#TWIG WITH A STEEL CHAIR

[oneshortlove]

Love your not ssfe either, your also getting my love and effection and hugs

I am aprroching rapidly to your location

Oh my goodness!! Yayayay!! Yes i want this love and affection!! I will give it back twice as much!! My arms are open for so many hugs yes!!! I cherish this so much<3<3<3

[r4gg3dy4ndy]

bloodlust.

people keep talking about that old creepy mansion in the forest. your curiosity gets the best of you, and you decide to go check it out. (proper capitalization and grammar in the fic.) (1,818 words.)

vampire!wallace wells x gender neutral reader

trigger warning for mind control.

People will not shut up about that dumb old mansion in the forest. They keep talking about vampires and werewolves and monsters that live in it. You were supposed to go with your friends, but they bailed on you last minute. Pussies. You trek into the forest, moonlight bathing the trees in pale white light. The crunch of leaves and twigs beneath your feet is loud compared to the silence. Finally, you come across the mansion. For being in the forest for so long, it isn't too dilapitated. You push the doors open, creaking under the pressure. You sigh, looking around. It's... honestly, it's pretty damn creepy. The lights are still on, but dim, and the moment you walk in you're planted into a large foyer, with two staircases leading up to a hallway, and a balcony with even more doors. This house looks like it has like, 20,000 rooms. You shiver, shutting the door behind you. You walk further into the foyer, dusty vases on podiums next to the staircases. You walk over to the left, finding a large dining room. The lights have a strange artificial flicker effect, making them look like fire. At least, you think. The table is set, but most of it is also covered in a thick layer of dust. All of it but one place, at the head of the table. You wonder if someone still lives here. There shouldn't be, hypothetically, since you checked all of the paperwork. You could have sworn you heard a creak, but you push forth into the room connecting to the right of the dining room. There's a strange feeling in the air. You walk into a hallway, but all the doors are locked. You turn around and go back into the dining room, sitting at one of the chairs. You still can't shake the feeling of getting watched. You put your head in your hands, trying to steel yourself. Of course your friends bailed on you... You walk back into the foyer, about to go walk to the rooms on the right, when someone grabs you from behind. They hold your head still, one arm wrapped around your chest, holding your arms to you and pinning you to them.

"Hello..." Their voice sounds male, not super deep, but definitely raspy. You let out a peep, scared. "What brings you to my mansion, hm? Not many come here anymore, unless they're looking for ghosts... Is that what you are here for? Just another paranormal investigator?" You shake your head no, but then think about it. "Well, not entirely... People kept talking about this place, and I... I guess I was just curious. Not a paranormal investigator, but technically investigating. You... live here?" They chuckle. "Yes... What are people saying, hm? The rumours..." You do deep breathing to try and keep yourself from crying. Whoever this is is terrifying. "They keep saying that werewolves live here, in the forest. That vampires live in the home, ghosts that haunt the forest, the mansion, zombies, and such." You sound scared, but not too wavery. The person(?) chuckles again. "Ah, do they truly? How facinating..." They lean their head in more, laying against the crook of your neck. "You must have questions, my little investigator." "Yes. I... I do. Who... are you?" "Ah... My name is Wallace. Wallace Wells." He chuckles again, turning your head to look at him. He has short black hair, flashing a grin at you when you notice... No fucking shot. Theres no way those are real. No way. No way. Your eyes widen in shock, mouth slightly parted. He laughs again. "Ah... I almost hoped that you hadn't noticed, as sweet as your fear is." He grins at you wider, fangs looking razor sharp as they extend a bit more. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be. Stay still." His teeth press against your neck, biting your tongue as you try to steel yourself. His fangs sink deep into your neck. It didn't hurt, as you had expected. It pinched only for a moment, before fading into euphoria. You moan, eyes rolled back as you lean into him as he begins to drink. He lets out a gentle whine, looking almost as pleased as you. He pulls away after a moment, making sure not to take too much, so that you still live. His breathing is heavy as he licks up the excess from your wounds. His voice is sultry, seductive.

"Good boy... Tastes so good..." He seems almost drunk now, licking his lips and turns you towards him. He's just a tad taller than you, not enough to make a huge difference. He giggles, cupping your face. You gently reach up to run your hands through his hair. It's shockingly soft. He leans in, and you follow suit as you two begin to kiss. He's pretty damn good at it, making you whine gently as you taste just a bit of your own blood. He slips his tongue into your mouth and you accidentally cut your tongue on his fangs. He moans into your mouth at the addictive taste. After a moment, you pull away for air. "F- Fuck... That was pretty damn good." You catch your breath, looking into his eyes. "Thank you, hon... Such a good little boy." He grabs your chin again, giving you another small kiss. He looks enamoured, if not a little anxious. "Would you... like to join me for dinner?" "Sure." You take his hand, letting him lead you over to the dining room. He pulls out a chair for you, bowing politely. You laugh gently, sitting down. "I'll be back in a moment. Would you like a martini?" You shrug. "Ah, why not." A few moments pass and he comes back with food and drinks. He places one plate in front of you, along with one of the martinis. You eat and chat for a while, and you're both quite a few drinks in. Your tolerance is really low, so you're pretty damn drunk. "Hehe- thank you... sorry for intruding earlier... Do- hehe, do you wanna know something?" Your words are slurred, face a little flushed and blushy. He looks deep into your eyes as you speak, showing his interest. He's also pretty drunk, just not as drunk as you.

"Mh... What is it, sweet prey?" You giggle a bit more. "One of the main reasons I came was b- hehe, was because I wanted to see if the rumours were true, but I was also hoping that the vampires were real. I- hehe, I've always found the idea really hot... especially the uh... the thingie. I cant remember..." Your thoughts seem to slow. You blame it on the alchohol. He continues to hold eye contact. You laugh again. "Sorry I... I forgot." "Oh, it's alright, darling. Happens to the best of us." He takes another sip of his martini. After he finished his drink, he walks over to you, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him. He grins, showing off his fangs yet again. You keep staring into his eyes, quickly finding that you can't look away. "What's... happening...?" He just laughs. "It'll make sense. Just keep staring, pretty boy." You do. Your thoughts slip further away, as thinking itself begins feeling harder and harder. "Good boy... Let your thoughts fade... Fall into my trance, darling..." His voice is low, eyes so deep and beautiful. You whine, embarrassingly. You find yourself craving his control. It feels... nice. Not having to think for a while. Your mind is quiet, for the first time in recent memory. "You look so thoughtless, it's truly adorable. Helpless, weakened, fucking adorable." You blush, looking up at him due to the angle. You've dropped so deep into his trance that you can't quite recall what you were doing beforehand, not that you care. Being here is worth it enough. Despite his hold, your jaw begins to hang open gently, small noises coming from you.

"You dropped so quickly. You wanted this, didn't you? To become my pet? My sweet, brainwashed, thrall." He laughs again, more of a hearty chuckle. You nod. Even if you hadn't truly wanted it before, you believe that you did. He nods, pleased. "Now, I'm going to give you commands. You will obey, and want nothing less." You nod excitedly. "Kneel." His voice is stern, commanding, and it goes straight to your dick. You kneel almost immediately, looking up at him and waiting for more commands. "Stay still. Do not move." You find yourself entirely still, almost frozen. He grips your hair, nails sharp against your scalp as he makes you face forward, pressing your face into his bulge. He grins, looking down at you. You're a bit confused, but not uncomfortable. "Hmph... so pathetic, kneeling before me and just letting me do this. Fuck." He groans, grinding onto your face. He begins to unbuckle his pants, pulling down his boxers just enough to let his cock out. "Open." Your mouth near automatically hangs open, cock now painfully hard in your pants. His cock is pretty damn big, girthy and what looks like about nine inches. Your tongue lolls out, spit dripping onto the floor. He taps your tongue with the tip of his cock, and although you wouldn't normally think this, it tastes good. He begins to slide it into your mouth, the texture is... strange, but not necessarily bad. He presses into your throat, his precum tastes salty. You fucking moan as he begins to pound into your throat. "Fuck, that's tight... Mh, so warm and wet." He fucks your throat like an animal as you try not to gag. You embarrassingly drool around him, moaning. You can feel his cock twitch in your mouth, his moans becoming more frequent and loud. He uses your head like a fleshlight, moaning loudly. He's suprisingly very vocal.

"Mhn... Fuck, you wanna swallow my cum? Fuck, you know you do. Heh. Mh, fuck, that mouth is amazing." He floods your mouth with his cum and you swallow eagerly. He pulls you off him, a string of saliva and cum connecting you to his dick. You pant to catch your breath. "Th- Thank you, sir..." Wallace laughs as he wipes off his dick, putting it back into his pants. "Of course. I'll let you free of my trance now, and if you'd like, since its late and so cold, you may stay the night. It's up to you, my pretty boy." He snaps and you blink back to where you were. Your thoughts flood back into your previously quiet head. The strange taste of cum is still in your mouth. "Bleh..." You stick your tongue out, standing back up. Your knees hurt. Wallace laughs a tad, giving you a kiss. "So... you wanting to stay the night, guy?"

[rosewaterandivy]

don't fall away from me

summary: “If I should fall, on that day / I only pray, don't fall away from me" from I, Carrion (Icarian) - Hozier

w.c.: 1.9k

previously

Years pass by, and time moves differently here. Hawkins, but not quite, stuck in the perpetual year of 1983. Life, or whatever you call his existence, in the Upside Down is one long, drawn-out night. Turbulent clouds of red and blue rolled through a bruise-colored sky. 

And somewhere beyond, just out of his reach, lies the scent of summer. It wafts through as it pleases— fragrant blooms, sunlight, and waxy blades of green. He can almost taste the slupees and melting popsicles, watermelon sugar tingling on his tongue.

He can hear your laughter in the dead air, the sound echoing through the caverns of his mind. That is, at least, when he isn’t there.

Vecna, Henry Creel, his majesty the scrotum— whatever.

Speaking of which—

“It’s time.”

The steel-trap of his memory slams shut, though it’s useless to try and keep anything for himself. Learned that the hard way. Many times, in fact.

Like clockwork, the lone walkie crackles to life with a burst of static. 

“Eddie, it’s Dustin. Over.”

His longs to wrap his fingers around the chunk of plastic and press down to reply. He always will, he can’t rightly help it.

But this time, Dustin says something else. It’s not the usual: “Eddie, can you read me? Over.”

Instead, it's: “Eddie, if you’re there just—” followed by a deep breath. “If you come back, things are different now. She’s different. She’s got another life and…”

In spite of himself, he creeps closer to the walkie. 

Dustin heaves a sigh down the line. “Please don’t come for her. If you are what I think you are, you’ll stay away.”

But, of course, he doesn’t listen to Henderson’s pleas. Turns out, a prolonged stay in the Upside Down as Vecna’s Frankenstein abomination of a lieutenant will do that to a person. Or whatever he was now. He can’t listen to good sense because his has fled. He has to hope that some things are the same, that your love remains the same.

And with that, he unfurls his wings and takes off toward the surviving gate.

Ever since he’d woken up, or rather, been revived by Vecna, something has been pulling at him from Hawkins. Well, several somethings really, but two in particular burn the brightest. He follows them like the north star guiding him home.

Except home for him doesn’t exist anymore, at least not in any way that matters. 

A cabin tucked away in the woods kept secret and safe, sunken back against the trees. On a thick branch of a nearby tree hangs a tire swing, pastoral and endearing. Next to it sits a worn picnic table, burgundy paint peeling at the edges. There’s a clatter from behind the door before it creaks open.

You linger there, back turned to him, a cream-colored dress falls to graze just beneath your knees. Your hair is longer now, a smile coming to his lips as he continues to observe, a few locks falling loose from the braid you’ve tied.

The braid and dress are new. But the ease with which you lean into the house, carefree and relaxed, that is familiar.

And maybe that’s enough.

He watches as you eventually settle back against a well-loved rocking chair, a soft crooning voice floating through the air as you tilt your head back and sigh. 

Christ. You smell good. He always thought you had, even now the faintest aroma of sandalwood only serves to conjure vestiges of you. But he can’t detect the fine traces of them now. In its stead is a bright note of salt, musk, and heat beckoning him like a siren’s call.

Only once the sun has set beneath the horizon does he answer that call, stepping out from underneath the shade of the trees. A twig snaps underfoot at his approach, and your head whips toward him, your mouth pulled in a flat line. With the grace and quickness only Nancy Wheeler would envy, you grasp the barrel of a soldered off shotgun.

“I would suggest you turn back now,” You warn lowly, cocking the hammer and wrapping your finger around the trigger.

Stepping from the trees, he raises his arms slowly and sheepishly ducks his head.

“Unless you’ve got some silver bullets in there, sugar,” He jests, lips jerking into a careful smile, “I doubt it’ll do much good.”

Rising from the chair, you narrow your eyes to stare into the taller broader figure of a man you have known too well. 

“Eddie?”

He responds with a nod, not that it does much to lessen the blow. You blink, eyes darting side to side as if questioning your reality.

Hearing his name slip from your tongue so softly nearly steals his breath. He can’t help but close his eyes to memorize it. That voice, his name, the years have passed, and he hasn’t forgotten. Not a single thing.

From the first time you called it, to the first time you whispered it, to the last time you sobbed it, following him into the unknown darkness. No matter how black his heart, he always had you.

“Hi sweetheart,” He greets, stepping forward and dropping his arms, extending a shaky outstretched hand.

Or, what could once be considered a hand.

And the devastation that falls on your face is worse than any of the terrors he’s suffered combined. You stand frozen like a statue, stiff and still save for the fluttering of your skirt in the breeze.

Beautiful as ever.

Your mouth begins moving before any words fall forth, expression ranging from shock to elation before settling at outright terror. There’s a slight tremor to your hands as they grip the weapon aimed directly at him.

He can hear the quickening of your heart, the whoosh of air that slips from your lungs with each breath, the inherent thrum of life all around you.

He makes to call your name, but the words fall silent in his throat at the sight unfolding before his eyes. The door creaks loudly as you dash in front of it, shielding something from view.

And then he sees it. The change Dustin alluded to; the life.

If he had a heart, it would have dropped, trembled even. Even the cool absence of it feels like it could burst right through his chest.

“Mama?” The boy whispers from behind the mesh of the screen door. He clumsily totters from one foot to the other, landing with a plop on the floor.

A child.

“Stay there baby,” You say, eyes trained on Eddie and flashing in warning. “I’ll be in soon.”

Mama.

Fuck. The boy is beautiful. Footsie pajamas and face shadowed, shielding him from Eddie’s prying eyes. Even if he can’t make out the boy’s face just yet, he knows, because of you, any child would be perfect. Like those cherubs from Renaissance paintings. A little cherub that could have been his.

“Cute kid,” Eddie smiles, voice soft and low, “What’s his name?”

“He’s named after his father,” You say taking one step toward him. “And you should be leaving.”

“Jams!” The boy helpfully offers, “My name's Jams!”

“J-Jamie.” You breathe, “His name is Jamie.” Clearing a tickle in your throat, you clarify, “Steven James, technically.”

The boy— Steven. Eddie feels himself roil at the new knowledge. His name is Steven.

“Steven? Steve?” Betrayal trips along his tongue, a lingering tang of wet pennies in the way he questions it. As much as he tries to brace for it, a tiny blooming wound breaks through the syllable.

Between your overcast eyes and Eddie’s inspecting onces, the boy is lodged like a twig in a dam, holding back the torrent from both sides. You continue to grip the rifle and shush him now for the time being.

“Is he— Steve? He’s Steve’s?”

Eddie observes the front yard, the blinding, hopeful curtain lifting from his eyes— there are three chairs on the porch, three black-eyed Susans painted on the mailbox, three stumps further afield surrounding a fire pit.

A home.

You face swims with heartbreak, mouth twisting into a scowl he’s seen rarely but still— he knows it.

“Yes, Eddie.” You sigh, nostrils flaring and face coloring with indignation.

Eddie frowns, broken-hearted, apologetic, jealousy roiling in his gut. Unshed tears gather at your lashes, lips pinched tightly, as if holding back your words will keep the tears at bay. He doesn’t know what you mean as he stares vacantly at your protective stance.

But then he sees it.

He sees it when the boy grunts, tired of a conversation that is years beyond his interest and understanding. He rests a tiny hand against the screen door and gently pushes at it.

Jamie is quick and before you can haul him back behind you, he scampers into the light as if the pair of you are playing a game, and when Eddie looks back to where his perfect little head is— drawn firmly to your side, plopped on your jutting hip, he sees dazzling cascades of mahogany curls glinting in the dim porch light.

The boy twists his little body around and stares of Eddie with some curiosity now that they are both wholly revealed to the other.

“He was there for me,” A faint whisper escapes your mouth, heavy tears falling down your chin, pooling until they barely hang on. “He was there the entire time. All nine harrowing months, knowing that I was growing something that was yours. If it weren’t for Steve, I—” You shake the thought loose before it can take hold.

You press your lips to Jamie’s head, inhaling the sweet scent of his skin, “I was completely out of it with grief. Th-thought, I coul— I couldn’t do it. Have a baby that was yours when you were gone. When you died, what we had was barely even a dream, Eddie.”

He knows, he remembers it all too well.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry— I didn’t—"

“I know,” You nod, acknowledging his confession. “You had no reason to.” He bites his tongue, hopes it draws some blood, hopes in secret that something will take his very existence from him now, and knows the chances are slim. He can’t stand the thought of being among the living any longer, facing the consequences of his actions, his so-called heroics— the two people he left behind.

“Steve was there, and he loved me through it. And when this little… when this sweet guy—” You press your face to his and take a steadying breath. “When this boy came, we held each other and wept.”

A small laugh escapes from you muffled by Jamie’s hair.

“So, he’s named after his father, just not necessarily his biological one.”

Jamie leans toward you, places his palms to your cheeks and pats the wetness away. “No cry, mama. Happy face.”

You crumble apart, bursting into tears against his little palm, pressing kisses to his fingertips, and part of Eddie crumbles to ruin too. The boy, this precious boy, who is both his and not his, turns and looks at him earnestly.

“Mama’s okay, baby,” You whisper to him, “I’ve got you now, my sunshine boy.”

“You should leave,” You turn to Eddie, reluctance rounding the words as they tumble from your mouth. “Before he gets home.”

Because your home is with Steve now. Not Eddie, at least not anymore.

“He’ll want to see you, they all will, but not like this.”

He wouldn’t even know what to say to Steve. He wouldn’t know what to say to anyone. The stories he’d told himself of abandonment and sacrifice all pale in comparison to the reality of it all— trying to mete out a meager phantom life, half-existing, while the world continued to turn above. 

You and Steve, and his son— your son, Eddie’s son, Steve’s son. 

All strung together like tragic marionettes, and he can’t protect you from the puppet master.

With a few beats of his wings, Eddie's gone, soaring above the tree line and catching the last few rays from the setting sun. Relishes the scant warmth and thinks that maybe Icarus had the right of it; the greatest tragedy, after all, is never to feel the burning of the light.

[sincerely-sofie]

Sudden intrusive thought in my head, Twig has been rushing the entire way to Kip because she's afraid Arc is going after him to kill him and when she finally arrives and literally breaks down the door being all "Kip are you ok?! I'm here to save you!" Before she looks and sees Kip and Arc just sitting by a table drinking tea together and having a pleasant time! I don't know the thought just came to me and seemed pretty funny hehe^^

I love this idea because it’s the exact type of cartoony shenanigans I adore and it’s absolutely hilarious, but the second Kip sees Ark he’s coming at him with a steel chair

Still 100% gold tho Setech!

[kvetchlandia]

Uncredited Photographer Beat Poets Allen Ginsberg, Harold Norse, Jack Hirschman, Michael McClure and Bob Kaufman, Caffe Trieste, San Francisco 1975

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry. Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery. The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily. Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust— —I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past— and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye— corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear, Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then! The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives, all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown— and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos—all these entangled in your mummied roots—and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form! A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze! How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul? Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive? You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower! And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not! So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter, and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen, —We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.

Allen Ginsberg, "Sunflower Sutra," 1955

--

my head felt stabbed

by a crown of thorns but I joked and rode the subway

and ducked into school johns and masturbated

and secretly wrote

                                     of teenage hell

because I was “different”

the first and last of my kind

smothering acute sensations

in swimming pools and locker rooms

addict of lips and genitals

mad for buttocks

                                that Whitman and Lorca

and Catullus and Marlowe

                                          and Michelangelo

and Socrates admired

and I wrote: Friends,

if you wish to survive

I would not recommend

Love

-- Harold Norse, "I Would Not Recommend Love" 1973

--

I ran down the street and into the house smelled of oregano and shook Mickey Monaco, said C'mon, Balaban's got a breadloaf climbing over old Gruber's fence, he thinks the mad dogs is doves.

But Mickey grew up in the bed till he was too old and besides Balaban was crazy, he sucked his tongue and got left back twice.

So I ran to Joey Bellino's house but his mother's black stocking said Joey was out early shoe shining. And besides a, that Balaban he's a crazy a kid, he suck a the tongue and Joey says he get lefback three times.

So I banged on Bitsy Beller's window yelled he was near the top, the mad dogs waiting down below he thinks is doves.

But when Bitsy stood up he turned into a stiff cue stick. And didn't want nothing to do with nobody cracked upstairs. And Dickie Miller became a semipro. And Howie Fish a doctor. So I ran down the street full of hope

by myself because I was on fire. But I got there too late for Balaban. Two of them had a stretch of skin between their teeth fighting over it,

and the foam of their mouths and Balaban's blood spattered in such a way, the most the greatest picture looked me straight in the eye, made me sit in the gutter and cry,

and when I got up vow to be Balaban from that day on

-- Jack Hirschman, "Balaban" 1969

--

for Jack Kerouac 

IN LIGHT ROOM IN DARK HELL IN UMBER IN CHROME,

     I sit feeling the swell of the cloud made about by movement

                 of arm leg and tongue. In reflections of gold

           light. Tints and flashes of gold and amber spearing

                     and glinting. Blur glass…blue Glass,

             black telephone. Matchflame of violet and flesh

                 seen in the clear bright light. It is not night

                and night too. In Hell, there are stars outside.

            And long sounds of cars. Brown shadows on walls

                                       in the light

                           of the room. I sit or stand

                 wanting the huge reality of touch and love.

            In the turned room. Remember the long-ago dream

          of stuffed animals (owl, fox) in a dark shop. Wanting

             only the purity of clean colors and new shapes

                                     and feelings.

             ��   I WOULD CRY FOR THEM USELESSLY

                   I have ten years left to worship my youth

                      Billy the Kid, Rimbaud, Jean Harlow

  IN DARK HELL IN LIGHT ROOM IN UMBER AND CHROME I

                                                                                            feel the swell of

smoke the drain and flow of motion of exhaustion, the long sounds of cars

                                                                                                     the brown shadows

on the wall. I sit or stand. Caught in the net of glints from corner table to

                                                                                                                       dull plane

from knob to floor, angles of flat light, daggers of beams. Staring at love’s face.

      The telephone in cataleptic light. Marchflames of blue and red seen in the

                                                                                                                            clear grain.

I see myself—ourselves—in Hell without radiance. Reflections that we are.

              The long cars make sounds and brown shadows over the wall.

                               I am real as you are real whom I speak to.

                   I raise my head, see over the edge of my nose. Look up

                    and see that nothing is changed. There is no flash

                            to my eyes. No change to the room.

                       Vita Nuova—No! The dead, dead world.

                     The strain of desire is only a heroic gesture.

                       An agony to be so in pain without release

                             when love is a word or kiss.

-- Michael McClure, "The Chamber" 1961

--

I have folded my sorrows into the mantle of summer night, Assigning each brief storm its allotted space in time, Quietly pursuing catastrophic histories buried in my eyes. And yes, the world is not some unplayed Cosmic Game, And the sun is still ninety-three million miles from me, And in the imaginary forest, the shingled hippo becomes the gray unicorn. No, my traffic is not with addled keepers of yesterday’s disasters, Seekers of manifest disembowelment on shafts of yesterday’s pains. Blues come dressed like introspective echoes of a journey. And yes, I have searched the rooms of the moon on cold summer nights. And yes, I have refought those unfinished encounters.       Still, they remain unfinished. And yes, I have at times wished myself something different.

The tragedies are sung nightly at the funerals of the poet; The revisited soul is wrapped in the aura of familiarity. 

-- Bob Kaufman, "I Have Folded My Sorrows" 1965

[calamitysshatteredson]

Imagine this: Hojo secretly runs a fanclub of Sephiroth and shares some private details in a very unsophisticated manner, going as far as talking passionately about how good Sephiroth's hair smells.

And Sephiroth finds out it's Hojo writing all that

...So. The whole Silver Elite/Chairwoman H thing in Crisis Core comes off as... so incredibly creepy and awful (more so over time, haaa), but this... immediately became ridiculous crack in my mind. Sometimes you gotta let crack!Hojo out of his reinforced prison cell for a few minutes, okay.

"Hojo."

The man did not fumble with the glasswear he was oh so carefully dropping a certain amount of technically forbidden, questionably legal, certainly not moral liquids into. Sephiroth's presence had already been announced by the series of steel doors kicked off their hinges on the way there. He didn't bother to turn around before insisting, "You could have texted."

"I broke the phone." The response was a low growl, followed by something dropped in front of the scientist-- Ah, yes. That pile of sparkling plastic and glass had been a phone once. "This... fan club, what is this?"

"What is what?" Hojo responded innocently enough, putting his bare thumb over one of the slender test tubes and shaking the liquid to a froth before putting it back carefully. "All of the Firsts have fan clubs."

Sephiroth loomed over the feeble man to point at the broken phone screen. "None of the others have lengthy descriptions of what their hair smells like."

"None of the others have such dedicated chairpersons." Hojo sniffed, shaking a second test tube and making a small noise of disappointment when nothing frothed.

The SOLDIER finally physically turned Hojo around in his swiveling chair, looking ferocious. "No one should know what shampoo we use or exactly what it smells like."

"You use Shinra products. The scents are clearly labeled. If anything, it's just a product placement done as only a genius can do it." The scientist perfectly reasoned with a little flourish of his fingers... which were starting to turn neon blue.

Sephiroth took a moment to collect himself. A few breaths. Trying not to think about how easy it would be to just snap that tiny twig of a nec-- "So you're admitting to writing this?

"I admit to nothing." Hojo huffed, turning himself back around to continue his work.

He could be drop-kicked. He'd go flying in such a satisfying arc... "But--"

"Nope, no admissions." Hojo reassured loudly, shaking another tube. The result was a neon purple thumb.

Sephiroth drew a deep, loud breath and decided it probably wasn't worth the physical violence. There were better ways to attack. Leaning in, he stated clearly, "Your grammar is atrocious and you mix tenses."

[beantothemax]

“I need someone to stay in the inn with Trousseau. His condition is still unstable, and I fear what he may try to do if left alone.” 

Castti had announced that at dinner that night in the tavern, everyone pausing their meal to look at her. 

She seemed tired, even beyond her normal. She also seemed pale, terribly so. Everyone supposed being exposed to his poison twice would leave some side effects, even if the remnants of it had been melted away by the antidote. 

"I can watch him tonight,” Hikari offered. He had since finished his meal, and was now sipping gingerly on a cup of coffee. He wasn’t quite used to the bitter taste, and had poured a copious amount of cream and sugar in at Thronè’s and Partitio’s suggestion. 

Temenos gave him an odd look, and Osvald’s face twitched, but no one else gave any sign of reluctance at Hikari’s offer. Castti smiled, nodding. 

“He’s in the room with the blue ribbon on the door handle. Knock twice before you enter, so he knows you’re with me. He’s... still a tad jumpy.” 

Which was how Hikari, Prince of Ku, found himself standing in front of a door with a blue ribbon on the handle, nervous as the seven hells to even knock. 

Finally, though, he steeled himself and raised his fist to the door. Once, twice, and then silence. 

A face appeared in the doorway. His red eyes were even redder from blood, his pupils mere pinpricks even in the light of the corridor. 

“Are you with the Chief?” The man asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. Hikari nodded. 

“I am. My name is Hikari. You can trust me- I come unarmed,” he said, and the door opened enough for Trousseau’s full figure to stand there. 

He looked terrible. He was sickly pale, thin as a twig, and looked as though he was on death’s doorstep, ready to walk through at any time. 

“...Why have you come?” Trousseau asked, and Hikari offered a smile, holding up Agnea’s basket. It was filled with fresh fruits from the market, as well as some baked goods gifted to them by grateful villagers. 

“I have a gift,” Hikari said, and Trousseau fell silent, staring fixedly on the basket. It was a bit unnerving, the sudden stillness, but Hikari planted his feet. He wouldn’t be going anywhere unless Trousseau himself turned him away. 

Thankfully, that didn’t happen. Trousseau stepped aside, allowing Hikari to enter. 

The room was dim, and smelled of herbs. He recognised a few, rosemary and sage. He also recognised the scent of sleepweed and grape leaf, though they were fainter. 

“I apologise for the smell. I was merely-” 

“They’re healing herbs, are they not?” Hikari asked, then became acutely aware of how he just cut the aopothcary off. 

Trousseau didn’t seem to mind (or if he did, he said nothing of it), as he nodded. “Yes. Rosemary and sage help with breathing. Sleepweed and grape leaf are rather self-explanatory, I believe.” 

Hikari said nothing else, simply content to set the basket down on the table, and observe Trousseau as he sank into a chair and took a pastry from the basket. 

“How many days has it been since you’ve last eaten, Trousseau?” Hikari dared to ask, and Trousseau remained silent, pondering and chewing. 

“...Two days ago, I believe.” 

“Two days-!? How has Castti allowed you to go so long without food?” Hikari asked, shocked. Trousseau gave a weak smile. 

“I lie to her. In truth, I do not think myself worthy of being saved. Our dear, sweet Chief thinks differently, however. As evidenced by your presence.” 

Hikari had foolishly thought, a moment ago, that Trousseau would not surprise him anymore. Once again, he was wrong. 

“Oh, yes. I know Chief sent you. She fears I may put a knife or such in my breast, and sent you to keep me from doing as such. Chief may be foolish to allow me to live, but she is not foolish in knowing how to keep me alive.” 

The calmness of Trousseau’s voice as he spoke sent a chill down Hikari’s back. 

“Trousseau... Why do you think yourself deserving of death?” He asked, and Trousseau laughed bitterly. 

“Have you no recollection of what happened two days ago? Did the Chief not tell you the tragedy of Healeaks? I killed them, Prince Hikari, every last one of them in Healeaks, and I would have done the same to Timberain had I not been stopped by Chief. I deserve more than death, but instead I’m being treated like another one of Chief’s patients.” 

Hikari frowned, chest tight. No one deserved death, not even the most vile of men. Especially not a man who seemed to be choking on his regret. 

“Do you regret what you’ve done? Have you any sorrow for the ones whose lives were lost?” 

Trousseau went still, then nodded. 

“I wish I could give my life for theirs. I have no life left to live, and they did. Sally, Temm... Eir’s Apothecaries. Andy, Randy, Elma... Malaya. All dead because of me. Why should I be allowed to live while they roll in their graves?” 

Hikari placed a hand over Trousseau’s. 

“Your regret is proof enough that you do not deserve death. If you were truly the monster you fear you are, you would not feel regret. You would take joy in their deaths.” 

Trousseau winced as though in pain. “I once did. I thought I was saving them.” 

“But you have changed. Monsters do not change, Trousseau. You are good, I swear it.” 

Trousseau fell silent, and soon Hikari found that he had fallen asleep. 

Hauling him into bed, draping a blanket over him, and extinguishing the lantern, Hikari sighed. 

“Sleep well, Trousseau.” 

waugh…. they… if I think about them too much I immediately explode

let the boy have a little fucking treat!!!!!!!!!!!!!! he deserves it!!!!!!!!

MAVVIE YOU CANT START ON THE REGRET STUFF AGAIN I WILL DIE IMMEDIATLY

VARIOUS NOISES OF DISDAIN

[neosatsuma]

so I'm playing a pathetic wet dog charlatan Warlock, right, and his whole thing is just lying all the time. Deception through the roof. So Astarion loves that but he doesn't love that we keep committing acts of basic human decency. RIGHT in front of his salad. So he's lukewarm on us.

Gale, though. Gale LOVES basic human decency. I romanced him by accident and then a little on purpose because I was curious but he keeps saying things like "haha bestie you're SO fun to be around," and I'm NOT!! I'm not. Gale, this is a wet dog. I'll romance Gale for me, on my own time, but this character can't have him, it just doesn't work. So I'm gonna make another save.

But in the meantime I've already made a second character just because a bug is stalling my main game, and I said OK. OK, I have to find out what this wretched little elf is all about. Get him under the microscope of romance. Now in every pairing there must be "Could Snap You Like a Twig" and "A Twig." So I made an Oath of Vengeance Paladin. Strength build! Healing spells! Vengeance! It's perfect. I'm setting them up to kiss.

BUT WAIT!!! BECAUSE I'm playing THIS character with less guile and more force, we've barely met the goblins and HERE COMES LAE'ZEL WITH THE STEEL CHAIR, DESIRING ME CARNALLY. And I can't say NO!! She's so straightforward. Her eyes are so green.

s.so uh. I guess I have to play this game,, a fourth t,ime,,,,

[world-of-fire-and-flight]

Find the Word Tag

A/N: Thank you so much for tagging me, @verkja! My words were single, double, cup, and serve, and I decided to use Embers of Eternity to fill them because Winds of War, while technically my WIP, is one massive spoiler for the Heirs of Tenebris trilogy😅 No pressure tagging: @ambiguouspuzuma, @puddleslimewrites, @faelanvance, @author-a-holmes, @violetcancerian, and anyone else who'd like to find the words: start, end, fire, and water in their writing✨

single

They are, Shamira said. Edwin blinked, stunned into still silence. The fur on Shamira’s neck bristled and settled within a single breath, like she was steeling herself. Nyla swallowed, fearing Shamira knew more than she and Xander could’ve possibly pieced together themselves. Shamira’s eyes misted, staring over all of their heads as she wove her tale.

The myths humans tell of the Shadow Forest are a history my kin have never forgotten. And in this way, by perpetuating these legends, neither has Tenebris.

double

All too soon, Xander was met with the double doors of the Lavender Room. Before he could even knock, one of the doors slowly cracked open. Through the opening, Xander caught sight of Nyla. Her head hung, and she sniffled. Xander saw the moment she stiffened upon realizing that someone was already at her door. Whipping her head up, Nyla’s red-rimmed eyes met his.

“Hi,” he whispered, giving her a broad, lopsided smile and a slow wave.

“Hi,” she responded quietly, her voice crackly. Stepping aside, she opened the door a little wider, motioning for him to come in. “What are you doing here?”

cup

Xander choked on his water.

“No, he hasn’t mentioned it.” Alexander eyed him.

“Sorry, it just didn’t seem like a good time.” Xander replaced his cup beside his plate and pushed his chair away from the table.

“You knew Nyla was going to challenge [REDACTED] publicly?”

So apparently in over 100k words, I only use "cup" once in Embers of Eternity. Who knew?😂 I also had to cut this passage down quite a bit because ✨spoilers✨

serve

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a delicate twig on either side of the aisle. As she continued to serve as a conduit for the energy flooding her and into the earth, the twigs grew into young trees. Buds bloomed on the ends of their branches as the trees grew taller and stronger.

Learn more about my Heirs of Tenebris trilogy here on Tumblr or shop Embers of Eternity at bit.ly/heirs02 (international link)

[rotworld]

26: Decay

people are convinced that the territorial beast in the woods is a protective deity come to give its blessings to your village. you aren't convinced.

->slightly suggestive but not explicit. contains gore, graphic descriptions of corpses, references to child/human sacrifices, animal death, murder, feral behavior, implied captivity, forced relationship.

.

.

.

There’s a body in the briar bush. 

A dead man like a doll with limbs splayed in the sharp embrace of those thorns, fruits of gore impaled on the ends of brittle, bristling branches. He’s broken, bending in ways he shouldn’t. His head lolls one way on a flimsy, punctured neck, his body the other. There are broken twigs scattered on the forest floor with their little, crooked thorn teeth bent and bloodied. He was shoved inside this den of brambles with vicious force, left to writhe there, to bleed out slowly. 

Later, this will be mythologized. It was dawn—it was the first day of spring—a halo of light spilled forth, the leaves turned gold, the blood sparkled like rubies. Everyone knows a holy thing when they see it. 

But you’re there that day. You’ll remember it as it really was for the rest of your life. The burned glow of late sunset. The cold, the terrible silence. The whole village gathers around the body, the maw of thorns. A night and a day will pass in the stifled quiet of terror. It will take another body for the first reverential whispers to meet the wind. It will take a third for the fear to shift into feverish ecstasy. After that, there will be no going back.

*

“This is a stupid thing you’re doing, Leary. He's never asked for one of us.”

“It’s not our place to ask questions. He chooses, we just do as he asks.”

In the colder nights at the end of the harvest season, the council bickers in the town meeting hall.

You remember when it was a small, ragged building, a squat hut with a lean and nothing to keep the wind out in the winter. The new one came not long after the Guardian. Prosperity crept through the center of the village first and snaked outwards. The new hall is an impressive, church-like building with colored glass windows and fine upholstery on the furniture. What was once a relatively unimportant hamlet of modest farms and carpenters has become a bustling hub of commerce, cannibalizing all of the nearest villages in its steady expansion. Business is booming. Life is splendid for most.

You taste blood, thick and clotting in the roof of your mouth. Your head throbs. The room is spinning. You stare at the meeting hall’s painted ceiling, swirls of color and wings in your blurry vision. The rope around your wrists is tight and chafing. 

“I’m not questioning. I’m saying there’s something strange about this.” 

“What’s strange about it? Are you clergy now? You think you know what he wants?” 

“Leary’s no more clergy than I am! Why do you think he knows? Because he was there that day? So was I! So were most of us!”

You hear a scuffle, a chair breaking. A fight breaking out. The crowd surges and there’s shouting, accusations, the sorts of early tremors that might become the rumble of a witch hunt. But there’s no need for it. Leary reigns in the chaos with his booming voice calling for order. “We all saw it, didn’t we?” he asks. “We saw what he did. He’s been very clear, very specific about it. This isn’t some vague omen. This is as direct as he’s ever been. We could wait, if we want to. We could stall longer and deny him what he’s asking for. We could be like Stillwood.” 

There’s a quiet, solemn murmur through the crowd. “Stillwood’s Guardian wanted the village’s children,” someone mutters. “Ours never has.” 

“No, he hasn’t,” Leary says. “And we must not give him a reason to. We must show our gratitude and give him what he asks for.” 

“You have no idea what he’s asking for, you fucking fraud,” you say hoarsely. 

The steel toe of Leary’s boot slams into your chest and you’re suffocated with the force of the blow, all the air rushing out of your lungs. You curl up on your side wheezing, cradling the throbbing wound. He’s broken something, cracked a rib or worse. Every movement is agony. Leary crouches over you, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling until you’re groaning, half-lifted off of the floor. You look at the others through a swollen eye and a trickle of blood from your scalp.

“You want to know why he’s asking for one of us?” Leary says. “Because one of us has no respect. One of us has doubted from the very beginning. The Guardian protects us. Is it any wonder that this is what he wants?” 

A powerful gust of wind howls outside, rattling the doors. The hall falls utterly silent, every frightened pair of eyes turned upwards. Leary holds his breath. Something shrieks, louder and shriller than the wind. Something lands heavily on top of the meeting hall with a cacophonous slam with the force of a thunderclap, shaking the building. Something drags sharply across the brick outside, sparks flashing beyond the window as it gouges deep claw marks into the walls. There’s another shriek, a furious howl that makes your blood run cold, and the beating of great circles once overhead before slowly, steadily, it fades. You hear a prayer whispered. Nobody moves for a long, stiflingly silent moment. 

Leary drags you to your feet and you’re herded outside with everyone else, still bound and unsteady. The meeting hall roof has a decorative spire, a point like a spear jutting into the sky. An enormous stag has been impaled on the structure, slammed down with such force that it’s sunk halfway down, its dead weight still sagging further down. Blood splatters the roof and drips steadily from a gaping wound to its hooves, trickling like rain from the eaves. 

The matter is settled without another word. Leary has several of his followers accompany him, marching you through town one last, exhausting time before heading for the woods. No one will meet your eyes. Your village has become a gruesome place beneath the veneer of wealth and civility. The stench of death is strong wherever the Guardian has been, corpses left where he put them. The severed head he stuck on the marketplace flagpole a week ago is still there, rot-softened tissue streaking the wood. The woman left speared on the jagged points of an iron fence droops like an inverted butterfly upon her pins. The thing that started this—a fox, no larger than a scrawny dog—is half-skeletal in the rosebush beside your front door.

 

It’s a solemn matter. They don’t do much talking, just the usual useless platitudes to reassure themselves. “He chooses. We do as he asks.” 

He’s watching. You can hear him. His shadow passes across the moon swifter than any cloud, a swooping arc of darkness. The hair on the back of your neck prickles and you can feel those enormous, glinting predator eyes burning into you. He follows closely, trailing you through his territory. Leary and the others pick up the pace, shoving you, shouting nervously when you stumble and drag your feet. 

The soil goes soft and squishing and your stomach lurches. You’re almost to the nest. The forest becomes gnarled, the trees thin, the thorns wild. There’s so much blood you can smell it in the air, the old rust and sickly-sweet vapors of death, new and old, mingling. The dark hides the most mangled, those corpses deep in the brambles that have been picked at slowly over the days, chunks missing, vicious, gaping holes driven through emptied chest cavities, pus and maggots oozing from the fleshy stubs where heads used to be. Wretched silhouettes, limp and broken, rest in the grasp of briar patches and dangle from shattered trees, trunks sharpened to thick spear points and painted with gore. 

The shadow dives and your heart leaps into your throat. Its landing is heavy but graceful, shaking the forest floor. All you can see in the darkness of the forest is an unfolding silhouette towering above you. You can’t stay on your feet. You’re weak from the beating and lightheaded with fear, collapsing into the leaves. The Guardian steps forward and you see three splayed claws covered in thick, reptilian scales, each digit ending in a curved talon. You hear it above you. You feel its hot breath come in puffs across your back. 

“Just as you asked, great one,” Leary whispers. “Just as you wanted.” 

The Guardian ignores them. You let out a quiet sob when a claw prods at your side, rolling you over. The moon is full far above the forest, behind his head. Silver light glints on the tips of small, hairlike feathers, ruffled in the breeze. His eyes are large and glint when he tilts his head just right. 

You’ve never seen him so close before, only in the distance, perched in trees or looming on the village skyline. He’s covered in small, soft-looking plumage, snowy feathers flaring out like a decorative collar at the base of his neck. He has no arms or hands, just enormous wings in silvery gray, the lowest, largest feathers solid black. His legs bend strangely and his feet are large, grasping talons. You flinch when he bends even lower, as if trying to be eye-level with you. 

A curious human face studies you. You’ve seen this wide-eyed expression before. This is how he looked at you when he landed right in front of your home, a dead fox under one claw. You’d been tending to your plants when he arrived, frozen in fear. He’d made eye contact. He’d never once looked away as he slowly, deliberately, jammed the fox into the rosebush beside your door, entangling the corpse in thorns. He’d looked like he was waiting for something. That’s how he looks at you now, but you don’t know what he wants. You whimper when he pushes his face against yours, curling up tightly. The sound of pain you make seems to startle him. 

“What has happened to this one?” 

The voice shocks all of you—you, Leary, everyone he convinced to come with him. You’re speechless. The Guardian has never spoken before. His voice is soft, so quiet you’re wondering if you imagined the words. 

“You speak,” Leary sputters. “This is wonderful! Great one, we’ve worshiped you since your arrival, without question, but we never knew you could—” 

“What has happened to this one?” the Guardian repeats. You’re swallowed by shadow when he steps over you and remains there, half-crouched above your body. One enormous wing folds against your side, the feathers unbelievably soft. 

“We’ve weakened them for you, great one. Not that we doubt your power, but we caught them trying to sneak out of town. We had little choice but to subdue them before presenting them to you. We can bring you more, if that would please.” 

The Guardian’s other talon lifts and crosses over you. Long, elegant tail feathers caress you as he passes you and approaches the others. You’re alive. You can hardly believe it. You let out a miserable sound as you force yourself to move, dragging your sore body through a carpet of autumn leaves. It’s probably useless. You have to get out of here before he changes his mind, but you can’t get up. You hurt too much. Behind you, you hear Leary sputter something about you “getting away,” and then an awful ripping sound. 

“I didn’t want them subdued,” the Guardian says in that same tranquil murmur. “I wanted them as they are.” You hear what might be Leary trying to scream through a throatful of blood, and then the shredding of flesh, a wet splatter across the forest floor. 

There are frightened shrieks and the pounding of footsteps sprinting back towards town, but it doesn’t matter. The Guardian is faster. One by one, you hear their screams die. A body comes crashing down through the forest canopy, breaking on branches and cracking open on the rocks below. Another is torn limb from limb—you hear pieces of him hit the ground before the solid thunk of his torso. You freeze when the Guardian comes soaring back with another clutched in his talons, helpless to do anything but watch a man shred like paper as he’s dragged through a wall of brambles. 

It’s over in seconds, the forest deathly silent and the scent of fresh death hanging in the air. You’ve hardly moved from where the Guardian left you when he lands in front of you with a thunderous sound. You stay completely still, hoping he’ll mistake you for a corpse. He doesn’t. You can’t stop the whimper that slips out when he reaches for you.

With unbelievable gentleness, he presses the blunt curve of his talon against your face, catching a tear just as it falls. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he says softly. You are. You can’t help it. You glance at the blood on his talon and he follows your gaze, not seeming to understand. His claw wraps around one of your arms and you cry out when he pulls on it. He drops it immediately. “You’re hurt. Badly. This isn’t what I wanted.” 

“Then what did you want?” you ask him.

The Guardian tilts his head. “I wanted you. As you are.”

You struggle to sit upright. He tries to help, sliding a wind under your back and keeping you from dropping right back down. The movement brings you right against his feathered chest and you’re nervous to be this close to him, especially when you notice all the blood streaked across his body. “They thought you wanted me dead,” you say. 

He stiffens as though physically struck by the mere suggestion. “No,” he says, his voice falling to a frightened whisper. “No, no, no. Not at all. I thought…I thought I did everything right. How could they misunderstand? How could you? I brought you so many things.” 

A shiver runs down your spine. Brought you things? He means the corpses? The dead animals, the bodies in town? The encounter with the fox did make you wonder, but it was the only one anywhere near your home. He didn’t come so close again after that. But that head in the marketplace was right next to where you sell your vegetables, and that fence where he’d left the woman had been right behind the baker’s place where you lingered to chat most days. And the stag—dropped right on top of the meeting hall while you were there. 

They’ve all been like that. Everything that wasn’t found in the woods, every corpse that wasn’t just a way to mark territory, all of the strange, grisly trophies left on display in town—all of them were for you. You feel sick to your stomach. 

“They thought that you were protecting us,” you say weakly. The Guardian listens to you attentively, making a low humming sound to urge you to keep talking. “They thought—you killed all those bandits, didn’t you? Nobody’s been robbed on the road since you got here.” 

“I was protecting you,” he says. And you know he doesn’t mean “all of you,” not the village. Just you. “They said you were trying to leave.” His voice hardens ever so slightly and you shrink back from his gaze. You don’t get far. His wing is right behind you, and it curls tighter against his body, pulling you back. “Why is that?” 

“I worried this might happen,” you admit. “I knew they’d do something stupid. They worship you.”

The Guardian smiles like you told him a joke. “I never asked them to.”

“It doesn’t matter. They do. When you started leaving things, they thought you were trying to tell us something. That you were singling me out because you wanted me as an offering.” 

“Hm. Humans are strange.” You let out a yelp when he suddenly reclines on the forest floor and brings you with him, knocking you flat against his chest. His wing falls heavily across your back, pinning you down. He stares up at you with amusement in his eyes. “Well, now you know. You have no reason to be afraid of me.”

You’re not so sure about that. “Then…maybe you should tell them—” 

“No,” he says. “It’s convenient to be a god. And if you’re an offering, then you’ll have to stay here, won’t you? You belong to me now.” He chuckles when you start to squirm. It’s easy for him to maneuver you, even without proper hands. The frame of his wing is firm and powerful, bringing you further up his body as he sits up. He nuzzles his face against you and makes a chirruping sound, something that sounds pleased. “This is a good forest. Plenty of room for a comfortable nest. For me, and my mate. I don’t care about anything else, but I’ll pretend, if that makes them happy. Happy humans will do what you ask, as long as you don’t ask for too much.” 

He kisses you sharply. It’s more of a bite, his teeth digging into the corner of your lips. When you try to squirm free, dodging the next kiss with a turn of your head, he nips your ear instead. He catches your chin with the curve of his wing, making you look at him. “Be good for me,” he says, “and I’ll be good, too. If you’re bad, I’ll be terrible.”

“That’s not how it works. You can’t just force me to—”

You’re shoved off of him, your back hitting the forest floor hard. The Guardian is on top of you before you’re recovered or even gotten air back in your lungs. He pins you down with his claw digging into your chest, one sharp talon point prodding at your soft, vulnerable throat. “I know how humans work. I have to keep you in line somehow,” the Guardian murmurs, leering at you from above. “When my father started to misbehave, my mother punished him. Now they’re happy because he learned. You’ll learn, too. I know you will. Now be good. Let’s go back to the nest.” 

You shiver when he slowly drags his talon down your body, pricking holes in your clothes. His eyes rake your exposed skin with undisguised hunger. You’re allowed to sit up and urged to climb on his back. You think about running but you know you wouldn’t get far. It would be better to get on his good side to start, you think. The Guardian purrs happily when you sling one of your legs over him, rolling his shoulders to position you properly between his wings. 

“Look at you,” he coos, “already listening to me. We’re going to be so happy, you’ll see.” You have to cling to him when he takes off. Cold air cuts harsh and biting fast your face and you bury your head in the soft, fleecy feathers on the back of his neck. He lets out a happy trill at the contact and begins muttering softly, his voice far more soothing than it deserves to be. “Mother told me to come home if I had any trouble, but I won’t need to. We’ll be happy here, just the two of us. Stillwood is too far away, anyway.”

[koolkat9]

Tailor Made for You

Rating: T

Pairing: EngUkr

Word Count: 2853

Author's Note: I'd like to thank the lovely @fireandiceland for dragging me into this wonderful rarepair!

It was the calm before the storm. Arthur sat just outside the double doors that led to the conference room they would be using for the weekend. He took a large gulp of his coffee. Black and bitter, just what he needed to steel himself for the hell hole he was about to enter.

He was just making his way over to the trash can to throw out his cup when he spotted a very frantic Kateryna. She was rushing towards him, fiddling with her shirt.

“Are you alright Ms. Ukraine?” he asked as she approached.

“Please Arthur…How many times must I tell you Kateryna is just fine.”

“Forgive me. But really, you seem…frazzled.” Kateryna’s grip on her shirt tightened, her gaze falling on it. “I-I…I’m in a bit of a predicament,” she admitted, “My shirt’s top button broke, and well…I look less than professional without it.”

Her grip on her shirt loosened slightly, revealing a bit of her cleavage. Oh. OH. That was what she meant. Arthur, who had been staring for a moment, quickly looked away, blushing furiously. “Ah, I see…W-Well…If you still have the button, I could fix it for you.”

“Oh that would be wonderful, thank you!” She looked around. “Where should we do this?”

“There is a small conference room nearby that’s rarely in use. We can work there.”

Kateryna nodded, letting Arthur lead her.

When they got inside, Arthur locked the door for more privacy.

“Sit there,” he said, gesturing to a nearby chair. He wiggled out of his suit jacket and gave it to her. “I’m going to need you to take your shirt off. Use this to cover up.”

Kateryna’s cheeks flushed a light pink. “O-Oh…Okay. Thank you.”

Arthur turned around, giving her some privacy.

Slowly, Kateryna unbuttoned her shirt, throwing Arthur’s back hesitant looks. He painted himself as a gentleman, so he wouldn’t peek right? She shimmied out of her shirt quickly and picked up Arthur’s jacket. She was much taller than the Brit, and he was a twig, especially compared to her, but at least the jacket would cover her front. It would have to do.

“Done,” she called, handing her shirt and button to Arthur.

“Good. It’ll be just a few minutes.”

Arthur took a seat across from Kateryna and started working, keeping his eyes fixed on the fabric. He looked…kind of cute, so focused on such a small task. Kateryna couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps that gentlemanly demeanour wasn’t just a facade like many thought.

“So…Is this a regular occurrence?” Arthur asked, not looking up from his work.

“Unfortunately yes,” Kateryna sighed, “If it’s not buttons breaking off, the chest area is too tight, or the pant legs aren’t long enough, or the dress doesn’t contain…” She gestured to her chest. “This.”

Arthur nodded along as he sewed.

When he was finished, he lifted the shirt and inspected his work. “There you go,” he said, offering the shirt to her.

“Thank you.”

Arthur turned around once more to allow her to get dressed.

“Hey…” he spoke up after a moment, “I may have a solution to your problem.”

Kateryna looked towards Arthur mid-way through buttoning her shirt. “Really?”

“Let me make you some clothes. Tailor-made to fit you exactly.”

Kateryna froze. That was far too much to ask of him. “Arthur I couldn’t–”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble.” She could tell he was smiling despite his back being turned to her. “I enjoy sewing and knitting in my free time. You’ve just given me a more specific project, which actually helps me.”

“W-Well if it’s not too much trouble…I guess.”

“Then it’s decided,” Arthur cheered. “Can I turn around now?”

Kateryna quickly did the last of her buttons. “Y-Yes. Thank you.”

“We’ll figure out the details after the meeting,” Arthur explained, rising to his feet.

Kateryna nodded and followed him out of the room.

---

Kateryna had arrived early for the meeting. A whole week early to be exact. She was to meet Arthur to get her measurements so he could start his project for her. Guilt still gnawed at her over it. This was such a big thing, and Arthur was doing it free of charge.

She shook her head. Now wasn’t the time for this. She lifted her fist to the door and knocked lightly.

Thumping came from the other side before the door opened to reveal a disheveled-looking Arthur. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair was more messy than usual with a few strands standing on end, and bags were starting to form under his eyes. Upon seeing Kateryna he immediately straightened his posture, hands combing over his shirt in an attempt to flatten it.

“Oh, Kateryna. I’m sorry…I…I didn’t realize the time,” he said with an awkward laugh.

“It’s alright.” She gave him a warm smile.

They stared at each other for a moment, awkwardly, before Arthur finally broke away with a shake of his head. “Come in, come in. We’ll be working in the living room.”

He led her a short way down the hall, to a cozy little seating area with a couch, matching green loveseat, and a worn maroon armchair. On the coffee table sat a couple of notebooks, a measuring tape, and a black kitten playing with the items.

“Aww, who’s this little guy?” Kateryna asked, already crouching down and offering her hand to the little ball of fur.

“Oh, that’s Merlin.”

“Hello, Merlin.”

The kitten looked up at Kateryna with wide green eyes before pressing his head against her hand and rubbing against it.

“He’s very friendly,” Arthur explained, “Can’t say the same for Biscuit though…That’s why he’s upstairs.”

“Aw.”

“Alright dear, time to move so I can get to work,” Arthur said to Merlin, picking him up. He rubbed against Arthur’s cheek, purring loudly. “I know, I know. I love you too. Now go play somewhere else.” He placed Merlin on the floor, and the kitten darted upstairs.

Arthur turned back to Kateryna. “So. Shall we get started?”

Kateryna quickly rose to her feet. “Yes, of course.”

Arthur grabbed his measuring tape off the table and moved one of his notebooks close to the edge for quick access. He started with her neck. “Just let me know if it’s too tight,” He murmured, his nose inches from her skin. It made Kateryna blush slightly.

“I’m good,” she replied, perhaps a little too tightly.

Arthur mumbled the measurement to himself before scratching it into the notebook. He repeated the process for her arms, her height, and the length of her legs. He got slightly flustered when it came time to measure her hips, waist, and chest.

“Forgive me,” Arthur murmured as he wrapped the measuring tape around her middle.

He was so close. She could see his long lashes and his face littered with freckles. There was also a little crooked bone near the bridge of his nose. He smelled of earl grey and the earthy smell that lingered after it rained. All things she had never quite noticed before looking at him this closely.

Kateryna held her breath, praying her heartbeat wasn’t as loud as she heard in her ear. Too nervous, she failed to see that Arthur seemed just as flustered, his face bright red as he measured the last few areas.

He scribbled down the last measurements, not daring to look Kateryna in the eye (at least until his blush subsided). Eventually, he closed the notebook. “Now then,” he said with a sigh, “Shall I make us some tea, and we can discuss what kind of clothes you’d like best.”

“That would be wonderful,” Kateryna beamed, “Thank you.”

“How about we enjoy it in the garden? I could use some fresh air.”

“That would be nice."

Arthur led Kateryna out back to the garden to a set of a table and two chairs. He pulled one out for her to sit.

“Thank you,” Kateryna said, accepting the offer.

“Of course. Now, I’ll be right back with the tea.”

“Okay.”

With Arthur gone, Kateryna took a moment to admire Arthur’s garden. The scent of multiple types of flowers mingled in the air making her feel as though she was in a field of wildflowers. She took a deep breath through her nose in appreciation.

It was magical almost, with flowers growing everywhere you looked. Lavender, roses, daffodils, daisies. Almost every flower she could think of had some place in Arthur’s garden. And it all came together with the towering oak in the center. She wasn’t a tree expert, but from the aura alone it seemed very old.

“There we are,” Arthur cheered, putting a tray of tea and biscuits onto the table. He took a seat across from her, added some milk and sugar, and began sipping at his tea. “Now, what kind of clothes would you be interested in? Style, type, fit?”

“I’m not picky, but it can get chilly, so definitely at least some warm clothes. Whatever is easier.”

“Noted. Hmm…Casual or formal?”

“Both if you can.”

“Okay.” Arthur closed the notebook he had and put it on the table. “That’s settled.”

He leaned back, taking another sip of tea. “Feel free to take a biscuit,” Arthur offered, “I made them myself.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Kateryna timidly took a cookie. Now with the topic of clothes out of the way, she wasn’t quite sure what to say next. She and Arthur weren’t exactly friends, and she didn’t know much about him other than what people said (and those images were often skewed).

“You have a lovely garden,” Kateryna complimented after a moment.

“Why thank you. It’s quite the way to pass the time and keep me busy when there is a lull in work.”

“I enjoy gardening too. Though I specialize in sunflowers.”

“I could never get them quite right. I don’t think there is enough sun for them here.”

She nodded in understanding. “Well, you could always come over to my house and see mine.”

“That would be lovely actually.”

For the rest of the afternoon, the two chatted about gardening, exchanging tips, discussing their favourite flowers, and the like. Arthur had even taught Kateryna a little about Victorian flower language. It was a lovely afternoon, to say the least.

But soon afternoon turned to evening, and Kateryna felt like she had overstayed her welcome. “Well, I’ve had a wonderful time,” she said, rising to her feet, “But I better get going.”

“Why not stay in my guest room?” Arthur proposed.

Her brows furrowed slightly “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I couldn’t have you paying for a hotel. Especially since it’s just me this week. My brothers are off visiting friends.”

She felt her cheeks warm ever so slightly. “Okay then. As long as I’m not imposing.”

Arthur gave her a grin. “You could never.”

She returned it with a soft smile of her own and followed him into the house.

---

Arthur had been working for a week straight on Kateryna’s clothes. It was starting to get concerning. His bags had become even darker, he was rarely seen without his knitting or fabric and thread, and when he did stop for a break, he struggled to keep his eyes open. Kateryna couldn’t bear to see him go on like this.

She ate dinner alone that evening, just as she had been for the last few days. But enough was enough. After finishing her meal and making a plate for Arthur, she stormed into the living room where he had been working since lunch.

She placed the plate on the coffee table and towered over the Brit. “Arthur, you need to stop,” Kateryna scolded.

It took Arthur a moment to register she was there; he was nodding off yet again.

Up close, Kateryna could see all the cuts and pokes he had acquired for her sake. Her frown deepened.

“Just this last piece,” Arthur stated, not tearing his eyes away from the fabric, “Then I’ll take a break.”

“You’ve done more than enough. You can’t possibly think you can get this all done in a week.”

“No…But I want you to go home with at least a few pieces.”

Kateryna sighed. When Arthur was sweet, he was sickly so apparently. “Please, Arthur. You’re worrying me.”

“Ow,” Arthur hissed, dropping his needle and shaking his hand. Kateryna took the chance and snatched whatever he was working on away from him. “Kateryna!”

She ignored his string of protest and pulled him up. As she began to drag him, Arthur finally surrendered and let her pull him. She guided him to the bathroom wrapping his deeper injuries in bandaids.

"Are you hungry?" Kateryna asked as she put the last bandaid on, "Or would you rather go straight to bed."

Arthur rose to his feet, wobbling slightly from exhaustion. "I'll eat or else I'll be up in the middle of the night hungry."

Kateryna nodded, steadying him slightly before following him back to the living room.

Arthur only ate half of the plate Kateryna had prepared before he started nodding off. Kateryna quickly grabbed it before he accidentally dropped it. “Let’s get you to bed,” she suggested softly, pulling Arthur to his feet once more.

Arthur nodded, far more compliant than he had been.

She guided him to his room and laid him on the bed. Once he was comfortable, she pulled the covers over him and ensured he was tucked in snuggly.

When she pulled away, Arthur was staring at her intently. For a moment she worried she had gone too far.

“Thank you,” Arthur murmured, a small smile spreading across his face.

“You’re welcome. Now sleep.”

She headed to the door, stealing one last glance at Arthur before heading back to the living room.

---

Months passed, and Arthur remained hard at work. Not as hard as he had been though--Kateryna made sure he wasn’t exhausting himself over this. But after months, Arthur finally felt he had made enough and headed over to Kateryna’s house to show it all off to her.

“Oh Arthur,” Kateryna gasped when she opened the door, “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“But I did. You deserve clothes that are both comfortable and stylish.”

Kateryna bit back a laugh. “You sound like Francis.”

“Don’t you ever compare me to that frog,” Arthur spat. But there was a playful glint in his eye, showing he was not serious.

Kateryna let out an amused huff, collecting some of the bags and helping him bring all the clothes inside. She led Arthur to her bedroom, that way she could put all the clothes in her closet once she tried each piece on.

“Thank you,” Arthur said, letting out a sigh of relief as he let the bags fall onto Kateryna’s bed.

“You're welcome.”

Well, she might as well start trying some things on. She opened the bag closest to her and pulled out a lovely evening gown. It was a beautiful, off-the-shoulder dress made of dark blue fabric and decorated with the occasional sparkle of silver on the skirt, matching the wispy accents on the top. It would be perfect for the winter event Arthur had casually invited her to during one of their many phone calls.

“Go on, try it,” Arthur encouraged, arms crossed awkwardly with a lopsided grin.

She nodded and headed to her ensuite to get dressed. Once she slipped into the dress, she was amazed at how well it fit her. It hugged her in the right places, and it actually contained her breasts, unlike most dresses. It was a nice colour on her too. She did a little spin, admiring herself in the mirror.

Minutes later, she stepped out of the washroom. Arthur’s eyes immediately fell on her, jaw literally dropping.

Kateryna blushed slightly, becoming self-conscious under Arthur’s unreadable gaze. “D-Does it look alright?” She stuttered, hands gripping her skirt.

“You look…” Arthur swallowed hard. “You look breathtaking.”

Kateryna’s breath hitched. “Really?”

“Really.”

His eyes were so soft. Kateryna never thought such a short-tempered, jaded man could ever have so much tenderness in his eyes as Arthur did at that moment. He approached her, almost shyly.

“May I try something?” Arthur whispered.

“I guess.”

He reached up, knuckles brushing against her heated cheek before he gently guided her down to meet his lips.

Kateryna let out a surprised noise, having not expected such an action. But eventually, she calmed herself and eagerly kissed back, arms coming to wrap around Arthur’s neck. It was slow, chaste, yet oh so intoxicating.

When they finally pulled away, for a moment, they just stared at each other, smiling, a matching dazed look in their eyes. Kateryna rested her forehead against Arthur’s, her arms remaining loosely wrapped around him.

But slowly, Arthur came down from the high, and his actions caught up to him. He scrambled away, face beet red. “Sorry I…H-How about you just try something else on.”

Kateryna smirked and inched closer. “Okay,” she giggled. But before returning to the bathroom with another outfit, she quickly stole a cheek kiss. She dashed into the bathroom with one of the bags, leaving behind a sputtering Arthur.

[fettesans]

Top, screen capture from BROS BEFORE, directed by Henry Hanson, 2023. Via. Bottom, Julia Scher, Mama Bed, 2003, Bedstead, steel, wood, foam, plastic, 2 monitors, 2 surveillance cameras, VHS player, VHS tapes, cables, bed sheets, books, leather whip, Dimensions variable. Via.

--

A sweating body already offers a show of erotic repulsion and attraction. The body’s primordial temptation to cover itself with its secretions. A mere trickle of water flowing over a smooth stone is enough to make it erotic. Everything that slides evokes sexual pleasure, even the wind. Sliding would thus seem to be the source of all pleasure, and perhaps of meaning.

Jean Baudrillard, from Cool Memories, 1987. Via.

--

Stirred not only by men but by women, fat and thin, naked and clothed; by teenagers and children in latency; by animals such as horses and dogs; by certain vegetables such as carrots, zucchinis, eggplants, and cucumbers; by fruits such as melons, grapefruits, and kiwis; by certain plant parts such as petals, sepals, stamens, and pistils; by the bare arm of a wooden chair, a round vase holding flowers, a little hot sunlight, a plate of pudding, a person entering a tunnel in the distance, a puddle of water, a hand alighting on a smooth stone, a hand alighting on a bare shoulder, a naked tree limb; by anything curved, bare, and shining, as the limb or bole of a tree; by any touch, as the touch of a stranger handling money; by anything round and freely hanging, as tassels on a curtain, as chestnut burrs on a twig in spring, as a wet tea bag on its string; by anything glowing, as a hot coal; anything soft or slow, as a cat rising from a chair; anything smooth and dry, as a stone, or warm and glistening; anything sliding, anything sliding back and forth; anything sliding in and out with an oiled surface, as certain machine parts, anything of a certain shape, like the state of Florida; anything pounding, anything stroking; anything bolt upright, anything horizontal and gaping, as a certain sea anemone; anything warm, anything wet, anything wet and red, anything turning red, as the sun at evening; anything wet and pink, anything long and straight with a blunt end, as a pestle; anything coming out of anything else, as a snail from its shell, as a snail’s horns from its head; anything opening; any stream of water running, any stream running, any stream spurting, any stream spouting; any cry, any soft cry, any grunt; anything going into anything else, as a hand searching in a purse; anything clutching, anything grasping; anything rising, anything tightening or filling, as a sail; anything dripping, anything hardening, anything softening.

Lydia Davis, In This Condition, from from Almost No Memory, 2001.

[sincerely-sofie]

can't wait for that epic part in TPiaG where ark says to twig "Don't you get it, Twig? Your Present is a Gift..." and then the fic blows everyone's mind from how good that line was

Twig is gonna come at Ark with a steel chair for stealing her moment. That's HER line, loser, SHE'S the epilogue's narrator, STAY IN YOUR LANE

... Also is it. Like. Exclusively a legendary pokemon thing to make your words sound like colors, or could he teach her how to do that. Because that's. That's really cool. She wants to learn to do the colored word thing. She wants to know how to do that.

[abellinthecupboard]

Sunflower Sutra

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and 　　　sat down under the huge shade of a Southern 　　　Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the 　　　box house hills and cry. Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron 　　　pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts 　　　of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, sur- 　　　rounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of 　　　machinery. The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun 　　　sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that 　　　stream, no hermit in those mounts, just our- 　　　selves rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums 　　　on the riverbank, tired and wily. Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray 　　　shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting 　　　dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust— —I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, 　　　memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes 　　　Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black 　　　treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the 　　　poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel 　　　knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck 　　　and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the 　　　past— and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, 　　　crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog 　　　and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye— corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like 　　　a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, 　　　soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sun- 　　　rays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried 　　　wire spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures 　　　from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster 　　　fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear, Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O 　　　my soul, I loved you then! The grime was no man's grime but death and human 　　　locomotives, all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad 　　　skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black 　　　mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuber- 　　　ance of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial— 　　　modern—all that civilization spotting your 　　　crazy golden crown— and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless 　　　eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the 　　　home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar 　　　bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards 　　　of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely 　　　tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what 　　　more could I name, the smoked ashes of some 　　　cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the 　　　milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs 　　　& sphincters of dynamos—all these entangled in your mummied roots—and you there 　　　standing before me in the sunset, all your glory 　　　in your form! A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent 　　　lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye 　　　to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited 　　　grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden 　　　monthly breeze! How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your 　　　grime, while you cursed the heavens of the rail- 　　　road and your flower soul? Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a 　　　flower? when did you look at your skin and 　　　decide you were an impotent dirty old locomo- 　　　tive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and 　　　shade of a once powerful mad American locomo- 　　　tive? You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a 　　　sunflower! And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me 　　　not! So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck 　　　it at my side like a scepter, and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul 　　　too, and anyone who'll listen, —We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread 　　　bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all 　　　beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're bles- 　　　sed by our own seed & golden hairy naked ac- 　　　complishment-bodies growing into mad black 　　　formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our 　　　eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive 　　　riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sit- 　　　down vision.

— Allen Ginsberg, Howl and Other Poems (1956)

[lastconcourse]

Blunder Plus, MegaWinter

Anabolic stage scene

Regiondirect→ center stage:

The scene is a living room at 2:00 on Christmas morning. The set is a middle class living room with new cream carpet and clean white furnishings. Regionreaders see a standing height view of a decorated tree on the left, under it, some presents in boxes, some on a table, and some on the large couch. Decorative looking columns separate the living room from a kitchen at left (stage right). A blizzard is making motion and sound in the trees outside. The camer’eye drops vertically until the view is on the floor, the entire room now feels like a canyon with small sized objects like sockets and chair legs dwarfing the regionreader’s perspective.

Now the room is unusually dark. The color fades back and forth from black and white to full color. Reflections of Christmas lights on the gloss surface of hung ornaments look like distant radio towers flashing. Green + blue glow is bouncing to a haze on the window over quick snowfall and increased wind outside.

(Rectangular present boxes, white carpet, sectional couch, brown end table, fireplace mantle clock, Christmas tree, ornaments with names, a snowmask sunrise, a window into a backyard with birdfeeders and snowy branches + perched cardinals, a cellphone charger plugged in, many baubles, a glass light dome on the ceiling, a vacuum cleaner parked in the corner, a reading lamp by a lounge chair)

Snowy tree branches violently blown by the wind slam into the window,

A fast burst of downfalling snow with glass,

Onto rainwet carpet, ten twigs now drop,

Three round green baubles tumble off branch-steps,

and enter the glasswater clump. Quick→smash glop.

shatterbreak tone.

A whole branch from outside enters the second window, breaks in two, and an asteroid made of doorhinges enters from stage right on a wide orbit and crashes into the middle of the room. Thousand hinges spill. The two tree branch pieces break into four, and two silver hinges crawl up like bugs and join them as knees: this makes the branches into the legs.

Blizzard wind throttles the living room. Where are the homeowners? One of the giftboxes is crushed by a grandfather clock, cardboard and wrapping paper blow around, ripping up, floating, now damp and mixed with dust of clockglass. Paper scraps and torn ribbon strands coalesce under wind force in the corner and are glued together when a huge pair of hands squeezes a glue bottle into the mess from above the stage. A 4wd bulldozer made out of a leather suitcase and a dustpan pushes the paperboard slurry inside a steel basin. Now the basin drains down an open duct from stage left to stage right and fills up a double-sided mould where the paperglassglue slurry dries in the shape of two arms; and this makes the arms.

and the arms are raised out of the mould and are lifted into the air by a gantry in the night sky while the Christmas tree tips over and explodes→ out→orange flame. Same time, a long tubular birdfeeder is blown through the window and starts rolling around on its side like a rolling pin: Tossing around windust.

The back wall collapses→and the backdrop is now a moving projection of a hospital corridor with square telemetry terminals and a tall IV drip pole.

A stack of nineteen giftcards tied up and laid down sideways grows flanged wheels and drives from stage right on a railroad to stage left like a boxcar. All of the cards are addressed to one person but their name is misspelled a different way on each one. It crashes into an open mailbox which closes its door, raises its flag, and shrinks into darkness.

Mantle clock from the brick hearthjamb meets tire mud

Hands against its face brusquely bent and halted

Bulldozer pushes the mud-cloaked brass left.

Phone charger cable spunsweept: coil-whip; flies→

airborne→ a white corkscrew, serpent-tornado

Stage middle,

tall white tail+ small green tree pins sucked, spun.

White soft rug scraped off the floor by the rampage

of a jealous vacuum cleaner turned hate-fiend.

The white soft rug retreats in waves like slime mold

while marble + bricks from the hearth fall on it.

A silver shower basket rolls into the middle of the stage on four thick-tired wheels.

A helicopter with a robotic hand wearing a blue surgical glove flies up to the ceiling light and reaches for the dome→

The ceiling light dome is unscrewed, taken down, and epoxied to the silver shower basket to create a skull, this is the skull.

A volleyball falls from the ceiling and is popped by a gliderdart. The limp corpse of the volleyball is stitched to the domebasket to cover it up as skin and scalp.

The vacuum cleaner drives around on its own at stage left and is picked up by a gantry. Big robotic hands wearing blue gloves wield surgical instruments and a rusty toolbox and now move in from right and left. The vacuum gets doorknob joints implanted on four points to create a torso, this is the torso.

Branches from the tree that fell through the wall roll and snap on the ground like alligators, and are then carved into legs by mobile sculptorsaws: These are the wooden legs.

A bunch of shards of glass from the broken ornaments and window are crushed, melted, blown and pulled long to reshape them into two arms, these are the arms.

The two arms are duplicated. One pair of arms is attached to the body of the grandfather clock, with one arm emerging from where the face was and the other from the pendulum chasm. The other two arms are jointed to the top of the ornamental end table. Each arm gets a doorknob for a shoulder joint. These parts together make a tall humanoid and a short one. These armbeings walk to the center of the stage (now an arena) and precede to box each other, armwrestle, and then finally fence with foils.

The Christmas tree is now burned and snowed over, snow melting under flames reigniting then going out→ in sync with a flame elsewhere lit under the burning plastic branches to bloom.

This whole horizontal mess looks like a flashing matrix of LED lights going red, then down to orange, then almost dead dim, then orange and red again. It’s angry fire though. Eventually the most of the tree is burned, wet, soot. Three small tornadoes of soot spin at the border.

Sparse green in slopslurry char-ash: Burnt stand→ Within burned, wet soot:

Melted cable

White, awful wire: Shock from spark to socket

Went left to right and burned the drywall

And a tall gardening cart slides from stage left to right←on a monorail track, then reaches out a reticulated lamp post limb which ends with a dustpan, and now starts scooping the plastitreesoot. Now a sapient bottle of soap goes stage right to left→ and dumps a stream of soap that pours long and forms out to the shape of a human hand. The soaphand starts attempting to clean the ashes and melted plastic off the carpet, but the burnt goop is too fused with the cream grid of fibers for any success.

The hospital scene backdrop shows a sobbing nurse.

Regiondirect→ In kitchen stage left

Napkins launch into the air as fabric rocket planes and land gently as migrating butterflies. The butterflies eat minerals off of metal pieces of ornaments and shiny glass. Napkin rings fall from thirty feet in the air and clack on the exposed concrete where the carpet has retreated in fear.

The sets of arms now throw down their foils and beat each other to death

The storm cloud is a heavy tarp with thousands of pores, suspended on a horizontal zigzag lattice boom, coruscating center to edge through colors of black purple and gray:

Like winterain bioluminescence

along this airborne trespasser who makes everything wet.

The wind is a network of hateful drum fans suspended on flat helium balloons, puffeting angrily at the old pictures on the walls in the attacked house: Wind, stormcloud’s sidekick.

Regiondirect:

On the stage right walls→

Family portraits in frames are blown down and fall into intelligent blenders hidden under the carpet around the floor at stage left. The blenders grind up the pictures.

Next to ramps underneath the blender blades, trapdoors open upwards. Long linkages located outside the blenders then pull back the blade+blademotors, sideways, and out of the tank; and the contents of blended portrait scraps fall down the ramps, and into a running waterfall + creek that then ends on a conveyor. Now this wet slurry of destroyed image is carried up→the elevator to a hanging lattice structure on the ceiling at stage middle where the wet mess is funneled down a traffic cone into a pair of moulds hung above candleheaters where the heat dries it, and turns it into arms, legs, and a head: Body out of the drying filth.

The sectional couch bends on a joint in the middle, the sectional couch bends in half like a giant pair of calipers, and it has six thick tractor wheels, the offroad sectionalcouch drives to stage left from the right side of the collapsing living room, where it gets rained on with wall dust and ash and hail, to the center where it grasps the remaining Christmas presents+burnt tree and bites into→the boxes with twelve spears made out of firepokers that emerge from under the cushions.

Two gloved mechanical hands and a gantry pick up the Sixwheeler couch, remove two wheels→ saving four as shoulder and leg joints, cover it in plaster + electrical tape, and set this up vertically as a torso. Leftover brass from the smashed clocks is now melted in with iron from the Christmas tree base and now mixed with glass from everywhere and poured into a head-shaped mould→ This makes a skull.

head of moltengloss-brass staked→on plastered cushion shoulders+chest

A cardiogram is heard flatlining mixed with an ambulance siren mixed with a low note from a pipe organ mixed with the song of a mourning dove.

Regiondirect:

The ceiling and rear walls implode and bury the set, then the stage floor opens up and the calamity is sucked down through water→ the whole stage is built on top of a garbage disposal and sink.

A curtain (like the ones in hospital rooms) falls.

[locomotive-sunflower]

Sunflower Sutra

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.

The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.

Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust—

—I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem

and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past—

and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye—

corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,

leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,

Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!

The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives,

all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown—

and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos—all these

entangled in your mummied roots—and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form!

A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!

How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul?

Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!   

And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,

and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen,

—We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.

Alan Ginsburg, Berkeley, 1955