#titter-totter

[upbki3cu4gov]

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[yakourinka]

[phantomrose96]

Savit-e

My host mother is a woman with long twirling hair and more floral-patterned sundresses than I’ve seen in my entire life. She throws open the closet each morning to flick each dress along its hanging rail, sharp squeaks. “What can I even wear?” The dresses sway like summer willows. I sneak in behind her and grab a t-shirt and jeans from my tiny pile at the bottom.

She loves earrings that swing and she loves stain-glass windchimes which clink and muse while she pours me the bitterest cup of tea I’ve ever had in my life. I fill it with sugar and she chides me. I remind her of all the spicy dishes I make that she cannot eat, and she says, “Okay, I’ll let it go this one time.” She sips her tea black. The birds titter at her joke. We’ll have the same conversation tomorrow.

My host mother is Jira and I wonder how closely we might be related every time I catch that glimmer in her eyes like my mothers’. Jira is too tall to be my mother and her hair is not quite dark enough, but I like to believe I see it. I like to believe Jira’s country and mine are related, that maybe her great-great-grandparents and mine were friends before the records were scorched and the lines were redrawn. Or maybe our countries bore no relation to each other. Maybe they were friends anyway. Maybe they were enemies. I’ve heard every opinion.

Jira has a worry-face like my mother, but she uses it for different things, like plum prices at the market and rain clouds blundering through like clumsy creatures. It used to surprise me, since my mother reserved her worry-face for only the dourest things in her mind. I saw more and more of it from my mother before I left. “Baby maybe you should spend the summer home. Maybe you can get your money back.” She said she’d been reading things in the news. I told her not to worry. I would be safe in my travels. I feel stares pressing into my back while Jira leans over the plums. I notice Jira receives the stares too.

She hums a tune and busies herself in the kitchen in a dress I’ve never seen. She’s been in a great mood since her daughter came home this morning. I didn’t get a good look at her daughter at first because Jira swallowed her right up in her arms. But I got to see her better when I helped bring her bags in. Savine is lithe, baby-faced and a head shorter than Jira, and her eyes carry the same arch and slope as Jira’s. She has the same dimples and she moves in the same way, tilted forward, as if to let gravity do the work of carrying her momentum.

Savine is napping from her trip, and Jira seems to have forgotten all the slow and patient syllables she usually saves for me. She speaks in her rapid pace and I jog to keep up. Too many words slip through my grasp. One in particular I hear too many times. Savit-e.  

“Savit-e?” I ask.

Jira puckers her lips as if to think. Her eyes rove. Footsteps tap gently closer behind me, and Jira’s eyes light up as she looks past me.

“Savit-e!” she says, motioning forward as Savine rounds the counter and pulls her mom into another hug. Savine is only 10. She’s been away almost 6 months for school, according to Jira.

A nickname, I note. Savine wears earrings like windchimes as well.

…

Jira has offered to charge me no rent if I babysit Savine for the summer and cook dinner in the evenings. Savine’s summer classes are early and short, as are mine, so I pick Savine up every day at noon. “This is Reb. She’s my mom’s friend this summer,” Savine tells her school friends. I gather that Jira does something similar every year, taking in an au pair while she works the summer.

There is a park Savine likes in particular, with the tall slides and the cold water fountains and all her friends. It takes me a few days to realize her friends are new to even her. Any child at the park becomes her friend by nature of needing two to play the teeter-totter. I meet parents and I practice my clumsy language with them. They don’t stare strangely at me like the man in the plum aisle.

Three times over the summer, I hear a parent at the park ask me. “Who is Savit-e?” I point to Savine every time. I don’t think too much about it, because they always like the answer, nodding along. Savine’s friends do not use the nickname, but I experiment with it here and there. Savine lights up when I do. “Savit-e,” I call to her from the school lawn, and she squeals and bounds forward to wrap me in the kind of hug she gives her mother.

I pick up a copy of the newspaper from the corner store every day on my way to pick up Savine, and I read what I can of it at the park. The newspaper is not a person, and it does not stilt its vocabulary to be simple and clear the way people do when they notice me struggling with the tongue, so oftentimes I gather just the concepts from articles. It is my fourth week of doing this when one article stops me. I see the spelling of what Jira says out loud so often.

Savit-e.

The article is hard, but I recognize the word for murder, and the words for three men. Three men murdered, and Savit-e. I would ask Savine, but I’m afraid the article may be something upsetting.

I ask Jira that night, after Savine has gone to bed.

“A man killed three others,” Jira says, brow slightly scrunched as she skims the paper and distills its contents to simpler words I know. Her eye creases are deep by the evening lamplight. “He is not charged with a crime, because he was protecting his Savit-e.”

This sinks in slowly, and a red flush of embarrassment makes itself known on my cheeks.

“Savit-e… as in ‘daughter’?”

I use my own word for it, since I don’t know Jira’s word for daughter. Or at least, I did not know, until now.

Jira’s brow scrunch tightens, which she does whenever I’ve used one of my words she doesn’t know.

“Like Savine is to you. Savine is your daughter.”

At this, Jira nods slowly, then more quickly as she lets the meaning sink in. “Yes… Savine is my Savit-e… my daughter.”

I thank Jira for the explanation. I lie awake that night thinking too much about the parents at the park who think Savine is my Savit-e.

…

I start to dislike the newspaper. I’m not sure if it’s the summer heat sewing aggravation, or some deeper unrest, or maybe my own growing vocabulary, but more and more I notice articles that leave me unsettled. I read about the arrest of a man who looks like the man in the plum aisle. Maybe there’s no resemblance at all. Maybe any man with those piercing eyes in a mug shot feels like the man in the plum aisle. There are still many words I don’t know, but country and nation come up often. And Savit-e. More articles of someone acting in protection of their Savit-e.

My mother isn’t here to protect me. I walk more cautiously when I’m alone at night, as a woman, as a Savit-e with no parents here to protect me.

I’m in the kitchen with a knife shunking through the angled cuts of scallion. The pot for the noodles is boiling and I’ve halved the spices as I do every night for Jira and Savine. I don’t even hear the front door kick open.

I do hear Savine scream.

My heart is in my throat and my blood is cold, and I move, because in the moment I have forgotten I am a Savit-e far away from home. All that matters is Savine’s scream.

And my sockless feet are light as I snake through the dining room and round the corner to the living room, entering from the same door as the two men who now stand there, backs to me, both eagerly teasing the handles of a gun. One has Savine in a chokehold, and the men stare at Jira, pressed flat against the wall. I realize Jira does have a worry-face she reserves for the truly awful things.

And the men with their backs to me are plum-men, in ways I understand without knowing what fast and clipped words they’re shouting at Jira. The one holding Savine presses the barrel of his gun against her ear, and the windchime titter of her earrings is drowned under her scream of fear. The plum man barks a demand at Jira, and she watches with moon-plate eyes.

He barks it again.

Jira raises a trembling hand. And her digits curl, and her palm pulls inward, and her earrings clink with the slow stuttering shake of her head. She points her index finger firmly against her own heart, and she declares ‘Savit-e’.

Jira runs out through the second living room door.

“Mooooom! Savit-e!!” Savine screams, and her words choke, and she wriggles under the hold of the man. And suddenly sense returns to my body at the sound of Savine’s screams.

I am still holding the scallion knife.

I don’t remember what I do next, but the knife does.

…

There is a drawl of radio static that seems to dominate my ears. The sirens and flashing lights are background noise to me now. They’ve taken Savine away with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. They’ve assured me I’ll be able to see her, but later, once she’s been looked at, once she’s calmed down, once I’ve been spoken to.

“You are not in trouble,” the detective tells me in my own tongue with a slight accent rounding her words. She’s the only one who speaks my language. They called her in when it became clear I didn’t know enough of theirs to give a report. “You were protecting your Savit-e.”

I flinch, a little bit, somehow still capable of embarrassment with a mind that’s gone completely numb. “Savine isn’t my Savit-e.”

The woman detective frowns. I remember we’re in my own tongue.

“I mean, she’s not my daughter. She’s Jira’s daughter. She’s Jira’s Savit-e.”

The woman’s frown lessens some. “Your daughter, no. Your Savit-e, yes.”

I hold my hands near my face. They still smell of garlic and scallions. “The pot’s gonna boil over. I have to go turn off the stove,” I say, urgently, and unhelpfully, as the thought suddenly strikes and I push myself standing.

The woman’s hand is on my shoulder, and she presses me down. “The pot is not boil. The stove is off. It is okay. Who is Savit-e?”

And the question sits weird. I realize she asks it like those parents at the park.

I don’t answer. The detective chews her lip, and I see her eyes searching for a word she can’t find. “Who is your… The Most? Who is your The Above? Who is your The Most of All?”

“My most what?”

“Who is your Protect Over Everything?”

And from her face I can tell she is frustrated with her own words. There is more she is saying that I cannot know in my own language.

Protect Over Everything. I think about the scream that pulled me from the kitchen.

“I think… Savine… is my Protect Over Everything.”

And this satisfies the woman. And she nods the way the parents at the park do. “You are not in trouble. You always protect Savit-e. You must always. There is no trouble for what you did. Good job, that you protect your Savit-e. You will have her back soon.”

I go stiff.

“Jira needs her back, not me. I go home in a few weeks. I only started—” I falter. “Savine is Jira’s Savit-e.”

The detective shakes her head. “Jira is Jira’s Savit-e. Jira does not come back.”

…

I postpone my flight home. I tell my mother it’s because my studies are going long. I’ll tell her more, later, when I’m ready.

I pick up Savine every day from school as always. She doesn’t smile, and she pulls me into a hug that is too tight and lasts too long. She doesn’t want to go to the park. She comes grocery shopping with me, because it’s better than being left home alone. I look over my shoulder whenever I grab the plums.

I cook dinner and I eat with Savine, and we do this at the counter because when I sit us at the kitchen table, Savine looks too long at Jira’s empty place. I tried calling Jira once, after Savine went to bed. Her phone rang from the next room. I watched it ring until it cut to voicemail.

There’s an article about me in the paper. I can’t read most of it. Or maybe I just don’t try to. I see Jira’s name. I see the plum man words. I see Savit-e written 14 times.

I don’t know what happens to Savine if I leave. I’ve tried asking and I get too many words I do not know, and no one who can explain them better to me. But their expressions stay with me. Like the looks of plum-men and worry-faces and now this new look, which is rooted in something deeper about a country which I know too little about. It’s a sad look. It’s something I can maybe understand without the words attached. I tell my mom I might like to extend my study through the fall.

Savine has started calling me “Savit-e.”

[kalak]

Luke skywalker is about the juxtaposition of the titter totter over the edge but never falling, he's about the juxtaposition between unimaginable power and being so warm and personable; he's about going through the Horrors but loving life despite what he's experienced.

[notveryimpressed]

Supervillain's Laughter Carnival

In the bustling metropolis of Mischiefburg, where skyscrapers loomed like the wicked smiles of villains, an extraordinary society of supervillains reigned supreme. Among them was Dr. Malfeasance, a diabolical genius with an uncanny knack for creating hilarious chaos.

Dr. Malfeasance had recently invented a device called the "Giggler," capable of turning anything it touched into a perpetually laughing object. Eager to test his creation, he embarked on a quest to transform the city into a riotous laughter festival.

One fateful morning, Dr. Malfeasance, dressed in his signature purple cape and dastardly monocle, strolled through the city park, Giggler in hand. He spotted his arch-nemesis, Captain Virtue, standing near a group of innocent citizens.

Dr. Malfeasance couldn't resist the opportunity for a mischievous prank. With a sly grin, he aimed the Giggler at Captain Virtue's shiny boots. In a matter of seconds, the boots erupted into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, much to the amusement of the bystanders.

The heroic Captain Virtue, momentarily perplexed by his hysterically laughing boots, glared at Dr. Malfeasance. "You won't get away with this, Malfeasance!" he bellowed, attempting to maintain his composure amidst the chuckling commotion.

But Dr. Malfeasance wasn't finished. He aimed the Giggler at a nearby statue, which promptly burst into a chorus of giggles. The park transformed into a symphony of laughter, with statues, benches, and even squirrels joining in the contagious merriment.

In the midst of the laughter-laden chaos, a mischievous sidekick known as Titter Totter approached Dr. Malfeasance, clutching a squirting flower. "Dr. Malfeasance, I have an idea!" he exclaimed through snickers. "Why don't we turn the Mayor's office into a nonstop comedy show?"

The wicked genius grinned, recognizing the brilliance of Titter Totter's suggestion. Together, they made their way to City Hall, snickering at their audacity. With a swift flick of his wrist, Dr. Malfeasance unleashed the Giggler upon the Mayor's office, transforming it into a whimsical chamber of laughter.

As city officials stumbled out, unable to maintain their stern faces, they joined the laughter-infused street carnival. The entire city had become a scene of absurdity and jubilation, with even the most villainous citizens surrendering to fits of uncontrollable glee.

Word of Dr. Malfeasance's prank spread like wildfire throughout Mischiefburg, catching the attention of renowned superheroes far and wide. Heroic figures such as the Daring Dynamo and the Mighty Guardian hurried to the scene, determined to restore order to the riotous city.

But when they arrived, they found themselves unable to contain their own laughter. Even the most serious-faced champions succumbed to the effects of the Giggler, joining the uproarious fun.

Dr. Malfeasance, surrounded by laughing heroes and villains alike, reveled in his victory. His diabolical plan had united sworn enemies in joyous hilarity, proving that laughter was indeed the most potent force in the world, capable of melting the hearts of even the most resolute adversaries.

And so, amidst the cacophony of giggles and snorts, Mischiefburg thrived in its temporary state of uproar. Dr. Malfeasance, basking in the triumph of his prank, resolved to create more chaos-induced comedy in the future

Please follow me or reblog my writing. it really motivates me to write

[roguehongsami]

We Can't Be Friends.

—★ pairing/s: tavern owner!yunho x fem!reader

—★ genre/s: fluff, angst, au

—★ synopsis: your boyfriend broke up with you and your best friend decides to cheer you up.

—★ content: none.

—★ word count: 2.2k

* DISCLAIMER: THIS IS FICTIONAL. IT IS NOT A REPRESENTATION OF JEONG YUNHO'S CHARACTER, PERSONALITY OR BEHAVIOUR. THIS IS SOLELY FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES. *

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ ariana grande // we can't be friends

The door brayed when she pushed it ajar and made her way inside. A man stood aside, making way for her to pass through, before taking his leave. He was the last customer of the night. A slight whiff of his scent as she walked past, he reeked of rum. She picked a stool and sat down; her handbag laid on the counter. Her posture was slouched. Shoulders hung in defeat. Expression evidently worn. The bartender appeared from behind the counter. Startled, his heart jumped, putting his hand over his chest. He leaned over the counter, the warmest smile danced on his face.

"How's your day been?" he asked.

There was a brief silence before she answered, "He broke up with me." catatonically, she uttered under her tottering breath. "Over the phone, while I was at work, but I kept it together." her head nodded self-assuredly.

The smile he once wore fell away and replaced by a benevolent cast. He straightened his back, studying her drooping eyes. She was trying but never could she ever fool him. Not Yunho, everyone but him. He knew her too well. Her tells. All of it.

"And how are you taking it, honestly?" a sincere tone laced in his question.

"I think I've had worse things happen to me." shoulders shrugging as she feigned a smile.

Eyebrow arched, "It's killing you, isn't it?" he said in an almost-whisper.

Her character broke, smile disappearing from her face. Her eyes watered, head bowing in an attempt to mask how much her heart ached. Body shuddering as that flood of despondency she had kept at bay, washed over her. She was drowning. Couldn't stay afloat. He put the dish rag on his shoulder down on the counter, circling around to bring her into an embrace. As he cradled her, one hand held the back of her head with the other rubbing her back. With her arms draped over his waist, she clung onto him with the bit of energy she had left. Wails muffled with her face buried in his chest. His shirt collected every woe-ladened teardrop. Each soothing rub brought her closer to relief. The cries intonated far less by the passing minute.

He dipped down to meet her eyes, painted with a faint hue of red, "We'll get through this, okay? You don't have to act strong with me." he said with his hands on her cheeks, thumbs wiping away her tears.

'We'. It was always that 'we' that made her run into his arms or call him in the oddest hours of the night. He was dependable. There, no matter what. He was her bestest friend for a myriad of reasons, and mostly this one. Her ups and downs were his, and vice-versa. They walked this life side-by-side.

"I have to lock up the tavern, but I'll take you somewhere to get your mind off of everything when I'm done." hands falling from her face to shoulders. "Think you can wait?" she espoused with a nod. "Can I make you tea?"

Sniffling, "You serve tea here?" she quipped as she scoffed.

"In times like these, yeah." he tittered.

Playfully, he pinched her nose and circled back around the bar, resuming his duties. Nursing the mug before her, lips pressed to the rim, she watched as he paced back and forth in the aisle. Once finished with her hot beverage, he washed the mug and set it aside. He put on his jacket and led her off the premises, locking the door as they exited. He opened the car door to the passenger side. She entered and he walked to the driver's side.

For 5 minutes, they drove to the town's seaside and parked in a residential zone. As soon as they exited the vehicle, a brisk gust of cool air prickled their skin. It smelled of salt. The walk to the docks was quick. The fishing boats were docked. The entrance was blazoned with lanterns that emitted colours you would never find in a rainbow. The scene was lively. Attendees were enjoying themselves, children galloping about with cotton candy and stuffed toys in their hands. Some rode on the ferris wheel while others on the merry-go-round. This little fishing town they resided in always did things to help residents destress.

"The lantern festival, I forgot..."

"You've been so busy these past few weeks, I thought you wouldn't wanna go." he threw his arm over her shoulder. "Come on, we're gonna have fun and stuff our faces 'til we puke."

In the line for the dart throw, the couple before them walked away empty-handed when their turn was over. They stepped forward to the booth. Yunho slid a bill across the counter to the clerk. He handed 5 darts over to Yunho, who in turn, gave them all to her. With the sleeves of her sweater dangling over her hands, she rolled them up and held the darts in one hand. She took one dart, her eyes zeroed in on a particular balloon on the wall. They watched as the first dart flew to the wall. It missed. Yunho rubbed her shoulder reassuringly. Again, and again. He groaned under his breath. The last dart missed its target. She huffed; arms crossed over her chest. The makings of a toddler. Yunho accidently chuckled under his breath. She pushed his arm off of her shoulders, eyebrows furrowed, she wore a scowl on her face.

"You said this would be fun." she complained.

"It is," he shrugged. "I'm watching you lose." he laughed shamelessly at his best friend.

She pushed him in the chest, but he laughed even harder, "Shut up, you know I have bad hand-eye coordination!" she avowed.

"Look at you, losing it over a rigged game." teasingly, he said.

With the last chuckle leaving his mouth, he pinched her cheek and placed his arm over her shoulder once more. He gave the clerk a smaller bill in exchange for 3 darts. Placing it strategically between his fingers, his eyes squinted as he drew his hand behind his ear. The dart flew through the stall. Right in the middle of the ballon, the tip pierced the latex and water spilled out. Another, and another.

"Rigged, huh?" she sneered.

"You can pick from the top row." the clerk informed Yunho.

Pointing to the far-right corner, "That pink dragon." he said.

Once the stuffed toy was acquired, they left the stall. He handed her the dragon. She held it a few centimetres from her face as she appreciated it. Looking down at her, he watched as her mood gradually amended. Anything and everything in the world, he would give just for her to get a speckle of joy amidst a collection of reasons to bring her down. He could never allow himself to sit back and watch as she suffered. He can't, and he won't.

In the following hour, they rode the ferris wheel and the merry-go-round. They scarfed down a heart attack-inducing amount of food. Most of the stalls were paid a visit. All the games and activities. It wasn't long until she had somewhat forgotten what brought about her sorrow. It was the little moments with Yunho that always made life worth living. Her right-hand man.

The sky was completely blacked out, with clouds and stars adorning the aero canvas. He bought a bag of popcorn. They made their way over to the beach, finding a snug spot by the boulders to rest and watch the waters and passing boats. Yunho ate a few before he took one into his hand and held it up beside his face.

"Open up." an evidently addled expression washed over her face. "Trust me, just open up."

Her mouth fell agape and shortly after, a piece of popcorn fell into her mouth. Amused, they laughed. With a couple more tries and a few misses here-and-there, some falling to the sand below, they continued with the game. Eventually, they just sat and soaked in the scenery. His arm draped over her shoulders; she held the bag while he scooped with his unoccupied hand. It was silent and calm, all that could be heard was the sound of the waves. Her head laid on his chest, his hand played with her hair.

"For what it's worth, it's his loss not yours." his voice carried softly as it broke the silence. "You were always too good for him anyway."

"Then why does it feel like I'm the one who lost out?" her voice nearly down to a whisper.

"You love hard. Nothing to be ashamed of, that's what makes you 'you'." with the faint sounding of a bell in the distance, he said, "Come on, it's time."

Trudging through the sand, they journeyed to the other side of the beach. There, a swarm of carnival attendees were standing in groups, some alone. They found a merchant who sold lanterns. Yunho bought one. Along with everyone else, they listened to the master of the ceremony as she presided over the gathering. The elderly lady stood behind the podium. With much of her attention, her mind pondered over her words as she spoke about letting go, moving on. A few stray tears glid down her cheeks. Swiping his hand across her face, gently, his fingers brushed away the tears. Once the MC finished her piece, everyone around them begun lighting their lanterns and setting them free into the night.

She held the lighter up before her face. Her finger pulled on the trigger a few times before a small flame emerged. With his hand over hers, they both held the lighter and looked into one another's eyes.

"One day, you'll find somebody who'll love you as much as you do them." his eyes were kind as his words went through her foremind. "And that day may come a lot sooner than you think. For now, let yourself be. Just cry."

With a nod, she whispered, "Thank you for always being here."

"Always will be."

Both their hands leaned in to ignite the lantern. Waiting a few moments for the flame to grow in size, he then released the lantern into the sky. As they watched it float away with the others, he took her hand into his, fingers entwined together. They stood in their places until the lanterns were nearly out of sight. As the carnival neared its end, they grew tired and sleepy. The night was growing too long. They walked back to his vehicle. The drive to her apartment was quite silent, a shift in the atmosphere was as apparent as her heartbreak.

He parked outside the building, the engine dying down when he came to a halt. They sat silently. Not a single word uttered. He stepped out of the vehicle and circled to the passenger side, opening the door to let her out. She stepped out. Her feet led her toward her apartment, him trailing right behind. They entered, she put the stuffed toy down on the counter. After putting her handbag down on the counter as well, he stood idly with his hands pocketed in his sweatpants. Only a few feet away, she stood before his towering frame.

"Today was really... thank you." she spoke meekly. "Thank you for cheering me up."

"Anytime. You ever need to just let it all out, call me."

Cocooning her in his arms, he embraced her for a minute or so. She melted into his hold, the feel of his hand caressing her head shushed the noise in her head. With every breath she took, his scent soothed her burgeoning nerves. The traces of jasmine from her perfume brought about a peace he knew nothing of. He drew back and studied her eyes. With not much thought, only driven by inhibitions, he dipped down with his hands holding her face and slotted his lips between hers. His lips were soft and tasted sweet, the traces of cotton candy still playing about in his mouth. She held his wrists, too frozen to react. There were a thousand thoughts racing through her mind and not a single one of them told her to welcome his act. He took note of her lack of reaction. Instantly pulling back, she put her hands over her lips, eyes welling.

"No..." she whispered under her breath, head shaking slowly.

A few steps back with his hands falling to his sides, "What do you mean 'no'?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"You can't feel that way about me." she refuted.

"Why not?"

"Because..." she cried, brushing her hair back. "You just can't. I'm scared that if things don't go right, it'll all be for nothing and we're gonna mess up our friendship. I can't take risks on the single most important person in my life, Yunho, I can't."

"We haven't even trie–"

"I don't think we should..."

"You really think we're just better off as friends?"

With the question lingering in the air unanswered, it was truly a testing moment for their dynamic. He loved her with all that he had to offer, and everyone around them knew how head over heels she was for him. Even if she could never bring herself to admit it. Who was to say they wouldn't create something beautiful together if she weren't so fearful. There was too much going on all at once in her head, barely able to arrange her thoughts however she wished. All she thought of was their kiss, his kiss. The feel of his lips on hers. Her reaction, or lack thereof. It's not that she didn't feel the same way, it was undeniably obvious that she did. The blindest of man could see it. The fear of their relationship not going how she wished held her back from truly acting on her desires.

"I need to think about it..."

[silencedyomama]

MY YANDERE LOVE

This is my first ever blog and i am not really accustomed to it so it might be a bit shaggy.

He was bright like a sunshine, my sunshine. Always smiling radiating positivity. We had so many good memories from splashing each other with water to sitting by the park at night eating titter totters. As time passed he became something special to me, from childhood friends to mindless lovers embracing eachother for who knows how long. I used to find him attractive until I found his ugly truth.

The deaths that occurred in my town were committed by him for his love of mine. Guilty caught in my throat, I reach the gate of the police crew. Entering the department was just the start of my nightmare, from living in an apartment to his basement. My heart rate used to pick up whenever he visited me. Oh god! How I wish he wasn't a monster. His basement was my new home, the words he recited became my safe zone. You promised to love me for all eternity. So, where are you now my yandere love. You were a sin sweet as honey, a risk I wished to take. Oh, my yandere love, my only love.

My obsessive, possessive, protective, submissive, sadistic, my dominant love. Your death is still fresh in my bones. The way you smiled as I stabbed you to death. Speaking reassuring words in my ears, as I laughed with every stab in your stomach and arms. The last words which I keep close to myself " I'll always be there for you even if I die. You are mine and always will be ". The way you let out a content sigh seeing me be consumed by my inner demons.

Why'd you leave me like this. Stupid me to be a victim of Stockholm Syndrome. Now I treat patients like you who need special assistance trying to find you in them. Ah, my only yandere love. May you always be close to my heart.

[this-is-an-open-letter]

Did you watch Selena's documentary? I thought it was such a hard watch and I dunno being a celebrity seems like hell. I was curious to what your take on it was.

I did and I agree its a very hard watch, I mean from the very beginning she's already breaking down about her mind and body and its such early signs of it all falling apart.

It made me so sad for her because there is no way 'out' of the battles she is facing, she has lupus and is bi polar add on to that anxiety about pretty much everything and on top of all that she's battling this very real situation that she is in where - she has zero desire to be a celebrity but her celebrity allows her to fight for things that mean something to her with the potential to change someone's life.

She's constantly on a titter totter going up and down and up and down - what she does feeds what she loves and they have to co-exist but its at such a great cost for her mentally.

I am rooting for her, she seems to be in the best place she could be just with her career and her mental health and I hope that continues for her.

[ofhumanvoice-a]

@starsspin​ liked for a grogu starter for amelia

   He totters off as quickly as he can as Amelia counts to one hundred. He takes in his surroundings and selects a tall statue as his hiding place. Slipping behind it so his small body is perfectly concealed, he titters to himself. She’ll never find him.

[ochoislas]

LA PITITA REBRINCONA

La pitita rebrincona, fuera salió con la lluvia; trajinando y trasteando, ya de tuerta no se arrecha. Se agachó por un gusano, respingó por una mosca, y luego rompió a volar, sin secarse bien las plumas.

La pitita rebrincona, zangoloteó en el barro, lo dejó todo perdido, con las marcas de sus patas. Zangoloteó en el lucio, cuneando la colita, y chirrió a secar las alas en la telera del huerto.

¡Ay pitita rebrincona, dondequiera vas chiscando; el haz frisado del lucio zangoloteando cruzas! Cerca queda tu morada, en la cálida pocilga, conque, señora pitita, ya me voy, pase buen día.

*

LITTLE TROTTY WAGTAIL

Little trotty wagtail, he went in the rain, And tittering, tottering sideways he ne’er got straight again. He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to catch a fly, And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry.

Little trotty wagtail, he waddled in the mud, And left his little footmarks, trample where he would. He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail, And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail.

Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about, And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out; Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pigsty, So, little Master Wagtail, I’ll bid you a goodbye.

John Clare

di-versión©ochoislas

[friendsoftheforest-novel]

Ch. 5 Pooping: The Experience

Narrator POV

------------------

Pooping.

Ah, what a beautiful thing.

What is more blissful and satisfactory than a good dump?

Especially if there was a long period of time sitting, the feeling of releasing the gates sends shivers up the spine.

A bathroom break after an upset stomach, when the belly rumbles in an indecipherable language, gurgling, and gargling, is simply a trip to heaven. When all of it just comes out, the bad or the good, it feels as if losing a couple of pounds of stress, and of course, poop.

Or simply a normal squat on the toilet, which is still a beautiful thing.

The worst experience is the feeling of wanting to poop yet being unable to do so.

It is tittering and tottering on a line of simultaneous bliss and torture.

It's so close, yet so far away.

Being in between two polar emotions can place the mind in disarray, into a mental mess. But what has to be done has to be done, no matter the cost.

Everyone has been there at some point.

In the diaper?

Check.

In the toilet?

Check.

In the portable toilet?

Check.

In an abandoned, sketchy toilet out in the middle of nowhere?

Check.

In the pants?

Check.

In the forest?

That's a check for Sal.

In the public?

…Well, that may be a check for some of the readers.

Regardless of when and where the urges will never stop and they will never cease.

As long as we eat, we poop. As long as we poop, we eat.

That's the law by which (almost) every animal abides.

And yet why do we feel shame in such a normal, everyday deed?

Why feel mortification from the natural process of the body?

Why does the face flush brighter than the blistering sun, the ear tinged with crimson? Why does the face become hot like boiling water bubbling and rising, sweating like the countless droplets of precipitation formed by the billowing steam? Why does the throat constrict upon realization, the voice stammer, stuttering more viciously than starting the engine up of a rusted car?

Why the shame, the embarrassment?

Ah, one of the world's greatest questions.

What does pooping mean to you?

[hollowfaith]

「✧」 Dim lights, quiet conversation, the soothing burgundy hues of the wall. It was a small bar, but one ideal for secrets shared in dark corners or the cushy cushions of the couches. Alone, Aurelius sat on a raised chair at the tap, making idle conversation with the bartender between his rounds. There was no glass in front of him—rather than wine, it was the people he drank in instead.

The sophisticated dress of the company here was pleasing, though their conversation wholly predictable. Love and desire, gossip and hearsay, tones tittering between sobriety and intoxication as they tottered on the edge of abstinence into addiction.

When the latest guest swept in with a silence palpable enough to be a scream, he merely observed as she made her way to the counter and...settled into a chair two seats from him. Eyes looked right—the bartender was gone for the moment, off to check on something in the back—then back again at the dark-haired woman perusing the menu of drinks.

He wondered at the story brimming behind those purple pupils before picking up a menu of his own.

"I suggest this one—" his gloved finger pointed to a certain selection on the laminated sheet. "—a nice dry red wine."

"It's easier on an empty stomach."

@nicawlette ໒꒱

[lowestechelonabomination]

literally cleared out all day today with the intention to do work, but I haven't done a single thing (because the horrors and the overwhelm and the executive dysfunction), and now I'm. overanalyzing kitchen paintings on my dash and waxing poetic in my mutuals' replies and thinking thoughts that would put any poet/songwriter wannabe or aesthetic literature Tumblr blog to shame. I'm usually not a fan of poetry until it's mundane, until it's a day when I have to be doing something important and I'm doing anything and everything but, and suddenly the words come spilling out of me like runaway soup from a pot sitting high on a stovetop, left unsupervised on an open flame for too long with no one to bear witness to its gruesome and beautiful last-ditch call for attention. except this isn't my last-ditch call for attention or anywhere near my end lol. I just got sick (still am sick) (doctors don't know what's wrong with me) (actually it's just one doctor and it's the nice lady at the urgent care clinic who told me I had an "unspecified acute upper respiratory infection" and told me to keep taking otc meds and see how things go) (anyway I got sick and I still am sick) and missed the three classes I'm most worried about and now I'm trying my best to play catchup before I'm left even further behind than I am. playing catchup before I'm left in the dust like a packet of ketchup. what am I even saying. that one painting of the overflowing pot did things to me I guess. why does whatever it's leaking look so much like viscera you KNOW I get weird around blood imagery. I should. I should go do my missing assignments before I get a C, or worse. I haven't had anything below a B in 2 years and now the concept scares me even though there's really no damage a "bad" grade can do to me at this point. C's get degrees and all but. what if. you know? I can't function without pressure but I can't function without it. there's a balance there somewhere but I can't find it. I'm tittering and tottering on the edge of something. somethings needs to change. I hate change. but something needs to change. I need to escape this cycle. get me out of the washing machine and put me in the dryer already. or put me on meds

[agonizedembrace]

“I took their smiles and I made them mine.“

Jinx thoughtfully titter-tottered on the spot, examining the dead Enforcers, littering the ground like some kind of horrifying confetti, made of dismembered limbs, busted open rib cages and blown-off faces. The floor was slick with blood and in the pools of red lay the remains of bombs and Chompers, all broken into pieces.

Now that the cacophony of screams, shouts, explosions and colours was gone, Jinx could feel herself getting restless again. Peering back at the shadowy, horned figure, which had goated her into going into Piltover and ruining someone's practice. Jinx often saw strange things, however, this creature was new. With its stench of blood and sharp talons, Jinx had chosen to assume it was something like a bad conscience. Did that even exist? Apparently now, so who cared?!

"And I am bored again", Jinx mused, "Crap." The Loose Canon quirked a brow at Evelyn. "Any more bright ideas, bad conscience?"

AN: That first line is from the Evanescence meme. And then Jinx just stole the keyboard. Also given how in the comic with her and Ziggs, she could see Zigg's Yordel shape, I think Jinx would be able to see a demon's real shape. Mind you, she has no clue it is a demon because of course not.

The emotional turmoil that dwelled within the girl is what drew Evelynn is -- she isn't shy to admit this. An added bonus is the will for violence, further intensified that she didn't mind that the very demon created her own havoc to the whole scenario.

Yes, their screams were delicious. Gone within moments (they never last long here!) and soon their blood coats her nails. How she desires just one who'll endure a little longer.

Needless to say, she's nearly startled as Jinx directs words in her direction. Distracted by ridding herself of the human remains, she cannot help but be curious of why she hasn't run away yet. Brows furrow in brief confusion before she shrugs nonchalantly. If she's playing dumb, then she's doing a great job at it.

"That wasn't enough for you, love?" Evelynn coos, head tilting to the side as her form shifts just the slightest. While her hunger is satisfied for the time being, there's no harm in causing some minor terror on unsuspecting humans. A long, half cleaned off claw taps her chin. "Those Piltover cops seem to have too much evidence nowadays, don't they? Why not see a fire to their building?"

[schakira]

when your fork titter totters off your plate to go visit the lankies down on markansa square 😭 epic moment

[overthehillnot]

The CO2 Titter Totter

The CO2 Titter Totter

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay 1) This Game works because the weight/mass on each side is roughly equal. Notice the weight distribution can be adjusted by moving a greater weight closer to the Fulcrum or center, as shown in the image. 2) One child pushes down with their feet, which pushes the other child down, and you up. Then the other child pushes down, repeating the process over…