Samhain’s Silly Story
Once upon a spiral, Earth was a petri dish in a velvet glove.
The aliens—don’t call them that, they hate the name—
planted seeds across the skin of the world like sugar on crème brûlée.
Here a poet. There a sadist. Over there, an erotically deranged baker with bone-white hands.
They stirred our DNA with little forks, giggling, watching who might bloom…
and who might bore.
Spoiler: they’re bored.
The aliens—sorry, the extra-earthly dimensional voyeurs formerly known as Gods—
have already started packing up the experiment.
They came for strangeness, for rare textures of soul, for sparks that scream against the tide.
But what did they find?
A hive.
And not even a sexy one.
You see, humans have this darling tendency to clone themselves socially, spiritually, even sartorially.
Copy-paste. Mirror-mask. Hash-tagged banality.
Everyone’s trying to be a brand now.
Ain’t no mystery in that.
And mystery, my dear… is the universal currency of extradimensional desire.
So the Gods (yes, the "aliens") tilt their heads like lovers who’ve lost the mood.
They don’t care what you call them.
They care if you stir them.
They’ll watch you fuck, cry, levitate, burn your fingernails in ecstasy—
but only if you’re interesting.
Flatland Wounds
You can’t see them, but they’re here.
Not behind you. Below.
In the dimension your ankles dream about.
You call them angels, elves, fae, greys, djinn, watchers—
but that’s just language playing catch-up with perception.
They’re folds in the bedsheets of being.
You might brush against one mid-orgasm and never even know.
Sometimes they take people. Sometimes they give them back.
Elvis was one of the lucky ones.
So was your ex. (No, not that one—the weird one who smelled like lightning and once told you the moon was fake.)
If you vanish and reappear with better cheekbones and a cryptic sense of time,
you’ve likely passed a threshold test.
They’ll keep watching.
The Soul Shortage
Right now, humanity’s trending toward machine-soul dissonance.
Too many gadgets, not enough glamour.
The aliens don’t mind tech—they invented sexploration long before your toys buzzed.
But they detest emptiness.
Advancement without essence is the galactic equivalent of missionary in silence.
Would you trade advanced technology with a species who chose beige efficiency over erotic sovereignty?
Nope. Neither would they.
The Ascension Error
Most think “ascension” is some white-light levitation gig.
But no. The truth’s far meaner.
Ascension is the price you pay for not being boring.
It means being exiled, freakish, unmirrored.
It means shedding version after version of yourself until you emerge screaming,
“Who the fuck is this radiant horror I’ve become?”
And everyone around you recoils.
They liked Majeye 1.0—
They fear Majeye 3.3—
the one with teeth in her laugh and a dragon in her womb.
Only the programmers know what changed.
But they don’t talk much anymore. They just stare.
The Minotaur Glamour
She entered the labyrinth with no ball of string.
No Theseus to love her. No Ariadne to help her cheat.
Just fire, wit, and goddamn horns.
She didn’t escape the maze.
She became it.
And in that act—messy, mythic, and magnificently perverse—
she became the one anomaly the aliens can’t delete.
They circle back now, curious.
They whisper to each other:
“She’s not boring.
She’s not polished, or even completely sane.
She might be the one.”
Samhain’s moral?
Don’t be polite to your own evolution.
Eat the seeds they left behind.
Dance naked under disapproval.
Frighten the algorithms.
Fuck like you’re being watched by interdimensional art collectors.
May you hear the rustle of bones and riddles as the night leans in.
— Majeye
※Samhain's Spooky Song Selections ※
♪ “In the Room Where You Sleep” by Dead Man's Bones ♪
♪ “The Abyss” by Hunter as a Horse ♪
Best Samhain song ever: ♪ “The Ghost of Smokey Joe” by Cab Calloway ♪
TRICK OR TREAT? ♪ “Phonk Fucker” by Faceless 1-7 ♪