#like sand through the hourglass so are the days of our lives

[unhealthyfanobsession]

When They Write of the Gods (What Will They Say About Us?) Part 2

Happy @nessianweek day 6! Legends and Destiny.

Teaser

"The stories," Nesta repeated. "There are so many grand kingdoms that have risen and fallen like grains of sand in the hourglass of time. Drawn out histories and circularly weaving mathematical or scientific principles are of such little interest to the Eternal Library and its keepers. Every universe has their own version of those things. I want to see the truly valuable knowledge of this world. Stories. Myths and legends that have grown and morphed and taken over imaginations. Tell me of your heroes, your monsters. What stories lull your children to sleep in this land and keep their parents up too late? What tales keep you awake long into the evening, Helion of Day? Eyes burning and muscles calling for sleep, what is it that has you turning the pages still - desperately grasping for the happy or tragic ending you know is promised."

"Love stories," Helion whispered. "You speak of love stories."

"Not only that-"

"What else is there?" Cassian broke in. Drawing so near to Nesta that it took four centuries of training to stop him from circling a hand around her waist. "You want to know what keeps us up at night? What wakes us in the morning? You want to see why we fight in all these wars and foolishly stumble our way through these millenia long lives. That is the only answer there is, right? Love." She said nothing, but her chin had tilted upward, the barest acknowledgement. 

[magickastiel]

it's the 5th tomorrow

[kazumiku]

Of Pride and Prejudice

p.logue ↬ the grand escape ( 1,147 words )

"i can't leave. not right now, not like this, please—"

begged a desperate tone, a voice that rumbles from your throat. its choked, you're hanging on by a string, snapped by a slap that resonates through the large hall of your home. it was silence for a while, where three figures stood unmoving, the thick tension wrapping around your necks as the clock stopped, if only for a moment.

then it broke. "that is enough," your mother was sick of negotiating, her hand raised after striking your head the other way. the sting settled into your cheek, wallowing you in your own hopelessness as a masculine voice speaks up. "we understand where your worry stems, albeit this is not the suitable time for arguing." he reasons.

it was true. the sand in your hourglass was diminishing rapidly, and with the people raging at the front of your gates, it was only a matter of the clock striking two before they barge in like animals on a raid hunt. there was a bounty over your family, mysteriously so, and your parents will have to keep whatever left is little to save. and that includes you and your siblings.

it was an endless discussion, day and night, an ongoing debate that draws to a stop today. today is the day you and your siblings have to flee, after all, for your own safety if not theirs. your parents lived a long life, they only wish for their children to thrive one way someway, somehow, once the heat dies down. "we promise to look for you once its all settled, honey. you must understand where we're coming from. we worry for the three of you the most."

your mother's words were enough to pry tears at the corners of your lids. leaving them behind was the last thing you wished, and they knew that well. but they love you much too dearly to let the empire tumble down on your shoulders instead. this problem is not yours to shoulder but theirs, and they'll solve it on their own as the current rulers of the state.

if they fail to protect the kingdom, then so be it. their priorities were straight, and there would be no use in trying to prod at their resolve in your favor now. if you were easily settled on a stone-hard conclusion when your heart sets for it, you can only imagine how far more your parents are in that matter.

"everything is packed. aether and lumine are already settled within the carriage. you shall head through the back on your way out." they inform you, your father reaching out to grasp your shoulder. it shattered your heart to teensy shards by how gentle his contact is on your arm, holding you like fragile glass. and you were, at this moment, under their contemplative gazes. "if this does not work out for us, then you shall make this our last command, as the eldest and the inheritor of my crown; look out for each other. stay out of trouble's way. and, especially stay out of the public eye." commanded in your father's deep voice, full of mourn.

"don't worry, for you are not alone. we have assigned you a guard. he'll write us a letter if you ever so wish, but, for now, let's focus on you and your siblings' safety, will that be understood?" your mother explained. and as much as you wish to shake your head in defiance, you bobbed your chin meekly, a wallowing sniffle resonating at the back of your throat as you ducked your head. "in six moon cycles, if we don't reach by that, then you must forgive us. please live your life."

the floor reflected your doubt clearly, but you're not left with any more choices when you're ushered out the hall hurriedly. you couldn't even hug your parents goodbye, nor give them at least the littlest of waves of farewell when you're pushed into the back by a panicking maid. during the conversation with your parents, you hadn't realized the booming voice that comes from the opposite exit from where you are, the outside of your front gates flooding with protest and people overflowing with rage.

"stay safe," the helper whispered before you could look back, the door slammed in front of your face, leaving you out in the back of the garden. the wind was dormant as you walked through the unmoving grass, the evening was quiet save for the screams of profanities stemming from the front, which were eventually muddled by the distance as you stray further into the grassy pathway, on your way to an obscured exit behind the foliage.

you push the hidden door open and the sight of an outdated carriage meets you. it looks worn, but not too shabby, two horses at the forepart ushered down by the coachman as it noises at your appearance. your arm is suddenly grasped in a firm grip, and your left to almost stumble on your ankles when another palm landed on the small of your back too. "careful. you almost stepped on a puddle, majesty," ah. you recognized that voice. the captain of the royal guards. "your parents assigned me. don't fret."

"ah, no, i was just a little startled. apologies," you breathed, and he nods in acceptance of your excuse, assisting you up into the carriage. aether was already asleep on lumine's shoulder as you settled inside from the opposite side. the assigned guard situates out beside the coachman, and with a flick of the leather halter, the horses pump their hooves on the ground.

the sound of rocks under the running wheels filled your ears as the long road goes, and your heart settles emptily in your chest. your body feels null, naturally. a moment of reprieve, you tried, but there was nothing to be relieved of when you're flooded with worry. lumine from across you could tell as she called for your name quietly. "hey, don't worry. it'll be alright, okay?" her mellow tune lifted your spirits as she outstretched her hand. "come here, let's cuddle. you can fall asleep on my other shoulder too if you feel like it, i'm just going to watch a stream my phone.

"this carriage is so slow, i hope nobody catches us lacking like this. god, the things i'd do to ride on the rb19 instead," she jokes as you take her hands and move seats. "it's too bad you can't sponsor this season," lumine couldn't help but sigh dejectedly, and your thumb strokes her knuckles in comfort. "i'm sorry, i feel bad. i couldn't change their minds. i really, really tried."

"no, no, it's fine. don't say sorry, you didn't do anything wrong. they're only doing this for our safety, and that's what you should think of."

that's right. there's no need to worry.

taglist; @zoropookie @sketcheeee @skyoverkill1 @liuaneee @aruatsu

@luvvxsn @kinvasions @trulyylee @scarawiki @eutopiastar

@yunyunjajangman @auroratumbles @heusalettle @crimxeorcremeexistspeacefully @candyescapism

@justpeachyteastea

m.list ; 01 → tweaking bad

a/n; yippee i finally got this shit out (im so sorry if its disappointing i gave up after losing my drafts twice cry)

[iluvsturn]

my dearest y/n-c.s

warning:sad

a/n:i cried writing that..

"my dearest y/n,

As I sit here, engulfed in the waves of grief that crash relentlessly against the shores of my soul, I am compelled to pour out my heart to you, my beloved. The mere thought of you fills my being with an ache so profound, it seems to stretch across the vast expanse of eternity itself. How can mere words encapsulate the depth of my love for you, or the magnitude of the loss I feel in your absence?

From the moment our paths intertwined, my life was forever changed by the brilliance of your presence. You were a force of nature, a whirlwind of laughter, love, and boundless energy that swept me off my feet and carried me to heights I had never dared to dream of. Your laughter was like music to my ears, a symphony of joy that reverberated through the chambers of my heart, filling me with an inexplicable warmth and happiness.

In your arms, I found sanctuary, a safe haven where I could lay down my burdens and be truly and wholly myself. You accepted me, flaws and all, with a grace and kindness that knew no bounds, and in your eyes, I saw reflected the love and acceptance I had been searching for all my life. You were my rock, my anchor, my guiding light in a world fraught with uncertainty and darkness.

And then, as if by some cruel twist of fate, cancer reared its ugly head, threatening to tear us apart and shatter the fragile bonds we had forged with such care and tenderness. But you, my brave warrior, refused to be defeated, facing each day with a courage and resilience that left me in awe. You fought with every fiber of your being, clinging to life with a tenacity and determination that defied all logic and reason.

Together, we embarked on a journey fraught with pain, fear, and uncertainty, navigating the treacherous waters of illness with a steadfast determination to emerge victorious on the other side. We laughed in the face of adversity, finding solace in the simple pleasures of everyday life and drawing strength from the unbreakable bond that held us together.

But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, it became increasingly clear that our time together was slipping away, slipping through our fingers like grains of sand in an hourglass. And though I clung to hope with all my might, praying for a miracle that would defy the odds and grant us more time together, deep down, I knew that our days were numbered, that the inevitable was drawing near.

And so, my love, as I sit here, penning these words through tear-stained eyes, I am overwhelmed by a profound sense of gratitude for the time we shared, for the love we nurtured, and for the memories we created together. You were my everything, my reason for being, and though you may no longer walk beside me, your spirit lives on in every beat of my heart, in every breath I take.

Until we meet again, my love, know that you will always hold the most sacred place in my heart. You were my soulmate, my confidante, my partner-in-crime, and I will carry the memory of our love with me for all eternity.

With all my love and devotion,

Chris."

chris closes the letter, tears streaming down his cheeks in front of the grave of his beloved. God how he’d like to hold her in his arms, to be able to tell her how much he loves her, to be able to kiss her one last time times before leaving.

matt and nick are behind their brother.Crying too, y/n had become like the little sister they never had. By dint of coming every day they decide that she could move in with them. Chris and y/n got even closer and the same with matt and nick. A group of inseparable friends, a couple they thought were indestructible, but even if she can't be with them, they don't know that y/n look at them, her too crying from paradise, wishing them all the happiness in the world.

-🩷

[leoprincess777]

DHANISHTA NAKSHATRA

23º 20’ Capricorn – 6º 40’ Aquarius “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.” The Dolphin: Alpha Delphini, Beta Delphini, Delta Delphini, Gamma Delphini Ruled by Mars Star of Symphony. Power to give abundance and fame. Symbols: empty drum, an hourglass, bells and bulbs.

Dhanishta is like a death of the inner child. Its essentially inert like sand, of coal or oil. Even the system is a dead thing unless the people actual show up to support it. The death of the spirit begins in Dhanishta and is completed in Purvabhadrapada. The machine  is just a dead thing. There is a suffering here as one is constantly striving to stay ahead of the curve.

Struggles of being controlled by other people, feelings of emptiness and superficiality. They devote themselves to a purpose or a person to deal with emptiness.

As it is within Dhanishta's power to give fame, they enjoy popularity and are often local celebrities. If well placed, they have a good reputation and are loved by people. They tend to mask their inner struggles with a bubbly persona, become an entertainer for other people, play the jester (performative) and seek out external stimuli as a way to fill the emptiness.

Major karma with marriage. Ashlesha is direct across so they often get into manipulative relationships do things they don’t want to do. They display big devotion towards their spouse and are service orianted, however they can get manipulative and use marriage as a means to an end. Often as a result, they are prone to getting controlled by their spouse. They enjoy material comforts.

Planets here are more likely to have feminine characteristics. It may also be seen that women with this placement have a somewhat easier time with the energies of this nakshatra.

Rakshasa: Belonging to the clan of the demons. Less practical, more hedonistic, often many ups and downs in life as the guru of the demons has the power to raise from the dead. Rebirth, transformation, redemption are all part of the system. Cyclical sense of time; mystical sense of reality. Marriage matching with another Rakshasa is best.

Dhanishta's stars form the diamond shaped Delphini constellation. Dolphin’s are unique creatures thought to be even more intelligent than human’s, and with that intelligence comes a childlike nature, playfulness, understanding, and selfless nature. They have a unique way using sonar & echolocation for communication, navigation and understanding the world around them. They are friendly, curious, peaceful, carefree creatures who live in harmony with humans as well as most other creatures of the sea. But they are also fearless in the face of predators and will sacrifice themselves to protect the pod rather than show any fear.

The Vasus such as Agni (fire), Vayu (wind), etc helps lord Indra in his fight with the demons and hence this nakshatra can also indicate some type of fight, competition, and competitiveness in a person’s life. Dhanishtha is also linked with land, real estate and may attain multiple properties. Suitable for real estate business.

Dhanishtas should keep musical insturments in their house as a remedial act and practice performance arts, music, communication and diplomacy.

"Most scientists and historians are born in Dhanishta. Since there is an inherent talent of keeping secrets, you are quite suitable for secret service, private secretaries to senior executives. Whatever may be your academic background, your intelligence is beyond question. In argument you are much ahead of others. Lawyers profession is excellent for you. From the 24th year onward will show progress in the earning field. Any improvement in the financial field will be only after marriage."

Shil-Ponde Female with Dhanishta Ascendant: “This is a talkative and interesting person, particularly successful in lecturing and debating. She is capable of writing mystic novels and is good at story telling. She will be happy in domestic life. She loves nice dresses, especially blue, pink, and purple, and likes curios and antiques.”

pada 2 (virgo): They can do very well in public service, administration, communications, or managing public affairs. They can be very good at the rhetorical, persuasive side or languages, marketing, and communications.

[lenaboskow]

Dear Diary,

The Queen of Bummy has deleted her account from twitter. It is a….

joyful occasion to say the least.

The vibes of her departure from the site remind me of the vibes at the end of Return of the Jedi, when the people celebrated the defeat of the evil Emperor.

Will it last? Will she come back? Is it all an elaborate scheme by the super secret buddie spy network ?

All good questions but alas the answers remain…..Unclear to all.

Her minions remain however, no doubt temporary discouraged by the fall of their leader, they will regroup eventually, and strike back in full in due time.

Caution is the key in these joyous times. For the last of Bree, seen not we have I fear.

But take heart buddie warriors, for now we may ship Buddie a little safer on the app formally known of birds.

Just as like sands through the hourglass on the soap opera Bree and company no doubt watch,

So too are the days of our buddie lives.

Xoxo- a Buddie fan in hiding.

dear diary,

she also deleted her tumblr (or blocked me, that's yet to be seen)

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Twenty-two

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: violence

— WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

It was a trying day for Tom, but things were about to look up. Like a whirlwind breaking the clouds apart, he would force the sun to shine over his efforts at long last.

“Riddle!”

“Yes, Mr. Oso?”

“Get your scrawny carcass in here.”

“That’s rich coming from you…”

“What was that, maggot?!”

“I said I’ll be right with you!”

Tom put aside the text he was reviewing and picked up his jacket from the back of his seat. He checked its pockets then put it on in a leisurely smooth motion. He found Ambrogio in the larger side office diagonal to the one they usually shared. The desk held a pyramid of books. Oso was preparing for the coming auction and seemed livelier than ever in the worst possible way. Maybe it was because they were going to sell several tomes of genuine magic, like the coveted book of Torchia, or maybe it was all due to Donatien’s blood…

“What were you working on?” the vampire asked, just barely turning his skull-white head toward him.

“Colonna’s Nine Gates, the 1666 edition.”

“Drop it. Focus on the Nicolas Remy we brought in yesterday. We’ll present Colonna next time.”

“I’m sure I don’t have anything by Remy, sir.”

“Check in the back.”

“I just did this morning,” Tom sighed, checking his watch. It was two in the afternoon.

Oso turned his liquid eyes toward him, two shards of ice swimming in blood shadowed by a bushy frown.

“Then check again, you sac of festering bile!” he bellowed, then he picked up an hourglass from atop a pile of books and with preternatural speed chucked it toward him.

Tom ducked at the last second, a cloud of sand billowing behind him.

“You think you’re paid to talk back to me all day? I’ll rip your spine out through your insolent mouth!”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I haven’t the time,” said Tom. “And I daresay neither do you.”

At this Oso put his Mont Blanc down and stood, his swivel chair screeching painfully. He levelled a bloodshot look at his recalcitrant assistant, head tilted down as if he were staring over the rim of invisible glasses. He must have thought it was intimidating but unfortunately for him, Tom had braved more scathing scowls from far more fearsome wizards. The vampire assessed in his dark mind how likely the Baron was to sack Tom if he just asked — or how likely he was to get away with it if he bit him. Tom meanwhile stood there without a care, hands shoved in his pockets as he leaned back against the doorframe.

“Out.”

“Yes, Mr. Oso.”

“I will come to sort out whatever mess your incompetence has wrought that you can no longer find out of the most important books in our collection.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Not one more word out of you.”

Tom smiled and bowed and left, closing the door behind him with a parting, “See you soon.”

II

Tom waited with an air of absolute calm. The wall opposite the door to his small office was cleared of all those pesky maps and pictures and he’d tucked his chair underneath the desk to clear a path across the room. He checked the time again: two thirty. Steps sounded down the corridor, just in time. They were clipped and hollow as befitted the walk of the dead. The door opened and as it did Tom turned around with his hand behind his back, his wand held tightly in it.

“Now, Riddle,” the vampire drawled in a tired old tone. “Let’s see the mess you’ve made of my books.”

“Oh, I’ll give you a mess.”

Oso’s grimace was so dry one could almost see his fangs. “What was that, whelp?”

“You should thank me. I’m about to show you something you haven’t seen in a long time, you putrid parasite.”

Tom turned on his heels and waved his hand with a flourish, wand extended from his grasp like a natural part of his body. From it, a clear geometric figure floated in a blink to the wall before him, just above his head. Oso didn’t have time to react if he even understood what he was seeing. He was still processing the information that Tom was a wizard too. The shape on the wall gained depth, expanding inward, and grew into a tunnel. Its edges softened into a frame of wood and out of its depths a bright light came that was both foreign and familiar. And then Ambrogio felt it. As Tom’s incantation finished he turned around and his thin smile portended nothing good. The vampire’s limbs began to issue smoke and when the young wizard stepped lightly to the side the searing took over his whole body. Tom’s shadow had merely been shielding him from his most ardent dream and nightmare — the full light of the sun.

Ambrogio screamed. It was a gurgling, animal sound, pulled out of his throat before he even realised. Distantly he was aware of it echoing through the empty corridors for nobody to hear, of his wand clanging to the floor beside him in his clumsy attempt to extract it, of his clothes starting to sag as his body turned to ash. He saw and couldn’t see all of a sudden. His eyes closed in pain but then the lids burnt off, forcing him to keep seeing that murderous, merciless light. He fell to his knees and his bones cracked beneath him, tendons vaporizing and turning into smoke, and his arms barely had the strength to stay aloft before his face in a last attempt to shield him. Before his eyes burnt away too he saw Tom’s smiling face approaching. His body by now was so hot it set his clothes on fire.

Tom stayed at a safe enough distance to gloat.

“Do you see?” he asked, bending slightly at the hip to look at the vampire more closely. The shadow of his smiling face kept the sun at bay a moment longer. “Do you see everything now, Ambrogio?”

The fiend wanted to curse him but only a gurgling of blood and ash spilt from his withering mouth. His hand wandered, flapping on the floor like a dead fish, the skin all but fallen off exposing his naked bones in search of his lost wand. Tom turned his eyes to where Oso was reaching. He spotted it a little to the right and swiftly kicked it further.

“Lasciate ogne speranza,” said Tom with a chuckle. He straightened his back as he stood before Oso, feeling taller than ever. “For someone who’s been dead for so long, I would’ve thought you’d made peace with the thought of it already. But I suppose a creature such as you — that is, a meddling prig — aspires to live forever. But you’ve failed at life, Oso, and now you’ve failed at death. Only the eternal void awaits you.”

Ambrogio’s poisonous eyes stabbed upward at Tom. He wanted to spit blood upon his shoes but managed only to dribble. The wizard stepped backwards and took his shadow with him, leaving the vampire to burn in the full light of day.

“Fallax,” Ambrogio’s crumbling lips managed to hiss, “spurcus!”

Tom walked back until he could rest against the desk, his lips curled in disgust at the scent of burning carcass. He resented Oso’s parting accusation although he could not deny it. But there was nothing left for him to say that the vampire would understand, or even hear. The sun shone brightly on his bones and it didn’t take a minute for his head to fall off his scrawny neck onto his lap. The skull took a bit longer to crumble but the soggy brain underneath went quickly. Tom covered his nose with his sleeve. The window he had transfigured through the stone to reach the surface acted more like a tunnel, a ventilation shaft that made the papers shuffle on his desk and carried the stench of death around. He turned and waved his wand once more. The window shrunk down to a point and disappeared as if it was never there at all.

He was quite pleased that his calculations were correct and he had measured the angle and position for the opening correctly, plus the optimal hour of the day to do so. Spending all those late-night hours with old maps and sketches finally bore fruit… But there was no time for self-congratulations. He waved his wand to cast away the smell of burning flesh and bent to pick up Oso’s wand — dragon heartstring, hah! He placed it in the top left drawer, meaning to keep it as a little souvenir. Then he sat down, plopped his feet up on the desk, and picked the phone up.

III

The shop had been quiet all day with nobody coming in after Sister Silvia’s visit in the morning.

“I baked you some of Hilda’s cookies, mia cara,” the old woman said as she placed a covered plate upon the desk. Beside it, she tucked in a stout bottle of pink glass and whispered, “Some violet wine too.”

Sister Silvia came in to check many works but her favourites were Hildegard von Bingen’s medicinal works, which often included recipes meant to balance the four humours. She was particularly fond of the cinnamon cookies and spiced wine that chased away melancholy.

“Oh my, you know you don’t have to bother!”

“Shush. It is the only way I can repay you. Take them, enjoy. You’ve been so sad lately.”

She’d briefly seen Tom when he came in and while he looked to be in a good mood his mind was clearly elsewhere. She didn’t want to seem needy and ask to spend more time with him, but if she was honest with herself she missed him… They had, in a sort of quiet truce, put that uncomfortable argument behind them. Neither she nor Tom had brought it up again but it left her feeling conscious of her fear. The fear of losing him. And although her day had been peaceful and no sounds came from downstairs, and the weather outside was cloudless with a bright cold sun above, there was a different sort of calm she yearned for, one still unmatched by anything — the kind she felt whenever she was with Tom.

He hadn’t left for England yet but when he wasn’t there she felt as if he was already gone and instantly became aware of how empty her life was. Between work, weekend calls with mother, and the occasional lunch with her colleagues, what did she really have? Her mornings were spent getting ready for work, her evenings unwinding from it, and all in all if she thought it through some twelve hours a day were spent on… anything but herself. With Tom, something had changed. She loved her work on good days, she loved the books she tended, she even loved her friends, but none of it made her heart flutter, her cheeks flush, her legs kick giddily beneath the table as one look from Tom did. Not even Hildegard von Bingen’s wine and cookies. The clever spark of his dark eyes, his elegantly arched eyebrows, his pretty pale pink lips, the slender length of his fingers… It made her understand the most unhinged heroines of all her favourite novels, it made her feel like a mad artist. It made her think Dostoevsky was right when he wrote that beauty would save the world. And so she had resolved quite secretly to follow him, in the end. To leave everything behind and start a new life in another country no matter what anyone — primarily her mother — had to say about it.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang. She’d been sitting at her desk, head resting heavily in her palm when the sharp trilling began.

“Y-yes?” she muttered into the receiver.

“Darling,” he purred, “how are you?”

“Tom,” she smiled. “I’m alright… Just made a cup of tea. It’s been quiet here. How are you?”

“Well, I’ve made a bit of a mess,” he said in a Tom-esque version of an apology. “Would you mind bringing a broom and a dustpan? We haven’t got any down here.”

IV

It was a little trying to go down all those steps while carrying everything but once she was down it was a smooth stroll to Tom’s office. Her high heels were the only thing making a sound in the undershop. She hadn’t been there often but she could scarcely recall it being quieter. When she peeked her head through the doorway she found Tom sitting at his desk sifting through some papers as if in search of something. He must have heard her coming closer because he turned around quickly.

“There you are, darling,” Tom smiled.

“That’s twice you’ve called me that today,” she chuckled, walking in.

“Yes, well, I feel quite awkward not having anything around to clean this mess up. And what is that?”

She took a thermos out from under her arm and handed it to him.

“I told you I made tea. Thought I’d bring you some since I was coming anyway. It’s from that batch of Earl Grey you bought me last month.”

Tom hummed pleasantly as he uncapped it and maybe it was wishful thinking on her part but she saw a fond look in his eyes. She had to step carefully around the pile of dust in the middle of the room. It looked quite dense and more like cinders.

“How did you manage this?” she tutted as she started cleaning up. “You couldn’t have set something on fire…”

“What if I did?” he smirked.

“Oh, I know you didn’t,” she said with a fierce look in her eyes. The mere thought of what would happen to the books chilled her to the bone. “Oso would eat you alive.”

She hadn’t thought it was that funny but Tom burst into hysterical laughter and nearly spilt tea all over himself. Even after knowing him for several months, she’d never heard him laugh with such delectation.

It didn’t take more than a few swipes of the broom to gather all that dust together, but as she did so something clanged together. She bent and searched through the mess with a little finger until she found it: a key.

“What’s that?” asked Tom, finally wiping his tears of mirth away.

“Is this yours?”

“No,” said Tom, plucking it out from her palm. It was rather thin and tubular, more of a cylinder than a regular key. “But I’ll take it anyway.”

“Only other things in this pile are old buttons. What was this anyway?”

“Some rat-eaten clothes that were at the bottom of a mouldy crate I found in the back. Hence the smell.”

“Oh no, were the books alright?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling at her fondly. “The books are safe now.”

She finished gathering all the debris and went to throw it. The waste bin was filled with pages cut through with Tom’s fine calligraphy and Oso’s crimson notations, all angrily crumpled up. She threw the ash on top.

Tom put the strange key in his pocket and went back to sipping his tea. He smiled at her in a way she found uncharacteristically sweet, and she wasn’t complaining. His eyes shone, his lips seemed fuller, even his skin was glowing in the low citrine light. He seemed genuinely… happy.

“So, how’s your day been so far?” she asked, bracing herself against the desk.

He took another sip of tea and hummed approvingly. In one smooth motion, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Sweet,” said Tom.

[memories-of-ancients]

"Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives."

---Socrates

[shark-myths]

Sending My Love From the Other Side

Things we should discuss:

Pete’s sexy metal Viking princess unitard, he’s waiting to be rescued by a barbarian, I can only presume he is a bride-prize for the hero who can save him

The Folie-ness of it all, the ship at sea but not doomed, not this time; instead it is a vessel of hope

The mythology-of-the-band frame narrative

How the title references back to Sending Postcards from a Plane Crash

Stardust stardust stardust and Pete’s fear of space objects

What do Field of Dreams and The Princess Bride have in common?

For those expressing concern about Joe’s absence both on Sunday and in this video—he writes in his recent book, None of This Rocks, about emergency back problems during the latter end of this pandemic, compromising his ability to walk for a brief post-surgical time, exacerbated by overworking. He writes about learning boundaries, learning to rest, and asking his band for accommodations for his health. It seems likeliest that he’s recovering from a back-related issue, rather than conscientiously abstaining from participating in this record as he describes doing with MANIA.

General ranting about lyrics:

DISCLAIMER: It’s not me, okay, it’s the text, it’s Pete being incapable of writing anything that doesn’t sound like it’s about forbidden queer love, I could not make this shit up, I truly could not

“Model house meltdown”

Reminds me of walking through the house in your shoes, I’m supposed to love you; reminds me of I’m just playing house, no idea what I’m doing now. It’s a very dark Tim Burton-y sentiment from an outwardly happy man living a domestic fairy tale.

“We were a hammer to the Statue of David, we were a painting you could never frame, and you were the sunshine of my lifetime.”

THE PAST-TENSENESS HERE

Right from the start, this sets us up for something universally perceived as perfect and beloved being destroyed. This could be a reputation, a cultural relic, a profound piece of history, a narrative, a love. We were a hammer that destroyed it, that perceived thing… 

We were a painting too profane to be displayed in a museum, hidden and damned? Or we were larger than life, uncontent to be contained by a frame, always in motion, chimeric and twining, together apart, together apart, a tesselated image you can only see if you zoom out and unfocus your eyes.

You have all read my opinions about twenty years of Patrick = sunshine metaphors, which seem to be getting pretty FUCKING literal here at the end of days.

“Nowhere left for us to go but heaven, summer falling through our fingers again”

Among other things, this seems to be a VERY explicit reference to Heaven’s Gate.

I am feeling the hope of MANIA (you know my manic poly dream reading of that beautiful, purple beacon of hope) replaced by what the pandemic / apocalypse did to us all. So much for stardust, indeed.

Summer symbolizing touring, festival circuits, linking to the recent FOB instagram post that showed video from the Hella Mega Tour with the caption “take us back here.” The liminality and fleeting-ness of those spaces, those selves, that unmoored time of doing nothing, being everything. The way they want to be home when they’re on the road and the way they want to be on the road when they’re at home. Summer slipping through our fingers again, like the sand in the bottom half of the hourglass, gone past, gone past.

“What would you trade the pain for? I’m not sure”

Isn’t that a fucking question, my friends!!! The pain of longing, unsatisfied, love, unrequited or unconsummated, forbidden and forsaken? The pain of not-having, or of having-had? The pain it was to be together? Welcome to my glossary of suffering

And what would you trade it for? Is this a question of, what is it worth and I can’t imagine giving it up? Or is it a past-tense question—a way of saying, I traded that exquisite pain to get what I have now, and I’m not sure what it was for, I’m not sure if it was worth it.

“Every lover’s got a little dagger in their hand”

Tbh someone smarter than me will have more to say about this, I am sure. Tarot and betrayal and the way love has thorns and anything worth having always hurts, everyone you trust with love will hurt you and let you down at least a little bit, imperfections and prices paid. But it’s also a very classic, very catchy and poetically deep sounding chorus of the type FOB loves to use and do not always hold a deep reading. 

“I saw you in a bright clear field, hurricane heat in my head.”

More field-of-dreams invocation and playfulness! If there is not a stadium show at that field, I am going to light something on fire, it is the only pilgrimage I care about from this day forward.

“Inscribed like stone and faded by the rain: Give up what you love before it does you in”

LITERALLY what can I even SAY about this and the past tense and the DECISION, the question popped by MANIA that was answered only by global cataclysm and forced separation, the way they began work on this album in early 2021 (per Joe’s book). I can only hear this in conversation with the tracks on that record.

“The kind of pain you feel to get good in the end”

I was all prepared to do some read about morality and queerness and what you give up for the people you love, until @carbonbased000 said, “I love the pain line and I want to give it a kinky read so badly but we both know it’s about tennis”, and you know what. She’s right.

To summarize: there’s a lot to say, there’s a lot to feel, I love this song immensely and I hope you do too. I hope to explode more thoughts soon and uhhh maybe write another fairy tale. TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK, EVERYONE!

[killerinstinctgold]

like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives

[kragehund-est]

"like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives" - saint augustine

exactly, that is why i make the most of my time by using tumblr for 13 hours a day

[ariella-schoenheit]

Simon "Ghost" Riley drabble: Benevolence

So uh I thought of something that reminded me of our beloved simon. He's not all just cold heart and sex hungry ! Sometimes we just need that warm sweet lovin.

Haven't re read it. I hope you enjoy. It's my first thingy so please don't devour me.

CW//trigger warning: heavy implications of self doubt, parental abuse and heavy trust issues.

You were nothing short of kind. The warm sweetness that fills the soul.when you met Simon, you never thought he was broken ,no, he needed some warmth.like a nice cup of warm soothing tea on a rainy day. Everytime Simon felt the nightmares clawing him alive and drowning him, you came in a golden warm light guiding him gently out of the dark tunnel. Bringing him back to the present. You were patient and understanding, something he truly felt he didn't deserve. But when nights are rough and you aren't there to kiss his worries away, he thinks of that night,when his thought got to the better of him. There's a reason you stayed for so long right? The night he confronted you, he already expected the worse. But you managed to baffle by replying sweetly.

"Simply because I love you Simon. There is no logical explanation. I just love you"

There was no hint of a lie in your unfaltering voice.Simple and sweet but it made Simon's heart flutter a little.

He remembers the day the walls of his heart crumble and he lays there on your lap spilling out his heart to you, the faucets to his eyes couldn't seem to stop.your kind smile and wet eyes etched into his memory. The honour you felt for finally having him feel so vunerable to you .

The day he says "I love you" back without any prompts is the day he made you cry. He feels it in his chest ready burst if he keeps it in for any longer. That's the day he feels that he's sure of himself to be able to protect you. The day he realises that you aren't going anywhere with anyone is the day he can say it. When he truly believes he loves you and not as a friend with benefits or some hookup. But as someone who he thinks he can afford a future with.He starts feelings emotions freely again.

Mind you he leads two different lives when it come to work and home, but as Ghost or as Simon, through years of patience and understanding, he's able to smile again. The ones that reach his eyes and reflects right into his soul. You have managed to piece his shattered heart slowly,mending and healing over wounds that were long overdue. You made him see his worth and it shows. He can look at his reflection and think that he's not just surviving anymore, he's living. He's able to look in the mirror and feel a sense of calm. He's a much bigger man than his pops would ever be, thanks to his sweet darlin angel that's filled with so much benevolence.

He sees the hourglass and the sand he has left for living and reminds himself of the angel sleeping right next to him. All the time left spent on them is time well spent. He can now hope to grow old with you and looks forward to his future with you.

He prays to whatever god that's listening, to let him have his sweet angel for as long as he lives. And he plans to live a long life, as long as you're in it.

That made me sniffle. Hoped you liked it.

[shadythetortie]

Warning: long post about life, the universe, and how important we are in it. Whatever the opposite of existential dread is.

I've been on a space fix for the last few weeks, and I keep coming back to these two videos.

They are incredibly well made and offer voice-overs by Brian Cox, Steven Hawking, Janna Levin, and more. However gorgeous it is, a theme in the comments is people having an existential crisis after watching them and saying how small they feel. The second one has more of those comments, probably because it goes to the end of the universe's existence.

And that baffles me. Don't get me wrong, I know why people are feeling that. I felt it at first too - the dread of the realization that everything has to end, and one day there will just be nothing. But then I watched it again. And again. And again. And I came to realize that instead of feeling very very small and insignificant, we should be thinking of the opposite.

Our universe was made with a bang. Stars were forged, and in their cores created the elements to make other stars, and other stars made more elements, and it went on in a cycle. Those stars died and other stars were born from the ashes of the last star. Gas and dust clotted together to create planets, and solar systems, and moons. Eventually, after a very long and complicated process, one planet gained the strange phenomenon we call life, and here we are.

We shouldn't feel small about our place in the universe. Yes, size speaking, we are microscopic on the cosmic scale. But billions of stars died to create the elements we are made out of - hydrogen, iron, oxygen, nitrogen, carbon, calcium and phosphorus. Billions of stars grew and exploded to let those elements loose into the cosmos, and after a very long time, they came to create you and me.

We are not small. We are a statistic improbability. We are quite literally forged from stardust. The elements that are in all of us were made billions and billions of years ago - merely atoms - and somehow they found their way through all of space, through all of time, to come together in the most specific, delicate pattern to create us.

Yes, maybe we are just a bundle of chemicals and electrical signals. So is a thunderstorm. So is a star. But we are a bundle of chemicals and electricity that can think, and move, and breathe, and live. As far as we currently know, this is the only place in the universe that has been able to create something so intricately complicated.

"The universe doesn't care," some people say. "The universe is dark, and cold, and empty, and we are so insignificant in the grand scheme. Nothing really matters."

Of course the universe cares. Look at everything that had to fall into place to keep us alive - The Earth's magnetosphere, the Sun's warmth, Jupiter's shield of gravity... the universe cares so much for us that it has literally put everything it can in the way to keep us safe. Just look at the Moon! The craters, the scars of every battle they've fought for us. I don't feel insignificant. I feel protected. I feel like this is the most important part of the cosmos. Everything matters. And it is right here, on this planet. We may be just grains of sand in a never ending hourglass, but we are here, and we are alive, and that in itself is beautiful.

The universe is trying as hard as it can to keep the little sprout of life going. Life is so very fragile that even the slightest error could obliterate it in less than a heartbeat - and in the lifespan of the stars and everything around us, less than a heartbeat is the only time we have to exist.

So the universe took those stars, crushed them into dust, and used that dust to mold us into existence. It wrapped us in a blanket of darkness and warmth. It nurtured us, guided us, protected us and allowed us to grow, and has only just begun to tell us its stories. We are the children of suns that allowed us their death so that we may look back up at the vastness of space and see all of its glory and wonders and long to return to the forges that created us.

If there are such things as miracles, life would be it.

[silveringofrose]

Driftwood Doors and Hourglass Hearts

Love is a many wondered thing they say and my brain pauses a minute because isn't it usually some low kilojoule thing? Then it's off on a tangent wondering at the wonder that upon reflection was more smoke and mirrors than anything else.

But maybe the haze is just what happens when the reflection seems more counterfeit than carbon copy and your answer to “Who are you?” feels fuzzy around the edges. Then again, no one wants to know about another gifted kid whose bus into a bright future crashed and burnt out in a blaze of untapped potential right?

So we just hide the scars of our inadequacies behind masks of perfection. And never mind that it’s a scream awake nightmare played on a loop because my brain is set to Do NOT Disturb so it fades.

It fades into the glaring of a five alarm fire trying desperately to remind me how much time has passed since last I did anything but fight for a breath that isn't drowning in the blood rush to the feet of a heart racing at a thousand thoughts a minute all wondering...wondering…

Wondering how surviving became a synonym for living when the two are a type of mutually exclusive that guarantees annihilation of one or both? But back to that splendid wondering or wondered splendouring or whatever they're claiming love is these days.

Only I'm still stuck on trying to figure out when we decided this low fat sugar free variety is "Everything You Never Knew You Needed!!" And I'm frantically closing all the popups announcing that time is almost up and I'll miss my chance if I don't step through one of these doors soon.

But I already fell for the clickbait one time and all it got me was a cheap knockoff where the size of the more in my I love you’s wasn't big enough to cover all the cracks where the little things fell like sand through an hourglass.

And I tried flipping it over. Turning the page and starting from scratch. But time doesn't work like that. It drifts away into the hindsight of the past and a book only ever has so many pages before it's done. You'll never unknow it and even if you forget a little, it will always end the same.

And it's become a sort of game. I can see myself falling through that door into a forever and so I dare them to open it. But the truth is that these days I'm permanently harnessed to the triple bolted steel encased fortress of my heart. I can stand safely on the very edge of the cliff.

Look down and wonder if falling really was like flying or I only told myself that. And people might ask one day who this is about. And I'll say I don't know. A lot of people I suppose. Or maybe just me. And I'll smile and they won't know.

Won’t see how it's hiding all the places where the more in my I love you’s couldn’t survive all the ways I was never enough to love myself.

~ @silveringofrose 2024

[monterraverde]

🎲

33. A kiss to a scar, birthmark, injury, or other marking

His body's a canvas of scars, as is hers.

His spoke of a life long lived mired in conflict, a young boy burdened with knowledge and duty that no child should have ever had to deal with on their own. A young boy thrust into the middle of his countries crimes all coming to a head at once and told to fix it. No one had any idea how to do that, though... Not even him, and yet he took it upon himself to safeguard those he cherished, and anyone who got in his way be damned.

Woe betide the man who stands opposed to the mountains ghost, for death will be his reward. Death for him and all that he holds dear.

So many broken by this world, and then by you. So, so many...

She hears the stories from Proton, of a child no older then 13 burning down buildings and killing men and women twice his age for barring his path through Rockets many facilities- Through Silphs multiple floors, only to be thrown out of the presidents office through the window... It's almost impossible to believe that this was the same man she was sitting with now, the same man that despite his sunken facial features and cold, almost gray skin, bore a smile so full of life and light that it made her heart soar anytime she got to see it.

Like sands through the hourglass, everything we fight so desperately to protect slips through our fingers... and what remains... what remains... is us. Only us, and the memory of our sin.

And he had sins aplenty, but regrets? Not so much...

She doubted he saw them as such. They go by many names, but at the end of the day, he did what was right- Because no one else would.

And for that he earned a tapestry of battles won carved into his skin.

She adjusts herself in his lap and leans forward to press a soft kiss against the jagged cut marks on his cheek, just below his eye.

He may not love her like she loves him, but that never bothered her. It's just who he was, how he was... and it didn't make him any less worthy of being loved unconditionally.

[jgmartin]

THE AFTERLIFE SEQUENCE

How does it work?

Death, I mean. How does it work? That was the point of the study– the trial. What happens when we die, where do we go, what does it feel like, and is it even worth the hassle? Is there a heaven? A hell?

We didn’t know, but we wanted to. I suppose that’s where everything went wrong, right out of the gate. We wanted to play God, or at least learn the rules of the game. To see behind the curtain for just a moment, if only so we could know what to expect when the lights went out and we said that final goodnight.

I’m telling you now, swearing to you that we never intended for things to go wrong the way that they did. The people that lost their lives knew what they were getting into. They signed releases. Paperwork. They agreed to let us do what we did, just so long as we promised to handsomely compensate their families. And we did. We held up our end of the bargain to the tune of 13 million dollars.

But things like this, they never work out the way they’re meant to. I knew that. I did. I think that on some level all of us did, but the people who were funding us had no idea. They wanted results. Be messy, they said, if that’s what it takes. Do whatever you need to do to figure out what happens in the sequel to Life, and make it snappy because this funding is running on an hourglass, and that sand is slipping.

So we cut corners. We pushed people in ways that, in retrospect, were irresponsible. Dangerous. But we did it for the common good. We did it for you– for all of us, for the benefit of future generations who could look death in the eye without the horror of not knowing what came next.

It was a good thing. It really was.

The first death went smoothly. An older woman, 87 years old and dying of liver failure was hooked up to our state-of-the-art equipment that had one job and one job only: to bring them back. To let them taste the cold kiss of death, and then tear their soul back into the land of the living long enough to give us a play-by-play of what happened while they were away. I know, I know. This has happened before. People have come back from clinical death plenty of times, haven’t they? Sure. That’s true.

But never after three days.

The three-day timeline was a tricky one because even though the corpse was dead, even though the cadaver was cold and beginning to cellularly decompose, we needed to keep it fresh enough to host life. Don’t get me wrong, the life it hosted didn’t last long, but it lasted long enough. I still remember the pulse of excitement that shot through the room when the old woman opened her eyes. Her first rancid breath drew applause.

“Agnes,” Roger, our research lead said. He stood by her bedside, craned over her wearing a toque and gloves. “Can you hear my voice?”

The woman nodded. More applause. We watched the two of them from behind a layer of one-way glass, all of us in our lab coats while Roger communed with her breathing corpse in what was practically a freezer. Their voices carried over a loudspeaker.

“Where… am I?” Agnes gasped, her throat trembling with the strain of vocalizing. “I’m… tired.”

“You’re with friends,” Roger said. “Safe.”

Roger turned to us, grinning with a thumbs up. We’d successfully brought back our first subject, and not only was she alive– she was communicating. Lucid. He turned back to her, likely knowing we had a limited window to extract the information we needed.

“Do you remember the study you agreed to be a part of?”

Agnes’ eyes opened wide, and her pupils seemed to jolt around like ping pong balls. “Death,” she muttered. “Death.”

Roger nodded, running a hand through her thinning hair. “That’s right, Agnes. We wanted to know what happens to the soul after death, and you agreed to take that journey and return to us. You’re the first human being to have done so. Congratulations.”

I’ll never forget what happened next. She gazed up at him, those rolling eyes and that absent voice, and she gripped the front of his shirt with a shuddering, frail hand. He leaned closer to her, no doubt thinking she wanted to speak into his ear.

“We belong…” she said, her chest beginning to heave. “To them.”

Roger, looked at us, his expression confused. He shook his head. “Agnes, I’m sorry. To whom are you referring?”

Her legs jerked sideways, her spine arching as she began to thrash on the slab. Blood leaked from the corners of her eyes. Roger, concerned, attempted to hold her body so she wouldn’t injure herself and compromise what little time she had left to communicate. He ordered more of us in. I hurried to his side with three others.

“We belong,” she said again, and this time her voice was stronger, as though empowered by her agony. “To the… forgotten...”

Even with four of us on her, each holding a limb she was rioting with a strength that could only be described as inhuman. It took everything I had to hold her scrawny blue wrist to the slab. Beside us the machine monitoring her vitals began to beep violently, indicating levels grossly out of range.

“What comes next,” she hissed, and smoke began to drift up from her mouth, “is worse… than any hell.”

Before we could ask further– before we could subdue her and help her pass peacefully, she went still on the slab. Her limbs fell limp. Her buzzing pupils stilled. Her mouth ceased to smoke, and her head lolled to the side.

Agnes Mick had died for the second time.

We had her corpse carted to the morgue for an autopsy and discovered that her brain showed signs of hemorrhaging, her heart had partially ruptured in her chest, and most bizarrely of all, her vocal cords had been seared. As if something had lit them aflame.

Her results were ominous, to say the least, but we were intelligent enough to know that a sample size of one does not a conclusion make, and so we eagerly awaited our second subject. This one was a young boy named Jacob. He’d been struck by a vehicle in a hit and run and fallen into a coma. His parents never had an opportunity to say goodbye, and so they agreed to allow us to perform our study so long as they were there for his revival.

The process was similar to Agnes’. Jacob lay unmoving on the slab in the freezer room, wires and diodes hooked up to his chest and temples, a white sheet draped across him. By his side stood Roger, and both of the boy's parents, all of them clad in toques and gloves.

“Are you ready?” Roger asked.

“Yes,” they said. We all waited behind the glass with heart-pounding anticipation. Roger clicked a few keys on the computer console, and the machine began its mechanical song. A moment later and the screen flashed green as it initiated its AFTERLIFE sequence, filling Jacob’s unmoving cadaver with a myriad of electrical pulses designed to shock his brain into functioning.

The boy's feet, dangling outside the white cloth, began to twitch. Then his fingertips. His mother and father looked at one another, grasping hands as they waited for their son to return to them. Hopeful tears leaked from the corners of their eyes, their lips mouthing silent words of affirmation as they prepared to say goodbye to Jacob.

Screaming filled the room.

It burst through the loudspeaker like an explosion, causing all of us watching to jump and scatter, our primal nervous systems fleeing while we attempted to uncover the source. But the source, I think, was always obvious even if we didn't want to believe it.

It was coming from Jacob.

He lay there, his toes and fingertips twitching as his mouth hung open in an ear-splitting scream, his mother and father crowding him in horror, doing their best to calm him. Assuage his pain. His confusion. His horror.

It’s difficult to describe the sound of Jacob’s scream. I’m hesitant to say it was human, let alone the sound of a nine-year-old boy. It was most similar, I feel, to a drowning sheep. It was an anguished bleating sound, one that seemed never-ending, and yet it told a terrifying story all on its own.

Eventually, Jacob’s parents made the decision to pull the plug on their son. It was the second time they'd made the decision in a little under a week.

The last subject was the one that stuck with me. The one that haunts me to this day, and the reason I’m writing this now, sharing this with all of you. It was a woman named Charlotte. Young. Vibrant. In the prime of her life. Charlotte was an eccentric woman from a wealthy and educated family. She had spent her mid-twenties traveling the world, primarily across portions of South America as she researched content for her book The Meaning of Life.

A self-described shaman, Charlotte put great stock in the spiritual practices of different cultures. She’d participated in hundred of rituals across dozens of tribes. She’d tried everything from peyote to DMT, leveraging any drug she could get her hands on that promised psychedelic insights. Despite the heavy usage, Charlotte appeared to be perfectly clear-headed and not at all negatively impacted– to put it simply, she was as healthy as could be.

That’s why we found it strange when she approached our small project and asked to be included. When we informed her it was only for those suffering from terminal afflictions, she asked if she could be added to the list anyway. Sort of like an organ donor. We agreed.

Charlotte killed herself the following weekend.

Bullet through the skull. Quick and likely painless, though it’s impossible to know for certain. Many times such acts of suicide last longer than the subject intends. Either way, we had our third volunteer, all thanks to the round narrowly missing her brain.

Charlotte’s parents were initially opposed to the idea, but we informed them that we had her written, legal consent. They asked to meet us halfway, to be there when she returned. After the situation with Jacob, however, we disallowed them from participating in the trial. The science is new, you understand. It's possible that emotional catalysts like family figures may have an adverse effect on brains so far removed from life.

No, we said. We’ll bring her back and we’ll tell you everything that she says, and that will be that.

So they relented. No lawsuit. No drama. We were free to bring Charlotte back from death in three days' time, and that’s exactly what we did. The scenario played out like the others before. The freezing room. The beeping machine. The diodes sprinkled across her body and the white sheet draped over her torso. Roger stood beside her, operating the machine while we monitored the readings. His fingers danced across the keyboard and the screen glowed with the words AFTERLIFE SEQUENCE INITIATED.

Once again we watched from behind the glass. Once again Roger waited patiently, a hopeful smile on his face. Twenty seconds passed and nothing occurred– not so much as a twitch of a toe or a flick of an eyelash. Charlotte’s corpse remained every bit as dead as the day we carted her in. A minute went by and we still saw no sign of resurrection.

Roger looked back to the machine, shaking his head and he removed his gloves, evidently wondering if he’d hit a wrong key with his mitts. He began the sequence again. The machine buzzed and words flashed green across the screen once more, but Charlotte lay still.

“Elliot,” he said to me, his voice ringing out over the loudspeaker. “Can you come inside and check this out? I think it might be malfunctioning.”

I swallowed. I’d triple-checked the machine and made sure it was functioning to specification, just as it had the last two times. Still, I nodded from behind the two-way glass and opened the door to the freezer. As I stepped inside the -30 room, I pulled a set of gloves and toque from the wall and began my appraisal of the system. The wires checked out. The program was running to spec. All the diodes were in the correct place.

“I don’t see any issues here,” I said, shivering.

Roger frowned, looking back to Charlotte’s cadaver. He placed his hands on his hips and cursed, wondering if somehow we’d encountered a dud. “Maybe some people can’t be brought back,” he theorized.

I opened my mouth to respond but something about Charlotte caught my eye. It was her lips. They were pulled into a thin grin, and black fluid was leaking from between them. “Have you… seen… it?” she muttered.

Roger and I exchanged looks and he slipped me a wink. “Well done,” he whispered. “Now get back behind the glass.” I obliged, not wanting to impact the experiment any more than I already had.

“Charlotte,” Roger said. “Do you remember the study you agreed to participate in?”

She took a deep breath, and her body rolled upwards into a sitting position. This was new. Neither of the last subjects showed anywhere near that level of physical control. Her blond hair fell down around her as her cloth slipped onto the floor. “I remember… putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger.”

Roger looked back at us uneasily, as though unsure how to proceed. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Your parents were wondering if they had hurt you in some way or–”

“No,” she wheezed, and her head snapped sideways to look at Roger. At the time I didn’t think anything of it, but looking back there was something decidedly twisted about her eyes. Much like Anges’ there were buzzing around her skull, her pupils darting about like ricocheting hockey pucks, but this time her mouth was a tight smile. This time she appeared to be in control. Aware. “I killed myself because I needed to know that my nightmares… weren’t real.”

Around me, researchers were hastily recording details of her interaction– her words, her appearance, her biological readings. I gazed on in abject horror. I think that even then I knew that something awful was about to happen. I had that feeling, the one deep down in your gut that appears just before a car accident, or just before somebody’s about to fall.

“And what was that?” Roger said, his voice breaking as he stood next to Charlotte’s buzzing pupils. “What came next after you died?”

“Everything,” she muttered, sweeping a leg off of the slab, “...that I feared.” Her pale foot hit the linoleum floor with a dull slap. Then the other followed. She took a shaking breath and then pushed herself off of the table until she was standing naked in front of Roger. “What do you think happens after we die….doctor?”

Roger looked sidelong at us from behind the two-way glass, his expression somewhere between nervous and fascinated. “I’m not certain,” he said. “We all believe different things, I suppose. We were hoping you could answer that for us, Charlotte.”

Charlotte laughed, I think. It’s hard to say, but she threw back her head and started choking irregularly. “We believe… believe… believe…” she repeated the word as though tasting it. “We believe so many different things and we so desperately want them to be true, but the only truth… is that we return to the forgotten.”

The forgotten. It was a phrase we’re heard before from Agnes. One in which I’d assumed it referred to human beings, like those who died in meaningless wars or in periods of widespread misfortune, and yet the emphasis that Charlotte placed upon it…

“The forgotten?” Roger repeated, taking a step back from Charlotte’s hunched-over body. It was miraculous that she was standing at all, but that she remained living after several minutes was something neither of the other two subjects managed. “What are the forgotten?”

“Not what… but who.” Charlotte reached out, placing a pale hand on either side of Roger’s shoulders. We watched with our breath held. She lurched forward, planting her blue, decaying lips on his. They touched only for a second before Roger instinctively pushed her backward, causing her to stumble against the metal slab. She laughed again in that choking, rasping chorus, sliding onto the linoleum floor.

Roger rushed to her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to but–”

“Our minds are finely made,” she wheezed, not seeming to care. “They evolved over… millennia to mask reality. To mask the bitter… bitter truth of the universe.” She spat black bile onto the floor, wiping at her lips with a shaking hand. “You want to know what happens… when we die? We return to the abyss that birthed us.”

The room around me began to murmur, some in interest, others terror. I merely watched on, my heart racing and my mouth dry.

“I put a bullet through my skull,” Charlotte continued, “...because I had a vision of the end. I saw our makers, and they were dressed in… dying stars and empty space. They were hopeless. Empty. But just like us… they wanted medicine. A way to feel.”

Roger knelt beside Charlotte as her voice grew quieter with every agonizing word. “We are their medicine,” she rasped. “Our minds are primed for love, for joy, and for pleasure… and when we die, they feed on us. They leave our souls empty and rotting until we’re rebirthed into the next human, a little less whole… a little less complete.” Once again that thin smile twisted its way across her blue lips. “...a little closer to putting a bullet through our skulls.”

Roger waved at us, indicating that he wanted to make sure every second of this was being properly recorded. Then, he turned back to her. “What else can you tell us?”

“That we began with… meaning. But as they fed… and they fed, we grew emptier…more incomplete. Collectively, the human soul… withered.” Black bile poured from her lips now. It streaked down her pale body, pooling around her trembling legs like blood from a butchered lamb. “Look around you. Do you feel… the rage? The… hatred and the pain? It’s consuming the human race like a… plague, and bit by bit… we’re getting worse. Not better. Soon we’ll have nothing left to feel. No love… no joy. Just… emptiness.”

Roger's mouth hung open. His voice stuttered as he attempted to formulate a response, to articulate why she must be wrong– at least, that’s what I had hoped for. I’d hoped for anybody to stand up and say this was all a farce, and the experiment had been compromised and none of this could be true. But nobody did.

Charlotte reached up and gripped Roger by the front of his shirt. “If you want to know what comes next… I can show you.”

Roger looked at us then through the glass, his eyes wide with shock and fear. He looked at us one last time and I think he was waiting for somebody to shake their heads, to tell him that no, that was a bad idea. That he should decline. But we were all too shaken, I think. We weren’t thinking straight.

So he nodded. He nodded and leaned into Charlotte, and then the lights flickered and the freezer and our observation room were both plunged into darkness. The blackout lasted for just a second. Maybe two. But it was long enough for everything to go wrong.

When the light returned, the glass was cracked and the machine was wailing a metallic tone. Roger lay in front of Charlotte’s naked corpse, his head face-down in the pool of bile, smoke drifting up from his slack-jawed mouth. Charlotte’s eyes were no longer buzzing. Her chest was no longer heaving. She had died for the second time. Roger had died for the first.

After that, our funding was pulled. Our donor abandoned the project and scrubbed his involvement from any and all corporate records. As far as the scientific community was concerned, the experiments never occurred, and the findings didn’t exist. But I remember. I remember because there’s simply no way I could forget the haunting look in Agnes’ eyes, the hopeless agony of Jacob’s screams, or the final message that Charlotte delivered in black bile on the linoleum floor.

It was messy and easy to miss. To the others, I think it must have looked like a common splatter, a simple side-effect of her legs spasming in the pool of dark fluid. But I know what I saw. The letters, though crooked and barely legible, were scorched into my memory like a cattle brand. They weren’t so much a warning as they were words of advice– perhaps an answer to the question we set out to ask, and the question that Charlotte had set out to answer in her book.

The meaning of life, she wrote, is to avoid the agony of death.