skull-writes44

[skull-writes44]

Hello My Freind 🌹

I want your support My house was destroyed and I am currently living in a tent with my children 😞

My Mom and Dad who suffer from chronic diseases, They need urgent medical care and medications that are not available 💔

https://www.gofundme.com/f/Help-Mohammed-alhabil-Family

Please help my family by donating or reblog my campaign is going very slowly 🙏🍉

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Oranges

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Type: Poem Word Count: 141 Foreword:

Hey guys- I know it's a bit hard to keep your eyes on the news, especially when many other things are happening around you and most of our news outlets have been distorted, but Palestine and its people are still suffering, and opportunities like this one allow us to help them. I cannot donate myself, so I wrote this short poem to help boost and gain awareness of Mohammed's situation and of the situations of people like him. If this happens to reach anyone who cares about Palestine, please circulate this post so that this reaches people who are able to donate. I did a bit of research, and I made the poem about oranges, since it is a symbol of Palestinian culture and perseverance (along with the watermelon). Please enjoy!

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The orange is a fruit of all kinds of feelings.  When you first see an orange at the time it’s ready for picking,  It shines in the sun of spring,  Swaying in the breeze as if it’s inviting you to pick it. Upon placing a slice on your tongue,  Your cheeks rise in delight.  It’s pleasant flavor trickles down your throat And into your stomach,  Cultivating light and easy breaths. Though it’s easy to welcome the delightful taste of an orange,  Seeing its countless hardships for ourselves may sting our eyes.   Many people may encounter its bitter juice and tough skin And instinctively choose to turn away,  But it is because of those things That they gained the strength to withstand the ruthless winter winds And live on to experience the sun’s vast warmth and the sky’s gentle breeze during spring. 

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[skull-writes44]

trying something new again!

ik i missed the opportunity to post this on his actual birthday, but here he is-

not rlly that good, but i think it's kinda cute! :)

inspo:

also- pls leave any headcanons you might have for this man below. i REALLY want to hear them 😭

[skull-writes44]

okay- not literature related but...

i HATE it when the most crusty, musty, DISGUSTING characters are given the most exquisite character designs and well-crafted personalities IN THE WHOLE SHOW-

SPECIFICALLY THIS MAN RIGHT HERE.

THIS MAN IS SO GROSS, ABSOLUTELY VILE IF YOU WILL-

BUT I CAN'T STOP LOOKING AT HIS ECCENTRIC SELF WHENEVER HE'S ON SCREEN.

HE HAS SO MUCH POTENTIAL AS A CHARACTER WITH HIS MYSTERIOUS MOTIVES, COOL AND VERSATILE NEN ABILITY, AND EYE CATCHING COLOR PALETTE/AESTHETIC-

BUT WHAT IS IT ALL FOR?..

THIS.

absolutely HORRIFIC. 😾

[skull-writes44]

Where Tito Allen Went

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Type: Short Horror Story Trigger Warnings: toxic family dynamics, childhood trauma, loss of identity, gaslighting, alcoholism, illness, death, implied cannibalism; mentions of flesh, guts, and raw meat Word Count: 2370 Glossary: Tito = Uncle Tita = Aunt Lola = Grandma Lolo = Grandpa Synopsis: An adolescent boy tries to reconnect himself to his Filipino heritage by learning how to cook cultural meals, leading him to experience the dangers of blindly following customs and traditions without questioning them in the process. ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

“Take the number 13 all the way down Chinatown, get off near the restaurant with a sparrow painted on its front window, walk down two blocks, turn left…”  

I looked down at the instructions I jotted down on a crumpled piece of folder paper as I walked, my lola’s voice playing over and over again as if she were by my side to repeat it to me.  I sighed, rolling my eyes as I turned the corner.  I never saw the butcher shop Lola wanted me to buy her meat from before, so I just looked for my Tito Allen’s tired face, since he owned it.  After I surveyed the area with squinted eyes, I spotted the shop, only because I thought it looked exactly like the way my lola described it; it had a bright red sunshade with yellow trim hanging over it to protect them from the summer heat, a hanging sign with a graphic of a slice of raw meat, and a metal partition covering the butcher’s station up to his elbows to prevent any mess from getting on the customers.  

I walked up to the counter only to be met with an absolute stranger.  I greeted the guy and asked him for the freshest meat he had in stock, as I was instructed to do.  He then looked at me, reluctantly slamming the blade of his knife into the counter as he turned his back on me to check the storage unit.  The man was gone for a while, so I waited with a tapping foot.  After checking my watch for the thousandth time, I realized twenty minutes had just gone by, and he still wasn’t back.  Before I was going to sarcastically commend the guy’s customer service, I absentmindedly decided I’d look over the partition to see what he could’ve been up to.  What I saw shocked me to my core and made my stomach fluid seep into the back of my mouth.

I spent the first years of my life in the Philippines, but I didn’t stay there long enough to gain any coherent memories from there.  My parents love to say that I was born and raised there, but we moved out of the motherland and to the U.S. for a job opportunity Daddy was offered before my brain was old enough to process anything.  Throughout the years, I couldn’t help but hold a grudge against my entire family for taking me out of our home country.

Since we moved, I was stuck in a weird situation where I was “too immigrant-like” for my peers and “too American-like” for my family.

Whenever it came to family dinners and gatherings, I was never able to understand what any of my relatives were saying to me since they spoke Ilocano; my parents were dead set on only teaching me English, so it was the only language I knew how to speak.  I couldn’t express how much I missed them or ask them about what they’ve been up to, so I’d smile and nod while I hid behind my mother to do the talking.  Though I appreciate the fact they never mentioned it to my face, I always hear my titas talk behind my back about how “American” I was and how I “wasn’t real” just because I couldn’t speak in their mother tongue. 

Despite the fact that I was always “the American” at home, I was “the immigrant kid” at school.  To my classmates, my English was “broken;” even if English was the only language I spoke, it wasn’t good enough to be considered articulate.  I tried to improve by pouring a bit of devotion into my language arts classes, but no matter how many essays with A+’s in red ink I was handed back, I was never able to form sentences half as good as the ones I put down on paper from the top of my head.  I wasn’t the only person who spoke this way, but the smell of the “stinky” lunches my mom would pack me chased away any chances I had of making a friend. 

I grew up hating myself because no one seemed to like anything about me, so I figured I shouldn’t either.  I distanced myself from my culture altogether, often obsessing over my looks as I fantasized about clawing all of my ethnic features out of my flesh with my bare hands.  After many nights of crying to God and begging him to make me normal, thanks to spending the summer of my freshman year with my lola, I realized that something connected me to my roots in the Philippines after all. 

The only thing I had in common with any of my relatives is that we loved Lola’s cooking.  In our family, making food for someone was always a way to show them we love and care for them.  Something about sitting at the dining room table and having a plate of hot food that Lola cooked placed in front of me just made me forget about all the anger I felt, whether it be towards my family or my classmates.  Not only did Lola’s dinners pack a strong punch of flavor, but it also held a lot of history.  I spent my summer as a fourteen year old listening to her talk about the memories she had behind each meal she made, whether it was during the time she made it or who she enjoyed the meal with.  Lola thought it was a good idea for me to start helping her with the cooking so I could experience that bond too.  From that summer forward, I became Lola’s sous chef, dicing ingredients and measuring out seasonings for her to incorporate to her cooking.  One of our favorite things to make was her delicious beef stew. 

Usually for toppings and garnishes, we wouldn’t add anything too special to it: onions, potatoes, carrots, lettuce, garlic, beef stock, peppercorns.  The main star of the show was the meat in the dish.  Lola had a very specific kind of meat that she liked to put in it, and no beef or pork could ever compare in terms of its rich flavor and soft texture.  Back in the day, when my lolo was young, he used to spend the whole day out hunting to catch and butcher the animal this meat came from.  Lola remembers that the very first thing he cooked for her was a stew with this meat in it, and she nearly fell harder for the dish than she did for him.  Later on in their time together, Lola realized that the meat was good for more than stew: steak, skewers, sliders, even ribs.  Since then, Lolo would go out hunting near holidays and other special occasions so they could cook together and bring the meat to gatherings.  I’ve been told that just the sight of it falling off of the bones as you pulled it from a set of ribs was mouthwatering.  Mommy jokes that it was so good, everyone’s cheeks were too full to question what it was and how they cooked it.  The endearment for the dish spread from their household, to their whole family, to their entire neighborhood.  A year or two after we moved to the U.S., Lola had the idea to open up a butcher shop for Lolo to share his delicious food. 

When Lolo became ill, the whole family was devastated.  Before he died, he passed on his business to their eldest son, my Tito, Allen.  He spent his last few months with us up and about, showing Tito Allen and his brothers the ropes of how to prepare the meat, run the shop, and how to serve the customers.  The family fell apart when Lolo’s time came, Tito Allen especially.  Even though the two were never all that close, he never seemed to smile after he had left him with the shop, the look in his eyes screaming melodies of pure misery; his cheeks sunk in and the skin under his once cheerful eyes began to droop and turn a dark, dull purple.  Tito Allen seemed to age a million years with the only remnants of Lolo being the shop he left in his name.  Even though Tito Allen willingly took up his apron every day and treated each and every one of his customers as if they were family of his own, he never seemed to have a happy day of work since his very first day on the job.  When we would ask him about it, he would respond vaguely.

“It’s alright.  That’s how it is.  It’s what your lolo would have wanted.” 

There came a time where Tito Allen had hit an all-time low.  Work had become so bad for him that he began to drink again, screaming and hollering if he wasn’t slumped in his chair as he stared aimlessly into his family’s TV screen.  His face and his hair was always coated with a thin layer of sweat, and his shirt was always soaked with stains.  When things got really bad, he went to Lola to cry, just as if he were a little boy.  One day, he visited when I happened to be over, and I listened in on their conversation.  I wasn’t too sure about what they were talking about at the time, but I did hear this in the midst of their conversation.

“Mama, I can’t do this anymore!  I just can’t take it!  I need to tell someone!” 

“It’s okay… It’s not your fault.  You just can’t let the children know.  They love it too much.  It’s the only thing they have left of Daddy, you know.”  Lola reassured him as she held him in her arms, rocking back and forth as if she was quelling a baby.

I frowned at the time, just shrugging it all off and going about my day.

Not too long after, I noticed that I haven't seen Tito Allen around.  Before I knew it, he seemed to have gone missing.  I asked Lola about it, and she acted surprised that she hadn’t told me sooner.  

“Michael, your Tito Allen had a mental breakdown."

My eyes widened at the sentence.  Out of all the worried questions I had about what happened to him that I hurled at my lola, she only answered one of them. 

“So, what’s going to happen now?”

“He’s been made a meal and been dealt with.  Nothing for you to worry about.” 

It supposedly wasn’t anything to worry about, but I laid awake at night thinking about it.  The last time I ever heard his voice was when he was brought to tears over how stressful his life had been, and I didn’t want to remember him that way.  I wouldn’t stop asking my lola about him, continuously asking her where he was or if she’d heard from him lately.  She figured that since I was so worried from not seeing him in so long, we’d whip up a dish that would make us forget Tito Allen was ever gone at all; the beef stew.  I frowned, certain that we couldn’t make it without Tito Allen to help us prepare the meat.  Lola smiled at me, telling me not to worry since the butcher shop was still open.  It’d been about three or four years since I started cooking with her, and I had yet to see what the shop looked like.  She sat me down and told me to listen closely; I sighed, taking out a ball of paper from my pocket to write down what she had to say. 

When I arrived, the irritated face that greeted me was unfamiliar, but I didn’t think that mattered since I knew Tito Allen wasn’t well.  Whether it was out of pure spite or just curiosity, I looked over the metal partition and at the butcher’s station.  To my horror, I saw a decapitated head lying on the cutting board facing away from me, flesh spilling out of the bottom like animal fat from a raw steak.  I slowly reached in, turning the cutting board towards me so I could get a better look.  The head rolled over to face me.

It was Tito Allen. 

I rode on the bus with a plastic bag full of meat in my hand, my eyes teary from the thought of where the meat came from.  As much as I wanted to chuck the bag out of the fire escape and vomit all over the floor whilst I cried my eyes out, I sat there with my fists clenched and my lips pursed; like Mommy said, everyone loved the food and the memories that came with it too much to even question where it all came from.  Now that I know, I’d give anything to live in blissful ignorance once again.  There is no way I could tell anyone about what I saw from our “beloved family tradition,” and I wouldn’t think they’d believe me anyway.  When it comes to my family, I hold no power in what they want to put in their mouth and what they don’t, and they’ve proven to me time and time again that I never will.  

When I got home, I placed the bag on the counter and told Lola I felt sick. She got on her tiptoes to pat me on the head, escorting me to my room before tucking me in and closing the door behind her.  I cried myself into a shallow sleep, soon awaking to the sound of knocking at my door.  Lola’s keys chimed as she jiggled the lock to my door open.  She greeted me and asked me if I felt better upon walking in, to which I nodded.  She planted a kiss on my forehead as she left a bowl of steaming hot stew on my bedside table, smiling as she walked towards the door and left me to eat.  I looked in the broth, seeing the repulsed expression on my face glaring into it.  As I heard my family laugh and chatter in the dining room while they ate, I couldn’t help but sit on my bed and think to myself,

”So that’s where Tito Allen went.”

[skull-writes44]

A Mother's Love

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ Type: Sonnet Potential Trigger Warnings: mommy issues, toxic dynamic between parent and child Words: 111 ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

When the morning's done And the sunlight comes to die, The moon takes place of the sun And puts down the tide From her loving arms, Full of security and care. Desperate for the moonlight's charm, The tide leaps in the air

With her arms falling just out of reach Only to see that her efforts are in vain. She washes up against anything- the ships, the beach; But their touch is just not the same.

Firmly, the moon watches the tide As she tries to reach above the realm she's bound to- but instead of bending within her grasp, She lets her cry, Watching her long for her mother's love.

[skull-writes44]

At This Very Moment

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Type: Short Story

Potential Trigger Warnings: mentions of death and/or mortality; themes of self and parental neglect, toxicity in a parent-child dynamic

Word Count: 1728

Synopsis:

A botanist longing to become a revered legend is offered a job on an archeological expedition, where he spent over five years searching for the illustrious Tomb Flower. Little does he know that the sacrifices he makes along the way are disproportionate to the outcome of his efforts.

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As the flower bloomed, a cloud of black poisonous gas expelled into the air, rushing throughout the room like wildfire.  I shielded my eyes, coughing up a storm as the gas entered my lungs.  While the fumes slithered throughout my bloodstream, I desperately staggered to the flower, gasping for air as I pried its petals open.  With the poison racing to my brain, I ripped the flower open, but as I collapsed, I managed to catch a single glimpse of the flower’s interior: a rotten corpse decayed to the bone.  Only then, when I took my final breath, had I realized that the efforts and sacrifices I made were all in vain. 

In my lifetime, I was a botanist full of ambition, chasing opportunities as a canine chases its tail.  I had no social life and hardly anyone I considered a friend, but I had my work, and that was all that mattered to me as a young man.  After I had achieved my cherished doctorate in botany and environmental science, I sought to establish a family of my own.  Out of convenience, I married Clara, a fellow scientist and researcher, and together, we had our daughter, Esther.  I did well for myself, bringing in good money to the table and raising a daughter to be strong and independent.  Many consider this to be the “happily ever after” of their story, but I refused to let my legacy end there.  I dreamed of being famous, a praised and renowned botanist that the next generation will read about in their textbooks.  Every waking moment, I would wish for an opportunity to steal the spotlight and shine.  I wanted the whole world to see me, and I wanted something for my daughter to carry on when I am gone. 

That opportunity came to me through a job offer in an expedition led by the up-and-coming archeologist, Hector Arend.  He was quick-witted and charming, a man as clever as he was dashing.  We met at a convention, where we spoke of his most recent project on a group of Indigenous peoples who lived in the same time period as the ancient Incas over glasses of sweet bourbon.  Arend said he had deciphered a religious script from these ancient peoples that told the tale of their goddess, who delivered messages to her people in the form of mellifluous songs.  According to the script, they hid their goddess inside what Arend called the Tomb Flower during an enemy attack, where she had been in a state of eternal slumber for the past five centuries.  Arend was certain that he could find the Tomb Flower, but he revealed to me that it was not just the flower he was after; he wanted to uncover the sleeping goddess inside, and all the fame and fortune that came along with her discovery.  He explained that with the help of a professional like me, there was a possibility that we could make the flower bloom again and find the goddess from there.  Even if there was a chance that the flower would stay closed, I felt as if I had found my purpose.  Arend and I wanted the same thing, and we were determined to do whatever it took to obtain it.  

The Camellia set sail on the seventeenth of August, the day my dear Esther turned eleven.  Me, Arend, and the rest of our crew arrived on the coast of South America about two months later, where these ancient peoples were said to reside.  Five years, eight months, two weeks, and three days into our search, we found ourselves stranded in the middle of the Amazon when we heard singing.  Itching with eagerness, we rushed around the trees and trudged through the mud towards the pleasant melody.  Low and behold, we spotted it in a clearing, dripping with fresh dew in a way that made it sparkle like gold in the sunlight.  The Tomb Flower sat on a cliff in all its beauty, casting a shadow over me as I went in for a closer look.  I returned to the docks of England rugged with restlessness, having grown out my beard and hair longer than I ever had before.  Despite my tired eyes and dirty clothes, I stood with a warm smile on my face as they unloaded the deep, dark red Tomb Flower from the Camellia’s bilges. 

Upon my return, I spent a week with my family to rest before beginning my research.  Both my wife and my daughter have seemed to mature in my absence, Esther being more defiant as a rebellious sixteen year old and Clara becoming more stoic.  Back then, I took it as a sign of disrespect.  When she did talk to me, Esther would blame me for the fact that she grew up lonely.  She would ramble on and on about how she needed me and how I would always refuse her in order to tend to my studies, claiming that her mother stopped speaking entirely since she had run dry of ways to defend my absence.  Given the journey I had just been through, I did not want to hear about how tired and alone she was.  I thought she was a fool, and that she would not understand until she had reached my age.  However, until that would happen, she would sulk, complaining and throwing insults at me like a spoiled brat.  I finally had enough of it, demanding that she leave my roof if she truly felt that ungrateful for everything I had done for her.  From that day onward, the only sound I have ever heard from Clara’s mouth was when she visited Esther’s old room at nine thirty every evening, when she used to tuck her into bed; she would cry as she flipped through her favorite books and held her favorite toys in her hands once again, showering them in her mournful tears. 

I returned to my lab, fueled by my anger from the previous week.  I made it my mission to make the flower bloom, and truly show Esther that my work was not to be taken as a joke.  I devoted myself entirely to my cause, viewing my body as only a mere vessel to uncovering the sleeping goddess.  I often skipped meals and rest to dedicate more time into my research, largely influencing the amount of times I returned home.  A large portion of my middle ages were spent in my laboratory, leaving Clara all to herself.  I would go from spending days to weeks studying and experimenting on the flower, growing thin and timid from neglecting my body.  I was six years into my study when I returned home to an empty house; all the furniture was still there, but Clara was nowhere to be found.  After looking through every room, I decided to check my closet and drawers, noticing that all of her belongings were gone.  Distressed, I undid the pillows to our nicely made bed to get some rest, hoping that this was all some strange dream that I have yet to wake up from.  Under Clara’s pillow was her wedding ring, shining as a sign of disappointment despite the fact it was damaged from all the years she wore it.  

Though I had always viewed my work in a similar way throughout my career, the Tomb Flower was truly all I had now.  I knew I could not stop until the flower had opened, letting that determination fuel me to get myself out the door every morning.  I dreamed of hearing the flower sing again, and of seeing the goddess stretching as she exits it with such indescribable elegance.  When I was not in the laboratory, I often sketched my fantasies into reality to drive me.  The Tomb Flower was all I could think about, and frankly, all I had to think about.  Arend had grown to have his fair share of fame upon the flower’s discovery, and I figured I could have been just as rich and famous if I had figured out the flower’s weakness.  

After gaining many chemical burns and calluses on my hands from working so hard and so frequently, I had finally come up with the very solution that would force the flower into bloom.  In the twelve years I had studied the flower, I had even managed to classify such a specimen.  With pride, I concocted the solution that I thought would lead to the flower’s opening.

I imagined I would die a noble death, my work being shrouded with honor in the years I am gone.  Alas, there I lay: blood leaking from my mouth as I laid with it wide open, having been huffing for a breath of fresh air mere moments before.  I would have never thought I would die such a lonely, cruel death.  

I am currently writing this memoir from purgatory.  There are no words that I have ever learned of to describe a place as dreary and desolate as this.  The only thing I can see is my previous life, and the unnecessary pain I have caused myself and my poor family for the sake of the Tomb Flower.  I sit here every hour of the day regretting my actions, wishing I had done more for Esther and Clara as Heaven sits in a clearing above me, taunting my sorrow.  The worst part about my agony was that this was what I wanted all along.  I wished for an opportunity like the one Arend gave me all my life, but the outcome of it was what led to my downfall.  I had given everything to become a textbook legend: my childhood, my social life, my career, my own family; and still, it was never enough.  I realized that the true nature of my actions was visible, but my ignorance has led me to only realize the malice of it all when it was far too late.  I would give anything for a second chance, to live in a world where I can leave the Tomb Flower behind and truly enjoy the life I had, but that chance will never come.   Despite everything I have left behind, as I look up to the clear sky in the clouds just above my reach, I have never wanted to live more than I do at this very moment.

[skull-writes44]

Gethsemane

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Type: Allegorical Poem

Potential Trigger Warnings: religious themes, mortality, guilt, implied suicide (specifically hanging), mention of blades and knives

Word Count: 274

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I am but a humble lamb, 

Who grazes and bleats-

Suffering in poverty all his life

Until he was taken underneath 

The shepherd’s arm, into his care,

Sheltered under the shadow of his cane. 

He led us, one night, to the garden, Gethsemane, 

Where abundant bunches of olives hang. 

I am but a lamb who wanted to live, 

Weak in nature so I bore a blade-

But with a shepherd so selfless, though utterly forlorn, 

I slept soundly under the olive tree’s shade. 

I am but a desirous lamb, 

Who craves the nourishment he had been deprived. 

I’ve tried to remain loyal in the short life I’ve lived, 

But the pains of my stomach cannot lie.  

It howled my name, rang through my ears-

The very thing I yearned just out of my grasp,

For what I had was not enough. 

I was blinded by the fantasy that I’d be free from this hunger-

That I’d eat my fill at last. 

I only realized what I had done when he was ripped from Gethsemane,

Condemned to carry the wood of the trees He adored. 

Was this worth the grain and fulfillment I received?

IS THIS REALLY WHAT I GET FOR WANTING MORE?..

I was only but a humble lamb, never to be placed above him, 

But my bleats of revelation cost his life.

By those simple words, I’ve gone from the sacrifice on the altar

To the slaughterer holding the knife. 

On that fateful night, in dear Gethsemane, 

No longer innocent from the blood that rained-

Bursting at the seams with remorse, I hung with the olives

On the tree’s branches, under the shade. 

[skull-writes44]

☠︎ Skull's Intro!! ☠︎

hihi! i'm skull! i'm a minor and a student, and i draw and write as a hobby!

usually i'd write poetry, but as of lately, i've been branching out into short stories too.

i think there's a little ask questions feature, so if you ever come up with some sort of prompt you'd want me to write about, please don't hesitate to use it!

anyways-

please enjoy the little things i put out! i'm excited to see where this thing goes :)