#Ash's angry poems

[dust-to-dustier]

POISON AND ROT

Something’s rotten in the world

Some twisted sickness has spread

It creeps upon the unsuspecting

The innocent, the downtrodden,

And tears from them all colour

All freedom to create

And rips from them their choices,

Their childish wonder.

And when the poison of it all spreads

And children see no point

In little games and funny jokes

And adults can’t see colour

Cannot pick up a pencil and create

When a mere doodle becomes history 

And a tune is naught but heresy

And questions are a sin,

We will walk the barren earth

Which they salted with our tears,

And gaze upon the sky,

The stars they have long taken,

And the fires spread

As they always should

And the shouting starts

As it always should

And the people gather 

as they always should 

And we will fix it.

They want your curiosity dear,

Your very desire to know,

They want the eyes so full of stars

Empty like the void.

They want the child’s colours gone

Replaced with harsh monochrome-

From the shadows they can rob us better.

They want to take and take and take

With greedy hands and rotten hearts

They poison us

They poison us

They poison us 

They are a plague upon us,

This shadow and its allies

And all the many duplicates

And all these cruel fates

And all these many monsters

And all their many faces.

For all the eyes they have

For all the ways they watch,

Crucially they seem to miss

The sparks that burn

With their fuel of apathy

Fire that will consume them.

Something here is rotten

Something here is twisted

Something here is diseased-

But with careful hands

And burning water

Rot can be removed.

[solis-angelus]

a poem I wrote after seeing this post and many others on here.

Her name was Sidra Hassouna, and she was killed among the thousands of other people in Palestine. Never forgive never forget.

[earlgreytea68]

hi egt

what fob songs scream hiatus to you?

i need to experience emotional ruin real quick

God, there are so many, like, basically allll of Save Rock and Roll feels like them working through the hiatus together (not least because of how it has a higher percentage of Patrick lyrics than usual, probably because of him coming off his solo work). But the hiatus loomed so large for them as this nuclear blast in their relationship, it seems to bleed all through Pete's words (and hence their songs) for years afterward.

And it actually even starts before the hiatus, with the "What a Catch, Donnie" music video, which is the most hiatus-y thing to ever hiatus, Pete going down with his ship while he sends everyone else away to party without him. IT'S ALL SO SYMBOLIC.

And then to title a song on the first Believers Never Die album "From Now On, We Are Enemies." WHAT THE HELL hahahahaha WHAT A CHOICE, PETE WENTZ. (a downward spiral, just a pirouette and I only what what I can't have -- wanting what you can't have is a total hiatus theme for me that shows up a bunch in Pete's lyrics. I have not done an empirical analysis to see if it's a more prevalent theme after the hiatus or not.)

"The Phoenix" has obvious symbolism for their life as a band, raising their career from the ashes, changing themselves up like a remix, wearing their vintage of misery better than everyone else. Also, I love the imagery it has of peace, the "release the doves, surrender love" bit. Waving the white flag and putting down your weapons (in contrast to put on your war paint). But I've always kind of felt like surrender love is one of Pete's deliberate ambiguities: It could be "surrender your love" but it could also be "surrender, love." And Pete doesn't often use "love" as a term of endearment in his lyrics but he called Patrick "love" on stage not too long ago, so, you know, it seems not too outside the realm of possibility to think that these are really lines about reconciliation. It feels like time is running out, so let's surrender and hold tight.

Then there's "Alone Together": I'm outside the door, invite me in so we can go back and play pretend. The image of playing pretend / make-believe with someone also recurs in Pete's poetry, and it's something else I always read as Patrick-coded. Who did he used to "pretend" with for the sake of the shippers? And, of course, starting at the end of the road to ruin sounds like people who have burned everything down but are finding their way back.

I wrote a whole fic about "Where Did the Party Go" :-)

What is there to say about "Miss Missing You" that hasn't already been said? The infamous "hot whiskey eyes" line that honestly can only be about Pete Wentz lol. The imagery of the person you'd take a bullet for being behind the trigger: they have both at separate points in time proclaimed their readiness to take a bullet for the other. The fact that Pete wrote in a poem once before the hiatus I miss you missing me, and this song is I miss missing you. Like, everyone just die over this song.

To me "The Kids Aren't Alright" is a hiatus song in that it's about surviving the hiatus, coming through it, reversing the curse, it's our time now if you want it to be, in the end, I'd do it all again, I think you're my best friend.

"Fourth of July" is another hiatus song for me, the reference to the burned bridges being the light that leads you home is just so hiatus-y. Also, the torture of small talk with someone you used to love just smacks of the hiatus, of how they stopped talking to each other, of how they knew so little about each other and had to start over. This is more wanting what you can't have, too: my favorite what-if, my best I'll-never-know. I said I'd never miss you. I wish I'd known how much you loved me. It's so much, this song lol

Twin Skeleton's: ouch. This song is so painful. This song scrapes over your skin like sandpaper. This song is so angry and bitter. This song is I need a new partner in crime and you shrug. oh my GOD that line kills me every single time. That one and the way Patrick snarls, I could just die laughing on your spiral of shame. This is an angry song, but the anger is born of a depth of emotion and it ends with Patrick promising hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on over and over, and that's what makes it extra-hiatus to me, like, hold on, it all gets better, I'm coming back, hold on, hold on, hold on...

I find the hiatus infects their songs less and less the farther they get away from it, which is good. It's healing. As we've discussed, they've almost forgotten the whole thing even happened, it's been blurred over by the sands of time.

[april-is]

April 24, 2024: How Can Black People Write About Flowers at a Time Like This, Hanif Abdurraqib

How Can Black People Write About Flowers at a Time Like This Hanif Abdurraqib

dear reader, with our heels digging into the good mud at a swamp’s edge, you might tell me something about the dandelion & how it is not a flower itself but a plant made up of several small flowers at its crown & lord knows I have been called by what I look like more than I have been called by what I actually am & I wish to return the favor for the purpose of this exercise. which, too, is an attempt at fashioning something pretty out of seeds refusing to make anything worthwhile of their burial. size me up & skip whatever semantics arrive to the tongue first. say: that boy he look like a hollowed-out grandfather clock. he look like a million-dollar god with a two-cent heaven. like all it takes is one kiss & before morning, you could scatter his whole mind across a field.

--

From the poet:

“I was at a reading shortly after the [2016] election, and the poet (who was black) was reading gorgeous poems, which had some consistent and exciting flower imagery. A woman (who was white) behind me—who thought she was whispering to her neighbor—said ‘How can black people write about flowers at a time like this?’ I thought it was so absurd in a way that didn’t make me angry but made me curious. What is the black poet to be writing about ‘at a time like this’ if not to dissect the attractiveness of a flower—that which can arrive beautiful and then slowly die right before our eyes? I thought flowers were the exact thing to write about at a time like this, so I began this series of poems, all with the same title. I thought it was much better to grasp a handful of different flowers, put them in a glass box, and see how many angles I could find in our shared eventual demise.” —Hanif Abdurraqib

Today in:

2023: Lit, Andrea Cohen 2022: Meditations in an Emergency, Cameron Awkward-Rich 2021: How the Trees on Summer Nights Turn into a Dark River, Barbara Crooker 2020: Ash, Tracy K. Smith 2019: Under Stars, Dorianne Laux 2018: Afterlife, Natalie Eilbert 2017: There Are Birds Here, Jamaal May 2016: Poetry, Richard Kenney 2015: Dreaming at the Ballet, Jack Gilbert 2014: Vocation, Sandra Beasley 2013: Near the Race Track, Brigit Pegeen Kelly 2012: from Ask Him, Raymond Carver 2011: Sweet Star Chisel, Dearest Flaming Crumbs in Your Beard Lord, John Rybicki 2010: Rain Travel, W.S. Merwin 2009: Goodnight, Li-Young Lee 2008: Bearhug, Michael Ondaatje 2007: Meditation at Lagunitas, Robert Hass 2006: Autumn, Rainer Maria Rilke 2005: On Turning Ten, Billy Collins

[lewkwoodnco]

Heyy:) I just wanted to request a George x fem!reader one shot :P I totally understand if you don't want to write it or if you don't like the idea or anything but I was thinking a fic inspired by "wildest dreams" by Taylor? Just some silly teen romance vibes you know🤭 (and please no Angst or anything, I can't take that shit atm😔)

Wildest Dreams - George Karim x Reader

A/N: going to be taking a break from the requests in my inbox to work on my 12 days of fics series! (but will get back to them after im done heheh) I might have completely butchered this ask im so sorry BUT I made it as fluffy as I think it gets (w George at least), just had to do the 77 thing i have no self-restraint, also this poem is soso beautiful one of my absolute favesss but idk whats up with the formatting :(((, wc 3.3k!

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST

Subtle Bridges

Walking with me, you'd once pointed to the fragility and ingenuity of a spider's web. Subtle bridges, you said, On bridges some men hang. A warning that has stayed While I read history traced in blood and tears of men. I was caught in the end with a nest of books. They burned anyway, and now I bend to build an emperor's endless wall. Like a thread of longing the border runs in loops and bends, and along it we root the gravestones of nameless men. A king's metaphor, This is, history raised from ash and bone -- a symbol Of its vast futility, or of eternity. Which it is I do not know, But since leaving home some things have come clear. No one literally breaks from loss, not even here. And some ties won't give. I sometimes dream of you, and walking, in gardens where love and knowledge hang.

By Yvonne Koh

She was at the Kensel Green Cemetery with the rest of her team from Fittes, after being called down by DEPRAC because of a robbery. They had spread out over the building, looking for any sign of the missing relic or the culprit, when she heard a slow, grinding noise from inside the hall. She quietly crept in to the silhouette of a shadowy figure bent over the casket.

"Can I help you?"

The boy's head snapped up immediately, painfully slamming against the stone shelf behind him. She let out an involuntary gasp, briefly wincing at the hollow thunk.

"Didn't do it," he groaned, steadying himself against the wall. "...whatever it was that...someone did."

She squinted at him using the little light spilling in from the corridor. He couldn't have been more than a year or two older than her. Against her better judgement, she kept her voice down.

"This is a crime scene!" she hissed at him.

"I - what?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm not a thief, or a relic man. I promise."

Her eyes swept his scruffy appearance critically. "Why would I think that?"

"Ms L/N?"

She turned, momentarily speechless, barely registering the rustle of the boy stealing away into the darkness. She blinked against the brightness of Inspector Barnes' torch, glancing back to check that he really was gone.

"Everything alright?"

She paused for a moment longer, as if willing him to rematerialise in the corner he had been crouching in just a moment ago. Nothing. Her eyes narrowed. Interesting. Very interesting indeed.

"Must have been the wind."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

George was staring out the kitchen window glumly, lazily stirring his mug of tea. The weather was as pleasant as it got, and Lockwood had roused them all at the crack of dawn for a breakfast picnic, to 'boost morale.' Of course, George should have known better than to hold his breath, especially when loud angry voices had started to shake him awake when he had been halfway through groggily packing their picnic basket. Now, he sipped his cold tea through thin lips, listening to the slow, steady footsteps approaching the kitchen and the wan face belonging to them.

"Let me guess. You and Lucy are no longer in the mood for a picnic?"

Lockwood sombrely shook his head. George sighed, picking up the picnic basket. Seemed like a shame to let his slaving away go to waste. And he was still very much in the mood for the strawberries and cream he had packed inside. Which is why George had been heading out for a solo breakfast picnic with enough food for three when he heard a foreign voice stop him.

"George Casper Karim."

He looked up from the doorknob in alarm. It was the girl from Kensel Green Cemetery. He hesitated, trying to gauge her expression.

"Ex-employee of Fittes Agency, fired after six months for insubordination, currently a researcher at Lockwood & Co."

"Brilliant. Astonishing, really, how you've repeated my own job history back to me."

She frowned. He relished the stab of satisfaction. He'd had a shitty morning and was likely going to have a shitty day, so really, having a go at someone was probably going to be the highlight.

"There's no need to be rude."

"I think I'd know where I've been the past couple of years, thanks very much. Forgive me for not being more impressed."

Still looking a little disgruntled, she pressed on, firmly clutching the waist-high gate. "I've got a bone to pick with you, if you don't mind."

He eyed her warily, and decided against approaching her any further. "You can pick it just fine from over there."

She looked mildly peeved, but he didn't trust her as far as he could throw her. After a few long, tense seconds, she relented, not that she was happy about it..

"So...you were right. You're no relic man."

That was quick. "Thank you. Have a nice day." He closed the distance between him and the gate in a few quick strides, pushing against it, but she pushed right back with a steely look in her eye.

"Don't know about the other bit, though."

He didn't like the look in her eye; the look of someone knowing something he didn't. His mouth went dry.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Might be more convincing if your associate hadn't mentioned a talking skull. Awfully difficult to contain a visitor without a ghost jar, wouldn't you say?"

He swore under his breath. "Fucking Lockwood can't keep his mouth shut."

"I don't expect DEPRAC takes kindly to thieves or hooligans-"

He let out a bark of laughter. "Hooligan? Me?"

"-or strange boys who break into places they shouldn't be-"

"You can't prove it was me."

"Wanna bet?"

A challenge. A dare. His mouth was already open to call her bluff when the self-satisfied smirk curling at the corner of her lip gave him pause. Lockwood wouldn't be much pleased if he gave DEPRAC another reason to steer the agency dangerously close towards closing. He wasn't like Lockwood or Lucy - he was careful, very careful. Too late George wished he had been a little more careful all those years ago in covering his tracks - but, to be fair, he had no reason to think anyone at Fittes would have been capable enough to put two and two together.

Until now.

"Look, why don't we...talk about this, like civilised people? I've got strawb - you like strawberries and cream, don't you?"

She sneered again. George was beginning to think that was just how her face looked.

"You want to bribe me with...strawberries...and cream?"

"It's not bribery. Just...a friendly chat. Agent to agent."

Which was how they ended up on a grassy hill at one of the meadows at the outskirts of London. He had never been there before, but Lockwood had remembered it as a prime spot for cosy family picnics.

"So what else do you know about me?"

She chewed a bite of scrambled eggs thoughtfully before responding.

"You're obsessed with the Problem. An obsession that made you an asset, initially."

She had heard that he was the one who had identified the visitor, Edmund Bickerstaff, but what she had had difficulty wrapping her head around was how he had managed to do it with only the vast yet imprecise volumes of the Archives at his disposal. Imagine what he could do with the carefully curated library at Fittes. She stared at him, trying to figure him out. There was a gentle breeze blowing and the slight movement made him look marginally more affable but not any more comprehensible. She let out the breath she was holding.

"You must have really screwed up for Fittes to have let you go."

He shrugged. "It was a long time coming. Fittes never really was the type of company I was interested in working at, and I was never the type of employee Fittes was interested in keeping."

"What about now? Have you ever considered leaving?"

"Why would I?"

"I've taken a glance at Lockwood & Co's financial records. You can't be making much, if anything at all."

"And go from being broke to being broke and homeless?"

"Homeless? What about your parents?"

"I visit them, occasionally, but they're a right piece of work. Last time I saw them was my grandmother's 77th birthday. I think there was a row but I can't be completely sure because I was a little, er, sloshed. The party ended, and I expect the champagne went flat, and my aunt was the last to leave. She was sitting on the floor with a merlot in her hand, and her voice was ringing through the halls. The curtains were burnt, my parents didn't talk to each other for a week, and one of my brothers had broken his hand. But I could never forget sitting in that empty dining hall, holding those sodden, scorched curtains, listening to her saying nothing lasts forever, nothing lasts forever."

The sunlight had a diffused quality to it, at least the little of it that managed to pour through the layer of clouds blocking the sky. The ashy light threw a powdery glow on George's face, and for a moment she felt as though she was in that dining hall with him, listening to those same laments. He glanced at her, and she felt a sudden, foreign uncertainty grip her heart.

"Now I feel really bad about lying."

His hand slipped, missing his mouth by a good couple of inches, nearly sending the contents of his glass down his shirt.

"Lie? What lie?"

"I kind of haven't, not really...actually spoken to any of your associates."

He chokes on his laughter, and when he throws his head back she wonders if she's ever seen anyone laugh as freely as him. It's a ridiculously enticing sight.

"Touché. Touché."

He looks at her in the eye, unabashed, with an unnaturally casual intensity. It almost feels impolite.

"So...yeah. Maybe I was suited to be a Fittes agent, once upon a time, but not anymore."

"That's a pity."

He looks at her weird, and she hastily changes the subject.

"Do you do this often?"

"What, taking strangers out for breakfast?"

"No. Bring a girl out here, feed her some strawberries and cream, maybe a Shakespearean sonnet or two..."

"I don't set much store in Shakespearean sonnets. I'm not...I'm not much of a poetry person."

There's something reserved in his face that makes her feel terrible for asking.

"I've really only read one worth remembering. Subtle bridges, you said, on bridges some men hang. Some ties won't give. I sometimes dream of you, and walking, in gardens where love and knowledge hang."

He bites into a strawberry, which stains his lips a bright red. She looks away a second too late.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After reluctantly agreeing to keep the matter of the stolen ghost jar between the two of them, she never expected to see him again. And yet, as fate would have it, they crossed paths again roughly a week later. She and one of her teammates had been assigned to a Church to handle a relatively weak Type Two, when she heard a scuffling sound from one of the rooms whose door was ajar. Her teammate froze, and she didn't feel much braver either. They approached the room cautiously, rapiers at the ready.

"Hello? Anyone there?"

"Y/N?"

The glare from their flashlights blindly darted over the room before it settled on the floor, illuminating a bleeding George looking the worse for wear, hissing at the harsh florescent light.. She visibly relaxed.

"Oh. You again."

Lockwood and Lucy exchanged a look.

"Do you two know each other?"

A silence followed. George looked to be at a loss of words and she, too, couldn't quite find the right answer.

"We've...met."

They helped George up while Lockwood smoothly explained the situation, and how they would never dream of intentionally From the derisive eye rolls of his remaining, uninjured associate, there was clearly more to their presence than he was letting on, but she wasn't paid nearly enough to go through the trouble of finding that out. Apparently, they had already dealt with the Type Two, so she filled out her report as vague as she dared to be, while they wandered out to flag down a cab.

George lingered behind briefly, dabbing at his nose experimentally while she put the finishing touches to her file.

"We can't keep meeting like this, you know."

"Like what?"

She shook her head, surprisingly having to bite back a smile. "You're incorrigible. If you keep sneaking around for much longer I'll have to report you one of these days."

He pulled his face into an exaggerated sulk and ducked as she tried to smack him with her case report.

"Alright, alright!"

True to his word, their less-than-ideal meetings came to an end. Instead, they continued to occasionally meet at that serene, refreshingly Edenic sloping hill. She'd return from a client meeting or from scoping out a location and the front desk would have a message waiting for her, from one vaguely snippy anonymous man. Sometimes he'd be waiting at the hill with snacks, which she'd ravenously dig into, though he was less generous on the biscuit front. He tells her about the happenings of 35 Portland Row and his research and bounces his latest theory on the origins of the Problem off of her. She tells him about her week, and the bothersome, inept people she works with, and on their joint cases he's snarky towards all the right people. It makes her feel special.

On one such evening, they were lazing on a picnic blanket, and a pleasantly warm breeze was toying with their hair. George was looking at the severe, fragile branches encroaching on the powdery blue sky through heavily-lidded eyes. She was absent-mindedly fiddling with his surprisingly soft fingers, distractedly breathing in the faint, antiseptic smell of ammonia that clung to his clothes. She was thinking about how sharp he was and how quickly he picked up on details on their joint cases. No matter how many times she saw him pick apart a case with a carefully perfected elegance, she felt like a part of her would forever be in awe of his beautifully intricate mind.

"Sometimes I feel like your talents are so wasted here. Imagine what you could do with access to all of Fittes' resources."

"i don't need Fittes's resources to be a good researcher."

She watches the yellow daffodils tossing their heads back just inches in front of them through her eyelashes.

"i know you don't. It can't hurt, is all I'm saying."

"Why do you care?"

She paused. Why did she care? She cared about him, sure, but it was no different from how she cared about her teammates, her friends, but with George...it somehow felt more personal. She sighs irritably, releasing the bubble of frustration lodged in her throat all week. She just wanted what was best for him. It takes her a minute to come up with her hesitant response.

"I...don't know. I don't care. But sometimes I can't help but wonder...what if this was what you needed to uncover the root of the Problem?"

He half-laughs, but stops short at the sight of her face as she lifts her head off his chest. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?"

"Y/N...statistically speaking -"

"All I'm saying is the answer could very well be in the Fittes library and you might be the only one who'd know where to look."

She lies down again, and whispers to the trees rather than George.

"Just...something to think about."

As time went on, their relationship began to bleed into more public spheres. She dropped by Portland Row occasionally, and they even had tea at her apartment once. On this particular afternoon, they were in George's room at Portland Row. She was looking through the titles on his alarmingly tall bookcases while he was at his desk, copying some runes from a book while telling her about his latest experiment with the skull. Her eyes roved over the titles restlessly, unseeingly, in a futile attempt to distract herself from her upcoming assignment. She let George's voice wash over her, pleasingly varied in tone and comfortingly familiar, soothing the itch in her brain. After a moment or two, she realises he's stopped talking, and looks up to see him staring at her with a frown on his face.

"Er, sorry. Drifted off there for a while."

"I guessed."

He studies her with an inscrutable expression and she's been caught too off-guard to come up with anything other than the letter burning a hole in her desk.

"You alright?"

She sits on a chair next to his and rests her chin on her knee, feeling oddly wooden. After getting to know George, she had taken the comfort of being able to somewhat predict his mannerisms for granted, and the thought of heading into this blind made her nervous.

"My team's been assigned a case outside of London."

"Oh. When?"

"We leave this weekend."

He looks too stunned to ask the question weighing on both their minds.

"It's for a month."

"A month," he echoes distantly, as if not quite sure what to make of that piece of information. His face remains impassive and she waits for a reaction which never comes. "What about that celebratory dinner?"

"We leave after it."

"Oh."

For someone who usually always had so much to say about anything and everything, his current conversational skills were desperately wanting. Say something. Be affected, she begs internally. She needs to hear him say it. She needs the sickness in her chest to be real, to be founded.

"It'll be...different without you." The careful look on his face makes her feel like he's picking out her emotions from her face and engineering an optimal response. "I'll miss you."

It doesn't comfort her in the way she expected it would. Suddenly, she can't even bear to look at him.

"You don't have to."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Either George had decided that she needed some space or he was just as pissed as she was, because she didn't see one sign of him over the next few days. Good. She hardly noticed. The thousand times a day he crossed her mind were only out of relief, and nothing else. But as much as she pretended otherwise, by the time the celebratory dinner rolled around, his absence had taken a toll on her. She couldn't tell if she was hoping or dreading seeing him again.

She was on a balcony on the upper floor, looking miserably into the radiant foliage of the gardens below, where unfamiliar faces flitted with a lightness of heart she envied. Their shadows are tall and intertwine ceaselessly, making her dizzy. Her bags were packed, her ticket was waiting on her mantle, and all loose ends were tied up. Even her one chance at happiness for the rest of her life.

There's a rustle behind her and she turns to see George standing a considerable distance away from her. He's only marginally closer than the first time they met, properly, when he was standing outside their front door and she was pacing behind the garden gate. She wants to cry in relief. Instead, she finds it in her not to look away. Maybe it's the confusing lighting, but there's a soft edge to his face.

"I thought I saw you come up here."

She doesn't say anything; she's too happy to. And yet, a part of her is still deeply unhappy with the sight in front of her.

"Have you...tried the food?"

"...it's not as good as yours."

"You must be leaving soon."

"Tomorrow." The thought makes her want to rip her face off.

"You'll be back in a month."

She drummed her fingernails against the marble railing, carefully choosing her words.

"What if things change in a month?" What if, she wanted to say, you meet someone else who loves you better than I can?

"It's only a month."

"A whole month."

"I don't understand. Why are you so afraid?"

"Because - because you'd forget me. You'd forget me, and our memories would sink six feet under, and you'd move on and my heart would break and...you wouldn't care."

She's never felt this way about anyone before, and she doesn't know how to express how badly she needs him to stay.

"I don't want to go back to not knowing you, George."

The setting sun burns into her neck and all of a sudden, she feels unbearably hot. Her hair is plastered to her forehead and her hands feel clammy. Her face is flushed and she feels ridiculous in her dress. But he's here, and she's said it, so she lets herself dream, if only for a moment.q

"I think about you every day. One month, two months, three months...I'll wait."

TAGLIST: @avdiobliss @dangelnleif @elenianag080 @mitskiswift99 @mischivana @houseoftwistedspirits

[apoemaday]

litany

by Mahogany L. Browne

I wish I knew how It would feel to be free I wish I could break All the chains holding me                —Nina Simone

today i am a black woman in america & i am singing a melody ridden lullaby it sounds like:               the gentrification of a brooklyn stoop               the rent raised three times my wages               the bodega and laundromat burned down on the corner               the people on the corner                           each lock & key their chromosomes                           a note of ash & inquiry on their tongues   today i am a black woman in a hopeless state i will apply for financial aid and food stamps           with the same mouth i spit poems from i will ask the angels of a creative god to lessen           the blows & i will beg for forgiveness when i curse           the rising sun today, i am a black woman in a body of coal i am always burning and no one knows my name i am a nameless fury, i am a blues scratched from the throat of ms. nina—i am always angry i am always a bumble hive of hello i love like this too loudly, my neighbors think i am an unforgiving bitter             sometimes, i think my neighbors are right             most times i think my neighbors are nosey today, i am a cold country, a storm brewing, a heat wave of a woman wearing red pumps to the funeral of my ex-lover’s today, i am a woman, a brown and black & brew woman dreaming of freedom today, i am a mother, & my country is burning            and i forget how to flee from such a flamboyant backdraft                        —i’m too in awe of how beautiful i look             on fire

[mysticstarlightduck]

💖favourite character poll 💖

Thank you so much for the tag, @thecomfywriter (here)!

Rules: list all your main ocs and give brief descriptions of them. then, create a poll with their names and allow your followers to vote on who their favourite character is.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

Jack Tithus

WIP - Supernova Initiative

"They're my family - and I don't leave family behind. No matter how chaotic they may be."

25 years old, Jack is the Junction's most wanted intergalactic thief and rebel. Growing up in poverty on one of the most crime-ridden moons of the galaxy, Jack learned from a young age to be resourceful and do whatever it takes to survive and keep his siblings safe. Otherwise, he has a heart of gold, a bubbly personality and is incredibly selfless - the kind of team leader that wouldn't think twice about putting himself in harm's way to keep his team safe.

Skills: pilot (one of the best pilots in the galaxy), high-profile theft/heists, leadership skills, streetfighting, being kind.

Nikolay Avresan

WIP - The Crystal of Ash

19 years old. A fun-loving bard, Nikolay grew up on the frozen province of Rekkari. He was an unwanted child, a bastard scorned by his father for his inability to use magic. After years of disappointments, he ran away from home with his best friend and his best friend's sibling. They grew up together merrily, but after a mistake led his whole world to come crashing down around him, Nikolay fled once again, blaming himself for what happened, and looking for a way to fix it, unaware that the actual truth was much more complicated than that. Nikolay is funny, awkward, extroverted and at times painfully oblivious to subtle social cues, but cares deeply about those he considers his friends.

Skills: singing, playing the lute, writing poems, dueling with a dagger

Valen Cassidy

WIP - Scrapyard Boys

16-17 years old. A rebellious and angry teenager, Valen makes it his personal mission to undermine the government's power in the city of New Omnium, despite being just a homeless mutant kid. On the run from the law and fearing befalling a fate worse than death in the city's labs, he and his friends end up uncovering a billionaire conspiracy on the process of being little menaces to society. Valen is an angry, brash, relentless, but secretly kind boy who also swears like a sailor and dresses like an 80s rockstar-wannabe.

Skils: Eletrokinesis, Storm Manipulation, Electrical Conduction, Electrical Teleportation, streetfighting, parkour, playing guitar

Tagging (gently): @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab,

@winterandwords, @eccaiia, @the-letterbox-archives, @illarian-rambling

@agirlandherquill, @anoelleart, @ray-writes-n-shit

@writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers, @finickyfelix

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @cauliflowermaterial

@lassiesandiego, @thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams and OPEN TAG

[dragonheart2497]

Villulah (Villain Tallulah) AU

Where Wilbur left the island for his tour, promising Tallulah that he would send letters, memorabilia, photos. And at the start, it works! Philza cares for Tallulah, reading Wilbur's weekly letters to her and showing her the gifts Wilbur sent along with them.

Until, the letters stop coming. Philza beats around the bush when she asks when the next letter would arrive. Making excuses, "maybe he's busy" "maybe where he is right now is remote" "maybe he's super far right now, so it's taking extra long"

But she catches him arguing with a guard of the Federation, his fury that they are holding the letters back. Tallulah gets Phil to admit that he thinks the Federation is unhappy with Wilbur's absence, and punishing him (and them) by withholding his messages.

She has never held resentment against Wilbur for being gone, or Phil for struggling to protect her. Or even other QSMP adults, for even endangering her.

But this? For the first time, it makes Tallulah angry.

To distract her from her emotions, Phil lets Tallulah go through Wilbur's extra stuff he brought and left at the island. There's a sealed trunk that says Do Not Open. But she's not in the mood to follow rules, is she?

Inside, she finds poems. Wilbur's raw, honest writings about this dark time in his life, that Tallulah had never once heard a peep about. It's a brand new insight on her father, an entire story about him that... well, she understood why he wouldn't have told her yet.

But it felt... affirming. That Wilbur had felt a similar anger against authorities, a spirit to rebel. And it sparks something within her too, that maybe she could stand up against this.

There's red, round sunglasses. A bit cracked, on the left side, but they work. Despite her emotion, they make her giggle a bit, seeing everything in a red hue and thinking of her father wearing them completely unironically.

At the bottom of the box, there's a jacket. A roughened up, stained trench coat. It's huge on her, and heavy, but... it smells like him. Maybe with a taint of sulfur and ash, but nonetheless the scent that she missed so desperately.

She goes to Phil for help pinning up the very long sleeves. He seems... extremely offput, but reluctantly agrees once he sees how happy the coat makes her.

She doesn't see him staring in horror at the ragged hole in the back.

Still, time passes and no word reaches her from Wilbur. Her frustration grows again, and Phil can only anxiously watch as she starts to boil over. As she starts to mirror her father...

The final straw is when the code monster attacks her. Phil tries to defend her, but accidentally stabs her. Kills her.

When Phil reunites with her, he's half hysterical. He's freaking out over having hurt Tallulah, scared to death for Wilbur, and most of all enraged that the Island does *nothing* about the code monsters. Almost as though the code monsters were *punishing* them directly.

Tallulah's no longer having any of this.

In her anger and grief over missing her father, she dons the trench coat again, and wears the glasses, no longer able to view her reality in anything but a furious red tint. She snaps.

[honeymilkplanet]

Cover art drawn by me for my new WIP, a poem of plum blossoms 🌸

Summary:

"And like the plum blossoms that flower, year after year, despite the relentless snow of winter, into golden-hearted, rose-petalled sonnets of nature: here began a love that bloomed, through the blood and ash and fire of war, into a garden of eternal poetry."

April, 1998. On that fateful night in Malfoy Manor, Draco - terrified and coerced - correctly identifies the Golden Trio. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley are murdered; Hermione, spared from execution, but angry and resentful, vows that - no matter what it costs her - she will have vengeance.

April, 2003. The Second Wizarding War is, at last, at a tense, uneasy end.

A furious Draco - elevated by his great betrayal into one of the Dark Lord's most trusted deputies - is ordered to marry Hermione, the deadliest soldier in the Order of the Phoenix, to secure a tenuous peace treaty between the Dark side and the Light.

Hermione does not know that the husband she despises is haunted, as deeply as she is, by the bloodstained phantoms of the past they both share.

And Draco does not know that the wife he is falling in love with -

- plans to murder him in revenge.

•——————•°•✿•°•——————••——————•°•✿•°•——————•

[shadowkat678]

Hopepunk: A Thing Of Teeth And Claws

Hope is a thing with feathers, says a famous poem by Emily Dickinson.

But what happens to that small thing of feathers once it's caught? When the horror around it crashes down, and the song is drowned out in pain and anger and apathy at a world that doesn’t seem to be capable of, and doesn’t want, to change?

I’m tired. I’m angry. I'm afraid. I don’t remember the last time those things weren’t true about me. I don’t have control over what is happening to the world, or to the people I care about. I don’t know if I have a future.

I’m tired.

I know it isn’t just me. I’ve seen it. I’ve been in activism spaces for years now, where that same anger is everywhere. The push to want to do something. To enact some sort of meaningful change in a world that seems hellbent on turning people into nothing but variables and numbers towards goals we are not calculated into otherwise. Where those with the best of intentions burn themselves out in their rage because they feel like there’s nothing else left to be driven by. I feel it in me. It’s not unjustified. But it is exhausting.

Once you’ve gone long enough shoveling coal on the fire you’ll run out, and you can’t burn ashes. Something is close to giving.

I’m tired.

Even more than being tired at the state of the world, I’m tired of what it does to me. I’m tired of my inability to have these feelings result in something good. I’m tired of not being able to have control over my life. I’m tired of seeing the people around me being crushed under circumstances far above our ability to affect. I’m not just tired. I’m exhausted.

But Hopepunk. This term came out a few years ago, coined by Alexandria Rowland. They're the author of the Taste of Gold and Iron series, as well as the duology A Conspiracy of Truths and A Choir of Lies, among others. In 2017, they coined the term Hopepunk, positing it as the opposite of Grimdark. In the post original post on the subject Alexandra says,

“Hopepunk says that kindness and softness doesn’t equal weakness, and that in this world of brutal cynicism and nihilism, being kind is a political act. An act of rebellion. Hopepunk says that genuinely and sincerely caring about something, anything, requires bravery and strength. Hopepunk isn’t ever about submission or acceptance: It’s about standing up and fighting for what you believe in. It’s about standing up for other people. It’s about DEMANDING a better, kinder world.”

The ideology of Hopepunk was based on the time of the article’s current political landscape. Protests, civil unrest, and feelings of anger that were (still are, I’d argue) spreading like wildfire. And in a small circle, this caught on. There wasn’t much to go off of, and the ideas that spread from this post didn’t have a uniformity to it as much as other Punk genres of political and literary analysis. There were, and are, a lot of critics believing the term to be yet another line of fluffy optimism and half empty words.

A year later, Alexandria would publish an article on the subject, expanded upon additional reflection, called One Atom of Justice, One Molecule of Mercy, and the Empire of Unsheathed Knives on the blog Optimistic Indie Roleplaying. This is when I first heard of Hopepunk.

Alexandria writes in their opening:

“In July of 2017, I coined the word “Hopepunk,” initially defined very simply in a Tumblr post. I believe the purpose of this article’s commission was to have me write something uplifting. I don’t know if I can. I think it would be (I’m afraid it would be) nice. (…) Nice is an illusion, and so is the suddenness of realizing the lie.”

Alexandria goes on:

“I’m afraid. I’m losing my story, my belief in an atom of justice. I watch it happen, a little more every day, unraveling from my hands—and I’m a professional storyteller. (…) I’m afraid of who I’ll be when the last threads slip out of my fingers. I’m afraid of settling into complacency, of something in me breaking, of retreating into niceness as the last-ditch sanctuary before complete despair.

“Hopepunk says [about human nature], ‘The glass is half full,’” wrote the me who lived in mid-2017. Seems naïve now, doesn’t it? Those are the words of a person cloaked in a story that hasn’t yet been worn threadbare and ragged; a person who thinks they have a sword in their hands, a person who thinks that they as an individual can make a difference, that there is some fundamental goodness in humanity.

What do we do when our hands are empty, when our warm cloaks are gone, when we look around and see how big the world is? When we see how helpless and insignificant we are, how the rest of the world isn’t even particularly cruel or evil, just . . . mediocre? Complacent?

What’s the point?”

And as I read this now, years later in 2023, I feel this sentiment burrowing deeper inside me than ever before. This is what I see in myself. In the people around me. In the world, spinning away into what seems to be never ending disasters and war and pain.

What's the point?

It seems that day by day the hole is dug deeper. The world feels as if it’s ending. But then again, to someone, somewhere, the world has always felt as if it was on the verge of ending, hasn’t it?

I also am a storyteller. I have always believed there is power in it. In how you can create something that becomes real around you. That reflects our own reality in new ways. Things that connect us. Empower us. That’s what art is for me. That’s what it always has been, when the night is long and I need something, anything, to grab onto.

Like Alexandria, I feel my grip on the story around me slipping. The threads are frayed. And I am so tired.

I feel like a child pretending. Hoping that this will make things feel less terrifying when the lights go out and I’m alone in the dark and the day is so impossibly far away. I’m afraid. I'm terrified.

I’m not a hero, and I don’t know if I have the tools to fight monsters like this. These are not problems that can be solved with spells or swords or pretty words. The world around me is burning.

I’m burning.

So, what do we do when we find ourselves here? When hope, the thing of wings and feathers, has been shot down in front of us? When softness is not enough? When nice is just platitudes? What can I do when the world and its problems are so big and I’m so small?

“What is the point?” Alexandra asks. “How do you do it? How do you manage when the task before you is enormous and impossible? (…) How do you go on?”

Hopepunk isn’t just about the Hope part of the word. What is Punk? Not just the music. The ideology. The movement. The message? We all have a thought about what Hope is. What defines Punk?

I listen to the music, and have for a while. I have a lot of friends who are punks. I’d like to think I’m a bit of a punk myself, though I haven’t had the energy or means of connecting with the scene in person. There’s a variety to it. Subgenres of music. Differences in ideas. But let me tell you one thing I’ve noticed about all punks:

They’re goddamn stubborn bastards. And at least for the vast majority, they’re passionate goddamn stubborn bastards.

I’ve been interested in the punk movement for years. Two of my favorite books on the subject of the punk movement are “Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk” by Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain, and “Punk Rock, An Oral History” by John Robb.

There’s a long running joke in punk circles about a young punk asking an older punk that very question of what punk is. The older punk smiles, strides up to a trash can, and kicks it over before turning around, pointing, and saying “That’s punk”.

The younger punk thinks on this, then sees another trash can before going over and copying the move, turning around after punting the second can and asking, “That’s punk?”

Before the older punk shakes his head and replies, “No! You poser!”

Point of the story? What is punk? Fuck if I or anyone else actually knows! It’s not about following directions, or going down a checklist. Certainly not just copying everyone else before you. But you know it when you feel it.

Recently, Punk has been idealized a lot. People forget that Punk isn’t just about insolent people lashing out against authority and sticking it to the man. It isn’t just about individualism and loud songs.

Despite not knowing exactly WHAT punk is, never having one clear cut uniform answer, we can see it when it's in front of us. There’s a sound to it. A spirit. A vibe. And there are commonalities that run as a throughline.

In the intro to Punk Rock, and Oral History, Henry Rowlins was invited to share some of his thoughts in the volume. He says,

“Everyone had their own version of punk. Everyone decided what punk was for them. There were endless arguments about what we were fighting for, what we should be wearing (…), what we should listen to and how we were going to change the world.

Punk terrified the establishment. Punk made me get onstage and make music. Punk made me change my world. Punk…punk saved my life.”

Punk has long been considered one of the more nihilistic musical genres, having a thriving subsect of Political Punk dedicated to pointing out and raging at the wrongs of the world the artists see around them. Punk is angry. Punk is passionate. Punk is loud, and messy, and sometimes even ugly, and moreover, there’s room for all of it.

But its stereotypical image perhaps isn't one most people would default to when thinking about the mainstream idea of Hope. Hope is supposed to be something soft, isn't it?

Back to the article, Alexandria gives their answer to what they think the point is, and it is one that feels much more connected to the punk part of Hopepunk.

“Sheer, simple, bloody-minded obstinacy. That’s how you count the stars, build the Library of Alexandria, and go to the North Pole. That’s how you hold the story even when it’s unraveling in your hands. You grit your teeth, and bear the pain, and keep going: One star at a time, one brick at a time, one step at a time.

You can do a lot when you decide to be a stubborn motherfucker who refuses to die.(…) Ask it of Hopepunk, then: “What’s the point?”

And the answer is, of course, that the fight itself is the point.

I am not just tired. I am afraid. I am angry. I am furious. The idea of rage is generally thought of as very punk.

But Hope. Let’s go back to hope. Where does hope come in, that fragile thing made of feathers and song? I am not soft. Not really. I feel myself shattering, jagged edges that will cut me if I let them. That will cut others. Even those I want to help. Even those who don’t deserve it. That the anger will bleed out and burn everything around me. How does that fit with hope?

I believe in stories. That we can learn from them. Moreover, in the end, I believe that everything is a story. History is a story. People are stories. The future is a story we simply haven’t seen the ending to yet, and so can still shape the path of. And like stories, all these elements tie together. Stings whose threads make up a tapestry.

I’ve been thinking a lot about stories lately. About certain ones that have heavily impacted my own. About ones I’ve made, either by myself or with others, both real and imaginary. In Alexandria’s first post, they mentioned a certain scene from the Two Towers.

As Frodo falls to his lowest point, burdened by the influence of the One Ring, not knowing if his other friends are even still alive, carrying a burden bigger than any one person should ever have to shoulder, Sam gives his speech.

Sam: “It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?

But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why.

But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.”

And as he says this, Frodo asks what I find myself asking. What many people ask, I think. What are we holding onto? And the answer: “That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo… and it’s worth fighting for.”

In my anger, in this darkness around us, it can be hard to see anything else. But that has not been all my story is. That said, anger is important. Anger, placed properly, and aimed towards a purpose, can be righteous. It can be a driving motivation towards change. It glows in you...but it can’t be all I have. A fire on its own will eventually burn itself out. What is anger without something the anger is driving you to do in a real, meaningful, way?

“It’s about being kind merely for the sake of kindness, and because you have the means to be, and giving a fuck because the world is (somehow, mysteriously, against all evidence) worth it and we don’t have anywhere else to go anyway.

It’s about digging in your heels and believing that one single atom of justice, one molecule of mercy does exist somewhere in the mindboggling vastness of the universe—believing in that, even if for no other reason than fuck you, buddy; fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I do what I want and this, this is what I want; this is the world I want to live in:

One where the atom of justice exists, even if I’ve never seen it myself, even if I’ll never see it.

It’s about doing the one little thing you can do, even if it’s useless: planting seeds in the midst of the apocalypse, spitting on a wildfire, bailing out the ocean with a bucket. Individual action is almost always pointless.

Hope and strength comes from our bonds with each other, from the actions we take as a community, holding hands in the dark.

What if hope isn’t just a thing of feathers and wings and song? What if punk isn’t just about anger and insolence and lashing out against the world around you? What if the world, people, and stories aren’t so simple?

I can’t answer what Hope is, what Punk is, or what Hopepunk is as an idea binding these two words together to anyone but me. I do know what my story has been. And I know the stories I’ve been told. The stories I’ve witnessed. The stories I’ve touched.

I’m tired. I’m angry. I can’t not be anymore. I don’t think it’s possible. It’s part of me. Perhaps something even greater would be wrong if they weren’t.

But I also remember the people who’ve come into my life in ways that seem so small in comparison, yet somehow, inexplicably, still changed me to the point I continue to think about them years later. The woman who approached me, sitting outside and crying after being almost fired from my first job and, with no possibility of reconciliation, bought me a sandwich and sat with me while I waited to be picked up. Friends that stayed with me during some of the worst times of my life. Strangers that turned into those friends.

In spite of it all, I’ve also seen so much love.

I have always hated false dichotomies. These truths can coexist, and like the tapestry of stories, wind together into something bigger. The softness of hope does not feel like it can survive the type of anger and force and sometimes nihilism of punk. The good in the world feels like it should be shattered under the darkness.

Maybe it all morphs into something new.

Maybe hope becomes a thing of teeth and claws, bared in defense of life’s small everyday acts of love. Friendship. Community. Of myself, and proof that the world is brighter than my own frustration makes it feel. Of all the things that exist in contrast that make these very injustices sting so very much.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be fragile. Maybe hope can be bloody and messy and stubborn and defiant, even in the face of my fear and exhaustion and pain. Maybe it can make something more balanced. Something stronger, as all these contrasting elements come together and inform each other with new perspectives.

Maybe it can be what saves me.

Near the end of the article, Alexandria says this:

Hopepunk isn’t pristine and spotless. Hopepunk is grubby, because that’s what happens when you fight. It’s hard. It’s filthy, sweaty, backbreaking work that never ends. It isn’t pretty, and it isn’t noble, and it isn’t nice, though I expect the natural inclination (and even my own instinctive inclination) is to make it so—to forget the word “radical” in the phrase “radical kindness,” to forget the “punk” part of “hopepunk,” which is really the operative half of the word. To forget the anger of it and let it soften, because softness is what we’re aching for. We want the world to be better—kinder, more just, more merciful. We still yearn toward noblebright, toward an honest and desperate belief that love conquers all.

But we forget, sometimes, that we have knives too in this empire. That we can unsheathe them, that we can turn our blades to the defense of an atom of justice and a molecule of mercy that might not even exist—except . . . except for where we make them exist, in the hands we hold out to each other, and in the shelter we offer even when we ourselves are exhausted, footsore, and filthy, with the wolves at our doors.

Maybe this doesn’t even have to be big acts. It’s something I’ve grappled with often. The feeling that where I am now is not enough. That what I do cannot change the course of the tale I find myself part of. That I can only be a passive observer as things happen around and to me. That I am so helplessly unable to make any meaningful difference in my own story.

And I want to, so desperately. But maybe those first steps can lead to more. The shelter and small words said earnestly in a time of need is just as much a part of this as life altering choices I want to be able to wield.

I've always dreamed of enacting change. Of being someone who could somehow inspire another person the way the stories of others had inspired and saved me. The books I clutched in my hands when the world was too big, and I was far too small. But it's good to remember that even the imposing might of mountains eventually wears under the passing of water.

I still feel like that child more often than not, and that everything I do in spite of it is just a mask dangerously close to slipping. But just as much as those stories, everyday people did the same in touching me, and shaping me. The right word spoken after tragedy. Encouragement from those who bothered to pay attention to things I did not speak aloud.

Maybe I should also reconsider the worth of myself in being the hand that stretches out to other people. Maybe that kindness is just as much a part of this as my anger and fear.

I’m tired of being only angry. Of being only sharp edges and fire and fear and burning myself to ashes in a way that harms none of the people doing this to us. I’m tired of missing the joy while I can have it based on the actions of a few hollow, spiteful, greedy, and selfish bastards that only care about themselves, damn the rest.

So, I will be a thing of teeth and claws when needed. And I will grow fur to keep those close to me warm. Because despite my anger, and fear, and exhaustion, the world is still, somehow, worth it. People are worth it. I am worth it. My story can impact others, and the story of humanity is not yet fully penned.

I have to believe that. If it is not so, then I have to make it so, even out of pure, stubborn, spiteful obstinance. That people are not evil at base, because I am not, and I am not special in the grand scheme of things.

I am just a person. We are all just people, grasping for things to drive and carry us day to day. And people are both kind and horrible. Messy tapestries of different things tying us together into something unique and terrifying and amazing and horrible and full of wonder and joy and anger and fear and beauty.

All of us, each and every one, desperately trying to keep hold of our stories before someone else twists them out of our hands.

Another common example of Hopepunk is a scene in Terry Pratchett's "The Hogfather", spoken by Death. A scene Alexandria discusses and also references in the name of their own original article. Here, Death explains that humanity must first learn to believe the small lies, such as Hogfathers and tooth fairies, so eventually they can come to believe the big ones.

Justice. Mercy. Duty.

Hope.

As is true of many concepts in Diskworld, when asked by the character Susan "Well we have to believe in that, or else what is the point?", Death answers back, "My point exactly. You need to believe in things that are not true. How else can they become?"

My kindness will be worth it, because it made me and those around me a little happier. Even if it hurts me in the end. I am not naive to the world around me. I am angry. I am tired. I am scared. I am just one person. And maybe in the end it's how Alexandria says:

There are no heroes and no villains. There are just people. That’s Hopepunk: Whether the glass is half full or half empty, what matters is that there’s water in that glass. And that’s something worth defending.

Stand with each other, and never let the person beside you forget that to move forward we need something to hold onto, whether knife or outstretched hand. There is still good in this world. Even if we have to fight to create it ourselves with every step we take.

No story is over until the final word has been penned…and even with all the horrors and uncertainty of the journey, we don’t have to travel through ours alone.

[unexpectedly-haunted]

ITLW Lore Stream Summary!

Notes taken from Limited Life + Lore Q&A Stream

Notes taken mostly chronologically, with some elements shuffled around to fit under certain sections. Italics used for poem quotes, quotation marks for direct quotes from Martyn. Also, you can find a summary of the Last Life lore stream here and the stream itself here!

Pillar built, another test: Beginning of Watcher’s influence to betray Scott- he is seriously hated by the Watchers, and there are multiple allusions in the first poem to eventually betraying him.

Pillar also refers to the pedestal the Watcher’s have put Martyn on; they are more interested in him because he has an “emotive soul” and is “more fun to torment.” He has a good emotional range they find interesting- he has the capacity to be honourable and stick with his allies as well as turning on anyone as soon as the situation calls for it.

Pause, unpause, we paralyse/A vacant stare for wandering eyes: Referring to the AFK episode, with Grian as a Watcher who has inserted himself into the games. Grian is attempting to taint the game for the Watchers- his goal is to make the games more fun than it is tragic, depriving the Watchers of the pain they want. The Watchers, angry at his continued interference, used their power to paralyse him, leaving him still physically present but unable to do anything but passively watch- this was supposed to make him easier to kill as well as trying to prevent his positive impact.

“This season they could interrupt his channelling and paralyse his avatar, forcing him to only watch, a claustrophobic and frustrating tomb to be encased in.”

Grian has been acting independently of the other Watchers for some time- he’s a rogue agent of sorts, with Watcher abilities but he’s so new to it he doesn’t have a full grasp of them. “He hasn’t had a full awakening, if you will, and he hasn’t met the Council and things like that.” 

He’s also unaware of the Listeners and believes he’s fighting a solo battle in trying to resist. The Watchers have also tried in-game assassination to shorten his time and prevent him from revealing the reality of the situation to other players, but it hasn’t worked.

Echoes ring for brief exchange/Disruptions by the ones estranged/Tread careful sound/for if we met/our gaze would bring untimely deaf: Watchers are directly addressing the Listeners, a rival power trying to free the players. The Listeners are being of the same type/existence as the Watchers- they’re exactly the same except that they stepped away/deviated from the Watchers, hence why they’re referred to as “estranged.”

Watchers have dominion over all minecraft places, and they can pull people in to do these death games. For the first time, the Listeners have been able to temporarily disrupt the games. 

This is partially due to Grian unknowingly running distraction by being so active this season- all the tnt minecart kills, his quad kill, etc - so the Watchers are focused on countering him, allowing the Listeners to break through.

Body swaps: Listeners swapped in Gem and Lizzie for the sake of Cleo and Pearl’s souls, and Gem and Lizzie were sworn to secrecy. Lizzie was tapped in because Pearl hadn’t quite recovered from the events of Double LIfe. This ties back to the idea that the Watchers will sometimes overindulge and feed too much on the negative feelings, and this time around they didn’t give enough room for recovery.

Martyn showing her Tilly’s ashes then really hurt Pearl, sending her on a bit of a downward spiral, and in recognition of that, the Listeners were able to step in. They were the ones behind the temporary switch.

“Pearl’s aura was still fractured and wasn’t quite whole before the beginning of Limited Life, which meant as the series was going on, there was lots of echoes from the previous season. … Normally the players don’t hold onto those wants and feelings from the previous seasons because these are eaten by the Watchers and each player goes into the next match with neutral feelings about everything. They have those memories, but they don’t hold onto those negative emotions, that sadness, but with Pearl, they kind of messed up with that, which is why Pearl came to me saying ‘Have you got Tilly.’”

On Joel being able to recognise Lizzie when others couldn’t: He was able to recognise her through mannerisms alone, due to the strength of their bond in other worlds.

In response to “no one is a Listener yet” from chat: “Yep, who’s to say, the Watchers were able to bring somebody into the fold. Maybe at some point one of these players would be able to leave. It would be very difficult for them to, the reason it was easy for Grian to become a Watcher was because it was kind of his intent and it was something they wanted to do- the Watchers kind of pulled him out and did it themselves. But here, these players in the Life series and the people that tried to flee from Evo are under such scrutiny and under such close watch it’s hard for the Listeners to really make a dent there and do things like that.”

Pulsing vignette in lead up to final kills: Representing the built up frustration of the Watchers about the Listener’s messing with their games. They’re also mad at Scott (primarily for not abiding by the Boogeyman mechanic in Last Life) and Impulse (for him giving away his time in the name of a fair fight/he’s accepted his place and found peace with the situation). The planned ending the finalists had was too civil, too familiar, it didn’t have the excitement and pain the Watchers want from these games.

More on Martyn’s betrayal: It was both a deeply embedded existing thought (he has always had the mindset of “I will kill who I need to to win this thing”) and the Watchers really amplifying those negative feelings. 

“Mentioning time being delicious was almost like, very slightly, the Watchers slipping in to mild possession towards the end.”

Martyn was left alive in the world until his timer ran out. He went back to the hourglass, moved all the sand to the bottom of the timer, and covered the glass up just as his time runs out. He falls dead into the water, and gets washed up onto the shore. Only the winner’s corpse remains.

There are some who watch/We are those who listen/Not yet free/Still you flee/From a weighted decision: Martyn isn’t aware of this, it is the Listeners semi-addressing the audience.The Listeners have a presence, or part of a presence, in where the players are being held between the death games- they’ve managed to break through the barrier.

Fleeing from a weighted decision: Recognition of the players trying to run away from the Watchers in Evo, and partly Martyn running from the betrayal of having just killed Scott.

Marks/Fragments: The marks are soul fragments that have been lost and it isn’t known if they can be repaired/recovered. The marks visible here are Life series losses, with there being one for each season. The win directly enabled the fragment protection- Martyn does most of the work and the purple being (confirmed to be a Listener) comes in at the end to finish the process/make sure it is properly protected. It does not mean the fragment is safe forever.

There’s a constant battle between the two sides, and this tug of war over the players causes strain and results in smaller fragments, but the Life series marks stand out because they are bigger, more impactful moments.

The marks are shaped like diamonds, with the branching lines being cracks that spread out. 

Life series marks: Mark on his face is from Third Life. “I like the idea of that being placed there because it was a tear shed when Ren fell, because that was kind of the moment that broke character Martyn and made him more selfish moving forwards.” Mark on back from Last Life (hidden secrets), mark on his chest from Double Life (over the heart), and mark on his hand from Limited Life (hand wielding the sword).

Void: The world that Martyn is falling/floating through is an unexplained void. The players are left in suspension because of the instinctive fear of falling, so it’s a passive way to generate fear even while they recover between games. 

Listener’s appearance: When they first break through the barrier, they are pure white/pure light- they become purple when tainted by the Watcher’s domain, this is not reflective of their true colour.

Assorted Notes:

How much is Martyn aware of? He doesn’t know all this is going on. When he’s in the void he’s completely unconscious. In the games, he doesn’t know that Grian is a Watcher. The only time he’s gotten a glimpse of the truth (and couldn’t comprehend it) was the conversation at the end of Last Life.

Number of games: We don’t know, as the audience, whether there have been different games happening in between each of the Life series. Games like Third Life could have been run multiple times before introducing Last Life. 

Wouldn’t people start to question it if they remember all the death games? Probably- he doesn’t think they’d be able to figure out a wider, more ominous picture, but they’d start to ask “Why do we keep doing this?” However, since all the negative emotions are stripped away, it’s likely the players would just view it as a bit of fun sport.

Do the Watchers have any favourites? Martyn is one of their favourites, because he’s shown that he will follow their instructions, but also Skizz and Joel because of how much they lean into the chaotic bloodlust of being Red they find entertaining.

What about other SMPs like Evo or Hermitcraft? Evo is part of the timeline whereas other SMPs are more “I don’t know if dreams is right word, but they’re a different plane.” When the players in in the unconscious state- falling between games- that is when they are “planewalking in a sense.”

Did Martyn lose fragments in Rats SMP because of the multiple lives? No, that was an instance where a fragment was protected.

On the sped up footage during the countdown: It was Limited Life Episode 5, Double Life Episode 4, Last Life Finale, and Third Life Episode 8.

What are the chapters of his Lore? Chapter 1: Memory Lane (indicative of Evo), Chapter 2: Life (beginning of the death games), Chapter 3: Into the Datastream (current), Chapter 4: Fragment Wars.

[dust-to-dustier]

FIRST POEM ON HERE!!! Might as well start strong!

BLOOD MONEY:

What fool do you take me for?!

I cannot afford this

My time slips away like money down the drain

The money those fools will pay for my work

The money that won’t help put food on my table

You’re here for your prestige, aren’t you?

“Oh look at this fine piece, 

 I got it in this quaint little place, 

I’m sure you wouldn’t know..”

You’re here for my lifeblood

I bleed for this, you know

I’ll work myself down to the bone

(And when those start to show

I’ve always been good with paint)

And sweat and cry and sob and ache

And break 

For this 

But you’re not here for me

Am I even a person to you?

Does my art give me that status?

Or would you rather I got a “real job”

(Like you wouldn’t miss us when we’re gone)

And played your monochrome game?

The money, the money, the money

The money I need for art supplies

The money I need for food

The money I need to live

The time! My time! No time!

You’re taking from me

You’re taking from us all

Could you do this?

Tell me truly

This 

This piece of my soul I carved away

The little bit of my being 

I imbued into this canvas

The blood as paint

My sweat I used to clean the brush 

This imperfect perfection

My art

Could you do this?

Someday crowds might gather

Just to see my work

My name could echo decades

centuries!

Beyond! May my name reach further 

than the death of the stars

(May my name be more

Than just the gravestone

That you’ll force me into

That will be monochrome

Too, won’t it? You-)

My name will last

I carve myself into time

I weave myself into fate’s tapestry

What about you?

You faceless fiend

What can you truly do?

What have you ever done

That you can be proud of?

[anitheentish]

When even sand burns

the sand is burning. Flames shine red and orange across the land. Buildings left smouldering, the rubble turned to ash. Even tents burning I'm the angry flame.

Our home is burning.

Blood burns in the fire. The bodies of those dead and those to come burn brighter by the second. Families burn grasping their love for eachother, children's dreams become smoke, friends are lost in the flames.

Our hearts are burning

Watch the fire grow closer, creeping towards Rafah everyday. Watch as food burns away too quickly, medicine reduced to charcoal, water evaporated by the heat. The fire wants to burn the people too.

A breeze passes by, blowing the fire away, smothering the angry flame. Peoples hope stares the fire down, larger then the flames can burn. It brings more wind to foight back, and rain to calm the fires. Hope lets the ashes and smoke free. It is with hope that the people of Rafah become free, it is their hope, and ours, that stops the fires and calms the anger.

It is us together, those who have felt the burn and those who have not, that can fight this fire. Who can help provide food and water, help bring people to safety, fight against the flames. It is we who fan the winds if hope that truly will win.

Even the sand will stop burning. PALESTINE WILL BE FREE

-a poem to Rafah and the world, don't stoping talking, don't stop donating to those in need, don't stop fighting.

Life goes on, and we shall too

[mawidixon]

Ink and Ashes

Chapter 2- "Find hope"

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x fem!oc

Warnings: TWD violence, swearing, fear of needles

Setting: Season 1 - some things Will be changed in the whole history!!!

A/N: Tell me if I missed something in the warnings.

Chapter 1 -- Chapter 3

@mawi22 I don't want my work to be modified, copied, or any of this kind of stuff without my consent!!!

Rick looked at Margaret with a troubled expression on his face- "We don't have lots of space inside the car." He told her, "You have to decide whether you want to ride with Shane or Daryl." He tried to project a sense of urgency by looking her right in the eye as he spoke.

Margaret responded with a worried expression on her face.- "I think both of them are very intolerant to me, and it seems like they are not interested in hearing what I am saying or considering my perspective. It has been really difficult to communicate effectively with them."

"Sure, I understand, but there's no other choice," he said, then hurried away to help other people.

"The hell, there is no way I am doing it"- Margaret muttered to herself in an angry yet helpless voice.

The sun was burning through the clouds, shedding golden light over everything. The soft air brushed Margaret's dark hair and some strands dropped before her eyes, so she brushed them aside to remove them from her view. The wind was still blowing but the air was warm and made the atmosphere pleasant and peaceful. "At least the weather is great"-she sighed.

Then she heard something. So she bent her head against the noise and saw Carol and some other people hugging Morales and his family. She walked towards them, feeling the need to find out what was going on. She found out that the Morales family didn't plan to go with them. It was odd that she wanted to say bye to them although they had not known each other for long she sent them words of goodwill and goodbye.

"Okay, guys! We're leaving!"

After having a conversation with Jim, Rick returned to the group and informed them, "Jim wants to be left there, he said he wants to be with his family again."

"Are you sure he meant it?"- Shane asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure"

Then Lori spoke, her voice was heavy with a deep sadness and a sense of resignation. "We can't do anything about his decision, I understand it's a terrible thing for us, but still, if he wants it then we must let him be."

"Lori is right." Margaret simply nodded in approval.

...

After carrying Jim, who was too weak to keep going, Shane and Rick placed him by the tree. The rest of the group gathered around him to say their goodbyes in their unique ways. Margaret, who had only just met Jim, approached him and said, "It was nice to meet you, even if I weren't able to meet you before you got a bit.." She wiped her tears and rejoined the group, who were waiting for her near the parked cars. As she walked towards Daryl's vehicle, she opened the door, sat down, and placed her backpack next to her feet. The Archer sat behind the car's wheel and drove, trailing closely behind the others. Margaret was lost in her thoughts and was trying to push aside the recent events that had taken place, she watched as the trees passed by in a blur. Just then, Daryl broke the silence with a question that surprised her. "Why would ya even bother?" he asked.

"You mean Jim?" - Margaret looked at him. - "I guess it had such an impact on me because not many people are left in this world ..." Then it was silence; no one spoke and the only sound everyone heard was the car engine. Margaret took out from her backpack a notebook and a pen and began to write something.

As the pen touched the paper, the ink began to run, and some letters kept coming and coming until a new poem was formed. Her mind was calm and relaxed. Each stroke of the pen was deliberate and measured as if each letter was a piece of art. It was a gradual and tender process, but the result was a piece of poetry that was simply gorgeous and it expressed the thoughts and feelings of Margaret in a way that only words could.

"In shadows cast by crimson skies,

Amidst the whispers, silent cries,

The world now falls, its end draws near,

As people leave, consumed by fear.

Through barren lands, they wander lost,

Their dreams and hopes now turned to frost.

The echo of their steps grows faint,

As they depart without restraint.

No more the laughter, joy, or song,

Just remnants of a world gone wrong.

In silence now, they fade away,

As night devours the light of day.

But in the ruins, new seeds sow,

A glimmer of hope begins to grow.

For from the ashes, life shall rise,

Beneath the bleak and ashen skies"

Archer took a quick peek at the notebook that she was writing in and then turned his gaze towards the street. "The hell ya writin'?" he asked curiously. She paused for a moment, before answering, "Nothing"

"If it's nothin' then stop"- Daryl said.

"Great timing, I have just finished."

"Fine, quit talkin'. It pisses me off," he harshly answered, his tone brimming with annoyance. He rolled his eyes in frustration. His body language spoke volumes, revealing that he was no longer interested in continuing the discussion. Margaret felt perplexed as she found herself in a rather confusing situation. It was he who initiated the conversation, asking questions.- "Why are you such an asshole? I didn't do anything."

Daryl let out a grunt of frustration.-" And that's the problem, ya do nothin', just writin' yer stupid poems. The world ended, poems won't save anyone!"

As strong as her desire to leave the car was, she knew she had to remain there. It seemed like the ride was endless, with Margaret and Daryl quarreling about nothing specific. The Archer couldn't stand her taking part in their group, and she felt like a ballast to him. Margaret, in contrast, was infuriated with Daryl for being a bastard and that he should at least try to be nice to the people. The yelling just got louder and louder as each of them tried to prove themselves louder than the other.

As the car stopped, Daryl came out of it fast, and the rest of the group followed, the cars' doors slamming behind them in a tense, synchronized manner. Of a sudden, Margaret pondered a while, taking in the depressing display before her, before she hardened herself and went along with the others.

The smell was so strong, that it hung thickly in the air, invading their senses with its undiluted sulfury intensity, and trying to overpower any stomach that wasn’t the strongest in the world. Margaret struggled to prevent the nausea from taking over, one hand covering the mouth and nose and the other trying to block the foul smell. Beside them was the scenery littered with the lifeless bodies of the fallen, their distorted and twisted bodies a haunting reminder of the horrors that their companions witnessed. A buzzing of flies was unstoppable. The most horrible sensation gripped them as they trudged onward, slowly approaching the huge outline of the CDC, all their hopes and aspirations pinned on the tiny chance of finding something good inside those walls. Every step was like a hesitating tread toward a murky destiny, yet they had no other choice but to hold tightly to the slender strands of hope that remained.

As Rick and the others tried to figure out how to get inside the building Margaret angled over to look behind her. "SHIT"- Margaret's heart beat so fast, it was like a drum, as she tried to grab her knife from her knife pocket, only to find it stuck. A wave of panic rose inside her, her blank forehead getting covered with cold sweat. The air smelled like death approaching as the walkers came closer, their growls getting louder with each step. A heavyweight with a sickening thud, she was downed to the ground, pinned underneath a man's living body. She wrestled with the heavy mass, almost panting with every breath. In the next second, an arrow penetrated the walker's head, and the lifeless body fell with a disgusting thud and lay right on top of Margaret. Blood stained her face, and her skin gave a creepy sensation. Without any delay, she rose to her feet and noticed that Daryl was lowering his crossbow, but in this situation, she did not pay much attention to it.

Amid the fog of fear and the storm of confusion, Margaret saw Rick one more time yelling into the camera of the CDC building. Rick's voice was echoing through the empty streets as he screamed, "YOU'RE KILLING US." Lori came to his side as fast as she could, trying to calm him down. Abruptly, a blinding light filled the air and there was no more possibility of seeing anything around them. It was not until their eyes were fully adjusted that they were able to see that the gigantic gate of the CDC building was open.

...

The atmosphere was strained, as each individual in the hall clutched their gun tightly, eyes narrowed, hearts drumming with adrenaline. Only the faint glow of emergency lights, barely helping to see. It was there at the deep end of the corridor that they finally saw the form they were longing for. He was seen with the silhouette shaped against the gloominess, weapon in hand, the glitter of the metal could not escape the sight. His steps were precise, when moving around, as also he had this confidence, that he knew what he was doing. As he took a step forward, the others got their fingers close to the trigger of their guns, with muscles tensing up. The face-off to be endless, each and every breath reverberating exceedingly in the silence. The last thing he could recall was the stranger's voice - heard unexpectedly, it sent chills down their spines. His voice was low, barely riseing above the background noise, but there was a certain something in it, a weariness, or maybe a resolve borne through years of outliving the crazies.

"Anybody is infected?" he said sharply- his voice cutting through the tension like a sharp knife. Words were like a blade in the air, heedless to the unnatural dread that had overcome them all. For a split second, everything was frozen, with the only sound of the odd mechanical murmurs from the ventilation system. As Rick and a blonde-haired man conversed, the rest of the group had agreed to undergo blood tests that the unknown man had suggested to check for any potential infections. The gate was then closed, and they all made their way underground via the elevator. As they reached the lowest floor they all got out of the elevator and followed the man.

Then Margaret noticed that Carol's complexion seemed paler than usual. Concerned, Margaret asked, "Hey Carol, are you feeling okay?" To which Carol replied, "Yes, I am just claustrophobic," as she started to breathe heavily. Understanding Carol's condition, Margaret simply nodded in response. As they walked further down the corridor, a man stopped before a large room. He instructed, "Vi, bring up the lights in the big room," This was everybody having a hard time understanding what was going on. They have come across a guy who seems to be talking to a person or something invisible. Their confusion was not yet over since the lights came up and revealed to them a room that had never existed before. The man who had been talking turned to face the group, and he called himself Dr. Jenner. He said that they were in zone 5 now. In the beginning, they were perplexed and disturbed. But, knowing that they were at least safe amid all the unrest and chaos of the apocalypse helped them feel a sense of relief.

The last person whose blood was analyzed was Margaret. On the moment, she sat down on the chair, anxiety washed over her, and she instantly became white. Dr. Jenner had realized her worry. He told her gently, "Don’t say you are scared of needles, just don’t think about it", trying to relax her nerves and calm her down. Margaret became ashamed of her actions. She was aware that she was behaving like a 4-year-old child but she was helpless. And one tear rolled from her eye and down her cheek. She was fast enough to clean it with no trace that Dr. Jenner even looked at it.

Needles turned out to be her Achilles' heel. This was the start when she was a young kid while being vaccinated. The one who was vaccinating me was not at all gentle, and the treatment was unbearably painful. In the following days, Margaret developed a phobia for needles. It was not only fear; it was a vengeful, savage hatred.

Margaret attempted to avert her mind by concentrating on a point in the wall as Dr. Jenner set up the equipment. She could hear her heartbeat racing with every passing second. Memories of past painful incidents came out to her mind and that made her anxiety more severe. Dr. Jenner walked towards her on her face trying to ease her anxiety. "Okay, Margaret, just a moment of pinch, and it will be gone before you can say anything," he said reassuringly. Margaret gave a weak smile in response, but her hands were moist with sweat and her stomach was knotting up with fear. She closed and squeezed her eyes tightly, trying to block the impending pain. The needles prick stung sharply causing Margaret to involuntarily twitch. The sensation of the needle piercing her skin was followed by a feeling as her blood was extracted. Despite Dr. Jenners reassurances she couldn't shake off the discomfort lingering within her. After what seemed like a moment Dr. Jenner withdrew the needle. Gently apply a cotton ball to the spot. Margaret slowly opened her eyes feeling tired and slightly lightheaded. She let out a sigh of relief grateful that it was finally done.

...

After a long and exhausting day, the group finally reunited to share one of the most priceless moments-the hot and satisfying dinner. Everyone made their contribution, either by cooking or doing the other chores. In the end, when everything was ready, they all sat by to taste the wonderful food. The heat of the meal and the presence of their fellow survivors, even though they were surrounded by the mess outside the world, gave them a much-needed sense of warmth and calm. Margaret had been starving for several days already, and the gorgeous dish that was in front of her was all that she could think about. The room was filled with the appetizing smell of the food, and she was so occupied in relishing each mouthful that she never noticed that T-Dog was trying to say something to her. "Hey, would you like a glass of wine?" he asked, as he attempted to attract her attention. And after getting no response from him, he questioned him all over. Last but not least, Margaret lifted her head and realized that he was addressing her. "Of course," I said with a happy tone. He hands her the glass and carefully pours the wine from the bottle into it, which she takes gratefully and is about to taste.

The mood of the room was jolly, among all people were laughing and having drinks. The air was filled with laughter and people making one joke after another. It did not take long for Margaret to start to talk to Daryl and Shane who were the two people in the group whose dislike for her was the most obvious.

As the world seems to be crazy out of control and full of walkers who to eat all the alive people, there may still be a little hope to find out inner peace and tranquility out of the chaos.

[artbyeloquent]

Hey, hope you're okay xx how are things going?

stares in shame at the timestamp

I am okay in the sense that I am sheltered, getting adequate sleep, and safe. I may not be mentally well or have enough money to eat 3 meals a day, but I'm still incredibly grateful right now.

I've been battling a lot of co-existing feelings--frustration at being burnt out both at work and creatively YET AGAIN, grief and sadness with the ongoing genocide and feeling helpless to assist with two empty checking accounts, guilt at not finishing my commissions OR touching my hobbies OR posting. And yet posting like things are normal when they're so Not Normal is just. [angry gesturing]

Vinay Krishnan posted a poem on his Instagram 2 days ago called "there's laundry to do and a genocide to stop" and I highly recommend looking it up because it's how I feel trying to simultaneously fight off compassion fatigue and also survive under poverty and capitalism.

"I'll need to pick up more shifts. Twenty people died in Rafah this morning and every major news outlet is stretching the limits of the passive voice ..."

[deep breath]

I'm not sure if this is too much of a vent on your sweet, simple check-in, but I'm tired of pretending things are okay and I think I would feel much more comfortable coming back to my writing and art if I just balance the truths that Things Are NOT Okay but also I Need To Make Art for My Sanity And Also To Make Rent.

This post is an open invitation for writeblr/artblr followers and mutuals to let me know how they're doing (the good and the bad) and if they have any updates for me since I went AWOL back in January. How are you, Ash?

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #20: Catharsis

Masterlist

content: lab whump, captivity, immortal whumpee, murder, brief blood/gore

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Heather was angry, and she had no idea why. It was just one of those days. Outside her bedroom window, snow fell like nuclear ash, a thick blanket of about four or five inches. The world was reduced to a blank slate of white. No footprints disturbed the perfect surfaces. Flat, clear snow. What was that poem, again? The snows of Tyrol are not very pure or true. But anyone would stand in awe of this secluded wilderness.

That meant she would have to shovel the driveway. Not a great start to her October morning. It was too early to snow, to make things worse. They usually didn't see anything until at least November. The radio hosts and newscasters were going wild over this fact. Slow day for news, then. It would melt regardless; the weather was supposed to warm up for the next week. And how she dreaded the cold weather. How she hated the dry, cool air blowing over her burning heart. An autumn wind to stir her, like leaves from the pilings. 

The rage did not quiet before that peaceful sight, nor did it rest when she got up out of bed. Nothing was wrong. There was nothing to fix. Regardless, the feeling simmered. 

Was it Jackie? Of course it was Jackie. He'd done nothing wrong, yet he managed to irritate her anyway. He was too stubborn, too contrarian—or maybe he was just in the way. Wrong place, wrong time. He was a variable outside her total control, yet so pivotal in her life. If he ever escaped, she was done for.

Or the rage was less sophisticated than that. She had failed at something. The only thing she had learned about Jackie’s psyche was that he couldn’t recognize a butterfly if it hit him in the nose. This revelation told her nothing about the hallucination. He was a hollow nesting doll, a matryoshka with all the smaller parts misplaced, and she had failed to uncover his core. Failure! It was a lesser indignity to die. The fear of both was equal—to fail was to kill a potential, to die in a single aspect that could never be resurrected. Heather was good at a great many things. She was good at nearly everything. She wasn’t supposed to fail. 

As she stood by the window, the doorbell rang. Some individuals loved to hear that sound, but she did not. No criminal finds the public eye reassuring. Paranoia narrowed the possibility of getting caught into every stranger, every knock at the door, every chiming of the bell.

But she couldn’t stay in her bedroom and wait for the visitor to leave. That would look suspicious. Appearances were important. She quickly got dressed and approached the door.

The bell rang again. Can’t wait one second, can they? She placed a hand on the doorknob and pushed it open. 

“Hello?” she said, fighting to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“Hello. I’ve come to assess your infestation.” Heather did not recognize the man standing before her, not even slightly—he was a total, perfect stranger. “You’re Miss Wright, yes?”

On any other day, Heather would tell him that he’d gotten the wrong address and shut the door in his face. However, this was not any other day. Heather was heated up like dry kindling, and this was all the friction she needed to catch fire. Most people found catharsis in taking a run, or talking their feelings out, or some other pansy nonsense. Heather found her release in the hot spill of blood. The rush of a blade, the splitting of skin. Exactly what she needed. That would make her feel better. 

Besides, why would a stranger come all the way out here? It couldn't have been a mistake. He wanted something. He was a threat. The how and why didn't matter. Would a wren in a weasel's nest stop to question the how and why? He was a threat, and he would need to be disposed of.

“Miss Wright. Yes. I’m her.” She stepped aside so that the man could enter. “Forgive me, but I can’t quite recall your name. I assume you’re the exterminator?”

He nodded as he walked past her. He was a rough sort of fellow, not in an intimidating way but in the general sense of his appearance. The face of a sculpture forgotten halfway, cut in broad strokes and sharp lines. He was, however, very neatly dressed. “My name is Matthew. You had the animal in your attic, right?”

“Attic?” Here, she pushed her lips slightly apart, to give him an expression of innocent confusion. “No, the animal is in the basement. It’s been screeching for the past hour. You must have misheard me. ”

“Sorry about that, then.” He dipped his head for a second. “I’ll take a look and give you an estimate. Where’s the basement, by the way?”

Oh, this was funny. He didn’t suspect a thing. 

“Right.” She smiled apologetically. “It’s down the hall.”

Down the hall they went, as casual as ever. The exterminator didn’t have a clue. Like leading a lamb to the chopping block. Really, she was shooting down low-hanging fruit. It was almost too easy. Unless Matthew also turned out to be immortal, the whole affair would be quick. Heather, like any good butcher, knew how to make the kill clean and fast. She had plenty of practice so far, hadn’t she?

“We can usually get the guys in here after three business days,” the stranger rambled. The basement door drew closer, shut like lips over a gaping maw. “Cost can be hard to calculate but with something like this, it usually doesn’t total over three hundred. Do you know if there’s a nest?“

“I don’t think there is.” She twisted the lock until it clicked open. “Just the one animal. It’s somewhere down here, come on.”

“Are you sure it’s safe to go inside?”

“Of course,” she replied sweetly. “Don’t be shy. It doesn’t bite.”

This managed to draw a bewildered look from the exterminator’s face, but he said nothing as she opened the door. The stairs followed down before them, the steps like rings of cartilage around a throat, the lighting just a touch dimmer than the rest of the house. 

Matthew began his descent, proceeding with the cautious gait of a caver. She followed close behind him, desperately trying not to burst out laughing. Five steps left, then four, then three… the rest of the basement was now visible. 

Predictably, Jackie was still there. He was sitting by the writing desk, apparently lost in thought. When his head lifted, there was a grin on his face… which then shifted to a brief look of confusion… then blatant concern, in the corners of his wide eyes and the small downward curve of his mouth.

What the exterminator felt, she could not see. His back was turned to her. Matthew froze. He did not look scared—though there would be plenty of time for that—but simply a little stiffer than before.

“There’s your pest. Play nice, you two.” Heather gave them both a beaming smile. “Keep him entertained, Jackie. I’ll only be a minute.”

She stepped backwards, out of the basement. The door closed, and the lock clicked behind them.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

She didn't waste any time. Heather had never used the chainsaw on anyone before. It had mainly cut down diseased trees, before taking its final resting place in her garage. Until today.

Heather lifted the heavy tool by its handle, hoisted it to her hip. It was a gift from her dad, not too long ago—a year before he died, in fact. It had a bulky, squared off body, the underlying machinery almost visible like muscles under its metal skin. The chains were a bit rusted, sure, but it would work. By God, it would work.

She walked downstairs. Neither the exterminator nor Jackie had moved. They were staring at each other, caught in an eternal moment of tension. Heather was happy to split that silence. Both heads turned when she turned the saw belt on. 

The cord cranked back one, two, three times. The blade whirred like a living thing, a machine of organic teeth and claws, buzzing beneath her grasp. The noise came in loud like the summer cicadas—a monstrous, dull buzz, hazy as the June heat. 

With a jerk, she shifted the saw upwards, then aimed it. Just above his neck. With the trees, she learned to aim higher than estimated. It was something you had to learn about striking; you had to feel the arc of the swing before it ever descended, feel the bat hit the ball before the pitcher ever moved. Although any swing was a good swing here. Heather knew that as long as she hit flesh, this would work out fine.

The exterminator attempted to flee a second too late. His limbs drew up, as if to shield himself or fight back, but they went limp as soon as the first tooth dug itself into his neck. Blood spurted in a thick, arcing spray, heady as the first flower of springtime, dark as velvet. Muscle and flesh were rendered into a shredded mass, splitting under the unwavering push of whirring metal. 

He collapsed before the beheading could really begin, but at that point it was unnecessary. Matthew died long before he hit the ground. And when he finally did hit the ground, it was with a dull, wet crunch. Gaping, bloodshot eyes gazed up to the heavens with those pinprick pupils, the glaze of death glinting like wood-varnish on their surface. His limbs stuck out at odd angles over his body. His neck was nearly ninety degrees with his head. The blood continued to seep, on and on, a seemingly infinite supply. Heather couldn’t help it. She just couldn’t. It had been so easy. It was just too good. She laughed. A short, barking laugh—the terse laugh of coyotes after dusk.

“Ewwww.” She became aware of Jackie’s presence once more, as he stepped away from the corpse. “What the hell was that?”

She drew herself up, shook out the remainder of her early-morning blues. The chainsaw hung lifeless in her grip. “Do you think he’s immortal too? Wouldn’t that be such a coincidence?”

“Hope not. This basement is small enough as it is.” He had been standing an unfortunate distance near the late Mr. Matthew, so he was soaked with the brunt of the blood and gore. “You didn’t answer my question. What the hell, Heather?”

She shrugged. “He was being annoying.”

“Of course. Of course he was.”

“Don’t look at me like that.” She swung the chainsaw up to point at his, frankly unimpressed, expression. “He could have been an undercover cop. Even if he wasn’t, what would I do if he found you? It was a necessary sacrifice.”

“That guy probably had a wife and kids, you know.”

“Yeah, well, bummer for them.” She took in a deep breath, let it out in a huff. So much for clean. The blood and viscera had even reached a bit of the ceiling, red and pink flecks to speckle the white. At least she was right about ending it quickly. The golden rule. If you can't do it fast, don’t do it at all.

“Did he…” Something like hope lit up in Jackie’s face, brief and dull though it was. “Did he come for me?”

“You?” Heather laughed again. “Oh, Jackie. You’re funny, I’ll give you that. Nobody’s looking for you.”

This wasn’t entirely true. Heather had seen an alert in the newspaper for Jackie Rockwell, currently labeled a missing person, just days before. It had given her quite the shock, but that initial gut reaction had faded soon enough. They didn’t actually know where he was. Getting into a car crash was just as likely an explanation as kidnapping, perhaps even more likely. After all, how many kidnappings occurred in that quiet corner of Washington? One or two every decade? Even then, the only people that got kidnapped around there were criminals and little kids.  The alert was nothing more than a formality.

The spark in him dimmed. "Oh."

"Don't look so disappointed. He's dead either way."

"Dead." Jackie gave the body an appraising glance. "What are you gonna do with him now?"

"I'll need to get rid of the evidence, I suppose." She knelt down to search the body, despite the disgusted look Jackie was giving her. There, in the left pocket. Car keys. 

Heather thought that the odds were weighted in her favor. Assuming that Matthew came to the wrong address, the cops wouldn't have any leads on her. In the event that he was a plainclothes trying to get a read on Heather, she could eradicate the evidence before the police ever had a chance to investigate. Even if they knew she did it, their claims were nothing but hot air without proof. 

She would figure something out for the body, but getting rid of his car would be easy. She’d simply drive it to a remote location and come back on the bus, or a taxi if she had to. 

The keys swung and clattered in her hand as she got up to her feet. "Alright, then. I'll see you in an hour or so."

“You’re going to leave me here? With the corpse?”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, corpses just make for dry conversation." He sat back down in his chair and crossed his legs. "Have fun. And hurry. That thing is going to smell, and I'm not sleeping next to a dead body."

The body did smell rather foul, as one would expect. Aside from the slick of blood, there was something sour, as if the meat was already starting to decompose. "Fair point. I'll be back before nightfall. You have my word."

By the look on his face, she could tell that her word meant very little to him. No matter. She left the basement with a spring in her step. Heather had just successfully killed a man, and she was feeling great.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

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