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Tempokai
Overworked One
- Joined
- Nov 16, 2021
- Messages
- 771
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- 133
A bedtime story about Freud:
In the heart of Gensokyo, where reality and illusion intertwine like a cat's cradle gone terribly wrong, Koishi Komeiji—a satori youkai with the remarkable ability to conceal her presence by closing off her subconscious mind—was, well, existing. Let's not say "living," because that implies a level of awareness she usually bypasses. Her mind, a beautiful chaotic mess akin to a teenager's bedroom, was suddenly about to get an unexpected visitor.
Enter Sigmund Freud, the venerable father of psychoanalysis, who, for reasons best left to the fevered imaginations of fanfiction writers, found himself transported to this realm. Imagine Freud, in his usual Viennese attire, complete with a cigar, standing perplexed amidst a whirlwind of suppressed memories, repressed desires, and the occasional stray cat video.
"Ach, vhat is zis?" Freud muttered, looking around. The landscape was surreal, like Dali had taken a detour through a Japanese folklore convention. "Zis must be ze id... or perhaps a very disturbing dream."
Suddenly, Freud's presence stirred something within the shadows of Koishi's mind. She materialized before him, looking as detached as ever, her third eye symbolically closed but metaphorically rolling at the absurdity of her new mental roommate.
"Who are you?" Koishi asked, more out of politeness than actual curiosity. After all, she was accustomed to strange occurrences. Being Gensokyo's unofficial psychiatrist—well, more like its confused bystander—had its perks.
"Ah, guten Tag, Fraulein," Freud said, tipping his hat. "I am Dr. Sigmund Freud, and I appear to have landed in vhat I can only describe as an unconscious domain. Tell me, are you ze id, ego, or superego?"
Koishi blinked. "I'm Koishi. What are you doing in my head?"
Freud scratched his beard, contemplating the strangeness. "It vould seem zat your mind has invited me in. Perhaps you need psychoanalysis? You have many repressed thoughts, no?"
She giggled. "Repressed? More like forgotten. Or ignored. I don't really need them."
Freud’s analytical mind could hardly contain its excitement. “Fascinating! A case of complete subconscious suppression! Tell me, Koishi, do you dream?”
“Sometimes, but they’re all just... odd,” Koishi said, waving her hand nonchalantly. “Like, I dreamt I was a pancake once. Fluffy, with syrup and butter. People kept wanting to eat me. It was weird.”
Freud’s eyes sparkled. “Classic! A manifestation of oral fixation mixed with existential anxiety! Tell me, vhat else do you suppress?”
Koishi shrugged. “Pretty much everything. I find it easier that way. You know, less drama, less heartache. Plus, who needs a cluttered mind?”
Freud, trying to process this radical approach to mental health, puffed on his cigar. “Und how does zat make you feel?”
“Feel? Eh, I guess I feel... nothing? Isn’t that the point?”
Freud was aghast. “Zis is a travesty! You cannot simply shut off ze mind’s natural processes! It is like closing ze doors to ze unconscious and throwing away ze key!”
Koishi chuckled. “I didn’t just throw away the key; I nuked it. It’s liberating, trust me.”
As Freud began to set up an impromptu therapy session, complete with a couch that appeared from nowhere because, well, why not, he tried to delve deeper into Koishi’s psyche. “Tell me about your family, your childhood, any traumas.”
“Traumas?” Koishi repeated, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Well, my sister Satori reads minds, which can be annoying, but trauma? Not really. I mean, unless you count that one time I got lost in the woods and a tanuki tried to sell me insurance. That was... something.”
Freud, scribbling furiously on an ethereal notepad, muttered to himself. “Interesting... very interesting. Tell me more about zis sister of yours.”
“Satori? She’s great. Reads minds, has a cat, deals with way more nonsense than I do. She’s like the family therapist who actually knows what she’s doing.”
Freud nodded. “Ah, sibling dynamics. Often, ze cause of much of our inner turmoil. Do you envy her abilities?”
Koishi shook her head. “Nah. I mean, who wants to hear everyone’s thoughts all the time? ‘Oh no, I forgot to buy milk’ or ‘I hope no one notices I’m wearing mismatched socks.’ Sounds exhausting.”
Freud leaned back, pondering. “You seem remarkably well-adjusted for someone vith such a repressed mind. Perhaps zis is a new frontier in psychoanalysis.”
“Or maybe,” Koishi said with a smirk, “sometimes a pancake is just a pancake.”
Freud couldn’t help but laugh. “Touché, young lady. Touché.”
As they continued their peculiar conversation, Freud slowly realized that maybe, just maybe, the traditional methods of psychoanalysis might not apply in a world where the boundaries of reality were as flexible as the moral compass of a politician.
In the end, Freud decided that his unexpected journey into Koishi’s mind was a unique learning experience. “Perhaps I vill write a paper on zis. ‘On Ze Peculiarities of Ze Youkai Mind.’ It vill be groundbreaking!”
Koishi grinned. “Good luck with that, Doc. And if you need any more odd dreams to analyze, you know where to find me.”
With that, Freud tipped his hat once more and vanished, leaving Koishi alone with her thoughts—or lack thereof. She sighed contentedly, ready to resume her carefree existence in the whimsical chaos of Gensokyo. After all, who needed a fully functional subconscious when you could have dreams about being a pancake?
And thus, the saga of Freud in Koishi’s head ended, leaving behind a legacy of confusion, laughter, and the occasional deep psychological insight. Because in Gensokyo, even the most serious of minds couldn’t help but get a little whimsical.
Enter Sigmund Freud, the venerable father of psychoanalysis, who, for reasons best left to the fevered imaginations of fanfiction writers, found himself transported to this realm. Imagine Freud, in his usual Viennese attire, complete with a cigar, standing perplexed amidst a whirlwind of suppressed memories, repressed desires, and the occasional stray cat video.
"Ach, vhat is zis?" Freud muttered, looking around. The landscape was surreal, like Dali had taken a detour through a Japanese folklore convention. "Zis must be ze id... or perhaps a very disturbing dream."
Suddenly, Freud's presence stirred something within the shadows of Koishi's mind. She materialized before him, looking as detached as ever, her third eye symbolically closed but metaphorically rolling at the absurdity of her new mental roommate.
"Who are you?" Koishi asked, more out of politeness than actual curiosity. After all, she was accustomed to strange occurrences. Being Gensokyo's unofficial psychiatrist—well, more like its confused bystander—had its perks.
"Ah, guten Tag, Fraulein," Freud said, tipping his hat. "I am Dr. Sigmund Freud, and I appear to have landed in vhat I can only describe as an unconscious domain. Tell me, are you ze id, ego, or superego?"
Koishi blinked. "I'm Koishi. What are you doing in my head?"
Freud scratched his beard, contemplating the strangeness. "It vould seem zat your mind has invited me in. Perhaps you need psychoanalysis? You have many repressed thoughts, no?"
She giggled. "Repressed? More like forgotten. Or ignored. I don't really need them."
Freud’s analytical mind could hardly contain its excitement. “Fascinating! A case of complete subconscious suppression! Tell me, Koishi, do you dream?”
“Sometimes, but they’re all just... odd,” Koishi said, waving her hand nonchalantly. “Like, I dreamt I was a pancake once. Fluffy, with syrup and butter. People kept wanting to eat me. It was weird.”
Freud’s eyes sparkled. “Classic! A manifestation of oral fixation mixed with existential anxiety! Tell me, vhat else do you suppress?”
Koishi shrugged. “Pretty much everything. I find it easier that way. You know, less drama, less heartache. Plus, who needs a cluttered mind?”
Freud, trying to process this radical approach to mental health, puffed on his cigar. “Und how does zat make you feel?”
“Feel? Eh, I guess I feel... nothing? Isn’t that the point?”
Freud was aghast. “Zis is a travesty! You cannot simply shut off ze mind’s natural processes! It is like closing ze doors to ze unconscious and throwing away ze key!”
Koishi chuckled. “I didn’t just throw away the key; I nuked it. It’s liberating, trust me.”
As Freud began to set up an impromptu therapy session, complete with a couch that appeared from nowhere because, well, why not, he tried to delve deeper into Koishi’s psyche. “Tell me about your family, your childhood, any traumas.”
“Traumas?” Koishi repeated, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Well, my sister Satori reads minds, which can be annoying, but trauma? Not really. I mean, unless you count that one time I got lost in the woods and a tanuki tried to sell me insurance. That was... something.”
Freud, scribbling furiously on an ethereal notepad, muttered to himself. “Interesting... very interesting. Tell me more about zis sister of yours.”
“Satori? She’s great. Reads minds, has a cat, deals with way more nonsense than I do. She’s like the family therapist who actually knows what she’s doing.”
Freud nodded. “Ah, sibling dynamics. Often, ze cause of much of our inner turmoil. Do you envy her abilities?”
Koishi shook her head. “Nah. I mean, who wants to hear everyone’s thoughts all the time? ‘Oh no, I forgot to buy milk’ or ‘I hope no one notices I’m wearing mismatched socks.’ Sounds exhausting.”
Freud leaned back, pondering. “You seem remarkably well-adjusted for someone vith such a repressed mind. Perhaps zis is a new frontier in psychoanalysis.”
“Or maybe,” Koishi said with a smirk, “sometimes a pancake is just a pancake.”
Freud couldn’t help but laugh. “Touché, young lady. Touché.”
As they continued their peculiar conversation, Freud slowly realized that maybe, just maybe, the traditional methods of psychoanalysis might not apply in a world where the boundaries of reality were as flexible as the moral compass of a politician.
In the end, Freud decided that his unexpected journey into Koishi’s mind was a unique learning experience. “Perhaps I vill write a paper on zis. ‘On Ze Peculiarities of Ze Youkai Mind.’ It vill be groundbreaking!”
Koishi grinned. “Good luck with that, Doc. And if you need any more odd dreams to analyze, you know where to find me.”
With that, Freud tipped his hat once more and vanished, leaving Koishi alone with her thoughts—or lack thereof. She sighed contentedly, ready to resume her carefree existence in the whimsical chaos of Gensokyo. After all, who needed a fully functional subconscious when you could have dreams about being a pancake?
And thus, the saga of Freud in Koishi’s head ended, leaving behind a legacy of confusion, laughter, and the occasional deep psychological insight. Because in Gensokyo, even the most serious of minds couldn’t help but get a little whimsical.
Tempokai
Overworked One
- Joined
- Nov 16, 2021
- Messages
- 771
- Points
- 133
A bedtime story about the tv show I was forced to watch in neighbor's home:
I write this account with trembling hands, aware that my time is short. The eldritch horrors I have witnessed compel me to document this experience, for posterity, or perhaps as a warning. It began innocuously enough, on a typical Thursday evening in my quaint but accursed abode, situated in a town whose name is unworthy of recollection. It was then that I stumbled upon a broadcast of "Fields of Wonders," a television program hosted by the ominous figure known as Leonid Yakubovich.
Upon first glimpse, the setting seemed to be an innocuous television studio, garishly lit and brimming with an unnatural cheer. But my perceptions, honed by years of dabbling in forbidden knowledge and the study of eldritch lore, immediately detected the sinister undertones lurking beneath this facade. Yakubovich himself was a figure of baleful joviality, his mustache twitching with an otherworldly energy as he presided over the ritualistic proceedings.
The format of the program was deceptively simple: participants, lured from various regions, were summoned to this sacrosanct space to spin an enormous wheel—an artifact that radiated a malevolent aura visible only to those attuned to the arcane. Each spin of the wheel seemed to reverberate with an ominous hum, as though the very fabric of reality strained against the forces being summoned.
Yakubovich, with his fiendish smile, beckoned the contestants forward. They approached the wheel with a mix of trepidation and forced enthusiasm, akin to cultists participating in rites they scarcely understood. The wheel's segmented surface was adorned with symbols and numbers, each imbued with a latent power. As it spun, I could feel the eldritch energies swirling, converging upon the hapless contestant who dared invoke its wrath.
The first contestant, a rotund man of middle age, clutched a placard upon which a word was inscribed. He presented it to Yakubovich, who nodded sagely, as if confirming an incantation. The wheel was spun, and as it slowed, I could almost hear the chants of ancient cults, whispering in the tongue of the Old Ones. The wheel settled on a segment, and Yakubovich announced the result with a tone that dripped with sardonic mirth.
What followed was a sequence of bizarre activities. The contestants were compelled to perform actions that seemed trivial on the surface but reeked of dark symbolism. One woman was instructed to mime an animal, her contortions reminiscent of rituals I had read about in the forbidden texts of the Necronomicon. Another man was required to sing a song, his voice wavering as though he were invoking something best left undisturbed.
The audience—an assemblage of oblivious onlookers—clapped and cheered, unwittingly participating in the ritual. Their enthusiasm only fed the energies swirling within the studio, amplifying the arcane power at play. Yakubovich, ever the maestro of this macabre symphony, continued to guide the proceedings with a charisma that belied the darkness beneath.
As the show progressed, I became acutely aware of the true nature of "Fields of Wonders." This was no mere game show but a carefully disguised ceremony to channel the collective energies of the participants and viewers alike. Each correct answer, each cheer, each spin of the wheel was a step in a grand ritual, designed to awaken forces beyond our comprehension. The studio itself, with its pulsating lights and gaudy decor, was a temple to these ancient beings.
My mind reeled as I realized the extent of the deception. Yakubovich was not just a host but a high priest, orchestrating a ritual of mass participation. The wheel was a sigil, a focal point for the invocation of cosmic horrors. The prizes, the laughter, the superficial merriment—all were mere distractions from the true purpose of the ceremony.
By the time the final contestant had spun the wheel, the atmosphere in the studio had reached a fever pitch. The air crackled with an energy that set my teeth on edge. Yakubovich's eyes gleamed with a manic intensity as he declared the ultimate winner—a woman who had unknowingly sealed our fate with her correct answer.
As the show concluded, the credits rolled over the screen, masking the true outcome of the ritual. The studio lights dimmed, and I could sense the ancient powers receding, sated for now. But I knew that this was only a temporary respite. The ritual had been completed, and the forces summoned would not remain dormant for long.
I pen these words as a warning to those who might stumble upon this unholy broadcast. Beware "Fields of Wonders" and its diabolical host. The horrors it conceals are beyond human comprehension, and participation in its rituals, no matter how innocuous they may seem, could have dire consequences. I fear that I have seen too much, and that the knowledge I possess will soon attract the attention of those dark powers. If this account reaches you, heed my words and turn away from the screen, lest you too become ensnared in the web of cosmic horror.
Upon first glimpse, the setting seemed to be an innocuous television studio, garishly lit and brimming with an unnatural cheer. But my perceptions, honed by years of dabbling in forbidden knowledge and the study of eldritch lore, immediately detected the sinister undertones lurking beneath this facade. Yakubovich himself was a figure of baleful joviality, his mustache twitching with an otherworldly energy as he presided over the ritualistic proceedings.
The format of the program was deceptively simple: participants, lured from various regions, were summoned to this sacrosanct space to spin an enormous wheel—an artifact that radiated a malevolent aura visible only to those attuned to the arcane. Each spin of the wheel seemed to reverberate with an ominous hum, as though the very fabric of reality strained against the forces being summoned.
Yakubovich, with his fiendish smile, beckoned the contestants forward. They approached the wheel with a mix of trepidation and forced enthusiasm, akin to cultists participating in rites they scarcely understood. The wheel's segmented surface was adorned with symbols and numbers, each imbued with a latent power. As it spun, I could feel the eldritch energies swirling, converging upon the hapless contestant who dared invoke its wrath.
The first contestant, a rotund man of middle age, clutched a placard upon which a word was inscribed. He presented it to Yakubovich, who nodded sagely, as if confirming an incantation. The wheel was spun, and as it slowed, I could almost hear the chants of ancient cults, whispering in the tongue of the Old Ones. The wheel settled on a segment, and Yakubovich announced the result with a tone that dripped with sardonic mirth.
What followed was a sequence of bizarre activities. The contestants were compelled to perform actions that seemed trivial on the surface but reeked of dark symbolism. One woman was instructed to mime an animal, her contortions reminiscent of rituals I had read about in the forbidden texts of the Necronomicon. Another man was required to sing a song, his voice wavering as though he were invoking something best left undisturbed.
The audience—an assemblage of oblivious onlookers—clapped and cheered, unwittingly participating in the ritual. Their enthusiasm only fed the energies swirling within the studio, amplifying the arcane power at play. Yakubovich, ever the maestro of this macabre symphony, continued to guide the proceedings with a charisma that belied the darkness beneath.
As the show progressed, I became acutely aware of the true nature of "Fields of Wonders." This was no mere game show but a carefully disguised ceremony to channel the collective energies of the participants and viewers alike. Each correct answer, each cheer, each spin of the wheel was a step in a grand ritual, designed to awaken forces beyond our comprehension. The studio itself, with its pulsating lights and gaudy decor, was a temple to these ancient beings.
My mind reeled as I realized the extent of the deception. Yakubovich was not just a host but a high priest, orchestrating a ritual of mass participation. The wheel was a sigil, a focal point for the invocation of cosmic horrors. The prizes, the laughter, the superficial merriment—all were mere distractions from the true purpose of the ceremony.
By the time the final contestant had spun the wheel, the atmosphere in the studio had reached a fever pitch. The air crackled with an energy that set my teeth on edge. Yakubovich's eyes gleamed with a manic intensity as he declared the ultimate winner—a woman who had unknowingly sealed our fate with her correct answer.
As the show concluded, the credits rolled over the screen, masking the true outcome of the ritual. The studio lights dimmed, and I could sense the ancient powers receding, sated for now. But I knew that this was only a temporary respite. The ritual had been completed, and the forces summoned would not remain dormant for long.
I pen these words as a warning to those who might stumble upon this unholy broadcast. Beware "Fields of Wonders" and its diabolical host. The horrors it conceals are beyond human comprehension, and participation in its rituals, no matter how innocuous they may seem, could have dire consequences. I fear that I have seen too much, and that the knowledge I possess will soon attract the attention of those dark powers. If this account reaches you, heed my words and turn away from the screen, lest you too become ensnared in the web of cosmic horror.
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Deleted member 19066
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ThatTwat3000
Well-known member
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ThatTwat3000
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Paul_Tromba
Sleep deprived mess of a published author
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