a-sparrows-melody

[a-sparrows-melody]

Yesterday while I was walking through the meadows to get to real life I saw my heart.

Well, I knew it was a heart that was vaguely familiar in the way the blood splattered down from the arteries and flowed in rivulets through the grass. I just didn't know it was mine till I sat down next to it and talked to it.

I took a little detour to satisfy my curiosity.

"Hey there. Why are you out here?" I asked it, confused and a little scared as to why there was a real human heart, almost as big as I am tall, just sitting in the illusory meadow and pulsating with so much energy that the air around it crackled.

"Why shouldn't I be?" it boomed back at me, it's voice louder than anything I've ever heard in my life. I covered my ears, feeling the migraine coming on.

"Can you talk a little softer? My ears are hurting," I told it, wincing.

The heart didn't have eyes but it looked at me then with such censure that I resisted the urge to run away.

"I will talk as loud as I want. You do not need to listen to me."

I nodded, convinced, and starting picking at the hem of sundress for a while, staining my fingers with grass and dirt and pigment from the weed-flowers. In the pulsating of the heart next to me, and gore and blood on my fingers, I felt a profound sort of peace and a horribble parching thirst for knowledge. I knew I was not to disturb the heart, for it was such a large being that demanded respect if only for the space it took up, just existing, but in the end, I could not help myself.

"Can I ask you something?" I asked the heart again. When it didn't respond, I decided to ask a question anyway.

"Who's heart are you?"

The heart waited a bit, almost contemplating.

"Everything, really. Why did you want to know?"

"Don't you want to know where everything comes from and goes to?"

"Not really. All I know is the blood in my chambers and what I must do with it. Sometimes I am curious, yes, but if I learn too much information then I get overwhelmed. You must know how the feeling is like."

No, I did not. When you live such a short life as I do, no knowledge seems enough. But there was some truth in its words.

"What do you mean by everything? Not everything has a heart, and not everything's heart is the same."

"You misunderstand me. I cannot be the heart of everything, I cannot pump everyone's blood except for the one who's body I reside in. But I am as metaphorical as I am literal. My body feels that I am so big because it feels for everything. So I am the.

"So you have a body? Who's body do you serve?"

"I am not a servant. I am a master. The master of a body. In fact, you are my body. I am surprised that you did not know this."

"Me! But I have my heart right... here..." I pawed at my chest, feeling for my pulse. I could feel nothing, no beats, no fluttering. I pressed my hands, my neck, and still I felt nothing. My rubbed my chest again and then I could hear my two ribs rubbing against each other, clacking and cracking.

"Why are you out here? Why are am I not dead?" I asked, alarmed.

"Well, you, my body, feel so many emotions that you think I, your heart, must be that big to compensate for the space. You are not dead because this is not real life."

"Are you telling me I'm full of love?"

"Yes, I am telling you, you desiccated husk of human emotions, you, who has turned wherever your footsteps land into ash, you have suffered so much, are full of love."

I turned around to see what the heart - my heart - was referring to. Sure enough, the green meadow behind me had a dark trail of smoke passing through it, pooling around my skirts and finally ending. The tendrils of smoke were curling upwards, as if naughty children chasing each other. They touched and sizzled and all I could feel was shock. That I burnt the meadow.

"But how - how can I be full of love when I burnt the meadow in that manner?"

"Isn't it not what is gone but what shall come? You might have destroyed but you love, so you rebuild."

"But that isn't an excuse!"

"Surely. But you try - no, you do. That is enough. As long as you love, any kind of love, you live."

I live.

I live.

[a-sparrows-melody]

not very new hyperfixation rediscovered write a poem abt it

[a-sparrows-melody]

My Wall

Get up and,

Face first smash,

Into my brick wall.

Trying to make plans

With this cute woman I met

Heart flutters,

Turn and,

Smash into the wall.

A streak of good days

Confidence leading the way,

I can do this. Perhaps I'm okay.

Then I smash into the wall.

Each brick is made of hatred,

Signed with my blood

In my handwriting.

"Kill yourself"

It used to be that wall was 80 feet high,

Towering,

Malevolence personified.

Each brick screaming the same word.

But...

Recently the wall is cracking.

And somehow I can see over the top of it.

Maybe, just maybe,

Some day

This wall will be just stepping stones,

On a new pathway.

Maybe one day I'll get to enjoy something

Without the fear of turning around

And smashing my existence into

That

Fucking

Wall.

[a-sparrows-melody]

Her, my home.

I come because I miss her, I come because she calls, I come because my time with her is precious beyond it all. She is the one who hugs me, She is the one who cares, She is the one I bury my tears in as she strokes my hair. Whisper me those sweet goodnights, Your voice a lullaby. Weave our fingers to hold our hands, and Loose me in your eyes. She is the one I dream of, She is the one with dimpled cheeks, She is the one who laughs aloud when my jokes fly overreached. I come because there is no one else who I would rather see I come because our hearts are twined together, My home is her and me.

[a-sparrows-melody]

what you can expect to find here:

This is a blog for all kinds of literature. You can catch me in the spaces between randomly stacked books in the library, in the lines between those poems that strike your heart just right, and maybe at the stake burning for witch-y crimes.

Which is to say,

Original Poetry

Original Creative Writing

Some abomination that is a mixture of the aforementioned things

Book reviews

Hot Takes (TM)-slash-critisizing weirdly niche parts of a book I like reading

Reblogs of creative writers

MY OWN FANFICTION OBLIGATORY ADVERTISEMENTS POSTS YEYEYEYEYEY

masterlist for my poems:

When Things Change

After We Die

Oh Nature, What Do You Feel?

I Found A Friend In A Book

I Know Too Much

Crash And Burn

I Hate You

random limerick

Like Watercolour

And Then

She is The Poet; The Muse

Inconsequential (sneaking up on you)

Your Anger

Your Anger (draft one)

Look At You In My Eyes

Imagination

Lose Myself Differently

masterlist for my creative blurb thingys:

The Moon

In Your Arms

What Does It Mean To Fall In Love?

Hanahaki

Mary On A Cross

Ivy

Weather On Fire

The New Dawn

Mary On A Cross (reprise)

on gratitude

masterlist for an abomination of poetry and creative blurb thingys:

Galaxies In Your Eyes

on frustration

on death

on hope

EVERYTHING POSSIBLE

on burnt out

Bone-Deep

Surface Tension

Poisoned Water

on romanticization

masterlist for my book reviews:

The Mortal Instruments - Cassandra Clare

Five Survive - Holly Jackson

Defy The Night Series - Brigid Kemmerer

masterlist for my fanfiction chapters:

random advertisement post

1 - the jackson family tragedy

you can find me on:

tumblr (yes, you're here. not giving you a hyperlink for this one. you're on my tumblr)

my side blog on tumblr (where i post about byler and other personal stuff)

AO3 (you can check out my fanfiction here)

FFDOTNET (check out my fanfiction here, too. Yes, it's the same one)

discord (how the hell do I give y'all a hyperlink for this one. Sorry guys. It's just "aarbeaz" on discord)

[a-sparrows-melody]

1 - the jackson family tragedy

You can read it on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62909542/chapters/161090359

Rating: Mature

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death

Fandoms: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types

Relationships: Thalia Grace & Percy Jackson, Luke Castellan & Percy Jackson, Percy Jackson/Thalia Grace/Luke Castellan, dark Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Luke Castellan & Thalia Grace, Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood, Annabeth Chase & Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

Summary:

Cari Jackson is dead - In all forms possible. She has never felt love, no, not until they come along. Cari remains dead - But now she understands "want".

...

How much can you change with just a tiny switch? The Fates themselves are not aware of the consequences of their actions when they switch the roles that Percy Jackson, Hero of Olympus and Thalia Grace, Hunter of Artemis play in fulfilling the first Great Prophecy - and through this story, they will find out.

[Percy's name is Cari Sally Jackson in this story]

(chapter 1 under cut)

-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-

CHAPTER 1: the jackson family tragedy

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

None of this was.

But how could they expect him to be like this? To honor an agreement that they all knew was a farce?

And, really, why did he care?

Everything was going wrong, and it was mostly not his fault.

***

Outside the grimy hospital window, the world seemed to be cracking like marble. Christmas was yelling for recognition from all corners of the city – and it seemed, so were the people. Tensions were running high, and it seemed that every person living in the city had descended upon toy and gift shops like some kind of sentient, buzzing hive, to fulfill the obligations of mid-winter festivals and gifts and regret their lack of time management. A sweet, cloying, slightly tangy scent filled the air; blazing lights and Christmas trees glared menacingly everywhere you looked.

Despite all this activity, there seemed to be a sort of addictive, frenetic happiness in the air – the type that the Gods back in Olympus used to feed on to satisfy their carnal desires. Trust me, people were more drunk on hope during mid-winter festivals than they would be if they downed vats of liquor in one sitting.

Prometheus did give them this wonderful gift of slavery, even though the Gods were too short-sighted to appreciate him fully back then. But that’s a story of eons ago.

In any other decade, Poseidon would be back in Olympus, on his barnacle-covered throne, complaining about light pollution with Artemis, getting drunk with Zeus to spite Dionysus, or engaging in acts of satisfying his carnal desires with nymphs. At this moment, though, jubilant festivity could not affect Poseidon’s typhoon-ridden soul – for he deigned to repent his mistake – well, one of.

He sighed, head in his hands. It ached as if Athena herself was banging his head relentlessly, vengefully, and this time it wasn’t the type of pain that Hephaestus could remove by just splitting his head in half – this was the type of pain that traversed through his whole system, as if setting his golden blood on fire. It didn’t hurt, per se, but it made him feel discomfited and uneasy.

Now, Gods weren’t ones to repent. Their past was so enormous, filled with so much tragedy and so many mistakes that could have gone right, that if they sought to think about it all, they would be crying and thinking for the rest of eternity. And then presumably regret that too.

Just something else, he’d managed to convince himself. Just another one of them he needed. He should have known about his lack of self-control and Sally’s immensely fertile, disease-ridden self. He should have known. But he was not Apollo; he was neither prophetic nor did he care about such persnickety things such as “prophecies” and “fates” that did not interest him.

Poseidon should have known all this. He was apparently the cause of another poor woman’s death, a woman too stubborn to give up mothering his child.

Oh, yes, that’s right – he had another child now. A demigod daughter – his first, if he were to count. Were this birth under, quite literally, any other circumstances, the girl would have been celebrated for years and her mother would be treated like a Goddess – one of the minor ones, though. Except in this case, it could not happen because, well, there was that minor setback of said mother having died and the child having nowhere to live. Somehow, he was responsible.

Poseidon sighed again; his discomfort had increased in intensity and effect. He was somehow one of the only two people waiting outside the maternity halls and one of four in the entire hospital. Excluding staff, of course. The nurse had brought him news of Sally’s death about ten minutes ago, and apparently, the baby was so malnourished that she had been taken to the ICU for the moment. The nurses had given him his time to process and the other expecting father beside him was giving him sympathetic glances, while probably hoping his wife and baby did not suffer the same fate. 

It was only when a nurse in front of him was waving a death and birth certificate in front of him that he was pulled out of his self-pitying reverie (honestly, what a sticky situation he was in).

Poseidon didn’t think much in naming his child – his first demigod daughter. He wondered for a few moments more how celebrated he would have been back home, but the thought soon dissipated in favor of more threatening ones like Zeus turning him into a human again. Insufferable. He wouldn’t ever reveal this secret.

Poseidon wrote the name, ‘Cari Sally Jackson’ in his perfect cursive, signing at the end of the birth certificate, preening at his compassion in naming the child after Sally – knowing how much Sally would have appreciated him. Poseidon made a mental note of commissioning one of Apollo’s muses in Olympus to sing an epic of his sublimely sensitive behavior toward humans.

He offered the certificates back to the waiting nurse. She lingered for a moment, then gave him a “I’m sorry for your loss. Merry Christmas,” in a clipped, curt tone and walked off in her stilettos. This gave the other man permission to offer condolences. He clapped him on the back, gravely telling him, “Sorry mate. She must have been wonderful.”

Poseidon sighed again, more out of shock than desperation, and walked off without responding or even acknowledging he heard him. The man would be blessed if he sat next to Poseidon, even clapping him on the back, even though he would never know his identity. Oh, he should include this in his request to the muses.

The nurse had offered to let him watch Sally’s body and hold the child a little before she was gone, but he just didn’t do all this sentimentality. A foreign emotion was tugging at the back of his mind; his tear ducts were dry yet full of emotion, and his body seemed to be preparing to fight and destroy yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Somehow, not only his head but his entire body was aching with a certain type of longing – he almost thought he was losing the ability to live before he dismissed this silly thought and realized that even he didn’t “do” anything to keep himself alive, he wouldn’t die – Gods were the opposite of death.

Maybe he should have accepted the nurse’s offer to see Sally one last time. Poseidon knew he’d gotten overly attached to her, and it wasn’t just the satisfaction of carnal pleasures (they’d only done that once and look where it got them). It was something entirely different. He couldn’t label it as “love”. He didn’t feel love. He didn’t feel that much, period. Suddenly, hot liquid streamed down his face, and he was so shocked that it stopped. Was he bleeding? Was someone trying to poison him? Collect his blood? If he had no wound, what was going on? Is this what heartbreak feels like to humans? No wonder they constantly complain about feeling like dying – this is torture. Imagine bleeding without a wound, blood clouding your eyes. At least it was easier on him because of his golden blood, but human blood was an eyesore. 

When Poseidon wiped his cold cheeks, he saw that the residue on his hands was not his was shimmery elixir – instead, it was water.

Water. What he came from and where he was going. Something that both created him and destroyed him. 

Tears. He was crying for Sally Jackson, no less. He’d seen his subjects do it before when he was younger, but he’d never cried before. He was crying, of all petty things, over an extraordinary dead mortal and her extraordinary child. Now that he wasn’t shocked anymore, emotion overtook him, and he kneeled on the floor of the lobby pathetically and broke down in waterworks. The antiseptic scent was cloying under his nose, and he could practically feel the germs on the hospital floor lobby. The lights stung his eyes more than pompous Apollo. The nurse on the front table also thought it was permissible to comfort him – honestly, he was a God. He didn’t need such human things as “comfort”.

Then again, there he was, crying on the floor of a mortal hospital – over a mortal, no less – and was complaining about human emotions.

The nurse patted him awkwardly on the back. “There, there. It will all be fine, dear. Christmas spirit is in the air.”

Poseidon wanted to cry. Yell. Break something. Instead, he shook her off and continued crying, his quiet sobs a horrible parody of the tinny Christmas jingles blasting through the hospital's speakers. Oh, Ouranos. What was going on with him? He really needed to get a hold of himself. He got off the floor of the hospital lobby, straightened his Hawaiian button-up, and strode off into freezing New York as if he hadn’t just been wailing in front of the mortal. He was a God. He’d better start acting like himself again.

Despite his best efforts to block all un-Godly thoughts from his mind, one returned to him like iron to a magnet, sticking to the front of his brain and demanding all attention.

The baby would have no home to live in.

He couldn’t just leave her, in an orphanage that too – too dangerous for such a formidable child, with the blood of Gods and the most extraordinary mortal. But where else could he keep her? Taking her to Atlantis was as if serving Zeus the opportunity to banish him to Tartarus for all eternity and murder his unco daughter on a golden platter with side dishes. He could keep her on Calypso’s Island – but he didn’t really trust her to not betray him to Zeus and start another war. She was close with Hermes and very lonely – besides, Hermes had a knack for extracting secrets from lonely people. He wasn’t very close with Hermes, either way – and he would definitely have no problem blabbing to Zeus.

Poseidon sighed again, wringing his cold hand through his silken hair. This was such a sticky situation. He could feel the sea in him, toiling in puzzlement, anger, and grief all at once. He might have killed some mortals somewhere on Earth due to the force of his emotional typhoons, but he didn’t exactly care.

The lights were on everywhere in New York City except his heart. He walked to the Empire State Building, to Olympus preparing for mid-winter and the Winter Solstice meeting, thinking of Sally Jackson the whole time. Sally Jackson, with her exemplary personality. Sally Jackson, with her stupid jokes and dreams of being an author, all down the drain now. Sally, was the only mortal who could make him cry. Sally Jackson, the light touches and heavy ones. His memory of her was suddenly so acute and painfully sharpened, tinged at the edges with iron-scented regret.

As the grief settled in like an anvil, he thought he should have taken up the nurse’s offer to see her one last time. Tears threatened to fall out of his eyes again due to this regret, but Poseidon angrily wiped it away.

He was a God. And Gods didn’t retrospect.

***

Well, at least he had a few days till Cari was released from the ICU. She felt like another burden on his shoulders, another thing that reminded him of Sally Jackson. But he had to do this for Cari – he’d even named her after Sally and him. At least he could think of somewhere to keep her till she was released.

So that was a priority removed. His next most petrifying possibility was any of the Gods finding out and snitching to Zeus, subsequently starting another war. He ticked off the mental list in his head while the elevator moved agonizingly slowly up to the 600th floor.

Athena was the first of the most threatening ones. She was Zeus’ most favoured and execrated Poseidon the most. But she had no means of knowing – Poseidon could and had outsmarted her in the past before. But if he managed to hide it from the other gods, he might not even have to run her in circle – but this was a theory that couldn’t be trusted and most of everyone knew that theories couldn't be built on an almighty "if". Whatever, he'd think about the Athena-situation later.

Aphrodite would sense this heartbreak (again he cursed Sally Jackson for this burden), but he could hide it, telling her it was a nymph who refused his advances. But then again, Aphrodite would be preoccupied with teasing Hades with his love for Persephone.

Oh, right, Hades. Another weak link. Since this was the only festive event he was allowed to attend, he would surely attend it like a pompous show. He would surely sense the air of death and despair around him; Poseidon would be sure to steer clear of him the next day. Which wouldn’t exactly come across as unseemly, because they shared a mutual loathing towards each other. Poseidon didn’t really remember where that stemmed from, or if he did, he didn't care enough to hate him, and he was just doing it to humour Hades hoping he would know the know-how.

The elevator stopped at that exact moment, the speaker gently announcing the entrance to glorious Olympus, the abode to his pleasures. Except, at that moment, Olympus wasn’t an escape, a place to pursue his desires. He was still busy thinking about Cari and the Gods.

Hephaestus would be too concerned about catching Aphrodite and Ares publicly, Ares would lust over Aphrodite, Artemis would return late from hunts, and Dionysus would complain about his restriction from alcohol. Hera would be yelling at Zeus for some or the other affair, and Zeus would be trying to console her. Hermes was definitely not an option – neither was Apollo. They both could keep in their wine better than they could keep in others’ secrets. Poseidon almost scowled, before remembering he was under watch here – and anything unseemly would lead to suspicion. 

He relaxed his shoulders, putting a casually jovial expression on his face. He’d changed from his Hawaiian button-up and cargo shorts in favor of a more comfortable chiton and his trademark trident. The lush green trees and sweetly singing satyrs serenaded him from everywhere. Somewhere next to him, he heard some nymphs giggling.

“Lord Poseidon! Catch me, won’t you?” flirted one in a lilting voice, before bursting into giggles again with her friends. He gave her a flirtatious look of his own, saying, “Only if you run, beautiful.”

As was expected, they all ran off into the expansive woodlands together, giggling about how revered Poseidon acknowledged their presence.

He sighed, happily this time. He was respected here. But thoughts of Cari and Sally niggled deep into his mind, like constant reminders of what he’d lost. They sat on him like anchors for steamships. He spotted other groups of nymphs and almost took them into his bed before realizing what he was supposed to be focusing on.

There was still the matter of where Cari would stay – it truly seemed like filthy mortal “orphanages” were his last option. Remained the matter of the broken oath on Styx – only Styx knows what would happen to him as punishment. What would happen if – 

“What would happen if Zeus found out what you’ve done, Poseidon?” a horribly familiar voice from behind him spat menacingly.

He could recognize that voice anywhere. Athena.

Poseidon’s mind immediately went to wondering if she somehow came to know about Cari and Sally. But he composed himself and expelled these silly thoughts. How would she even come to know? He’d hidden it so well. It must be something else. He turned around slowly to face the grey-eyed goddess.

She was wearing a light chiton, and her owl was sitting at her shoulders. “Running to Daddy for every little thing, are we now, Athena?” Poseidon smirked at her.

Athena sneered back. “You very well know what you’ve done, Poseidon. Zeus will be happy to banish you from Olympus when he finds out. Was Tartarus on your vacation spot this year, hmm?” She asked him in a bemused but still somehow a curt tone that invited no further conversation. But Poseidon maintained his cool composure. She really could be talking about everything else apart from Cari.

Poseidon opened his mouth to answer, but Athena cut him off, looking eager about something.

“What, you didn’t realize?” She chuckled a bit, which looked odd on a face used to grim composure. “Gabby here told me,” she pointed to an eclectic-looking satyr with a blush across his cheeks – probably at being acknowledged by Athena, “that mortal nurses don’t wear heels on duty. And maybe if you weren't wailing like a mad-man over mortals, maybe you could have realized it.”

Poseidon’s blood ran cold. Oh, shit. The nurse in stilettos who'd given him the sign. Of course.��He should have known.

Athena gave a wild, maniacal laugh, knowing she’d hit the bullseye. “Cari Sally Jackson? You can do much better, barnacle brain. Any child of mine could deduce that in a second – but then again, they wouldn’t have to…”

While Athena went off on another one of her signature rants, Poseidon's mind worked faster than it had in centuries, trying to figure out ways to diffuse this situation. Shit. Oh, Zeus and Ouranos and all of Olympus! What was he going to do now? Hopefully, Athena would not snitch to Zeus and start another war – only Apollo knows what would happen to him, that too on top of whatever punishment the Styx was going to bestow on him.

Wait. War. Athena would not want war. He could maybe play on that.

He interrupted Athena and her long rants with pleasure - he couldn’t bear to hear her gloating for a second more.

“Athena. Do you want war?” Poseidon spoke in a hushed voice, hoping he was threatening enough even with the limit on his most threatening part: his loud voice. Athena shut her mouth, deliberating while looking curiously at him.

“No."

“Then do not tell Zeus,” Poseidon did not care about appearances now, just wishing his point would get across. He realized belatedly that she was presumably trying to hold back her laughter, as if Poseidon had done something to be mocked. He bristled at this insult to his abilities, feeling that flare of anger rise up in him once again - but he decided he would deal with it later.

Athena seemed to be contemplating, and a moment later, she said, looking very happy indeed:

“On the condition that you give me Cari Sally Jackson.”

Poseidon could not believe his ears, immediately forgetting his plans of revenge.

“Give you? What do mean give you? She’s not mine to give!”

Athena merely smirked.

“You heard right, barnacle brain. It doesn’t seem like there is any other place for her to stay, and I know you want neither war nor a trip to Tartarus. Pathetically crying isn’t an option here.”

So she'd seen him on the hospital lobby floor. Again Poseidon felt that familiar, bitter anger in him and snuffed out the spark before it could spread. Later, he promised himself.

Poseidon wouldn’t ever entrust Athena of all people with his child, one that could potentially bring glory to him, but he now realized that if Zeus ever found out about Cari, bloody “war” would be an understatement.

But Poseidon hadn’t even seen her yet. Once again, he felt the rage bubbling in him, thrashing like a man spurned.

“I’ll bring her to you from the hospital myself,” Poseidon looked into her eyes, trying to maintain some dominance. Oh, how he hated this pathetic excuse of a Goddess. Well, he'd take her revenge later.

Athena smiled as if she already knew his answer, grey eyes lighting up like Christmas trees. Well, ‘Twas the season.

“Oh, no need, Poseidon. I already have her here.”

Of course. It was Athena who he was talking to. Statistics did eliminate the presence of most surprises. Athena clapped her hands, and two blushing satyrs brought a baby towards her. The baby in question was swaddled in a fluffy grey towel, which she was actively trying to escape from. She looked extremely pale and sickly.

“You can hold her once,” Athena muttered begrudgingly, dumping her unceremoniously in Poseidon’s arms. Cari opened her eyes then, groggy from sleep, crying immediately – a harsh, light sound. Poseidon and Athena flinched, used to mortal sounds but not those of a mortal child, which were somehow both loud and lacking in the cadence and structure that the Gods preferred in their speech. Even so, Poseidon felt waves of grief and shock drown him.

Cari’s eyes were of a vibrant teal-green hue. His eyes. Sally Jackson’s eyes.

[a-sparrows-melody]

Blue

There is just as much wrong with me,

as there is with you.

Its the same painter in the sky,

That turns the oceans blue

I never was a beast like you said,

I fought to be pure,

you made a heavy bet against me,

and came up under.

Every song I wrote about you,

was written in black and blue,

the only color that you showed me,

Was the sadness I learned to lose.

I got a little older,

and I thought that you would too,

But you never left the grounds,

of the war we had gone through.

[a-sparrows-melody]

The blood between us

I crash through the forest, tree limbs slicing into my already broken skin. I feel the sun rising in the back of my mind, the haze that I have been pushing through all night finally breaks and I am once again left alone with the memories of the night before. The tears flood my eyes as the memories replay.

My breath catches in my throat and my vision shrinks to pinpoints. My skin itches as I feel the dried blood crack and flake from me. I need to get this blood off me. I can’t stand it.

Not hers. Oh, gods please not hers.

I push deeper into the forest, stumbling as sobs are ripped from my chest, from my throat, from my soul. I scratch and pull and tear at my skin. My sharp nails adding to the weeping wounds that already littered my body.

I feel a sharp, burning pain in my ribs and my hand instinctively grips at it. Fingers wrapping around the cool wood of the shaft. I feel the heat from the point between my ribs, burning hot as embers, I hear the hiss of my blood against the metal.

I pull at the arrow, feeling every rip and tear as the point is pulled from me.

“You bastard!” I feel the weight on my back before I hear the gruff voice. I cannot do this. I cannot face him after what I have done.

His hands are around my throat, tight and unyielding. He is screaming above but I cannot hear him. The pounding of blood in my ears is all I can hear now. I claw at the ground below, my body begging to survive. My lungs burning with the need for air.

“She loved you! How could you do this to her?” I hear the man sob above me, his grip weakening as his hands shake.

No. Please not this.

I cough, gasping for air as it burns my lungs. My sobs are ripped from me as I claw at my sides.

“I can’t…”I gasp for breath. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t go on mourning the people that I eat.”

“The people you eat? She was your wife. The mother of your children. She was my sister.” I feel a hot, sharp pain in my back and my breath is ripped from me. I feel my chest tighten immediately as a choking burn fills my throat.

Tears fall from my eyes.

Gods no….

"You were my brother…" I cough, watching watching the blood spray from my lips. He throws her ring down beside my head, I stare at the stone, catching the streams of sunlight through the trees and refuse to look away. My arms too weak to hold the last part of her I have near.

[a-sparrows-melody]

Lingering

Wandering the wilds,  

The towering forest looming over my shoulder  

Every idea of mine pushed into the welcoming dirt with each step  

Moving forward is my best option,  

Even when what I left behind is stalking  

Crawling from their shallow graves,  

I’m followed down this dreadful trail  

Biting at my ankles,  

They drag behind me, out of sight yet eating me alive  

Not my problem yet; I’m the one being haunted;  

Fairness is not a factor  

My environment is hostile, I know it well,  

Physical harm, my ultimate concern  

I never considered thoughts would have me on the ground,  

Yet here I lay,  

Overwhelmed by all, worse than any virus or flu,  

The dirt rejects me  

The dirt will welcome me one day, but not today;  

That would be too easy  

Too many options before me, tempting;  

Surely I’ll find thrill elsewhere?  

Comfort is what I found, alongside it, doubt,  

A large garden, well, varied  

I didn’t sow these seeds, but I ate the fruit,  

My fingers are still sticky  

[a-sparrows-melody]

Desert Rose

A bountiful garden hidden deep within a rocky valley; Vast expanse of harsh desert and cacti— Here, every walk of life resides: my oases, my home. Uninhabitable land bending to the will of life.

Beauty isn’t truth; it’s only a cruel mirage. Growth is limited—roots stretch far and find nothing. Waves of wasteland, secrets buried in the sands; Digging will do more harm than good.

Marigolds line the dunes; they thrive, a fellow flower. Jumping Cholla—once ready to spring—now just bones. The fruits of thorny labor: a prickly pear. Sand forms the stones we all step on—something new.

Solo, a humble tumbleweed, drifting with the breeze. Howls of the wind, bouncing peak to peak, mountains unfazed. Not a cloud in sight; sun rays bleach the bones clean— Lizards occupy, hawks high, not a cloud in the sky.

The pic is of Jumping Cholla bones. ( or I guess 'bone' since it's just one, but come on this pic goes hard )

[a-sparrows-melody]

How do I get you home?

I'm lost in this forest, the dry branches are breaking under my feet. I can only hear inaudible whispers, similar to the noise of the TV, and voices that tell me to give up and rest on the ground for at least a couple of minutes. And others ask not to give up and look for landmarks, but it seems that even they have already despaired. The stars are no longer shining. The moon is hidden behind a parade of storm clouds, and it's so dark.

Cold. It's hard for me to wander among the trees, looking for you behind the branches and trunks in the depths of pitch darkness. I can't even call for help, because I've been silent for so long and I think I've completely lost my voice. And I don't think anyone would have heard me. A stream of harsh wind, like a blow to the chest, knocks out a heavy exhale from my lungs, like an exhausted groan.

I don’t see you. The voices fade away. Even those who asked me to give up. I hate silence, it makes me panic and makes my hands shake violently. I try to grab onto something, but I only scratch my bare skin against the sharp branches.

Why do I keep walking? I indulge myself with dreams and fantasies about a wide meadow of beautiful flowers and the scorching sun, clinging to what reminds me of your voice. No, it's just my imagination, and you're actually hiding somewhere far away. I can't really hear you. Do I have the courage to go even deeper into the forest, knowing that it's my fault we got lost here? And I don't even see any path, no footprints of you. You've disappeared, but I'm trying to find a way out and take you home along the way.

Surrounded by green trees, I decide to take a break. I sit down on the dry grass and quietly pray that it won't snow. Raising my eyes to the sky, I ask that the star fall again. I’m so tired that I feel myself sinking down and I put my cheek to the cold ground. Heavy eyelids droop, and the fog thickens around.

I hope that we’ll meet again in April, in the fragrance of spring flowers. And while I'm looking for a way home, stay somewhere among my dreams.

[a-sparrows-melody]

Romanticization is a disease.

It is as if putting a pretty little band-aid on a dislocated, burnt joint. The writing might look pretty but writing isn't supposed to be pretty. It's supposed to be raw, visceral, as if you're fighting for your life and your sword is the paper you write on.

It's fucking bloody.

Right now, I could give you a million different metaphors about loneliness and emptiness. "An empty hearth with only ashes to remind you of the fire that once burnt." "A cloudy day where rain doesn't fall." "A blackhole." "A shell of yourself."

But look at yourself.

What you feel isn't that, is it? You're not a hearth where fire burnt. You're not the weather, you're not anything but you even though you don't want to be. There's no fucking "shell" here. You're not a pistachio.

Emptiness is painful. Not the kind of debilitating pain that will make you cry and scratch yourself. The kind where you don't feel anything but pain. It surrounds you. And after some time, you start taking comfort in the pain. You don't feel any emotion. You don't hear anything. You're underwater - no, in space. Vacuum.

It's as if there's so much in you but nothing in you.

I just gained four kilograms because I'm eating to drive away the pain. Nothing tastes good anymore. I want ice-cream but it leaves a horrible taste in my mouth. I can't speak - not because I'm too hurt to talk, but because I don't know what I think anymore. I talk so much to drive away the silence I created, but the only thing I have driven away is my friends. They got tired of asking me. Or maybe I got tired of answering. But could I tell them anything but "fine" when what I really feel is jealousy? Hunger? Pride, hurt, pain? I can't explain it to them.

I don't think they like me, either way.

I can't exactly explain that to them, can I?

Still, I try. My thoughts are running in circles.

Emptiness is something that doesn't come out of you. It festers in you. Nobody can feel it but you.

I'm running in circles. I don't want to do this anymore.

[a-sparrows-melody]

The Hunger Games songs and connections:

"Are you, are you// coming to the tree// where a dead man called out// they say who murdered three..."

-Coriolanus Snow murdered 3 people AND that was the slip up amongst his lies that led Lucy Gray to run from him and broke her trust in him.

"Too bad I'm the bet that you lost in the reapin'// Now what will you do when I go to my grave?"

-Wyatt Callow's death as an oddsmaker and how his family was devastated and unable to profit from his loss, highlighting how callous it is to bet on the slaughter of children. They lost their livelihood along with him because he was their oddsmaker and they lost their ability to bet with the personal and emotional stake in their own family member being reaped.

"But before I cay fly up// I've loose ends to tie up// right here in the old therebefore."

-The memory of Lucy Gray cannot and does not die until Snow is dead (her personal loose end). The imagery of 'fly up' conjures the mockingjay (the bird, not Katniss) and Lucy Gray was one of the first openly rebellious tributes from District 12. Her existence sparked controversy and rebellion in its own right and the rebellion wasn't complete until the mockingjay (symbol and Katniss) truly took flight.

"When I'm pure like a dove// when I've learned how to love// right here// in the old therebefore// when nothing is left anymore"

-Lenore Dove and Haymitch being the opposite side of a strikingly similar coin (haha Coin. Like president Coin. -oop, wait that's a new thought. Maybe Coin and Snow were opposite sides of the same coin in leadership?) Anyway. Haymitch and Lenore Dove being the opposite side of a coin for Snow and Lucy Gray. Loving the idea of the girl more than the girl herself and wanting to control her to fit his narrative (Snow) vs loving her as she is so much so that he even grows fond of her flaws but worries that the world may disagree with the near-worshipful perspective he has (Haymitch). The pure love between Haymitch and Lenore Dove and the heavy contrast in the way he reminisces about her with how Snow broods and stews about Lucy Gray. And then Lenore's death: 'when nothing is left anymore'.

"Thinking you're in control// thinking you'll change me, maybe rearrange me// think again if that's your goal"

-The way this must have HAUNTED Snow in hindsight and he weaponized people's image against them. Editing the games, twisting reputations of victors, robbing them of their own narrative and control over their own stories and histories. Contrast with "They slap me with labels and spit out their fables.// You came along and you knew it was lying// you saw the ideal me// and yes that's the real me" Snow is no longer this person who Lucy Gray knew or perceived him to be.

"Doing's hard work but it takes some to change things// like goat's milks to butter// like ice blocks to water"

-the imagery brings to mind Prim's goat and the hard work of the districts and the ice brings to mind melting which is what happens when fire meets snow (and coincidentally, what happens when the Girl On Fire meets Snow).

"Cold and clean// swirling over my skin// you cloak me// you soak right in// down to my heart"

-I've always thought this bridge sounded ominous and sinister. The imagery fits with Snow in later years. He's cold and pristine in white although his hands have the blood of so many children on them figuratively. He cloaks the true narrative from sight and also erases Lucy Gray and the tenth games. He also soaks in down to the hearts of the Capitol citizens, making them cold hearted to the districts and normalizing slaughter and violence under the guise of peace and moral symbolism.

Also Haymitch's actions directly led to three deaths connected to Snow's revenge specifically (His mother, Sid, and Lenore Dove). Haymitch repeatedly says "my fault" about this so clearly he blames himself for their deaths. He indirectly murdered three people (in his eyes) and this ties into the lyric "they say who murdered three" but more in alignment with the story of the hanging tree and how it's a tragedy of a love story. "Where a dead man called out// for his love to flee" could be connected to Haymitch seeing himself as a dead man going into the games, accepting his fate and worrying over Lenore Dove in the custody of the Peacekeepers and then later as a dead man metaphorically because his truth has been twisted and the real Haymitch died in the arena as far as his public image is concerned and he told Lenore Dove to spit out the gumdrops begging her to evade death, essentially, (begging her to flee death and Snow's grasp).

Just some ideas I can connect with the songs.

[a-sparrows-melody]

Hunger Games Relevance

(Please read/boost if you’ve ever read/watched the hunger games or you care about what’s going on)

I don’t know if other people feel the same way but especially with the new hunger games film coming out I’ve been absolutely floored by some of the parallels between the world in the series and the current conflict in Palestine.

Firstly, Suzanne Collins did say that she partially got the idea from flicking between channels showing reality TV interspersed with footage from the Iraq war so I guess there’s a good reason for me to be seeing similarities now.

But the fact it’s being live-streamed - the carnage - the propaganda - the fact that lots of us have been following the same few (often very young) journalists who have become the ‘face’ of Palestinian resistance (because right now journalism IS resistance being actively targeted by Israel) - it’s all crazy familiar.

I saw a clip of Israeli’s sitting on a hill watching and laughing at the bombs dropping on Gaza today as though they were fireworks just minutes before Israel bombed the 3rd floor of a paediatric hospital. The same ‘Sderot Cinema’ where Israeli’s bought deck chairs and snacks to ‘watch the spectacle’ of the 2014 bombing campaign on Gaza.

The way not everyone in the capitol was evil or bad and some people actively supported the districts but realistically they were still complicit in the exploitation - even if just through ignorance.

The incredible amount of children dying - the bombing of hospitals and withholding of resources (like in District 8 in Mockingjay), the taking of people not involved in Hamas into administrative detention (hundreds arrested in the West Bank - like how the victors were taken in Catching Fire even the ones who weren’t involved in the rebellion), the collective punishment of Gaza (the firebombing of District 12).

The way Israel dropped pamphlets from the sky to tell Gazans to evacuate south and then bombed the route (literally straight out of the games I swear - the video of the pamphlets falling was like the scene with the parachutes in Mockingjay which represent hope and then detonate).

It’s so eerily similar and I just wonder how so many watched those films and read those books and are silent now - why could they identify resistance and oppression and desperation and exploitation in fiction and not reality?

And I wonder if maybe it’s because we have to remind ourselves that we aren’t Katniss in this situation - we aren’t the heroes - we are the Capitol and District citizens watching it all happen on our screens - and that’s an unfortunate and uncomfortable concept to grapple with.

[a-sparrows-melody]

Hello,

I hope you’re all doing well. 🌿

I need your help to share my family's story and raise awareness about our struggle. Every voice counts, and your support means the world. 🙏

💬 Please reblog my pinned post or, if you're able, consider donating just $5—it could be life-changing for those facing unimaginable hardship.

Your kindness and solidarity make a real difference. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! 🤍✨

@aboodfmly

I, as a minor, cannot help you but I truly hope that you find someone who can. Wishing you luck.

[a-sparrows-melody]

Hi there,

I’m reaching out with a quiet hope in my heart. These days are heavy, and my family is living through a reality filled with uncertainty—but I’m still here, doing my best to hold on and keep going.

If you have a moment, please check out my pinned post.

A simple share could help it reach someone who might be able to make a difference.

If you’re able to give, even the smallest kindness can bring light into the darkest places.

Your time, your voice, your compassion — it all matters more than you know.

With deep gratitude,

@nadinfamily

I, as a minor, cannot help you but I truly hope that you find someone who can. Wishing you luck.

[a-sparrows-melody]

Hey 💌 I’m Saja — a mother trying to hold onto hope through days that feel impossibly heavy.

I know you probably see a lot online, but if you could take just a moment… I’d be so grateful.

💫 A reblog of my pinned post could help our story reach someone who cares.

🌿 And if you’re in a place to give, even a small donation could bring comfort to my daughter and help us feel safe again.

@sajagz, thank you for listening.

Even gentle support creates strength.

From one heart to another — thank you 🤍

I, as a minor, cannot help you but I truly hope that you find someone who can. Wishing you luck.