#Boom in gloom bloom

[inmyglowupera]

Spring Girl

I’m a spring girl.

I like to dance in the rain

And smell the damp grass in the morning’s rosée.

I like my skin plump like morning dew.

I like cardigans over short skirts and pretty bows in my hair.

I like splashing in puddles,

And I love the first morning after winter,

When you hear the birds sing after months of silence,

When you realize nothing ever truly dies for a long time.

I love spring.

I open my heart to its booming blooms.

Drown me in a cascade of blossoms,

Swaying wisteria in the winds of change,

Ivy reclaiming stone-cold ruins of won battles.

When the sunset’s pinks and purples are,

Mightier than any lingering gloom,

Its sweet blues kissing indigos.

When God’s green grass overgrows,

Carpeting frozen ground,

Overtaking, overflowing, conquering all around.

How I adore spring.

Tiny daisies in my hair,

Steaming tea sipped on the porch,

White linens on green meadow,

Counting clovers’ leaves for luck,

The rustling pages of an open book,

In the honeysuckle scented afternoon breeze,

The rain gently tapping windows,

Rainbows.

Golden hours so exuberantly bright,

My skin—a shimmering canvas of honeyed light,

Aglow like petals kissed by dawn.

Oh, how spring loves me too.

When it looks at me, it sees itself.

Everything in spring sings for me.

I grow to its tune,

And it welcomes my transformation.

I align with its coursing torrent of change—

Unyielding, impatient,

Sweeping you off your feet—

A frenetic symphony.

I’m a seed cracking open,

Stretching skyward,

Drinking in the dawn.

I’m untamed and wildly beautiful,

I’m one of its flowers,

Ready to bloom,

Thirsty for sun,

Eager for growth.

Spring is my season,

And I am its girl.

- HM

[woodlandtrust]

The Heart of the Woods, by John Burroughs

I hear it beat in morning still When April skies have lost their gloom, And through the woods there runs a thrill That wakes arbutus into bloom. I hear it throb in sprouting May, — A muffled murmur on the breeze, Like mellow thunder leagues away, Or booming voice of distant seas. In daisied June I catch its roll, Pulsing through the leafy shade ; And fain I am to reach its goal, And see the drummer unafraid. Or when the autumn leaves are shed, And frosts attend the fading year, Like secret mine sprung by my tread A covey bursts from hiding near. I feel its pulse ’mid winter snows, And feel my own with added force, When red-ruff drops his cautious pose, And forward takes his humming course. The startled birches shake their curls, A withered leaf leaps in the breeze ; Some hidden mortar speaks, and hurls Its feathered missile through the trees. Compact of life, of fervent wing, A dynamo of feathered power, Thy drum is music in the spring, Thy flight is music every hour.

[instruth]

What Shroud Of Doom

What shroud of doom

being spun on the loom

Swift threading on the zoom

Sparks flew with a big boom

Whoosh! Swept by a broom

Whisking past in the gloom

One big head in a little room

Cramped with fools in a tomb

Supporters, kins, bride, groom

The sound of despair - Vroom!

the convicts set free

cock crows on another roof

flowers stop blooming

©Johnny J P Lee

04 February 2025

HAIBUN: Gogyoshren10 + Haiku 5-7-5

Digital Arts Credit, Christina Chin

[euesworld]

"Liquid violins wailing melodies in my veins, slipped in with ailing heart beats mixed with sin as it sails through me.. moon tunes swoon like boom, boom, boom.. sitting in your room, consumed with you. Living in the bloom, but you blue with gloom.. bring it back, swing it back, sing a laugh, fade to black."

Every smile is like music to my soul, when you are smiling even sad songs sound beautiful - eUë

[violettesiren]

I would be glad of life even for these: The Spring, when amber willows are in bloom, The young moon risen like a silvery plume In opal skies, star-tinted. Through the trees A blue bird's note at twilight; on the breeze The echo of the sea's impassioned boom, A flash of lightning through the pine-tree gloom Cloud-shadows passing with the Pleiades…

I would be glad of life for April rain, Sweet-smelling earth, a quiet templed wood, Green vines on ruined towers by the sea, And meadows glowing with the golden grain, Moonrise upon a mountain solitude, Man needs no immortality!

April by Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff

[ahordeofwasps]

Find the Word Tag

I've been tagged by the wonderful @winterandwords! Thanks for the tag! My words are tear, wear, near, and hear! I'll be sharing some excerpts from To Not Falling Off Cliffs!

But first, the no pressure tags! I'll be tagging @emelkae, @chauceryfairytales, @amewinterswriting, @blind-the-winds, and open tag! Your words are doom, bloom, gloom, and boom!

Now, onto To Not Falling Off Cliffs!

Tear & Hear

Erika stopped. Her eyes began to well up with tears. She did not want to pick up the pieces. She put a hand to her mouth and stifled a sob, trying to push it back down until the time was right. But there was no right time. The sobs would not be stopped, and Erika did her best to keep them quiet, keep them as muffled half-croaks heard by no ears except her own. She could take it, but she didn’t want to take it. Not anymore. But she didn’t have a choice in the matter. And that was the worst part.

Wear & Hear

Mrs. Smith lived in the apartment directly below Erika. She lived alone but was not a lonely woman. Mrs. Smith’s doormat read “welcome” in letters so scuffed that it took at least a minute staring at the mat to read them. Every time Erika visited Mrs. Smith, she had a new framed picture of a friend or family member hanging on her wall, which had more nails than a hardware store. Mrs. Smith always insisted that visitors come in for a drink and would spend hours regaling them of the exploits of her children, her grandchildren, her great grandchildren, her great-great grandchildren, and her great-great-great grandchildren. Erika heard about these exploits often; she visited Mrs. Smith with a taco salad at least once a month. Erika cleaned the bottom of her shoes on Mrs. Smith’s doormat and rapped on the pink door. She heard shuffling from behind the door and a minute later it was opened by a tall muscular woman with wild grey hair wearing a floral dress and a lavender shawl. On the side of her neck was some dried blood surrounding two small puncture wounds. The woman beamed a smile at her. “Erika! It’s been a while!” Mrs. Smith said, before sniffing the air, “Oh! You shouldn’t have! No one makes it the way you do! My great-great grandson Mikey has tried to replicate it so many times, but he never gets it right.”

Near

Erika chuckled. “Sounds easy enough. I’ll just make a rousing speech to inspire the masses. ‘sides, nothing weighs nearly as much as some last words,” she said. It was meant to be a joke, but it didn’t sound like one. She rubbed her temples again, her headache growing in intensity. It was a good idea. It had a chance of working, albeit a slim one. Except… Erika sighed and shook her head. “Nope, not worth it. Too risky.” Steve tilted his head. “Too risky? That doesn’t hold water, especially with the... you know…” He gestured to the broken remains of the mug on the floor. “Not for me. For you. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together.” Steve was silent for a moment. He bawled his hands into a pair of fists. “You don’t have to worry about me,” he murmured, not looking at Erika, instead staring at the wall, “If I was ever worried about that, I wouldn’t be trying to spew my guts out every chance I get. And… if I had done a better, this wouldn’t have happened.”

[gobboguy]

Chapter 49: The Underkingdom Trek

In the heart of the Underkingdom, the underground forest stretched beneath Sidhedark’s surface, an ecosystem entirely separate from the world above. Thick, wiry roots twisted around rough stone and crystal formations, and fungal blooms rose in every hue—blue, pale green, and glowing purple—casting an otherworldly glow. The forest was dense, a labyrinthine sprawl of ancient roots and hardy, knotted trees with silvered bark and dripping moss. The central pillar dominated the landscape, a colossal, glowing stone that emitted a soft, perpetual luminescence rippling in hues of teal and gold, illuminating everything in a haunting, perpetual twilight.

Along a narrow animal path winding east, Hate and Ulf pressed forward. Hate’s towering, bulky form moved with surprising grace, his footfalls solid and deliberate. His leather jacket creaked with each step, strained by his impressive, heavy frame and muscular bulk. Every so often, he let out a booming laugh, a contrast to the forest's eerie quiet, his long black hair bouncing in time with his steps. His infectious grin seemed at odds with the oppressive gloom, but it brought a strange, comforting warmth to the shadowed path.

Beside him, Ulf strode with her own confident silence, her lithe, nine-foot frame cloaked in black armor that seemed to drink in the dim light rather than reflect it. Her red eyes glowed faintly, burning with intensity and purpose as she surveyed the forest. The path ahead wound toward the east, where the looming, crumbling tower of the Underking jutted up, marking the edge of the blighted lands—the border between the forest and the Underking’s domain, an arid, cursed wasteland. Each step brought them closer to the central pillar and the skeletal trees surrounding it, marking their journey deeper into the Underking's kingdom, where no living thing could survive without courage or cunning.

Ulf pondered her next move, the weight of her responsibility pressing down on her as heavily as the stone of the Underkingdom above. If she and Hate could reunite with Oznacht, Atlug, Dura, and Gorlug, perhaps together they could strike out against the Underking and put an end to his schemes. The urgency gnawed at her; they were running out of time. If the Underking discovered that Twig—the half-goblin who was still a prisoner in the castle—had knowledge of the jewel known as "Heavy Light," then the Underking would have a direct path to the last Key of Creation.

With Heavy Light in his possession, the damage he could wreak upon Sidhedark would be unimaginable. Determination burned within her. She pressed on, her pace quickening, resolved not to let the Underking fulfill his dark ambition.

Their march was a relentless one, winding deeper into the twisting forest paths of the Underkingdom. Hate lumbered along beside Ulf, his infectious grin never fading as he cast her sideways glances, his eyes glinting with barely disguised interest. He was trying his best to break through her armor, both literal and metaphorical, weaving flirtatious comments into the silence between them. His words were straightforward, a stark contrast to his broad, muscled form, yet tinged with a genuine, almost boyish charm that made her stomach flutter.

Ulf, however, kept her gaze forward, her expression regal and unreadable. She moved with purpose, her tall, slender frame draped in black armor that exuded authority and pride. She couldn’t deny that an attraction simmered beneath her calm demeanor, something primal that stirred whenever Hate was near. His sheer size, his unapologetic confidence, and that roguish smile all spoke to a part of her Orcish heritage—an instinctual urge that, in different circumstances, would’ve driven her to his bedroll without a second thought. If she weren’t a princess, she might have abandoned all restraint and followed the ancient custom of slipping into his bedroll in the dead of night.

But duty weighed heavily on her. Her position demanded more than the satisfaction of her desires, and the thought of her responsibilities—finding a suitable suitor and securing her kingdom’s future—tempered her impulses. So, she allowed herself to remain aloof, her words sharp and her posture unyielding, holding Hate at arm's length even as a fire smoldered beneath her haughty exterior.

Their footfalls were soft against the forest floor, a calm rhythm that filled the stillness of the underground forest. Wisps of light from the glowing pillar painted their path, casting shadows that seemed to stretch and twist as they walked. Hate walked beside Ulf, casting her a sidelong glance before speaking, his voice softer than usual, almost reverent.

“Ulf,” he began, his tone surprisingly gentle, “it’s strange, you know? Walking here beside you like this. Feels like… I don’t know, like it’s where I ought to be.”

Ulf kept her eyes forward, her expression unreadable, though a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Is that so, Hate? A bold claim, even for you,” she replied, a touch of humor in her voice.

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as though her words had embarrassed him. “Guess I’m good at making those.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “It’s just… I know I can be loud. And sometimes, maybe too forward. But I mean it—walking with you here, it feels right.”

She raised an eyebrow, her tone playful but distant. “Careful, Hate. You’re starting to sound almost… sincere. That doesn’t seem like you.”

He laughed again, this time more softly, his eyes warm as he looked at her. “Well, maybe I don’t mind being sincere with you. Feels like you bring it out of me, whether you know it or not.”

Ulf smirked, crossing her arms as they walked. “Oh, I know. It’s part of my charm, I suppose.”

Hate glanced away, hiding a small, sheepish smile. “More than just charm, I’d say.” He paused, then ventured, “You’re a princess, Ulf. But sometimes… well, sometimes it feels like maybe you don’t mind this wandering Orc trying to get close.”

She shrugged, feigning disinterest, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Maybe I don’t,” she admitted, letting the words hang between them before adding, “But maybe I also enjoy watching you work for it.”

His grin softened, his voice low. “Then I’ll keep working, if that’s what it takes. You’re worth it.”

Ulf’s gaze softened for the briefest moment before she turned away, letting the hint of warmth slip. “We’ll see about that,” she murmured, her tone teasing but her pace quickening as she moved ahead, leaving Hate to follow, still smiling behind her.

That night, as the last of the meal disappeared, Ulf tossed the remnants of her hardtack aside, the taste lingering, rough and dry. She cast a glance down at herself, noting the patches of grime and streaks of dried blood from their failed assault on the Underking’s castle. Her muscles ached from the battle, and though she took pride in her scars and the layers of battlefield grit, she knew even Orcs sometimes needed a wash.

Rising, she looked over at Hate, her tone casual. “I’m going to the hot spring nearby. A proper rinse will do me good.”

Hate looked up, his expression interested. “Mind if I come with you?” He tilted his head, eyebrow raised, a small smile playing on his lips.

Ulf hesitated for the briefest moment, then shrugged, her response nonchalant. “If you like." Orcs had no sense of shame or modesty, often times appearing in various states of undress around each other, even after their teansformation. Still, Ulf knew to play it safe with Hate. She let the corners of her mouth lift, adding coyly, “But I trust you can keep your hands to yourself.”

He chuckled, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Never been one to cross that line without an invitation,” he replied humbly. “I’d just like the company.”

Together, they walked to the spring, the soft glow of the cavern lighting the way. Steam rose from the water, curling into the air like a wisp, and Ulf began removing her armor, each piece falling to the ground with a quiet thud. She sensed Hate’s gaze but ignored it, reveling in her control of the situation. Soon she stepped into the spring, its warmth wrapping around her, soothing and comforting.

Hate entered too, keeping a respectful distance, his movements gentle. They let the silence linger, savoring the warmth after the chill of the Underking’s domain. Ulf allowed herself a rare moment of vulnerability, letting her head tilt back, eyes closed as she washed away the remnants of their struggle. When she finally looked at him, her gaze held a faint glimmer of amusement.

“You’re well-behaved tonight,” she teased softly. “I almost expected you to try your luck.”

Hate smirked, dipping a handful of water over his broad shoulders. “Only a fool wouldn’t show restraint here, Princess. Besides,” he added, his voice low but respectful, “there’s a time and place. I’ll be patient… as long as you let me stay close.”

A flicker of warmth crossed her face, quickly masked by a practiced, aloof expression. “Then stay close. I’d like to know I’ve got someone watching my back.”

As the steam curled around them, Hate couldn't help but admire Ulf, his gaze lingering on her as she stood with the poise of a warrior and the quiet grace of someone born to command. Her slender yet robust form was striking, her body toned and powerful from countless battles. Her skin bore marks of honor, scars etched like memories along her muscular arms and legs. She was unashamed, utterly comfortable in her skin, each movement purposeful and sure.

Her petite breasts, small yet shapely, contrasted with the strength in her frame, lending her a certain elegance that was uniquely her own. Hate’s eyes traced the lines of her form, lingering on her polished tusks that caught the low light with a faint gleam, reminders of her proud Orc heritage. Her dark hair hung loose, damp from the spring, framing her face in wild strands, and her body was accented by the natural growth of her body and pubic hair, marking her maturity without apology or modesty.

Hate grunted, a quiet sound of appreciation deep in his chest. She was half-human, yes, but in that moment, she was every inch an Orc in spirit—fierce, proud, and commanding. Her heritage didn’t matter; her spirit was pure Orc. And though he wanted her, his respect for her burned even stronger, knowing full well that she chose every inch of distance she kept between them with purpose and pride.

As Ulf’s gaze drifted over Hate, she took in the breadth of him with reluctant admiration. His body was every bit as imposing as his spirit: his massive, hirsute frame covered in a dark tangle of coarse hair that accented the formidable musculature beneath. His chest and arms were powerful, thick with strength and scars, each line and mark telling stories of battle and resilience. His belly was large but solid, a testament to his size and Orcish vitality rather than any lack of strength. He was a formidable sight, every inch an Orc, from his massive legs planted firmly in the water to his solid, muscular torso.

Ulf’s gaze lingered a moment longer than she intended, especially when her eyes dropped to the impressive girth between his legs. A flush crept into her cheeks before she could stop it, and she quickly looked away, feeling an unexpected rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the hot spring.

Hate caught her quick glance, and a deep, rumbling laugh escaped him, rich with amusement. But he said nothing, letting her retreat from the moment with dignity. Instead, he settled into the warmth, leaning back with a look of quiet satisfaction.

They fell into silence, each savoring the heat and the companionship, content to simply exist in each other’s presence. The quiet surrounded them, a brief respite in their journey, and for a few rare moments, they were just two Orcs sharing a simple peace beneath the vast stone ceiling of the Underkingdom.

Afterward, the night air was thick, charged with an unspoken tension that clung to the damp walls of the cavern. Ulf lay on her bedroll, her eyes fixed upward at the glittering ceiling of the Underkingdom, its gemstone-studded expanse a false sky, offering little comfort. She could sense Hate nearby, his breathing steady yet somehow tense, as if he, too, was caught in the quiet turmoil of words left unsaid.

At last, Hate broke the silence, his voice low but unmistakably curious. “So, what will you do after all this? Once your mother’s curse is lifted… once Queen Ionia wakes?”

Ulf frowned slightly, his question stirring a flurry of thoughts she’d been trying to keep buried. She imagined her mother, bound in her endless sleep ever since the Underking’s vile assault. Every step in this journey was to see her queen and mother freed, but what came after that? Her duty was clear: The Domination needed an heir. And yet, the faces of her suitors flashed through her mind—Jekul, Sudbad, Goreboar, each fallen here in the Underkingdom, each a casualty in a battle that had barely begun.

She took a slow, measured breath before speaking. “I’ll have to choose someone to wed, for the kingdom. The Domination needs an heir as much as it needs its queen.” She kept her tone calm, hoping it masked the uncertainty swirling within her. She carefully avoided looking at him, or mentioning him, though Hate was indeed a suitor in his own right.

Her voice grew steadier, as if reciting a litany of duty. “And there’s more. War with Acury is inevitable.” She paused, glancing at him with a bitter smile. “We Orcs are many, and we’ll soon need room to spread. Acury won’t tolerate us much longer. It’s only a matter of time.”

Hate oinked softly, a sound that was both agreement and a bit of dark humor. “Humans can’t stomach our kind too close,” he murmured. “They’ll strike first if we don’t.”

The weight of it all lay heavy between them—the future, the crown, the conflict with Acury, even the uncertain pull between them that neither dared name. As the night deepened, they lay there, staring into the glittering darkness above, the silence between them thicker than any words could break.

Hate paused, absorbing her words, then glanced up at her with quiet curiosity. “But what about you, Ulf?” he asked, his voice softer, almost hesitant. “What do you want? Do you even want to marry?”

Ulf bit her lip, the question cutting closer than she’d expected. Duty had dictated her path from the beginning—a duty to her people, to her mother, to the Domination itself. But was it what she truly wanted? She’d been fond of many—Sudbad, Atlug, Gorlug. She had favored some like Jekul, Snagkill, and Oznacht. She’d felt something stronger, more complicated for others, like Goreboar...and even Hate himself. But marriage? That was a different matter, a duty that had been thrust upon her by her birthright.

Taking a deep breath, she finally cleared her throat and replied, “If I’m honest...I want to marry for love, not duty.”

Hate grunted in acknowledgment, nodding as he looked down. “I know the weight of duty well enough,” he said, his tone laced with an uncharacteristic solemnity.

Intrigued, Ulf propped herself up in her bedroll, studying him more closely. “What do you know of duty, Hate?” she asked, a hint of curiosity threading through her voice.

Hate’s expression darkened, but he met her gaze with a steady resolve. “I wasn’t always on this path,” he admitted. “There was a time when I was bound to a master, an old Orc who taught me everything about combat, about surviving this world. To me, he was more than just a teacher. He was…well, he was all I knew of loyalty.”

He paused, his jaw working as he wrestled with the memories. “But after a time, I wanted something different. Not just blood and the endless struggle. I wanted a life that was mine to shape, so I chose the path of a merchant. I wanted to build something with my own two hands.”

His face softened with a rare vulnerability. “But my master, he didn’t see it that way. Thought I’d betrayed him, thrown away everything he’d worked for in me. When I finally left, he made it clear he’d never forgive me. We parted ways with no peace between us, and to this day, I feel the weight of that choice.”

Ulf held his gaze, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “Duty can be powerful, yes,” she replied softly. “But the essence of being an Orc is to follow your own path—even when it’s hard. Even when it means standing alone.”

Hate grunted, thoughtful as her words sank in. He repeated them slowly, almost to himself. “The essence of being an Orc…” A quiet respect flickered in his gaze as he lay back down, her words clearly still turning over in his mind. And in the silence that followed, he seemed lighter somehow, the old burden of his past easing a little as he drifted into sleep.

[underestimated-heroine]

"Autumnal", by Ray Harvey

Summer dies, the long days wane away. The heat in the sky melts like lead to liquid pools. The hills beyond are as white as clay. Now creep in the gentle autumn ghouls, Trailing behind their silken shawls of Lethe- an mist. Shadows warp, gourds enlarge. And now what is always there but not Quite clear — that blot lurking on the vision’s marge — Emerges with the year: unresting death, The slow blood sloshing with every breath Upon the bone-carved door. The senses clot.

Blue, blue days, windy days. The brittle clack of Leaves and their soft collisions in the dust. Dusty smells, leaf-fractured streets, the trees above Hissing thinly, like a pit of snakes. Must It all be quite so beautiful yet so hard to bear? This softly killing air with its furnace blast Of fume, its whispered currents of decay, Must it seep into my bones? Must it come so fast? One by one the rib cages of the leaves tear From their stems like wax. Big trees go bare. The glare Is great, extinction certain. Life won’t let life stay.

Now the morning grass lies flat, blanched and cold with frost. The sickles swing in the apple trees Whose limbs are stiff and leak like ink across The voided sky. A chopper fleet of bees Sack the throat of the friendly hollyhocks. They sweetly sway, but at what cost? At what cost are These people-sized flowers born? Why bloom At all? To what end? There at the field’s far Edge, where scarecrows spill their guts and the pale shocks Of corn glow white, the thud of fruit sounds like rocks On the hardened earth, and a goat coughs in the gloom.

The hunt sweeps out. Stag are bled, hung from their hocks In the boughs: throat-gashed, reeking, with antlers chipped, Disgorging chunked gallons into the groin-high stalks Where late the grasshoppers arced and flipped. Sweetly sour fall, with all your puffball that glow Like alien skulls in the lemon-lime glades, Glades choked with moss and mold. Yeasty earth, rains Distilling punky tea as color fades And hoof prints are raised intaglio On the forest floor. Across the ground below, Vapor hangs above the stubble plains.

And scuffed-up apples, so convex And so supple, come raining down with muted Clops. The cottonwoods are spending gold. Complex Odors — woodsmoke, crushed grass, denuded Bark — cast a pall. The sun is warm, the water cold, Streams die quiet in their empty beds. Stout-chested robins with their wind-mussed Hair, like shabby Halloween décor, jerk their heads, Leer. Last gnats everywhere ignite gold In the long last rays of the sun. Old Flies fall off. The summer moths have turned to dust.

We live a little while, a little while And we die. Our wings are mutable. This blown- Up shadow of me, hinged across a pile Of bone-white rocks, and once so small, is now grown Tall and unclear, in danger (I fear) Of slipping into nothingness. It’s slouched And leaning toward the extreme sea wall. The eternal surf is booming. Insects crouched On wobbly knees stare into the sere And melon vault. And do they, too, sense an ending near, Or care? Like me, both love and hate this lovely fall?

The year grows old. A wan crepuscular light. Time now for thought, time for bloody autumnal wine. Time for walking into the complicated night Beneath molten skies and moaning trees that line Like sentries the heaved-up, humpbacked, clicking walks. Pretty warts of lichen are tattooed all about. The squash exudes an oily musk. Gaudy gourds Bloat fast, tubers weird and curved like trout Beside these utterly lifeless rocks. Among a murder of crows, one groks From the deathless firs, and crickets strum their chords.

Is this my soul, then, expiring whitely Into the unanimous dusk? The clouds beyond Look similar. Harvest moon is lifting lightly Within — gorged and pocked, a lobeshaped flaxen-blond Or a skull of ice, soaring up new at the dying Edge of day, while simultaneously streaks Of a burgundy-and-purple sunset slaughter Bloom like flowers over the western peaks. Snows to come will come soundless, hushing the crying World. Full season’s here. The geese are flying Like arrows across the icy water.

[loveatcomicon]

Wild daisy

By Atticus & Jung Kook

All I can say is that this love is crazy

I walk and laugh like a joker

And this heart is a harlequin

It’s been a while since I’d been here

Feeling like this, lonely in a crowd

Even if I was in a crowd

I want to see you in the crowd

When does the wild daisy bloom

Why am I in this gloom

Lonely in a room

This heart falls too soon

Like feet in quicksand

All I can say is that this love is crazy

I walk and laugh like a joker

And this heart is a harlequin

It’s been a while since I’d been here

If love hurts like this

Tearing at the seams

Breaking into a rave it seems

I wish even wild daisy blooms

In the gloom of a moon night light

Yeah I’ll be her sailor in the sea

And she’ll be my Moon in the sky

Shoot this love to the Moon

Yeah shoot this love to the Moon

I’ll be your wild daisy bloom

I’ll be your heartache in gloom

I’ll be your Challenger exploding in fume

Yeah I’ll be your man on the Moon

Like this heart

BOOM!

Written by Atticus & Taylor

[gtunesmiff]

WEDNESDAY'S POETRY PROMPT: 3/27/24 ~ BE PREPARED

Today's Wednesday again, and the prompt of the day was to write a "PREPPER" poem…

I dug out my old green manual, and came up with…

BE PREPARED

© 2024 - G. Smith (BMI)

=================

They say the end is coming soon, With darkness falling at high noon, And nighttime lit by a blood-red moon; They say the end is coming soon.

They say we're at the end of days, Waiting 'til Gabriel's trumpet plays, And all the colors fade to grays. They say we're at the end of days.

The apocalypse; Armageddon, Everyone hopes they're bound for Heaven. Some don't know, and so, are scared, Some quote the Boy Scouts, "Be prepared." Some quote the Boy Scouts, "Be prepared."

They say the news is gloom and doom, Just waiting for the final boom, To catch the last atomic bloom. They say the news is gloom and doom.

Some say an asteroid will take us out, Then others claim climate will cause a drought; Others, say, "Earthquake, without a doubt." Some say an asteroid will take us out.

The apocalypse; Armageddon, Everyone hopes they're bound for Heaven. Some don't know, and so, are scared, Some quote the Boy Scouts, "Be prepared." Some quote the Boy Scouts, "Be prepared."

Disasters large? Disasters small? Time will catch up with us all, As we circle on this ball; Doesn't matter, large or small.

The apocalypse; Armageddon, Everyone hopes they're bound for Heaven. Some don't know, and so, are scared, Some quote the Boy Scouts, "Be prepared." Some quote the Boy Scouts, "Be prepared."

Some quote the Boy Scouts... "Be prepared."

[lacklusterverve]

Last Glimpse Through Your Window

by Justin Minoru Leachon Luna

"I love you... i watched You to bid goodbye—as it is tomorrow, tomorrow's the day of my burial,

though I am not allowed to hug You even one last time.."

After all that's done, i'm bound to none;

crippled i tried to sink in your room—

i watched You sleep, your memories slip,

slip while i creep - creep in your room,

Shadow' all i am trying to creep in your room,

your flower lost its bloom.

Through the linen, silken, i'm trapped sicken,

carrying, caring, caressed with gloom,

i'm holding You, losing hue—

hue that is due, due to impending Doom,

the time flies impending Doom-

sweeped the petals with a broom.

Cover me, Purple veil - remind me that i fail,

memories wither, the withering withered bloom,

Purple curtain of which i am certain—

certain that this curtain, curtain keeps me "view of your room",

let me please, let me have a view of your room—

for i am your Forgotten groom.

I watched the moonlight lose its might—

this frail night light, a brilliant sight lingered in the anteroom,

on the window my reflection, in my perception-

perception, causing realization - realization that caused a loud boom—

"i am the moonlight", i broke your window and caused a noisy boom,

fragments—shards, pieces of glass with the sound boom.

Tears for the years, years of your fears—

while i shined on your eyes shining with tears of Gloom—

i stared at You, filled with sorrow, lost, unsure of the morrow,

morrow... the day i'll be sealed in a burrow - burrow "my own Room",

i shined on You - purple light melancholy bloom...

my moonlight Flower at full Bloom. ~

[sabrina-valerie]

Valentine's Day Fic

S/I: Sabrina | F/O: Kamek | Established Relationship | WC: 624

When Kamek said he had a surprise for her on Valentine's Day, Sabrina had been wary. She never really liked Valentine's Day, both because it all seemed very pointless and stupid and because Lou had been so stressed about making their first Valentine's Day together perfect back when they were dating that she had decided that any holiday that caused that much grief for one of her loved ones quite frankly didn't deserve to exist.

But now, after a nice picnic, they were picking their way through some bushes and trees.

"Any reason we couldn't take the path, Kam?" Sabrina asked, picking leaves out of her long, dark hair.

"Shhh, we're almost there!" Kamek was almost vibrating in excitement. He'd brought a tote bag, which he'd brought the food for the picnic in, but it still swung heavily by his side, as if there was something else in there.

They crept through the greenery, the echoes of laughter and chatter growing louder and louder until — oh, this was — 

"The Lovers Festival?" Sabrina's heart sank. Did Kamek want to attend after all? She'd endure it for his sake, but..."Did you change your mind about going?"

"Of course not." Kamek dug around in his bag, peering beyond the tree that hid them from view. Dozens of couples danced in the main square to a cheery-sounding pop song with lovey-dovey-sounding lyrics. Sabrina made a face. Eugh. Whatever happened to songs about friendship?

Kamek made a noise of triumph, pulling out what looked like an oversized glow stick covered in runes. Something rattled inside.

Kamek handed it to her. "Break this and throw it out past the trees."

"Sure." Snapping it was easy enough, and the object inside was a pretty little crystal sphere that immediately started smoking in her hands. Sabrina flung it away toward the festival.

The smoke cloud grew and grew, twirling and rising into the air and turning the picturesque sunny afternoon into a cloudy, dreary mess. Further out, the dancing couples had slowed to a stop, wondering at the abrupt change in weather.

"Wha —?"

"Wait for it..." Kamek stared out at the cloud intently. 

Suddenly, with an almighty BOOM, the skies opened up, dumping heavy rain on everyone in the area, to screams of surprise. Kamek and Sabrina weren't spared either, quickly becoming soaked as well.

"What?" Sabrina asked, a grin blooming on her face.

"Wait for it~," Kamek sang, squinting out into the gloom.

One of the men had taken to yelling at the clouds, as if that would save his beloved girlfriend's hair and makeup. The clouds rumbled ominously in response, and spat out a lightning bolt right at his feet. His scream could have shattered windows. 

As more rain and lighting were dropped recklessly from the sky, Sabrina lost the fight against her own mirth and burst out cackling. She collapsed onto the dirt-turned-mud, laughing herself to tears. "What?!"

Wind howled, knocking down the flimsy festival booths and throwing their contents into the air. The festival-goers were tripping and sliding around in the mud. The previously saccharine fun was completely replaced by crying and wailing and screaming.

"Happy Valentine's Day, dear," Kamek said, smiling down at her.

Sabrina, rain-soaked and beaming, pulled him into a deep kiss. This was probably the best Valentine's Day she'd ever had.

(Later, after coming up for air for the 5th time or so — "Kam, we should go before they find us here."

"Do we have to?"

Sabrina peeked out beyond the tree they were hiding behind. A few brave souls had spotted the capsule she threw and were skidding ungracefully towards it.

"Yeah." She got up, lifting Kamek in her arms. She picked her way back through the brush. "There's always next year, though. Maybe we can do something even bigger then!")

[letthebookbegin]

You look around, blinking rain out of your eyes, holding the bouquet out in front of you pleadingly.

'Hello?' You call. The storm answers you with a flash. A figure is lit up amongst the gloom, hair long enough to cover its eyes.

'Your flowers!' You call out, but the figure had vanished with the light. Thunder booms on cue and you push the wet hair out of your eyes. A tiredness beyond sleep has a hold of your limbs now. You reach into your bag, looking for a source of inspiration, and pull out the foil left over from your lunch. Arranging it over the bouquet to give it some measure of protection, you decide you've done enough and finally step inside.

Your calico hears your keys and is at the door to welcome you, already meowing in indignation that you'd left her behind again.

"Alright, okay," you sigh, never too tired to give her the attention she demands. You crouch down to pet her and freeze. There's a crumpled bouquet sitting politely by the paws of your cat.

It's exactly the same as the one you left outside. You wouldn't have realised it had you not spent so much time holding it, but it matches up perfectly; each leaf is bent the same way, each flower blooming as little or as much as it should be to be a perfect copy.

Your cat bumps her head into your still palm and you snap out of it. Of course they're not identical. Someone must have pushed this bouquet through the letterbox and left another on her doorstep. Who? A question for the morning. You just need some sleep. You fill a vase with water and dump the flowers in it, then crawl into bed without changing out of your wet clothes. Your cat follows you in and you lift up the blanket to make space for her purring body.

You wake in the middle of the night, shivering. You finally change out of your clothes and go looking for your cat, lonely and miserable. You find her calling for you, squeezed under the sofa. Dread drops like a weight in your stomach: you pull her out despite her protests and anxiously search her for any harm. There's nothing physically wrong, but you know instinctively, fluent in the silent language two creatures with different tongues have grown used to using to communicate - she's in pain. She meows pitifully, looking up at you with eyes full of trust in the person who looks after her, beseeching you to fix it.

Choose Your Own Adventure

Things happen in threes, people always seem to say. Well, so far today you've been yelled at by your manager and soaked by the ol' reliable collaboration of a bus and a puddle, and you quite fancy passing out in your bed so you're fully unconscious by the time the third thing manages to find you. You look down as you fumble with your keys and pause - there's a rumpled bouquet shaking on your doorstep, clearly blown out of someone's arms with the wind.

[spoonbyname]

Right, Bagginshielders, if I was going to find a way to actually motivate myself to finish and post a fic, which fic should see the light of day?

And if anyone knows of any Bagginshield writing/cheerleading/motivational groups, let me know!

1. Black & Blue - Soulmate/mark AU - Flower marks bloom on a hobbit's skin when the person they are connected to is injured.

Belladonna tried not to let her nerves get the better of her - wound-blooms were certainly uncommon on a baby, for a number of reasons -  and slowly reached for the fabric to get a better look, but as she did a purple thistle burst open on his tiny bottom lip, its spines appearing from nothing like a vicious firework.

There was something about the lurid purple there on his lip and chin that made her feel a little unwell. She could not remember what thistles actually meant, but looking at it was enough to tell her that it should have no place on a hobbit's skin. That was not a silly or happy mark.

As she examined the flush of flowers on her child's skin, she spotted the last flower - one at least she was more familiar with, although its appearance filled her with both hope and dread.

2. The Wanderer - Time Traveller's Wife/No Ring AU - Bilbo Wanders back and forth in time. Then an oddly familiar dwarf appears on his doorstep.

He thinks he hears him say something like "Baggins" but he can't be sure as the sound is carried on a surprised breath, nearly drowned out by his own scared whimpers and gasps as the whole corridor shakes for a moment. Bilbo is only just able to make out wide eyes and a mane of dark hair in the gloom, the strange man whispering hurriedly, "It is alright. I am here. I will keep you safe."

There is another deafening sound that crackles and booms through the corridors, making the floor beneath him vibrate frighteningly again, and Bilbo clamps his hands over his ears. He looks back to the man whose expression is desperate and whose arm is stretching as far as it can through the gap, unable to quite reach him. He instinctively scoots closer to the huge hand held out for him. No sooner is Bilbo close enough than the hand clamps around his arm and the dark-haired man hauls him out from behind the statue (he can just about see that's what it is now) and he's drawn into a tight hug, his face buried in the thick black hair as the man gasps, "I have got you." Bilbo then finds himself hoisted up against the solid chest and partially bundled into the inside of the man's coat, clinging on like a burr, as the man starts to run.

[curiokhan0113]

Then And Now

Sadness once left such ugly trail

From how did this time again fail

With never an escape could bail

Now looking so weak and fraille

Because now this is very wrong

When all them know how strong

Being happy and singing a song

Whether for a short time or long

From the time of laugh and play

Feeling more carefree everyday

Just to walk so free with sashay

Now left by  stress and disarray

When joy was that great inspire

As it spread to others as wildfire

Getting more to reach all desire

With reaching goals and not tire

Life can can show up the gloom

Yet there is  also plenty of room

For many  good things to bloom

Waiting for a  right time to boom

Why keep such guilt and shame

That sadness a reason to blame

Unless being a crazy mind game

Some where kept with the frame 

Remember sadness is the  cage

And come and goes at any stage

Just another  story different page

Only this reality brought with age

[instruth]

What Shroud Of Doom

What shroud of doom

being spun on the loom

Swift threading on the zoom

Sparks flew with a big boom

Whoosh! A sweep by a broom

Whisking past in the gloom

All confined in a little room

Cramped together in a tomb

The sound of despair, vroom!

Wow! The roof opened in a floral bloom

Dreamers all set free, brides and grooms

©Johnny J P Lee

03 February 2022

Photo: J. P. Lee