Compiled from anonymous TFL driver logs and CCTV fragments, Hackney Central to Victoria
On an overcast Wednesday in May, a disarticulated human pelvis boarded the 38 bus at Dalston Junction, Oyster-ready.
The driver reported nothing unusual. “I thought it was medical students mucking about,” he said. “Until it sat down. And didn’t fall.”
The pelvis rested upright on a window seat. No tether. No rig. It adjusted slightly at corners. It appeared to watch the city go by — calmly, knowingly.
Other passengers pretended not to notice. One took a picture but the image corrupted mid-upload. A child pointed and whispered, “That’s where I’ll grow from.”
By Angel, the bus grew heavy. Not physically — but gravitationally. Phones glitched. Shoulder joints ached. Nobody disemb... See more
From the Ossuary Transit Authority Training Codex, Edition 7 (Redacted)
Before cranial drift was regulated, souls were known to float loose from their skulls during transit between hemispheres.
The Ferrywoman was never officially assigned. She arrived at Platform 13, Sector Maxilla, during a mid-cycle audit. She brought no credentials, no badge, no socket-form. Only a satchel full of jawbone tokens and a sternum whistle made from translucent ivory.
“They’ve begun drifting laterally,” she said. “It’s not safe for the face to sleep anymore.”
Her job was to escort the unanchored. She sat at the front of every cranial vessel, humming subsonic glyphs through the occipital veil. Passengers wept in their sleep but arrived intact. Some forgot their surnames. One awoke with two tong... See more
Translated from dream-fracture logs captured beneath the Vault of Recurrence (Exact Date Nonlinear)
In the center of the spiral city where time folds inward like a ribcage, there stands a tower that ticks in bone.
The Marrowclock is not built, nor maintained. It was found — pulsing, rotating, gnashing its vertebral teeth in rhythm with the sunless sky. At its base, curled in the fetal glyph, lay the Prophet.
No name. No gender. Only a spiral carved into the skull, and the phrase: Time is stored in blood. Bone only remembers the future.
The Prophet spoke only in countdowns. “Four fractures remain.” “Two calcinations and we fold.” “One marrow left in the clock.” Scholars transcribed every utterance. Soldiers guarded the exits. Tourists left feeling bruised in spirit, like s... See more
As recounted in the notes of dental hygienist, Room 12B, Colchester NHS MaxFax Clinic
In late October 2016, a patient arrived with no record, no GP referral, and no apparent teeth — but pain radiating from an old molar void.
He gave no name. He carried an X-ray image rolled into a tube of waxed gauze. The receptionist noted the smell — burnt chalk and mint antiseptic. His mouth hung open. Not wide. Just enough.
The triage nurse asked what hurt. He pointed to the empty place beside his jaw.
“It sings,” he said. “Especially when I lie.”
In the examination room, he sat perfectly still. The dentist, a quiet man named Dr Singh, gently palpated the gumline. No inflammation. No swelling. But when his glove entered the socket, it kept going — past the bone, past what was physica... See more
Decoded from subsurface broadcast, 2438 CE, District Omega-Vermilion
Before the towers fell and the marrowfields were burned clean by thermocalcination, there was a saint who healed with only her wrists.
They called her Saint Carpal — not because she spoke (she did not), nor because she performed the sanctioned bone miracles (she refused), but because she had seventeen wrists, all functioning, all precise, all humming with overlight.
Infrared City was a vertical ruin of red glass and moaning vents, its citizens bent double from radiation stress. Still they queued, up the scaffolds and across the melted causeways, to kneel before her bench of chrome and tendon.
With each wrist, she unwound a wound. With each twist, she absorbed a spasm. With each turn, she erased names no longer safe ... See more
Transcribed from the cracked knuckle archives of the Salted Tower
In a village where no one had knuckles, a bride arrived with ten too many.
She came down the central marrowroad in silence, her veil stitched from tendon thread, her gloves bulging with jointed promise. No one knew her name. The elders blinked once and called her Phalanx Bride.
“We do not bend here,” whispered the people. “We splint. We ossify. We do not clench.”
But the bride only bowed — and her bones creaked like music.
She moved into the longhouse with the softest floor. She pressed her fingers into the walls. Knuckle-glyphs bloomed like fungi. Doors curled shut behind her. Windows forgot their corners.
She never spoke, but her hands spoke for her — folding and blooming in signs none could name but all ... See more
Once there lived three sisters beneath a hill of sleeping skulls.
The eldest, Vintula, wore her spine outside her body, and it rang like a ladder when she danced.
The youngest, Yesh, was made of candlewax and pressed bone dust, and wept marrow when she dreamed.
But the middle sister, Hara, was born without ribs. Not one. Not even a shard.
The elders declared her unglyphable, and she was forbidden to sing the Bone Psalms or enter the Vault of Listening.
How will she echo? How will she bend? Where will her guilt collect? the archivists whispered.
So Hara lived in silence. But where ribs were absent, other things grew.
In the hollow place where her cage should be, a stone hatched. The stone pulsed. It spoke when she touched it.
It taught her glyphs ... See more
