#poets elixir

[persephoneshellhounds]

My Chest, Unearthed

Published in Issue Six: Daughterhood of Astraea Zine

My mother’s white, quiet patience sways, tantalizing before me like a well-lit crystal chandelier in my grandmother’s house. I never take a bite of it, an ever so-careful child, my grandmother used to fondly describe me, a picky eater; I never grew bigger than I used to be — still so small and scrawny, a shivering child left crying in our bahay kubo, awaiting my mother’s return. She comes home and laughs at my innocent anxiety.

It is a promised heirloom, it seems, my mother’s white, quiet patience — well-kept in my late grandmother’s bedroom where my father can never find for his hands to choke and tear like an old 90s letter — I was in her womb and he was in Egypt down with the mummified pharaohs; she sent him poems and I got a tiny glass pyramid, a snow of gold dust I spun it — turned it upside down until it broke, bathing me golden like a tiny sun. I hid in my late aunt’s room, next to my mother’s mute patience, it spills like milk, drenches like tears, blinds like a ray of light.

I can never inherit my mother’s patience but I wear her skin now; twenty years, I have grown bigger, taller and her sorrows and regrets fit me well like a brown, fur coat, a pocket full of resentment, of repressed aching, of fingers numb from writing poems; my mother was a poet, I know this now; my father — an ordinary man, his chest is a hollow chamber in a pyramid far, far away in Giza. Sometimes, I think he’s still there, lying next to pharaohs for all of perpetuity. Sometimes, I think I have inherited his mystery his tendency to perplex the eye, like a pyramid of secrets and secrets, the archaeologists have given up after unearthing empty chambers after empty chambers, Maybe there is nothing here to see but dead, young, unloving bones next to earthworms burrowing on my mother’s poems.

I can never inherit my mother’s patience; sometimes I think she has left her aching somewhere in our bahay kubo, in my dollhouse, perhaps, and I have picked it up like a spiral seashell, like Barbie’s tiny suitcase looking pretty in glitter, swallowed in a single gulp, it’s still here inside me, growing and poking and tearing and disfiguring, I refuse to spit it out. How do I carry it when she herself has not? I scratch my limbs at the injustice.

My mother’s white, quiet patience sits in Lola Glo’s room, like a ghost that never haunts but I wish it did — sometimes, I still wait for damning screams, for broken windows, for love poems burning in hell for its sins, taking me down with them. Sometimes, I still wait for her to leave like a Macedonian queen fleeing Egypt and never coming back.

Then, I would have nothing to carry, nothing to wear, nothing to ache for at starless nights — no poems to open and seal like a stone entrance to a pharaoh’s chamber. My mother’s white, quiet patience is an unlit crystal chandelier, a few feet on top of my head. I laugh and spin like a tornado, like a mad girl, swinging and raising my arms like I was five — I hit and shatter everything in sight then blame it on the fairies. I eat the fine, hand-cut, polished crystals, I bleed poison on my tongue, and my mother is Cleopatra nowhere to be found.

Everything is an accident, even my intentional carelessness, now paper-white and porcelain-clean. Everything is forgiven, even my father’s loud, beer-laced cruelty, even my hands, closed in a fist. My mother’s smile was bright and comforting, but everything is an earthworm feeding on her poems. And every poem is a poem till it rots

beneath a far-off, sun-swept Egypt.

— Fray Narte

[env0writes]

I ache I wake I take What I can and do it all again I wake I take I ache Every day like a habit I take I ache I wake At least I’m still rising Like the sun arriving, I’m surviving.

NaNoWriMo Vol. 4, 11.19.24 “Chronological Disorder”

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists!

[jaxwrites]

ghosts take 2(working title)

i'm staunching a wound with sandpaper

i last saw this red a few lifetimes ago

on a letter from a friend

hoping to be my lover

i recognized them in my new city a month ago

i'm not sure they recognized me

i'm catching raindrops on my umbrella

and watching the rocks on the walkway darken

the way an old soulmate and i did

while pursuing a promise to a pal

i think i thought i saw them here, too

i think i saw them dart away, but i was trying not to watch

my new city has a fencing gym

a once-upon-a-time brother might be training at

we'd meant to learn the art of stabbing together

if he's gotten good enough

i might let him try on me some time

one can mourn the past without wishing to return to it

and darling, i'm dawning

i am living a lifetime now

and my partner reminds me

that i am not who i have been

and it hurts like a quick band-aid

tears me from my past lives

he is teaching me to repot

with a succulent an old one gave me

the cactus has outlived him

and i intend to keep it that way

my sister on my telephone rings

and tells me about things i have been

by way of things she is

it is sunshine to know that my old selves are not dead

it's just not my turn to live them anymore

i am in mourning for my life

i am in morning of my life

i am drinking in the moonlight

and soaking in the sunlight

and dripping with the rain

and drying with the blood

and i am finding the way i will be

[phinexa-rose]

I'm not proud of my anger; not when most of it is my father's.

But I wield it nonetheless...it is useful sometimes.

But I fear this is what he had thought, when he was in my place, and saw his father's anger.

That's the thing about anger-

it never stays with one person.

It always breaches out and infects.

If one person is angry, surely and slowly, everyone is angry.

Or hurt.

There are two options, two reactions to an angry person;

You are angry or you are hurt

You either hurt or you hurt

Nothing good comes of anger

Someone in the end, always gets hurt.

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

Hi! So, I was wondering if you could come up with some headcanons for how the main bachelors and the wizard would help the farmer in the mines? I'm not sure if that makes 100% sense, but I had this idea yesterday that if Elliot were to end up in the mines he'd probably try and act all chivalrous, but he wouldn't be much help with combat 🤷‍♀️

Hey hey👋 That's a pretty funny scenario, and you described Elliott pretty much how I imagine our poet in that situation 😄

Thank you for the ask, and enjoy! ❤️

_____________________________

SDV bachelors (+ The Wizard) as Farmer's helpers on the Mines trip

Elliott:

Elliott will walk ahead of Farmer, unarmed but full of courage and thirst for adventure, loudly proclaiming that "he will protect a friend/partner!"

Admittedly, the writer's bravado will last until a large monster fly lands on his shoulder. A soul-crushing scream in three, two, one...

Not the best helper to carry the items needed for survival. He can certainly carry a couple elixirs and a first aid kit, but giving him a bag with loot or a steel sword won't work - too heavy.

In administering first aid to an injured Farmer... uh, not so good either. Sorry, Elliott.

But what a morale booster! Elliott will definitely brighten up their adventure with some his new poems!

And what a great story Elliott will write about his adventures with Farmer! (Maybe embellish the story a bit that he was the one standing bravely with sword, heh...)

Sam:

Sam can be someone who can play cheerful music on the guitar during a trip to the Mines, and with the same guitar to give a monster a bash on the head (he has enough strength).

He doesn't want to ruin a musical instrument though, and it's not as effective as a sword and dagger anyway. Fortunately, he has no problem carrying around relatively light weapons.

Sammy is quite capable of covering his friend/lover's back, lest there be an ambush.

Although, Sam will often be distracted ("ooh, look at the gems on the wall!", "oh, a real slime", "wow, a shadow man- woah! and with a crossbow!")

But he also feel bad attacking some monsters, especially shadow people.

Farmer doesn't have to worry about provisions, as the guitarist always carries snacks and goodies (usually it's mini pizzas or chocolate bars, but oh well, it's better than nothing.)

Harvey:

Harvey is still in complete shock at how he ended up with Farmer in the Mines, in this dangerous place. And yet here he is - with a huge first-aid kit in his hands and trembling knees.

The doctor is perfect in the healer role, and will instantly give first aid to Farmer, whether it's a serious wound or not.

But to defend Farmer, or even himself, with a dagger... I'm sorry, but Harvey doesn't have the guts.

And to be honest, the constant stress and fear of being attacked by a slime or something worse can prevent him from helping Farmer as a doctor too.

What Harvey definitely succeeds at is grabbing Farmer by the arm so they can both get the hell out of the place!

Hopefully, Farmer will compensate his friend for this "adventure," because Harvey is going to need a lot of sedation after this. And a vacation.

Sebastian:

Surprisingly, Sebastian had made himself an obsidian dagger not just to have a beautiful thing - he had practiced defending himself because he wanted to return to the Mines.

Yes, to return, but after that incident with the stone crab emo realized that there was no way to do it without a weapon. And since it just so happened that his friend/lover also wanted to go to Mines, why not together.

Farmer will definitely be surprised that Sebby can defend himself quite well against weak monsters without their help. With the ice levels starting, though, the local emo will definitely have a hard time.

Not the most athletic, but can carry a small bag of loot and a couple of elixirs.

For someone who isn't adventurous, Sebastian is quite a nice sidekick to Farmer's adventures.

Alex:

Considering how athletic and strong Alex is, he can hold even a hammer without much difficulty and drive monsters away from Farmer with his weapon.... it would seem at first glance.

In fact, when the athlete and Farmer met their first opponent in the Mines, Alex doesn't know how to use weapons properly and used... his bare hands. A couple right hooks and the monster fly is defeated!

Yeah, except it doesn't work with other monsters.

But Alex is the perfect candidate to help Farmer carry all the loot, if there is no more room for ore or gems in their backpack. However, in this case Alex will have his hands full of bags of loot, and even self-defense is out of the question. It all depends on Farmer now.

The inhabitants of the Mines are scary, but Alex won't be so easily scared. Moreover, he won't leave his friend/partner here alone.

Shane:

"We're fucked," were Shane's first thoughts as he and Farmer arrived.

Chicken man had agreed to become Farmer's assistant, as they promised good pay, and he thought it couldn't get any worse than his job working for a Joja.co. Wrong.

Shane, as it turns out, is surprisingly good with a sword. Though that had more to do with his desire not to die here and trying to survive. Don't expect much in the way of first aid either - Shane knows some basic rules, like dealing with scratches, that's all.

Carrying a bag of loot... What is he, a mule for Farmer?

Shane was torn between wanting to get out of here as soon as possible and not wanting to leave his friend alone, even though that idiot Farmer was the reason Shane was in this hellhole.

He'll take some of the loot as a reward and never go to the Mines again, nope. Yeah, not a really good helper...

The Wizard:

Rasmodius is perfect for the role of Farmer's partner during their adventures in the Mines.

The Wizard is able to cast fireballs at enemies, heal all of Farmer's wounds, and teleport them and himself back outside if their quest is over.

There is one small nuance though.... Rasmodius won't work for free.

Yes, you heard him right, because he's wasting his time here in the dark Mines, even though he should be in his tower making elixirs from solar essences.

What? "His duty to protect the Valley"? He's doing it - keeping monsters out of the Pelican Town. The Mines are the responsibility of the Guild, and so is Farmer's.

For his services as a battle wizard, Rasmodius will ask for some gems and monster loot that he and Farmer will find in their adventures - it will definitely be needed for his spells and potions. Quite expensive, but it's worth it.

[dabi-drift]

Margarette Macaron x Reader (Mashle: Magic and Muscles):

Margarette is sure that to love you is the human condition. And when they love, they're love incarnate; it's in all that they do and they can never be unwed. Because they were a chrysalis before they met you, and now they're a butterfly. Because now their favourite sound is the beating of a heart in love.

You inspire them, and when they compose for you, it's so intimate. They can feel you in every note.

And sometimes they let you choose the keys, but it's another excuse to have your hands in theirs, to have you on their lap and in their arms.

They're a poet born of love, and every compliment is a quote from Cupid's bible. It's like your love has a script, like you're written for each other, because even if the lovers aren't perfect, the words are.

Sometimes they want to be the maiden, and you're the knight with the strength to make them swoon. You pick the fights and they patch your wounds. You're a power couple, but you make them feel weak - and not just at the knees.

When they watch you fight, they know they want to share their life with you. They can see a thousand futures, but not a one without you.

They thought they'd loved before, but when they met you, they knew they'd been wrong. Because now the love songs make sense, and forever doesn’t seem so long.

The day they fell in love with you, they felt complete, and now they have more thoughts of you than the sky has stars. And even when school separates you, they count the minutes until you'll meet again.

If truth can be found in fables, then your kiss is their elixir of life. With one, they'll never age; with one a day, they'll never die. They kiss your cheeks in public, and your lips in private. They kiss you when they think about how much they love you today, and how much more they'll love you tomorrow.

They swear that no-one's ever been happier in love; or that a love without you is a love that isn't true.

[misterpoet333]

the sound of her feet climbing the stairs

i open the door before she knocks

her sleepy smile and squinty eyes

telling me all i need to know

her fragile frame inside mine is a force

as strong as nature

she leans on me as we head to the kitchen

for evening shade and sharing a fresh cup

her favorite elixir

�� Khadijah Karaca

[srbachchan]

DAY 5916

Jalsa, Mumbai Apr 29, 2024 Mon 10:13 PM

🪔.. April 29 .. birthday greetings to Ef Pawan Kumar .. and Ef Raj (The Noble Master) .. ❤️🙏🏻🚩

🪔 .. April 30 .. birthday greetings to Ef Shatha Jarrar .. 🙏🏻🚩❤️

💐 .. Wedding anniversary greetings to Ef Madhvi .. for April 30 .. 🙏🏻🚩❤️

What to see and what to 'see' ... a difference ..

You may go to a known place to see , but do you actually 'see' ..

Often you go to see the place to be able to say you saw the place .. but never did understand the 'see'

Poets, scientists, philosophers when they 'see' , the brightening in their eyes conveys the 'see' .. that 'see' is never found in the eyes of the others that went to see ..

What could possibly be the inspiration for them that went to see .. they visit, move about its circumference or its periphery and come away ..

There is an 'art' to be able to enjoy 'art' .. 'The art of appreciation' .. something that is achieved through education and research ..

When the one that truly understand art stands before it, that is when 'वो अपने को मुक्त रूप से उघारती है' .. it frees us of our self ..

( or if there are other Hindi knowledged to explain that sentence ) ..

It will be wrong to say that art is available to all in similar vein ..' केवल अधिकारी उसको देखता पाता उसका रस लेता' one that is entitled to authority can enjoy its true elixir .. 'उसका रस लेता है' ..

And no .. this is not the mind of your Blogomaesrta .. it be his Babuji's .. from his Diary of the years he spent in Cambridge for his PhD ..

'प्रवास की डायरी' .. a diary written on a journey away from home ..

The prolific standard and mind and nature of Babuji is beyond understanding and acclaim ..

2 years to finish with honour and recognition a PhD in English Literature on a dissertation that read 'WB Yeats and Occultism' .. Yeats the famous Irish poet .. and while there in Cambridge wrote about 200 poems in Hindi and a Diary every day .. now in print along with his other encyclopedic work called 'Pravas ki Diary' ..

The expressions and thoughts on art be a small mention on one of the pages of the Diary, when he talks of the visit of some of his friends from India on a visit to England who wished to see Cambridge .. and their reactions on the time when he took them to see some of the renowned Universities of the land .. they saw, to be able to say they saw Cambridge .. but never understood the depth of the visits to these prolific educational institutions , nor bothered to stand on its grounds to breathe the air of the enlightened minds that erupted from there ...

Each page of his works, his writing his paragraphs his elaborate philosophical poetic vision, are not seeking reward or award .. they elucidate that which you and me and many others like me may never have thought or desired ..

Reward and Award .. !!!???

AAHHH .. someday they shall be written about here, on my impressions ..

BUT NO !

perhaps never .. it would be too autobiographical ..

Self aggrandizement be something that I run away from ..

why ?

When there are such prolific stratospheric human minds to fill the pages with the letter 'I' .. who am i .. it be a deliberate low case 'i' and not a typo ..

I have no 'i' ..

My love

Amitabh Bachchan

.. the mind that researched and designed the prolific structures, above, albeit in imagination, were beyond the thinking and power of the minute human figure that is seen in the drawing ..

ab

[shamanfox]

The Journey Back to Self

I went away for a while, as often I must,

Through corridors that laugh at time and space,

Hallucinating reality.

First, I wondered, was I ever present

In the past? On childhood’s playground,

Where I turned bullies into

Beautiful, gingered, all-American fathers—

Bass catching, hog shooting,

Sweet tenderness.

My awkward child watched in awe,

Twisting her hair at the base

Of a great pine tree, her world

Of Father, Mother, Baby

Wrapped in a web of glory—

A daydream far better

Than the confusing ass-whipping

Awaiting her at home.

She smiled as I imparted wisdom,

A wink, from the lakes of California,

Where the ginger-souled angel smiled too.

I traveled to a surreal future,

Where the great cauldron of dreams

Stirred and brewed the elixir

Of all my prayers.

The teachings of old ways,

Yeastless, broken bread—

Mystical, radical mind schemes,

Each one post-haste to dot every “I”.

But there is only one eye,

In this hurricane of blood,

Where every mundane day

Is rectified by chaos,

Beyond reasoning, pleading

With full moon mania.

Near the end, frenzy drifts

Into silence, as my eyes fog over

Into child-poet carelessness,

Speaking words of love

In mixed bouquets of wildflowers—

Which sometimes are seen as weeds.

Until my tears flee to the rooftop,

Where sun-gazing awakens me,

To see something I have missed—

Myself. It seems I have just missed myself.

I return now, my suitcase

At the door, until Venus calls

Or Pleiades…

[markrosewater]

In case anyone was curious about how many Lay of the Land cards are in green:

Mono-Green: 58 Analyze the Pollen Attune with Aether Borderland Ranger Boseiju Reaching Skyward Brave the Wilds Bushwack Caravan Vigil Civic Wayfinder Cultivate District Guide Druid of the Emerald Grove Elfhame Sanctuary Evolution Charm Flare of Cultivation Flourishing Bloom-Kin Fork in the Road Gaea's Bounty Gatecreeper Vine Greenseeker Herd Migration Horizon Seeker hunting Cheetah Journey for the Elixir Journey of Discovery Kodama's Reach Krosan Tusker Kura, the Boundless Sky Land Grant Lay of the Land Many Partings Nervous Gardener Nissa's Encouragement Nissa's Pilgrimage Nissa's Triumph Nissa, Vastwood Seer Nylea's Intervention Open the Gates Outcaster Greenblade Peregrination Realm Seekers Realms Uncharted Reclaim the Wastes Rites of Spring Seek the Horizon Shard Convergence Spinewoods Armadillo Spirit of the Aldergard Sprouting Vines Sylvan Ranger Sylvan Scrying The Huntsman's Redemption Thirsting Roots Trail of Mystery Traverse the Ulvenwald Verdant Mastery Vorinclex Yavimaya Elder You Happen On a Glade

Green featuring another colour: 7 Dig Up Flower // Flourish Huatli, Poet of Unity Invasion of Ergamon (flipped to Truga Cliffcharger) Path to the World Tree Safewright Quest Yasharn, Implacable Earth

Un-cards: 3 Selfie Preservation (Un-card) Spirit of the Season (Un-card) Wild Crocodile (Un-card)

(everyone feel free to add any that I've missed!)

FYI

[fallingicarus111]

Poem no. 22.

Porcia.

Your eyes have the sorrows of your mother,

The sorrow that Van Gogh could never

Weep onto his mottled canvas.

The sorrow that floods a poet

To the soothing Cliffs of Moher

Where he, drenched in your scarlet wine,

Endeavours to measure the horizon

Of your unearthed thoughts.

The sorrow that once kissed me on my forehead,

Igniting every bit of my verdancy.

The green palpebra, turning into red ambers,

Fell onto me like gentle snow,

There I found the warmth of your sorrow,

That sorrow made me fall in love

With the person, that I saw through

The veil of your tinted smile.

Though It was forbidden to see that anguished beauty,

I was the Adam, fallen out of Eden.

I poured the elixir onto my blue heart;

The elixir of your sorrow that bloomed the red rose,

Whose petals gave birth

To my own beloved sorrow.

.

.

.

~NØiR.

.

.

.

Art work --- 'April Love'.

Artist --- Arthur Hughes.

.

.

.

[persephoneshellhounds]

i have settled down to missing you

photo screencapped from: days of heaven (1978) // dir. terrence malick

[env0writes]

Romance was never my strong suit I fell like a fool down a flight of stairs And honey, my darling, my dear– There are plenty of flights of fancy For me to fall from this Tower of Babel There is no keen way for me to share this That upon the briefest of utterances Shared, again – and again Remarkable – How swiftly feelings of importance arise And how swiftly one falls Like the morning star – reluctant in hope of man I fall Like Icarus, scared of the coldness of the sea Fearful of the heat of the sun Disobedient to my mind, my man-made god To my fancy, I fall Not because I am above you But to humble myself Before you

NaNoWriMo Vol. 4, 11.24.24 “D0ll Off the Shelf”

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists!

[jaxwrites]

a cup of you

i've been teaching myself to make coffee which is to say i've been waking up at weird hours to those who sleep at strange hours

which is to say i've been reverse engineering how you make coffee which is to say i think i saw you french press once and i've never been to pouring school but the rituals keeps us sane it's been a long-time coming anyway

have you ever made coffee from a machine? it's easy, in a bogus kind of way which is to say it's convenient but kind of scary you've got to pour your water into a space that looks very much like it isn't connected to anything and you've got to pour it quickly

which is to say it's strange and high pressure in the way that kitchens often are

the first time i had to get up for a real job after years of staying up all night and leaving bed when i'd liked i purchased a hot chocolate with a shot of espresso

which is to say i wanted familiar and needed a change

and i bought coffee and i bought coffee and i bought coffee and i did not care for the machine and the french press wasn't for me but i think i saw you pour over once

so i've been learning to make coffee which is to say i've been waking up with a cup of you

[ozimagines]

hello again!, i love what you did with my theatrical hot take, now i really am gonna request something (lets push some creative boundries for the giggles and funsies why not)

Id love the idea that the reader (im female and from the south) is the new fileholder/book keeper for the EM city ward, and who also happens to be an actual witch (think stevie nicks, practical magic) and she keeps a low profile until chucky and miguel catch her doing something witchy (levetating, casting fireballs, etc), and after figuring out how much of an upper hand it would be to have, it becomes a rediculous competition between the latinos and the italians to "schmooze the witch" and have her work for their gangs (probably would be set in the first/second seasons)

as i said, its weird, its out there, but its funny and its fanfiction, we can do whatever we want in this rhealm, thanks if you can make this hilarious oddness come to life

Oh I absolutely love this one! I’m pagan irl and am into Stregheria, or Italian-American magick. It’s an interesting history and one I’d love to get into on here. I’m gonna set it in season 2 but most of the season 1 characters are still alive. That way we get the characters we love mixed in. It’s gonna be very much out there and a little zanier than my regular fics but this could be funnnnnn…

Witch!Reader x Oz Guys

Wonderful Witch of Oz (1/?)

You’d just started as the librarian’s assistant at the Oswald State Correctional Facility.

It felt like a lifetime and two minutes all rolled into one.

The Oz guys seemed to like your presence enough, even if they were lewd about showing how.

One that jumps out at you was Poet, making rhymes about how he’d ‘like to see you moan and grunt and let a brotha paint the inside of your…’ you get the picture.

That wangler kid wasn’t any better, seeming to talk a bigger game than he could offer.

You shook your head. Kid was a Virgo Venus if you’d ever met one.

You didn’t mention that in your interview. That you could basically read people’s star charts just by their actions. You had an idea of what Rising Capricorn Tim McManus would think about that.

You also didn’t mention that you had more spices in your cabinet than actual food, and made yourself elixirs depending on what you needed for the day. Didn’t mention the black mallow tea that started your day.

You didn’t mention that you collect rocks and crystals and shells like a magpie hoarding some imagined wealth. Didn’t mention the aegirine pendant on your neck was to clear uncertainty from your path, nor that the abalone shell in your pocket was for tranquility.

You didn’t mention the tarot cards in your jacket that you checked before you entered that was immediately flipped to the Hierophant. Didn’t mention the black and white feather you found on the way in signifying change. Didn’t mention the angel number you’d seen before you entered, 444, the protector.

Okay so there was a lot you didn’t mention in your interview.

What you did say was the truth; you were happy to be there, and to be of any help you could be.

You were hired as the librarian, which you were happy enough to get, the vellichor alone being enough to satiate you.

You had some immediate regulars, like a quiet and pensive Bob Rebadow, or a blunt Augustus Hill.

You’re nice enough to any of them, not acknowledging any of the trinkets in your pockets meant to guide you through these strange halls of Oz.

Wizard of Oz, it made you laugh a little.

The most you had alluded to it came with Adebisi, who had come strutting through the door like he owned the place, smiling and making suggestive gestures at you. Saying something in Yoruba;

“Mo dupe lowo Egungun-Oya fun o loni, bẹẹni?” (I better thank Egungun-Oya for you today, yeah?)

Egungun-Oya is a Yoruba Goddess of Fate

You reply back, without thinking;

“O yoo ṣe daradara lati dupẹ lọwọ rẹ lojoojumọ.” (You would do well to thank her every day.)

His eyes go big and he stares at you like he’s seen some sort of ghost, walking away from you with wary expressions.

It made you go red. You weren’t supposed to understand Yoruba or the Orishas. You kept your head down for the rest of the morning.

You’d seen Peter Schibetta and Chucky Pancamo talking to the side in rapid Sicilian.

“Chi diavulu è stu novu bibbliotecariu?” (Who the hell is this new librarian?)

“Sugnu Y/N. Piaciri di canuscìriti.” (I’m Y/N, pleasure to meet you.)

Again, you weren’t meant to understand, but the Italians reacted a little better.

“Eyyy, you’re a paisan?”

“Not exactly, no.” You give them a couple of book recommendations, handing Peter a copy of Omertà by Mario Puzo, leaving them both confused.

You meet Cyril, a sweet soul with a glowing aura. He compliments your ‘rock necklace’ and you smile and thank him, pulling a piece of citrine out of your pocket and handing it to him.

“Oh… thank you.” He turns the stone over and over in his hand, smiling at it like a little secret you shared.

“It’s to bring light and joy into your life, Cyril. Remember to thank Demeter when you carry it.”

“Ok…” he looks up at the sky. “Thank you Demeter.”

It makes you giggle.

Miguel Alvarez and Chico Guerra also came in, to “Mira qué bombón” (check out the hottie)

You smirk and decide to freak them out as you had everyone else;

“Gracias cariños…” (thanks sweethearts…)

Miguel immediately got suspicious whereas Chico makes some goofy grin and comes up to you, gesturing at his crotch. The CO shuts it down before it can get too interesting.

When the end of the day came, you started to put things back where they belonged. The CO usually standing guard had long left, most of the prisoners being locked in their cells at this point. You relax a little, taking off your jacket and sifting through the pockets, reaching for your hag stone. You don’t expect to see much from the library, maybe a few auras or spooks, but as you look through, you see a man standing before you. A tall black man. You look without the stone and see nothing. You put it back up to your eye and see the man still.

“Hello. Who might you be?” You ask, eye still to the stone.

“You can see me?” The man asked, touching his body like he had not been of this world in some time.

“With my hag stone, sure. It shows me the spirit world. You used to live here, right?”

“My name’s Jefferson Keane. I was executed here last year.”

“Oh goodness, Jefferson Keane, it is you. I saw you on the news. I’m sorry they put you to death.” You comfort, still peering through the hole in your hag stone. “I don’t know if this is too personal, but do you know what kind of a spirit you are?”

“I’m a personification of Azrael.”

“An Angel of Death, huh? Fascinating. You don’t mind my asking some questions, do you? I’ve only ever happened upon Shinigami and Anubis personifications before. You were Muslim, yes?” You try not to come off too excited given the circumstances of his being there but you couldn’t help the wonder in your eyes.

“When I was reborn, yes. In the before life, no.” He spoke like some old poetry book you’d read in school. “Now, I do have some questions for you.”

“Ok, shoot.”

“Can you take a message to Kareem Said for me?”

“I could but I’m afraid they’d come off as insane ramblings. What kind of message did you have in mind?” You ask, being very patient. You’d learned not to rush the Angels of Death. They could get a little moody.

“Allah says to remember Ihsan, and when the ways torrential, use it for cover.”

“Ihsan… that means ‘to do good’ right? ‘Live by excellence’? I remember because its secondary meaning is ‘to create beauty’. I think that’s lovely; that doing good and creating beauty are in the same word.” You put your hand out to take his, and he shakes it, tenderly.

“I’ll be seeing you again?” You ask the air around you, and he smiles.

“I’ll be here.”

“Thank you for all you do. Guiding souls. It can’t be easy, but we appreciate you.”

“Thank you. Truly.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Keane!” You take the stone down, and turn back into your work, knowing the Angel of Death would be watching over you as you did so.

Unbeknownst to you, there was a presence in the doorway, watching you. It was Peter, watching with a quiet gasp at the realization of what you were doing.

His mother in law had been La Strega; the witch of the neighborhood. He knew about those that cavorted with the spirits beyond.

You could just he crazy, he repeated to himself. But then how had you known to talk to Jefferson Keane? It puzzled him, and his father had taught him better than to show all his cards before he knew what to do with the hand. He slunk away on the back wall, trying not to alert you that he was there.

You showed up the next day, ready for the hours to come. You still had to figure out how to give Kareem Said the message without seeming like a crazy person. Fuck, if Glynn knew half of the things you did or believed then you’d be locked up right alongside these men for insanity.

Cyril came bounding up to you the next day. Ryan wasn’t far behind, eying you with a little suspicion.

“Thank you for the pretty rock.”

“Of course, Cyril.

“Yeah, thanks for giving that to my brother. I got a question though.”

“Okay?”

“Why the fuck did you give that to my brother?”

“It’s a talisman-“

“A what?”

You take a deep breath.

“A good luck charm. You’re Irish, you get it.”

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.” He threw his hands up and shook his head. “But Cyril doesn’t get too many presents in here, y’know so I just gotta be cautious.”

“Understandable. Would you like me to help Cyril find a book?”

He tells you sure and you go off with Cyril, catching two pairs of eyes as you went. One was Peter Schibetta’s, and you honestly couldn’t have known what he knew about you. The second was Miguel Alvarez, talking judiciously to Chico in the corner, both with books open pretending to read.

“Look, something’s up with this librarian.”

“Sure it’s not ‘something’s up with Miguel about the librarian’,” Chico snorted, before clarifying; “like a boner, man.”

Miguel rubbed his temples.

“Look, just keep an eye on ‘em today, would ya?”

Chico nodded, and Miguel went back to eying you suspiciously. He watched as you got something out of the inner pocket of your jacket. Something fell out. It was a card. At first he thought it was a playing card but only upon further inspection did he see that the card had a tower on it with flames coming off. A single, ominous name headlined it; “The Tower”. It fell so it was reversed to you, and you pick it up quickly and put it back with its family.

A sudden thud of a chair leg against the floor alerted you to Miguel’s wandering eyes. You smile innocently enough, but he doesn’t buy it for a second. You go over to him.

“Jesus, Miguel, you’re looking at me like I’m La ciguapa or something.”

(Dominican folk story about a woman with backwards feet who lure men into the woods.)

“That’s another thing, how the fuck do you know la ciguapa?”

You’re taken a little off guard.

“I like reading, that’s all.”

“And that’s how you learned Spanish?”

“Yea-“

“And Italian and whatever the fuck Adebisi speaks.”

“…Yoruba.”

“I don’t give a shit!” Miguel raised his voice a little and lowered it when it looked like a CO was coming over. “It’s fuckin’ weird.”

“Sorry,” you answer a little dejectedly, shifting from foot to foot. “I don’t mean to come off some type of way. I just… I do a lot of cultural reading. Cheaper than a vacation, I guess.”

Miguel suddenly feels like a dick for snapping at you and settles down, his hackles still somewhat raised.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult my intelligence. What’re the odds you just happen to know fuckin’ Yoruba of all things? That you carry around crystals and those weird cards in your pocket-“

“You saw that? Which way was it facing towards you?” You ask quickly, realizing your deck may not have been trying to tell you something, but rather, tell him something.

“What do you mean, it was right side up to me-“

You pull Miguel by his arm and guide him more off to the side.

“You’re sure of that? Did anyone else see the card that you know of or just you?”

“I think I was the only one looking, what the fuck-“

“Miguel, please, I’ll explain everything to you later today. Not here but someplace more secluded. In the meantime,” you reached into your other deep pocket and pulled out a small jar, about as big as two thimbles. It had a small black feather, a small piece of obsidian and amethyst, black salt, and cinnamon in it. You hand it to him. “Please keep this on you. It should do the trick.”

“You can’t be-“

“I’ll pay you a hundred dollars if you keep this on you until I can explain.” You look over your shoulder to see if anyone is staring at you. So far, it’s still just Peter Schibetta, eyeing the transaction carefully.

“You serious?”

“As the plague, Miguel. I’ll explain everything to you when we can get a little privacy, but in the meantime just keep this jar on you.”

He assures you that he will and walks away with an uneasy stomach, wondering what on earth you were talking about.

You turn your back to him and go back to your books when you run straight into Peter Schibetta, his cold brown eyes raking you over.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to run into you, Peter-“

Your heart freezes in your chest when you see his hand. With both the pinky and the index finger straightened, he made a fist with the other three, pointing his fingers at the ground. That’s the Italian Mano cornuto, or horned hand, to protect against the malocchio, or the evil eye.

“Peter… what…?”

“Just a little protection.” He’d finally figured out what to do with his cards.

“I don’t know what you’re-“

“Tu sì na strega, veru?” (You’re a witch, aren’t you?)

“…why don’t we talk in private today after hours. You can request to see me and I’ll get Glynn to approve it.”

“Oh, he’ll approve it, I’ve got him by the balls.” He leaned into you, making sure not to raise his voice. “You were talking to Keane last night, right? The guy they executed?”

You don’t say anything, not wanting to give him any more ammunition than he already had. He nodded, having gotten what he needed anyway.

“Make the time to see each other later. I’m not gonna rat on you. I just wanna talk. Maybe reach an understanding between us. Capisce?”

“Capisciu.” (I understand.)

Holly hell were things spiraling out of control quickly.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom and begin to walk towards it, the flip flopping of your shoes matching the speeding race of your heart. You see a familiar face, but only distantly, as you know you’ve seen him on TV.

“Minister Said!” You exclaim, and he nods at you. You give him a small, panicked smile. “Remind me, I have something to tell you later.”

“Why not right now?” He smiles at you and waits for you to speak. Fuck. You hadn’t quite figured out how to say it yet.

“I was going through the Qur’an and saw a word highlighted in our library’s copy. I was meaning to ask you what it meant, in terms of spiritual meaning, of course.”

He gestured broadly to say, go ahead.

“Ihsan?”

His brows furrow and his face pales. You repeat yourself.

“It meant to do good, but a secondary meaning is to create beauty. Funny. I hadn’t thought about that in some time now.”

“I wonder what the implications of doing good and creating beauty being equated could mean?” You were trying to lead him down the path Jefferson Keane had asked of you. He paused, a slight quiver to his lip, and a profound silence filling the space between you.

“Perhaps you give me a day to reflect on that.”

“Yeah, okay, I can do that.”

You bob your head at him and turn to go to the bathroom.

Ah well. 1/3 ain’t bad.

[multifamdomfan]

Thorne Thropp

Aesthetic

Age Order:

Elphaba (oldest)

Thorne (middle)

Nessarose (youngest)

Played By: Timothée Chalamet

Sexuality: gay, transmasc , polysexual

Appearance:

Thorne is striking in that delicate, almost otherworldly way. With a slender, willowy frame and an air of ethereal intensity, he walks the line between beauty and mystery. His most distinctive feature is the vibrant streak of emerald green hair that cuts through his soft, wavy brown curls — a side effect of the same green elixir that turned Elphaba fully green. His intense green eyes seem to glow with quiet emotion, and his sharp cheekbones and jawline make his face feel sculpted like marble. His appearance leans toward the androgynous, giving him a magnetic charm that makes people unsure whether they want to fight him or fall in love.

Personality:

Thorne is quietly intense, someone who listens more than he speaks but never fades into the background. He’s observant, introspective, and deeply curious about the world. Though less outwardly rebellious than Elphaba, he shares her passion for justice and fierce independence, but his approach is subtler, more psychological than explosive. He can be a bit of a bitch but that's because he knows a lot and forgets that not everyone researches random things as much as he does which leads him to get frustrated.

He's also:

Clever and snarky, with a dry wit that sneaks up on people.

Emotionally intelligent, often the peacemaker between Elphaba and Nessa.

Fiercely loyal, especially to his sisters, even when they clash.

Not openly political, but his loyalty and quiet defiance make him dangerous to those in power.

Has a mysterious, twink energy — charming, aloof, and a little too pretty to be trusted.

Abilities:

While he wasn’t born with Nessa’s limitations or Elphaba’s full spectrum of magical potential, Thorne has a subtle and strange kind of magic: he can influence thoughts and feelings when people are emotionally vulnerable — not mind control, but more like planting an idea or tugging on someone's deepest longing. It's empathy weaponized, and he rarely uses it… unless he has to.

Other Facts:

Fashion sense: Flowy, layered clothing in deep greens, charcoals, and blacks. Loves scarves and gloves. His aesthetic is “haunted poet in a haunted castle.”

Relationship with Elphaba: They're extremely close, but constantly challenge each other. They push and pull — Elphaba is fire, Thorne is smoke.

Relationship with Nessarose: He’s protective of her, but doesn’t always agree with her beliefs. He often finds himself caught in the emotional storm between the sisters.

Hobbies: Reading banned books, writing poetry he’ll never share, wandering forests at dusk.

Backstory & Role in the Story:

Thorne Thropp is the forgotten middle child of the Thropp family. While Elphaba is branded the disappointment and Nessarose is seen as the angelic favorite, Thorne is the one their father barely acknowledges — a shadow caught between extremes, never quite seen. Desperate to be noticed, Thorne enrolled himself at Shiz University. When their father arranged for Nessarose to be dropped off by Flexspor, Thorne simply went with them — and stayed. He was never officially sent, and no one stopped him.

Thorne poured himself into academics, excelling in every subject, mastering anything he could in a quiet bid to earn his father’s pride. But it was never enough. He remained invisible — not hated, not loved, just... disregarded. This internalized neglect twisted inward, and Thorne grew to be homophobic toward himself, suffocating any part of his identity that didn’t fit the mold he thought might make him worthy.

When Elphaba is summoned by the Wizard to visit the Emerald City, she brings Glinda and Thorne along with her. But what was meant to be an honor quickly shatters into disillusionment: the trio discovers the Wizard is a fraud. In a moment of desperation and rebellion, Elphaba enchants a broomstick to fly — and the same burst of magic inadvertently affects Thorne, painfully sprouting wings from his back. The transformation is excruciating, but Thorne never blames Elphaba.

However, his new wings are clumsy and unstable. He tries to follow Elphaba in her escape, but he’s quickly captured. Refusing to kneel or apologize, Thorne is thrown into the dungeons.

To the rest of Oz, Thorne is presumed dead. The official story — quietly spread by those in power — is that Elphaba killed him during her escape. It becomes yet another stain on her name, another lie told to control the people. But deep beneath the Emerald City, Thorne waits, wings bound, heart heavy, and mind sharper than ever.