#I really like how this turned out and I religiously listened to shooting star . Blue and Butterfly while making this

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Countless Roads - Chapter 36

Fic: Countless Roads - Chapter 36 - Ao3

Fandom: Flash, Legends Pairing: Gen, Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, others

Summary: Due to a family curse (which some call a gift), Leonard Snart has more life than he knows what to do with – and that gives him the ability to see, speak to, and even share with the various ghosts that are always surrounding him.

Sure, said curse also means he’s going to die sooner rather than later, just like his mother, but in the meantime Len has no intention of letting superheroes, time travelers, a surprisingly charming pyromaniac, and a lot of ghosts get in the way of him having a nice, successful career as a professional thief.

———————————————————————————

“I was being a prideful self-absorbed dumbass and I’m gonna stop with that,” Len says, once everyone else has gone – most of them on Len's instructions, while Rip decided to continue to FBI his way around town, hoping that, as the only other person Savage might recognize, he could serve as an additional means of heightening Savage’s paranoia – and they’re alone in his room.

“I really hope Gideon records the contents of our rooms,” Mick says, crossing his arms and smirking. “I want photo-visual evidence of that.”

Len rolls his eyes. “I’ll say it in front of a camera, just for you.”

“You don’t need to,” Mick says, sobering, his smirk falling away. “I wasn’t acting all too great myself.”

Len frowns. “Being upset at me being controlling and not listening to you is pretty fair,” he points out.

“I knew I shouldn’t have promised anything to the time puppies without consulting you first,” Mick says. “I knew it, and I did it anyway, and I felt bad about doing it, so when you called me out on it, I was already on the defensive and I lashed out at you. I shouldn't have.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it ain’t,” Mick says. “You weren’t yourself.”

“I was acting like an asshole,” Len says humorlessly. “Not exactly that out of character.”

“That type of asshole is out of character for you,” Mick says. “Trust me, I know your type of asshole, and it ain’t like that. Also, you do know I don’t really hold you saving my ass against you, right?”

“Sure seemed like you did.”

“I was angry at myself for being an asshole,” Mick says. “And then at you for not telling me about the necromancer. You know I hate it when you leave stuff out.”

“I know,” Len says. “And I’m gonna try to stop with that. Can't promise I'll always succeed - but I'll try.”

“Good,” Mick says firmly. “But that still doesn’t mean I should be hitting below the belt. I’ve never once thought of our relationship as unequal, okay? You’re usually pretty good at treating me like I’m a real live person.”

“I don’t see you as different,” Len starts, then pauses. “No, that’s not right. I do. You are different. You’re the one person who’s never left me, never got used against me, never had to worry about. The one person that I thought for the longest time was safe. You couldn’t get hurt, you couldn’t die – that was my bedrock.”

“And then Cabrera happened.”

“And then Cabrera happened,” Len agrees. “You were right the first time about it. The whole thing - it knocked me loose a bit, made me paranoid. My dad hurt me, sure, whatever, it was horrifying but I'm pretty used to him pulling new horrifying things out of his hat, but Cabrera threatened you, and that freaked me out. It shook me.”

“And then you find out the immortal asshole we got recruited to fight is another medium, just like Cabrera, and you freak out even more,” Mick says, nodding. “I get it. S’no excuse for how you’ve been acting, but I get it.”

“I’ll do better,” Len says, thinking of Kendra’s little dust-up with Ray. No point to it at all, but for pride and the desire to keep the ones you care for safe. Nasty combination, and Len has it all in spades. He can't let that get between them, though. He can't.

“I will, too,” Mick says. “Specifically in noticing when you’re not in a headspace for a fight. What happened?”

“What do you mean? I’ve told you all of it.”

“You’ve given me some details, yeah, but – Lenny –” Len’s not sure whether to be relieved or concerned that they’ve moved into ‘Lenny’ territory. “– I shouldn’t have picked a fight when you were still in shock.”

“I wasn’t!”

“I checked with Gideon once I noticed,” Mick says. “You definitely were.”

That – would actually explain that weird distance that'd been surrounding him, which had slowly started to fade until he’d finally cracked through the ice to be able to feel things like proper emotions again.

Len’s been in shock before, but it’s been a while, and it’s usually when he’s been shot. It'd occurred to him a few times that it might be it, but he'd always dismissed it: he was sound in body, how could he be in shock?

Apparently, he could be.

“Must’ve been a side-effect of meeting the angel,” Len says, frowning. It’s the only thing it could’ve been – sure, he’d had escalating paranoia issues, but he’d been managing them (however badly) up until then.

“Yeeeeeah, about that,” Mick says, plopping himself down on the bed, looking about as relieved as Len feels to have gotten the touchy-feely portion of the conversation over with. “What’d you mean, angel? You ain’t the religious type, and you don’t do that much in terms of metaphor usually.”

“Well, you know how we were in deep space and I kept having a really loud ringing in my ears?”

“Yeah?”

“Stars.”

“…stars?”

“Yep. Stars. Singing. Actually, more like the ghosts of stars, apparently,” Len says. “Bright light, blue eyes, wings – maybe, I’m not sure – anyway, the ghost of a star that used to live in the place we went came to visit me.”

Mick blinks. His face is doing that thing where he can’t decide what he’s feeling or even if he’s feeling anything because he’s just so bewildered by what he just heard.

“It was weird,” Len adds.

“A ghost. Of a star?”

“Yeah, I didn’t know it was a thing either.”

"A star."

"You got it."

"A ghost of a - and it looks like an angel?"

"Yeah."

“The fuck.”

“That’s what I said.”

“To the angel, Len?!”

“He said Ezekiel did it, too!” Len protests.

“Ezekiel as in Old Testament Ezekiel?”

“The one who saw angels, yeah,” Len says, rubbing at his face a bit. He had been doing such a good job of ignoring the comparison up until now, too...

“…well,” Mick says, because really, what else is there to say? “Huh. Well then.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s really something.”

“Agreed.”

“Okay, no, now I've gotta ask. How the hell did a guy from thousands of years ago see a ghost of a star, though?” Mick asks. “Even assuming he was like you, some ancestor of yours, it still doesn't make sense. He didn’t have space travel! So how - and why - was there an angel hanging around for him to see it?”

Len feels his face goes very solemn even as his belly seizes with the old familiar anticipatory glee.

“Well, Mick,” he says with a straight a face as he can manage. “I guess the star must’ve been shooting by.”

“Shooting – goddamnit, Len, this is no time for puns.”

“I dunno, I thought that one was out of this world.”

“Len –”

“Okay, okay, so I didn’t planet out all that well; I’ll do better next time.”

“Your puns suck worse than a black hole, you dumbass.”

Len cracks a grin. That was a good one. “ I knew I married you for a reason.”

Mick smirks back. “Oh, it’s for the puns, is it?”

“Entirely,” Len agrees, looking at Mick contemplatively. He'd love to spend a bit of quality time reestablishing important marital bonds, but... “Want to bet on whether the rest of the team has managed to get in trouble yet?”

Mick rolls his eyes. “That’s a sucker’s bet.”

And, almost as if it'd been waiting for its cue, there’s a buzz on their comms – the ones Cisco gave them back in Central, meaning it was one of the old Team Flash that'd been put on their team: Jax, probably, or maybe Stein.

Len and Mick look at each other, long-suffering.

“Ten to one it’s trouble,” Mick says with a groan. Len agrees, but clicks it on anyway.

It turns out to be Stein.

“What happened?” Len asks. "What's the emergency?"

“Ah - while I understand why you might think that, in fact, nothing out of the ordinary is happening,” Stein says. “The plan is proceeding apace. We are now nearing Nanda Parbat, where Jefferson and I will be enacting our portion of the plan. Before we arrived, however, I stole away for a moment to call you.”

Len blinks. If they’re not in trouble, then what…?

“I wanted to apologize to Mr. Snart,” Stein says. “For judging him overly hastily, particularly given my knowledge of him.”

“Uh, thanks?” Len says. “I think? I mean, I’m used to it – thief, murderer, that sort of thing…”

“Not that,” Stein says. “It was made very clear to me – by Jefferson, among others – that despite your reputation, you were a good man to have on our side: intelligent, cunning, and capable. I trusted in that reputation. And yet, when you and Mr. Rory went off to have your fight in the forest and only Mr. Snart returned – I assumed the worst.”

Len and Mick share bewildered looks.

“Professor,” Mick says gently. “You – you have been told that I’m dead, right?”

“I know that,” Stein says, clearly rolling his eyes so hard it was almost audible. “Mr. Allen and his friends informed me, and Jefferson confirmed it after our bonding - and, if you recall, I did happen to witness that battle on Earth-2. I most assuredly believe in it. Indeed, however bizarre I might find it, it’s not exactly outside the realm of the teachings of Judaism – I was trained as rabbi, you know –”

“Told you it was kosher,” Len tells Mick smugly.

“No, it’s – that’s not – we’re getting away from the point here. As I was saying, hen Mr. Jefferson joined our triad, and indeed, when Mr. Snart became allied with Team Flash, I was in fact informed of Mr. Snart’s abilities and your particular iteration thereof, Mr. Rory. Despite that, I assumed that Mr. Snart had, in your fury at each other…ah…well…to be frank, Mr. Snart, I assumed that you had somehow banished Mr. Rory.”

“Oh,” Len says blankly. “I mean, I don’t really ‘banish’ ghosts the way that mediums do, all circles and spells and stuff, but I do sometimes send them away – still, that would have been a shitty thing to do in the middle of a forest in who-knows-what-era…wait. Has that been why everyone’s been so weird around me? Because they assumed I did something to Mick?”

"The others -" Stein begins.

“Len wouldn’t do something like that,” Mick objects, overriding him. "He ain't like that."

Len winces. Technically, in 2046, he had done exactly something like that, albeit with good intentions – and you know what they say about good intentions –

“Wait, hold up another sec,” he says, thinking back. “Was - was that why Rip apologized?! Because he thought he’d encouraged me to go – to Mick – for this stupid mission’s sake?!” He stands up. “You know what, I’m gonna –”

Mick grabs Len’s arm. “Down, Lenny,” he says sternly. “Let’s finish this whole business with the poltergeist kids first.”

Len grumbles, but concedes and sits back down. “Don’t worry about it, Stein,” he says into the comm, where Stein had been waiting in worried silence. “We haven’t worked together all that long and you don’t have personal experience with me; you mostly know what you read in the papers, which ain't exactly complimentary, and beyond that you’ve just got Jax’s word for it. Makes sense you’d make a hasty leap.”

“I appreciate your understanding,” Stein says.

“In the future, though – I don’t turn on crew that don’t turn on me, and you’re crew. Especially since you’ve got Jax in your bond. So if you’ve got any questions, just come talk to me direct; I won’t take offense. And good luck on your mission.”

"Seconded, Professor," Mick adds.

“I will,” Stein says warmly. “And thank you both.”

He clicks off.

“Well, no trouble in that camp,” Len tells Mick, shaking his head. He can't believe that anyone who knows him would think that, but he guesses that this crew hasn't really had a good chance to get to know him. And he has been acting pretty out of character... “Let’s go see what trouble everyone else is up to.”

Surprisingly little, it turns out: Gideon reports that Kendra and Ray have taken great care to always be seen in public areas, fighting, and that Savage has been repeatedly spotted all but stalking them – specifically Kendra – quite obviously; people have already started to notice, so much so that Ray’s starting to be worried that if they don’t deal with the problem soon, the nosy neighbors might start the ruckus themselves.

Gideon also reports that Rip is pulling off an increasingly credible FBI agent, and connect them to his comms for them to listen in. Turns out he even took the cue from Len’s earlier comment to spin a story about being undercover in the Cold War and the British accent just sticking. The sheriff had been pretty wowed by that.

Of course, then he asked what was the deal with someone like Len – using an entirely unnecessary slur, of course – working for the FBI.

“He’s one of our informants,” Rip lies.

“Making him feel better by giving him a badge,” the sheriff says, nodding. “Got it. They've started getting all uppity, nowadays, won't do anything unless they feel catered to...”

Rip suddenly gets a lot of cooperation, but he spends the entire time sounding like he’s smelled something bad.

It does a surprising amount to cheer Len up, actually. Okay, Rip might sometimes be an idiot captain making incredibly stupid assumptions sometimes, but he’s part of Len’s crew, and he means well - his apology and acknowledgement from earlier showed it. That counts for something.

Len supposes he can forgive him, if only because Mick is laughing quite so hard about it.

“I do so love Gideon’s comms,” Len says happily once Rip is out of earshot of the Sheriff. “Gideon, tell me I can have a recording of that?”

“Captured, Mr. Snart. Would you like me to produce a hard copy file for you?”

“Nah, digital's fine. Email it to me; I want to treasure Rip's Very First Experience With Systemic Racism forever.”

“Your sense of humor is infantile," Mick says.

“Says the guy on the floor.”

“I’m laughing at your expressions. Better than a comedy show.”

“Uh-huh. I believe you.”

“You know, I always appreciated that in a partner: the love, the trust, the lack of condescending assholery…”

"And yet you stick by me. Have you checked your own sense of humor recently?"

“Listen, you…” Mick says with a smirk, starting to reach for Len.

The comms crackle back to life just when it was starting to get interesting. "We've got the Lazarus water!" Jax exclaims. "Also, the League may or may not think I'm a phoenix. Or an angel. Or whatever they call firebird-angel-things here. I made cawing noises, it was fun."

"Congrats," Len says, eyes suddenly drawn by instinct to one of the other screens where Gideon is showing the locations of the various crew members on a map, along with dots to signify other people. "Come back, double-quick. I think Savage is getting tired of waiting."

"On it, boss."

"Mick, look," Len says, gesturing at the screen.

"How did Haircut and Chickadee end up getting lured over to the sanitarium past nightfall?" Mick demands. "She decide she wanted to go up against Savage alone after all?"

"Possible," Len says, jabbing at the screen to try to get it to go to video. Luckily, Ray had been into the whole button cam idea, so there was one. "Huh, nope. Looks they have an escort. An armed escort."

"Is that Savage? No – it’s that sheriff."

“Yep,” Len says.

"He's been doing a lot of escorting for Savage," Mick says darkly.

"That may be because one of the afflicted boys is his son," Gideon says.

"Didn't know that, but it makes sense. Savage probably told him about the experiments but made it out like they were a cure, not the disease," Len says, nodding. He activates the comms. "Rip, plan's off. Ray and Kendra are being dragged into the sanitarium. Meet you there?"

"I'll be there at once," Rip replies. "Bring the Waverider; we may need her."

The comms click off. Len blinks. "He knows we can't drive, right?"

"I can instruct you, Mr. Snart," Gideon says.

"Teach Mick," Len says. "I don't drive."

With Mick in the Captain's seat – Len's gotta say, he likes the look on him, like a very muscular Kirk or Sisko, and obviously some Picard in the haircut – they land in the parking lot by the sanitarium quickly enough.

Ray and Kendra have started stalling.

"I don't know what your problem is," Kendra says, her voice audible over the comms. "You come out of nowhere – force me and my husband here – and for no reason!"

"No reason?" Savage laughs. "My dear Chay-Ara, we are surely beyond that now?"

"I don't know who this Chay-Ara is," Ray says, best Brad Majors impression firmly intact. "But don't you dare talk to my wife that way!"

"I must admit, you are something of a surprise," Savage says. "I was expecting – shall we say – another."

"We don't know what you're talking about," Kendra insists.

"Don't you?" Savage asks. "Let us look in your purse, here –"

"Don't you dare – oh!" There's the sound of a slap.

"You bastard," Ray says with real anger. "How dare you hit her?!"

"That was ill-mannered of you, sheriff," Savage says, his voice slick. "I would advise you not to repeat the action – and to apologize to the lady."

"But –"

"Now," Savage says, his voice pointed.

"Sorry," the sheriff says, clearly unrepentant but cowed by Savage.

Len and Mick creep closer to the room, turning the corner and moving as silently as they can. They can now see the room – Ray is handcuffed to a chair, Kendra is on the ground clutching her cheek, Savage is holding her purse and glaring at the sheriff.

Kendra lunges for her purse, only for Savage to grab her by the shoulder and throw her into the table.

"Looking for this?" he laughs, pulling out the dagger. "You thought you could come here with this false marriage, these false smiles, and think I would not realize you had remembered yourself? Even after my dagger goes missing? You must think me a fool, Chay-Ara."

"Nah, just moderately stupid," Len says and fires the cold gun.

Savage dodges, and the cold beam freezes only his shoulder, which he takes with a grunt.

"Sorry to disrupt the party," Mick says, and steps forward with his heat gun, aiming at the sheriff, who is trying to draw his gun.

He manages it, only to promptly drop it, yowling, in the face of a blast from Mick's heat gun. Metal is a very good conductor of heat.

"Boys!" Savage calls. "To me!"

And then through the door burst the – Len doesn't know what to call them. Half-lives, poltergeists in the bodies of the living. Boys with their eyes whited out and glowing, faces twisted in snarls of rage, unspeaking, angry.

"Oh, let me at one!" Loraine calls, darting forward. Len has only empowered her a little; she's nowhere near the visual spectrum, but it makes the boy flinch back anyway.

Len grins.

The kids can see the ghosts.

"Come here," Len says, his voice echoing, a single command.

And they come. Loraine's ancestors, her tribe and their mortal enemies, those who more recently died – accidents and murders and suicides – natural deaths come too quickly –

And, of course, the ghosts of the boys' victims.

That certainly gets them to flinch, faces twisting in terror, hands and invisible ripping claws going wide, hitting walls, beds, chairs, but missing people.

"And what are you?" Savage says, his eyes alight, fixed on Len, intent. "Something old, perhaps? Or something new?"

"Something borrowed, something blue," Len says. "Don't you know Hollywood-style wedding traditions?"

He fires his gun again.

Savage dodges again, more successfully this time, and throws a knife that he's pulled from somewhere. And then he tears off that lab coat of his, revealing the answer: he's wearing what look like dozens of them.

Len ducks behind a ripped-up table, pushing it onto its side just in time for two of Savage's knives to embed themselves into where he last was.

"Ray! Kendra!"

"I have the dagger!" she shouts.

"You'll never have a chance to use it, my dear," Savage calls, and throws one of his knives, knocking the dagger out of her hand.

Then he aims at Ray, who's shrinking down, and catches him halfway through the process, knocking him head over heels.

"Ray!" Kendra shouts, diving for the dagger and snatching it up again, but turning helplessly towards Ray instead of rushing at Savage.

"Boys, get him!" Savage orders.

Two of the boys leap forward, eyes intent, hands outstretched –

"Not today, suckers," Sara says from the door, and hits them with a spray from a water gun.

The boys stagger back, shrieking, but even as Len watches, the white light fades out of their eyes. Their bodies swell with life – real life – their spirits, disjointedly put back the wrong way, turning and slipping home, clicking back into place like puzzle pieces.

Damn, but Len loves to be right.

"Dad?" one of the boys says, looking at the sheriff, still nursing his burnt hand. "Dad!"

"Son –"

They embrace.

"You're still a racist dickbag," Kendra tells him, then looks around. Sara is spraying the water on the remaining boys. "Damnit, no! Where'd Savage go?"

"Out the window," Mick says grimly, picking himself up. "He knocked me back – nearly got a knife in my gun – and went out. Want me to follow?"

Len shakes his head. Not alone, definitely not.

Mick shrugs, having already clearly assumed that that would be the answer.

"Great," Kendra says, looking disappointed. "So we're back where we started."

Ray resizes himself and touches her shoulder. "We stopped the murders, and we've got the dagger now," he reminds her. "And, hey – you got to see Savage run from you. Not bad, huh?"

Kendra smiles. "That part was pretty good."

"It's of no matter," Rip says, standing at the door. "We will get him the next time. Savage's reaction here shows that the plan we were working with had a fair chance of being successful – he was overconfident and foolish." He smiles. "He got lucky this time. Next time, he won't."

"You bet your ass he won't," Mick growls.

"Oh, Mick," Kendra laughs. "The journey hasn't been the same without you."

"Indeed," Rip says dryly. "In fact, I was wondering if you'd explain that."

"Nothing to explain," Mick says, shrugging.

"You just don't like talking," Jax tells him with a laugh.

They're all starting to relax, so naturally that's when one of the ghosts Len called up from the sanitarium says, "A second ship is approaching."

Len and Mick both straighten up, alarmed.

"Gideon, report. Is someone coming?" Len asks.

No reply.

"Something's wrong with Gideon," Mick says.

"What?!" Rip exclaims, and they all rush out.

It's good that they do, too, because they hit the Stormtroopers Three dead on, trying to board the Waverider.

Len hoists his gun and bares his teeth.

He's starting to get really sick of these assholes.

Luckily, repelling the Stormtroopers Three from the Waverider turns out not to be that bad. Kendra takes wing, dagger in hand, and dives at them from above, while Len and Mick use their guns to scare them off the ship. With Sara, Ray and Rip covering their retreat, it’s easy enough to keep the Three at bay while they’re backing onto the Waverider, and then Gideon gets them off the ground.

“They’re no Savage, that’s for sure,” Ray says with pleasure as the Waverider makes the jump, soaring into the green of the time stream.

“Indeed,” Rip says. “I think that we –”

A blast shook the ship.

“What the hell?” Jax demands, running to the window. “It’s – guys, it’s those assholes again!”

“Already?” Kendra exclaims.

“Gideon, evade!” Rip exclaims. “Everyone, strap in, we’ll fire on them, and then we’ll do a quick series of jumps to make sure they can’t follow us further –”

Len was under the impression that time-jumping was nauseating. That has nothing on a lot of time-jumping in a short sequence of time.

“I hate this,” Mick moans.

He has no place to complain - it isn't going to kill him, he's already dead. Len's stomach, on the other hand, might decide that this is the fatal blow...

“I think we’ve lost them, Captain,” Gideon reports.

Everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“Very well,” Rip says. “Gideon, please put in the following coordinates –”

“Wait, where are we going now?” Sara asks.

“A small town called Salvation, in South Dakota,” Rip says. “In, ah, 1871.”

Everybody stares at him.

"Remind me again, Rip, why do we think Savage will be in the Wild West?" Len drawls. "Seemed like he was a fair bit more of an urban kinda a guy, at least to my eyes."

"At the moment, it's not Savage that's the problem," Rip says. "It's the Hunters."

It takes a minute for everyone to realize who he's talking about.

"The Stormtroopers Three?" Jax asks.

"Larry, Curly and Moe?" Mick adds.

"We're running from them?" Sara asks indignantly. "We just kicked their asses! Twice!"

"But they disabled our shields before we arrived," Rip says darkly. "A few more solid hits, and they'll shatter. We cannot afford a direct engagement until they are repaired, and the fact that they were able to catch up to us so quickly suggests that they've obtained updated technology from the Time Masters which we will need to account for."

"And the Wild West?" Len asks again. "Why there?"

"It's a time pocket," Rip says. "We'll be safe from detection there."

He's treated to a handful of skeptical looks, but that's what he deserves, given that he'd previously been talking about how safe the time stream was. Even after the first time the Stormtroopers Three had very nearly caught them in the time stream after their first attack failed...

"They weren’t aiming to get to us so quickly before, even without the tech, and they were really shooting to kill this time," Mick says. "Why'd they change it up now?"

"The bounty on our heads may have been changed from alive to dead or alive," Rip says. "Going to the time pocket will help us rest and recover.” He scowls at them. “Especially since certain people on this crew have rejected my other proposal for where to go.”

“We’re still not going to the future to murder baby Hitler,” Ray says. “We all agreed. Every one of us, right before we went to the ‘50s. We’d be sorry, but – we’re really not.”

“Not a one of us signed up for child murder,” Kendra agrees.

“You wouldn’t be –” Rip starts.

“We’re not aiding and abetting child murder either, Rip,” Sara says. “The vote was unanimous against you. Drop it already.”

“We could just use the time period to attack Savage, as we know he’s there,” Rip says stiffly.

“Except you’ve already explained about the extensive defenses Kasnia has surrounding its leader,” Stein says. “Savage would never give us the opportunity, which would mean that you would propose returning to your original plan. I'm afraid we must continue to object, Captain Hunter.”

“Remember, Rip – teamwork means working together,” Jax reminds him. “Besides, not even you’re sure whether you could actually do the kid in.”

Rip makes a face, not disagreeing. He's not really a very good killer, not personally, and by now they all know it. “Very well, I concede the argument. That doesn’t change the fact that we need to go in for repairs somewhere, and the time pocket in Salvation is likely the best place for it. Please strap yourselves down or return to your rooms; this jump will be particularly bumpy."

Mick glances at Len and jerks his head to their room, clearly wanting to talk about something. Len nods and follows.

"You gonna be okay?" Mick asks once they're alone.

Len frowns at him. "I should think so," he says. "We ain't going up against Savage this time, just going to go to ground for a bit, and I hardly think we'll run into any necromancers or mediums or angels there."

"I was more thinking about regular run-of-the-mill ghosts," Mick says dryly. "1871 ain't too far back from 1865, you know, and a hell of a lot of Civil War vets went out west, and probably took their ghosts with 'em."

Len purses his lips. That’s a good point. "We'll warn Kendra and Jax about that, too; the living are probably just as racist as the dead. You think there'll be a lot of ghosts? Surely South Dakota’s too far out."

"I think the Civil War rousted up a lot of unquiet dead," Mick says. "Wars always do. You shoulda seen the years right after World War II."

Len makes a face. It's been months and months since his last serious unquiet dead attack; he's gotten powerful enough to draw friendlies to his side almost automatically, and he barely has to remember to give them enough to make them happy. But yeah, the Civil War – he can see that giving rise to a lot of very angry, very unpleasant ghosts.

"How do you want to handle, then?" he asks. "Want me to stay behind on the ship?"

Mick considers it, and Len lets him. He's excited to see the Wild West, but he's none too interested in the Civil War. American media paints them so differently that he'd forgotten they happened at basically same time.

"No, I don't think that'll be necessary," Mick finally says, nodding. "I'm pretty good at watching your ass –"

"You're my husband; I should hope so," Len quips.

"Mind out of the gutter, boss; I'm being serious. I think it'll be okay, but maybe you ought to take extra care in getting some friendlies right off the bat, more than usual, I mean."

Len nods. "Fair. You know, I hadn't really noticed it until I was repelling ghosts in the ‘50s – all except Loraine – but I'm pretty sure I used to be a lot better at remembering their names. The ghosts, I mean. You know, knowing something about 'em, knowing what it is they want, that sorta thing. Now I barely even ask 'em what they're called. Really ought to fix that."

Mick looks amused. "You do that, boss."

"What?" Len protests. "It's a thing, it's been happening."

"Of course it's been happening, boss," Mick says. "There are more ghosts."

"So?"

"So a general's a lot less likely to be on one-on-one terms with his men than a sergeant is, that's all I'm saying."

"I'm trying to avoid too much – generalship. Remember?" Len reminds Mick.

"Oh, I remember," Mick says. "I still want at least one friendly watching your back in the West."

"I'll look for one, or better yet, more than one," Len says, still somewhat annoyed by Mick's blithe dismissal of the issue. Sure, Len isn't always the best with names – he has some face-name matching issues that he tends to cover with nicknames, just like Mick does - but he used to at least make an effort with the ghosts. He always felt it was the least he could do, what with him asking them for favors immediately thereafter.

He quietly resolves to do better.

Of course, then they change into era-appropriate gear (flintlocks! Be still Len's grew-up-down-the-street-from-a-historical-reenactment-ground heart!) and go out into the streets and he is promptly flooded with ghosts coming to take a gawk at him.

"Uh, hi," Len says to them. "What're your names?"

"SarahGraceTheordoreReenaMacyWhiteDoeJamesLon-"

Len throws up a hand to stem the tide.

Mick is sniggering.

Len glares at him, then looks at the ghosts. "Uh, you, Quaker-woman and, uh, you, uh – what tribe are you?"

"I am of the Cheyenne River Sioux tribe," the man says. "But I was baptized James."

"...is that your preferred name?"

The guy looks taken aback. "It will do," he says. “Calling me Diving Hawk just makes me think my mother is cross with me.”

"Well, wouldn’t want that. Whatever floats your boat. Quaker-woman?"

"Grace," she says. "And I’m no Quaker. I'm a follower of Joseph Smith."

"All right, then," Len says, wondering why that sounds familiar. And why Mick's sniggers have intensified. "Can you two be my go-betweens with the others?"

"We would be delighted to," Grace says. She's only a moderately powerful ghost, a weaker poltergeist, though she has a look about her that makes Len think she's probably one of his more violent friendlies. "What would you want them to do?"

"Me want them – no, no. Nothing at the minute," Len says. "Just, you know, if you or any of them want life to get something done –"

“Oh, yes,” Grace says. “If we –”

"Maybe not now," Mick interjects. "The other Legends are coming, and they're looking bitchy."

"Later," Len tells his ghosts, who nod and float away to talk to the others, presumably about Len’s offer.

Sara's in the lead. She marches straight up to Len and says, "Rip's not coming."

"What? Why? I’d have thought – y’know – with the duster and the revolver –"

“Yeah, you’re not alone,” Ray says, scowling.

"He says it's for repairs, but we kept up on him and it turns out he had a bad encounter in this time period, or something like that. Wouldn’t give details." Sara snorts. "He's hiding something. Again."

"He's having real trouble with this whole team thing," Mick comments. “Funny, it being his idea and all.”

"Yeah, well. I promised we'd behave, but I'm thinking we can 'behave' ourselves at the local tavern. All the movies make out like it's the best place to gather intel anyway."

"Sure, intel," Mick guffaws. "That's what you call it?"

"What do you call it?"

"Trouble, that’s what I call it.”

She grins. "I'll settle for getting a feel of the old West. You two in?"

"Sure," Len says.

"Bet I can outdrink you both," Sara says.

"I'll take that bet," Mick says, brightening.

"He cheats," Len warns Sara. It's unfair to drink with a dead man, though he thinks Sara might be able to swing it.

"I'll deal," she says blithely.

The town they go to is small, wretched and dusty. The tavern is the liveliest joint in town, and that's a low, low bar, given that the alternative appears to be sitting around coughing up dust and possibly watching weeds grow.

Len has a brand new respect for Saints and Sinners.

Of course, then Grey cheats at cards and some asshole tries to draw on him.

Len shoots the gun out of the man’s hand.

"Sonofabitch!" the man shouts, clutching at his hand.

"That coulda been between your eyes," Len drawls disinterestedly. "Now either sit down and put up or get out."

"How dare you?" the man shouts. His face is flushed a deep red, his mouth flecked white with spit. Len is somewhat concerned about accidentally killing him via triggering an apoplexy. "Do you know who I am?"

"No," Len says. "Don't much care, either."

"I'm one of Stillwater's!"

Must be a local gang.

"Pass along my condolences, will you?" Len says.

"Your – what?"

Len has a decision to make. This is about to turn into a fight - depending on what he says, he can either calm it down or rev it up.

Though, to be fair, after the last few weeks he’s had, Len could use a nice, uncomplicated bar fight right about now.

Oh, what the hell. He didn’t promise to behave.

Len makes a show of sighing and puts down his cards. "Tell your boss," he says slowly, "that I'm sorry he has to deal with such a dumbass snot-nosed horse-fucker as yourself on his crew."

The guy goes for the lamp on the table and throws it at Len.

Len shoots it out of the air, just to show off.

Then half the room jump to their feet and three of them rush at Len.

Naturally, that's when Mick gives a big old holler and rushes them, Sara at his side.

Damn, but Len loves a good bar fight.

"That was kinda fun," Jax says when they're done and the rest of the fighters are either unconscious or fled. Even Stein got into the fun, grabbing a chair and swinging it around like a maniac.

"If by fun you mean trouble," a harsh voice growls from the door.

Len looks. It's a man in a grey Confederate uniform, a nasty scar on his face, and a scowl.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the guy asks.

“No,” Ray says, stepping forward. “We’re from out of town. Uh. Way out of town.” He grins.

The guy sneers. “Yeah, of course you are. Why don’t you lot tell me where you’re really from?”

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” Stein says.

“Lemme rephase,” the guy says. “Tell me when y’all are from.”

They stare at him.

“You stand out like a dog in a manger,” he says with a sneer. “Now where is he?”

“Who?” Sara asks.

“Rip Hunter,” the man says. “I’ve got words that need saying to him.”

“You know,” Jax says. “I think we’ve just figured out why Rip wanted to stay on board.”

“C’mon,” Sara says. “Let’s go back to the ship.”

“What, with him?” Len asks doubtfully. He doesn't like that uniform or what it stands for.

“Rip’ll know what to do,” Sara says firmly.

Turns out that Sara's right and he's wrong, though: Rip’s expression when he sees the man is priceless.

The man – Jonah Hex by name, it appears – starting the conversation by accusing Rip of stealing his coat?

Even better.

[toomanyfandomsinonebrain]

Masterpost

THE MASTERPOST IS BACK! 

Headcanons HARRY POTTER

Draco x reader

friends since toddler, now dating

s/o being upset

Imagines & One-shot & Song Request HARRY POTTER

Draco x Reader

She is different

Merry Christmas, Malfoy

Stay down, Weasley

Shall we dance?

Plans for the summer? (Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4)

My little Malfoys

I’ll help you

Magic...

Go away

Scars

Muggleborn 

George x Reader

Who said we wouldn’t prepare anything?

Let’s go to the ball

Fred x Reader

My little Chaser

How do you know?

Your crush is here

Harry x Reader

Step aside, Potter (Father!Snape)

Sirius x Reader

I knew you would come back

Severus x Reader

Sorry, professor, not today

I care for you

Don’t ever do that

I do not want you to leave

Professor... Professor Snape?

Come here

No Romance

She is Malfoy

You deserve that (Draco)

I could have killed you. (Maradeur!Remus)

LUCIFER

Lucifer x Reader

I see

Revenge

It’s my turn

Happy Birthday, Darling

MARVEL

Bruce Banner x Reader

Arguing with your brother, Tony, about your relationship

Flirting

Returning from the mission

Learning that he tried to kill himself

Him saying that you can never go home

More than just annoyed

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Telling him that his family is dead Playing piano

Calling you while on mission

Dean and Sam meeting you demon boyfriend (Dean, Sam, Demon!Bucky Barnes)

Him living with you because Natasha asked

Watching movies together

Him leaving for the mission

Pillow Fight

Watching you leave (Bucky, Steve)

Recalling that he tried to kill you

Dancing in the kitchen

Calling your parents

Recognizing you in the street

Understanding the reference

Him leaving for WWII

Having a nightmare

You know you want to

You look bad, dumbass

Happy Birthday, babygirl

I am James

I will do what I have to do to help him (Father!Tony)

You look like crap, love

Happy birthday to us!

It is not a dream

Loki x Reader

Visiting him in prison

Avengers capturing you

Returning home to you

You having cold hands

You look blue...

Give her back

As long as you are not hurt

Natasha x Reader

Talking till 4 a.m.

Driving her away

Coming before she leaves for the mission

Calling while she’s on mission

Steve Rogers x reader

Watching you leave (Bucky, Steve)

I am crazy about you

This is fear

Tony Stark x Reader

Apologizing

Dancing

Intervening when your relatives offend you

Steve being over-protective when you date Tony

No Romance

Teasing Steve (Steve, Tony)

Helping you pick a major (Thor, Natasha, Tony)

You’re very likeable (Phil Coulson)

MERLIN

Arthur x Reader

Saving you from getting married

A Royal Prince

Who cares if one is a prince if he is kissing your sister? (Brotherly!Gwaine)

Not Really Expected

What Were You Thinking?

Isn’t that his highness?

It’s all about my father

Gwen is not ‘the one’

Gwaine x Reader

Not Perfect

Melin x Reader

You don’t have to

No Romance

I’ll teach you

Two Wizards in One House

Everything will be alright (Lancelot)

Little Sister’s Guardian

ONCE UPON A TIME

Mad Hatter x Reader

Talking to you

No Romance

Have you asked Violet out yet?

SHERLOCK

Mycroft x Reader

I know

I simply observed

Merry Christmas

Happy Birthday, Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock x John

I am taking your computer away because you should go to bed

You had one job, Sherlock!

Sherlock x Reader

The One Time John Gets To Explain Stuff To Sherlock

Do Not Open Your Mouth Again (and Part 2)

Jerk

How did I produce such a child?

Moriarty? (Moriarty’s sister!Reader)

That is strange

Not Romance

Not again (Dad!Mycroft)

Dad is here (Dad!Mycroft)

Let’s play murder

Interrogation (brother!Sherlock & brother!Mycroft)

Good night, darlin’ (Dad!Mycroft)

STAR TREK

Doctor ‘Bones’ McCoy x Reader

Not to the Sickbay you say?

She is my sister, Bones! (+ Brother!Kirk)

Late Night Chat

Captain’s Orders, Doctor. Also, I want you alive.

Asexual and terrified

STAR WARS

Han Solo x Reader

Scoundrel

I did not mean to shoot Luke!

SUPERNATURAL

Balthazar x Reader

Introducing Dean and Sam to your kid

Not trusting that he is serious about you

‘Forever’ by Kiss

Castiel x Reader

Telling him that you are not as good as others

Him saying ‘I am no angel’

Everything I do by Bryan Adams

Him taking care of you when you are sick

Him learning that you don’t like Christmas

Him and Christmas Tree

Learning that you can’t sleep after the rape

Him and Mistletoe

Him and Grinch

Soulmates

Him and cooking for Christmas

Taking your computer away because you should sleep

I am here for you

I don’t understand... why hide them? (’bout freckles)

Rabbit and Castiel

Charlie x Reader

Coming home after the mission

Telling her you like her

Chuck x Reader

Meeting for the first time (anti-religious one!)

Him coming for help

Helping you with depression

Crowley x Reader

Dean walking on you kissing

Protecting you

Meeting for the first time

Capturing Crowley to talk to him

‘Fawn’

Him seeing that you self-harm

‘You were always worth saving’

Him learning that you self-harm, even though you promised to stop

You hating John Winchester

Him wanting to marry you (1, 2, 3, 4)

Him being jealous about ‘Angel’

Him saving you from death and making you stay with him in Hell (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9)

Hail to the King of Hell

You will burn, Winchester

You must be kidding me (+ Brother!Dean)

Yet we are here, negotiating like proper psychopaths

King of Hell, and you are... a non-important guy?

I promised I would

It took you some time

I always am here

I wanted you first!

I had a nightmare about you

I am not a hugging guy

I know you better

Give me your hand

That is the reason why you are here with me.

No one treats my girl this way.

Wanna try that again?

I did not feel bad for you

Now, are you sure about that?

You... You make me feel. I want that to stop.

Dean x Reader

Crushing the Impala

Kissing before going hunting

Your father, Balthazar, learning that you and Dean date (Balthazar, Dean)

Scaring him in the morning

Death feeding you because Deana asked him to take care of you (Death)

House of Memories by Panic!At the Disco

Bed of roses by Bon Jovi

No one like you by Scorpions

Comatose by Skillet

I’ll be around by Blowsight

Falling asleep listening to him

Drunk Dean

You didn’t have breakfast, so I brought you food

My child?

Morning, sunshine. (Demon!Dean)

Death x Reader

You know he doesn’t like us

Do you actually believe that?

How dare you?

Mutual attraction

I did not expect that

She is mine

Shape of you

Gabriel x Reader

Him learning that you are kicked out of home for being bisexual

Him learning that you are pregnant

Having a nightmare

Helping you with depression

Dean and Sam hiding you

Dancing

Him coming back for you

Body image issues

Having dinner

Lucifer x Reader

Finding you after getting out of Cage

Dean and Sam learning that you date Lucifer (Dean, Sam, Lucifer, Castiel)

Your sweet 666 by HIM

Him watching you sleep

You having a heart condition, and him being an a-hole about it

Watching ‘Beauty and the Beast’ together

Every breath you take by the Police

Panic attack

Convincing him to stop looking for God

Being stressed, and Lucifer not helping

Annoying you when you are trying to study

Him killing demons that are hiding you

Him following you because he cares for you

Saving you when you get hurt badly

Taking care of you when you get drunk

Saving you when angels are following you

I’ll bring you back, love (1 and 2)

I knew you would come

Unexpected Guest

Stay away from her

I knew you would come

Michael x Reader

Being his soulmate

Sam x Reader

Waking up after being hurt on a hunt

Learning that you self-harm

Dating Soulless!Sam

Spiders

Nightmare

Reading

No Romance

Responsible for cameras (Dean, Sam)

Calling to make them proud (Dean, Castiel)

Your brother, Dean, talking to your boyfriend (Dean)

Crowley saving you after learning that he is your father (Crowley)

Balthazar saving you from a maniac

Dean and Sam meeting you demon boyfriend (Dean, Sam, Demon!Bucky Barnes)

Dean learning that you hunt (Dean)

Making Balthazar, your father, proud (Balthazar, Dean, Sam)

Dean, your brother, walking you to the altar (Dean)

Your father, Balthazar, seeing that you got a crush (Balthazar)

Your father, Balthazar, learning that you and Dean date (Balthazar, Dean)

Seeing Destiel

Death feeding you because Deana asked him to take care of you (Death)

Telling about how you performed on a concert (Sam, Dean)

Sam pulling sleeping aid in your tea

New case

Don’t close your eyes

Gotcha

Brave Kid

You will make the right choice

Stay away from our girl

She is coming with me (GuardianAngel!Castiel)

[shemakesmusic-uk]

Liverpool based artist and new name to the music scene - Amber Jay ended 2020 by giving us the first teaser of her debut EP with her single ‘Pencilled Brims’ - a futuristic synth fueled bedroom-pop adventure. Now, Amber Jay is delighted to be able to share the stunning visuals for ‘Pencilled Brims’ with her new 80s themed sci-fi video:  "It all begins at a dinner table. We see the image of a 'nuclear' family tucking into stacks of waffles with syrup but it is clear that something is not quite right. After stumbling across a ‘how to know if you're an alien' quiz in a magazine, hiding under the kitchen table at night I take the quiz searching for answers. Everything starts to make sense as matters appear to take an extraterrestrial turn."

London-born Dublin-based singer-songwriter Anna B Savage is sharing new track, 'Baby Grand,' the final single from her debut album A Common Turn, to be released Jan 29 via City Slang. 'Baby Grand' is both the title of Anna B Savage’s latest single from her debut LP and the title of a short film she has been working on with ex-boyfriend and filmmaker, Jem Talbot, to be released later this year. The pair have co-directed the 'Baby Grand' music video, which reworks a scene from the film and blurs the lines of reality where art imitates life imitating art imitating life. The cross-discipline, cross-genre piece seamlessly blends real life footage with actors portraying the pair’s younger selves. Savage says of the music video: “Jem was my first love. For three years we’ve been working on a film together about our past relationship. This song is written about a night Jem and I had, just after we’d started work on the film. This night was – like much of the filmmaking process – very confusing. Taut with unexpressed emotions, vulnerability, and miscommunication. 'Baby Grand' (the film) and A Common Turn (album) are companion pieces: woven together in subject, inspiration and time. Jem was, for want of a better word, a muse for A Common Turn. Expressing ourselves through our different mediums (mine: music, his: film) became a way for our disciplines to talk, perhaps in place of us.” Talbot says, “Having not spoken to me in seven years, Anna sent me a text out of the blue saying she’d had a dream about me. Perhaps by chance, or by cosmic serendipity, I’d been listening to her EP and already dreaming up a film idea the two of us could collaborate on. Three years later, she’s releasing her debut album and I’ve finished that film. In that time, both our mediums have been in a constantly shifting dialogue with each other, a dialogue that has mirrored the ebbs and flows of our connectedness in the present day."

Anna Leone releases a new single ‘Once’, produced by Paul Butler (Michael Kiwanuka, Hurray For The Riff Raff) and released via AllPoints/Half Awake. Released alongside a stunning video shot on The Azores, the new single follows 2020’s ‘Wondering’ - also produced by Butler - which arrived close on the tail of Stockholm native Anna’s win at the 2020 Music Moves Talent Awards (alongside Flohio, girl in red and Pongo). Rueful but unmistakably hopeful, ‘Once’ considers naivety, regret and efforts to break certain patterns of behaviour with Leone’s disarming candor and the bell-like clarity of her voice. The track’s quietly insistent urging to move past impulses to close off from the world is brought to life in Savannah Setten’s startlingly surreal video, created with Anna on The Azores. With the changeable weather systems of the Portuguese archipelago mirroring the tender, dream-like sequence, Anna notes; "The narrative loop comes from the idea of being stuck in your ways, going through the same patterns, but then choosing to break out of that and do things differently. Towards the end I reconcile with the past, symbolised by the little girl. I choose to embrace what once was in order to move forward. It was incredible getting to shoot the video in that beautiful environment. The weather was really unpredictable - we went through almost all four seasons in one day."

London-based Danish-born singer-songwriter Amalie Bryde has revealed her powerful new single ‘Lay Down’. A bold commentary on gender inequality, ‘Lay Down’ confronts what it means to be a woman in the 21st century and sees Amalie refuse to surrender to stereotypes. With a catchy jazz sound at its core, Amalie’s elegant vocals are layered with playful whistles that create a vibrant track with bags of confidence. It’s video - directed by Luke Logan - is equally striking, and sees many different versions of Amalie joined together by a rope that restricts their movement before they’re finally able to break free and stand up. It’s an empowering representation of the song's message, and perfectly demonstrates Amalie’s promise as an artist - she’s original, driven and not afraid to express herself. Speaking of the release, Amalie explains: “In ‘Lay Down’ I sing about a man only wanting to have sex with me, but it’s so much more than that. ‘Lay Down’ is a commentary on gender inequality and what it means to be a woman in the 21st century; religiously, politically, professionally etc. In the music video we see hundreds of versions of me all lying in a field, linked together with rope to represent the universal nature of the issues addressed in the song. The video starts with me lying down in the field revealing all the different Amalie's (all the different situations where I had to lay down) and ends with all of the versions standing up and walking away at the end, representing Woman’s refusal to accept the gender disparity in society.”

Yawn has unveiled the video to her latest single ‘Wasting Time’. The video features incredibly lush and moody visuals, coupled with a dancing flower monster. Bordering the realm between art and pop, it reflects the song’s message about carrying on against the odds, accepting who we are as artists, and persevering in spite of everything.

Belgian-Bolivian artist IMAINA presents new track 'Glass Box', as the lead single from her upcoming debut EP. Using her signature melancholic sounds and lyrics, 'Glass Box' uncovers the hidden symbolism behind the toxic ideal of love. This electropop track confronts you with the violence and the dynamics of a suffocating relationship, characterised by layered and lush instrumentation, elegant moments and engaging percussion, setting the tone for her debut EP Wounds, which will be released on February 19. True to her cinematic style and passion of storytelling, IMAINA reveals a thrilling music video that tackles the ‘Madonna-Whore Complex' and explores the idea that women are expected to be many things. Inspired by the intimate confidences of a close friend, IMAINA has transformed herself into a vessel to translate experiences into a strong haunting song and video. “I feel like we all have a tendency to worship an unrealistic idea of love. We search for love and have high expectations but we don’t always accept, and really want to know the person in front of us. We end up projecting our desires, wants and wishes onto the person, locking them up in this glass box where they can be admired but never truly loved or known,” she says.

In the music video for Anna Akana’s ‘Run,’ Akana appears as an opulent demon. She dances alone in the shadows, donning golden headdresses and draped fabrics. “Why meet my demons when I know you’re gonna run?” she sings over an eerie pop beat. ‘Run’ is featured on Akana’s upcoming EP, slated to release February 19. [via Forbes]

Celeste has treated fans by releasing the official video for her single ‘Love is Back'. The video features a quirky 1960s office theme based around a newspaper headline stating that ‘Love is Back,’ and featuring Celeste herself in an office singing the lyrics of the song into a bright red telephone in a montage with some stylish animation which echoes the live action scenes in a stylised fashion. The video’s retro styling which takes us back to the dusty days of paper, desks and telephones are a breath of fresh air in a music industry saturated with hypermodern cliches or equally gadget laden 80s throwbacks and gives us something to really think about. The gentle nostalgia evoked by the video combines perfectly with the simple yet emotive song which tugs at the heart strings in both its musicality and its lyrical content and marks Celeste once again as a master of combining music with the moving image, a skill she first demonstrated with her incredible song composed for the Waitrose & John Lewis Partnership’s Christmas advert 2020 ‘A Little Love.’ While the John Lewis Christmas ad showed Celeste’s talent for writing to a brief, the work she has done on ‘Love Is Back,’ is very much her own, with the laid back R&B style fitting perfectly to her dusty, emotive vocal style which is in all ways unique and incredibly powerful. The video comes just over a week before Celeste’s debut album Not Your Muse, is due to be released a month earlier than planned. [via mxdwn]

Ayra Starr is the afro-pop princess up-ending expectations. Signed to the taste-maker imprint Mavin Records, her emphatically creative, hugely soulful blend comes straight from the heart. At times, it seems like the entire world is listening. Her new EP is out now, a five track statement that illustrates her depth, and her incredible potential. Take 'Away'. Mellifluous, potent, and dynamic, the vocal touches on R&B while retaining elements of that alté sound. It's cool as hell, in other words, a song that affords Ayra space to truly connect with her audience. Discussing the track, she says: “I freestyled half of ‘Away’ at a time I was feeling down. It was like therapy. Singing the song out loud was like freeing myself from my burden. ‘Away’ is not just a heartbreak song, it’s a song that empowers you to stand up to that thing or person that is causing you sadness.” We're able to share the sensational 'Away' video, a depiction of a star coming into being. Ambitious, stylish, and incredibly well shot, it's the perfect platform from which to launch Ayra Starr into the cosmos. [via Clash]

[bkwrm523]

So, this was supposed to be submitted to @imaginemycroftholmes , but my desktop is being obnoxious about it.  Posting it and tagging them, with permission.

Name: Sara

Age (note that if you are under the age of consent your score will be significantly lower for Marriage, Friendship and Partnership): 30

Gender: Female

Occupation: Administrative Assistant (fancy way of saying secretary)

Nationality: USA

Country of origin: USA

Personality type (Myers-Briggs Type Indicator): INFP

Education: Bachelor’s degree

Marital Status (if not applicable put N/A): Not married

Number of children (if not applicable put N/A): 0

Who would you shoot out of John, Sherlock, Mycroft and why: Mycroft.  The Holmes brothers are more likely to understand if I’ve been forced into it.  Sherlock tends to be a bit more emotional and unpredictable than Mycroft.  Also, Sherlock’s been shot a few times, that we know of, and Mycroft hasn’t (that we know of), so I think it’s Mycroft’s turn (it said “shoot”, not kill.  I have terrible aim and I’ve never used a gun; Mycroft is probably safe)

Height: 5’2 (of sass and insecurity)

Position in the family (oldest, youngest, middle): youngest, only non-firstborn in my immediate family

Best subject: Literature

Favorite Subject: Literature or History

Worst subject: Math

Last song listened to: Rag doll by Aerosmith

Favorite color: Purple

Thoughts on Molly and Sherlock’s impending relationship: If they’re finally hooking up, then I’m super happy for them!

Illness/allergies/impairments: I suspect I’m autistic, and I have anxiety and depression.  They’re both usually under control.

Last sentence uttered to another living human being: Where’s the turkey?

Hair color/length: short (about chin length when I remember to get it trimmed often enough).  Natural color is a very nice dark brown, but I usually dye it red.  I’ve considered dying it purple, but it hasn’t been possible so far due to my job.  Maybe in the future.

Who do you feel more sympathy for Sgt. Donovan or Anderson’s wife: Anderson’s wife.  I’m not exactly the most informed in the situation, but Sgt. Donovan hasn’t seemed to show any remorse when she’s wronged someone, has a bizarre vendetta for Sherlock, and probably knew Anderson was married when she got involved with him (okay, I’m guessing on a lot of these).  The only thing I know about Anderson’s wife, is that her husband cheated on her.  Possibly my opinion would change if I knew more.

Eye color: Blue

Constantly cold, hot or prefect: Usually hot. (meaning I prefer colder temperatures, to clarify)

Seven Noteworthy skills (ex: can play an instrument, fire most guns, ride a unicycle, etc.): I’m a pretty good liar (probably not by the standards of Sherlock or Mycroft, but I can fool the average person).   I’m a decent gamer (PC).   I don’t speed-read, but I’m a pretty fast reader. I’m not good at coming up with positive things about myself. I’m a very good reader - I read Hamlet by myself when I was 12 just to prove that I could.  Read a couple other advanced books at a young age to prove that I was good at it. I’m a writer - I don’t have much inborn talent, but I’ve worked really hard at it for as long as I remember, so I’ve learned to be very good at it. I’ve been dealing with mental issues (as listed above) by myself from a pretty young age, so I’m used to coming up with my own coping mechanisms.

Nine noticeable sins: (ex: moody, bad listener, selfish, etc.): I’m impatient. Shy I tend to be a bit selfish, but it’s a flaw I’ve been working on for years and am pretty good at stepping on those impulses these days. I’m not good at detecting subtleties in conversation; you often have to be blunt with me or I may not understand. I’m a second generation geek I’m not good at communicating it when I’m in emotional distress and need help I’m not good at keeping in touch with friends

Languages known/spoken: English, I can swear a little in Orcish

Cats, dogs, both or other: I don’t have any pets, but I’m a dog person and I’m allergic to cats.

How often you help your community (1 never, 2 sometimes when prompted, 3 average, 4 often, 5 weekly): 2

Favorite Holmes family member: … this feels like a trick question, so I’m gonna cheat and say Sherlock & Mycroft’s dad.

Body type (1 obese, 2 overweight, 3 averages, 4 fit, 5 skinny): 2

Number of past lovers (put N/A if virgin or not seeking marriage): N/A

Level of cleanliness (5 slobs, 4 messy, 3 average, 2 pretty clean and 1 spotless): 4

Would you rather piss off Sherlock or Mycroft: This is a really tough one, but I’m gonna say Mycroft.  They’re both reasonable people, but I feel like Mycroft is less emotional, and therefore would be easier to reason with so I could make amends.  

Rate your mental health on a scale of 1-5 with one being terrible and 5 being fine: 2.5

Rate your confidence on a scale of 1-5 with 1 being poor and 5 being Sherlock levels: 2

Combat level (1 sitting duck, 2 somewhat okay, 3 can hold their own, 4 pretty damn good, 5 a proficient fighter): 3

Circle of friends: Very very small.  About five or so people I chat with on a daily basis.

Who do you side with more Sherlock or Mycroft: … I dunno.  I don’t like to get in the middle; infp’s tend to loathe conflict and I’m no exception.  I will say I think the Holmes clan has been epically unfair to Mycroft lately.

Level of intelligence on a scale of 1-5: I’d say a three, but I think people who know me would say I’m being modest and give me a 4.  I’ll let you decide which to believe.

Who do you side with more Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson: Mrs. Hudson.

Introvert or Extrovert: Introvert.

Political alignment: In the USA’s system, I’m an independent that leans towards democrat.  I’d rather decide each issue individually than tie myself to any one party.  The UK’s system, I’m not sufficiently familiar with to say.

Who would your rather be trapped in a long car ride with Mummy Holmes or Holmes Senior: Mummy Holmes, I guess; she’d probably be easier to have a conversation with.  I don’t think I’d mind with either of them, however.

Go to outfit for everyday: Jeans and a tshirt on my days off (tshirts I buy plain solid ones, then I buy fabric paint and stencils and put geeky stuff on them).  I have work attire that’s usually black formal pants, black modest undershirt, and a button down formal shirt in some sorta color.

Go to outfit to impress: I refer you to the formal outfit above.

5 hobbies (not to be confused with noteworthy skills): Gaming (PC), creative writing, reading (fiction), sewing, watching movies

Opinion of Rosie Watson and Mary Watson: Rosie seems like a perfectly sweet and normal baby.  I’m so sorry she lost her mom, though.  Mary, I’m glad she was happy with John at the end, and I’m so sorry it didn’t last.

Favorite music/book/movies: Music, I really don’t feel that strongly about.  I listen to heavy metal, but I wouldn’t say I have a favorite song.  Books and movies it’s the opposite problem; I love too many to pick just one.  However, I have a go-to answer to both questions for the purpose of conversation.  Favorite book - The Hobbit.  Favorite movie - Havey (to clarify, the one starring Jimmy Stewart)

How well you take rejection on a scale from 1-5: with five being the best?  I’m gonna go with 4.5.  Not a five because I’m not that overconfident.  Yeah it may hurt, but we’ve all been there before (either being rejected or doing the rejecting, whatever), and I’m an adult.  Last time I got rejected, I just said “okay”, walked away, and we remained friends for years after.  It never came up again.

Religious or religious affliations: Agnostic.  I try to be a live-and-let-live type, as long as the other person doesn’t harass me to try & convert me.

Kids or no (note this is wanting them not the ability to have them): I don’t have any at the moment for financial reasons, but I do want them one day.

Out of the Holmes family (Siger, Violet, Sherlock and Eurus) who would you kill, maim, kiss or roommate with and why:

Kill: Eurus.  I know I’m being self centered here, and I am sorry for that, but she comes off to me as a whiney baby that couldn’t take platonic rejection and decided to punish everyone for it.  Grow up. Maim:  Violet, I guess.  I don’t really have super strong negative feelings about anyone else, but she seems to have an attitude that Mycroft is less important than Eurus, and that irritates me. Kiss: Sherlock.  I can tell him it’s for a bet and kiss him on the cheek.  Also, I definitely don’t want to be his roommate; I like sleep. Roommate: Siger.  Don’t know that much about him, but he seems nice.

Do you think what Mycroft did with Eurus (at the time) was justified and needed: YES.  And his parents’ response to finding out about it all was, IMHO, immature and extremely rude.  It’s understandable that their emotions were high in the situation, but there was absolutely no excuse for taking it out on Mycroft.

Please bold the following that you wish to have with Mr. Holmes: Friendship Partnership Marriage Mentorship

A detective who was mere days away from cracking an international oil smuggling ring has suddenly gone missing. While inspecting his last-known location, officers find a note: 710 57735 34 5508 51 7718. Currently there are 3 suspects:Bill, John, and Todd. Can you break this answer and tell me the reason.  I’m gonna have to admit defeat on this one.  I could google it, but I’d rather not cheat.  I have no idea, sorry.

What belongs to you but others use it more than you do?  Your name.  Heard this one before :)

Dwayne Johnson was running away with the loot from a heist in his car along with Vin Diesel. One tire was punctured and he dropped down to replace it. While changing the wheel, he dropped the four nuts that were holding the wheel and they fell into a drain. Vin Diesel gave him an idea using which they were able to drive till the rendezvous point.  Take his loot and get into Vin Diesel’s car.  There’s no reason I can think of why they can’t share a car.  Unless you can space out the remaining nuts on the tire to hold the tire onto the car; probably wouldn’t be good enough for very long, but should be good enough to get them to the rendezvous point, or far enough to ditch the car somewhere safe.  Whichever.

[rtfhuikj]

Rocket To Field

2014 

By Hui Kj

“Am I a…?” No, no, no. If you don’t try and add the color to become the helping form that pushes you forward, to skip over being asked those new, offensive questions that will never understand the strength of your simplicity floating above that sour confidence or anything of that nature of importance, then you will be lost faster than you could recall a closest direction: that is the undeniably, always-happening truth. Memories never die; put them down, groove with them, up and through to get some motivation for what is…

Incoming, incoming!

They are here (to shoot you off).

Oh, broken arrows happen, but what if not? What if you pierce it perfectly?

Please know—because I have seen my share of contacts, snap-offs, and scrape-aways—that all attempts in-between will leave you damp and bickering about your cut-up knees from a fall that included delicate effort and aspiring reach. This means boosts aren’t coming and you need wings, listening one, so please do so well. I am setting up a plan now; it goes something like a chaotic pink.

“Everyone’s a victim” (harsh ways) versus…

“Let me invent myself.” 

There is a lot of talk about these hoorays before there is a lot of getting down and sweating or ducking and checking for eavesdrops or insecurities and hidings or a blatant withhold.

Crawling and remembering, here we go, down and down, here we go into those old (victorious) cheers and dances. This is how we dwindle back toward the depths we first created our way out, without fear to see the original plan. Your pitiful endeavors—they are not your fault, not your creation. The lights that you will hang will look extraordinary, then the dust, then the reinvading, then the comfort to come and go in the dark (positively and always on the mind).

This was before flowers emerged on the hills, those new additions from outsiders sending frenzy hope. When you start thinking about the view from the top, you want to hurry up and be alone with the entireness of it all, gaining the insight you always needed! The wait adds more minutes to the aches. “When can I scatter?” Oh, you soon go, you are elevating up; you are being cheered on, you are coming soon as a wanted birth.

Delicately, fresh-water clean. A bracing out of exhaustion from the final moments of the weight you held up to block this craved world (coming in like a flash), which then slides down your back to squirm away, taking back its original, tiny form.

Is that shade in the distance—up at the hill, right above the flowers—another friendly grim to seek out? You gaze at it and make your way forward with your body, but your head is tracing the way, going toward a polka-dot light in some opposite distance. You make out the shape of a tree (thoughts about safety rush a new record). Lovingly or grimly, you walk for the closest view of the black cloud, marking the important corners of the structure from melancholically far—the black is so wonderfully fascinating. Shoulder sore from turning. That pink light is getting bigger, so dangerous it has you shaking with it being so in peripheral, and knowing your dreams take a long fall when the exiting force closes on you.

A risky invitation, the black cloud—through all of your insides—that is scarcely looked at as indescribably profound. The black cloud was more friendly, yet on its own, shielded with dystopia. The polka-dot tree spawns you back at base when you want it, up in some morning daylight, ready for the night again for another peek. Luck can be a masterpiece—but not most days. Most days, the black cloud would be far too much.

These forms full of energy keep you paving paths, keeping wide eyes. Eventually, your reel of realities keeps your tendencies active and growing. Maybe a local, humble gardener will say, “Look at that, there it is,” talking to you, leaving the black cloud in his peripheral, as he trained himself to do.

The Weight of a Whale, Being Young (Heavy), & Seeing the Travelers

But truly, how are you supposed to know what to do after a slide you spend all day on? Usually no one is around to talk about their review, really just taking it in for themselves over and over, not even a question: It is some epic resolution to your reality.

We have our trees to climb here at home, our food to tend, religious services to muster around, and rules to honor to keep everyone in. The little humans played at a park all made of wood (normal: swings, slides, and some open field), the adolescents went to bed on time after labor (normal: chopping wood, building more, cheering for the village, and choosing it all again), and the elders kept their secrets very closely.

Quite literally, there were swine being offered wine at dinner gatherings, around the fire, my family and their people, who all had their destinies and would describe them like the food. A few—I mean few—purple, static crazies who I knew would hop around their questions as I did for fun. We zapped in some other habitat quite seriously, and there was no reason for explaining these things.

The ones I am with, the ones who went beyond the circle of our village and our trees, are all so majorly going on in a way that has me edging toward the (vastly) unknown realms, that I see them hinting to me with their eyes because they know I am about to, and the way they still do their job here but know there were and are so many spectacles to fall into. Cannot think up a good reason to ever be back here if I walked my legs out; I feel like my legs would just say “No,” and let me run until I was too lost.

-

As natural as thinking the opposite, there are productions of your efforts to scurry off from just all devastations.

All runs seem terrifying when you are working your way out, but they give me so many fantastic thoughts about danger in general. I stabbed “the gardener” on some tree out in the surrounding forests of the land in-between, which was where I slept, ate, and walked around doing what was asked of me. Other members my age thought I was right about wanting to redecorate a young reality, but what I wanted was not an agreement but someone who would come for their own reasons.

My night job at the village was sorting the apples—I knew they were either bad or good —so I just threw the bad ones away and kept what was healthy in the basket. Simple and the task was not minded. We cycled through the laboring, and I loved how nothing indescribable was being destroyed. The land was taken care of, the people were not hungry; we were all doing our part to be the hands that tended to the responsibilities our ancestors had chosen.

This is not about ancestries, this is not about the village where I lived. Yet you must know my beginnings, when there was only one place to run from.

I have wounds from my own endeavors, from coordinates outside our little collection of homes, inside our boundaries of trees and lands that are impossible to stay absurdly profound—to me, and I know to anyone else.

Annoyingly, younglings would run and tell when I was off studying other beats—they start so young, and that is grim. I was forced to cast these desires aside, so I would not ramble when it was my new responsibility to listen and repeat on command without explanations or depictions from your moon thoughts. This option was tried, yet I preferred the cuts and gashes earned out in the thick of what I wanted to submerge in completely.

It seemed like all moral qualities, which are undeniably of importance, were everywhere but where you most sought after all Sisypheans without checkpoints or accolades to show signs of direction or progress. Not that you would want to be anywhere but the life you know, which has been distinctly deep down and made with your own strand of vibrancy, contentment and golden worth. (All locals want you to be a local, to hate or to love—it does not matter.) Those who had raised me, taught me how to function in their language. They whispered to me. And they never wanted to know how I had found out about anything beyond the village. 

I confided in the trees, “You are always out in the open.”

The fire pits out between homes, too (deadly forces that were useful, this was a motivation).

The animals that would run through, being that point B was interesting, had a purpose of their own, too.

I will tell you that the village and its people were in solace and bitterly alone, and it was stable because we had no foreign additions and did not look for them. Spirituality came from the woodwork around us and the casual new kindness. How did new kindness, new functions come about?

It was the travelers…travelers who came randomly over a few years at a time.

This was what I lived for, although our hospitality never included a rested night on a bed.

Village elders said, “North, or where you came from.” They said, “Your trees are the joy.”

So naturally, there were new stories briefly coming in, and I desperately made them my priority.

A Little of How It Went, the Leaving & the Puddle That Shot Me into the 5th Year of Freedom

Regular night-walks, thoughts about freedoms. The sun would be down under, the stars and all would be my preference and at my disposal. What does the green above and next to the brown say now? The grass was getting thick, suddenly, but not in a way that was startling. Well, you see, the rain that poured had me believe there was a new purpose out in the unfamiliar to be found. I was right, but I do not think it was near this time—although, this could not be my routine and that was enough to keep my eyes wide. There were puddles in the woods, and the way my feet walked was in the context of echoes rushing quick—soon—and there will be no flinching, just latching onto. The trees were getting louder (as my beat), the woodwork bending over, the darkness closing above me inside. The earth was at its loudest.

Oh, a single purple puddle in the middle of the woods.

Speeding up (twisting around), there were pale blue streaks of light in the water, resting on earth from the sky.

They kept twirling—just like the trees. Do I go now?

The trees say, “Yes.”

The puddle says, “You must go.”

I say, “The sun is coming.”

My hands cupped the blue inside the purple, throwing it onto my face.

I could feel my body cooling; my imagination was left behind.

Floating forward, I could feel everything.

-

There were boys and girls who would stay up and talk, with their feet dangling off mountains we spent the sunrises climbing and touching. I rode trains that were one-way to ice-lands. Once, me and some others were put in charge of decorating the wing of a castle.

You know, I let very loose. Wherever I was, there was always some local group that would wave me over because my eyes always asked for it.

The comfortability definitely depended. Maybe the men had me painted bathing with the women while we simply talked about waterfalls, or maybe there were no painters and everyone wanted to fall deep into volcanos. Together.

Current Current, Pulling Me Around & Around

Everything is at risk until you get to those locked passages that open up, that depend whether they use a scale or whether they take your words for what they are worth. I cannot help but fill with pity when I watch people ignore warning signs or say there was no prize at the end to begin with.

Oh, you say that danger is not real? If whatever moves, that means the depths are filled with intimidation—reaching out, wanting to show you power.

Some argue to the point and safeness of being loose or tied up; I think they are both of mania. I planned for them both because I had started diving, breaking, squirming, running, dancing, humming, later than most, and had dreamt about it far more often and before time paid it forward for some time now. Never knew how to look out for rocks, yet one rolls and stops regardless.

For instance—in my case—any tree reminded me of home. They always find me. Trust me, they find me.

There was a time and place where they were at ease with their lifelines sitting on the edge next to them without being hooked to anything sturdy. One would know certain citations that were cremated, that create a tendency of scooping up a specific, (dead) interpretation back—way back—into existence, that would be up for examination and absorbent. Feed and be eaten.

There are peripheral sightings and whispers of shapeless, hinted splendors that you probably helped create in the womb. Getting ideas from the infants who passed your genuine bearer while you were equally blocked off, I am sorry to inform you, and I must also include how crucial it is that I be honest with you regardless: for oftentimes carrying out incomparable moments that are meant mean a lot to my health, but I mean to tell you that you create what you lose, and always the follow; you lose what would help all creation. You are going downhill if you are not going up, you know.

The view is so grand, so high at either side of the lifeline.

It is very much natural, a downfall, but if you were to hear a repetition of your own words entering your eardrums, then that must mean you sparked and caught onto yourself without causing an unstoppable field-fire in rural wastelands, unnoticed—an unappreciated, mock spectacle.

You have a dangerous secret for which some may get an award for, while some may get murdered for. But you should know, if you haven’t been found out yet (in the context of a flaming secret), that it cannot be brought with you anywhere, or in anyway.

I caught all I reached for, but then a tumbling into damp catch unwillingly showed me counter-power.

This is about the time where a long, sad story had come to a close, yet started another. There is nothing worse than having to start over with a new eternity. I got out of my hometown barriers. I made those volcano friends, and I have met many painting-lovers, love-despisers, sense-submergers, as well as  plenty of people who told me to just go back to where I had come from.

Never drew a map; sorry, don’t even feel like sharing it. But here’s a time, quite recently, where tongue-in-cheek genius arch first let me jump into its genre…

I was a small little character in the midst of a whole, overwhelming amount of moments, always going on, everywhere and always at hiding spots when hiding spots were safe, but not for you if you were unable to handle your mind feeling jittery and misplaced.

There were so many incredible people whom I will never forget.

City Apartment, Nobody About the Benches: A Brief Discussion of Knock-off Cliffs

I have my blue glasses and a key to unlock more in my pocket (my apartment on the third floor that has a bed and tools for creating love songs). I am also wearing a brown jacket with navy blue pants. Being moving—being other places, mind or in the present—you see other people end up where you were. Luck is for a while (an invitation that gets sent out from your comet lifetimes from before), and if that is you, who didn’t find a shooter to shoot back out to you and onward, you already know that seeing others at other places is not as impressive when you battle to be just as far away from being unable to remove yourself; to visit or relocate to your true preference. But the locals--the people you are surrounded with when you move in to a certain place— they discover you and you discover how it all must be temporary. That is a light, wonderful topic that gets brought up on some rooftops when a giddy person breaks the news and says, “Go fast, but you must take care of us.” Those saying that over rooftop dialogues, were teachers even when they were students, brave and content, guiding panicking minds that want to forget the rules and charge their futures with vengeance.

I don’t know.

If I scurried into Gerald’s Cafe House for a break, and closed the curtains and placed the pen (that was behind my ear) onto the table and sat in the red chair I always sat at, then the owners would make all the customers leave and then, themselves lock each other in the back until I was finished. This was a gift that they admired that I was keeping alive, keeping functional and protecting, and never denying the withering paths they still believed to exist.  

But I warn you, they also told me they never even get to explore. I thought, “How could they know then?” or rather “Their companionship is surely in the dearest tone.” It was like blood actually showing up in the waterfall and bathing inside the mixture. What type of creature would decline an honorable belief (dressed up with defense) if all desire is to filter out and replace with honesty?

Their business closes down annually until they gamble with what they have already purchased. Some of their customers get light-headed in their presence. (But these particular owners actually fell in love with people coming back, especially ones who were racing the wavelength of romance (free drinks to couples!). And there were moments I confirmed and congratulated them on acknowledging that endearing corner of loudness—yet I was no expert, and I kept reminding them. They would give nervy laughter out of empathy because I would toy with denying what I knew could not be lost and withered.

Though, there was an extent of revealing that I partook in early on after we met. The owners of the shop were standing outside their building. They had gotten married the sundown before, so they had it written on the wall with handprints, imprinted with the help of blood under their note (none of your business). I smiled, accepting the beguiling taboo approach of invitations, and I took the same ink and did so with them from time to time with dearness and merriment.

Anyone could come to write whatever softness on the wall. The local impatient and provoked children were able to hooray on this, though there was etiquette for only pushing forward secrets that would save the town; disruption was and is not worth the brief attention before exile. To some, these writings were just proclamations of artificial resurrections written on the outer wall of the shop, or even sometimes thought up to be some sort of advertisement that would make the allure some sort of diversity. (An inside job, could you believe it? Even the loose things get tangled opinions).

-

There was an article I read in the town’s news that the mass of them would always think there would come a day where you had to start taking what you talk about a lot more seriously, and you would have thought it was like mowing the grass on a clear-minded morning. Or even as easy as the days you try to glance yourself in the mirror and catch what keeps you up, but instead tell people to get more sleep and stay healthy, and forget about the twitch inside your body when you sit too long.

Danger is taken very seriously when you step back into the makers of it. I don’t think the locals of this city-place that I am here visiting, have ever seen a flower besides the thousands they pass unknowingly every day, even the ones that felt the little growing plants acted like it was a gene they were trying to lose and stay away from.

My motion has accepted and also denied, but never did I not go see obvious alternatives other places guarding nothing but survival. For I was once shown the once-striking but now increasingly-soothing conversations that must be held so that truth ceases to dwindle into something as immature as folding the first and last instruction more delicately than the ones in-between. In more simple terms, it was for oneself: the hunt that is getting away.

How it was for me at least, during my times at rest after my adventures far from here and now settled in—-my in-betweens, my waits—I wondered what milestone all my old tribes were huddled around (the ones I base everything on). I would attempt to mimic the emotions and denouements of those ages with sound, reimagining and repeating them.

If those were not taking me, I would put on “Paraphrasing by a Collaboration of Interpreters,” a recording I often used to work out my footing before semesters or a tactic to find friends on a bizarre scale. It was always playing. I had made this a routine during my afternoons. I usually attempted to prescribe off-putting patterns to each of the interpreters when it was their turn to step up to the mic and tell me they could not afford taking any dangers at risk without stopping to survive them. But a thought strung along with me, from a young gypsy woman. It was tied when we were brushing each other’s hair, while our feet hung over the cove, out in deep tropics discovered by astrology fanatics, then discovered by us years after them, but only a few years ago from this time now.

“You simply cannot anymore. I will fall into deep, blue holes and I will reach up to you for clarity before daunting layers. But you would be at careful ease, pointing your eyeglasses, tracking a covet while nearing toward what is the worst plan and away from my crippling plummet.” She was right; I did not know how to save anyone.

It was incredibly simple: the way my priorities did not matter as long as I capitalized my casualness, and it made me a bit guilty at times. But at least I had a few people thinking that I wasn’t ever in a beautiful place, so I could understand and study this manic party of judgmental lethals that kill the users. I never caught their names, yet they made their points of the shoes fitting and I’d look down and stall (just like they wanted).

-

The pieces are almost set out for view, I just need a little more time until you see how I am where I am. My name is Riled, now and for a while.

I forgot to mention, although all my scatters are pointed in the right direction, I’ll first say—and I have hinted it so—there are places that were home and there are places you must be for some time.

Oh dear, I am not home.

And you can tell because of the irritated hope in my voice and the mentions of the foreign aura. I am underneath cover, and they kill each other, or want to. You want to pick out the faintness in another, join or pinch. Of course, there is always the continuation of accusations until someone eventually winks. That is how it is done here and in most places, when you’re not somewhere safe.

But I have walked these streets before, through a tint while they were darkening. This was after I had let the outskirts rush me from the place of old horizons that did not want to be left. The first thing I wanted to briefly explore, before I found out about the moon a few nights ago, changed my settings forever, and it was how I couldn’t have noticed if anyone was trying to clean up and clearly see through the best parts of this town. My new favorite spot: the cliff at the edge of the city, completely closed off by tall walls of green ferns and only a staircase for those who knew about it.

The swing sets and benches were always empty in the city as were a lot of other places I had been. The people just weren’t about it. There were only paces that were moving slowly and huffing, quickly away into closed safe-houses of their own wrong-intentioned, grumbling anarchists.

I got very much used to seeing (when resting was at any time) certain things: 1) this version of weeping that cleansed and reset and 2) this presence that circles around your corpse and breathes life through. It was LAUGHTER directed toward the simplest pleasures and shooting out refreshing reliefs and hints. And that was easily understood; you could have made a wonderful life of it.

I have taken notice, in this town and the radio waves sharing-in distances, that there is a mist of some sad progression overflowing with all the cures dying off. When you wander around, it is obvious, brightly apparent that the hilarious and the depressing are manageable, and yet, exquisitely profound states of presence. But as one could tell when one would latch onto any emotion that day out of desperation, the number of people dragging around feeling insulted is the reason the static crazies have their moments indoors and alone. Manic freak-outs, but frightened of comforting things—there is no keeping count and no keeping mount. I understood, before I came here, that I would know these people must fall deeply and recognize open spaces. Gathering that I could not just ask around to learn where the magic was (whether it was in beautifully lit tents, or in a treehouse), and then it being firmly unavailable. That would have crushed me.

It would create only multitudes of plans to task through all that was once thought of as a younger, underdeveloped inconvenience, which one must take out to save skin from coldness and sempiternal spirals of darkness, swallowing all wholes with only particles of science and beyond shrinking as the distant gaining speed is victoriously off and away to a place with no pleasures or breaks. It is essential that you determine all answers for yourself.

There were secondary places suggested to me by influences that I was able to wind out when I spent sunsets with them (the ones they were never fully sure about having me invited to) and I had written down coordinates for times of overwhelming inputs that hung outside on buildings, outside my window, which I wasn’t able to shun when they would become toxic to my discovered, genuine stillness. They keep dwindling the (knock-off) vibrancy at these secondary settings, and I was forced to get used to it. House get-togethers, public parks, needed money, needed validation of whatever “correct behavior.” It was awful, and reminded me of home far too much.

The Cliff

My mind would intact briefly and breathe blue, clean breaths every time I popped in on somewhere unforgettable on my own—the final drafted, already established. The fountain is at the corner, at the left edge of society, literally overlooking a cliff that the best (yes there are) people of this world (the ones who happen to spawn in this city, too) come and relish unapologetically and with mind. Lying down, you would see how the grass walls don’t block that much of the view when on the inside. You can see the buildings behind the walls, still standing tall. You can see yourself, along with those gathered around the fountain, in the green walls all together, looking out and seeing a huge ocean with younger ones jumping from the cliff down on the left side a few hundred yards away (still secret, they are still the great ones).

The exuberant come here to relapse and recharge, as it was indeed, all gigantically covered with vines and roses. It was a small collection of natural, hidden explosions muffled for only the ones inside to hear the tones lathered so blissfully and full of beautiful thoughts (every little thing, from the foundation of the Earth to the foundation of man gracefully put between for appreciation and for the usage of others). It was as big as a room--the ceiling was blue, the top of the inside of a sphere, with the walls breathing in and out green life with their highlights of whichever color growth was in season. Behind the fountain awaited the water far down and away. Once, there were adolescents in red swimming suits making their way down the cliffs. They did not die, so they had an unspeakable way of a time each time they would hit the water from heights. Two of the seven in the group looked strangely at each other constantly. They were addicted, as I, to being shown what intensity there is to work with while in plain sight, vulnerable and open to whatever charges.

At dusk, the lanterns that hang from the edges of the sturdy rock, placed there by enthusiasts, start to glow. This was primary, and from time to time you even see the real hands that scribbled little, desperate sentences that could all save the world in their own forward direction from the grounds they were imprinted on. They varied from “It’s time for tea, swim across and see what is prepared,” to “Cheers to the few phews that prompt all royalty.” It looked like an old back porch, the property of an old journalist who only the Paris painters (with whom he hung out with without ever working on their stories) knew about during the Renaissance. It was hauntingly filtered with revolutionary thoughts you could soak in and dissect from an ancestor’s admirations to an altered anthropology lesson.

They, the sentences by the people, became most eerie when you sat down on the concrete blocks and discovered that they were all thought up here, then choosing what would daunt you, until you write your own, but rather with your noble intention to avoid disheartening beguiles—perhaps intention will truly never embody a weathered consumption. So I have never imprinted anything at the fountain, but embraced the taste of all incoming structures conducted, denying the opportunity to coexist, sadly and obviously; I was intimidated.

Being figured out was scary enough the first time, because it was by someone who knew the good things about me, too. I may just keep that one to myself, and let the traces be at peace wherever they may rest.

I admired these cliff people as much as I could, and wanted to know the secrets of what it took to be admirable without it being about a joke.

There wasn’t any furniture, but multiple ways of comfort were identified and examined in the practice of unfamiliar circumstances. The fountain in the middle never stopped its rhythm, and the coins that were thrown in it were worth as much as a leader's beginning of a speech about complexity—or so it was just as intimidating. We ducked into a secret, as a secret.

All just collectors who are looking at what they had earned without their money. They weren’t all behind on commitments; they were just out and needed something to remember they had allowed themselves the most frequent schedule they would ever embrace. I have kind of been doing this unnaturally a lot, a little longer than lately (so I knew a lot about the scary parts). How being a complete outsider cannot be a full-time deal if you want to grow old and meet more like-minds. Even though this secret fountain on top of this secret cliff was more of a quiet place, there were joyous communal glares exchanged that were full of vibrant yellow.

But it was wholly about the orange sundown with blue coats of splatter to keep it cool, with pink stripes always there. Or even, sometimes, the sky going upward as if selected, recommended harmonies that you can chose to sync with, keeping you matched up on starry nights that fulfilled until the next largest, open space revealing itself as effortlessly as possible, ticking and hinting that you need more than what it has to offer. Yet it will wrap you as warmly while you reset to new, while it resets its view, for whoever is approaching your buried troubles that will most likely just be picked up and put on. Spending the night here was heroic.

I would sometimes wait outside after I was done - seeing what we are all leaving with; the pace lets you be whenever you want to be. There was especially no trouble wanted by us fountain visitors, along with the tree visitors, storm chasers, cure discoverers, sound pointers, scene documenters, scene cleaners, and animal keepers. We all knew of each other, that there were others too to learn about, yet spotting parches were identified just by looking to see if they had red eyes, or jittery bribes to get in or be around—so much unnoticed evil, everywhere: even here at times.

The fountain was famous for hosting potent figures. I had a static seizure when I was not trampled; the welcome demonstrated the power, and showed me the rules of freedom. You could go somewhere else when you died--nature would draw you; agendas were filled spaciously with notes as a reminder of the stillness that was always achievable. But you could not go visit other stills, you could not love simple things, you could not visit old friends with your secrets, you could not mark anything as your own. Instead of weeping about coves and tree lines, which I gave nicknames to, I fell deeply in interest with these four-walled deranges and the bright lights carried around by creatures who looked like me on the inside.

It was the greatest of things, you know, that whoever did actually find their way to this obscure fountain, would find revealing simply a form of creation, and would take you as seriously as they took expeditions they wanted to survive—and I was never let down.

I will invite you to the moment I discovered it—it was a Thursday night, a full moon night. This very young man, at this moment to himself, with a much worn out blue shirt where the red, thin stripes were in style (not the large ones), which took up far too much of the blue.

-

The boy collided exactly where I did, with a haven’t-been-curious-lately look on his face, as I have seen before but never by him. He just happened to be here on random Thursdays throughout the year, resting his back against the prickly wall, and always the one wall by the entrance. His perspective: his back faced society behind him. He could have made plausible, daring eye contact with me had he not been occupied with his heavy shoulders pushing him to the floor, with an empty gaze—blurry forward, loose jaw, and jittery hands. I looked away from him, then away from another man on the floor, who I knew made money by mixing theft with his uneducated audiences to make his wealth and name. I did not like him here, and that may be selfish, but he is rotten.

The place was elevated off the street outside the green walls. There were stairs behind the entrance, and there were stairs by the balcony behind the pot on the left, which led to a thin trail through a row of trees, then a garden, then around and up to the top of the cliffs. Some went there to commit for good attempt; there were ways to look at yourself, even from such heights. Perspective isn’t much unless serenity is leveled and pieced together to mutter on about—what it means to say, to those you cannot see, what saves you gives them hell. I was held over until my last toe convinced me. Some mention mock-memorial not resembling the same humiliation in that moment of mine. That was months ago, and I needed that perspective at that time.

Even when I step out of character, these creatures know that whatever is going on must be one of the last things I have to hold onto; this was a dying gift to give. I guess you could think I was curious in the things that were historically immature and were at the edges of mass mutual agreement then as well. I just assumed dying without believing-in-something that might not have worked is what gets you into hell. So I listen and practice a lot, trying out all opinions.

Brought to a discussion, most often when topics are dry and ready to offend, that invading a timid privacy was in fact pushing some limit that was to be defined without input or warning. But I learned about personal explorations in someone else’s limits and caves. And there were some with open ends and beginnings, with fiery lights placed inside, and there were some closed and slippery unlabeled, boring walls that have no tones. And also, there are cells that must open regardless of the rupturing importance of which the inmate has been meticulously working up. I know well that in this case there is no place like wandering one whole away from the deep holes that were newly flourished or often even filled layers of tiny pieces of coal that leave no light for the deepest part of a tragic bypassing.

My aimlessness and hoping mind made me eligible for humility again, into which I believed I could bolt around the corner untagged and unregarded tonight, at a place and time of the old thought-out differences and turns that are unidentifiable and unusable unless used in unity and in exploration to put light over edges and gaze upon non-survivors, and show what they are meant to be, set out for during their time of shaking interest in difficult ages and dreary fortune. Could we see something similar in our setting tonight?

There have been wildlife and astrology, there have been spirits of mine running around chronologically. I had inquired of these cultural crossovers when I was guided realistically through rights laid out after having experienced vastly along the trail, where my feet left kisses, and these happened beautifully and always where culture was still spiritual and molding forms. I have had luck and I have had deaths. And with my desperation at a binge that told me to move from where I sat, untried and lacking to revolution.

So I made my way to him and would remember it all, regardless, due to mark distant points that closed in for the sake of colliding, to repel with extraordinary speed from new sources till again, and hoping for discrepancy to clear eternally.

Heart speeding on already, and while his head moved centimeters up to acknowledge my approaching than sitting self, I said: “It is embarrassing to admit, which I amusingly and inopportunely do at times, but I find your presence here as profound as the bedtime story one was told but never lived in, that prompted some other marvelous, personal land after the lights crawled under the bed and after farewells till morning or wishes to slumber in ease, then the closing of two eyes. Maybe a grandfather’s carving under blowing willow trees, or red balloons representing companionship when there is nothing to do but let go and know they will land back as the dreamer would in hours, leaving behind that green balloon, closing in and retaking one’s love from the waning flames of one’s first. What if you forget those initials of the old man’s memoir wood? 

“That brings me to the beating fact that when you see what you saw in the air, and the insignificance you believed your dreams to be, it shows that something thought to be gratitude was rather an experience matrix. Let me pass with care to you that your signification is of its own description and it is of the way you exist here now, letting what is under control rapture and overwhelm your composure and ease. 

“But this place is controlled by us, and do you see now how one can awake and frighten away the bedtime stories and their tellers, even in the morning daylight that was meant for peace, and that when there is a call for retreat, there is no place for safety? But you do not see that, you see something else here that runs and drags out there, too-something that gives you that feeling of retreat with your wounds, while others call it surrender and a cut-down of time. Even the ones who collapse and look like yourself do not carry themselves likely when they leave. 

“But you do stay in heavy reality with other foreign factors intruding, but you apply them. Or maybe you do not? You are only seen here or talked about in tiny circles of people who misunderstand you in crueler ways than dreamless, green balloons. Mother and child, where do you come from boy who sits around fountain and cliff view? You are not composite, and that never exists—even if you admit you derive, don’t tell me it is not play.”

All I knew of him was that he owned the most mystical mansion, because he once stood for a lot of things that were not up for thought, until he brought up a particular hill the topic resting at the top and the consequences on both sides.

He was still full of stories, ongoing and in process, because there was sadness touching me from his emitting glance of sorrow, matching up the way how my exuberance has been dissolving. Without the knowledge I was too weak to have up-front or within. We were already close enough, and beyond the physical space for an interaction such as a handshake to show typical decency. So he kept forward, as his posture slouched and his eyes were worn, while I let myself fall down next to him.

He had a clay ball that he took from his pocket and into his hand; it was red and it came back down correctly, without a god to do anything but catch and repeat a creature-mimicking power. It was expected, understood, and cherished if he put no significance into the words he would say or even find in himself a response—I feel over that.

Know me just as one wanting to see. It was safe here often. Maybe he was spending his spinning moment recollecting studied shortcuts, before he noticed I was sitting, to turn himself into someone that I needed to communicate with, someone like me who prescribes pestering, judge-free trust out of an experimentation of getting hints, or at least notes to subdue and apply to my currents, a crime. I spent my moment acknowledging the pink, in-bloom hollyhocks complimenting dark-blue, green, and white dots.

As I kept close the night sky and swallowed then stammered through, “You are lying here, reliving a year—or two—with tears I know far too well in my own interpretation, that is growing into my deepest insecurity. You see, you must excuse me coming up to you like this, but I must. And I must stop saying ‘I’ now, so please speak on what you are willing to tell a stranger, applying pressure on weaker spots surrounding your weakest.”

He understood, and said, “Are you interested in, what? Let it exist.”

His legs uncrossed and crossed again. The exhibit of value for free begins most value, so, naturally, my eyes filled with small tears. The boy would not have noticed, neither would someone behind the bushes if they were listening in. No shaking, but varied, still downpours of exhausted relief made purposeful through the topic.

“It’s important, I guess,” I said.

My legs stretched out and made me taller, onto moving toward the view. My prologue followed the replica of length. “The moon being full, when I see you here sitting, tonight.”

He looked up, and I noted the encouragement of attention. “I want to know—and I thought I did.” I said.

My fingers rowdy, I was depicting sounds that I heard, like the night, so I could move, going onto the next. I stood back and walked past the fountain and toward the edge for the view. The direction facing out, there were calm boats, which might have held people aiding the neglected species that breathed differently after hours, out amongst the vast reflection of the water.

The look-over had two large pots guiding you in; this was a tall place. I saw something I wanted to remember when I walked over to the edge; it was of colors, and the small black colors in my eyes exploded accordingly, but only tinting my face from the distant set-off. You would have saw something, too, how it was far and shooting past. 

I turned, trying not to miss importance ever again. He was leaning over himself. He was wincing through pain, but stood up for me. The stomach that he had was his derange; people argued that he had the wrong variety at times. He picked a flower from the garden. He obsessed over the way it had nowhere to go but his hands. He muttered quietly as he floated over to where it was expected of me to sink to the plans of his process.

“It usually happens Thursday morning, but I would like to have you experience some jaded, unrelated before, but an important I know you must see.”

The colored flower sat on the edge, unidentifiable by its family, where I rested my right shoulder. I was listening, as I looked at death.

He looked up with dry eyes. “Dry eyes, you see. Some people get some preparation; I get reminded.” 

He handed me a card with information on it, even though I never wanted that.

MORNING OF

Pure ecstasy—it is a moment where black flashes yellow, or some fancy investment is not matching your wild, child-like world of colorful hallucinations any longer—you come around to it. Turning that, shaking that, you find an echo of terror making camp in the part of the brain you love the most. A good performance—that’s all you’re asked for when you are healthy and young. “Live like it’s your last…Till death do us part... Don’t be afraid…” But dying once is a surprise that all of us have been cracking up.

Last night, I woke up and I felt fire on my back; I was falling in this loose darkness. Luck is bolder than honesty. You wake up, and you know it was like a cry you needed, yet you walk for blue moments on blue, knowing that what you were seeing was exactly like you. Last night’s moment and now, broadcasted as intimidating, more potently startling as it goes on. The creatures who were around to protect me all think I am boring—haven’t seen them in a while. If I were only able to produce a confession of less. Certain frenzies you find in your fantasies are as easy to work out as to withdraw twitches in your day-by-day body. So I started one you get more of, but offered no re-dos.

There were once incomparable shortcuts still boxed up and scattered about my bedroom. I had stopped investing again, recently. No one would be able to make a fortune by proclaiming they didn’t have time for what they think about.

My figure stumbling over and rapid, I check to see if I still look the same, in a mirror that came with the apartment downtown. I could hear delicate missiles being launched outside in a park by the street, the deeds of fast-living humans. They exploded color until it was too small to see. Even the daylight couldn’t stop them. The left side of my face had two lines that were filled in with blood; I felt them with ease. Scratching happens. I had dedicated a few binders, which I kept on a shelf near my bed, for what I could remember about the experiences that pushed deep into plans of edgy actions, planned against the other side of my imaginative tales forced indoors. Pedaling in the lane of danger isn’t a safe place to make plans, nor a direction that slows down a beat. I let water soothe my face, while the way outside, it felt, was making me want to see it. The sun chose to rise again, and out the window where I stretched, I could see a woman with naked pores worth a lack of sores and some man trying not to be seen broken while strutting with shiny apparel.

I kept inspiration on walls, in a closet, spread out on floors, and I changed them often to keep myself away from being the type of work that didn’t know when to shed into a renovated mind-set. Sometimes I draw up an obsession with paintings done on cabins, paintings of park-rule signs in front of owned, phenomenal places, or pictures taken of bears. The mirrors I have stood in front of the paintings that captured stillness. The things I didn’t know had me falling—I found that I was spinning out. The last time, I forgot to update the space for challenging thoughts. If that were to happen again, I wouldn’t be able to hold a conscious face for the closed that look for an opening to compare fortune. There were creatures dying, creatures lying. 

A house can be made if there is a feasting of the locals. Prostrating throughout discussion leaves you wondering why you started anyway. So you move on. You let oak and natural smells make your choices, you learn their language. The way things move flick over the modern topic in hands.

I live today undauntedly, as many other times, but an unwanted subliminal brews over my head. Making it to the point when work is staying alive, which keeps you in, being fed up with everyone outside skipping over the introductions of titles. At one point, that was my favorite part, but they have their points that I settle into.

Once, I paid a stranger to carry me out of the city in a navy coffin. When I looked up into the almost black, all I could hear was the rattling of someone being strong enough, but not capable of things being easy. 

But that is what I paid for, and it wasn’t much. Probably, had his boss found out about his rare, lucky tips, he would have slammed his skull with a smith’s hammer and scooped him up like the rest till the stacked pile in the back shack. I tipped him anyway, and I was off to my own pile, which I found was in need of a sorting, not a viewing. My foot’s tracks--there were colors I saw that matched only in those parts of what was unable to be captured. One is something different, one finds.

After the morning thought, I took down a painting of a bird flying up, which was above my bed. It was made for me, in the same room as me, by The Painter from the north-eastern borders. He talked about his “real” home, and how it depended on him stretching out to come here. There was always a canteen of poison hanging from one of his belt loops, and he said that the birds actually disturbed him back home when they shook a branch, or poked their heads around. We were both talking about leaving during that short period I spent with him here in these busy streets. In fact, The Painter was the first person to tell me to go back to Greenland--he was a disappointment.

I set it down, jotted a note that would remind me to write another one on it when I delivered it discreetly to a gallery. They would see to send me a due. There was plain, red thread that I threw on my back. There was proof that everyone needed to get into places only busy people get into—a picture of my face, identification. It was in my left pocket. 

Exposing people is a terrible flaw; a lot to do with how I come to know that is watching someone be alone in an empty place, and calling out to them. It is an embarrassing habit, but I do it often out of being consistently nowhere identifiable. Some people afford castles by exposing great secrets. There was a gathering, in a cave somewhere at a mountain, where we taught each other how to never expose again. There was this girl—she had a beautiful face like an angel, but she was taking notes moment after moment, until we finally burned her face off at dinner time. That is when we found out she had jotted down directions. Note to find alternative ways of letting needed things through in the midst of chaos, or you’ll lose what you needed to see, what you gained. 

So I picked up the card the boy gave me, and I made the day to talk to him about why he was okay with willingly exposing himself to me when I broke. I scrambled over for a last look at the streets before I walked out of my room and into the hallway; I didn’t feel anything then. It was a Wednesday morning.

-

I was out amongst a lot of things. My building was a few blocks from the hill he was on. There were also a few tall things that made you go around between our stance. During a time where I thought about logging, I spent many hours at a small shop under a mob’s quarters; it was at the corner of this intersection. I decided to stop by because I knew they sold music sheets. Inside, they always had tunes, turned in a direction that kept the owners peppy regardless. When I stepped in, and as the bell rang for dedicated attention, I found that this music was on today. Flipping through lifetimes of beautiful atmospheres and thoughts, I picked up a replica and bought a warm cup of tea at the counter, where I talked to the owners about fish and whether they ever throw them back. They said they did when there were grandchildren figuring things out by watching, but otherwise they shredded them with their teeth and went for their friends. I tipped them some coins, and walked outside into the air of the world with my bag in my hand.

The first thing I heard was a scream followed by a bang followed by a siren announcing some start. What I saw to begin with, somewhat, was a summer photo shoot in the fall. I ducked my head left and went that way. There were all kinds of voices behind me, and the ones that held my interest in front. I heard a smile from a poor man who made his living doing so, testing its distance. There were lots of damaged lungs, and lots of people going places.

-

Up the street, there started a noticeable sight of wider rooms after rooms with longer spaces between the few houses, going up into where you could purchase quiet time. There wasn’t any property up for grabs sitting outside the most expensive; no one needed to get anywhere unless they did, into which they made that process a fortune to owe. They kick you out if you hop outside. There are sections thought up of, when I wasn’t thinking in any way about what I was doing. Admittedly, going hunting is the way of the mammal , contrary of cleaning spoons after something prepared. The sidewalks were still carefully made onward and upward. Although this street was the home of my destination and would be the end of a repetitive that was started ambitiously, that was more helpful than usually thought up to be.

His manor, from the outside: tall, mid-tone gates along the front, from which I was able to see the expensive surprises inside for free. There was a light on up in the fourth floor; you could feel that an atmospheric galaxy was in the whatever-sized room. He was the owner. Smooth audibles, matching keys that matched with others separately, yet all tangible to an overwhelmed, inspired chin rub. I was able to recognize it because I have been around those specifics, but I could not replicate any of this, and it was all so terribly unwrapped for me.

The gates opened and two tall men with soft, lavender suits approached my left and right. When I moved, being the onlooker, I stretched my arms out so they could hold the ends of them, and finally do what they think of while they wait outside day after day. 

The two men turned in my direction, their inner hands caressing mine with their gloves off, and their other hands pointing out blue trees for resting, retired blue birds and a sonnet written across a tall, wooden wall that was the entrance to an orange garden, with women playing harps and resting on broad dirt that was soft (you could hear that, too). An interest in looking into gigantic forces that kept you secluded, being put into words, slipped in one of my storage rooms. 

Softly, I was then told that the person who had written such a thing happened to have been fired for blue words, where he earned an audience but was viewed wholly as from the industry. The writer was the part about it and was hoping to leave, getting executed by crowds that did not see or know what he was talking about. As an extra, I now know that he lives tiny, because what he earned makes him with no need to grow, to go anywhere else. He is the writer, and he is out somewhere with others I didn’t know of to begin with. 

I walk and looking back from the inside was monstrous; the way the front yard was more broad once you were in it, and the gates taller from further away. A fountain of a young girl sitting on a bench was in the middle of a foreign roundabout in the front yard; the water came out of her mouth, down onto the book she was living in, then finally fell where her feet met the light action of submerging. She had shoulder-length hair, a skinny waist with a shorter skirt. I enjoyed what mattered about the frame I was showing to myself, as the similarly occupied man on the left was--it was to our right when we walked about it.

The two men carried out an innocent entrance with me, then bowed as they let go, their backs straightening after they turned and pressed against the wall of the mansion to resume patience. They were the finest at their job that I have seen over my years of receiving hands that were paid to. 

When I entered the open door, I was in a place where the welcome was casually dependent, as were the people I saw over my shoulder, who were gathering out in the street after another word from a visitor, at the most private estate for grand reasons unknown. They were talking with kept thoughts, let out for the exclusively, similarly experienced un-wealthy, who adapted to the idea of most gates closing off their welcome, even though most of the time they were missing what one needed to find so one could know what was going on. Didn’t fit anyway, just my people that I am losing depth with. 

I shut the door and didn’t make eyes with anyone, but the image of them got closer to the point of no capability of pointing my figure out. I was unweary with them, for I was closing myself off in dark, similar-minded atmospheres for the first time in a long time. The wasteland outside I am fond of leaving behind, yet I am showed in lavish, front-yard creations that were moved into and claimed. Mark me as the latest discoverer of vivid malice, birthed from various strands of realities, uneasy secrets striking me to my own, and I am unable of withholding realities except my own unmarked.

The Boy’s Manor

I was greeted with a long hallway, down the middle, as a lane for making my way through, shown with two rows of gold candles after another on the walls. The top of this tunnel was low, and when I stepped closer and closer, I found myself three steps down into warm water that continued to the end of the hall, where I made out a dark, burgundy room that was used as a study. 

Standing from the distance, I could only make out a table and some shelves with books. Before I would slip off my shoes to make my way in, I gave my attention to the two doors, which weren’t options for any company, but up-front for enigmatic taste. I knew this because the doors were both closed off and had locks on them for keys. Blue and with vines, the one on the right had a sign that temporarily spelled out, “Be down after B-flat.” I expected this was the location of the sounds I had observed outside as I was looking up, accepting the idea that the house-owner expected his guest to walk through the tunnel while he was off onto personal projects with natural appearances.

So I looked at the red door on the left, leaving it at that significance as I took the picture of me and the gift for the owner and placed them on the floor right in front of my toes. I didn’t want these items wet, but I also wanted the host to know who was at the other side of his interest, and the appreciation at hand. I stepped over them, and submerged myself as I tend to inevitably find myself at this place that offers discussable, yet forcibly individual experiences.

I forced intrusive thoughts behind myself and invited all unfamiliar concepts to sprout inside of me, as they must at a time like now, in a place such as here. Paintings of creatures hung above the candles to my sides when I looked up and around. They were offensive styles that I looked over and anonymously exposed at committee discussions, but new meanings belong to all new places. 

Paddle after paddle, calm ripples that pushed at a pace that ended where I would in seconds now. I am at three steps again, and I turned my back to see the front door and where I was. When I stretched my way out, I made the wooden floor wet. 

What a monstrous library it was, now that I was able to see the ceiling, which went up through all stories and prompted a waiting room for guests. This dark room was a partner you could weep around. It gave off familiarities of those therapeutic rows sold out for low interpreters on a night of viewing preparations, something you would see during times of that occupation, a setting dressed up for effect with such purpose thought up by onlookers. So it would not matter how I was seen. 

There was a door up a floor that was accessed by a spiraling flight of stairs to my right. I made out a lock from my placement, then directed my attention to the middle, which had shelves of books that went up after having been filled with extensive rows of width. The mobile ladder scooted over to a loft as well, which I noticed on my left. It all prompted new design, yet still acknowledged its foundation of simple astonishment in closed quarters. I expected it to be an altar or a place of orange thought, the loft that was up, when a tighter place was needed, when pacing is just reminding you of overdone; and so it was.

I was usually the one to break the news of rudeness to myself. I have spent lifetimes studying legible manners, but I grasped the ladder with my hands firmly, steadying my weight that didn’t want to let go into the dead-space before contact with the floor. When I reached the loft, it was not tall enough for a human to squat let alone stand, so I crouched on my knees. There was a wool mattress with red blankets on top and two books resting at the edge: Kelpie Horses and Defense and the other, Shooting Down Arianrhod. 

One studied these writings to find out if the writer was real; I found that they were both pen-name frauds, and had an obsession with examining the way they wrote to close off their pasts. They did, in an irritating honesty, dress it all up quite well. That is what I remember from spreading their best works out to examine why dreadful and incredibly sincere words were used to describe the words themselves. But it is sad to watch an individual proclaim that they can be trusted, when all they did was stay the same and add thoughts they wouldn’t die for, or even swear on a life that they exist at all or are impure without coverage. I could not find interest back then, but I picked them both up and crossed my arms for gentle support. 

There was also a red curtain covering a small window across from the bed. All I needed was my fingertips to open up a view, so I let go concept after concept. I had a hand for rest and a hand for revealing. I pinched the curtain over starting from the left side, and when I scooted an inch back to see what was made up of the library, I focused back toward the right curtain, which I caressed like the grass you lie upon in spring on top of red blankets. 

The left side of my face reflected colors from what I could not see until my right side confirmed them, shooting out from trees in the backyard, beyond the acre of a second garden named after a native tribe leader who had left a legacy of tally marks representing all the times he had refrained from announcing his heroism. I knew this because I had met one of his great-great-grandsons at a lynching of the wealthy.

But I won’t bring that up, because not all crossovers are threatening and I, as well as being the descendent of a popular man, found such actions to be of a coward’s backup statement of cowardly firsts. The garden was beautiful, equally as the one from the front yard, but this one had a thin pebble path that took you through it to gaze at foreign designers’ work, or down to the forest where war was happening in those trees. Or some sort of grand finale celebrated with science so that you could hear them howling through the night, chanting-in understood differences that were translated (by me) as “gnawing what lovers don’t eat, screeching what stammers repeat.”

Being behind walls or behind in lessons had me beating, soothingly nerved. I cursed why I was not dancing, and why I had left where it all began to begin with. But I have no power of that or of blessings, but of memory and passing that all was made within me and spread around, touching all color and wind to people I met down at the town, who would give me jobs to shut me up and use my interview words for their advertisement—when blue is used in a way you do not agree with.

I sat up, blessed to be blooming my own orange thoughts, with my feet dangling off the edge, becoming an item of the library, waiting till the owner alerted, remembering when I had been terrified of the tribes I was with, and when they had started to write notes to spite me at the resting spots through spiraling roads and scenic benches. But I found that they were moving onto some other language and wouldn’t decipher my most yellow hints. 

Sometimes I could see myself turning around and watching all the partners I had for hunting, who saw me as game and charged. So I wandered to a place closer than you’d think, going back again, and started calling myself by my birth name again, and frequently verified whether I had yet to begin morphing into sorcery, head always down.

Your parents are supposed to cry when they see you staying crazy, and then once more when you decide to scowl, when they see your hidden house packed up. But I did not see mine at the expensive descent back down, nor a memory to imagine me when I went up, because I strongly believe no one was surprised after I kept saying, “I always will be,” endlessly in stern, when I was younger than young. These thoughts were now merely contemplations of masterpieces and which to soon consume. There were a few favorites I kept stored away in my most decorative confinements—quite literally, quite secretly in mind. But as I started to dress up the characters and start whichever song, I was bombarded by the towers that would guard my thoughts. Until the ghostly moon I shall be chosen to unlock a way out of this life, the same life I now pronounce upright and with intimidating power.

The tip of the toe of the boy who I owed had touched the water. Relapsing briefly into letting go of an edge, with rattling venom that some would call “the bottom.” But I stayed up top for now, with my legs hiding under my neck, hunching over just so my eyes could work out simplicities that are endlessly twisted, or possibly the scarce ingredients that are put in to end cruel wars that save the good that few create.

Oh, look closely. You see—so serious, so overtaking, all so heavily near me now. He was pushing himself down the hallway, emerged inside the liquid forces. I knew one approaching me was one too many, but he stepped up into the room and did not notice me. The boy took off his soaking clothes, and walked across the room and up the spiraling stairs. He had the sheets of music in his arms that were dry, and, it was assumed, he kept them lifted out of kindness. When he made it up the stairs, he unlocked the door and went inside, until he came out with a ginormous maroon bathrobe swallowing him the whole. He locked the door and came down, looking at me with a smile, and keeping that frame until he came over, close to my feet.

The boy said, “Everything starts when it should, it’s a yike.”

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[rockettofieldx]

Rocket To Field “Am I a…?” No, no, no. If you don’t try and add the color to become the helping hands that push you forward, to skip over being asked those new, offensive questions that will never understand the strength of your simplicity floating above that sour confidence or anything of that nature of importance, then you will be lost faster than you could recall a closest direction: that is the undeniably, always-happening truth. Memories never die; put them down, groove with them, up and through to get some motivation for what is Incoming, incoming! They are here (to shoot you off). Oh, broken arrows happen, but what if not? What if you pierce it perfectly? Please know—because I have seen my share of contacts, snap-offs, and scrape-aways—that all the attempts in-between will leave you damp and bickering about your cut-up knees from a fall that included delicate effort and aspiring reach. This means boosts aren’t coming and you need wings, listening one, so please do so well. I am setting up a plan now; it goes something like a chaotic pink. “Everyone’s a victim” (harsh ways) versus… “Let me invent myself.” There is a lot of talk about these hoorays before there is a lot of getting down and sweating or ducking and checking for eavesdrops or insecurities and hidings or a blatant lock-up. Crawling and remembering, here we go, down and down, here we go into those old (victorious) cheers and dances. This is how we dwindle back toward the depths we first created our way out of without fear to see the original plan. Your pitiful endeavors— they are not your fault, not your creation. The lights that you will hang will look extraordinary, then the dust, then the reinvading, then the comfort to come and go in the dark (positively and always on the mind). This was before there were types of flowers on hills that I knew were a new addition from outsiders sending frenzys hope, but when you start to think about the view from the top, you want to hurry up and be alone with the entireness of it all, soaking, gaining the insight you always needed! The wait adds more minutes to the aches. “When can I scatter?” Oh, you soon go, you are elevating up; you are being cheered on, you are coming soon as a wanted birth. Delicately, fresh-water clean. A bracing out of exhaustion from the final moments of the weight you held up to block this craved world (coming in like a flash), which then slides down your back to squirm away, taking back its original tiny form. Is that shade in the distance—up at the hill, right above the flowers—another friendly grim to seek out? To it, you gaze and make your way toward it with your body, but your head tracing the way, going toward a polka-dot light in some opposite distance, you make out the shape of a tree (thoughts about safety rush a new record). Lovingly or grimly, you walk for the closest view of the black cloud, marking the important corners of the structure from melancholically far—the black is so wonderfully fascinating. Shoulder sore from turning, that pink light is getting bigger, so dangerous it has you shaking with it being so peripheral and knowing your dreams fall a long fall when the exiting force closes on you. A risky invitation, the black cloud—through all of your insides—that is scarcely looked at as indescribably profound. The black cloud was more friendly and of its own, yet shielded with dystopia. The polka-dot tree spawns you back at base when you want it, up in some morning daylight ready for the night again for another peek. Luck can be a masterpiece—but not most days. Most days, the black cloud would be far too much. These forms full of energy keep you paving paths, keeping wide eyes. Eventually, your reel of realities keeps your tendencies active and growing. Maybe a local, humble gardener will say, “Look at that, there it is,” talking to you, leaving the black cloud in his peripheral, as he trained himself to do. The Weight of a Whale, Being Young (Heavy), & Seeing the Travelers But truly, how are you supposed to know what to do after a slide you spend all day on? No one is (usually) around to talk about their review, really just taking it in for themselves over and over, not even a question. It is some epic resolution to your reality. We have our trees to climb here at home, our food to tend, religious services to muster around, and rules to honor to keep everyone in. The little humans played at a park all made of wood (normal: swings, slides, and some open field), the adolescents went to bed on time after labor (normal: chopping wood, building more, cheering for the village, and choosing it all again), and the elders kept their secrets very closely. Quite literally, there were swine all offered wine at dinner gatherings, around the fire, my family and their people, who all had their destinies and would describe them like the food. A few—I mean few—purple, static crazies who I knew would hop around their questions as I did for fun. We zapped in some other habitat quite seriously, and there was no reason for explaining these things. The ones I am with, the ones who went beyond the circle of our village and our trees, are all so majorly going on in a way that has me edging toward the (vastly) unknown realms, that I see them hinting to me with their eyes because they know I am about to, and the way they still do their job here but know there were and are so many spectacles to fall into. Cannot think up a good reason to ever be back here if I walked my legs out; I feel like my legs would just say, “No,” and run me until I were too lost. - As natural as thinking the opposite, there are productions of your efforts to scurry off from just all devastations. All runs seem terrifying when you are working your way away, but they give me so many fantastic thoughts about danger in general. I stabbed “the gardener” on some tree out in the surrounding forests of the land in-between, which was where I slept, ate, and walked around doing what was asked of me. Other members my age thought I was right about wanting to redecorate a young reality, but what I wanted was not an agreement but someone who would come for their own reasons. My night job at the village was sorting the apples—I knew they were either bad or good —so I just threw the bad ones away and kept what was healthy in the basket. Simple and the task was not minded. We cycled through the laboring, and I loved how nothing indescribable was being destroyed. The land was taken care of, the people were not hungry, we were all doing our part to be the hands that tended the responsibilities our ancestors had chosen. This is not about ancestries, this is not about the village where I lived. Yet you must know my beginnings, when there was only one place to run from. I have wounds from my own endeavors, from coordinates outside our little collection of homes, inside our boundaries of trees and lands that are impossible to stay absurdly profound—to me, and I know to anyone else. Annoyingly, younglings would run and tell when I was off studying other beats—they start so young, and that is grim. I was forced to cast these desires aside, so I would not ramble when it was my new responsibility to listen and repeat on command without explanations or depictions from your moon thoughts. This option was tried, yet I preferred the cuts and gashes earned out in the thick of what I wanted to submerge in completely. Seemed like all moral qualities, which are undeniably of importance, were everywhere but where you most sought after, all Sisypheans without checkpoints or accolades to show signs of direction or progress. Not that you would want to be anywhere but the life you know, which has been distinctly deep down and made with your own strand of vibrance and contentment and golden worth. (All locals want you to be a local, to hate or to love—it does not matter.) The ones who raised me, taught me how to function in their language, and whispered to me but never asked my opinion wanted to know how I had found out about foreign anythings. The trees were confided by me, “You are never not out in the open.” The fire pits out between homes, too (deadly forces that were useful, this was a motivation). The animals that would run through, being that point B was interesting and had their purpose. In respect, I will tell you that the village and the people were in solace and bitterly alone, and it was stable because we had no foreign additions and did not look for them. Spirituality came from the woodwork around us and the casual new kindness. How did new kindness, new functions come about? It was the travelers…travelers who came randomly over a few years at a time. This was what I lived for, although our hospitality never included a rested night on a bed. Village elders said, “North, or where you came from.” They said, “Your trees are the joy.” So naturally, there were new stories briefly coming in, and I desperately made them my priority. A Little of How It Went, the Leaving, & the Puddle That Shot Me Into the 5th Year of Freedom Regular night-walks, thoughts about freedoms. The sun would be down under, the stars and all would be my preference and at my disposal. What does the green above and next to the brown say now? The grass was getting thick, suddenly but not  in a way that was startling. Well, you see the rain that was being had led me to believe there was a new purpose out in the unfamiliar to be found. I was right, but I do not think it was found nearby this time—although, this could not be my routine and that was enough to keep my eyes wide. There were puddles in the woods, and the way my feet walked was in the context of echoes rushing quick—soon—and there will be no flinching, just latching onto. The trees were getting louder (as my beat), the woodwork bending over, the darkness closing above me inside. The earth was at its loudest. Oh, a single purple puddle in the middle of the woods. Speeding up (twisting around), there were pale blue streaks of light in the water, resting on earth from the sky. They kept twirling—just like the trees. Do I go now? The trees say, “Yes.” The puddle says, “You must go.” I say, “The sun is coming.” My hands cupped the blue inside the purple, throwing it onto my face. I could feel my body cooling; my imagination was left behind. Floating forward, I could feel everything. - There were boys and girls who would stay up and talk with their feet dangling off mountains, which we spent the sunrise climbing and touching. I rode trains that were one-way to ice-lands. Once, me and some others were put in charge of decorating a wing of castle. You know, I let very loose. Wherever I was, there was always some local group that would wave me over because my eyes always asked  for it. The comfortability definitely depended. Maybe the men painting me bathing with the women while we just talked about waterfalls, maybe there were no painters and everyone wanted to fall deep into volcanos. Together. Current Current, Pulling Me Around & Around Everything is at risk until you get to locked passages that open up, that depend whether they use a scale or whether they take your words for what they are worth. I cannot help but fill with pity when I watch people ignore warning signs or say there was no prize at the end to begin with. Oh, you say that danger is not real? If whatever moves, that means the depths are deep with intimidation—reaching out, wanting to show you power. Some argue to the point and the safeness of being loose or tied up; I think they are both of mania. I planned for them both because I had started diving, breaking, squirming, running, dancing, humming later than most, but dreamt about it far more often and before time paid it forward for anyone I had yet to know. Never knew how to look out for rocks, yet one rolls and stops regardless. For example—in my case—any tree reminded me of home and they always found me. Trust me, they found me. There was a time and place where they were at ease with their lifelines sitting on the edge next to them without being hooked to anything sturdy. That one would know certain citations that were cremated, create a tendency of scooping up a specific, (dead) interpretation back—way back—into existence, that would be up for examination and absorbent. Feed and be eaten. There are peripheral sightings and whispers of shapeless, hinted splendors that you probably helped create in the womb. Getting ideas from the infants who passed your genuine bearer while you were equally blocked off, I am sorry to inform you, and I must also include how crucial it is that I be honest with you regardless. For oftentimes carrying out incomparable moments that are meant mean a lot to my health, but I mean to tell you that you create what you lose, and always the follow; you lose what would help all creation. You are going downhill if you are not going up, you know. The view is so grand, so high at either side of a lifeline. It is very much natural, a downfall, but if you were to hear a repetition of your own words enter your eardrums, then that must mean you sparked and caught onto yourself without causing an unstoppable field-fire in rural wastelands unnoticed—an unappreciated, mock spectacle. You have a dangerous secret that some get awards for, some get murdered for. But you should know, if you haven’t been found out yet (in the context of a flaming secret), that it cannot be brought with you anywhere, or in anyway. I caught all I reached for, but then a tumbling into damp catch unwillingly showed me counter-power. This is about the time where a long, sad story had come to a close, yet started a second. There is nothing worse than having to start over with a new eternity. I got out of my hometown barriers. I made those volcano friends, and I have met many picture-lovers, love-despisers, sense-submergers, and plenty of people who told me to just go back to where I had come from. Never drew a map; sorry, don’t even feel like sharing it with you. But here’s a time, quite recently, where tongue-in-cheek genius arch first let me jump into its genre… I was a small little character in the midst of a whole, overwhelming amount of moments, always going on, everywhere and always at hiding spots during a time where hiding spots were safe, but not for you if you couldn’t handle your mind feeling jittery and misplaced. There were so many incredible people whom I will never forget. City Apartment, Nobody About the Benches: A Brief Discussion of Knock-off Cliffs I have my blue glasses, a key to unlock more in my pocket (my apartment on the third floor that has a bed and tools for love songs), and I am wearing a brown suit with navy blue pants. Being moving—being other places, mind or in the presence—you see other people end up where you were. Luck is for a while (which is an invitation that gets sent out from your comet lifetimes before), and if that is you, that didn’t find a shooter to shoot back out to you and onward, you already know seeing others at other places is not impressive when you battle to be just as far away from being unable to remove yourself to visit or relocate to the true preference. But the locals, the people you move in one place with, they discover you and you discover how it must be temporary. That is a light, wonderful topic that gets brought up on some rooftops when a giddy person breaks the news and says, “Go fast, but you must take care of us.” Those ones saying that to you on roofs, they were teachers even when they were students, brave and content, guiding panicking minds that want to forget the rules and charge their futures with vengeance. I don’t know. If I scurried into Gerald’s Cafe House for a break, and closed the curtains and placed the pen (that was behind my ear) onto the table and sat in the red chair I always sat at, then the owners would make all the customers leave and then, themselves, lock each other in the back until I was finished. This was a gift for protecting dying paths they still believed to exist and kept functional that they admired of me still not denying and keeping alive—protecting too. But I warn you, they tell me they never even get to explore. I thought, “How could they know then?” or rather “Their companionship is surely in the dearest tone.” It was like blood actually showing up in the waterfall and bathing inside the mixture. What type of creature would decline an honorable belief (dressed up with defense) if all that creature desires is for guessing to be filtered out and replaced with honesty? Their business closes down annually until they gamble with what they have already purchased because some customers get light-headed in their presence. (But these specific owners actually fell in love with people coming back, especially ones who were racing the wavelength of romance (free drinks to couples). And there were moments I confirmed and congratulated them on acknowledging that endearing corner of loudness—yet I was no expert, and I kept reminding them. They would give nervy laughter out of empathy because I would toy with denying what I knew could not be lost and withered. Though, there was an extent of revealing that I partook in early on after we met. The owners of the shop were standing outside their building. They had gotten married the sundown before, so they had written it on the wall with handprints imprinted with the help of blood under their note (none of your business). I smiled, accepting the beguiling taboo approach of invitations, and I took the same ink and did so with them from time to time with dearness and merriment. Anyone could come to write whatever softness on the wall. Local impatient and provoked children were able to hooray on this, but there was an etiquette for only pushing forward secrets that would save the town; disruption was and is not worth the brief attention before exile. To some, they were just proclamations of artificial resurrections written on the wall of the shop outside, or even sometimes thought up to be some sort of advertisement that would make the allure some sort of diversity. (An inside job, could you believe it? Even the loose things get tangled opinions.) - There was an article I read, in the town’s news, that the mass of them would always think there would come a day where you had to start taking what you talk about a lot more seriously, and you would have thought it was like mowing the grass on a clear-minded morning. Or even as easy as the days you tried to glance in the mirror and catch what keeps you up, but instead tell people to get more sleep and stay healthy, and forget about the twitch inside your body when you sit too long. Danger is taken very seriously when you step back into the makers of it, and I don’t think the locals of this city-place that I am here visiting have ever seen a flower besides the thousands they pass unknowingly every day, and even the ones that feel the little growing plants acted like it was a gene they were trying to lose and stay away from. My dominant hand has blocked hands as well (terrible idea I accidentally picked up), but never did I not go see obvious alternatives, other places guarding nothing but survival. For I was once shown the once-striking but now-increasingly soothing conversations that must be held so truth ceases to dwindle into something as immature as folding the first and last instruction more delicately than the ones in-between. In more simple terms, it was for oneself the hunt that is getting away. How it was for me at least, during my times at rest after my adventures far from here and now settled in—-my in-betweens, my waits—I wondered what milestone all my old tribes were huddled around (the ones I base everything off of). I would attempt to mimic the emotions and denouements of those ages with sound, reimagining them and repeating them. If those were not taking me, I would put on “Paraphrasing by a Collaboration of Interpreters,” a recording often used to work out my footing before semesters or a tactic to find friends on a scale. It was always playing. I had made this a routine during afternoons while I would attempt to prescribe off-putting patterns to each of the interpreters when it was their turn to step up to the mic to tell me they could not afford to take any dangers at risk without stopping to survive them. But a thought strung along with me, from a gypsy young woman. It was tied when we were brushing each other’s hair, while our feet hung over the cove out in deep tropics discovered by astrology fanatics, then by us years after them, but only a few years ago from this time now. “You simply cannot anymore. I will fall into deep, blue holes and I will reach up to you for clarity before daunting layers. But you would be at careful ease, pointing your eyeglasses, tracking a covet while nearing toward what is the worst plan and away from my crippling plummet.” She was right; I did not know how to save anyone. It was incredibly simple the way my priorities did not matter as long as I capitalized my casualness, and it made me a bit guilty at times, but at least I had a few people thinking that I wasn’t ever in a beautiful place, so I could understand and study this manic party of judgmental lethals that kill the users. I never caught their names, yet they made their points of the shoes fitting and I’d look down and stall (just like they wanted). - The pieces are almost set out for view, I just need a little more time until you see how I am where I am. My name is Riled, now and for a while. I forgot to mention, although all my scatterers are pointed in the direction, I’ll first say— and I have hinted it so—there are places that were home and there are places you must be for some time. Oh dear, I am not home. And you can tell because of the irritated hope in my voice and the mentions of the foreign aura. I am underneath cover, and they kill each other, or want to. You want to pick out the faintness in another, join or wet pinch. Of course, there is always the continuation of accusations until someone eventually winks. That is how it is done here and in most places, when you’re not somewhere safe. But I have walked these streets before through a tint, while they were darkening. This was after I let the outskirts rush me from the place of old horizons that were not wanting to be left. The first thing I wanted to briefly explore, before I found out about the moon a few nights ago, changed my settings forever, and it was how I couldn’t notice if anyone was trying to clean up and clear through to see the best parts of this town. My new favorite spot, the cliff at the edge of the city, completely closed off by tall walls of green ferns and only a staircase for those who know about it. The swing sets and benches were always empty in the city and a lot of places I have been. The people just weren’t about it. There were only paces that were moving slowly and huffing, quickly away into closed safe-houses of their own wrong-intentioned (grumbling anarchists). I got very much used to seeing, when resting was at any time, certain things: 1) this version of weeping that cleansed and reset and 2) this presence that circles around your corpse and breathes life through. It was LAUGHTER directed toward the simplest pleasures and shooting out refreshing reliefs and hints. And that was easily understood; you could have made a wonderful life of it. I have taken notice, in this town and the radio waves sharing in distances, that there is a mist of some sad progression overflowing with all the cures dying off. When you wander around, it is obvious and brightly apparent that the hilarious and the depressing are manageable, and yet exquisitely profound, states of presence. But as one could tell when that one would latch onto any emotion that day out of desperation, the number of people dragging around feeling insulted is the reason geniuses have their moments indoors and alone. Manic freak-outs, but frightened of comforting things—there is no keeping count and no keeping mount. I understood, before I came here, that I would know that these people must fall deeply and recognize open spaces. Gathering that I could not just ask around to learn where the magic was (whether it was in beautifully lit tents, or in a treehouse), and then it being firmly unavailable. That would have crushed me. It would create only multitudes of plans to task through that were all once thought of as a younger, underdeveloped inconvenience one must take out to save skin from coldness and sempiternal spirals of darkness swallowing all wholes with only particles of science and beyond shrinking as the distant gaining speed victoriously off and away to a place with no pleasures or breaks. It is essential that you determine all answers for yourself. There were secondary places suggested to me by influences that I was able to whined out when I spent sunsets with them (the ones they were never fully sure about inviting me to) and I had written down coordinates for times of overwhelming inputs that hung outside on buildings outside my window, which I wasn’t able to shun when they become toxic to my discovered and genuine stillness. They keep dwindling the (knock-off) vibrancy at these secondary settings, and I was forced to get used to it. For example, house get-togethers, public parks, needed money, needed validation of whatever “correct behavior.” It was awful, and reminded me of home far too much. The Cliff My mind would intact briefly and breathe blue, clean breaths when I popped in on somewhere unforgettable on my own—the final drafted, already established. The fountain at a corner of the park at the left edge of society, literally overlooking a cliff that the best (yes there are) people of this world (the ones who happen to spawn in this city, too) come and relish unapologetically and embarrassingly (if they were to be seen by people who partook of that practice). Lying down, you would see how the grass walls don’t block that much of the view when on the inside. You can see the buildings behind the walls, still standing tall. You can see yourself, along with those gathered around the fountain, in the green walls all together, looking out and seeing a huge ocean with no one in it, beside younger ones jumping from the cliff down on the left side a few hundred yards away (still secret, they are still the great ones). The exuberant or the once was come to relapse and recharge, but it was indeed, gigantically covered with vines and roses. It was a small collection of natural, hidden explosions muffled for only the ones inside to hear the tones lathered blissfully and full of beautiful thoughts (every little thing, from the foundation of the Earth to the foundation man gracefully put between for appreciation and for the usage of others). It was as big as a room, but the ceiling was blue, top of the inside of a sphere, with the walls breathing in and out green life with their highlights of whichever color growth was in season, and behind the fountain awaited the water far down and away, with large cliffs resting on the left. Once, there were adolescents in red swimming suits making their way down the cliffs. They did not die, so they had an unspeakable way of a time when they hit the water from heights. Two of the seven in the group looked strangely at each other constantly. They were addicted, as I, to being shown what intensity there is to work with while in plain sight, vulnerable and open to whatever charges. At dusk, the lanterns that hang from the edges of the sturdy rock placed by enthusiasts start to glow. This was primary, and from time to time you even see the real hands that scribbled little, desperate sentences that could all save the world in their own forward direction from the grounds they were imprinted on. They varied from “It’s time for tea, swim across and see what we are supposed to prepare,” to “Cheers to the few phews that prompt all royalty.” It looked like an old back porch that was the property of an old journalist who only the Paris painters (who he hung out with without ever working on their stories) knew about during the Renaissance. It was hauntingly filtered with revolutionary thoughts you could soak in and dissect from an ancestor’s admirations to an altered anthropology lesson. They, the sentences by the people, became most eerie when you sat down on the concrete blocks and discovered that they were all thought up here, then choosing what would daunt you, until you write your own, but rather with your noble intention to avoid disheartening beguiles—perhaps intention will truly never embody a weathered consumption. So I have never imprinted at the fountain, but embrace the taste of all incoming structure conducted, denying the opportunity to coexist, sadly and obviously; I was intimidated. Being figured out was scary enough the first time, because it was by someone who knew the good things about me, too. I may just keep that one to myself, and let the traces be at peace wherever they may rest. I admired these cliff people as much I could, and wanted to know the secrets of what it took to be admirable without it being about a joke. There wasn’t any furniture, but multiple ways of comfort were identified and examined in the practice of unfamiliar circumstances. The fountain in the middle never stopped its rhythm, and the coins that were thrown in were worth as much as a messiah beginning a speech of complexity—or so it was just as intimidating. Most of these folks creeping up as we had all ducked into a secret, as a secret. All just collectors looking at what they had earned without their money. They weren’t all behind on commitments; they were just out and needed something to remember why they allowed themselves the most frequent schedule they would ever embrace. I have kind of been doing this unnaturally a lot, a little longer than lately (so I knew a lot about the scary parts). How being a complete outsider cannot be a full-time deal if you want to grow old to meet more like-minds. Even though this secret fountain on top of this secret cliff was more of a quiet place, there were joyous communal glares exchanged that were full of vibrant yellow. But it was wholly about the orange sundown with blue coats of splatter to keep it cool, with pink stripes always there. Or even, sometimes, the sky going upward as if selected, recommended harmonies chose you to sync with them, keeping you matched up on starry nights that fulfill until the next largest, open space reveals itself as effortlessly ticking and hinting that you need more than what it has to offer. Yet it will wrap you as warmly while you reset to new, while it resets its view, for whoever is approaching your buried troubles, which are spares that will most likely just be picked up and put on. Spending the night was heroic. I would sometimes wait outside after I was done to see what we were all leaving with and because the pace lets you be whenever you want to be. There was especially no trouble wanted by us fountain visitors, along with the tree visitors, storm chasers, cure discoverers, sound pointers, scene documenters, scene cleaners, and animal keepers. We all knew of each other, that there were others too to learn about, yet spotting parches were identified just by looking to see if they had red eyes, or jittery bribes to get in or be around—so much unnoticed evil, everywhere. The fountain was famous for hosting potent figures. I had a static seizure when I was not trampled; the welcome demonstrated the power, and showed me the rules of freedom. You could go somewhere else when you died, nature would draw you, agendas were filled spaciously with notes as a reminder of the stillness that was always achievable. But you could not go visit other stills, you could not love simple things, you could not visit old friends with your secrets, you could not mark anything as your own. Instead of weeping about coves and tree lines, which I gave nicknames, I fell deeply in interest with these four-walled deranges and the bright lights carried around by creatures that looked like me on the inside. It was the greatest of things, you know, that whoever did actually find their way to this obscure fountain would find revealing simply a form of creation, and would take you as seriously as you they took expeditions they wanted to survive—and I was never let down. I will invite you to the moment I discovered it—it was a Thursday night and a full moon. This very young man, at this moment to himself, with a very worn blue shirt where the red, thin stripes were in style (not the large ones); they take up far too much of the blue. - The boy collided exactly where I did, with a haven’t-been-curious-lately look on his face, as I have seen before but never by him. He just happened to be here on random Thursdays throughout the year, resting his back against the prickly wall, and always the wall that was the one of the entrances, with the perspective when looking out of facing his back to the society behind him. He could have made plausible, daring eye contact with me if he had not been occupied with heavy shoulders pushing him to the floor, with an empty gaze—blurry forward, loose jaw, and jittery hands. I looked away from him, then away from another man on the floor, who I knew made money by mixing theft with his uneducated audiences to make his wealth and name. I did not like him here, and that may be selfish, but he is rotten. The place was elevated off the street outside the green walls. There were stairs behind the entrance, and there were stairs by the balcony behind the pot on the left, which leads to a thin trail through a row of trees, then a garden, then around and up to the top of the cliffs. Some went there to commit for good; there were ways to look at yourself, even from such heights. Perspective isn’t much unless serenity is leveled and pieced together to mutter on about—what it means to say, to those you cannot see, what saves you gives them hell. I was held over until my last toe convinced me. Some mention crucifixion not resembling the same humiliation in that moment of mine. That was months ago, and I needed that perspective at that time. Even when I step out of character, these creatures know that whatever is going on must be one of the last things I have to hold onto; this was a dying gift to give. I guess you could think I was curious in the things that were historically immature and were at the edges of mass mutual agreement then as well. I just assumed dying without believing in something that might not have worked is what gets you into hell. So I listen and practice a lot, trying out all opinions. Brought to a discussion, most often when topics are dry and ready to offend, that invading a timid privacy was in fact pushing some limit that was to be defined without input or warning. But I learned about personal explorations in someone else’s limits and caves. And there were some with open ends and beginnings with fiery lights placed inside, and there are some closed and slippery unlabeled, boring walls that have no tones, and there are cells that must be open regardless of the rupturing importance the inmate has been working up. I know well that in this case there is no place like wandering one hole away from deep holes that were newly flourished or often even filled layers of tiny pieces of coal to leave no light for the deepest part of a tragic bypassing. My aimlessness and hoping mind made me eligible for humility again, into which I believed I could bolt around the corner untagged and unregarded tonight at a place and time of the old. Thought-out differences and turns that are unidentifiable and unusable unless used in unity and in exploration to put light over edges and gaze upon non-survivors, but show what they meant to be and set out for during their time of shaking interest in difficult times and dreary fortune. Could we see something similar in our setting tonight? There have been wildlife and astrology, there have been spirits of mine running around chronologically. I had inquired of these cultural crossovers when I was guided realistically through rights laid out after experienced vastly along the trail where my feet left kisses, and these happened beautifully and always where culture was still spiritual and molding forms. I have had luck and I have had deaths. And with my desperation at a binge that told me to move from where I sat, untried and lacking to revolution. So I made my way to him and would remember it all regardless due to marking distant points closing in for the sake of colliding, to repel with extraordinary speed from new sources till again, and hoping for discrepancy to clear eternally. Heart speeding on already, and I said while his head moved centimeters up to acknowledge my approaching than sitting self, “It is embarrassing to admit, which I amusingly and inopportunely do at times, but I find your presence here as profound as the bedtime story I was told but never lived in, that prompted some other marvelous, personal land after the lights crawled under the bed and after farewells till morning and wishes to slumber in ease, then the closing of two eyes. Maybe a grandfather’s carving under blowing willow trees, or red balloons representing companionship when there is nothing to do but let go and know they will land back as the dreamer would in hours, leaving behind that green balloon, closing in and retaking one’s love from the waning flames of one’s first. What if you forget those initials of the old man’s memoir wood? “That brings me to the beating fact that when you see what you saw in the air, and the insignificance you believed your dreams to be, it shows that something thought up to be gratitude was rather a lack of experience. Let me pass with care to you that your signification is of its own description and it is of the way you exist here now, letting what is under control rapture and overwhelm your composure and ease. “But this place is controlled by us, and do you see now how one can awake and have frightened away the bedtime stories and their tellers, even in the morning daylight that was meant for peace, and that when there is a call for retreat, there is no place for safety? But you do not see that, you see something else here and that runs and drags out there, too-something that gives you that feeling of retreat with your wounds, while others call it a surrender and a cut-down of time. Even the ones who collapse and look like yourself do not carry themselves likely when they leave. “But you do stay in heavy reality with other foreign factors intruding, but you apply them. Or maybe you do not? You are only seen here or talked about in tiny circles of people who misunderstand you in crueler ways than dreamless, green balloons. Mother and child, where do you come from, boy who sits around fountain and cliff view? You are not composite, and that never exists—even if you admit you act, don’t tell me it is not play.” All I knew of him was that he owned the most mystical mansion, because he once stood for a lot of things that were not up for thought, until he brought up a particular hill, with the topic resting at the top and consequences on both sides. He was still full of stories, ongoing and in process, because there was sadness touching me from his glance of sorrow that I was suspicious of matching up to the way my exuberance has been dissolving, without the consent I was too weak to have up-front or within. We were already close enough, and beyond the physical space for an interaction such as a handshake to show typical decency, so he kept forward, as his posture slouched and his eyes were worn, while I let myself fall down next to him. He had a clay ball that he took from his pocket and into his hand; it was red and it came back down correctly, without a god to do anything but catch and repeat by a creature mimicking power. It was expected, understood, and cherished if he put no significance into the words he would say or even find in himself a response—I feel over that. Know me just as one wanting to see. It was safe here. Maybe he was spending his spinning moment recollecting studied shortcuts, before he noticed I was sitting, to turn himself into someone that I needed to communicate with, someone like me who prescribes pestering, judge-free trust out of an experimentation of getting hints, or at least notes to subdue and apply to my currents. I spent mine acknowledging the pink, in-bloom hollyhocks complimenting dark blue, green, and white dots. As I kept close the night sky and swallowed then stammered through, “You are lying here, reliving a year—or two—with tears I know far too well in my own interpretation that is growing into my deepest insecurity. You see, you must excuse me coming up to you like this, but I must. And I must stop saying ‘I’ now, so please speak on what you are willing to tell a stranger, applying pressure on weaker spots surrounding your weakest.” He understood, and said, “Are you interested in, what? Let it exist.” His legs uncrossed and crossed again. The exhibit of value for free begins most value, so, naturally, my eyes filled with small tears. The boy would not have noticed even if he wasn’t too, neither would someone behind the bushes if they were listening in. No shaking, but varied, still downpours of exhausted relief made purposeful through the topic. “It’s important, I guess,” I said. My legs stretched out and made me taller, onto moving toward the view. My prologue followed the replica of length. “The moon being full, when I see you here sitting, tonight.” He looked up, and I noted the encouragement of attention. “I want to know—and I thought I did.” My fingers rowdy, I was depicting sounds that I heard, like the night, so I could move, going onto the next. I stood back up and walked past the fountain and toward the edge for the view. The direction facing out, there were calm boats, which might have held people aiding the neglected species that breathed differently after hours, out amongst the vast reflection of the water. The look-over had two large pots guiding you in; this was a tall place. I saw something I wanted to remember when I walked over to the edge; it was red, and the small black colors in my eyes exploded accordingly, but only tinting my face from the distant set-off. You would have seen something, too, how it was far and shooting past. I turned, trying not to miss importance ever again. He was leaning over himself. He was wincing through pain, but stood up for me. The stomach that he had was his derange; people argued that he had the wrong variety at times. He picked a flower from the garden. He obsessed over the way it had nowhere to go but his hands. He muttered quietly as he floated over to where it was expected of me to sink to the plans grown up in his process. “It usually happens Thursday morning, but I would like to have you experience some jaded, unrelated before, but an important I know you must see.” The colored flower sat on the edge, unidentifiable by its family, where I rested my right shoulder. I was listening, as I looked at death. He looked up with dry eyes. “Dry eyes, you see. Some people get some preparation; I get reminded.” He handed me a card with information on it, even though I never wanted that. MORNING OF Pure ecstasy—it is a moment where black flashes yellow, or some fancy investment not matching your wild, child-like world of colorful hallucinations any longer—you come around to it. Turning that, shaking that, you find an echo of terror making camp in the part of the brain you love most. A good performance—it’s all you’re asked for when you are healthy and young. “Live like it’s your last…Till death do us part... Don’t be afraid…” But dying once is a surprise that we have all been cracking up. Last night, I woke up and I felt fire on my back; I was falling in this loose darkness. Luck is bolder than honesty. You wake up, and you know it was like a cry you needed, yet you walk for blue moments on blue, knowing that what you were seeing was exactly like you. Last night’s moment and now, broadcasted as intimidating, more potently startling as it goes on. The creatures that were around to protect me all think I am boring—haven’t seen them in a while. If I were only able to produce a confession of less. Certain frenzies you find in your fantasies are as easy to work out as to withdraw twitches in your day-by-day body. So I started one you get more of, but offered no re-dos. There were once incomparable shortcuts still boxed up and scattered about my bedroom. I had stopped investing again, recently. No one would be able to make a fortune by proclaiming they didn’t have time for what they think about. It’s true that type of confusion happens, and it is only seasonal if you are worked up about that sort of low path that receptions know comes easily. My figure stumbling over and rapid, I check to see if I still look the same, in a mirror that came with the apartment downtown. I could hear delicate missiles being launched outside in a park by the street, from humans living fast. They exploded color until it was too small to see, and yet it was daylight that couldn’t stop them either. The left side of my face had two lines that were filled in with blood; I felt them with ease. Scratching happens I had dedicated a few binders I kept on a shelf near my bed, with what I could remember about the experiences that pushed deep into plans of homicidal actions planned against the other side of my imaginative tales forced indoors. Pedaling in the lane of danger isn’t a safe place to make plans, nor a direction that slows a beat down. I let water soothe my face, while the way outside felt was making me want to see it. The sun chose to again, and I could see a woman with naked pores worth a lack of sores and some man trying not to be seen broken while strutting with shiny apparel, out the window where I stretched. I kept inspiration on walls, in a closet, spread out on floors, and I changed them often to keep myself away from being a type of work that didn’t know when to shed into a renovated mind-set. Sometimes I draw up an obsession with paintings done of cabins, paintings of park-rule signs in front of owned, phenomenal places, or pictures taken of bears. The mirrors I have stood in front of, the paintings that captured stillness, the things I didn’t know had me falling—I found that I was spinning out. The last time, I forgot to update the space for challenging thoughts. If that were to happen again, I wouldn’t be able to hold a conscious face for the closed that look for an opening to compare fortune. There were creatures dying, creatures lying. A house can be made if there is a feasting of the locals. Prostrating throughout discussion leaves you wondering why you started anyway. So you move on. You let oak and natural smells make your choices, you learn their language. The way things move flick over the modern topic in hands. I live today undauntedly, as many other times, but an unwanted subliminal brews over my head. Making it to the point when work is staying alive, which keeps you in, being fed up with everyone outside skipping over the introductions of titles. At one point, that was my favorite part, but they have their points that I settle into. Once, I paid a foreign man to carry me out of the city in a navy coffin. When I looked up into the almost black, all I could hear was the rattling of someone being strong enough, but not capable of things being easy. But that is what I paid for, and it wasn’t much. Probably, if his boss had found out about his rare, lucky tips, he would have slammed his skull with a smith’s hammer and scooped him up like the rest till the stacked pile in the back shack. I tipped him anyway, and I was off to my own pile, which I found was in need of a sorting, not a viewing. My foot’s tracks after found tracks, there were colors I saw that matched only in those parts of what was unable to be captured. One is something different, one finds. After the morning thought, I took down a painting of a bird flying up, which was above my bed. It was made for me, in the same room as me, by The Painter from north-eastern borders. He talked about his “real” home, and how it depended on him stretching out to come here. There was always a canteen of poison hanging from one of his belt loops, and he said that the birds actually disturbed him back home when they shook a branch, or poked their heads into holes. The short period I spent with him here in these busy streets, we were both talking about leaving. The Painter was the first person to tell me to go back to Greenland; he was a disappointment. I set it down, jotted a note that would remind me to write another one on it when I delivered it discreetly to a gallery. They would see to send me a due. There was plain, red thread that I threw on my back. There was proof that everyone needed to get into places only busy people get into—a picture of my face. It was in my left pocket. Exposing people is a terrible flaw; a lot to do with how I come to know that is watching someone be alone in an empty place, and calling out to them. It is an embarrassing habit, but I do it often out of being consistently nowhere identifiable. Some people afford castles by exposing great secrets. There was a gathering, in some cave at some mountain, where we taught each other how to never expose again. There was this girl—she had a beautiful face like an angel, but she was taking notes moment after moment, until we finally burned her face off at dinner time, when we found out she had jotted down directions. Note to find alternative ways of letting needed things through in the midst of chaos, or you’ll lose what you needed to see what you gained. So I picked up the card the boy gave me, and I made the day to talk to him about why he was okay with willingly exposing himself to me when I broke. I scrambled over for a last look at the streets before I walked out of my room and into the hallway; I didn’t see anything this time. It was a Wednesday morning. - I was out amongst a lot of things. My building was a few blocks from the hill he was on. There were also a few tall things that made you go around between our stance. During a time where I thought about logging, I spent many hours at a small shop under a mob’s quarters; it was at the corner of this intersection. I decided to stop by because I knew they sold music sheets. Inside, they always had tunes, turned in a direction that kept the owners peppy regardless. I found that this music was on today, when I stepped in, as the bell rang for dedicated attention. Flipping through lifetimes of beautiful atmospheres and thoughts, I picked up a replica and bought a warm cup of tea at the counter, where I talked to the owners about fish and whether they ever throw them back. They said they did when there were grandchildren figuring things out by watching, but otherwise they shredded them with their teeth and went for their friends. I tipped them some coins, and walked outside into the air of the world with my bag in my hand. The first thing I heard was a scream followed by a bang followed by a siren announcing some start. What I saw to begin with, somewhat, was a summer photo shoot in the fall. I ducked my head left and went that way. There were all kinds of voices behind me, and the ones that held my interest in front. I heard a smile from a poor man who made his living doing so, testing its distance. There were lots of damaged lungs, and lots of people going places. - Up the street, there started to be a noticeable sight of wider rooms after rooms with longer spaces between the few houses there were, going up into where you could purchase quiet time. There wasn’t any property up for grabs sitting outside the most expensive, no one needed to get anywhere unless they did, into which they made that process a fortune to owe. They kick you out if you hop outside. There are sections thought up of, when I wasn’t thinking in any way about what I was doing. Admittedly, going hunting is the way of a mammal on the contrary of cleaning spoons after something prepared. The sidewalks were still carefully made onward and upward. Although this street was the home of my destination and would be the end of a repetitive that was started ambitiously and that was more helpful than usually thought up to be. His manor, from the outside: tall, mid-tone gates along the front, from which I was able to see the expensive surprises inside for free. There was a light on up in the fourth floor; you could feel that an atmospheric galaxy was in the whatever-sized room. He was the owner. Smooth audibles, matching keys that matched with others separately, yet all tangible to an overwhelmed, inspired chin rub. I was able to recognize it because I have been around those specifics, but I could not replicate any of this, and it was all so terribly unwrapped for me. The gates opened and two tall men with soft, lavender suits approached my left and right. When I moved, being the onlooker, I stretched my arms out so they could hold the ends of them, and finally do what they think of while they wait outside day after day. The two men turned in my direction, their inner hands caressing mine with their gloves off, and their other hands pointing out blue trees for resting, retired blue birds and a sonnet written across a tall, wooden wall that was the entrance to an orange garden, with women playing harps and resting on broad dirt that was soft (you could hear that, too). An interest in looking into gigantic forces that kept you secluded being put into words slipped in one of my storage rooms. Softly, I was then told that the person who had written such a thing happened to have been fired for blue words, where he earned an audience but was viewed wholly as from the industry. The writer was the part about it and was hoping to leave, getting executed by crowds that did not see or know what he talked about. As an extra, I now know that he lives tiny, because what he earned makes him with no need to grow to go anywhere else. He is the writer, and he is out somewhere with others I didn’t know of to begin with. I walk and looking black from the inside was monstrous, and the way the front yard was more broad once you were in it, and the gates taller from further away. A fountain of a young girl sitting on a bench was in the middle of a foreign roundabout in the front yard; the water came out of her mouth, down onto the book she was living in, then finally fell where her feet met the light action of submerging. She had shoulder-length hair, a skinny waist with a shorter skirt. I enjoyed what mattered about the frame I was showing myself, as the similarly occupied, left man was, because it was to our right when we walked about it. The two men carried out an innocent entrance with me, then bowed as they let go, their backs straightening after they turned and pressed against the wall of the mansion to resume patience. They were the finest at their job that I have seen over my years of receiving hands that were paid to. When I entered the open door, I was in a place where the welcome was casually dependent, as were the people I saw over my shoulder, who were gathering out in the street after another word from a visitor, at the most private estate for grand reasons unknown. They were talking with kept thoughts let out for the exclusively, similarly experienced un-wealthy, who adapted to the idea of most gates closing off their welcome, even though most of the time they were missing what one needed to find so one could know what was going on. Didn’t fit anyway, just my people that I am losing depth with. I shut the door and didn’t make eyes with anyone, but the image of them getting closer to the point of no capability of pointing my figure out. I was unweary with them, for I was closing myself off in dark, similar-minded atmospheres for the first time in a long time. The wasteland outside I am fond of leaving behind, yet I am showed in lavish, front-yard creations that were moved into and claimed. Mark me as the latest discoverer of vivid malice, birthed from various strands of realities, uneasy secrets striking me to my own, and I am unable of withholding realities except my own unmarked. The Boy’s Manor I was greeted with a long hallway, down the middle, as a lane for making my way through, shown with two rows of gold candles after another on the walls. The top of this tunnel was low, and when I stepped closer and closer, I found three steps down into warm water that continued to the end of the hall, where I made out a dark, burgundy room that was used as a study. Standing from the distance, I could only make out a table and some shelves with books. Before I would slip off my shoes to make my way in, I gave my attention to the two doors, which weren’t options for company, but up-front for enigmatic taste. I knew this because the doors were both closed off and had locks on them for keys. Blue and with vines, the one on the right had a sign that temporarily spelled out, “Be down after B-flat.” I expect that was the location of the sounds I had observed out front when I was looking up, accepting the idea that the house owner expected his guest to walk through the tunnel while he was off onto personal projects with natural appearances. So I looked at the left, red door, leaving it at that significance as I took the picture of me and the gift for the owner and placed them on the floor right in front of my toes. I didn’t want these items wet, but I also wanted the host to know who was at the other side of his interest, and the appreciation at hand. I stepped over them, and submerged myself as I tend to inevitably find myself at this place that offers discussable, yet forcibly individual experiences. I forced intrusive thoughts behind myself and invited all unfamiliar concepts to sprout inside of me, as they must at a time like now, in a place such as here. Paintings of creatures hung above the candles to my sides when I looked up and around. They were offensive styles that I looked over and anonymously exposed at committee discussions, but new meaning belongs in all new places. Paddle after paddle, calm ripples that pushed at a pace that ended where I would in seconds now. I am at three steps again, and I turned my back to see the front door and where I was. When I stretched my way out, I made the wooden floor wet. What a monstrous library it was, now that I was able to see the ceiling, which went up through all stories and prompted a waiting room for guests. This dark room was a partner you could weep around. It gave off familiarities of those therapeutic rows sold out for low interpreters on a night of viewing preparations, something you would see during times of that occupation, a setting dressed up for effect with such purpose thought up by onlookers. So it would not matter how I was seen. There was a door up a floor that was accessed by a spiraling flight of stairs to my right. I made out a lock from my placement, then directed my attention to the middle, which had shelves of books that went up after having been filled with extensive rows of width. The mobile ladder scooted over to a loft as well, which I noticed on my left. It all prompted new design, yet still acknowledged its foundation of simple astonishment in closed quarters. I expected it to be an altar or a place of orange thought, the loft that was up, when a tighter place was needed, when pacing is just reminding you of overdone; and so it was. I was usually the one to break the news of rudeness to myself. I have spent lifetimes studying legible manners, but I grasped the ladder with hands firmly, steadying my weight that didn’t want to let go into the dead-space before contact with the floor. When I reached the loft, it was not tall enough for a human to squat let alone stand, so I crouched on my knees. There was a wool mattress with red blankets on top and two books resting at the edge: Kelpie Horses and Defense and the other, Shooting Down Arianrhod. One studied these writings to find out if the writer was real; I found that they were both pen-name frauds, and had an obsession with examining the way they wrote to close off their pasts. They did, in irritating honesty, dress it all up quite well. That is what I remember from spreading their best works out to examine why dreadful and incredibly sincere words were used to describe the words themselves. But it is sad to watch an individual proclaim that they can be trusted, when all they did was stay the same and add thoughts they wouldn’t die for, or even swear on a life that they exist at all or are impure without coverage. I could not find interest back then, but I picked them both up and crossed my arms for gentle support. There was also a red curtain covering a small window across from the bed. All I needed was my fingertips to open up a view, so I let go concept after concept so I had a hand for rest and a hand for revealing. I pinched the curtain over starting from the left side, and when I scooted an inch back to see what was made up of the library, I focused back toward the right curtain, which I caressed like the grass you lie upon in spring on top of red blankets. The left side of my face reflected colors from what I could not see until my right side confirmed them, shooting out from trees in the backyard, beyond the acre of a second garden named after a native tribe leader who had left a legacy of tally marks representing all the times he had refrained from announcing his heroism. I knew this because I had met one of his great-great-grandsons at a lynching of the wealthy. But I won’t bring that up, because not all crossovers are threatening and I, as well as being the descendent of a popular man, found such actions to be of a coward’s backup statement of cowardly firsts. The garden was beautiful, equally as the one from the front yard, but this one had a thin pebble path that took you through it to gaze at foreign designers’ work, or down to the forest where war was happening in those trees. Or some sort of grand finale celebrated with science so that you could hear them howling through the night, chanting in understood differences that were translated (by me) as “gnawing what lovers don’t eat, screeching what stammerers repeat.” Being behind walls or behind in lessons had me beating, soothingly nerved. I cursed why I was not dancing, and why I had left where it all began to begin with. But I have no power of that or of blessings, but of memory and passing that all was made within me and spread around, touching all color and wind to people I met down at the town, who would give me jobs to shut me up and use my interview words for their advertisement—when blue is used in a way you do not agree with. I sat up, blessed to be blooming my own orange thoughts, with my feet dangling off the edge, becoming an item of the library, waiting till the owner alerted, remembering when I had been terrified of the tribes I was with and when they had started to write notes to spite me at the resting spots through spiraling roads and scenic benches. But I found that they were moving onto some other language and wouldn’t decipher my most yellow hints. Sometimes I could see myself turning around and watching all the partners I had for hunting, who saw me as game and charged. So I wandered to a place closer than you’d think, going back again, and started calling myself by my birth name again, and frequently verified whether I had yet to begin morphing into sorcery, head always down. Your parents are supposed to cry when they see you staying crazy, and then once more when you decide to scowl, when they see your hidden house packed up. But I did not see mine at the expensive descent back down, nor a memory to imagine me when I went up, because I strongly believe no one was surprised after I kept saying, “I always will be,” endlessly in stern, when I was younger than young. These thoughts were now merely contemplations of masterpieces and which to soon consume. There were a few favorites I kept stored away in my most decorative confinements—quite literally, quite secretly in mind. But as I started to dress up the characters and start whichever song, I was bombarded with the towers that would guard my thoughts until the ghostly moon I shall be chosen to unlock a way out of this life, the same life I now pronounce upright and with intimidating power. The tip of the toe of the boy who I owed had touched the water. Relapsing briefly into letting go of an edge, with rattling venom that some would call “the bottom.” But I stayed up top for now, with my legs hiding under my neck, hunching over just so my eyes could work out simplicities that are endlessly twisted, or possibly the scarce ingredients that are put in to end cruel wars that save the good that few create. Oh, look closely. You see—so serious, so overtaking, all so heavily near me now. He was pushing himself down the hallway, emerged inside the liquid forces. I knew one approaching me was one too many, but he stepped up into the room and did not notice me. The boy took off his soaking clothes, and walked across the room and up the spiraling stairs. He had the sheets of music in his arms that were dry, and it was assumed that he kept them lifted out of kindness. When he made it up the stairs, he unlocked the door and went inside, until he came out with a ginormous maroon bathrobe swallowing him whole. He locked the door and came down, looking at me smiling, and keeping that frame until he came over, close to my feet. The highly fortunate, yet comparably experienced boy said, “Everything starts when it should, it’s a yike.”

[circlesofts]

Please don't hate me... from the "Get To Know Me" questionnaire: All of them? Or at least all that you choose to answer. You don't have to answer those that you don't want to

Thanks for asking! Don’t worry about it, no hate, i’m happy to do it (Sorry it’s a day or two late, mobile Tumblr doesn’t give me notifications for messenger. Luckily I remembered to check…)

1. What is your middle name? Claire

2. How old are you?20 years old

3. What is your birthday?6th of Feb, the 20 years old thing is fairly recent

4. What is your zodiac sign?Aquarius

5. What is your favorite color?I quite like green/turquoise/purple (#339933, #008060, #990099 for an idea)

6. What’s your lucky number?I don’t really have one, probs 6 or 2

7. Do you have any pets?Used to have lots of pets, currently just a dog and cat, they’re p cute

8. Where are you from?I’m from the North West of England, around the Fylde Coast

9. How tall are you?5″5

10. What shoe size are you?I’m a size 4.5-5 for shoes

11. How many pairs of shoes do you own?There��s 10 pairs with me at uni (including slippers) but I have an extra 5 or more pairs at home I think

12. What was your last dream about?I can’t remember my last dream

13. What talents do you have?Umm, I don’t really have any talents, I can sort of do things but nothing I’m really good at? 

14. Are you psychic in any way?I don’t really believe in psychic stuff, but I sometimes really vividly dream stuff before they happen? Then a strong sense of Déjà vu

15. Favorite song?I have too many favourite songs, from too many genre. A few good ones that I listened to recently, Vectors by Area 11, Boy With A Coin by Iron and Wine, Salad Days/My Kind Of Woman by Mac Demarco and finally, the hot new meme Bag Raiders by Shooting Stars

16. Favorite movie?Again, there’s a lot. Anything Ghibli is a hit, also Your Name is a banger. Rogue one was p fantastic, Amélie, Fight Club, Animatrix, so many more

17. Who would be your ideal partner?Idk, someone who tries to understand me I guess, who never stops trying and always want to find out more. Also patience is key, I’m not the easiest person to live with

18. Do you want children?I do want children, but also the idea of it terrifies me

19. Do you want a church wedding?I’ve never been super fussed about marriage but a church wedding does sound appealing in some ways.

20. Are you religious?None Religion with Left Beef

21. Have you ever been to the hospital?I’ve been to the hospital a few times

22. Have you ever got in trouble with the law?Nah, never been caught

23. Have you ever met any celebrities? Met Alfie Boe, his aunt or mum or smth lives v close to me

24. Baths or showers?Showers for sure

25. What color socks are you wearing?No socks lad

26. Have you ever been famous?I’ve been in the local newspaper a few times, wouldn’t exactly call it famous tho

27. Would you like to be a big celebrity?Yes and no, like the idea of being remembered and being influences. Also kind of a poor background so the money would be nice. But also too much pressure

28. What type of music do you like?Cliché as it is, I like a bit of everything. Although preferences for rock, indie, folk. Although I’ve been on a vaporwave jam recently

29. Have you ever been skinny dipping?nah

30. How many pillows do you sleep with?2 usually, sometimes 3

31. What position do you usually sleep in?On my front or side I think

32. How big is your house?My uni flat is p small, my parents house is 3 bedroom, small but not super small

33. What do you typically have for breakfast?On the rare occasions I have breakfast, toast w/tomatoes on. Although I did just treat myself to a box of cereal which is very rare.

34. Have you ever fired a gun?Air rifle at scouts, I wasn’t half bad

35. Have you ever tried archery?Again, at scouts

36. Favorite clean word?Altruism

37. Favorite swear word?It has to be cunt

38. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep?3 days, it was during exam period as well

39. Do you have any scars?2 on my face

40. Have you ever had a secret admirer?Umm, not in the super romantic sense with surpise gifts and shit. More like people have had crushes and told me months/years later, doesn’t end well usually

41. Are you a good liar?Yes

42. Are you a good judge of character?I’d like to think I am, but probably not. Sometimes tho

43. Can you do any other accents other than your own?Poorly

44. Do you have a strong accent?North-west doesn’t have any particularly strong accent. That being said, some people at uni can tell I’m not from the south

45. What is your favorite accent?Italian probs. Although for comedy, it’s gotta be Somerset (think Hot Fuzz)

46. What is your personality type?Quiet probably, I’m not really sure

47. What is your most expensive piece of clothing?I own some Dr Martens boots, that or a shirt I got in a sale that turned out to be heckin expensive

48. Can you curl your tongue?Ye

49. Are you an innie or an outie?Innie

50. Left or right handed?Right

51. Are you scared of spiders?Definitely house spiders

52. Favorite food?Burgers or chocolate.Although red peppers.

53. Favorite foreign food?I really like Indian curry, not spicy tho. Although there’s nothing more British than going for an Indian, unless it’s a Chinese.

54. Are you a clean or messy person?Kitchen is always clean, bedroom is always messy.

55. Most used phrase?Soft boy, Ayy lmao, That’s gay, it’s chill, It’s a banger. I have a lot of stock phrases I just kinda say without thinking, I don’t remember all of them

56. Most used word?Probably soft, or dickhead

57. How long does it take for you to get ready?if I’m late and I don’t have to look nice, I can be ready in 10-20. However for most things I’m late because I take too damn long59.  Do you have much of an ego?Not really, but it’s easily bruised

59. Do you suck or bite lollipops?Bite

60. Do you talk to yourself?Sometimes

61. Do you sing to yourself?Yes, a lot

62. Are you a good singer?Average

63. Biggest Fear?Forgetting things, memories, smells, how something felt. That and things like aneurysms and strokes, I’m really afraid of them.

64. Are you a gossip?Definitely. If it’s not v important or a secret I’m gonna be all over it

65. Best dramatic movie you’ve seen?Little Miss Sunshine

66. Do you like long or short hair?All hair is good hair

67. Can you name all 50 states of America?Nope

68. Favorite school subject?Sociology, Philosophy, Art

69. Extrovert or Introvert?A shy and anxious extrovert

70. Have you ever been scuba diving?Nah

71. What makes you nervous?People with any authority to judge, people judging, being alone, loud people and loud noises. Laddish people

72. Are you scared of the dark?Nah

73. Do you correct people when they make mistakes?Depends on the mistake, but usually

74. Are you ticklish?Very

75. Have you ever started a rumor?Kinda, yeah. In high school. My friend put his newts in the bathtub while he was cleaning their tank. We were all having a laugh in maths about it and I made a joke about him bathing with his newts and then it became A Thingl. It wasn’t super bad, mostly funny.

76. Have you ever been in a position of authority?Yeah

77. Have you ever drank underage?Ye

78. Have you ever done drugs?Ye

79. Who was your first real crush?One of my online friends from back in my Deviantart days

80. How many piercings do you have?None,

81. Can you roll your Rs?Not really, with great effort

82. How fast can you type?Very fast on my phone, average on my laptop

83. How fast can you run?Not sure, I don’t do a lot of running anymore, probably not v fast. Used to be p fast tho

84. What color is your hair?Currently brown

85. What color is your eyes?Hazel

86. What are you allergic to?Nothing

87. Do you keep a journal?Nah

88. What do your parents do?My dad is a welder fabricator, my mum is currently unemployed

89. Do you like your age?Not really? I don’t feel 20 but it makes me anxious, I wanna be a teenager again

90. What makes you angry?injustice, being tricked, when people make me feel stupid

91. Do you like your own name?Ye

92. Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they?Nah man

93. Do you want a boy a girl for a child?Gender or sex isn’t important

94. What are you strengths?I’m a good listener, and I always try and be as kind as thoughtful as I can be. Although sometimes salty, I am usually p good at moving past things and forgiving people, although sometimes a weakness.

95. What are your weaknesses?Anxious, sometimes way too defensive. Because I hate being tricked I have a very bad reaction to pranks. I’m also really forgetful and have poor motivation.

96. How did you get your name?My Grandma is Irish and there’s a river Shannon, also my older bro is called Shaun. Shaun and Shannon is a good name combo.

97. Were your ancestors royalty?Don’t know, don’t think so

98. Do you have any scars?question 39

99. Color of your bedspread?Green and White

100. Color of your room?Room at home is red, room here is white and pale blue.

[surveys4ever]

12.

Are you excited for Halloween? Ehhh! We don’t really do anything for halloween besides create content for IG and we don’t get any trick or treaters and it’s a sign that winter is coming which is usually miserable for me so...it’s not my fave!

What makes you smile or laugh no matter what? The hubs and our pup!

Do you like coffee, or do you prefer hot cocoa? Hot chocolate foreverrrrr.

What's your favorite kind of candy? I loooove Kinder Buenos. They are so fkn good.

What is a song that brings back a lot of memories? I have a 

What were you doing an hour ago? Playing Sims!

Do you have feelings for anyone? Of course!

Do you have a Snapchat? I have one but I don’t have the app downloaded and haven’t used it in years.

Do you believe in ghosts? I really don’t. There’s a reason that ghosts are all from the 1800′s when technology didn’t exist and you had to take people’s word for things.

Do you look younger or older for your age? I’m 27 but I feel like I could pass for 23-25.

Pick a random word that begins with the first letter of your first name. Jamba Juice!

Put that word in a sentence now. Are Jamba Juices even still a thing?

How long is your hair? Shoulder length but I’m in the process of growing it out.

Are there any movies out you'd like to see? Our local movie theater is playing a bunch of the old horror movies like Dracula and Creature From The Black Lagoon this summer and I’ve never seen them so I’m excited to go!

 What's your favorite sports team? (if you like sports)? I hate sports.

How many parties have you been to this year? Zeroooo.

Are you a jealous person? Not in my marriage. My husband doesn’t give me anything to be jealous over and if there is ever anything that would arise to make me feel that way, he would immediately correct it. But I do get jealous over the way my parents treat my siblings as opposed to the way they treat/treated me. Guess which relationship is really healthy and guess which one is super toxic.

Last thing you ate? Leftover pizza from last night.

What color shirt are you wearing? Blue!

Would you ever get a piercing or tattoo? or do you already have some? I have 6 piercings and no tattoos. I want more piercings and I’m not opposed to getting tattoos, I just don’t know what I want.

What do you miss most from your childhood? I miss a life when I wasn’t so fucking anxious all the time but I wouldn't trade that for having to live the life I was living.

Are you afraid of clowns? Nope!

Who is your hero? My husband. He went through so much as a child and still managed to come out the other end as a genuinely kind, good person. Those are rare as fuck but even more so if you take into account what he’s been through.

If you had to change your name, what would you change it to? I’m happy the way it is!

Do you like romance movies? Depends on the movie but sure!

Do you like thunderstorms? Ugh yes. We always go out on the front step or pull the sofa up to the window to watch it.

Have you ever been to a football game? When I was in high school, sure.

What's the battery percentage on your cell phone? 88%!

Do you like to sing or dance? I mean...I like to do it but I don’t do it well.

Do you like country music? It depends on the song!

How old are you? 27!

What's the closest object to you that is blue? My water tumbler!

Do you have or want kids? No and no.

Are you shy? Sadly, yeah.

How much did your favorite pair of shoes cost? I think like $25? They’re white Converse and I got them off Mercari for cheap.

Do you take a lot of selfies? It’s kind of my job, so yeah.

Do you prefer strawberries or cherries? Strawbs!

How many hours of sleep did you get last night? 8ish.

Are you allergic to bees? I don’t believe so? I was stung by either a bee or a wasp as a kid and it hurt like hell but I didn’t have any extra reaction.

Do you resemble a celebrity? I get told like I look like a plus size Scarlett Johansson all the time but like...no I don’t?

Is telling the truth really that hard to do? I mean, it depends on the situation.

Is there anyone who seems to dislike you for no reason? You mean my mother?

Do you wear leggings? I do!

Have you ever been to another country? Yup!

Do you listen to music daily? For sure!

How is the weather? It’s pretty hot! It’s supposed to be hella windy this week too.

Biggest insecurity? No comment :)

Do you play video games? I have a select few I like but I wouldn’t classify myself as a gamer or anything like that.

Are you a morning or night person? Morning!

Do you like Demi Lovato? Not really, tbh! They’ve had some bops over the years but I’ve never been a fan.

How many twitter followers do you have? (if you have twitter) Almost 500 I think. I just don’t see the point of Twitter so I always forget to use it.

What are 3 things you want for Christmas? I collect vintage Coach bags so those are really all that's on my list.

Who was the last person to message you? My husband.

Have you ever had braces? I had an appliance and then an Invisalign for a while! I lucked out and didn’t need braces.

Do you consider yourself lazy? Yeah.

What recently made you laugh? My husband referred to sex as ‘McDick’s with extra mayo’ and that made me laugh for some stupid reason.

Do you like gummy bears? They’re alright!

Are you excited for anything? We’re going on a mini road trip in a couple of weeks! That’s pretty exciting.

What season does your birthday fall in? Winter.

What was the last thing you purchased online? A pair of Vans that sadly didn’t fit and I have to send back.

What was the last song you listened to? Currently listening to Glorious by Macklemore!

Do you feel awkward using public transportation? I’ve never had to!

Describe your mom with one word. I don’t even know if I could do that, man.

What's your favorite snack? Ruffles sour cream & cheddar baybeeee.

Do you like art? It depends on the artwork, tbh. I don’t get the random smears of paint that sell for millions of dollars but I do love the pieces that you can tell the artist sunk their heart and soul into and/or spent yearssss refining their skills to create.

Would you rather bake a cake or cookies? It depends! I enjoy eating the cookies more but I really enjoy the process of assembling the cake.

How long does it take you to shower? Like 10 minutes, if that.

Do you wear black lipstick? I mean, I have in the past but it’s not my favorite shade or anything like that. I’ve noticed that whenever I wear dark shades of lipstick, men come out of the woodworks to tell me I look like a femenazi. I am a feminist, but it’s just something interesting I’ve noticed!

Are you taller than 5'5? Yup, 5′11!

What's your guilty pleasure? I don’t feel guilty about pleasure.

What relieves you when you're stressed? The issue I’m stressed about being resolved.

What time is it? 12:56 pm!

Do you still watch cartoons? Usually more adult geared cartoons, but yeah!

What curse word do you use most? Fuck, goddammit, and jesus fucking christ are my go-tos.

What's your favorite thing about each season? Winter: Christmas Spring: That first day where it’s above freezing and the sun comes out and you realize that you’ve been walking around like a zombie for three months because of seasonal depression. Summer: Not having to worry about winter. Fall: Fall fashion is the best in my opinion.

Do you like dressing up? I do! It makes me feel the best about myself.

Do you like hiking? Never been but I can tell you for a fact that I would not enjoy it.

Does it snow a lot where you live? Yes, sadly.

If you were famous. what would you want to be famous for? I mean...I’m kind of internet famous. I’m a beauty/fashion/lifestyle influencer. Never ever ever thought that’s what I’d be known for.

Have you ever seen a shooting star? ...I don’t actually think so, now that I think about it.

Can you do a cartwheel? Noooo.

What's the most rebellious thing you've done? Left my parents’ religion and became a staunch, anti-religion atheist who fucks around with tarot and witchcraft.

Do you make wishes at 11:11? Every time.

Is your hair dyed? Yup, purple!

What color is your room? White!

If you could switch places with anyone, who would it be and why? Someone rich so I could wire myself some money for when we switched back, haha.

What's your dream job? I’m kinda doing it, tbh. You wouldn’t think so considering how miserable I am but this is what I always dreamed about.

Do you have a lot of freckles? Moles/beauty spots, yes!

Have you ever had stitches? Yep!

What's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you? One time when I was like 11 or 12, I was at the grocery store with my mom and she forgot to get a box of cereal so she asked me to run and grab it. I got it and as I turned to run away, I heard a box hit the floor but I didn’t bother to stop and pick it up. When I got to the end of the aisle, I looked back and there was this decrepit old man sloooowly bending down to pick the box of cereal I’d dropped up off the floor. That truly humbled me and taught me such an important lesson that I still think about now, 15ish years later.

What shoe size do you wear? 10!

What's a language you wish you knew how to speak? Spanish or French!

What's the biggest turn-off? Being a religious Republican.

What is the last picture you took of? A screenshot of something I wanted to remember later!

What annoys you the most? People who use a fake deity to justify their shitty behavior.

Do you sleep with noise or complete silence? Well it’s summer so we have a fan on but I hate having it on. The noise is super chaotic to me.

Do you procrastinate a lot? Yeah. I’m an anxious perfectionist and so I procrastinate doing things constantly, to avoid the chance of failure.

Tell me a joke. My mental health, HA.

Do you sleep with any stuffed animals? Nope!

Are you scared of any animals? I mean, wild ones that would want to eat me, yeah.

Do you like the beach? I loooove it. We live so far from any type of water tho.

What's your favorite pastime? Sewing!

Do you use emojis? Oooooh yeah.

Who is the most attractive male celebrity in your opinion? Tom Selleck when he was young.

Are you an only child? Noooope. 5 siblings total.

Apple or Android? Apple, no contest.

Have you ever been on an airplane? Yep!

Do you ever wish you lived somewhere else? Sometimes!

Have you ever met a celebrity? A few follow me on IG but I’ve never met them in person.

What's the craziest thing you've done? Packed up and flew like 2000 miles to meet a guy I met on the internet when I was 18 hahaha.

What's your favorite memory of 2015? We moved into our current apartment building!

Tea or Lemonade? Lemonade.

What's the longest you've gone without sleep? Almost 48 hours.

Say something you really want to tell someone. I just really wish my family kept me up to date on what was happening with them. I’m constantly forgotten about and it kills me every time.

What's a fashion trend you don't understand? These new all neutral matching ‘streetwear’ sets that just look like prison or gym uniforms.

What year were you born? 1994.

 What's your opinion on One Direction, or boybands in general? They get a much worse rap than they deserve. Sometimes they make good music! Who cares? Let people enjoy things.

Do you like roller coasters? Absolutely not.

Confess something. I’m terrified of the concept of getting older and dying.

What's your lucky number? 32!

When was the last time you had fast food? On Sunday I believe.

Do you get along with your parents? We tolerate each other but we don’t like each other.

Worst habit? Procrastinating.

What's your favorite word? Brobdingnagian.

[klancefanwithfeelings]

Klance fic (should I continue with it?)

Dog dad seeks same

“Do you think Kosmo gets lonely?” Lance traced a finger over the rim of his cocoa mug. They were sitting on Lance’s porch, just watching the sunset. Kosmo was gnawing at a particularly hard rissole by their feet that Lance had kind-of overcooked, too busy arguing with Keith. The little happy growls and wet smack of lips on meat sounded gross, but Keith was watching his cosmic wolf with a soft, proud look.

Keith’s eyebrows furrowed hard at the question. He seemed to be chewing it over with the same intensity that Kosmo was decimating his burger. “Of course, he does. Didn’t you hear me over the comms on the way home to Allura? He needs company. Otherwise he gets a bit—

“Chewy?”

“Destructive.” Keith leaned down, hand gently carding its way through Kosmo’s thick fur. Kosmo stopped chewing to turn his upper body to face him, muzzle nuzzling into his palm with his eyes closed in utter bliss. Keith’s face was almost mirroring his wolf as he rubbed behind his ear. “Why are you asking?”

Lance took in the gentle sight and blundered. Scratched his cheek. “No-no reason.”

Keith dropped his hand, much to Kosmo’s displeasure who tried to lift it with his nose back into the doing the good scratchies. He turned to Lance with a look of utter horror. “Has he said anything to you?”

“No! What—Keith? No! No talking space wolf here. Just, curiosity.”

Keith narrowed his eyes. The scar on his cheek caught the porch-light and looked like pure scalding flame. “And what’s prompted this curiosity?”

“And what’s prompted this intensity? Buddy, Keith, in all our years at space I’ve just never seen another wolf like Kosmo. I was just wondering if there were any other tamed teleporting cosmic wonder wolves around that would be up for a doggy meet-and-greet. Has your mu—has Krolia said anything to you? About his species?”

“Just that he’s a cosmic wolf. And that he seems to like me.” Keith leaned back into the bench seat, looking up at the moths as they were attracted into their own demise with a pained ‘zap’ of the light. He winced. “And that he makes for a delightful pillow, now that he’s bigger.”

Lance snorted the rest of his chocolate milk through his nose at the image of the large, intimidatingly serious Galra woman cushioned into the warm folds of Kosmo’s fur in-between missions.

Keith blinked at him, cocking his head in question. Lance wished he hadn’t gone back to drink more as Kosmo mirrored the adorable expression and thus more hot milk wound up on the floorboards.

Keith tsk-ed a chuckle, which grew as he took in the utterly mortified look on Lance’s face and his drenched shirt. “I know why I’m laughing, but why are you laughing?”

“Just,” Lance gestured vaguely at the air. “Your mum doesn’t strike me as the cuddly type.”

Keith bristled and Lance sighed, motioning with his hands to calm down. “It’s just nice to get an extra side for her. We don’t—I haven’t heard much from her. She’s always struck me as intimidating, so it’s nice to know she has a softer side.”

Keith sat up and scowled. Kosmo rolled over for belly rubs which were generously given. “Where do you think I get it from.”

Lance shrugged. “Your own lifelong sweetness?”

Keith stared him down until Lance cracked. “Has she taught him any tricks? She seems like she knows how to teach discipline.”

Keith shook his head. “She is a good leader and teacher,” there was a sadness to his gaze, as if imagining the lost years they had. “But Kosmo only really listens to me. Even then, it’s more of a partnership than anything.” Keith—he pouted. He full on pouted and Lance felt his heart pinch out a little ‘aww.’ “He doesn’t even play fetch with me.”

“Really?” Lance blinked. “Well, maybe he just needs a bit of ol’ Lancey-Lance’s training expertise.”

“You, an expert dog trainer?” Keith snorted. “Next you’ll be saying you can herd kittens.”

Lance scowled. “It’s a very important intrinsic skill, Keith. Don’t mock my kitten herding. It’s what Blue responded to, clearly.”

Keith shook his head, his bangs falling into tussled disarray. “Clearly.”

“Hey, I trained Kaltenecker to moo on command. Ask Pidge. She can even moo out an old Altean melody. Got her to sing it when Allura was over last time from New Altea. She loved it. Don’t knock my skills.”

A sobered Keith was a worryingly quiet Keith. “How are you guys—

“We’re still good friends,” Lance replied curtly. “And she’s still the best lady.”

Keith rubbed the back of his neck under his mullet—it’s not a mullet, Lance, Keith’s voice said in his head—and sighed. “So like, do you have a stick available, or?”

Lance blinked at him. Slowly. “There are so many trees around. Worst comes to worst, we can snap off a smaller branch, and Kos-mo-mo can have a wonderful time chasing sticks. Isn’t that right, boy?” He turned to the wolf, who looked up at him with its big black and gold eyes, blinked, wagged his tail weakly, and then slumped his head back into his curled up body.

“I think he’s a little tired. That last mission took a lot out of him.”

“What happened?”

“A township on the planet we were on got stuck in a flood, deprived of resources. Kosmo,” Keith rubbed that delicate indent in-between his eyes with the tips of his fingers and Kosmo let out a yodelling happy aroo. “Was called onto the scene to bring them to the other side. On top of that, we had to do a lot of food distribution. Wasn’t too strenuous, but I think he must be feeling the effects of the teleportation now.”

Kosmo gazed up at Keith with utter respect and loving and seemed to nod. The understanding between the pair would have been uncanny, but Lance had seen much stranger things than a near-sentient teleporting wolf.

Lance whispered in pure awe. “He really is the best boy,” and dived into his back fur.

Keith smiled fondly, the scene filling him with nothing but love.

Buried in the long ruff fur of cobalt blue, Lance felt surrounded by warmth and dog smell. It reminded him of his own childhood, playing on the beach with his yippy Jack Russell who would always slyly trip him up so he could lick his face. He buried his face deeper, giving Kosmo’s back little fake kisses. “I love him so much.”

“Me too,” Keith said, walls down. He put his finished cocoa down, having regularly sipped it during Lance’s antics.

“He’s such a good boy, the best boy, the biggest boy. More Clydesdale horse than dog at this point, right buddy?”

The utterly blissed out Kosmo huffed a bark, his backfoot twitching as Lance found an itchy spot on his shoulder to rub. Keith looked between them, appreciating the symmetry of the dark slate-blue of Lance’s eyes against Kosmo’s darker fur.

“He is the best boy.”

Lance smiled up at Keith, looking up as he was at knee level, lying on his ex-rival’s dog’s back. “How old is he now? Six?”

“Eight,” Keith corrected. “Had him since he was a puppy. Believe it or not, he used to be smaller than Pidge.”

Lance gasped. “I don’t believe it! He was never gremlin-sized! And I can’t believe what a regal and esteemed old gentleman he is. Can’t believe it’s been that long since we lost the Lions.”

“Since we beat Honerva, you mean?”

“Eh, I focus on the important parts. Miss my girl Blue. And our boy, Red.”

Keith sighed. “Me too. He’s—he’s still out there, you know? Allura says he’s woven into the fabric of reality.”

“Quilted Lion corpse sky? Morbid.”

“No but like—” Keith closed off again, pulling at his long hair. “Can’t you feel them? I wake up to flashes of red and black sometimes. Images of time long passed that aren’t my own memories, but the Lion’s. Yellow eyes, that aren’t just the Galra who tried to cut us down. Shiro and Hunk said they both feel it. Do you?”

Lance’s tongue felt dry and heavy in his mouth. “Sometimes. Or a warm, comforting purr from Blue. Telling me everything’s going to be okay. That I’m a good flight instructor. A good seasonal farmer. That I should stop being so hard on myself.”

“I used to think you were so arrogant. That you could be knocked down a peg or two. But she’s honestly right.”

“Says the guy who works himself to exhaustion every day.”

Keith shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

“Yeah,” Lance breathed and looked out across the night sky. It was a thick navy blue, freckled with stars. A shooting star slashed open the sky like a scar, fading as it went. In the distance, he swore he could see flickering blues and reds, the red star bursting bright as a sun. Their lion. “Do you think Red’s watching over us?”

Keith snorted. “I’m not religious.”

Lance gasped. “Neither. But magic space cats kind of defy the usual parameters.”

Keith had that faraway, dreamy look again. It reminded him of their last day on Earth all those years ago, sitting on top of black, watching the sunset and not knowing if they would ever see it again. The uncertainty was both frightening and beautiful, and had left them both feeling vulnerable. “I like to think so.”

Lance flopped his head back into Kosmo’s fur. The wolf’s heartbeat was constant as clockwork. The furry body radiated heat like the Castle of Lions many processing units. Lance’s hand drifted through fur, feeling the muscles shifting beneath. He counted hairs for a distraction. “Getting some grey hairs there, Kosmo.”

Keith sat up in alarm. “What?”

“Here, see?” Lance pointed at one, then another. The more he looked, the more they seemed to multiply. Kosmo snorted in disgust at Lance’s accusations of age.

Keith found his hands shaking by his side. “Maybe I should ask Krolia just how old space wolves live for.”

Lance looked up at him in alarm. Taking in his friend’s distress, he spoke softly and calmly. “Keith, buddy, he’s in the prime of his life. Teleports like a champion, runs like an Olympic athlete. Heck, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was immortal. Space canine and all. He’s in no pain at all. Heck, my bones creak more than his do and I’m a sprite twenty-four. It’s all good.” He gave Keith puppy dog eyes that Kosmo looked up and imitated.

Keith worried a hand through his hair again. “Maybe I should look for a playmate for him, though? Another wolf that speaks his language and can teleport, too. Maybe I’ve been selfish not looking before.”

“Keith, it’s not every day that a teleporting wolf appears in the universe. I think you were lucky just to meet Kosmo. It’s not selfish to be a good friend to him when you don’t know where any others roam.”

“Maybe I should set out a personal ad. See if anyone across the galaxy has a laid-back one like Kosmo.”

“Single dog dad seeks same?” Lance said with a leer. “Get yourself a man out of it too.”

The tips of Keith’s ears went red, a tell that Lance had gotten under his skin. “Not like that! I’ve got no time for romance.”

“Only time for Kosmo and work?” Lance chuckled, ignoring Keith’s ‘I’m here with you now, aren’t I.’ “Relax buddy. What could possibly go wrong?”

Keith looked at him in disbelief.

As it turned out, everything.

[heart-holes]

if someone wanted to really understand you, what would they read, watch, and listen to? read: the chronicles of prydain, i know this much is true, weetzie bat, the first three books of the vampire chronicles watch: hackers, the 70s hobbit movie, the first 3 seasons of criminal minds listen to: (these are all albums) satellite rides by the old 97s, marquee moon by television, blue train by the be good tanyas, and the first and last songs off of this is happening by LCD soundsystem

have you ever found a writer who thinks just like you? if so, who? hm, no, not quite

list your fandoms and one character from each that you identify with. i don’t really have “fandoms” anymore because i am a grown man but the characters i identify with are... - bilbo baggins from the hobbit - snufkin from moomin - taran wanderer from the chronicles of prydain - atton rand from knights of the old republic 2  - grantaire from les mis - ophelia? 

do you like your name?  is there another name you think would fit you better? my legal name, no. the two names i go by are R and Taran. both of them are fandom names, i know. 

do you think of yourself as a human being or a human doing? do you identify yourself by the things you do? hm...a human being, but that’s kinda recent. i very much tie my worth to my productivity, unfortunately

are you religious/spiritual? yes, in a way i’d consider loosely christian

do you care about your ethnicity? yes-- i’m 1/4 palestinian and that’s very important to me 

what musical artists have you most felt connected to over your lifetime? evanescence, really early simon and garfunkel, mcr, iris dement, the old 97s, rilo kiley 

are you an artist? yes! i draw, i do digital art, i dabble in painting, i play a bunch of instruments, i sing, and i write

do you have a creed? not particularly 

describe your ideal day. i get up early and feel well rested. i catch the sunrise and make a pot of coffee. when my friends wake up, we all sit at the kitchen table and drink coffee together, quietly. we set about the clamor of making breakfast, and when everyone has eaten and the dishes are washed and put away we go out on an adventure-- hiking, maybe, or going to a park, or exploring a town we’ve never seen. we talk about art and philosophy and our feelings, and we sing. that evening we all come home and make dinner together, and i’m in charge of cooking, and it’s delicious. we drink a little and play a board game, and then head outside to watch the stars. i kiss a cute boy. we fall asleep cozy and connected, all loving one another. 

inside or outdoors? outdoors please!

are you a musician? yes!

five most influential books over your lifetime. taran wanderer i know this much is true into the wild i dreamed i was a very clean tramp collected poems of ar ammons  bonus mentions to both patti smith’s books-- m train in particular has had me weeping lately. 

if you’d grown up in a different environment, do you think you’d have turned out the same? nope!

would you say your tumblr is a fair representation of the “real you”? no, it’s only a representation of certain parts of me, and that’s intentional

what’s your patronus? my brain just immediately went Edgar Allen Poe, so let’s go with that. i think happy thoughts and mediocre goth poet Edgar Allen Poe shoots out of my wand. 

which Harry Potter house would you be in? or are you a muggle? i’m a slytherin. 

would you rather be in Middle Earth, Narnia, Hogwarts, or somewhere else? middle earth!

do you love easily? yes, i am overflowing with love

list the top five things you spend the most time doing, in order. hm sleeping texting makin’ out smoking weed  reading 

how often would you want to see your family every year? a few times a year 

have you ever felt like you had a “mind-meld” with someone? yes!!!!!!!!! yes yes yes, with my friend gabe. i miss that mind meld. 

could you live as a hermit? i think so!

how would you describe your gender/sexuality? i’m a boy with complicated feelings about my own body and the way i operate it. i’m bisexual with a strong preference for men.

do you feel like your outside appearance is a fair representation of the “real you”? no, but sometimes it gets close

on a scale from 1 to 10, how hard is it for someone to get under your skin? like a 3, i’m a sensitive baby

three songs that you connect with right now. peach-- kevin abstract new lover-- josh ritter busted afternoon-- the old 97s 

pick one of your favorite quotes oh its such a basic bitch quote but “all who wander are not lost” lmao

[cynthiajayusa]

‘Disobedience’ Star Rachel Weisz Talks Her New Sapphic Tales

Rachel Weisz has strong feelings about makers of queer films discussing their work with queer media. To not do so, she says, would be “ridiculous and wrong and unthinkable.”

As producer and star of Disobedience, a tale of forbidden love between women, Weisz is definitely talking to LGBTQ media. The 48-year-old British actress had been on a quest to tell more female-centric stories, which led her to an array of feminist books, including Naomi Alderman’s 2006 novel. She optioned the film rights to Disobedience, then found her director: Sebastián Lelio, the Chilean filmmaker behind 2013’s Gloria and A Fantastic Woman, the 2018 Oscar winner for Best Foreign Language Film.

In Disobedience, Weisz portrays Ronit, a lapsed Jew now living as a photographer in New York City who returns to the Orthodox Jewish London enclave she grew up in to attend her rabbi father’s funeral. There, her childhood friend and lover Esti (Rachel McAdams), now married to Ronit’s father’s protégé Dovid (Alessandro Nivola), is emboldened by her rekindled passion for Ronit to pursue her own path to self-discovery and, ultimately, religious freedom.

Weisz — known for her roles in About a Boy and The Constant Gardener, which won her a Best Supporting Actress Oscar in 2006 — has further feminist ambitions: She’ll play a queer woman in the upcoming historical drama The Favourite before portraying British military surgeon Dr. James Barry, a 19th-century woman born Margaret Ann Bulkley, who disguised herself as a man to become a doctor.

Can you just produce queer stories for the rest of your career?

Yes, please. Do you have any books to point me toward?

I think you’re probably up on lesbian lit more than I am. I hear you got deep into it.

I read a few books.

The team behind Call Me By Your Name did almost no LGBTQ media. But you’ve been everywhere talking about Disobedience: mainstream press, queer press. I feel like some marketers think we’re living in a time when gay is mainstream, so niche media sometimes get overlooked. So, thank you for not overlooking us. As a producer, why is it important to reach out to queer media with a film like Disobedience?

If you’re queer, your subjectivity is not in the margins — it’s front and center for the life you’re leading. But mainstream stories have pushed queer stories into the margins — and I think that’s what’s so wonderful about Sebastián.

His film [Gloria] before A Fantastic Woman wasn’t a queer story, but it was about a 58-year-old woman’s dating life and her sex life — again, something that in storytelling is not front and center. A Fantastic Woman was about the experience of a trans woman. And this film is about two queer women struggling to be free to love who they want to love. So, I’ve gotta say, hats off to Sebastián. He does the opposite of objectifying things; he subjectivizes things.

And yeah, in terms of speaking to queer outlets? It’s essential. How could we make this film and then push you into the margins? That would be ridiculous and wrong and unthinkable.

What measures did you take to avoid falling into the male-fantasy trap that so many lesbian films end up in?

I can’t claim that I did anything apart from entrust[ing] myself to Sebastián’s point of view. I knew he doesn’t objectify women or men, or anybody. He has empathy, and he makes [characters] into real people. Rachel McAdams and I just trusted him.

The male gaze doesn’t always have to be objectifying. [Sebastián’s] point of view on how these women desire each other, I find it beautiful. He’s the auteur. He authored the whole film, and the story; I can’t claim anything apart from being clever enough to trust him. [Laughs.]

Some people felt the gaze in Blue is the Warmest Color, the critically acclaimed 2013 lesbian love story, was male and, therefore, problematic. Are there any problematic lesbian or queer films you’d seen prior to Disobedience that were on your mind while shooting?

No. I did see Blue is the Warmest Color, and I enjoyed it. Listen, just to see a woman loving a woman being represented was very exciting. I liked the film very much.

But no — I didn’t have a “To Do or Not to Do” list, and I certainly didn’t research lesbian films. I looked into my heart and how I love this person. It was very emotional and vulnerable, full of yearning. I didn’t have any other references in my mind. I don’t believe Rachel McAdams did either. We certainly never talked about it. I just loved this person, this woman.

What parts of yourself did you tap into for a role that centers on same-sex desire?

It doesn’t feel any different. It felt different in that it’s softer and more vulnerable. That might not be true with all women, but certainly with Esti it was. [Our characters] had been childhood friends and we’d known each other. We had a huge history and we were in love. She was my first love, and yeah, it felt like love. I didn’t have to open a different door in my brain; she’s just the person I loved. So, I didn’t really think of it in those terms.

WATCH:

Let’s talk about how liberating their sex scene is: Do you hope it might influence other queer people who feel pressure to live an inauthentic life?

I hope this film is inspiring to anyone who feels like they’re not free to love who they want to love. We’re saying that love can be an act of defiance, and sometimes one has to be disobedient to the social norms around us. To be free, sometimes it costs a lot; it’s not always easy.

So, I’m not going to glibly say, “Just do it.” It’s hard. It’s really hard. But I hope the film is inspiring, but also realistic. It shows the incredible struggle that Esti goes through with her sexual identity. I hope it will inspire people.

Prior to Disobedience, what’s the closest you’d come to playing a lesbian character?

I’ve never played a queer character at all.

Have scripts come your way and you’ve turned them down?

Oh, great question! I’ve been offered very few. Maybe there are more being written now, but in my career, I think I was offered once a script about a straight woman who had an affair [with a woman], but the story didn’t — I mean, I loved the politics of it and the queerness of it, but the story wasn’t quite deep enough, somehow. But I would love to play more queer women. So, yeah, anyone who has any ideas…

Aren’t you playing actress Olivia Colman’s lover in the period drama, The Favourite?

Oh yeah, in my next film. She’s a married woman, but she’s also my lover and confidant and best friend and adviser, and really is actually running England. [Laughs.] Or so she thinks. But yeah, they’re lovers. They’ve been lovers for years.

Before all these queer-oriented roles, you played the Wicked Witch of the East in Oz the Great and Powerful. What do you think that did for your gay following?

I didn’t know it did anything for a gay following! I’d love for that to be true. Is that true?

It’s Oz, so I’d say so.

Oh, that’s fantastic! She’s a strong kind, yeah. That’s fabulous. Thank you. I actually wanted to play her like Tim Curry in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I thought she was kind of a man in drag. I felt like she was Frank-N-Furter, and I talked to [director] Sam Raimi, but he had never seen Rocky Horror.

Growing up with Jewish and Catholic parents, what were you taught to believe about the LGBTQ community?

My ma’s passed away now; she died in her 80s. And my dad is nearly 90. They had me in their 40s. They had gay friends — homosexual male friends — but I wouldn’t say they understood in the way that my generation understands queerness. I guess they were kind of sheltered, I would say.

How are you raising your 11-year-old son, Henry?

He is just of a generation where he’s kind of — [it’s as if] he’s colorblind. He just doesn’t think in categories. He thinks in a very free way, that people should just love who they love. He sees everyone as just part of the human race. He doesn’t really see difference at all, so that’s good.

You have another child on the way, with your husband Daniel Craig. If one of your children came out to you one day as queer, how do you imagine you would respond?

I’d be very happy for anyone I know and love… to love whomever they want to love.

source https://hotspotsmagazine.com/2018/05/16/disobedience-star-rachel-weisz-talks-her-new-sapphic-tales/ from Hot Spots Magazine https://hotspotsmagazin.blogspot.com/2018/05/disobedience-star-rachel-weisz-talks.html

[demitgibbs]

‘Disobedience’ Star Rachel Weisz Talks Her New Sapphic Tales

Rachel Weisz has strong feelings about makers of queer films discussing their work with queer media. To not do so, she says, would be “ridiculous and wrong and unthinkable.”

As producer and star of Disobedience, a tale of forbidden love between women, Weisz is definitely talking to LGBTQ media. The 48-year-old British actress had been on a quest to tell more female-centric stories, which led her to an array of feminist books, including Naomi Alderman’s 2006 novel. She optioned the film rights to Disobedience, then found her director: Sebastián Lelio, the Chilean filmmaker behind 2013’s Gloria and A Fantastic Woman, the 2018 Oscar winner for Best Foreign Language Film.

In Disobedience, Weisz portrays Ronit, a lapsed Jew now living as a photographer in New York City who returns to the Orthodox Jewish London enclave she grew up in to attend her rabbi father’s funeral. There, her childhood friend and lover Esti (Rachel McAdams), now married to Ronit’s father’s protégé Dovid (Alessandro Nivola), is emboldened by her rekindled passion for Ronit to pursue her own path to self-discovery and, ultimately, religious freedom.

Weisz — known for her roles in About a Boy and The Constant Gardener, which won her a Best Supporting Actress Oscar in 2006 — has further feminist ambitions: She’ll play a queer woman in the upcoming historical drama The Favourite before portraying British military surgeon Dr. James Barry, a 19th-century woman born Margaret Ann Bulkley, who disguised herself as a man to become a doctor.

Can you just produce queer stories for the rest of your career?

Yes, please. Do you have any books to point me toward?

I think you’re probably up on lesbian lit more than I am. I hear you got deep into it.

I read a few books.

The team behind Call Me By Your Name did almost no LGBTQ media. But you’ve been everywhere talking about Disobedience: mainstream press, queer press. I feel like some marketers think we’re living in a time when gay is mainstream, so niche media sometimes get overlooked. So, thank you for not overlooking us. As a producer, why is it important to reach out to queer media with a film like Disobedience?

If you’re queer, your subjectivity is not in the margins — it’s front and center for the life you’re leading. But mainstream stories have pushed queer stories into the margins — and I think that’s what’s so wonderful about Sebastián.

His film [Gloria] before A Fantastic Woman wasn’t a queer story, but it was about a 58-year-old woman’s dating life and her sex life — again, something that in storytelling is not front and center. A Fantastic Woman was about the experience of a trans woman. And this film is about two queer women struggling to be free to love who they want to love. So, I’ve gotta say, hats off to Sebastián. He does the opposite of objectifying things; he subjectivizes things.

And yeah, in terms of speaking to queer outlets? It’s essential. How could we make this film and then push you into the margins? That would be ridiculous and wrong and unthinkable.

What measures did you take to avoid falling into the male-fantasy trap that so many lesbian films end up in?

I can’t claim that I did anything apart from entrust[ing] myself to Sebastián’s point of view. I knew he doesn’t objectify women or men, or anybody. He has empathy, and he makes [characters] into real people. Rachel McAdams and I just trusted him.

The male gaze doesn’t always have to be objectifying. [Sebastián’s] point of view on how these women desire each other, I find it beautiful. He’s the auteur. He authored the whole film, and the story; I can’t claim anything apart from being clever enough to trust him. [Laughs.]

Some people felt the gaze in Blue is the Warmest Color, the critically acclaimed 2013 lesbian love story, was male and, therefore, problematic. Are there any problematic lesbian or queer films you’d seen prior to Disobedience that were on your mind while shooting?

No. I did see Blue is the Warmest Color, and I enjoyed it. Listen, just to see a woman loving a woman being represented was very exciting. I liked the film very much.

But no — I didn’t have a “To Do or Not to Do” list, and I certainly didn’t research lesbian films. I looked into my heart and how I love this person. It was very emotional and vulnerable, full of yearning. I didn’t have any other references in my mind. I don’t believe Rachel McAdams did either. We certainly never talked about it. I just loved this person, this woman.

What parts of yourself did you tap into for a role that centers on same-sex desire?

It doesn’t feel any different. It felt different in that it’s softer and more vulnerable. That might not be true with all women, but certainly with Esti it was. [Our characters] had been childhood friends and we’d known each other. We had a huge history and we were in love. She was my first love, and yeah, it felt like love. I didn’t have to open a different door in my brain; she’s just the person I loved. So, I didn’t really think of it in those terms.

WATCH:

Let’s talk about how liberating their sex scene is: Do you hope it might influence other queer people who feel pressure to live an inauthentic life?

I hope this film is inspiring to anyone who feels like they’re not free to love who they want to love. We’re saying that love can be an act of defiance, and sometimes one has to be disobedient to the social norms around us. To be free, sometimes it costs a lot; it’s not always easy.

So, I’m not going to glibly say, “Just do it.” It’s hard. It’s really hard. But I hope the film is inspiring, but also realistic. It shows the incredible struggle that Esti goes through with her sexual identity. I hope it will inspire people.

Prior to Disobedience, what’s the closest you’d come to playing a lesbian character?

I’ve never played a queer character at all.

Have scripts come your way and you’ve turned them down?

Oh, great question! I’ve been offered very few. Maybe there are more being written now, but in my career, I think I was offered once a script about a straight woman who had an affair [with a woman], but the story didn’t — I mean, I loved the politics of it and the queerness of it, but the story wasn’t quite deep enough, somehow. But I would love to play more queer women. So, yeah, anyone who has any ideas…

Aren’t you playing actress Olivia Colman’s lover in the period drama, The Favourite?

Oh yeah, in my next film. She’s a married woman, but she’s also my lover and confidant and best friend and adviser, and really is actually running England. [Laughs.] Or so she thinks. But yeah, they’re lovers. They’ve been lovers for years.

Before all these queer-oriented roles, you played the Wicked Witch of the East in Oz the Great and Powerful. What do you think that did for your gay following?

I didn’t know it did anything for a gay following! I’d love for that to be true. Is that true?

It’s Oz, so I’d say so.

Oh, that’s fantastic! She’s a strong kind, yeah. That’s fabulous. Thank you. I actually wanted to play her like Tim Curry in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I thought she was kind of a man in drag. I felt like she was Frank-N-Furter, and I talked to [director] Sam Raimi, but he had never seen Rocky Horror.

Growing up with Jewish and Catholic parents, what were you taught to believe about the LGBTQ community?

My ma’s passed away now; she died in her 80s. And my dad is nearly 90. They had me in their 40s. They had gay friends — homosexual male friends — but I wouldn’t say they understood in the way that my generation understands queerness. I guess they were kind of sheltered, I would say.

How are you raising your 11-year-old son, Henry?

He is just of a generation where he’s kind of — [it’s as if] he’s colorblind. He just doesn’t think in categories. He thinks in a very free way, that people should just love who they love. He sees everyone as just part of the human race. He doesn’t really see difference at all, so that’s good.

You have another child on the way, with your husband Daniel Craig. If one of your children came out to you one day as queer, how do you imagine you would respond?

I’d be very happy for anyone I know and love… to love whomever they want to love.

from Hotspots! Magazine https://hotspotsmagazine.com/2018/05/16/disobedience-star-rachel-weisz-talks-her-new-sapphic-tales/ from Hot Spots Magazine https://hotspotsmagazine.tumblr.com/post/173958951700

[hotspotsmagazine]

‘Disobedience’ Star Rachel Weisz Talks Her New Sapphic Tales

Rachel Weisz has strong feelings about makers of queer films discussing their work with queer media. To not do so, she says, would be “ridiculous and wrong and unthinkable.”

As producer and star of Disobedience, a tale of forbidden love between women, Weisz is definitely talking to LGBTQ media. The 48-year-old British actress had been on a quest to tell more female-centric stories, which led her to an array of feminist books, including Naomi Alderman’s 2006 novel. She optioned the film rights to Disobedience, then found her director: Sebastián Lelio, the Chilean filmmaker behind 2013’s Gloria and A Fantastic Woman, the 2018 Oscar winner for Best Foreign Language Film.

In Disobedience, Weisz portrays Ronit, a lapsed Jew now living as a photographer in New York City who returns to the Orthodox Jewish London enclave she grew up in to attend her rabbi father’s funeral. There, her childhood friend and lover Esti (Rachel McAdams), now married to Ronit’s father’s protégé Dovid (Alessandro Nivola), is emboldened by her rekindled passion for Ronit to pursue her own path to self-discovery and, ultimately, religious freedom.

Weisz — known for her roles in About a Boy and The Constant Gardener, which won her a Best Supporting Actress Oscar in 2006 — has further feminist ambitions: She’ll play a queer woman in the upcoming historical drama The Favourite before portraying British military surgeon Dr. James Barry, a 19th-century woman born Margaret Ann Bulkley, who disguised herself as a man to become a doctor.

Can you just produce queer stories for the rest of your career?

Yes, please. Do you have any books to point me toward?

I think you’re probably up on lesbian lit more than I am. I hear you got deep into it.

I read a few books.

The team behind Call Me By Your Name did almost no LGBTQ media. But you’ve been everywhere talking about Disobedience: mainstream press, queer press. I feel like some marketers think we’re living in a time when gay is mainstream, so niche media sometimes get overlooked. So, thank you for not overlooking us. As a producer, why is it important to reach out to queer media with a film like Disobedience?

If you’re queer, your subjectivity is not in the margins — it’s front and center for the life you’re leading. But mainstream stories have pushed queer stories into the margins — and I think that’s what’s so wonderful about Sebastián.

His film [Gloria] before A Fantastic Woman wasn’t a queer story, but it was about a 58-year-old woman’s dating life and her sex life — again, something that in storytelling is not front and center. A Fantastic Woman was about the experience of a trans woman. And this film is about two queer women struggling to be free to love who they want to love. So, I’ve gotta say, hats off to Sebastián. He does the opposite of objectifying things; he subjectivizes things.

And yeah, in terms of speaking to queer outlets? It’s essential. How could we make this film and then push you into the margins? That would be ridiculous and wrong and unthinkable.

What measures did you take to avoid falling into the male-fantasy trap that so many lesbian films end up in?

I can’t claim that I did anything apart from entrust[ing] myself to Sebastián’s point of view. I knew he doesn’t objectify women or men, or anybody. He has empathy, and he makes [characters] into real people. Rachel McAdams and I just trusted him.

The male gaze doesn’t always have to be objectifying. [Sebastián’s] point of view on how these women desire each other, I find it beautiful. He’s the auteur. He authored the whole film, and the story; I can’t claim anything apart from being clever enough to trust him. [Laughs.]

Some people felt the gaze in Blue is the Warmest Color, the critically acclaimed 2013 lesbian love story, was male and, therefore, problematic. Are there any problematic lesbian or queer films you’d seen prior to Disobedience that were on your mind while shooting?

No. I did see Blue is the Warmest Color, and I enjoyed it. Listen, just to see a woman loving a woman being represented was very exciting. I liked the film very much.

But no — I didn’t have a “To Do or Not to Do” list, and I certainly didn’t research lesbian films. I looked into my heart and how I love this person. It was very emotional and vulnerable, full of yearning. I didn’t have any other references in my mind. I don’t believe Rachel McAdams did either. We certainly never talked about it. I just loved this person, this woman.

What parts of yourself did you tap into for a role that centers on same-sex desire?

It doesn’t feel any different. It felt different in that it’s softer and more vulnerable. That might not be true with all women, but certainly with Esti it was. [Our characters] had been childhood friends and we’d known each other. We had a huge history and we were in love. She was my first love, and yeah, it felt like love. I didn’t have to open a different door in my brain; she’s just the person I loved. So, I didn’t really think of it in those terms.

WATCH:

Let’s talk about how liberating their sex scene is: Do you hope it might influence other queer people who feel pressure to live an inauthentic life?

I hope this film is inspiring to anyone who feels like they’re not free to love who they want to love. We’re saying that love can be an act of defiance, and sometimes one has to be disobedient to the social norms around us. To be free, sometimes it costs a lot; it’s not always easy.

So, I’m not going to glibly say, “Just do it.” It’s hard. It’s really hard. But I hope the film is inspiring, but also realistic. It shows the incredible struggle that Esti goes through with her sexual identity. I hope it will inspire people.

Prior to Disobedience, what’s the closest you’d come to playing a lesbian character?

I’ve never played a queer character at all.

Have scripts come your way and you’ve turned them down?

Oh, great question! I’ve been offered very few. Maybe there are more being written now, but in my career, I think I was offered once a script about a straight woman who had an affair [with a woman], but the story didn’t — I mean, I loved the politics of it and the queerness of it, but the story wasn’t quite deep enough, somehow. But I would love to play more queer women. So, yeah, anyone who has any ideas…

Aren’t you playing actress Olivia Colman’s lover in the period drama, The Favourite?

Oh yeah, in my next film. She’s a married woman, but she’s also my lover and confidant and best friend and adviser, and really is actually running England. [Laughs.] Or so she thinks. But yeah, they’re lovers. They’ve been lovers for years.

Before all these queer-oriented roles, you played the Wicked Witch of the East in Oz the Great and Powerful. What do you think that did for your gay following?

I didn’t know it did anything for a gay following! I’d love for that to be true. Is that true?

It’s Oz, so I’d say so.

Oh, that’s fantastic! She’s a strong kind, yeah. That’s fabulous. Thank you. I actually wanted to play her like Tim Curry in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I thought she was kind of a man in drag. I felt like she was Frank-N-Furter, and I talked to [director] Sam Raimi, but he had never seen Rocky Horror.

Growing up with Jewish and Catholic parents, what were you taught to believe about the LGBTQ community?

My ma’s passed away now; she died in her 80s. And my dad is nearly 90. They had me in their 40s. They had gay friends — homosexual male friends — but I wouldn’t say they understood in the way that my generation understands queerness. I guess they were kind of sheltered, I would say.

How are you raising your 11-year-old son, Henry?

He is just of a generation where he’s kind of — [it’s as if] he’s colorblind. He just doesn’t think in categories. He thinks in a very free way, that people should just love who they love. He sees everyone as just part of the human race. He doesn’t really see difference at all, so that’s good.

You have another child on the way, with your husband Daniel Craig. If one of your children came out to you one day as queer, how do you imagine you would respond?

I’d be very happy for anyone I know and love… to love whomever they want to love.

from Hotspots! Magazine https://hotspotsmagazine.com/2018/05/16/disobedience-star-rachel-weisz-talks-her-new-sapphic-tales/