#one is that the surface of the ocean just becomes this pitch black impenetrable surface

[the-faultofdaedalus]

once again thinking of the alt-history/sci-fi/dystopic universe in my head where the whole concept is “the surface of the sea just stops existing”

[optimizche]

Angelic : The Kiss (Park Chanyeol/Reader)

Full masterlist

Her

It was the warmth that drew me in. The slightest of brushes against the curve of my neck.

I would've mistaken it for a warm summer night breeze, but the next caress, placed at the corner of my mouth was far too deliberate to ignore.

A hand cupped my cheek, gently turning my face. The skin of my face, where I was being touched, felt like it was burning.

But instead of recoiling from the heat, I leaned into it. Purely on instinct.

When I opened my eyes, all I could see was darkness. Pitch black and impenetrable.

The only source of light came from a pair of glowing amber eyes that were looming above me.

A sudden jolt of fear paralyzed me, rendering me unable to scream, even though I wanted to.

I scrambled away, pressing my back into the headboard of my bed.

"Its alright," a voice came. Deep and velvety and undeniably masculine. "Don't be afraid of me."

His voice sent a shiver down my spine. Which he noticed.

Two of his hands came up to cradle my face, and I sighed at the pleasant heat of his flesh on mine.

The fear I felt began to dissolve, melting with the sultry touch of his skin on mine, turning into a curiosity the longer I looked into his amber eyes.

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Who are you?"

But he heard it all the same.

Leaning in closer, the glow of his eyes seemed to intensify, the deep gold swirling in his irises.

"I'm someone who has dreamt about you for as long as I can remember," he spoke, in a voice as quiet as the night itself. "I'm here to make you dream of me..."

He leaned in. And with the growing proximity, I could scent him on the air. Dark and musky. An intoxicating mix of mystery and desire and...

Sin.

Hands on his shoulders, I attempted to push him away, sudden realization dawning over me.

He was one of them.

Satan's children.

Effortlessly, he clasped my wrists in his large hands, halting my efforts to push him away. Pinning my hands to my sides, he leaned in even closer.

Until his nose was pressing into the curve of my neck. His lips brushing against my shoulder.

"You smell of flowers, little one..." he breathed, every exhalation hot against my flesh. "Flowers and purity and... chastity."

I could hear the utter arrogance in his voice, feel the smirk against my skin.

"Get out," I spat.

He chuckled, and his hands that were holding my wrists suddenly gave me a sharp yank. Pulling me towards him, into his chest.

I shoved at him again. But he didn't budge.

The first thing I noticed was the heat that was seeping from him. It felt like the fires from the deepest pits of Hell were simmering under his flesh. Wherever his form touched mine, I felt hot. Like I had placed my hand into a burning flame.

But despite the heat of him against me, I didn't flinch from the contact, which was surprising to say the least, since my kind always recoiled from theirs.

Instead of feeling pain wherever our bodies met, I felt a strange, vague sense of.... pleasure?

"No, no, no," I muttered to myself, under my breath, my wrists struggling against the iron grip he had on me.

He chuckled, clearly amused by my futile attempts, before giving me another tug, so that I was fully in his arms.

"You let me go, you vile creature. I command you to let me g-"

I was never able to complete my sentence, because his mouth was upon mine, silencing me.

For a moment, I froze completely. Unable to comprehend what was happening. Unable to understand anything, because this was an entirely different sensation for me.

Something I had never felt before.

Of course, I had kissed men before. Men of my kind. But this wasn't like the soothing kisses Junmyeon used to give me as he lulled me to sleep. Or like Yixing, who had the singular ability to heal every pain in me with a touch of his lips on mine. It wasn't even like Baekhyun's kisses, which always filled my eyes with light. Or Jongdae's, kisses stolen in complete innocence, when he'd serenade me with his songs.

This was different.

If the heat of his flesh on mine was pleasant, the press of his lips against mine was... incredible.

His lips were soft. Like velvet. And the urgent pressure of them, as they moved against mine, signalled that there was something else lurking beneath the surface. Something dark. Something sinister.

His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, before he pulled away from me just a little bit.

"Open your mouth for me..." he said.

"I..."

"Open, princess."

And then he was back, a hundred times more eager. He wasn't just kissing me anymore, no. Frenzied nips of his teeth, his tongue licking across the seam of my lips. Begging. Pleading.

Even though every instinct in me screamed at me to push him away and be done with it, my mind was overwhelmed by an almost dangerous curiosity.

What if I did open for him?

What if I did let him in?

Just once?

Only once?

This morbid curiosity was steadily melting away my reluctance. As were his needy, almost agonized groans against my closed lips.

"Please, princess," he pleaded, running his tongue along my lower lip. "Please let me have a taste..."

When his lips closed the distance once again, I relented.

And the moment I parted my lips for him, he dove in.

His tongue slipped into my mouth, coming to meet mine. And when they met, I was lost.

Lost.

He tasted like...

....like the forbidden fruit.

Nothing like I had ever tasted before in my millenia long existence.

Tart and sweet. Honeyed spiced wine.

Inviting.

Luring me in.

I moaned into his mouth and he sighed, the kiss losing its chastness and becoming deeper.

Achingly deep.

Our mouths growing greedier, ravenous against each other, wanting to consume as much of each other as was possible.

I could feel the brush of his nose against my cheek, his lips sealing mine to allow a hungry exploration of my mouth, his hands clutching at the roots of my hair, holding me to him.

My own hands were in his hair and I was kissing him back, again and again, with a fervour with which I had never kissed anyone before. Not even my brothers.

My entire being felt like it was being burnt away in the sweetest, most sinful way possible, his lips on mine incinerating me from inside out.

And behind my closed eyes, I could see red.

A deep, swirling, hypnotizing red.

An endless ocean of red that I wanted to drown in.

So mesmerizing was this red, that I felt almost euphoric....

Triumphant.

Until I realized that the ocean of red was in fact the blood of my fellow angels.

My brothers.

My brothers.

I whimpered against his lips, horrified by the vision I was being made to see.

My hands pushed against his chest, wanting to break away from this lascivious entanglement.

But he held me tighter, his arms an iron cage around me, his lips relentlessly working into mine, the ferocity of his kiss causing my own lips to sting.

It was this very sting that began the shift.

The sea of blood vanished and I felt a sharp burst of pain beside either of my shoulder blades, right where the roots of my wings were.

The pain was blinding. Intolerable.

I moaned into his mouth, fingernails digging into his shoulders. Yet he remained latched almost fiercely to my mouth.

Every flick and lick of his tongue felt like lava. Pure liquid heat, that was serving to heighten the pain in my furled wings.

Through his kiss, it felt like he was penetrating my very being. Right down to my soul. With every passing moment, he was embedding something deep inside my soul. He was seeding something dark, something infernal within me. And the growing pain in my wings was a sign that my instincts were trying to push away this corrupt, damnable entity that was attempting to meld into me.

I didn't know for how long he kissed me. But when he finally pulled away from me, I was trembling from the pain.

Weakened considerably and unable to stay upright any longer, I fell back onto my bed, the scars on my back itching and throbbing, smarting as if someone had raked their nails through my vulnerable flesh.

It was incredibly foolish of me to think that the pain would lessen when I broke contact with him, this man who had just kissed me.

Instead, the pain only grew in intensity. Coming to me in sharp, pulsating heaves.

I gasped, my face twisting in pure agony as my entire being resisted and fought against whatever his kiss had implanted within me.

"Wh-what have you done to me?"

He laughed. "It has begun, sweetling."

I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant, but the pain drew forth a loud, agonized scream from deep within my throat.

Leaning in, he pressed his lips to my forehead.

"You will be mine soon..."

And that was the only thing I remembered hearing, before the pain consumed me in all its torturous absoluteness.

_________________________

I sat bolt upright in bed, trembling from head to toe. Gasping.

Wild-eyed, I looked around, my skin drenched in a cold sweat.

The door to my bedroom burst open and Yixing and Baekhyun rushed in.

"Princess, are you alright?" Yixing asked, falling to his knees before me, his hands cupping my face. "Look at me."

"You were screaming," Baekhyun asked. "Was it a bad dream?"

It was a dream.

But it had felt so real.

So true.

I brought a hand to my lips, touching them gently. Trying to remember his kiss.

"I'm so sorry," I breathed, tears brimming in my eyes. "I'm sorry..."

Baekhyun and Yixing looked puzzled, exchanging a glance.

"For what, princess?" Yixing asked me.

For kissing the devil, I wanted to say.

But I remained silent.

[pause-and-affect-residencie-blog]

Why is She Falling by Máiréad Delaney

In two weeks, I will be travelling to the west of Ireland to a small building called The Embers, which my aunt and her mother once ran as a pub. The Embers has stood empty for more than ten years. When I was thirteen, I lived in the Embers with my aunt. She was still mourning the death of her mother. She would climb the stairs to a big room at the back of the house and sift through the contents of the sea chests there. Her mother brought these chests back and forth on the ship every summer.

I was outside the day she put her legs through the floor. The building has woodworm. The floor gave out under her weight. She punched down through and just as quickly ripped herself back up. When I came home I could see through the kitchen ceiling.

I’ve just told my mother I want to work with the hole.

I want to use the hole in the ceiling. The one my aunt fell through.

What? What hole? She never made a hole in the ceiling.  

She did, I was there the day it happened.

Well, yes. We’ve fixed it now. There isn’t any hole. (1)

In April 2017, my grandmother died of complications from a fall which broke her pelvis. When she died, I was in a plane crossing the Atlantic. For five years, I have been working with women whose bodies were split, the pelvis the point of impact.

This breaking has a name, it is a pro-life surgical intervention called symphysiotomy. Revived in Ireland in the 1940‘s and practiced through the 1990’s, symphysiotomy is a brutal procedure, primarily performed during childbirth. The bones of the pelvis are cut with a saw until the pelvis unhinges. It is left broken, open. This experiment aimed to facilitate and encourage subsequent births. The surgeries were implemented systematically, according to a natalist moral agenda in nationalist, Catholic, decolonizing Ireland. Thousands of women underwent this procedure, their very skeletal structure altered for the building of a new nation. The surgery was often performed without warning, explanation, or medical consent. The history of this surgery is ‘unwritten.’ Attaining medical records is an arduous and often fruitless pursuit for survivors.(2)

One woman sustained such nerve damage that the nerves running to the lower half of her body would flicker out, unpredictably. She fell, over and over, as her legs lost their ties to her brain. She spoke of visiting doctors again and again without result. Finally, her husband came with her, asking the doctor, “Why is she falling?”

The doctor, half-lowering his voice and speaking to the man, responded, “Don’t you know women? Imagination.”(3)

Why is she falling?

Don’t you know women?

Imagination

Her falls were after the break. My grandmother broke as she fell. She fell on a Sunday in April and hours ahead in Ireland, on Sunday night, I was breaking branches with my own body. She died on Monday. I was in a plane over the ocean. There was time and distance in between. Miles of conduit line the floor of the ocean. I think about the darkness inside the body punctuated by flickering nerves, this inner electricity like lights seen from a great height. Then the outage, like the velvet surface of the night and black-topped, unplumbable water. I think of sparks inside the dark of a broken body, a blinding light at the split-second of the break, the pop of new space created by the punch-crack of breaking.

  Silence met the falling woman, the impact of hitting the ground was swept away by doctors words. I am looking at the pressure which causes the ‘break,’ and then the silencing of both afterwards. This is a silence that contains pressure, a silence capable of breaking bones. I make in an effort to speak to that silence.

If I were to qualify the silence I attempt to speak to, I would say it is a chasm made by the lack of justice. It is a deflecting shield made by the denial of recognition. If this justice is denied perpetually, silence becomes at once a cliff-face and sink-hole of absurdity. Can we talk back to silence when the silence is a swallowing, when it is an erosion of the ground underfoot, when it comes behind the teeth to frost-bite all movement of the tongue? This kind of silence is active. Never absence, this silence opens a hole where an accountable party ought to stand.

What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?

The world would split open

Muriel Rukeyser (4)

Yet, I have found, the world does not split open. At large, there is a lack of rupture, a lack of visible evidence of violation, no break, no radical discontinuity. Instead, life goes on. Violence coagulates with grief and time and it bloats, overflows. (5)

If an event goes unrecognized or is delegitimized, the suppression of it produces a pressure. Under that pressure, is not as though the event never occurred but rather that it never ends. It is just there, with that pressure-- that grappling constitutes our ‘real.’

I am not interested in reverse-engineering the event, in creating a rupture to access ‘original’ violence. It is plain that such methods do not have the effect Rukeyser prophesied, not in this present world, where the forces of silence police actively and reseal efficiently.

I am interested in making the conditions of our present existence clear. (6) I came to performance as a practice of embodied speech acts, gestures which attempt a simultaneous holding-at bay of crushing violence and an affective entrance into its structure of feeling. I undertake these actions so that we might come to collective sensed knowledge of violent realities and recognize the effects of this violence and our grief over time.

Staking the unthinkable against the everyday charges the every day with what it contains. This ‘charge’ is both innervation, a frisson of electricity, and the levelling of a demand for accountability.

Staking the unthinkable against the everyday charges the every day with what it contains. The everyday ‘contains’ the unthinkable, it is both saturated by it and yet the unthinkable is imprisoned, unrepresented.

Yet amidst the lack of representation, excess blossoms. Under strata, a bruise expands, color blooms. Fragments surface.

I site my questions now in the undertow of silence, on the tender, treacherous ground which threatens submersion, where the air is thin, where our surroundings are desaturated and heightened at once. I imagine this space as between contained experience and the forces of containment. It refers to contained experience, but it does not merely contain and batter its occupant with the forces of that containment. Up against the impenetrable, the unheeding-hard, the faceless, A branch breaks. A pop, a gasp, a gap, a little pocket of space. The body gives.

In the making of work, I work small un-makings. I have broken, cut, compressed, bitten. I do not see these gestures as destructive, rather they apply pressure to pressure. They speak to silence. Perhaps these specificities of sensation might reach such a pitch of intensity that we all hear the pressurized hiss or see the fissured surface. Tongue against metal, a cracked branch. These are my own answers to silence.

These women, breaking, suspended in shuddering silence, continue to fall.

1. My mother, phone conversation with author, November 2, 2018.

2. Marie O’Connor, Bodily Harm: Symphysiotomy and Pubiotomy in Ireland 1944-92, (Dublin: Johnswood Press, 2011)

3. Sheridan, Patricia (survivor of symphysiotomy). Interview with Mairead Delaney. Dublin, October 26, 2015.

4. Muriel Rukeyser, “Käthe Kollwitz,” The Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser, ed. Janet E. Kaufman, Anne F. Herzog, and Jan Heller. Levi (Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2006), 460.

5. Andrea Long Chu (2017) Study in blue: trauma, affect, event, Women & Performance: a journal of feminist theory,27:3, 301-315, DOI: 10.1080/0740770X.2017.1365440

6."The conviction that everything that happens of earth must be comprehensible to man can lead to interpreting history by commonplaces. Comprehension does not mean denying the outrageous, deducing the unprecedented from precedents, or explaining phenomena by such analogies and generalities that the impact of reality and the shock of experience are no longer felt. It means, rather, examining and bearing consciously the burden that our century has placed on us — neither denying its existence nor submitting meekly to its weight. Comprehension, in short, means the unpremeditated, attentive facing up to, and resisting of, reality — whatever it may be…This is the reality in which we live. And this is why all efforts to escape from the grimness of the present into nostalgia for a still intact past, or into the anticipated oblivion of a better future, are vain.”

 Arendt, Hannah, The Origins of Totalitarianism, (Orlando, Austin, New York, San Diego, London: Harcourt, Brace Jovanovich, 1973), 2

[ecnseaclay]

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The pod hit the surface of the ocean with a thump sending a wall of white water high into the air and splattering the onlookers, stood on the deck of the Katiana, with a cold shower of droplets. Dr Hunter could just about hear the muffled cheers and claps of the people on board. He made his final checks to make sure everything was in order and that the air locks were functioning and then began his descent. He took one last glance at the Katiana and his fellow colleagues on board, before being swallowed by the ocean. He had waited a long time for this moment. Hours of research as well as having to convince the committee for research funding. He had spent 18 months preparing everything needed for the voyage from locating the best spot for the dive to putting together a crew for the boat. It wasn’t a cheap project but if all went to plan he would become one of the first people ever to see the infamous giant squid in its natural habitat. Just then a voice crackled through the intercom,

“Everything alright down there Dr Hunter?” said the voice.

“Yes everything seems to be working as planned captain, how are things on the surface?”

“Oh yes, very good. Suns shining, the sea’s not too choppy, we couldn’t have picked a better day” the captain exclaimed.

Captain Takahashi was a short man in his 60’s. He had grown up in a seaside town in Japan and became a professor in marine biology later in life. He was a friendly man and had jumped at the chance to be a part of the project. He and his men had worked long and hard to make this whole thing possible.

“Excellent news!” replied Dr Hunter “Could you put Tabatha on?”

Tabatha was a PHD student who had worked with Dr Hunter on his project from the start. She was an excellent student, always enthusiastic and always smiling.

“How’s everything going down there sir?” came her voice from the intercom a few moments later.

“Oh everything seems to be going to plan, I just wanted to thank you again for all your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.” Dr Hunter said.

“That’s great sir! Hope it’s not too scary for you down there” she laughed “see you in a few hours. If you’re lucky there might be some beers left. Good luck.”

The pod had descended so far it had started to get dark at this point and the doctor glanced at the depth meter to his right. The dial read the depth as just past 1300m. The descent continued and it wasn’t long before the only light came from the small flashing lights and a small screen displaying the infrared camera views from the front and rear of the pod. All they were displaying at the moment were small specs of debris that whizzed past as the pod dropped ever deeper. A while later the dial showing depth hit 2000m and gave a small beep that pierced the silence. Dr Hunter took his eyes off the camera screen and clicked a switch on the control panel. This opened a small valve on a capsule attached to the rear of the pod and the contents began to billow out as a creamy cloud. It was made up of blended squid that the giant squid is known to feed on. The hope was that any giant squid in the area would smell this mix and come to investigate. The pod eventually came to a halt at 2800 meters deep. It was almost pitch black and eerily quiet now. The doctor sat alone in his pod, the only thing connecting him to the rest of the world above the surface being the radio to the Katiana.

3 hours had past and Dr Hunter blinked at his watch in shock. It hadn’t felt like 3 hours. His heart had been beating with excitement and anticipation and the time had flown by. His eyes felt dry from staring at the screen in front of him, waiting for something to appear. He gave a disheartened sigh. He only had 2 hours before the oxygen reserves would start running low and he would have to make his ascent back up into the light. He was beginning to lose hope of seeing a giant squid in the wild. All this work, all this preparation for nothing. He dreaded rising to the surface and seeing the disappointed faces of the people aboard the Katiana. He rubbed his eyes.

“No.” he said aloud to the empty silence, shaking his head as he did so. He was not about to give up. He had waited so long for this. He wouldn’t get another chance. He focused his gaze back on the screen, praying that something would appear. Just then the speaker for the radio began to crackle. He looked round at it, listening closely to try to make out a voice.

“Hello?” he said into the radio microphone “Captain Takahashi, can you hear me?”

There was no reply. The radio just continued to crackle. Perhaps it could not receive signal this deep down, “it should be able to, it cost enough.” He thought to himself. The crackling began to get louder and louder until it was almost unbearable then just as suddenly as it started, it went silent. He hoped everything was okay on the surface. It was a big risk for him to be down here and even the smallest fault could mean catastrophy.

Dr Hunter turned back to the screen feeling slightly unsettled. As he did so he could have sworn he saw a shape move suddenly out of view. He leaned closer, his heart pounding with excitement, scanning the darkness for anything of interest. Could this be it? The unsettled feeling in his stomach was gone, the crackling from the radio, forgotten about. As he looked he could have sworn he could see things appearing then sinking back into the gloomy depths. He rubbed his eyes again and took a sip from his water bottle, trying not to take his eyes off the screen. Was he seeing things? He wondered. Then he saw it, in the top right hand corner of the screen. A shape in the darkness. It seemed to be coming straight towards the pod but it didn’t look like a giant squid. It looked like… no, it couldn’t be he told himself. His mind was playing tricks on him surely? He looked out the port hole to see if he could make out anything through the darkness. It was pitch black. He looked back at the screen. The figure was gone. The unsettled feeling was back. He felt sick to his stomach and sweat drenched him. He didn’t care about the squid anymore. He just wanted to be out of this cramped little box and back on dry land in the sunshine, sharing a beer with Tabatha. He turned to the control panel, ready to set the pod for the ascent. That was when he heard it. A gentle scraping on the side of the pod. Dr Hunter froze, sweating profusely now. Staring at the spot where the noise was coming from. Then another noise, even more terrifying than the first and this time coming from the other side of the pod. Three short, clear knocks. Shaking he keyed in the code for the ascent into the control panel. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. The lights behind the keypad flickered and then went out dousing the pod in complete, impenetrable darkness. Panicking the doctor fumbled for a flash light behind the seat. Switching it on, he shone it at the rear port hole. He scanned the water for any movement. It was completely silent once again. He felt trapped and alone, like he was lost deep in space. He turned around to shine the torch out of the front porthole. He cried out in terror. There, pressed against the glass, was a pale, wrinkled hand with long, grimy fingernails. Without even having to think about it Dr Hunter pulled the backup power lever praying it would work. It did. The hand was gone from the porthole now. The doctor wasted no time keying in the code for the ascent. Incredibly this time it worked. A comforting whirring sound came from the engine of the pod as it began to rise back up to the surface. He was sick onto his lap and the floor in front of him. Tears were streaming out of his eyes. He almost couldn’t bring himself to look back at the screen in fear of what he might see. When he finally did, there was nothing to be seen. Dr Hunter wondered to himself, had he imagined it all? Could it have possibly been brought on by the silence and isolation and the never ending darkness. He grabbed the radio mic.

“Hello? Captain? Are you there? Can you hear me? Can anybody hear me?”

There was no response. He tried again. There was still nothing. After some time it began to get light and the pod was getting closer to the surface. He had been trying the radio nonstop but there was still no response. He still felt sick and his hands were still clammy with sweat. The smell of his vomit filled his nose making him feel even more nauseous. His mind was racing. Was it real? What was it? Was he safe yet? He knew one thing for sure. If he got out of this he was never returning to the sea again. He didn’t care if people thought he was crazy. Just then the pod burst through the surface of the water. The sun was now hidden by storm clouds but it had not begun raining and the sea was still calm. He looked through the front portal and there it was. The Katiana. Bobbing gently on the waves, the white hull almost glowing. It was a welcoming site and for the first time since beginning the ascent Dr Hunter felt safe but then as he looked closer he could see something wasn’t right. Where was the crew? They should be eagerly waiting aboard for his return. He could just make out something red running down the side of the pearly white hull. It was blood. That was when he heard it again…

Knock. Knock. Knock.