#red suitcase: poems

[luthienne]

Naomi Shihab Nye, from Red Suitcase; "Living with Mistakes"

[liriostigre]

Naomi Shihab Nye, “Love Letter, Hate Letter.” Red Suitcase

[kalisbaby]

“From the River to the Sea.” A Poem by Samer Abu Hawwash, translated by Huda Fakhreddine

every street, every house, every room, every window, every balcony, every wall, every stone, every sorrow, every word, every letter, every whisper, every touch, every glance, every kiss, every tree, every spear of grass, every tear, every scream, every air, every hope, every supplication, every secret, every well, every prayer, every song, every ballad, every book, every paper, every color, every ray, every cloud, every rain, every drop of rain, every drip of sweat, every lisp, every stutter, every yamma, mother, every yaba, father, every shadow, every light, every little hand that drew in a little notebook a tree or house or heart or a family of a father, a mother, siblings, and pets, every longing, every possibility, every letter between two lovers that arrived or didn’t arrive, every gasp of love dispersed in the distant clouds, every moment of despair at every turn, every suitcase on top of

every closet, every library, every shelf, every minaret, every rug, every bell toll in every church, every rosary, every holy praise, every arrival, every goodbye, every Good Morning, every Thank God, every ‘ala rasi, my pleasure, every hill ‘an sama’i, leave me alone, every rock, every wave, every grain of sand, every hair-do, every mirror, every glance in every mirror, every cat, every meow, every happy donkey, every sad donkey’s gaze, every pot, every vapor rising from every pot, every scent, every bowl, every school queue, every school shoes, every ring of the bell, every blackboard, every piece of chalk, every school costume, every mabruk ma ijakum, congratulations on the baby, every y ‘awid bi-salamtak, condolences, every ‘ayn al- ḥasud tibla bil-‘ama, may the envious be blinded, every photograph, every person in every photograph, every niyyalak, how lucky, every ishta’nalak, we’ve missed you, every grain of wheat in every bird’s gullet, every lock of hair, every hair knot, every hand, every foot, every football, every finger, every nail, every bicycle, every rider on every bicycle, every turn of air fanning from every bicycle, every bad joke, every mean joke, every laugh, every smile, every curse, every yearning, every fight, every sitti, grandma, every

sidi, grandpa, every meadow, every flower, every tree, every grove, every olive, every orange, every plastic rose covered with dust on an abandoned counter, every portrait of a martyr hanging on a wall since forever, every gravestone, every sura, every verse, every hymn, every ḥajj mabrur wa sa ‘yy mashkur, may your ḥajj and effort be rewarded, every yalla tnam yalla tnam, every lullaby, every red teddy bear on every Valentine’s, every clothesline, every hot skirt, every joyful dress, every torn trousers, every days-spun sweater, every button, every nail, every song, every ballad, every mirror, every peg, every bench, every shelf, every dream, every illusion, every hope, every disappointment, every hand holding another hand, every hand alone, every scattered thought, every beautiful thought, every terrifying thought, every whisper, every touch, every street, every house, every room, every balcony, every eye, every tear, every word, every letter, every name, every voice, every name, every house, every name, every face, every name, every cloud, every name, every rose, every name, every spear of grass, every name, every wave, every grain of sand, every street, every kiss, every image, every eye, every tear, every yamma, every yaba, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, all…

[randomrichards]

THE RED SUITCASE:

A desperate young girl

Seeks a way out of airport

Her life in suitcase

[viesanterieures]

𝐓𝐨 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐦 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 | 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏.

William Killick (The Edge of Love) x Reader

link to Part Two

note: This story is set in May 1936, William is about 27 and it takes place years before the actual movie.

summary: William Killick takes a break from his London life and spends a few weeks at the country estate of the wealthy Hallward family. The family take an instant liking to William and try to get him to marry their beautiful daughter Norma. Also on the estate is the reader, who works as a maid. When William receives anonymous poems, he ends up falling in love with the mysterious writer instead of Norma.

word count: 2000+

warnings: … none!

moodboard

"Excuse me sir, we've reached the end of the line." Yawning, William opened his eyes as he heard a voice behind him and stretched sleepily, curious to see who was speaking to him. A woman in a uniform with a dark skirt and matching hat stood beside him. "Are we there yet... What time is it?" he asked her. "It's just after half past seven, sir," the train attendant replied with a friendly smile. As William straightened up in his seat and then saw that the landscape before him had changed from the brown roofs of London to green hills and beautiful mountain scenery with small lakes. "My God... I must have slept for hours." The train attendant smiled at him kindly and wished him a good journey.

William felt the train slow down and grabbed his suitcase from the luggage rack. Once outside, he set it down on the floor and took a deep breath. The air smelled fresh and the wind blew through his hair. Although he had never been to this place before, he had the strange feeling that he belonged here. He closed his eyes for a moment. The orange light of the setting sun shone through his eyelids. The green hills of the Scottish Highlands stretched out before him, surrounded by a light mist. Green meadows, colourful flowers and streams dominated the landscape. The sky was cloudless and the air smelled of fresh moss. William could hardly look away. It was so different from London. The grass rustled softly under his shoes as he made his way to his accommodation for the next few weeks.

Curious, he looked up at the big building. It was built entirely of stone, with small windows adorned with red, ivy-covered shutters that glowed in the evening sun. William dragged his suitcase up the stairs that led to a wide wooden door. The muffled sound filled the silence as William knocked on the door. It opened with a squeak to reveal an older, very elegantly dressed lady with shoulder-length curly hair.

"Good evening, you must be our new guest, Mr Killick, aren't you?" Her voice sounded friendly and welcoming. "That’s right. And you must be Margaret Hallward, the owner of the estate," William replied. The lady nodded. "I am. Come in, you must have travelled a long way, sir." William followed her into the warm house. Mrs Hallward disappeared for a moment behind a wooden counter and handed William a key. "Room seven is yours. The dining room is in the basement and the common room is on the second floor. Breakfast is tomorrow from seven to half past eight. YN, would you be so kind as to accompany our guest to his room? And take some of his luggage."

"Of course, Mrs Hallward," a quiet voice sounded behind them, and William turned around curiously. In front of them stood a young woman in a dark red apron and white blouse. William smiled kindly at her. "No, wait, I can carry that," he interrupted her when she tried to take the suitcase off. Shrugging her shoulders, she finally gave up and told William to follow her. They walked along a corridor decorated with old paintings and photos of the country estate and stopped in front of a room door with the number 7.

"Thank you so much, Ma'am," he said, putting the room key in the lock. The young woman smiled and wished him a good night before disappearing without another word.

****

William had slept very well that night. It was probably because he was quite tired from the long journey. When he finally entered the dining room for breakfast, it was already quite full. He took an empty seat at a table where an elderly man was still sitting, reading a newspaper.

"Tea, sir?" It was the young woman again who had shown him his room yesterday. "Yes, thank you“, he said. "What was your name again?"

"YN," she said quietly, and poured some tea into a small cup.

"Beautiful name."

William could clearly see her cheeks turning slightly pink at the words. "Thank you, sir." But they were interrupted by Mrs Hallward, who approached the table with a big smile. "Good morning, Mr Killick! Did you sleep well?"

"Very well, Mrs Hallward," he replied. "I don't think I've slept as well as I did this morning for months. So I'm really going to enjoy my holiday."

"I'm glad to hear that." She laughed. "Oh, I'd like to introduce you to someone, wait a moment." She turned to one of the tables and called out in a loud voice. "Norma! Will you come here, please?"

"Yes, Mother." A woman joined them at the table, she was about a year or two younger than William. She had white-blonde hair, red lips and was wearing an elegant purple dress with ornate embroidery. She was very pretty, William realised.

"Mr Killick, this is my daughter Norma. She lives in Glasgow at the moment, but is here for a few weeks. She grew up at the country estate. If you like, she can show you around the neighbourhood and the town."

"It would be an honour. How about we meet outside the estate at three this afternoon?," Norma chuckled softly as she twirled a strand of her blonde hair between her fingers. William was very happy about the Hallward's hospitality and gratefully accepted the offer.

"But now we won't bother you any longer, Mr Killick. Enjoy your breakfast," Mrs Hallward said with a smile as she took Norma's arm and led her away from the table. As they walked, he heard them whispering to each other, catching bits of sentences like 'isn't he lovely' or 'he looks like a prince from a fairytale'.

Slowly, William turned in the direction where YN had last been, but she was gone.

***

William spent the morning in the garden of the country estate, sitting on one of the benches beneath a cherry tree. The weather was warm, and the birds chirped softly in the treetops. Eventually, he closed his book and stood up to return to the house. As he passed one of the large flower beds, he paused. He saw a person sitting there, gardening.

"Nice to see you again, Ms YN," he said kindly. She didn't seem to notice his arrival and jumped when she heard his voice behind her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," William apologised immediately. "It’s alright, sir," she said, turning her attention back to the bed.

"Call me William, please."

She immediately looked at him in surprise. She had never expected that. A gust of wind came up and brushed through William's dark hair, and his bright blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

"Shall I help you?" he asked her, pointing to the bucket of weeds. She immediately declined his offer. "No, William, you're here on holiday. Not to work." William shrugged. "Anything where I don't have to be in London is a holiday for me. I really love this city, it's my home. But sometimes I really need to go somewhere else." YN nodded briefly. "I've never been to London or any other big city. I imagine it's stressful."

He laughs and shrugs. "I can't deny that it's stressful sometimes." Slowly he knelt down beside her and began to pluck the weeds from the ground in front of him. "You don't have to do that," she said quickly. "It's alright," William replied quietly, continuing to work.

YN laughed. "This has never happened to me before. A guest helping me with my work. If Mrs Hallward finds out, she'll scold me." William smiled a little. "Tell her I did it voluntarily. "You already have enough work." When they were finished, the young woman smiled briefly, then took off her gloves, stood up and reached for the bucket. "I have to go now."

"Wait, don’t you want to stay here a bit longer?" William asked hastily.

"Sorry, I've still got a lot to do. But thank you for helping me, that was very kind of you." She waved goodbye to William and finally turned round. William looked at her for a moment, a bit disappointed. Then he glanced at his pocket watch and flinched. It was ten minutes past three, Norma was probably already waiting for him.

He quickly grabbed his book that was laying in the grass and hurried to the front gate. Norma was waiting there, her arms crossed over her chest, looking at him with raised eyebrows as he finally greeted her completely out of breath. "Sorry I'm late."

She finally smiled and said in a friendly voice, "It's okay." Her hair was pinned up in an elegant braid, her lipstick was the same colour as the new pastel pink dress she was wearing, and she carried a matching handbag.

"I was in the garden talking to YN. I must have lost track of time."

One of her blonde eyebrows immediately raised again and she looked at him as if he had just said something completely stupid. "You're talking to household staffs? They're working for us, it’s far below our class."

He looked at her, confused. "But why shouldn't I talk to her? She's really nice."

Norma stayed silent, grabbed his arm and pulled him along without a word. She led him through the Scottish Highlands, down a small forest path, until the roofs of houses appeared in the distance. This had to be Tobermory. The air smelled of salty sea and a fresh breeze as they walked along Tobermory's coastal road, lined with colourful houses. High mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks shrouded in a gentle mist. "Wow, it's beautiful!" marveled William.

"I know, right?" Norma replied giggling, taking his hand and pulling him towards a small café.

"My aunt works there," she said. "She makes the best cakes." They entered the café and sat down on a corner bench by a small window. "Norma, how lovely to see you again." A lady with bright red hair came up to them and pulled her niece into her arms, laughing. When she noticed William, she looked him over from head to toe, smiled and turned back to her niece. "And who is that handsome young man next to you? Did you meet him in Glasgow?" Norma shook her head, laughing. "No. He's a guest of Mother's. She asked me to show him around."

"Oh, how lovely. You know, Norma, it's time you got married. Can I bring you both some of my Dundee cake?" William frowned slightly when she mentioned marriage. Did the Hallwards already see him as their future son in law?

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the little café, William telling Norma about his home in London, his job, his family, and she seemed to be very interested. But William hadn't forgotten her nasty comment about YN. He was torn by Norma.

After they said goodbye that evening, William went to his room tired. In the corridor he saw Mrs Hallward talking excitedly to YN. "You forgot to fluff up the pillows in Room 9! How many times do I have to tell you?" she snapped at her in a harsh tone.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hallward, I..." But she didn't let YN finish, because when she noticed William, she put on a big smile again: "Oh, Mr Killick, how nice to see you. Did you have a nice day with Norma?"

"Yes, I did, thank you for asking," he replied. He looked at YN, but she avoided his gaze, holding a white sheet in her arms.

"You know, Norma is still unmarried and we're still looking for a suitable husband for her. Or do you already have a wife?" Mrs Hallward wanted to know. William shook his head slowly.

"She is such a beautiful young woman. But no man has ever met her standards. You're the first one she has shown interest in", the lady explained to him. "Come, YN, you need to get back to work now, the dishes need to be washed."

"Good night, William," YN said to him as he walked past, nodding to him.

"Good night," he replied.

As soon as he entered his room, he took off his jacket and shirt and yawned softly. He intended to read, but he was so tired that he just wanted to lie down in bed. Suddenly he heard something crunching under his feet and looked down in surprise. There was a small piece of white paper under his shoe. Someone must have slipped it through the gap under his door. He bent down and picked it up carefully. It was no bigger than William's hand, made of good quality and written in black ink.

Holding his breath, William began to read:

𝓣𝓸 𝓦𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓶 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

ℐ𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒹𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝒹𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒, 𝒶 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝒷𝓎 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒.

𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝒻𝓇𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒻𝒶𝒸𝑒, 𝒷𝓁𝓊𝑒 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝒻𝓁𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝒸𝑒.

ℋ𝒾𝓈 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝒹𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽, 𝒽𝑒'𝓈 𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓊𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒, 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓇𝑒.

Confused, he turned the letter over in his hands. Was it from Norma? But she had been with him all afternoon, hadn't she? Who else was writing him poems?

****************************************************

Thank you so much for reading! If you want a part 2, let me know! 🖤

Masterlist

[moonbeamwritings]

a parisian date with tendou

pairing: timeskip!satori tendou x gn!reader

wc: 1.4k

warnings: none

the poem referenced at the end is “Les Amoureux” By Madeleine De Scudéry

← prev. date | next date →

“My babbbyyyy,” Satori sing-songs, arms spread wide to greet you at the airport. “My baby’s here!”

You all but slam into his chest and within seconds he’s lifting your feet from the floor, twirling you around as he presses dozens of little kisses wherever he can reach. Satori lets out a pleased sigh as he squeezes you closer, crushing you into a hug. 

“I missed you so much.”

You capture his cheeks in your palms and plant a sweet kiss on his lips. “I missed you more.”

He returns you to your feet, but doesn’t let you slip away so easily. As you start to walk towards the exit, Satori loops his arm around your shoulders, tugging you close until no space remains between you. “Nuh-uh. Not possible. I almost withered away and died without your kisses!”

“You sound like Tinker Bell,” you tease, pinching his cheek.

Satori puffs his chest out a bit as you stop to wait for your cab to pull up. “We’re the same, her and I. We understand each other.”

The two of you make idle chit-chat as you push your weight into his side, his arm curled tightly around your waist, occasionally exchanging kisses to keep Satori alive.

When the cab finally pulls up, Satori is quick to pull your suitcase from your palm and the backpack from your shoulders, carefully packing them into the back of the car. Snapping the trunk of the taxi shut, Satori grins at you eagerly. “Are you ready for a Valentine’s Day in Paris, baby?”

The Valentine’s Day festivities start with a trip to the bakery down the road. On the walk there, Satori tells you he comes nearly once a day for a coffee and to gossip with the sweet older woman who owns the place. Apparently, he started watching her cat in exchange for French lessons and now they’re a dynamic duo. 

She gushes when the bell over the door signals Satori’s arrival, reaching across the counter to smooch both his cheeks. And when she locks eyes with you, she gives you much the same treatment, excitedly rambling in French.

Unfamiliar with the language, all you can do is smile and nod as Satori responds in stride. It flows from his tongue with practiced ease, hands moving animatedly as he gestures to you and then to the display case. You catch a thank you and a chocolate croissant order somewhere in there, but that’s where your French knowledge starts and ends.

When she turns to pull the treats he ordered from the glass display case, Satori worms his arm around your waist, brimming with pride. “She said you’re very beautiful, and she’s mad that I haven’t brought you around before.”

“You talk about me?”

His grin only grows. “Of course I do! Nicolette knows everything.” He pinches your side. “Even about all the times you’ve drooled all over my pillows.”

Scandalized, you reel back. “You didn’t.”

A kiss lands on the crown of your head in an attempt to soothe you. You can feel Satori’s smile against your hair. “I’m kidding. She thinks you’re un ange — an angel.”

Your cheeks burn as he pulls away and takes the box of treats from Nicolette. You both give your thanks, and she tells Satori to bring you back in before you leave. With a promise that he will, you set off to eat your pastries in the park.

Bellies full to bursting with fresh pastries and with sunshine warming your cheeks, Satori brings you to what he calls hidden gems. The streets bustle with life as he brings you first to a bookstore with old wooden floors and a creaky staircase that leads to shelves of vintage books that stretch far above your heads. 

Satori plucks a thin book with a red spine and gold lettering from the shelf and smiles. Long, lithe fingers flick through the different pages, his eyes scanning over the letters. In the silence, you crowd his space, peering over the top of the book to catch a peek at the yellowing pages. 

When his eyes meet yours, he taps the tip of your nose. “They’re love poems.”

“Since when are you a poetry kinda guy?”

He tucks the book under his arm and takes your hand. “Mm,” Satori fixes you with a gaze you can only describe as sweet before he leans in to kiss you. “I’m feeling inspired.”

The next “hidden gem” is a tacky, over-the-top souvenir shop close to the heart of the city. It’s jam-packed with tourists, all standing shoulder to shoulder as they peruse the Eiffel Tower-shaped hat options and the gaudy shirts with Paris plastered across the front with an Eiffel Tower as the “A”.

“This is a hidden gem?” You ask, cringing at the neon pink lettering of the shirt in front of you.

“Maybe not hidden,” Satori corrects, plopping one of the hats on your head, “but definitely a gem.”

The moment you’re able to, he crams you into the photo booth in the far corner, taking a little photo with a poorly designed Parisian border, one decorated with baguettes and berets and bright red hearts. In it, he’s squishing your cheeks in his palm to give you a fish face and pushing his nose into your cheek, lips puckered.

You leave that store with a keychain that proudly displays the new photo and a design that reads, “the city of love” plastered in sparkly black font below it.

Satori’s tour of Paris continues with a brief stop at his work for chocolate. There, a photo of the two of you together is pinned on the family cork board behind the counter. And as Satori puts his order in, his co-workers threaten to steal you away from him, friendly affection for your boyfriend glimmering in their smiles and hidden in their jokes.

Next, he brings you to a quiet rose garden tucked away from the hustle and bustle; a spot where you spend a quiet moment, munching on delicious chocolates and taking a break from the onslaught of tourists.

“Act natural.”

“What?”

With the dull snap of a stem, Satori tucks a soft pink, and thankfully thornless, garden rose behind your ear. Once it’s perched in its new spot, he presses a kiss to the shell of your ear before whispering, “You’re really not supposed to pick the flowers.” He pushes a stray hair away from your face, jostling the rose a bit as he does. “But I think they can make a Valentine’s exception, don’tcha think?”

After a long day filled with food and little shops and the warmth of Satori’s hand in your own, the whirlwind tour of his new home city comes to an end at the base of the Eiffel Tower at ten o’clock at night. Tourists and locals alike still meander about, sharing kisses beneath the twinkling landmark, but the cool night air has quieted the sidewalks, giving you a moment of peace. 

The moon sits high and bright in the sky, as you curl up between Satori’s legs, his chin hooked over your shoulder as he reads from the love poems book resting in your lap. Love settles and blooms between your ribs as beams of moonlight decorate the pages and kiss Satori’s fingers where they curl around the book. Your hand moves on its own, coming up to circle his wrist, rubbing a soothing thumb into his skin.

Satori’s voice travels on the breeze, the French rolling from his tongue in soft lilts — a poetry reading just for you. “... Les indifférents n'ont qu'une âme; Mais lorsqu'on aime, on en a deux.”

The concluding line is punctuated with a beat of silence and a kiss to the plush of your cheek.

“What does it mean?” You ask quietly, as if speaking any louder will shatter the moment.

He rereads the poem, kissing your temple every few lines. “... The indifferent have but one soul,” he translates, “but when you love, you have two.”

You nuzzle your cheek into his before turning in his arms, capturing his jaw in your palm and leaning in for a kiss. It feels like a promise, a press of your lips with a sense of finality. At that moment, you decide you never want to do this with anyone else.

“I love you,” you tell him the moment you part.

He regards you with honeyed affection, snuggling close to peck your nose and then your cheek before finally meeting your lips again. As the light of the Eiffel Tower casts his face in pretty, amber shadows, he assures you, “I love you more.”

[victusinveritas]

From the River to the Sea

every street, every house, every room, every window, every balcony, every wall, every stone, every sorrow, every word, every letter, every whisper, every touch, every glance, every kiss, every tree, every spear of grass, every tear, every scream, every air, every hope, every supplication, every secret, every well, every prayer, every song, every ballad, every book, every paper, every color, every ray, every cloud, every rain, every drop of rain, every drip of sweat, every lisp, every stutter, every yamma, mother, every yaba, father, every shadow, every light, every little hand that drew in a little notebook a tree or house or heart or a family of a father, a mother, siblings, and pets, every longing, every possibility, every letter between two lovers that arrived or didn’t arrive, every gasp of love dispersed in the distant clouds, every moment of despair at every turn, every suitcase on top of every closet, every library, every shelf, every minaret, every rug, every bell toll in every church, every rosary, every holy praise, every arrival, every goodbye, every Good Morning, every Thank God, every ‘ala rasi, my pleasure, every hill ‘an sama’i, leave me alone, every rock, every wave, every grain of sand, every hair-do, every mirror, every glance in every mirror, every cat, every meow, every happy donkey, every sad donkey’s gaze, every pot, every vapor rising from every pot, every scent, every bowl, every school queue, every school shoes, every ring of the bell, every blackboard, every piece of chalk, every school costume, every mabruk ma ijakum, congratulations on the baby, every y ‘awid bi-salamtak, condolences, every ‘ayn al- ḥasud tibla bil-‘ama, may the envious be blinded, every photograph, every person in every photograph, every niyyalak, how lucky, every ishta’nalak, we’ve missed you, every grain of wheat in every bird’s gullet, every lock of hair, every hair knot, every hand, every foot, every football, every finger, every nail, every bicycle, every rider on every bicycle, every turn of air fanning from every bicycle, every bad joke, every mean joke, every laugh, every smile, every curse, every yearning, every fight, every sitti, grandma, every sidi, grandpa, every meadow, every flower, every tree, every grove, every olive, every orange, every plastic rose covered with dust on an abandoned counter, every portrait of a martyr hanging on a wall since forever, every gravestone, every sura, every verse, every hymn, every ḥajj mabrur wa sa ‘yy mashkur, may your ḥajj and effort be rewarded, every yalla tnam yalla tnam, every lullaby, every red teddy bear on every Valentine’s, every clothesline, every hot skirt, every joyful dress, every torn trousers, every days-spun sweater, every button, every nail, every song, every ballad, every mirror, every peg, every bench, every shelf, every dream, every illusion, every hope, every disappointment, every hand holding another hand, every hand alone, every scattered thought, every beautiful thought, every terrifying thought, every whisper, every touch, every street, every house, every room, every balcony, every eye, every tear, every word, every letter, every name, every voice, every name, every house, every name, every face, every name, every cloud, every name, every rose, every name, every spear of grass, every name, every wave, every grain of sand, every street, every kiss, every image, every eye, every tear, every yamma, every yaba, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, all…

-“From the River to the Sea.” A Poem by Samer Abu Hawwash, translated by Huda Fakhreddine

[bubblegum-blackwood]

Anyone else getting Faith Lehane vibes from this poem?

For your seventh birthday, you asked for a shade

            of lipstick so dangerous your mother blessed herself.

It was the color of hell, no, of a tamer kind of Lucifer.

            The kind adorning the antagonist’s lips on your screen,

painted gingerly on her puckered mouth. Sometimes

            pressed against an unmarked postcard, or smudging

the shirt collar of her nemesis’s lover, or featured

            on the glossy pages of a magazine. You know the kind:

thick with a punch of perfume leaving you hurt

            or dazzled with a corked-up migraine for days.

You wanted to be mysterious, praised. Practiced

            raising a single eyebrow as you tested out the right tone

on your forearm. Stone-faced and regal. Imagined

            the tea parties and fancy invitations coming your way.

Mall-Kiosk-Red. Horror-Movie-Red. Bullet-Hole-Red.

            Posing-in-Front-of-the-Mirror-Red, the red of an all-night fire,

of an old suitcase leaving with your father. The red

            many say you’re still too young for. Even after all these years.

Saint’s-Execution-Red. Not the same red of shame shown across

            your family’s face. No. Runaway-Red. Pick-Up-Truck-Red.

Liquor-Store-Robbery-Red. The red of thousands of vessels coursing

            through your body. A red bursting like the language of violence

you know so well. One-Night-Stand-Red. Hate-Crime-Red. A red staining

              the tips of your fingers. Mouth-Watering-Red.

Star-Spangled-Banner-Red. Conversion-Therapy-Red.

              The red you know will one day suit your lips just right

while getting yourself ready to leave this whole town in ashes.

"Colorete" by Eduardo Martinez-Leyva

[forlorn-kumquat]

runaway, run run away, run toward

also here on ao3

----------

Warlock is is five years old the first time he runs away from home.

He’s been having the worst day ever. First, he didn’t get a snack during snack time because his teacher ran out. Then, his best friend Miles played with stupid Amy Miller during playtime instead of him (even though he’s so much cooler than she is). And then he got home to find that his mom hired a nanny to take care of him. A nanny!

Warlock knows all about nannies. Christa Jenkins has a nanny; she’s a weird, old lady her parents hired because they didn’t want to take care of Christa, anymore. So now the nanny brings Christa to school and picks her up in the afternoons, and Warlock sees them in the park on Saturdays; always together, and never with Christa’s mom and dad. Christa says her mom and dad don’t even talk to her, anymore; she only has her nanny.

Well, Warlock’s not going to stand for that. If his parents really don’t want him around, if they’d rather hire someone to take care of him than doing it themselves, well then Warlock will fix that. He’ll run away from home and take care of himself; he’s five years old, that’s practically a grown-up, and they’ll miss him when he’s gone.

(“If only we’d loved our son!” they’ll cry. “If only we hadn’t hired that stupid nanny like Christa Jenkins’ stupid parents!”)

Yeah, they’ll be sorry when he runs away.

So Warlock pulls his suitcase out from the back of the closet and stuffs it full of his favorite toys. Then, thinking for a minute, he pulls out a couple of the toys and replaces them with a pair of shoes and his favorite bedtime book. He can’t read it by himself yet, but maybe he’ll find someone to read it to him.

(But not his mom, because she obviously doesn’t want to anymore, or she wouldn’t have hired that stupid nanny in the first place.)

He also packs his toothbrush - because teeth are very important - and three of the fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies sitting on the kitchen counter. His stomach rumbles when he smells them, and it’s hard not to eat them right there in the kitchen.

Then, he takes one last look around the house to remember what it looks like, goes to the front door, and slips outside. He wants to slam the door as he leaves, but a) someone would hear and stop him, and b) it’s a pretty heavy door and he can barely close it the normal way.

The sun is setting as he walks down the long driveway to the road. It gets darker and darker the longer he walks, but he keeps going. He’s a big boy; he doesn’t need to turn around.

There’s something following him down the street - a big, black snake slithering silently through the bushes of the lawns next to the sidewalk. He’s not afraid of snakes, not like stupid Amy Miller, but this is a really big snake. He thinks it might even be bigger than his dad, and his dad is the tallest guy Warlock knows.

He’s pretty sure it’s not poisonous though, because his teacher brought in a reptile epx - exserp - reptile person to teach them a science lesson and she taught them a poem about red, and black, and some guy named Jack. He doesn’t remember the whole rhyme - he and Miles had been trying to figure out if they could sneak one of the small snakes into Amy Miller’s desk - but he thinks he’s safe. Maybe.

The snake is watching him as he walks down the sidewalk, bright yellow eyes shining even as the air around them gets darker and darker. Soon, those eyes are the only things he can see. Warlock’s not afraid of the dark just like he’s not afraid of snakes, but it’s really, really dark out. When he realizes just how dark it is, and how far away from home he must be, he sniffles just a little bit as he tries not to cry.

Suddenly the snake isn’t underneath the bushes anymore, it’s in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking his way. He can’t step around it because it’s stretched across the entire sidewalk and he’s not supposed to go out into the street. He can’t step over it because it’s really, really big. He’s stuck.

The snake is staring at him, the look in its yellow eyes reminding him of his teacher when she thinks he’s being ridiculous. Then, the snake looks away to stare behind him into the dark, back the way he came.

“I’m not going back there,” he says to the snake. “I don’t want some stupid nanny. I have to run away.”

The snake looks at him again, and then behind, a pretty clear ‘go home’. Warlock shakes his head.

“I can’t,” he protests. “My mom and dad don’t love me anymore, that’s why they hired that stupid nanny. And she won’t love me either. No one loves me.”

The snake slithers forward to wrap its huge coils gently around his legs. It winds its way up his body until it can rest its giant head on his shoulder. It feels like a hug.

“No one loves me,” Warlock repeats, his voice wobbling.

Tears fill his eyes and he doesn’t try to keep them from falling. Mom and Dad don’t like it when he cries, but they’re not here now. The snake is here, and the snake doesn’t care if he cries.

He wraps his arms around the snake’s body, holds on tight, and bawls his eyes out. He cries and cries like he’s not allowed to at home. He cries until he’s all hollow inside.

And then he opens his eyes to find himself standing in the middle of his bedroom.

The snake slowly unwinds from around his legs, slithering away to curl up on the carpet. Warlock opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the snake is glowing. For a second, the snake is light and dark and wings as big as the entire house. Then the snake is gone, and a woman in a stark suit and sunglasses is standing there, staring down at him. She takes off the sunglasses to let Warlock see those bright yellow snake’s eyes.

“My name is Nanny Ashtoreth,” she says, quietly. “And I do love you, my little hellion.”

“Hi,” Warlock whispers.

“Hello,” Nanny echoes, with a gentle smile. “Now, what do you say to going to sleep?”

Warlock pulls his backpack off, digging around to find his bedtime book. “Story?”

Nanny takes the book from him without comment.

Warlock listens to her voice as she reads, his eyes growing heavier and heavier with each word. Before darkness takes him, he fees a gentle press of lips against his forehead.

“I love you,” Nanny whispers, and Warlock smiles his way into sleep.

[luthienne]

Naomi Shihab Nye, from Red Suitcase; "Sincerely"

[liriostigre]

Naomi Shihab Nye, “Living With Mistakes.” Red Suitcase

[writingformyblorbos]

Si un día

Jake Lockley × gn!Reader  Summary: You meet a cab driver the night you leave a relationship. Warnings: Mentions of DID, unhealthy relationships, infidelity, and canon typical violence. Not proof read. Word count: 4.5k a/n: This story is based on a poem written by Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez called "Si un día", and as soon as I read it, I just KNEW I had to write something with Jake (Let's be honest, my boo doesn't get as much love as he should). I hope this is an improvement from the mess that part 5 of ica turned out to be. I hope you enjoy this!

Si un día quieres llorar, llámame,

Heavy water drops hit against the pavement of the street and thunder could be heard in the distance. Your lack of umbrella made your dampened clothes cling onto your skin, and you could no longer tell if your face was so wet because of the rain or because of you crying non-stop.

Alone, you stood in the middle of the ruthless storm, suitcases full of your belongings right next to you, trying to fetch a cab to take you as far away as humanly possible from that place.

After what seemed like an eternity of waving your hand, one taxi driver had been decent enough to make a stop for you.

Hastily, you pulled your bags inside the car, apologizing to the driver for taking too long in doing so.

“Where can I take you?” he asked.

Where were you going? You had nowhere else to go. You had moved out of your old apartment about a year ago and had no relatives nor friends nearby to crash with.

You remained silent for a while, thinking about what your next move would be.

“Do you know any cheap hotels nearby? I need somewhere to spend the night.”

“Sure,” the driver replied and pulled out of the driveway and into the street.

Working as a cab driver, Jake had seen many people from all over the place, heard and taken part in many stories, some good, and others not so good. The usual for someone in his line of work. However, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that bad for a person.

His heart sank in his chest whenever he caught a glimpse of you through the rear-view mirror, your nose reddened, your eyes puffy, and as if it wasn’t enough for you, absolutely soaked from head to toe.

The drops of water on the window raced to the bottom in a similar fashion to the tears on your face, reflecting the lights adorning the streets as they merged into one.

You thought it to be beautiful. Two water droplets, combining in order to reach a common goal. Or was one leading the other one directly to its downfall, selfish enough to bring the other drop down with itself?

Your finger traced a droplet on the glass as it made its way to the bottom.

“Two years.”

“Excuse me?” Jake was caught off guard by your brief comment.

Normally, you wouldn’t share your problems with strangers; that was something reserved for your therapy sessions. Yet you figured bottling up your resentment and anger wouldn’t do you any good. Besides, you would most likely never see him again, right?

“I spent two years in a relationship,” you continued, “Gave up on a lot of things. Turned down so many opportunities. All in the name of keeping things afloat. To keep the relationship going.”

Jake stepped on the breaks at the sight of the red light, his brows furrowed as he paid careful attention to your words.

“And for what?” you scoffed, “To end up getting cheated on?” your voice broke while saying that last sentence.

You shook your head, disappointed of yourself. In hindsight, there had been signs of an affair. Minuscule hints. You had your suspicions; whether you hadn’t noticed or had decided to look past them, it didn’t matter anymore. Today, everything had become crystal clear. Catching them red handed was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

How could you have been so dumb? Regardless, it was far too late to regret things. Wishing to change them wouldn’t do a thing. Even if you could somehow travel back in time, the sentiment behind the cheating still stood. The need for cheating might have come from a lack of adequacy from your part.

“Maybe no matter how hard I tried, I would never be enough,” you whispered.

Jake couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of your mouth. You got cheated on and you blamed yourself for it?

He opened the glove box to reach for a box of tissues he kept for emergencies such as this one and handed them to you.

Yes, it was a small gesture, nevertheless, you lightened up a bit. He didn’t seem to be judging you either, his brown eyes staring at you understandingly.

The light turned green, the cab continuing its trajectory.

no prometo hacerte reír, pero puedo llorar contigo.

It took a while for him to break the silence, mostly because he was uncertain as to how to approach such a sensitive topic, “From what I’m hearing, you tried your best. If your partner took it for granted, then that’s on them.”

Despite his best efforts, his words came out somewhat harsh and unfiltered. Jake was a man of many skills: he was a good hitman and an even better cabbie; on the other hand, having heart-to-heart conversations with his passengers wasn’t exactly his forte.

You thought perhaps his words had some truth to them. At least, you hoped they did.

“For what it’s worth, relationships are overrated. The media paints them as something magical, but it’s all bullshit, right?” Jake chuckled. You remained silent, though.  Again, his specialty was beating up guys, not comforting others.

You understood where he was coming from, and even appreciated his attempt at making you feel better, but it didn’t really fizzle out the betrayal in your gut.

“My bad, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, you’re sort of right,” you interrupted him, wiping away your tears with a tissue. “Things are a lot more complicated than what they make it out to be on tv.”

About ten minutes later, Jake parked in front to the main entrance of a hotel and exited the pilot’s seat to help you with your bags.

“It’s no fancy place. Their sheets smell kinda weird and the elevator is often out of service,” he placed the suitcase in front of him, “but compared to other hotels I’ve been at, this is the most decent one.”

“Thanks,” you replied and paid him.

Jake entered his car, relatively satisfied by knowing you would have a place to safely spend the night.

Before he left off, you knocked on the glass window of the cab, to which he lowered the window so he could hear you.

“Is there any way I can call you? You know, in case I need a ride,” you asked. He certainly didn’t expect you to ask for his contact information, especially after the comment he’d made earlier. “I’ve had my fair share of bad experiences with Uber and other apps like that, so I’d rather not risk it.”

In a way, he was honored you felt like he gave you a good enough service to merit that kind of trust. He nodded and reached for a sticky note he had on his cup holder, writing down his name and the phone number.

“Thanks for the ride,” you took the piece of paper and read the name on it, “…Jake.”

“Sure thing,” he looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to introduce yourself as well.

“(y/n).”

He tipped his flat cap, “I’ll see you around then, (y/n).”

Sí un día logras escapar, no dudes en llamarme,

Two weeks later, Jake received a call from you. He didn’t expect to hear back from you so soon. His mood had lightened up when he heard you wanted him to take you somewhere. He walked with a pep in his step and jammed out to songs on his way there. He thought if the chance arose, he could actually get to know you better. He could even ask you out?

Stop right there.

No, that would be very unsensitive on his behalf; you were fresh out of a relationship, and he had seen firsthand how sudden and awful it had been for you. He shut down the idea as soon as it had appeared on his mind.

For now, he was content with the fact that you two would see each other again, even if it was just for a ride somewhere.

Once Jake arrived, he could see you standing outside the same building he’d picked you up from the night you’d met, boxes full of your belongings on the floor.

You knew your ex wouldn’t be at home, so you’d decided to pick your things up and bring them over to your new apartment.

Though, you would have to spare the trouble of packing all of your things, since your ex seemed to have already done the job for you, apparently eager to get you out of the apartment you’d once shared. The life you’d once shared.

At the very least, you were glad things were over and you were beginning to get a hold of your life once again. You were aware it would take more than two weeks to get over your tumultuous breakup, but things were looking on the brighter side.

You waved at Jake, and he quickly exited his car to help you carry the boxes to his cab. Once you were both inside, you gave him the address of your new place and drove off.

no prometo pedirte que te quedes, pero podré escapar contigo.

The talk while on your way was much more lighthearted than when the two of you had met. You avoided at all costs talking about your ex; instead, you went on about how excited you were to move in into your new apartment, how you’d had your eye on that specific area for a while now, and most of all, how relieved you were to start from scratch.

Jake, meanwhile, listened to you with undivided attention. Even if his eyes were glued to the road ahead of him, he heard every tiny detail you had to tell him: how much you loved the view you had from the apartment, how cozy your new bedroom was, the new throw pillows you had bought for your couch.

God, he could spend the rest of the day hearing you go on and on about what made you happy, catching an occasional giggle every now and then that would play like a symphony in his ears, and still, it wouldn’t be enough for him.

It would never be enough.

You felt you had talked poor Jake’s ear off, so you considered it to only be fair to give him a chance to speak.

“I was wondering, how long have you been a cab driver?” you asked.

It was funny. Time was an odd concept for him, since having to share a body with other two individuals who would front more often than him would tend to warp his perception of it.

Jake rubbed his chin, “Too many years. But don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t change professions for anything in the world.”

He truly believed that. If it were up to him, he would break the deal with Khonshu in a heartbeat and live out the reminder of his days in peace and quiet as a cabbie. Sure, all within the limitations being part of a system entails, but he’d try to make up for all the years of wrongdoings he’d been forced to do on Khonshu’s behalf.

A smile crept up on his face at the thought of a life free from the ancient god’s grip. You, unbeknownst to what was going through his head, interpreted it as a sign of love for his profession, which compelled you to know even more of what made working as a driver so charming to Jake.

You asked him what his most interesting story in all his years of driving a cab was, and oh boy, did Jake Lockley have a repertoire of the stories from his many years of driving people around. 

The rest of the ride to your new apartment was spent listening  to Jake telling you the many experiences he’d had in his years of driving people around, stories of a guy who had chased a girl to the airport rom-com style, a teenage kid who had clearly had his first drink ever and threw up all over the floor of his cab, an old lady who took her four cats to the vet all at the same time and one ended up scratching Jake in the face; the list of his adventures could go on and on.

Once you were in the apartment, with some help from Jake, the last boxes were finally set inside.

What you loved the most about your new home was that it was your own. While yes, you were renting it, the only limit you had when it came to customization was money. Other than that, this had been the most you’d been able to express within a space. Tiny details scattered around were hints of what you liked, what your hobbies or interests were.

There were no more eye rolls or complaints from your ex about how or where your things were placed, or how your styles collided with each other. This was truly yours and yours only.

Rubbing off the sweat from his forehead, Jake decided it was better to not overstay his welcome.

“I should get going.”

“Wait!” you stopped him before he reached for the door. “Wouldn’t you like to stay for dinner?” he had helped you get your things from his car free of charge, it was the least you could do in return. “If you’re not busy, of course.”

You wanted him to stay? The idea didn’t quite click in his head. Most people always avoided his company; even his alters, Marc and Steven, whom had a vague acknowledgment of his existence, evaded reaching out to him like the plague for whatever reason Jake was unaware of.

What was it that you saw in him that made you actively seek out spending more time with him?

It didn’t matter to Jake, because for the first time ever, he didn’t feel so lonely in this world.

“I’d love to.”

Si un día no quieres hablar con nadie, llámame,

It had been four months since that fateful night that led you to meet Jake Lockley, your newest friend, confidant, and first choice for transportation.

In the past, he would prefer to be inside the headspace, letting Steven and Marc live out their lives happily. He enjoyed the temporary silence he could get, since most of the times he fronted, it involved dealing with the chaos of his life.

However, things had changed ever since he became friends with you. Now, he tried fronting as much as he possibly could.

After so many years of a meaningful connection with somebody else being something intangible, he finally knew what it was like to have someone else in his life. Never would he have thought he would have any friends. He wasn’t the social type, which didn’t exactly make him the best candidate for friendship.

Somehow, you managed to see the good in him, oblivious to the many atrocities he’d done. You made him a better person.

Which is why he worried as soon as he saw your text messages.

‘Can you come for me asap?’

‘Something happened’

‘I need fresh air and I don’t want to be alone.’

He felt panic brewing on his stomach when he saw those words reflected on his phone. Were you hurt? Did something happen? He had no idea, but he had to know if you were alright, right away.

By the time he got to the building, you were waiting at the foot of the stairs, just as red faced as you’d been when the two of you met. The trail of tears on your cheeks spoke a thousand words, unlike you.

Numbness spread all over your limbs. A thousand thoughts were racing in your head, yet you were unable to put them into words. Anger and misery, all mixed inside of you, overwhelming your every sense. And to think you had been the one to bring all of this upon yourself.

Against the advice of almost everyone you knew, you had decided to look through you ex’s Instagram. You had no idea why they were so adamant on you not going there. What could be so bad for them to warn you to stay away from it at all costs?

You wish you’d listened to them.

The very first post on the profile was a video of your ex, kneeling in front of the person he’d cheated on you with, holding an engagement ring.

An engagement ring.

Marriage was something you would’ve liked, yet you’d both reached an agreement that you’d never marry, since your ex despised the idea of it, even going as far as describing it as ’bureaucratic nonsense’. And you were alright with that if it meant both of you would stay together.

So much for bureaucratic nonsense now, huh?

You wanted to spill your heart out to him, tell him how everything that had happened made you upset, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to it. Even if you tried, the lump in your throat rendered your voice useless, making anything you said a garbled mess.

Jake didn’t need any words from you, however. He reached out his gloved hand and helped you get up from the stairs and to the car, one hand gently placed on your back.

Once you were both inside, he tapped the steering wheel, trying to come up with a way to get you to feel better. And then he got an idea.

There was a park he liked to go to whenever he felt stressed, melancholic, or overwhelmed in general with his emotions. More specifically, there was a spot with a bench that was mostly out of sight, surrounded by beautiful sycamore trees. His safe spot.

“I know a place. Can I take you there?”

At that very moment, you trusted Jake’s judgement with every fiber of your being. So, you nodded, willing to go wherever he took you.

estaremos en silencio.

The drive to the park was a quiet one, neither Jake nor you uttering a single word. He was desperate to know what had made you so blue, but he was aware that, at the moment, what you probably needed the most was silence.

At the park, you followed Jake through the stone path, and eventually, into a spot hidden from plain sight with a worn-out iron bench and a single streetlamp next to it. You both sat in it, taking in the nocturnal breeze that slightly swayed the tree branches.

Your lip quivered as tears fell from your eyes, feeling the cold of the autumn air on the trails your tears left behind. You wished you weren’t crying for what your ex had done, but you couldn’t help it.

The empty whole that had been left on your chest the day you left, that you had been trying to desperately fill for the past four months, became undone in a matter of seconds, your emotions flooding everything all at once.

Jake watched as you held your face in your hands, sobbing uncontrollably. It made him feel powerless to watch you suffering like this. He had no idea on how to calm you down, how to comfort you, and it tore his heart to shreds. He wanted nothing more than to share your pain, so it could be more bearable for you, but he couldn’t.

With no idea on what to do to make things better, he sheepishly placed a hand on your back, carefully rubbing and patting it. It wouldn’t make things better, but he hoped you would find comfort in his touch.

And you did. The warmth his timid hand offered grounded you back to reality, bringing you back from the pit of your thoughts, like a lifesaver tied to a rope dragging you out of the ocean, or the comfort of sitting next to a fireplace in a cold winter night.

Involuntarily, your forehead went to rest in his arm, seeking more of that solace you were urgently craving and were finding in his being.

His heart melted when he felt the weight of you leaning against him. He reciprocated wrapping his arm around your back and resting his chin on top of your head, giving you as much consolation as he possibly could.

You remained in Jake’s embrace for the rest of the night.

Pero si me llamas un día y no te contesto, ven corriendo a mí,

With the holidays just around the corner, you had brought it upon yourself to begin gift shopping for your friends and relatives. You had spent the majority of the day going from store to store, picking out the gifts for the people on your list. You glanced at it, only to see one person you hadn’t bought a gift for yet: Jake.

Since the meltdown you had at the park, the two of you had grown even closer than before. You would spend hours together, talking about whatever it was that was on either of your minds. Though he remained relatively hush about his personal life, never mentioning any family nor friends aside from you.

Amongst the few things that you had learned about him through the past months was that he liked Frank Sinatra and Pedro Infante, Gabriel García Márquez was his favorite author, and that he loved having a cup of coffee in the mornings.

So, your choices were split between a Sinatra vinyl, a beautifully illustrated collection of Garcia’s most popular books, or a stainless steel mug to keep his coffee warm in the mornings.

Unfortunately, the sun was setting in the horizon, and the weather forecast predicted heavy snowing during the evening, which meant you would have to look for Jake’s gift tomorrow.

You managed to fish out your phone from one of your pockets, despite the many bags you were carrying, to call Jake to ask him to pick you up.

After a while of waiting for him to pick up, though, you were sent to voicemail. Which was weird, seeing as he always had his phone with him and would usually answer. You tried again, thinking maybe he was busy.

Voicemail again.

Now you were beginning to worry. When it became evident that he wouldn’t pick up, you tried texting him to verify if he was alright.

'Jake?'

'Are you ok?'

'I'm worried about you.'

Radio silence.

Seeing as he wasn't going to respond anytime soon, you decided it would be best if you got a bus back to your apartment and then tried reaching out to him once more.

As soon as you arrived to your apartment, you set the bags aside and tried calling Jake again. Nothing. Another text message. Nothing. You tried looking in the news for any car accidents, silently praying you wouldn’t find anything pertaining to a taxi. Still nothing. He had truly vanished off the face of the earth. What was going on?

That was until you remembered the park Jake had taken you to that night. He mentioned something about him going there when he didn’t feel okay. If luck was on your side, maybe you would find him there, right?

With no time to waste, you geared up properly to go out into the harsh winter weather and made your way to the park.

When you arrived, you began following the path Jake had guided you through that night, which was perfectly camouflaged by a layer of fresh snow. You could see a cloud of your breath in front of you and could feel your ears starting to go numb, and still you went on with the hope of finding Jake.

Finally, you made it to the lonely bench, and that was when you saw Jake sitting there, his expression blank and his eyes watery.

"Jake?" you called out his name, and he seemed surprised by your sudden appearance. You sat down next to him, trying to read his expression.

"You shouldn't be here." He murmured.

"Why not?"

His brow furrowed and his gaze dropped to the snowy ground. "I'm no good to be around."

"What do you mean?"

He looked up at you and took a deep breath. "I'm not a good man, (y/n), I've done horrible things. Unspeakable things. I don't deserve anything."

A tear rolled down his cheek and he clasped his hands together so tight they started to tremble.

"Don't say that, Jake," you reached out to gently grab his hands with his own, "that's not true."

He shook his head. If only you knew. You were always too kind to him, and he was sure that if you ever found out about the other side of his life, you would go running the opposite direction.

The day prior, Khonshu had sent him on one of his usual missions. Nothing out of the ordinary, pulling off a hit on a local gang. Except this time, a kid spotted him while on the act.

The poor boy must’ve been 7 or 8 years old. He stood quietly as Jake was surrounded by the bodies of the people who had died by his hand. The blood of the men on the ground trickled down his tattered gloves, landing in the white snow, painting it like watercolors on a wet paper.

Pure terror emanated from his eyes as he met eyes with Jake. It didn’t matter how long the kid had been there, Jake was sure the little one would be scarred for life, and it would all be his fault.

“It was foolish of him to be there.”

Those were the only words Khonshu offered to Jake, which certainly didn’t make him feel any better.

He was exhausted of being Khonshu’s fist of vengeance. The many people he’d had to kill weighed on his conscience like heavy boulders, tearing him apart. The constant danger he lived in only made him more paranoid, doubting the intentions of anyone who ever crossed his path. He wanted out, to live a normal life, but he knew that was impossible.

And what worried him the most was that all of his actions would eventually harm you. You were one of the few good things in his life, and he would never forgive himself if something ever happened to you.

“Jake, listen to me,” you urged him to look at you, “You are a good man. Whatever it is that you've done in the past, you clearly regret it. And that's all that matters."

You reached out to gently grab his hands with his own, "You've taught me something very important in the past five months, and that is that we can't allow the past to define our present. It hurts, but we have to learn from it and keep going forward."

Jake looked up at you with misty eyes and held your face in the palm of his hand. You were truly a sight for sore eyes.

He gave you the tiniest of smiles before he leaned in and kissed you softly on the lips. A passionate kiss that told you how much he had wanted to do this all along.

Your heart melted at the feeling of Jake’s warm lips caressing yours. You pulled him in closer, and as you became lost in each other, you realized that tears were falling down his cheeks. You brushed them away with your thumbs and pulled away to kiss his nose softly.

"You're a good man, Jake. I promise."

porque sin duda, te necesitaré.

Translation of the poem: "If some day you want to cry, call me, I can't promise I'll make you laugh, but I can cry with you. If some day you manage to run away, do not hesitate to call me, I can't promise I'll ask you to stay, but I can run away with you. If some day you don't want to talk with anyone, call me, we'll be in silence. But if you call me some day and I don't answer, come running to me, because without a doubt, I'll need you."

[kimbureh]

Terézia Mora says, if you want to learn about language, you need not just write, but also translate. I recently did that with a Portuguese poem by Fernando Pessoa, this time I want to translate Mora, who inspired me to try it in the first place. Mora is a contemporary German-Hungarian author who I would recommend you all to read if her works were available in English (whelp). I mean, she was awarded the most important German literature prize there is, but sure, English speaking audiences don't get the chance to read her. shrug emoji. in other words: what a loss that even influential authors like her are simply unknown to English speaking audiences.

Anyhow.

Terézia Mora From her novel: Der Einzige Mann auf dem Kontinent. Er war gerade in der Mitte des zweiten Croissants angekommen, als durchgesagt wurde, dass man in wenigen Minuten in seinem Zielort einfahren werde. Kopp mochte es nicht glauben, sollten tatsächlich schon 2 Stunden vergangen sein? Das wäre eine kleine Freude wert gewesen, aber kaum dass sie sich hätte entwickeln können, wurde sie auch schon wieder zunichte gemacht, denn als Kopp auf die Uhr sah, um nachzuprüfen, wie spät es tatsächlich war passierte es: Er geriet mit der offenen Marmeladenseite des Croissants an sein Hemd. Rote Marmelade, weißes Hemd. Kopp fluchte gotteslästerlich. Hektisch mit einer Serviette abtupfen, damit wenigstens keine Stückchen kleiben bleiben, während der Zug schon bremst, man das Gleichgewicht verliert, mit den Rippen gegen die Theke fällt, die wischende Hand is dazwischen, das mildert den Schmerz in den Rippen - und erhöht den in der Hand. Kopp spürte ein leises Knacken. Hören konnte er es nicht mehr, alle näheren Geräusche gingen bereits im Getöse der Einfahrt in den Bahnhof unter: Kreischen von Bremsen, Fauchen von gelösten hydraulischen Türblockaden, Koffer, Menschen, Absätze, Durchsagen, Kreissägen(!), Presslufthammer(!). Wie hatte er es aus dem Zug herausgeschafft, keine Erinnerung, als er das nächste mal von sich wusste, tastete sich Darius Kopp bereits über eine provisorische Treppe hinunter in einen Tunnel aus Bretterwänden, hinter denen infernalischer Lärm tobte. Der Bahnhof war eine Großbaustelle. In Kopp blieb das Fluchen stecken. Stumm, mit gesenktem Kopf ging er im Höllenkrawall dorthin, wo er einen Ausgang vermutete. Wenigstens ist der Fleck nicht links. Mir blutet das Herz nicht. Das Sakko verdeckt ihn auch die meiste Zeit. Wie gut, dass es etwas kühler geworden ist und man ein Sakko tragen kann.

my translation:

From: The only man on the continent. He had just made it to the middle of the second croissant when it was announced that soon approach to his destination would be made. Kopp didn't want to believe it, had 2 hours already passed? This would have been worth a little joy, but barely could it develop when it was destroyed, as Kopp looked at the watch to check how late it really was, it did occur: He happened with the open marmalade side of the croissant towards his shirt. Red marmalade, white shirt. Kopp cursed blasphemously. Hectical dabbing with a napkin, for at least no bits to remain sticking, while the train is already decelerating, one loses balance, with the ribs falling against the counter, the wiping hand is in-between, which lessens the pain in the ribs - heightens the one in the hand. Kopp felt a faint crack. Hear it, he could not, all the closer sounds already mixed with the enormous noise of arriving at the station: Screech of breaks, hiss of released hydraulic door holds, suitcases, people, heels, announcements, buzz saws(!), jackhammer(!). How had he made it out of the train, no recollection, the next time he knew about himself, Darius Kopp was fumbling his way over temporary stairs down into a tunnel made from boarded walls, behind which infernal noise roared. The train station was a large construction site. Cursing stuck in Kopp. Mute, with lowered head did he walk the hellish riot to where he assumed an exit. At least the stain isn't on the left. My heart doesn't bleed. The jacket covers it most of the time. Luckily, it's gotten a little bit cooler and you can wear a jacket.

-

What I love about this scene specifically is how vividly the mundane scene turns into an intense experience. More in general, I love how Mora plays with POV, with voice, how easily she shifts between tenses for us to intuitively understand to distinguish narration, inner monologue, and auctorial voice. As elegantly as that is to read, as hard it is to replicate, of course. I know, I tried. Also German is surprisingly hard to translate, and I got doubts about my English skills also lmao

Fun exercise tho!

[rustbeltjessie]

I was tagged by @theclevercorpse. Thank you!

Last song listened to: Leftover Crack with World/Inferno Friendship Society - "Soon We'll Be Dead"

Favorite color: I never know how to answer this. Favorite color to wear? To paint a wall? To use in an art piece? Just to look at? In any case, I wear mostly black and gray, but my actual favorite colors are probably really dark blues, greens, and purples, or gold-y saffron-y yellows.

Currently watching: Ted Lasso (yes, I know I'm late to jump on that bandwagon, but that's my m.o. with most things). Also been rewatching every episode of Halloween Wars starting from season 1.

Last movie: I've been rewatching a lot of films by my favorite filmmakers that I hadn't seen in a while. Most recently, it was Alex Cox's Straight to Hell.

Currently reading: Hex Life (an anthology of short stories about witches), Wonderlands: Essays on the Life of Literature by Charles Baxter, and a lot of poetry from various sources. Oh, and I recently read three really good articles: How Queer is “Frankenstein?” and The Lingering Beauty of Elliott Smith (both from The New Yorker), and Pitchfork’s review of The Replacement’s Tim (Let it Bleed Edition).

sweet/spicy/savory: Savory, with spicy as a close second.

relationship status: Married to my partner of 14 years.

current obsessions: The Replacements (what else is new?!), the photography of Saul Leiter, all things spooky (cuz 'tis the season).

last thing i googled: "what is monoprint painting"

currently working on: Printing/collating/packing up zine orders, packing my suitcase for a lil' trip, some poems, a collage.

I’ll tag @blind-the-winds, @hthrrloooo, @neoretrobibliomartini-x, @endreal, @dee-the-red-witch, and @sirhro - but don’t feel obligated. And if I didn’t tag you and you want to play, consider yourself shadow-tagged!

[sailorsenshishitposter]

The standard beach episode

Slightly NSFW

It's 9:00 AM which is too early for Dante to be up right now. He's hungover yet again and notices his door being slammed wide open. It was Nero. Figures. "Whaddya want kiddo? Can't you see I'm trying to get some beauty sleep?"

Nero was yelling something about how he's had this trip planned for months and how Dante wasn't going to ruin it. His nephew then took a toothbrush and attached it to his arm. Dante's teeth were soon cleaner than a Colgate commercial. He then grabbed some clothes and threw them into a suitcase. "God you stink! At least where we're going you can wash off." Before Dante could protest and ask what the hell Nero was talking about, he was flung into the Devil May Cry van.

"Everybody's here then?" said Nico. Nero gave her a thumbs up and she then put the vehicle in motion, leaving burnt tire tracks all over the road. Nico made Mrs. Frizzle look like a Sunday driver.  Dante was still waking up and took notice of everyone on board. There was Nico and Nero, that was a given but he then happened to notice Trish, Lady and Vergil. He tried to sleep but it was like being in bed but if that bed was actually a bumper car.

Dante then tried to think of something calming. He then conjured an image of a pizza in his brain. It had just been taken out of the oven, the steam wafting through the air. The crust was just right and the cheese was gooey when he cut into it. He let out a moan. He then was just about to take a bite when he woke up from his vision and screamed in pain. Why did everything sting? He looked at Lady and noticed a spray bottle (likely filled with holy water).

"LADY, WHAT THE HELL, I'M NOT A CAT!" he screamed. "You're right. I'd say you're actually more like a dog. You both hump everything in sight." Dante looked down a noticed he had an errection. "Whoops, sorry about that..."  He needed to save his pizza fetish thoughts for when he was alone. Next thing he knew, Nico shouted "We're here y'all!"

Dante stepped outside and noticed they were at a beach. "This is nice kid. Only one problem. I didn't bring any swim trunks." Nero then held up the suitcase and threw it towards his uncle. "I brought some just in case you forgot. Now go get changed. You can bathe in the water." He let out a laugh. "Aw. I was hoping to go skinny dipping!" Vergil crinkled his nose in disgust.

There were a small set of bathrooms that everyone got changed in. They were now just waiting for Dante. Everyone had standard attire except for Vergil. He was wearing a blue snorkeling suit? Lady tried to ask him about it but he started going on about something called Metal Gear Solid 2 and she went back to hangout with Trish because she's not a nerd.

The door opened and everyone's eyes popped wide open, Nico screaming "MY EYES!" while Vergil nearly vomited. "WHAT THE FUCK DANTE!" shouted Nero. It turns out that his uncle had taken one of the red swim trunks out of the case and had fashioned it so he now wore a mankini, borat style. He started doing strange gestures while saying "I like you, do you like me?" in a funny voice. "Can anyone translate?" asked Trish. "Do not attempt to understand my brother, it will only bring you down to his level." said Vergil.

"Anyone up for beach ball?" Dante and Vergil wound up on a team despite Vergil's refusal to do so, leaving them against Nero and Trish. This left Lady as referee and Nico being the cheerleader. Neros team was in the lead due to the twins not being able to work well together. Vergil would attempt to show off while Dante would fight his brother for the chance to hit the ball, leading to more arguments than play time.

Each time Vergil went for the ball Dante would glide in front of him while sticking his chest out. This time he caught the ball in his pectorals. His brother yelled something about how this wasn't a dead or alive game and then quit the match, automatically causing their team to forfeit. He then went to go read his book of poems. "GAME OVER!" shouted Lady.

The rest of the group disbanded. Lady was shooting mosquitos with her pressurised water gun and Trish was surfboarding. Nico had a metal detector and was searching for junk hidden in the sand. Nero tried to talk her out of it but she said "one man's trash is another's treasure." As long as she wasn't causing mayhem he didn't care. That just left him and his uncle.

"Having a good time?" Nero asked. Dante sighed. "Yeah. It reminds me of the time mom took us to the beach and we made sandcastles. Vergil's was better so I kicked it down. He tried to get back at me by blowing sand in my eyes so then I put wet clumps of sand down the back of his shorts. Mom was furious." Nero thought to himself sarcastically "I can't imagine why."

He then took out an icebox. "I brought some ice cream if you guys want any. It was handmade by Kyrie so you better not say anything bad about- WAIT! WHERE DID IT GO!? THERE WAS A FULL THING OF ICE CREAM IN HERE!" Nero was looking around frantically. He then noticed his uncle tip toeing away. Nero went into Devil Trigger mode. "DANTEEEEE! WHAT DID YOU DO!?"

Knowing the jig was up, Dante turned around sheepishly. He had blue bits of ice cream decorating his face while his cheeks were fatter than a squirrel storing nuts in its mouth. "DANTE! THAT WAS THE SPECIAL SEA SALT ICE CREAM THAT KYRIE MADE!" His uncle swallowed with a nervous look. "If it makes you feel any better, it was really good!" Nero then lunged at his uncle and screamed "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU AND THEN SOME!"

This was loud enough for Vergil to notice and put down his book. "I expect nothing less of my kin. Go son. Make your father proud!" Nico turned to Lady and Trish. "Is there anything in particular that we're supposed to do?" Lady shook her head. "It's best if they get tired from fighting it out. That's usually what we let them do." Nico then asked "What about Mr. Vergil?" Trish snorted. "If anything he's enjoying this fight and won't stop it anytime soon."

Several hours later and uncle and nephew were on their knees, trying their best to punch each other. "NEROOOOOOOO!" "DANTEEEEEEEEE!" Trish then walked over and said "You guys done yet?" Nero said "Just a second." and then punched his uncle so hard that he fell on his back. With his last remaining breaths, Dante said "You're pretty good..." and the passed out.

The sun was setting so the gang dragged Dante and returned to the van. They dropped him off at his business. Literally. Nero shoved his uncles unconscious body out of the van and left it on the Devil May Cry doorstep. They drove off and Dante woke up the next afternoon covered in filth with a pounding headache. "Must have been some crazy kinda party! Well I'm hungry for pizza in more ways than one so let's get busy!"

[half-tabaxi]

A stream of consciousness. Not a new realization but I check in on distanced people more than they check in on me. I think I have come up with some ideas to play around with for a new poem! A little stoked because I haven't written one in awhile. Keep accidentally hanging out with dudes who ultimately just want to have sex. The benefit of the doubt hardly ever benefits me. There was one cool dude this past week, I guess. The thing is, when they skirt around their intentions, I kind of get off on getting them to just like. Voice it aloud. At some point during the night, I learn he is moving across the damn ass country soon and take note, considering I want something long-term. Later we start to makeout and it's fun, it's whatever. I like kissing. We break away after a little bit and I suggest that we walk to the corner store. He agrees, slipping in an "after". After what? Answer the question. And he eventually did. I want to fuck you. Surprise. He didn't even finger me. It was fine. See you never. My roommate is home from a 2-month thing. I cleaned the apartment from top to bottom... all of its nooks and crannies... I hope they feel welcomed! Still some stuff I want to hang and touch-up, all easily overlooked though. They are my secrets. Things just need to look lived in now. It's all too.... untouched... even though in actuality I spent the last few hours putting my hands all over everything. Arguably the most I have in a long time. Dusting and placing and rotating. You get it though... the living room needs to be hung out in.... broken in. I'm sure the suitcases have already made the place feel less... sterilized and proper... no longer like a set. The overhead lighting in the kitchen is harsh, always has been... often takes me out of reality! I have an idea to hang these paper pyramid-like string lights that I have had for years and years. Some are beat-up but I think it would add to the space... give us more options... and it just would be cute. Before my shower I removed the stain glass lightbulb, only leaving in two small red ones. Stood there, the water nice and hot. Sat on the tub floor. Closed my eyes. Leaned forward. Listened to the music I chose. Got out, screwed the loose bulb back in. I have an ongoing joke with myself that I will find my missing hard drive in a stupid silly fucking place, coping about it an entire year later. I noticed that I had some board games that were still taped shut from when I moved. Laughed with myself about the possibilities and opened them up. I am still holding out hope but no luck this time! I may knock on my old front door one day. I kind of resent the new owners for buying my home though. And how quick it all was. Like, get fucked, but also can I please have my hard drive? I mean, if it's in there. What I did find was a pile of half-used notepad sheets for a game that hasn't been played in forever. Some of them were drawn on by people I no longer speak to. One had a doodle done by my ex-boyfriend. It's weird to think about how I have lived, like, thirteen different lives. I think I would forgive a lot of people. Or even apologize to them. I also found two 8-in-1 retractable ballpoint pens. So, like, some treasure and a lot of thoughts. I did a little bit of glueing and taping and messing around in my journal. I feel I am doing okay in a very general sense. Trying my best and keeping up. I could do better. Can't we all though? Is that a cop-out? I don't care about money, I don't know, it's just practically all my parents would argue about in front of us. I don't care as long as my shit gets paid on time. But I think I have to shift gears and thought processes because I would like to live a little more comfortably, ultimately concerning myself with it less. Gonna look over my resume. Keep going, keep busy. Try to slim down my closet. Fix my camera. Maybe it did end up working on my last trip. Do this and that. Keep on playing Tears of the Kingdom and text dudes less. There's more passion involved with the former. Used used used. Wondering. Navigating. October is almost here.