyways. According to Kew Gardens, “The scientific name of the daffodil genus, Narcissus, is believed to come from the Greek myth of Narcissus who fell in love with his reflection in a pool of water. The nodding head of the daffodil is said to symbolize Narcissus gazing at his reflection.”

That’s just weird right. No one in real life would do something like that. But the myth is meant as a cautionary tale that warns us of the danger of thinking too much of oneself. I am realizing lately that there are a few too many narcissists hanging around in high places. I would recommend that they study the ending of Narcissus’ tale where he eventually dies from a heavy dose of self-infatuation. If one doesn’t want to look to the Greek gods for advice then perhaps one of the many thousands of daffodil types can help. There’s the Rip Van Winkle from the Victorian Era or the Original Poet’s variety. There is even a Trumpet daffodil if anyone is interested. There’s just one thing to remember… they are poisonous!

Sources:
Kew Gardens: https://www.kew.org/pla

#cautionaryTale #daffodils #flowers #garden #narcissus #spring

#cautionarytale #daffodils #flowers #garden #narcissus #spring

Garden Writing and Other Wanderings @[email protected] · 2026-05-01 · 12:58 UTC

A Tale of Two Flowers

May 1, 2025

It is May Day, and the daffodils are having their day in the sun as well they should on this festival of spring. Over the years, I have accumulated many different varieties, and I’ve learned to plant both early and late bulbs so that the bloom time is extended. The planting usually happens on a late fall day when I realize that I need to get them into the ground before it freezes solid. So, I scatter bulbs here or there and then promptly forget where I did plant them until they pop up in the spring. I know I could use markers, but they are some of the first green shoots to lift out of the ground. Anyways, it is always exciting to have an unexpected discovery. One needs this in late February and early March when spring is still just a dream.

This year’s new blooms are a late variety with creamy white ruffled petals and a lovely scent thanks to a special order from Johnny’s Selected Seed in Maine. I used to think all daffodils are basically the same until I did a little research and found that there are over 26,000 cultivated varieties. They are all in the amaryllis family (Amaryllidaceae) which also includes alliums like onions and garlic. I guess there is zero chance of collecting them all.

Daffodils are poisonous to deer, and that is why they avoid them. I’ve read that if you plant daffodils around a deer delectable plant, they will keep away from it. It is important to note that they are also poisonous to humans. The leaves, bulb and stem contain the highly toxic chemical lycorine. I have never heard of a daffodil poisoning because who would think about eating one? We have this wise sense about us. It may be part of the sixth sense which tells us: Yes, it is lovely to look at and the smell is divine… but don’t even think of eating it. Ironically, this plant also contains an ingredient which is used in treating Alzheimer’s. Nature seems to have this thing with medicine disguised as a poisonous plant.

The term daffodil is interchangeable with the name Narcissus which brings me to the second part of my tale. Long ago back in grade school, we learned about the Greek god Narcissus. Well, at least some of us did. That was something we skipped right over at St. George School; and yet, somehow, we learned about it anyways. According to Kew Gardens, “The scientific name of the daffodil genus, Narcissus, is believed to come from the Greek myth of Narcissus who fell in love with his reflection in a pool of water. The nodding head of the daffodil is said to symbolize Narcissus gazing at his reflection.”

That’s just weird right. No one in real life would do something like that. But the myth is meant as a cautionary tale that warns us of the danger of thinking too much of oneself. I am realizing lately that there are a few too many narcissists hanging around in high places. I would recommend that they study the ending of Narcissus’ tale where he eventually dies from a heavy dose of self-infatuation. If one doesn’t want to look to the Greek gods for advice then perhaps one of the many thousands of daffodil types can help. There’s the Rip Van Winkle from the Victorian Era or the Original Poet’s variety. There is even a Trumpet daffodil if anyone is interested. There’s just one thing to remember… they are poisonous!

Sources:
Kew Gardens: https://www.kew.org/pla

#cautionaryTale #daffodils #flowers #garden #narcissus #spring

#spring #narcissus #garden #flowers #daffodils #cautionarytale

Garden Writing and Other Wanderings @[email protected] · 2026-05-01 · 12:58 UTC

A Tale of Two Flowers

May 1, 2025

It is May Day, and the daffodils are having their day in the sun as well they should on this festival of spring. Over the years, I have accumulated many different varieties, and I’ve learned to plant both early and late bulbs so that the bloom time is extended. The planting usually happens on a late fall day when I realize that I need to get them into the ground before it freezes solid. So, I scatter bulbs here or there and then promptly forget where I did plant them until they pop up in the spring. I know I could use markers, but they are some of the first green shoots to lift out of the ground. Anyways, it is always exciting to have an unexpected discovery. One needs this in late February and early March when spring is still just a dream.

This year’s new blooms are a late variety with creamy white ruffled petals and a lovely scent thanks to a special order from Johnny’s Selected Seed in Maine. I used to think all daffodils are basically the same until I did a little research and found that there are over 26,000 cultivated varieties. They are all in the amaryllis family (Amaryllidaceae) which also includes alliums like onions and garlic. I guess there is zero chance of collecting them all.

Daffodils are poisonous to deer, and that is why they avoid them. I’ve read that if you plant daffodils around a deer delectable plant, they will keep away from it. It is important to note that they are also poisonous to humans. The leaves, bulb and stem contain the highly toxic chemical lycorine. I have never heard of a daffodil poisoning because who would think about eating one? We have this wise sense about us. It may be part of the sixth sense which tells us: Yes, it is lovely to look at and the smell is divine… but don’t even think of eating it. Ironically, this plant also contains an ingredient which is used in treating Alzheimer’s. Nature seems to have this thing with medicine disguised as a poisonous plant.

The term daffodil is interchangeable with the name Narcissus which brings me to the second part of my tale. Long ago back in grade school, we learned about the Greek god Narcissus. Well, at least some of us did. That was something we skipped right over at St. George School; and yet, somehow, we learned about it anyways. According to Kew Gardens, “The scientific name of the daffodil genus, Narcissus, is believed to come from the Greek myth of Narcissus who fell in love with his reflection in a pool of water. The nodding head of the daffodil is said to symbolize Narcissus gazing at his reflection.”

That’s just weird right. No one in real life would do something like that. But the myth is meant as a cautionary tale that warns us of the danger of thinking too much of oneself. I am realizing lately that there are a few too many narcissists hanging around in high places. I would recommend that they study the ending of Narcissus’ tale where he eventually dies from a heavy dose of self-infatuation. If one doesn’t want to look to the Greek gods for advice then perhaps one of the many thousands of daffodil types can help. There’s the Rip Van Winkle from the Victorian Era or the Original Poet’s variety. There is even a Trumpet daffodil if anyone is interested. There’s just one thing to remember… they are poisonous!

Sources:
Kew Gardens: https://www.kew.org/pla

#cautionaryTale #daffodils #flowers #garden #narcissus #spring

#cautionarytale #daffodils #flowers #garden #narcissus #spring

WIST Quotations @[email protected] · 2026-04-01 · 17:07 UTC

A quotation from James Howell

Look high and fall into a Cow-turd.

James Howell (c. 1594–1666) Welsh historian and writer
Paroimiographia [Παροιμιογραφία]: Proverbs, or, Old Sayed Sawes & Adages, “English Proverbs” (1659)
[compiler]

More about this quote: wist.info/howell-james/83126/

#quote #quotes #quotation #qotd #jameshowell #proverb #attention #broughtlow #caution #cautionarytale #daydream #fall #humiliation #payattention #presumption #watchfulness

#fall #quote #quotes #qotd #attention #quotation

WIST Quotations @[email protected] · 2026-04-01 · 17:07 UTC

A quotation from James Howell

Look high and fall into a Cow-turd.

James Howell (c. 1594–1666) Welsh historian and writer
Paroimiographia [Παροιμιογραφία]: Proverbs, or, Old Sayed Sawes & Adages, “English Proverbs” (1659)
[compiler]

More about this quote: wist.info/howell-james/83126/

#quote #quotes #quotation #qotd #jameshowell #proverb #attention #broughtlow #caution #cautionarytale #daydream #fall #humiliation #payattention #presumption #watchfulness

#fall #quote #quotes #qotd #attention #quotation

WIST Quotations @[email protected] · 2026-04-01 · 17:07 UTC

A quotation from James Howell

Look high and fall into a Cow-turd.

James Howell (c. 1594–1666) Welsh historian and writer
Paroimiographia [Παροιμιογραφία]: Proverbs, or, Old Sayed Sawes & Adages, “English Proverbs” (1659)
[compiler]

More about this quote: wist.info/howell-james/83126/

#quote #quotes #quotation #qotd #jameshowell #proverb #attention #broughtlow #caution #cautionarytale #daydream #fall #humiliation #payattention #presumption #watchfulness

#fall #quote #quotes #qotd #attention #quotation

WIST Quotations @[email protected] · 2026-04-01 · 17:07 UTC

A quotation from James Howell

Look high and fall into a Cow-turd.

James Howell (c. 1594–1666) Welsh historian and writer
Paroimiographia [Παροιμιογραφία]: Proverbs, or, Old Sayed Sawes & Adages, “English Proverbs” (1659)
[compiler]

More about this quote: wist.info/howell-james/83126/

#quote #quotes #quotation #qotd #jameshowell #proverb #attention #broughtlow #caution #cautionarytale #daydream #fall #humiliation #payattention #presumption #watchfulness

#broughtlow #jameshowell #watchfulness #presumption #daydream #payattention

Helen Brown @[email protected] · 2026-03-10 · 23:59 UTC

So here’s my #CautionaryTale. I got an email from #PayPal saying that my account had received a payment of $.02. Which we know when we see that without expecting it that it’s phishing, right? I logged in to my account, separately. No clicking urls in emails!
And there it was in my account, the gifted two cents. I hovered over the red exclamation point and the popout message said that if the amount looked suspicious, call customer service at 888-221-1161. Which I did.
1/3

#cautionarytale #paypal

Helen Brown @[email protected] · 2026-03-10 · 23:59 UTC

So here’s my #CautionaryTale. I got an email from #PayPal saying that my account had received a payment of $.02. Which we know when we see that without expecting it that it’s phishing, right? I logged in to my account, separately. No clicking urls in emails!
And there it was in my account, the gifted two cents. I hovered over the red exclamation point and the popout message said that if the amount looked suspicious, call customer service at 888-221-1161. Which I did.
1/3

#cautionarytale #paypal

Helen Brown @[email protected] · 2026-03-10 · 23:59 UTC

So here’s my #CautionaryTale. I got an email from #PayPal saying that my account had received a payment of $.02. Which we know when we see that without expecting it that it’s phishing, right? I logged in to my account, separately. No clicking urls in emails!
And there it was in my account, the gifted two cents. I hovered over the red exclamation point and the popout message said that if the amount looked suspicious, call customer service at 888-221-1161. Which I did.
1/3

#cautionarytale #paypal

Helen Brown @[email protected] · 2026-03-10 · 23:59 UTC

So here’s my #CautionaryTale. I got an email from #PayPal saying that my account had received a payment of $.02. Which we know when we see that without expecting it that it’s phishing, right? I logged in to my account, separately. No clicking urls in emails!
And there it was in my account, the gifted two cents. I hovered over the red exclamation point and the popout message said that if the amount looked suspicious, call customer service at 888-221-1161. Which I did.
1/3

#paypal #cautionarytale

Helen Brown @[email protected] · 2026-03-10 · 23:59 UTC

So here’s my #CautionaryTale. I got an email from #PayPal saying that my account had received a payment of $.02. Which we know when we see that without expecting it that it’s phishing, right? I logged in to my account, separately. No clicking urls in emails!
And there it was in my account, the gifted two cents. I hovered over the red exclamation point and the popout message said that if the amount looked suspicious, call customer service at 888-221-1161. Which I did.
1/3

#cautionarytale #paypal

Waywords Studio @[email protected] · 2026-02-25 · 15:01 UTC

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: "𝐎𝐟 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬" -

When writing children's verse, it's hard to see where sincerity ends and parody begins . . . .

https://waywordsstudio.com/verse/of-kings-and-things/

#poetry #originalpoetry #childrensverse #parody #fairytale #fable #jealousy #greed #materialism #cautionarytale #politics

#politics #cautionarytale #materialism #greed #jealousy #fable

Waywords Studio @[email protected] · 2026-02-25 · 15:01 UTC

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: "𝐎𝐟 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬" -

When writing children's verse, it's hard to see where sincerity ends and parody begins . . . .

https://waywordsstudio.com/verse/of-kings-and-things/

#poetry #originalpoetry #childrensverse #parody #fairytale #fable #jealousy #greed #materialism #cautionarytale #politics

#poetry #originalpoetry #childrensverse #parody #fairytale #fable

N-gated Hacker News @[email protected] · 2026-02-25 · 13:42 UTC

⚠️ Warning: this masterpiece of digital misadventure chronicles the tragic downfall of a wannabe web pioneer who dared to stray from the sacred .com realm. 💥 Witness as their grand .online scheme fizzles into a cautionary tale of domain doom, proving that sometimes free is just too expensive. 😂
https://www.0xsid.com/blog/online-tld-is-pain #digitalmisadventure #domainfail #webpioneer #cautionarytale #internethumor #HackerNews #ngated

#digitalmisadventure #domainfail #webpioneer #cautionarytale #internethumor #hackernews

N-gated Hacker News @[email protected] · 2026-02-25 · 13:42 UTC

⚠️ Warning: this masterpiece of digital misadventure chronicles the tragic downfall of a wannabe web pioneer who dared to stray from the sacred .com realm. 💥 Witness as their grand .online scheme fizzles into a cautionary tale of domain doom, proving that sometimes free is just too expensive. 😂
https://www.0xsid.com/blog/online-tld-is-pain #digitalmisadventure #domainfail #webpioneer #cautionarytale #internethumor #HackerNews #ngated

#digitalmisadventure #domainfail #webpioneer #cautionarytale #internethumor #hackernews

N-gated Hacker News @[email protected] · 2026-02-25 · 13:42 UTC

⚠️ Warning: this masterpiece of digital misadventure chronicles the tragic downfall of a wannabe web pioneer who dared to stray from the sacred .com realm. 💥 Witness as their grand .online scheme fizzles into a cautionary tale of domain doom, proving that sometimes free is just too expensive. 😂
https://www.0xsid.com/blog/online-tld-is-pain #digitalmisadventure #domainfail #webpioneer #cautionarytale #internethumor #HackerNews #ngated

#ngated #hackernews #internethumor #cautionarytale #webpioneer #domainfail

N-gated Hacker News @[email protected] · 2026-02-25 · 13:42 UTC

⚠️ Warning: this masterpiece of digital misadventure chronicles the tragic downfall of a wannabe web pioneer who dared to stray from the sacred .com realm. 💥 Witness as their grand .online scheme fizzles into a cautionary tale of domain doom, proving that sometimes free is just too expensive. 😂
https://www.0xsid.com/blog/online-tld-is-pain #digitalmisadventure #domainfail #webpioneer #cautionarytale #internethumor #HackerNews #ngated

#digitalmisadventure #domainfail #webpioneer #cautionarytale #internethumor #hackernews

Dan Stafford @[email protected] · 2026-02-13 · 06:49 UTC

#mwgic #2026 #AI #Burnout #CautionaryTale

https://futurism.com/artificial-intelligence/ai-burnout-machine

#mwgic #ai #burnout #cautionarytale

Hacker News @[email protected] · 2025-12-11 · 14:31 UTC

South Korea – A Cautionary Tale for the Rest of Humanity

https://worksinprogress.co/issue/two-is-already-too-many/

#HackerNews #SouthKorea #CautionaryTale #Humanity #TechNews #SocialIssues

#hackernews #southkorea #cautionarytale #humanity #technews #socialissues

Hacker News @[email protected] · 2025-12-11 · 14:31 UTC

South Korea – A Cautionary Tale for the Rest of Humanity

https://worksinprogress.co/issue/two-is-already-too-many/

#HackerNews #SouthKorea #CautionaryTale #Humanity #TechNews #SocialIssues

#hackernews #southkorea #cautionarytale #humanity #technews #socialissues

Hacker News @[email protected] · 2025-12-11 · 14:31 UTC

South Korea – A Cautionary Tale for the Rest of Humanity

https://worksinprogress.co/issue/two-is-already-too-many/

#HackerNews #SouthKorea #CautionaryTale #Humanity #TechNews #SocialIssues

#hackernews #southkorea #cautionarytale #humanity #technews #socialissues

Hacker News @[email protected] · 2025-12-11 · 14:31 UTC

South Korea – A Cautionary Tale for the Rest of Humanity

https://worksinprogress.co/issue/two-is-already-too-many/

#HackerNews #SouthKorea #CautionaryTale #Humanity #TechNews #SocialIssues

#socialissues #technews #humanity #cautionarytale #southkorea #hackernews

Hacker News @[email protected] · 2025-12-11 · 14:31 UTC

South Korea – A Cautionary Tale for the Rest of Humanity

https://worksinprogress.co/issue/two-is-already-too-many/

#HackerNews #SouthKorea #CautionaryTale #Humanity #TechNews #SocialIssues

#hackernews #southkorea #cautionarytale #humanity #technews #socialissues

:awesome:🐦‍🔥nemo™🐦‍⬛ 🇺🇦🍉 @[email protected] · 2025-11-30 · 15:18 UTC

A 🎄 Christmas Carol based on the current situation in the Middle East 🌍, featuring Larry Ellison 💼 or similar people, would be an interesting idea 🤔, IMHO. It could serve as a cautionary tale ⚠️ that the humanity ❤️, ethics ⚖️, and morals of Western countries are highly questionable 😠 while they allow a genocide ☠️ to happen right in front of everyone's eyes 👀—which is still ongoing due to inaction 😴

#AChristmasCarol #MiddleEast #LarryEllison #CautionaryTale #WesternEthics #Genocide #Inaction #IMHO

#imho #inaction #genocide #westernethics #cautionarytale #larryellison

:awesome:🐦‍🔥nemo™🐦‍⬛ 🇺🇦🍉 @[email protected] · 2025-11-30 · 15:18 UTC

A 🎄 Christmas Carol based on the current situation in the Middle East 🌍, featuring Larry Ellison 💼 or similar people, would be an interesting idea 🤔, IMHO. It could serve as a cautionary tale ⚠️ that the humanity ❤️, ethics ⚖️, and morals of Western countries are highly questionable 😠 while they allow a genocide ☠️ to happen right in front of everyone's eyes 👀—which is still ongoing due to inaction 😴

#AChristmasCarol #MiddleEast #LarryEllison #CautionaryTale #WesternEthics #Genocide #Inaction #IMHO

#imho #inaction #genocide #westernethics #cautionarytale #larryellison

:awesome:🐦‍🔥nemo™🐦‍⬛ 🇺🇦🍉 @[email protected] · 2025-11-30 · 15:18 UTC

A 🎄 Christmas Carol based on the current situation in the Middle East 🌍, featuring Larry Ellison 💼 or similar people, would be an interesting idea 🤔, IMHO. It could serve as a cautionary tale ⚠️ that the humanity ❤️, ethics ⚖️, and morals of Western countries are highly questionable 😠 while they allow a genocide ☠️ to happen right in front of everyone's eyes 👀—which is still ongoing due to inaction 😴

#AChristmasCarol #MiddleEast #LarryEllison #CautionaryTale #WesternEthics #Genocide #Inaction #IMHO

#imho #inaction #genocide #westernethics #cautionarytale #larryellison

:awesome:🐦‍🔥nemo™🐦‍⬛ 🇺🇦🍉 @nemo · 2025-11-30 · 15:18 UTC

A 🎄 Christmas Carol based on the current situation in the Middle East 🌍, featuring Larry Ellison 💼 or similar people, would be an interesting idea 🤔, IMHO. It could serve as a cautionary tale ⚠️ that the humanity ❤️, ethics ⚖️, and morals of Western countries are highly questionable 😠 while they allow a genocide ☠️ to happen right in front of everyone's eyes 👀—which is still ongoing due to inaction 😴

#AChristmasCarol #MiddleEast #LarryEllison #CautionaryTale #WesternEthics #Genocide #Inaction #IMHO

#imho #inaction #genocide #westernethics #cautionarytale #larryellison

:awesome:🐦‍🔥nemo™🐦‍⬛ 🇺🇦🍉 @[email protected] · 2025-11-30 · 15:18 UTC

A 🎄 Christmas Carol based on the current situation in the Middle East 🌍, featuring Larry Ellison 💼 or similar people, would be an interesting idea 🤔, IMHO. It could serve as a cautionary tale ⚠️ that the humanity ❤️, ethics ⚖️, and morals of Western countries are highly questionable 😠 while they allow a genocide ☠️ to happen right in front of everyone's eyes 👀—which is still ongoing due to inaction 😴

#AChristmasCarol #MiddleEast #LarryEllison #CautionaryTale #WesternEthics #Genocide #Inaction #IMHO