Iris Obscura
Bio
Do I come across as crass?
Do you find me base?
Am I an intellectual?
Or an effed-up idiot savant spewing nonsense, like... *beep*
Is this even funny?
I suppose not. But, then again, why not?
Read on...
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Achievements (11)
Stories (134)
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Iris Diaries: Memoir from a Cheap Berlin Bed . Content Warning.
Naked on a cheap Berlin bed, the air reeks of sex, booze, and regret—the kind of stink that clings like sweat on a humid afternoon. Just got off the phone with my Thai mate from last year’s Frankfurt bordello days. She’s finally calling it quits, heading back to Pattaya to open that beach shack bar she’s always gone on about. Good on her. Not all of us are doomed to keep circling the drain, though some of us seem to make it a bloody art form.
By Iris ObscuraExclusive • about a year ago
The Blackout
It isn’t the blackout itself that changes things, though that’s what all the talking heads will yammer about later. They’ll say it’s the flicker of screens, the collective gasp of billions, the eerie, suffocating silence that swallows the world. But nah, the real shit happens before. The moment just before the darkness, when a single notification sears through the air like a bitch slap to humanity.
By Iris Obscuraabout a year ago in The Swamp
Everything is Fine
The old cemetery outside of town, tucked just past the knotted woods and beneath the endless, judging sky, is a place of whispers. No one goes there - not out of fear, exactly, but because of the way it feels. Uncanny, they call it. As if the air hums too low to hear but too deep to ignore. There’s the old watchtower, straight and unnervingly sturdy, its stones unweathered despite the years, as if it’s anchored by something more than mortar. And the collapsed mausoleum, where shadows gather long after the sun moves on.
By Iris Obscuraabout a year ago in Fiction
Three-Paws Gambit
The sun, a decadent smear of pinks and golds, drips over the horizon, casting a warm glow over the rooftops and spilling into the sea below. From where I sit on my perch—a stoop outside a shuttered bakery—the islands scattered across the water look like inkblots, dark smudges on the molten gold of the horizon. Above it all, on the geriatric carcass of an old transmission tower near the shoreline, Three-Paws Gambit stretches with the grace of a seasoned queen. Her fur catches the last light, a calico mosaic against the twilight. The faint undead hum of the electric transformer beneath her seems to resonate with her purr, like some strange symphony of waves and wires.
By Iris Obscuraabout a year ago in Photography
Iris Diaries: Play-Clay Dreaming
At 9:30 PM, Melbourne’s Yarra River explodes with kiddie fireworks - a dazzling performance for an audience that will be drooling on their pillows by ten. And here I am, Iris Obscura, once Queen of the Midnight That Was, now demoted to bedtime sheriff in the tragicomedy of domesticity. From high heels to house slippers - oh, the indignity. But don’t worry, I’ll glam it up for you. That’s my specialty.
By Iris ObscuraExclusive • about a year ago
Those Pink Flats
Just the flats—pink, peeling, and with a sad little flower clinging on for dear life, poking out from under the door. That’s all you get. The slit’s just wide enough to tease you, like the universe saying, “Go on, have a guess.” She’s up there, leaning heavy on the metal—you can tell by the way it groans, like it’s sick of holding her secrets.
By Iris Obscuraabout a year ago in Psyche
