#all i know is rhyming rhythmic words

[expiredhydrogenperoxide]

how to turn poetry into a career with a stable income no borax no glue

[midgardian-witch]

can i request moon boys walking into the room to see reader just zoned out and like. slapping/tapping something repeatedly😭😭i know this sounds really weird but i do it all the time and i wonder how theyd react. i feel like theyd really understand zoning out often while doing some random task

It's not that weird, anon, no worries! I do hope I managed to fit what you imagined and that you like what I came up with 💙

Tapped Out

tags: fluff | domestic situations | established relationship | gn!reader

ships: Moon Knight System/Reader

AO3

Marc

The suit unravels around him as he crawls through the open window into your shared flat. Marc takes a cursory look around until he sees light coming from the bathroom. 

Walking over he makes sure to make his footsteps louder than usual so you don't get spooked when he suddenly appears behind you. 

As he opens the door to the bathroom further, the sudden light disorientates him for a moment. He blinks and squints his eyes before he sees your silhouette in front of the sink. The mirror in front of you shows your face, toothbrush hanging limp in your mouth as your eyes stare blankly into nothingness. You look kind of adorable like this, like a puppy that forgot where it was going and just looks off into space. 

It takes him a moment, distracted by seeing you and realizing how much he missed you even for those few hours, to notice the sound. 

Your hand is slapping against the bathroom sink, no rhyme nor reason behind the timing of the hits. Marc cannot discern any pattern behind the slapping. Maybe something you do subconsciously? Well, as long as you didn't hurt yourself he really doesn't mind. 

To get your attention he starts rapping his knuckles against the doorway, not too loud, softly starting a rhythm of his own. Slowly your slapping adjusts to his rhythm until the two of you are synchronizing. 

It takes a few moments until your hand rests flat on the sink, the sound of your tapping fading out as Marc stops his movements too. He watches how your eyes regain focus in your reflection. You blink a few times before you see Marc behind you through the mirror. Toothbrush still in your mouth you turn around to greet him. As your mouth forms the words to your cheery hello the brush tumbles from between your lips onto the bathroom floor. 

Marc chuckles and steps towards you, kneeling down to reach for the toothbrush and hand it to you. "Hey sweetheart," he greets you with a smile, "Sorry for being late. You know you don't have to stay up for me, right?"

You take the brush from him and place it on the sink. "I know, but I like to see you before I go to sleep. Preferably I'd be going to sleep with you in bed with me," you counter and lean down to kiss his cheek sweetly before he gets up from the floor. 

"Hmmm, bed sounds good right about now," he murmurs as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close. He doesn't mention that you've zoned out, doesn't comment on the toothbrush debacle - that's not important. Important is that he can hold you in his arms. 

You wrinkle your nose at him. "Alright, but you're taking a shower first, Mister." You both laugh and Marc nods, "I get your point. Wait for me in bed?" 

Steven

Your lips pull into a sly grin. "Who said you're taking that shower alone?" 

As he gets home from work, a spring in his step at the thought of coming home to you, Steven is a bit worried when you don't respond to him calling your name. 

"Love?" he calls nervously into your shared apartment. As he walks into the living room he sees you staring at a book, your fingers tapping rhythmically against your thigh, the book held tightly in your other hand. 

He tilts his head quizzically, watching you in silence for a moment. You looked like you weren't even reading, your eyes just staring blankly at the pages in front of you. 

Steven doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to scare you of course but you seem so lost in thought. The dull sound of your fingers tapping against your thigh echoes through the room. He doesn’t even dare breathe, afraid he may spook you with even that. 

Very quietly Steven makes his way over to you, the couch leaving enough space for him to fit comfortably beside you. 

You feel the weight on the couch shift, the subtle difference slowly pulling you back to reality. Steven freezes as you blink at him owlishly. With an embarrassed smile he waves at you. 

"Hiya, love," you watch him lean closer, taking a not so subtle peak at your book, "You ok?" 

"Yeah, I just spaced out a little. I didn't even hear you come in," you respond a little embarrassed. Steven just smiles at you kindly. "Ah don't worry, love. Happens to the best of us," he tells you with a wink. 

Jake

Carefully you put your book to the side, placing a bookmark where you left off and lean into Steven. He wraps his arm around you, pulling you close as you cuddle. 

As Jake enters your shared flat, his hat safely placed onto a coat rack, the sounds of something repeatedly hitting the granite counter and of something bubbling echoes from the kitchen. Curious, Jake walks over to investigate the noise and is greeted by the sight of you. 

You're standing at the counter, back turned to Jake. Your gaze seems fixated on the bubbling pot in front of you, a delicious scent emanating from it, as your hand repeatedly hits the granite counter next to the stove. 

Your hand is inching a little too close to the hot stove for Jake's liking, so without thinking he steps forward and gently grabs your wrist. You flinch, looking at him with wide eyes. "Perdón, mi vida. I didn't mean to startle you," Jake raises your hand up towards him and places a soft kiss on the inside of your wrist, an apologetic smile on his face. Your gaze softens and you lean forward to press your lips to his cheek and return his kiss.

"It's ok. I zoned out a little and didn't notice you." He hums thoughtfully and carefully lets go of your wrist. "I noticed. I was worried you might hurt yourself by accident, mi alma," Jake replies and points at the hot stove that still has a pot bubbling on top of it. You nod in understanding. As you turn back to your cooking, unsure what else to say, you feel Jake wrap his arms around you from behind.

"I know you can't control when you zone out, just as much as we can't control who fronts most of the time just…," he trails off and you can feel the nervous energy practically radiating off of him. You lean into his embrace. "I'll try to be more careful. Please don't worry too much about me, baby."

You can feel him smile against your skin as he kisses your neck softly. "I know you are capable of keeping yourself safe, mi vida. Just let me worry a little."

With a soft laugh you nod, "Just a little."

[familyabolisher]

hi!! i hope you’re having a lovely day :-) i really enjoy reading your blog and how you pick apart Things & was wondering if you have any tips and guides for reading and analyzing poetry? ive always struggled w forming coherent thoughts abt poems and would love to know how you approach it. thank you sm for your time ✨

so the big thing that made poetry "click" for me was realising that i was trying to read it the way i might try to read a novel -- identify a discourse taking place, look for points in the text that supplement my argument, construct a position on what the piece is "about" based on these points -- all very undergrad essay-core and frankly a v boring way to think about novels as well, but like, completely mind-numbing when it came to poetry. i think a better approach is to interface with the poem at the level of language and technical construction. i find that it helps a lot to know the technical terms for particular phenomena in the language of poetry, but even without that shorthand knowledge, you'll get a lot out of poetry when you start looking at the choices being made at the level of individual words or even syllables. so instead of asking "what is this poem about?", we can start to ask, for instance:

what is the tone of this poem? is it sparing or loquacious? emotional or detached? asking questions or answering them? what's the vantage point - is this a detached omniscient third-person narrator making observations, or are we as the reader being guided towards a particular perspective on the part of the speaker?

what is the mouthfeel of this poem? can you find any 'shapes' -- any assonance, any internal rhyming, alliteration, anything that causes you to pay attention to particular words, phrasing, etc. why is your attention being called to those moments?

what is the rhythm of the poem? is it free verse -- if so, can you find any points in the piece where more or less attention to rhythm is being paid? why does the line break on this particular word? are the sentences short or long? how is the poet interfacing with their chosen meter? what does this meter lend to the poem? if you're reading multiple works by the same author, compare their use of meter -- do they use the same meter regularly or switch it up, and why were those switches made?

if you can annotate a poem, do so. note down anything which seems linguistically interesting, even if you don't know the "correct" technical word for it -- any clusters of words with similarities whose placement might be interesting (eg. what words are rhymed!), any noteworthy rhythmic discrepancies, placement of line breaks, anything that sticks out. i like to think of reading poetry as a playful exercise -- you're playing around with the words, seeing how they work, enjoying the rhythm and texture of the piece as it comes to you, and trying to construct "a reading" only after the fact.

i think there are times when the reading-for-a-discourse approach can be v helpful and illuminating, but it's best to stumble on those opportunities organically rather than focusing all your energy on trying to answer the "what is this trying to say?" question. if a particular discursive component of a poem sparks your interest (like eg. you read the rime of the ancient mariner and notice how the poem interfaces with contemporaneous abolitionist discourses as well as colonialist ideas about polynesia, just as an example), you've obviously got a compelling hook from which you can anchor a reading, but going in expecting such a reading to jump off the page will often just result in frustration.

this doesn't mean that we don't take the discourse of a poem seriously, or that we don't understand the "rules" of poetry to be postdiscursive phenomena highly contingent on social context. if anything, understanding poetry at a mechanical level opens up significant doors for answering these types of questions -- we can understand, for example, the reactionary nature of the academic revolt against free verse and the desire to return to metered poetry better once we understand the function of form and structure in fascist aesthetics. similarly, spending this kind of time with a poem makes it a lot easier to get a handle on what it might be "about," and what sort of choices are being made to render that "about"ness coherent.

also -- and this is true of anything, including poetry -- if a poet isn't working for you, try reading somebody else. a lot of poets that people will say are good and interesting are neither of those things. poetry has the advantage of being (usually!) a quick read compared to novels, so it's far easier to shop around, read widely, realise what you like and dislike, and engage accordingly.

one of my favourite pieces of literary criticism and examples of the value of this sort of reading practice comes from nabokov's epilogue to lolita, in which he both defends the novel in question against accusations of salacity and speaks very disparagingly of efforts to read a thesis statement into it. he writes:

Every serious writer, I dare say, is aware of this or that published book of his as of a constant comforting presence. Its pilot light is steadily burning somewhere in the basement and a mere touch applied to one’s private thermostat instantly results in a quiet little explosion of familiar warmth. This presence, this glow of the book in an ever accessible remoteness is a most companionable feeling, and the better the book has conformed to its prefigured contour and color the ampler and smoother it glows. But even so, there are certain points, byroads, favorite hollows that one evokes more eagerly and enjoys moretenderly than the rest of one’s book. I have not reread Lolita since I went through the proofs in the spring of 1955 but I find it to be a delightful presence now that it quietly hangs about the house like a summer day which one knows to be bright behind the haze. And when I thus think of Lolita, I seem always to pick out for special delectation such images as Mr. Taxovich, or that class list of Ramsdale School, or Charlotte saying “waterproof,” or Lolita in slow motion advancing toward Humbert’s gifts, or the pictures decorating the stylized garret of Gaston Godin, or the Kasbeam barber (who cost me a month of work), or Lolita playing tennis, or the hospital at Elphinstone, or pale, pregnant, beloved, irretrievable Dolly Schiller dying in Gray Star (the capital town of the book), or the tinkling sounds of the valley town coming up the mountain trail (on which I caught the first known female of Lycaeides sublivens Nabokov). These are the nerves of the novel. These are the secret points, the subliminal co-ordinates by means of which the book is plotted—although I realize very clearly that these and other scenes will be skimmed over or not noticed, or never even reached, by those who begin reading the book under the impression that it is something on the lines of Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure or Les Amours de Milord Grosvit. That my novel does contain various allusions to the physiological urges of a pervert is quite true. But after all we are not children, not illiterate juvenile delinquents, not English public school boys who after a night of homosexual romps have to endure the paradox of reading the Ancients in expurgated versions.

It is childish to study a work of fiction in order to gain information about a country or about a social class or about the author. And yet one of my very few intimate friends, after reading Lolita, was sincerely worried that I (I!) should be living “among such depressing people” —when the only discomfort I really experienced was to live in my workshop among discarded limbs and unfinished torsos.

[knife-moth-mc]

a non-comprehensive but pretty long list of specific things about the baby is you that i think are good or make it good art in some way

The specificity of “what the fuck are you doing on the ground writhing in pain”. I feel like a more normal thing to say would be something like “Are you okay???” It’s very This Gun That I Have In My Right Hand Is Loaded

The layered voices when dave denies being pregnant

The fact that john’s immediate next question after “who’s the father?’ is “who’s the baby?” as if that’s in any way a question that makes sense

Woooooo….. police sirens police sirens…… wooooooo……

John meowing fully unprompted

The extremely Homestuck-specific euphemisms throughout

“I’m not even born yet, that’s not fair!”

Karkat showing up out of absolutely nowhere

Karkat voice “I must be the…. mmmmmidwife.”

Karkat immediately interrupting the unfolding baby situation to sing a little song about his hatecrush on john

Rose’s VA’s ooc lines just kind of thrown in there at what initially seems like random but if you pay attention it makes a certain kind of rhythmic sense

The reveal that rose is pregnant being followed by a betrayed “Rose!” said by both dave and rose

“Suck that bitch’s dick!” “I’m going to—That’s not what I’m doing! That’s the opposite of what I’m doing!”

Hearts. And minds. And souls. And hearts.

The genuinely catchy sung section of the rose rap

The slant rhyme of serengeti with spaghetti

Dave basically turning to the camera to say “incest is bad” before immediately proposing to his sister

The pathos of rose’s confession that she lied about being pregnant, followed by dave’s extremely flat, emotionless reassurance

“Being pregnant might be against the rules of the MSPA forum but shipping us together is not, for some reason”

Bro showing up to provide a new conflict now that all the rose stuff is resolved

The conflict being specifically that he wants to eat babies

“He’s never tried to eat my babies before” implying that there were previous babies

Bro’s forbidden technique being just “words that rhyme with themselves” and then him almost instantly fucking it up

“Actually, a fight sequence was entirely unnecessary, so it was deleted, and what happens is that in the end, it turns out Bro was a robot, I mean… it was just complex, given the fact that this is a normally simple story about, you know, like a thirteen year old boy giving birth to his bre—best friend. It didn’t fit the archetypes, so I’m going to move on to the next song, and you can just… chillax a little bit.”

KC Green (the guy who made This Is Fine and I Guess and a bunch of other well-known images used as memes) being there completely unexplained to lead a sing-along. Like it makes sense historically but in the album itself it just kinda happens

Andrew hussie being directly addressed by name just to really drill in the fact that this is pointed commentary

The very confident implication that babies are a different species entirely

compiled because @420technoblazeit doesn't know how to appreciate this masterpiece

[dkniade]

Childe’s Story Quest: theme, storytelling, form follows function

Content Warning: self-destructive behaviour, mentions freezing and mutilation

Spoilers for the entire quest.

—

Showing both Teucer’s and Tartaglia’s perspectives throughout the quest sure reveals more about Tartaglia.

The quest on so many levels conveys its theme: the divided perspectives between a naive childhood lens and a disillusioned (??) adult lens.

One is unknowingly caught in a wonderful yet deceiving story (the tone and form), the other sees reality for what it is but tries to maintain innocent childhood dreams with these stories (the content and meaning).

Tartaglia was once the former, and is now the latter.

—

For example during the hide and seek cutscene, the tone set by the soundtrack “Foul Legacy” and the flashy cinematography & visual effects is very adventurous (in an anime way).

This is how Teucer views Tartaglia. (Teucer literally shuts his eyes and thinks it’s all a game.)

But the reality of the situation is shown moments before, where we see Tartaglia looking all soft and mortal against the dangerous Ruin Guards right behind him. Like, if you didn’t know what the game is, you’d think this is a moment of dramatic irony where the boy is gonna die because he doesn’t seem to notice the big scary automaton right behind him.

And it’s not that he’s weak in general, but in this specific moment he just defeated a few dangerous automatons, and he’s about to use his physically draining technique to fight off even more of them under the limit of ten seconds—all for the sake of protecting his kid brother’s innocent dream.

—

But really, this divide between childhood and adulthood is shown straight from the beginning. And I think the whole quest could be summed up with that nursery rhyme:

拉钩拉钩不许变，变了丢他去冰川。冰川冷，雪原寒，撒谎的舌头都冻烂！

The Chinese rhyme scheme is ABCBB.

Literally speaking it’s

Pinkie promise, pinkie promise, [you’re] not allowed to change [it], change [it and we] throw him [onto] the glacier. The glacier [is] cold, the snowfield [is] cold, lying tongues all freeze [and] rot!

(Note that 丢 is a verb that could either mean to throw away or abandon [something physical or abstract]. The syntax here is a bit odd because it’s a nursery rhyme. 丢他去冰川 doesn’t have a preposition so I’m not sure if it’d be “throw him onto the glacier” or “throw him into the glacier’s river”. Also, 冷 and 寒 are two different adjectives that both mean cold, essentially.)

But if I try to rhyme it with a bit of rhythm then it could be something like

Pinkie promise, pinkie promise, you’re not allowed to change it. He who goes back on his words gets thrown onto the glacier. The glacier’s cold, and so’s the snow. The tongues that lie shall freeze and rot.

English dub equivalent:

You make a pinkie promise, you keep it all your life. You break a pinkie promise, I throw you on the ice. The cold will kill the pinkie that once betrayed your friend, the frost will freeze your tongue off so you never lie again.

Rhythmically and tonally it sounds like a fun and naive nursery rhyme (emphasized when the innocent Teucer first says it at the start)—but the content is about the fatal consequence of breaking a promise… especially as a Snezhnayan (emphasized when the traveler and Tartaglia repeat at the end after the near fatal situation in the factory).

Ohh, so a character’s theme could also be done this way.

—

In hindsight as I was explaining how 丢 could refer to throwing away something physical (e.g. an object) or abstract (e.g. dreams), the person in the nursery rhyme could easily be a stand-in for childhood dreams, huh…

A childhood dream that promises to never change, but ends up changing anyway, so it gets abandoned at the glacier and is left to freeze…

拉钩拉钩不许变，变了丢他去冰川。冰川冷，雪原寒，撒谎的舌头都冻烂！

As Paimon says, “Wow... That one nursery rhyme kinda says all you need to know about Snezhnayan culture…”

Miscellaneous first reactions of third act

Teucer takes the path straight into the factory but the door immediately closes, so Childe is forced to enter from the side with a more difficult path

What goes into a world of danger and unknowingly get trapped? What has to use more lopsided methods to sneak in just to protect… Teucer symbolizes childhood innocence, and Childe is adulthood?

Hm, that overhead shot of tiny Teucer running into the factory with Childe and Traveler watching from higher grounds behind bars— It’s like Childe watching his younger self… rushing into the forest and into the abyss? Oh, and consistently Childe is forced to take the dangerous route and face all the difficulties while being unable to reach Teucer.

aw…

Paimon and the traveller witnessing Childe’s moment of vulnerability yet still needing to keep up the toysalesman illusion to Teucer in the domain is…

(Actually, this feels similar to Thelxie’s Fantastic Adventure where Zuria is optimistic about the plan and Freminet later pulls the two aside to tell them the truth about the condition)

Well, both have the theme of keeping up childhood dreams with stories don’t they

Wanting to keep up the illusion longer and not wanting to let Teucer see his weak side of him, huh…

Yet still wanting to fight the traveler in the future despite still recovering from a serious injury. What kind of self-destructive tendency is this

Ah, the idea of meeting Childe in his home turf is interesting considering Snezhnaya is so far from Liyue

It’s all so sad. Why does he trust the traveler this much even though they’re on opposite sides and fought in the Liyue archon quest not long ago

[burdigel]

Theories and Headcannons Pt. 24

So a week ago we got a little teaser from Martyn about hints for the next Life Series season, around an hour after we got another subtle clue from Cherrifire, a commissioned arist of Martyn and Grian for their thumbnails. Moving onto four days later where in a Phasmo stream with GIGS, Grian althought not explicitly, teased the recording of a certain something. That something most likely being the next installment of the Life Series as he previously stated during the aftermath of the Ender Cup, that the next season was in development. So now four months later, and with the release of that little crumb of information you would think it would be the last. But approximately an hour ago (of the time writing this), Scar drops a bombshell of information as a GIF of traffic lights blinking.

Effectively reinforcing the possibility of the next season arriving extremely soon as traffic lights is a predominant symbol of the Life Series with the three-life system of green, yellow, and red matching with the known pattern of traffic lights. Hence traffiblr also referring to the Life Series.

With the date of the next season of the Life Series been generally confirmed, the twist of this subsequent still remains unknown. But by disecting each post from credible sources (Inthelittlewood, Cherrifire and GoodtimewithScar), it's possible to gain a sliver of understanding about the next gimmick for this upcoming season.

Starting with Martyn's post, his reponse to a question regarding the Life series were a series of rhyming verses otherwise known as a couplet. His reponse goes as:

"Nope. Not a slither, not a slice, not a hint, not a price,

not a right, not a wrong, not a verse, not a song,

not a fork, not a list, not a fog, not a mist,

not a shine, not a spree, not a thing from me"

With lines and words like not a slither, slice, hint, verse, list and not a thing from me commonly used in other media to express a concept that is left unsaid or unexplained to conceal or hide information. Other phrases like not a price, right, wrong, song, fork, fog, mist, shine and not a spree seem unusual and seem only used to act as rhyming words. But since this couplet's rhyming patterns goes like (word) (rhyming word) (word) (rhyming word), words like price, wrong, song, mist and spree can be eliminated only leaving right, fork, fog and shine used for clues.

Words like fog and shine can be connected easily with the concept of revealing something concealed by layers of dense things with the good or "light". Maybe uncovering the lore of the Watcher's to the rest of the participants as the right path taken since the Watcher has a lasting cameo in the previous Life Series. It would be poetic as the fifth installment of the Life Series that the Watchers would return as an antagonist force. The way fork is incoporated into this theory is the mannered and dignified repute it carries where in the eleventh century, it was considered prestigous or vain to use a fork. Similar to the Watchers and the means they present themselves.

Other theories like @strychninesss 's double life 2 utilises the couplet's use of repition and pairs to conlclude the return of the soulmate gimmick with its repeatability and new possibilities with the pairing of new soulmates.

Our second poem arrived from Martyn's accomplice Cherrifire, with her reply to his cryptid poem was to produce another poem herself and that being:

"Oh, well in that case you're not getting a peep, not even a taste of the secrets I keep.

Of course, I could tell you all I know, but it's way more fun to give you a show.

Or perhaps this is all a trick, and Martyn’s just being a— very mean person.

Whatever it may be, you'll just have to wait and see."

With this poem following the rhythmic pattern of (Rhyming) (Rhyming), the couplet mainly focuses on the information Cherri deliberately chooses to withold and the her dilemma to diclose her details to fandom. In the end, she decides to hold the spoilers and express her intrest into the chaos that can produced with limited clues given before the said show begins.

Well the structure and the style of the poem is reminiscient of how the Watchers approach and address the members of Evolution SMP back in 2017. With the Watchers depicted as this all-knowing beings that can see everything and perceive all things, they often speak in this entitled mannerisim due to their privileged abilities. And with the legacy of the Watchers being continued but altered with every iteration or headcannon of them, they have commonly been altered into these beings that revel in the chaos and angst produced by the participants of the Life Series. This message could be a warning to the fans that the Watcher's could play a more major role compared to the Secret Keeper in Secret Life as a tribute to the four seasons and three years of the Life Series.

These statements revealed by Grian, Scar, Martyn and Cherrifire has just almost confirmed the arrival of the season five for the Life Series be very soon. Although there is the possibility Grian could be hyping us up for an entirely different video that collaborates with other mcytbers, evidence piles to point towards the next installment coming hopefully, next week.

____

All links and references used are in the post and uh special thanks? regards? to @aethbeans and their twitter account that compiled messages from Scar's discord server regarding clues to the upcoming Life Series.

Oh COd I was scrambling to finish writing this one

[firstemcee]

”So, what’s really on your mind?”

Veneer x Male!Hip-Hop/Rap artist!Reader(can be read as female or gn, i jus feel like they’re male leaning. uses amab pronouns(?) or labels.)

Warnings: discussion of abusive (platonic)relationships. Reader is written to talk like how I do. No use of y/n.

wc: 822

Part 1 — Part 2 (you’re here)—

Summary: An evening stroll in a familiar park leads to running into a pop-star you’ve met before. Who knew he had so much to get off of his chest? Veneer can feel himself growing more and more fond of you as time passes.

As promised, this part focuses more on Veneer. THANK YOU SO MUCH TO THE PEOPLE WHO HELPED ME!!! 😭🫶🏽 @miralunawritez @lexischococoveredblueberries @nym-blogs @alldoll3dup

The sun, dipping below the horizon, cast rays of golden light throughout the park. You found yourself walking through the simple space, the rhythmic beats of your favorite tracks in your ears as you admired the scenery(On A Clear Day - Oliver Hart a suggestion of a song i personally really like). The park was like an escape from the chaos of the world, one of the places where you could unwind and enjoy the simple pleasures.

As you made your way along the gravel trail, you spotted a familiar figure seated on a bench. Veneer sat casually, the ‘disguise hoodie’ he wore catching the last rays of sunlight. His green lips curved into a smile as he noticed you approaching. “Hm. What’s he doing here?”

"Well, if it isn't the master of rhymes…" Veneer greeted, his voice dripping with lingering confidence from the stage. You chuckled at the title, taking a seat beside him on the bench. The various animals and sounds of the earth did well to hide the awkward silence.

"Didn't expect to see you here," you remarked, sipping on a can of cola you had brought along. Veneer raised an eyebrow, tilting his body towards your sitting figure. "Honey, I'm everywhere. It's practically a public service."

The conversation flowed smoothly as you discussed everything from music to the downsides of fame. Veneer, used to having to entertain, shared anecdotes about his various encounters, sprinkling humor into every sentence. Your easygoing demeanor complemented his flamboyant one, creating a simple yet sweet dynamic.

As the laughter and jokes continued, a subtle shift occurred. Veneer, usually guarded behind his confident persona, seemed…contemplative. The playful shimmer in his eyes just seemed to dampen as he gazed into the distance. You couldn't help but notice, having looked into his interviews and content on your own time well enough to analyze his personality.

"So, what's really on your mind?" you asked, your typically laid-back demeanor taking on a more concerned tone. Veneer let out a sigh and his shoulders slumped just a bit. "You're perceptive, aren't you?" he mused, his usual smugness replaced by vulnerability as his elbow rested on his knee and his chin in his palm.

As the park settled into a dark evening, Veneer began to unravel the layers beneath the persona he’s built up over some time. He spoke about his sister, the abusive relationship hidden behind the scenes. His words made an image of a desperate desire to keep her happy at the cost of his own well-being.

Of course, all while keeping their secret safe. Out of all the things he would tell you, that would never escape his lips.

You listened intently, the usual humor you displayed simply fading from your expression. Veneer's eyes, usually vibrant with confidence, now held a mixture of sadness and frustration. Like they were dull. "Nobody should be treated like that, man." you said, your voice firm. Veneer, for a moment, looked like he had expected harsh judgment but found understanding instead. When he looked over at you, he seemed almost defeated.

"Yeah, well, it's complicated. I just want her to be happy, you know? It's like… an unbreakable loop," Veneer confessed, his hands now resting in his lap idly. You shook your head, the sympathy in your personality seeping through. "Nah, that's messed up. You can't be sacrificing yourself like that."

The park's peace held heavy silence as Veneer processed your words. He appreciated the genuine concern, the rare moment of someone seeing beyond the thrill of meeting a popstar or the basic ten questions. "You're…cool, you know?" he admitted, a hint of admiration in his gaze.

You chuckled, trying to bring back the familiar lightness to the conversation. "I mean, I did grow up spitting rhymes in my parent's basement. Not everyone's journey involves an illegal pet monkey." Veneer laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine in comparison to what you’ve seen online. "Yeah, yeah... I guess we all have our unique paths."

The night carried on with shared experiences, personal confessions, and a newfound friendship that went far beyond the simple facts of fame and struggles. Veneer, once confined to the glossy pages of tabloids, found relief in the unfiltered authenticity of the park conversation.

As the moon arose in the night sky, casting a soft glow on your faces, Veneer couldn't deny the growing crush that had taken root. It wasn't just about the rhymes or the laid-back charm. It was the person behind the vinyl, the one who saw him beyond the carefully constructed exterior.

The park, where you found each other once again, became almost like a sacred spot for shared confessions and the beginning of an unexpected connection. The world might know Veneer as the overnight sensation alongside his sister, but in that secluded area, he was just another person seeking understanding, finding comfort in the company of someone who saw him beyond the stage lights.

under no circumstances do i accept you posting my shit on other sites. don’t.

[pyrotechnicarus]

As a lyricist who doesn’t compose for your productions, what is your approach to writing lyrics?

Depends on the composer! I'm a very lyrics-first person (though I've been experimenting a little more with music-first composition styles and having fun with them.) I like to write a complete, well-structured lyric, hand it to my composer to set, and then we go back and forth with little edits if needed (they might ask me for fewer syllables in a certain line, I might ask them to make the melody go up on a hook, etc.)

When all is going well I am possessed by a mad spirit of creativity whispering me rhymes in the middle of the night and I write a complete, almost formally perfect, well-scanned lyric in the wee hours of the morning (Jimmy July, I Don't Know You Anymore, Litany of the Martyrs, A Little More In Love, and Blood Oath were all written this way.)

When I'm struggling to write a song, usually I'll outline it as formal sections (what is the main thought of the A section? What is the main thought of the B section? How does that change in the final A?) and then collect related rhymes and words for a few days in a notes app until I'm ready to sit down and grind it out. Mostly class assignments fall into this category, and certain opening/closing numbers (Day In Court (reprise) my behated) or songs I'm too scared to approach head-on without a formal guide (e.g. The One Who Pulls The Strings).

I guess one way I'm different from strict bookwright/lyricists is that I often come up with a tune for my lyrics as I'm writing them. This helps them scan* regularly in my first draft (usually I have to go back and scan them again, to make sure, but they often come out pretty rhythmically sound.) Upon request I've sung my composers these tunes before, but unfortunately my little tunes are usually the melody to some popular song I've forgotten I know, haha! This is a beautiful thing about having different people do the words and composition -- they can approach the lyrics with a fresh brain and always come up with something way cooler than my initial instincts.

*I dunno how much musical theatre writing technical terminology you know, but here I'm talking about the scansion of my lyrical lines- the usage is essentially same as when people talk about scansion in poetry. Unless it's dramatically motivated, you generally want the emphases in each line to land in the same place, so that they eventually align with the downbeats of a measure. It gets a lot more complicated fast, but it's a good rule of thumb for making sure people can tell what your lyrics are saying the first time they hear them.

[riddle-me-ri]

Can I get a arkham-verse hatter helping Y/n recover after a nightmare? ....I wish to play with the man's hair and fall asleep 👉 👈

a/n: asdfg this is the softest thing, yes, yes you absolutely can anon fun fact, the nightmare the reader has is based on a nightmare I had back in college so…enjoy 😀

Content Warning: detailed scary scenario (being stalked) other than that none really.

Word Count: 663

Arkhamverse Mad Hatter x Reader - Only a Nightmare

You couldn’t shake the feeling you were being watched. 

Almost like someone was staring holes right through you, a hole through your lungs, making it hard to catch your breath. 

You also didn’t recognize your surroundings…you were definitely still in Gotham though. All alone on a foggy night with no street signs in sight and on an empty sidewalk. 

At least it seemed empty.

Being alone already had you on edge, let alone with someone you didn’t know…and who felt extremely threatening. 

The fog slowly dissipated a little and you could start to make out more of the figure. 

They were tall and broad, most of their face was obscured by the shadow of their hood. 

You didn’t get many more details because you quickly opted to turn away and start speed walking away. 

Your heart dropped when you heard a set of heavy footsteps echo after your own. 

Speed walking shifted into a jog and before you know it, you were running with no clear direction. 

Deeper into the thickness of the fog. 

Suddenly, you reached a door to a house. You yanked the door open without a second thought. Maybe this was a house you’ve been in before, if you had a chance to take it all in you could recognize it. 

“J-Jervis…Jervis!” 

You felt your mouth shape around his name but no sound came out of it. No matter how hard you try to get your chords to work, they seized to make a sound. 

“H-Help!” 

Still no sound. 

The figure’s shadow got larger and larger in the window. 

The house seemed to shrink-pulling you closer to the door. 

The door knob started twisting and turning–

The door creaked open–

“Wake up, wake up my dear! You’re having an awful nightmare I fear!” 

Your eyes shot open. Your heart almost palpitating through your rib cage. 

The house, the figure, the fog…it all faded away. 

In reality, you were in bed. Jervis at your side, his face riddled with concern. Both of his hands were on your shoulders, he gently shook you out of your nightmare. 

The only thing you could think of to do was hug him. 

“My, my, something in your sleep has gone awry.” He muttered but returned your embrace full-heartedly.

“Y-Yeah…I–It was a nightmare…An awful nightmare, Jervis. I hadn’t had one so scary in years–I…” You nestled your head deeper into the crook of his neck and shoulder. 

“I-I couldn’t find you…I called for you but no noise came out.” You quietly whispered, sniffling slightly. “I was all alone…”

Jervis’ heart sunk. He couldn’t imagine a worse nightmare. To somehow be separated from you, to not be there for you…to know that you need him and there isn’t anything he can do. 

He began slowly rocking you back and forth, softly shushing your quiet sniffles. “But not anymore, my dear! I promise you have nothing to fear, your Jervis is here!” 

You squeezed your arms around him tighter at that last statement. He’s right, you’re not alone…not when it mattered. Jervis was always there. 

After a few more moments of calming silence, you reluctantly pulled out of the embrace to face him. 

Jervis leaned forward and gave you a kiss on your forehead. 

“Would you like to try and go back to sleep? Maybe try counting sheep?”

You giggled at the whimsy rhyme, but nodded as you lowered your body into the mattress. You brought Jervis with you on your descent and he nestled perfectly into your side like a puzzle piece, with your arms still interlocked around each other’s bodies. 

You began stroking his scalp, your fingers gingerly raking into the strands of his hair. The rhythmic motion immediately lulled Jervis back to a soft doze. 

As you matched your breathing with him, you too finally fell back asleep into a dreamless slumber. Which you were more than content with, for there was no better dream than the reality of waking up tomorrow next to Jervis. 

[mrcowboydeanwinchester]

🌾 these quiet lives ⛰️

deanjo fic - 1437 words - rating: G - western au - read on ao3

There is a small ranch, somewhere on the border between Kansas and Nebraska, about a twenty minute ride out from the nearest town. Its windows are shuttered now, but in the ephemeral times of cowboys and outlaws, it was a bustling little place - perhaps not full of people, but full to the brim with two quiet lives being well lived after many days of hardship. 

These quiet lives were those of Jo Harvelle and Dean Winchester.

or, the dean and jo are long term cowboy partners on the ranch they bought together and now dean is cutting jo's hair fic

written for beloved rain @queerstudiesnatural's 2k celebration and the prompt deanjo! i had an absolute blast running with this. massive thanks to @magdaclaire for the beta <3

fic is below the cut!

There is a small ranch, somewhere on the border between Kansas and Nebraska, about a twenty minute ride out from the nearest town. Its windows are shuttered now, but in the ephemeral times of cowboys and outlaws, it was a bustling little place - perhaps not full of people, but full to the brim with two quiet lives being well lived after many days of hardship. 

These quiet lives were those of Jo Harvelle and Dean Winchester.

To everyone else (namely the nosey figures in the windows of that small town a twenty minute ride away), their partnership looked formulaic: a guy and a girl shacking up together with a few horses, a ranch, saving up to make the place a little cozier. Nothing that nobody hadn’t seen before. 

But what everyone else didn’t know was how radical their love was. The way that Dean was Jo’s first kiss with a man, and Jo Dean’s first kiss with a woman, when they were both far from virginity. How they had drifted in and out of each other’s lives for years like no one could decide their fate. The scars along Jo’s torso, too, were proof that they had almost been out of time. That they were alive, to realize the could-be potential of their will-they-won’t-they relationship at all, was incredible. It was the time of outlaws, afterall, and our two protagonists had not been immune to a lawless life.

With all that stood in their way you could perhaps be justified in saying their love was out of character. But it wasn’t. It made perfect sense, in the same way that poetry might, strong and solid in meaning if only when read by the right eyes. And that was Jo and Dean: a nonsense poem with a strict rhyme scheme, predictable on the surface yet profound between the lines. Rhythmic, galloping, beating hearts as certain as hooves on the sun-hard ground. 

Still, they weren’t strictly in love. Rather, the love was all around them. Jo saw it in the green oasis of their pastures amid the desert land, in the firewood piled beside the porch, in the leather jacket quietly left for her to wear on colder days. Dean saw it in the crystal clarity of the ranch windows after a rough wind, in the oats faithfully refilled in the stables, in the gift of a new hat with a wider brim when the heatwave came. For both of them it was a love of actions, the affection solid and tangible and filling after years of starvation.

Contentment, in the gentle touches of four scarred hands. 

On one of the long sloping dusks of August, the world bathing in nectarine and plum, Jo sat on the bottom porch step with Dean a step above, his knees either side of her. It was the kind of evening which cost nothing, yet gave everything in return, where the turn of the earth could be felt in the hum of the cicadas, and the day, while fading away, seemed still to be new - the kind of evening which only ever occurred thrice in the nineteenth century, and has not occurred since. Well, it was on that incredibly rare kind of evening belonging only truly to retired outlaws, that Dean held silver scissors (copper in the light) in his scarred hands as he snipped easily away at Jo’s hair.

“Almost a decade past since we got this place, now,” Jo mused. “You were 31 then, you’re 41 now.”

“And you were 24.” 

“I’m older now than you were when we moved here.”

Dean hummed, somewhere quiet between surprise and acknowledgement, the scissors snipping a melody at the nape of Jo’s neck. 

He had been in the habit of cutting Jo’s hair for as long as they’d set up together on the ranch - a few months short of a decade, to agree with Jo - as, though she liked knives, she wasn’t to be trusted with them near a head of hair, and Dean had had the practice of cutting his younger brother’s shag for all his adolescent years. 

Tonight, though, was slightly different from the usual trim. Cursing the summer heat and finally relaxing into Dean’s encouragement, Jo had marched up to her partner and demanded anything past her chin to be very decidedly cut off. She could tuck it behind her ears as she worked, and the wave of her hair would bring it up off her neck and out of the heat. All this had been patiently explained by Dean many times before. He had this way of knowing Jo, and knew, in the same way as he liked wearing his mother’s jewelry, that cutting her hair might steady her in the skin she was prone to slipping in and out of. 

So far, Jo liked it. Liked the feeling of weight leaving her, the almost dizzying lightness that came with her hair cascading to the floor. She had followed Dean blind into battle, and while she would not do that again, she could go all in on him cutting her hair well. The many hues of their relationship, the bright bruises of their coming-of-age, had not altered, simply mellowed. 

“D’you ever miss it?” Dean said, caring yet mild. “The life we had before all this?” 

Jo waited for two hawks to sail across the apricot sky before answering, no clouds to dapple the light. The words came to her easy enough, but from somewhere moving and deep, wading through long grass. She breathed in deeply, bringing herself to meet them, allowing herself to savor their sweetness.

“All the time we were running with that gang, I were thinkin’ - this is what proper love is, to have something worth dying for. I’d never known it before, you know. An’ then that hound sinks its teeth into my side an’ my vision goes white and there’s only one thing I remember seein’ after that.”

The careful snips of the scissors ceased, and Jo smiled, tilting her head upwards to hold Dean’s gaze.

“You. I could barely think nothin’ and it’s just your face in front of me and then I had one thought, and it were just that I’d been wrong. I were wrong. Love is something worth living for. By god, right then I knew it was worth livin’ for you.”

“Joanna Beth,” Dean whispered, his lips rose and soft around her name. 

Jo had not used to like it when he called her that, mainly due to the fact it was the name her mother had flung at her from across the bar in many a desperate fit of anger, back when she was alive and both of them working at the Roadhouse. It was a name that sank low in her gut like a guilty stone, heavy with the shame of misplaced temper. Jo had wanted to get out, and her mother had wanted a daughter, and neither could give the other what they wanted.

But Dean only ever used Joanna Beth in moments of adoration. As if he felt the simple Jo could not do her justice. When he said Joanna Beth, it meant he was seeing the whole of her, afresh, anew, finding again all of her troubled histories and still wanting to write futures with her.

Her slate was never, would never be clean. There was too much blood for that. But Dean saw the blood and did not love her in spite of it, but with it. Like he wouldn’t rather have her any other way. 

“Grow older with me, Winchester,” Jo murmured, and she turned in his lap to meet him, having been inches too far from him for far too long.

His lips pressed hers tenderly, like they had done hundreds of times before. The great heartlands of America could not hold as many sensations at this, for all of the lushious, dying, sprawling, changing lands around had nothing on them. They were not in love, but they were radiant with it, each with the other firmly and irreparably in their heart.

Jo had yet to find a gray hair, and she felt her breathing alongside Dean was nothing short of a miracle. She hummed these next words against lips, passing them like a breath between them.

“Grow old.”

And, dear reader, I can see even now through the shuttered windows of the ranch they whiled away their years on the many contented memories they made. There is still love there, this century and a half later: it is not a haunting, but a remembrance.

They did, indeed, grow old. 

[ponds-of-ink]

Quick Into The Pit-Inspired One-Shot: “Replaced”

Can’t get this idea out of my head thanks to that new trailer, so here it is. It’s a bit rushed, but at least I got the main idea down.

If I correctly predict this (which I know is unlikely), I’m going to yell.

—

The neon signs served as beacons of light for that the room. They buzzed and hummed as a side door opened. Out stepped an employee with a haggard face yet a glimmer in his eyes. He shut the door, then leaned against it. “Stage, games, tables, extracurricular…” he muttered a few times, rhythmically tilting his pointer finger in the air. “Same routine, different night.”

The tilting stopped. He lowered his hand and looked out into the distance. A strange feeling seemed to churn in his soul. Something that would make someone else tack “but that will change tomorrow” onto his last sentence.

But the employee shook away that thought. He straightened his posture, then began his inspections. As he did, he mumbled some lyrics to a tune that was really only meant to be whistled.

Please, please, little bird

Will you say the word?

Sing to me a different rhyme

Talk to me of summertime

All of the animatronics were in their places. The drawn curtains had no hangups. 

For so long I’ve wandered

And I’ve pondered all alone

Will I ever see good weather

Or me not on my own?

The neon signs were clearly working. Any “out-of-order” notices had been removed from their real game cabinets. Even the tables and chairs seemed clean and oraganized.

So please, bird, little bird

Will you say the word?

Will you sing that happy tune?

Will you chirp or will you croon?

Please, bird, please say

Please…

The employee paused. A plastic ball was lying on the tiled floor in front of him. He cautiously picked it up and inspected it. “Looks like someone tried to take home a souvenir,” he thought to himself as he repeatedly flicked it into the air. “That or the janitor thought something was wrong with it.” He caught the ball one final time, then stared at its netted home. “Might as well drop it off,” he concluded with a shrug. “Don’t want any other kids tripping over it.”

He strolled over to the ball-pit, whistling his tune. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the ball over the net. It bounced into its rightful spot.. Then prompted a small hill to form.

The whistling stopped for good. Our “hero” leaned against the net. The hill drew closer, prompting a rustle from inside the ball-pit.

“Come on now, Jeremy,” the employee laughed as cordially as he could. “The restaurant’s closed for the night. You don’t want your parents to worry about you!”

The mound stopped before the net. An overwhelming darkness seemed to emerge. Two glowing blue eyes peered up at the man. Staring. Almost as if it was patiently waiting on him.

A chill surged throughout the man’s body. “You’re not Jeremy,” he said breathlessly, starting to back away from the net. “What… even are you? A new security measure? Someone messing with one of the old suits—?”

A yellow, seemingly gloved hand snatched his ankle. It pulled him down onto the floor with a sharp tug. A soft, high-pitched whine rang in the man’s ears. Ever-changing in pitch, but never sounding aggressive.

The man tried to pry himself off, but the thing’s grip was strong like iron. Everything turned into a blur as he was pulled into the ballpit. He definitely shrieked as he plunged, but his body didn’t recognize it as him doing so. It was practically numb, save the sensation of being drained. The darkness that enveloped him soon became strange visions. In one, fire surrounding another Fazbear’s attraction. In another, a strange metal creature panicking as it fell into a lake. And yet others showed him scrambling to survive against monsters of his own making or even arguing with some facsimile of himself.

No matter the circumstances, one theme became clear.

If this whole situation didn’t happen, he would have been utterly destroyed from the inside out. And it would have been all his fault.

..Perhaps it already was..

A few minutes later, the two blue eyes popped back up to the surface. It raised its yellow rabbit ears as it surveyed the area. “Stage, games, tables, extra…” it said in a slow, thin voice. “All… clear.”

Then it lowered itself back into the ballpit.

[caltropspress]

RAPS + CRAFTS #29: Masai Bey

1. Introduce yourself. Past projects? Current projects?

Peace. My name is Masai Bey. I did a few albums. The Panacea Goldmind, C87 (with BMS), Natural Magic Music, Art Of The Covenant, Beboppin, Guardians Of The Gate (performed with L.I.F.E. Long as Auxiliary Arms). I’ve done a bunch of features and collaborations with other artists. I am currently “retired” from making albums, but I still practice a little.

2. Where do you write? Do you have a routine time you write? Do you discipline yourself, or just let the words come when they will? Do you typically write on a daily basis?

I usually write at home. Lots of times the ideas come while driving in the car, but the construction is usually at home.

3. What’s your medium—pen and paper, laptop, on your phone? Or do you compose a verse in your head and keep it there until it’s time to record?

I would say I’ve always been more of a pencil and paper person, but for the last couple of years it’s been my phone because I use the phone to make notes of ideas. Before I know it, some of those ideas transform themselves into half verses.

4. Do you write in bars, or is it more disorganized than that?

Both.

5. How long into writing a verse or a song do you know it’s not working out the way you had in mind? Do you trash the material forever, or do you keep the discarded material to be reworked later?

I usually do all of my editing while I write. I keep the discarded material if it can be reworked in a different context.

6. Have you engaged with any other type of writing, whether presently or in the past? Fiction? Poetry? Playwriting? If so, how has that mode influenced your songwriting?

I used to do a little poetry writing. Writing poetry taught me how to display an idea a few different ways while reinforcing the single concept.

7. How much editing do you do after initially writing a verse/song? Do you labor over verses, working on them over a long period of time, or do you start and finish a piece in a quick burst?

Most of my editing happens while writing.

8. Do you write to a beat, or do you adjust and tweak lyrics to fit a beat?

I like to write to the beat. It gives me the space to put the pieces together rhythmically.

9. What dictates the direction of your lyrics? Are you led by an idea or topic you have in mind beforehand? Is it stream-of-consciousness? Is what you come up with determined by the constraint of the rhymes?

Everything you just asked. All of these are used.

10. Do you like to experiment with different forms and rhyme schemes, or do you keep your bars free and flexible?

I do both. Whatever seems to make sense to me at that moment.

11. What’s a verse you’re particularly proud of, one where you met the vision for what you desire to do with your lyrics?

"Nonstop." That song was the B-side to the "Paper Mache" single released on Definitive Jux. That song is me.

12. Can you pick a favorite bar of yours and describe the genesis of it?

“My flav was made for any particular age: zero years to eighty, / 7000 B.C. to 7000 A.D.” 

I wanted to use the word age two different ways.

13. Do you feel strongly one way or another about punch-ins? Will you whittle a bar down in order to account for breath control, or are you comfortable punching-in so you don’t have to sacrifice any words?

I’d rather not punch-in only because I like to record the energy flow of the entire verse.

14. What non-hiphop material do you turn to for inspiration? What non-music has influenced your work recently?

Soul, funk, club classics, freestyle, jazz, etc.

15. Writers are often saddled with self-doubt. Do you struggle to like your own shit, or does it all sound dope to you?

Sounds dope to me.

16. Who’s a rapper you listen to with such a distinguishable style that you need to resist the urge to imitate them?

I never had the urge to imitate anyone.

17. Do you have an agenda as an artist? Are there overarching concerns you want to communicate to the listener?

I have no real agenda. I just always wanted to make music that sounded dope to me and share it with the world.

RAPS + CRAFTS is a series of questions posed to rappers about their craft and process. It is designed to give respect and credit to their engagement with the art of songwriting. The format is inspired, in part, by Rob McLennan’s 12 or 20 interview series.

Photo credit: Unknown (contact me).

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Merry Whumpmas 2023 Day 25: Alone

Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates! (And to those who don't, I hope you had a wonderful day regardless)

TW: white room torture

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Whumpee lay on their back on the floor of the padded cell, their legs in the air, rhythmically banging their feet against the cushioned white wall. Their arms lay unmoving at their sides, and Whumpee stared blankly at the plain, white ceiling, eyes glazed over.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

All sound, even their bare feet against the wall, was muffled. Even their breathing sounded like it was filtered through a layer of thick cloth. The light illuminating the cell was muted and never grew nor faded throughout the day. Whumpee had no clue how long a day even was anymore, and they didn’t know how long they’d been here.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Whumpee started to hum softly, filling the oppressive silence with quiet melodies from before they came here. They couldn’t remember the words to this particular song, but the notes were easy enough to remember. The muffled thumping of their feet set the tempo, in sync with their heartbeat and countered by their breathing.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The sound of scraping metal. Whumpee ceased humming and turned their head towards the noise, but they did not stop beating their feet in rhythm against the wall. The slot at the bottom of their cell door had been opened, and a simple white tray slid through. It contained a single bowl of white rice and a cup of water.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Whumpee regarded the tray as the slot covering closed. The rice would be bland and flavorless, the water devoid of minerals or metals. They did not look forward to eating the ‘meal', for it was as dull as the rest of the cell. Such was the nature of Whumpee’s prison.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

No color. No flavor. No texture. Barely any sound. The cell even smelled of nothing. Whumpee had been here so long its scent had become familiar. Routine. The passage of time was impossible to track because the ‘food’ deliveries had no rhyme or reason for when they came. Whumpee had tried to keep track by assuming two meals each day, but now they questioned even that logic.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Whumpee wondered if they were going insane.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Perhaps they already were.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

…

[gothhabiba]

I am curious: do you tend to craft a poem around a specific form that you have in mind or do you write a critical mass of imagery/ideas before trying to structure it more strictly? I would like to get better at playing with poetic forms other than free verse, but really struggling to not go completely blank when I have constraints

I almost never set out on purpose to write e.g. a sonnet or a villanelle—a few images and phrases come to mind and I notice that they're iambic, or that there's a good rhyme in there somewhere, or that it would sound good repeated, and I go from there. sometimes I have to insert these words and phrases into a few different "places" in the poem (so, what I thought was the second quatrain of a sonnet is actually the first, &c.) before I get something that sticks. I interpret this as noticing that a poem is "asking" to be a sonnet and attempting to oblige it. on occasion this doesn't work and it ends up free-form after all.

I often experience the constraints of fixed forms as generative, rather than restrictive. maybe I only have three lines written—but the fourth has to rhyme with the second, so I have a limited pool of words to work with, so I try out a few lines that end with a few of those words before deciding on the best direction to go—like the poem is generating itself from a set of initial conditions. I experience found poetry the same way, particularly if the set of words I'm working from is small.

eventually as you write (or read!) more metred poetry, you will get a 'sense' for what works rhythmically and will spontaneously think of metred lines more (rather than thinking of something that doesn't 'fit' and then going about trying to make it 'fit'). practice with working around limited rhyme sets (do not be too proud to use a rhyming dictionary... it is a tool that is there to help you) should also help.

you say you're "struggling not to go completely blank when [you] have constraints"—as if you think of a next line or a direction to go that would only work if the poem were free-form, but won't work in the fixed form? maybe trying start a poem without knowing in advance what you want to "say" with it. exercises where you describe a physical object, start with one word or phrase and see where it takes you, &c. rather than a poem where you have a message that you feel you're struggling to make 'fit.'

it's entirely possible that the first few fixed-form poems you write will be rote ones that technically fit the form but don't gain anything from it—that's to be expected. just push through this phase until you get some experience with it—try writing exercises such as taking news articles and trying to make them iambic, rewriting other people's poems as sonnets, &c. it probably won't feel so mechnical forever.

it's possible that any given poem just simply doesn't want to be in a fixed form, and it's also possible that you'll try fixed forms for a while and find that they're not for you! but if you're trying to find a place to 'break in', this kind of thing could get you started

[dotthings]

Some thoughts about the end credit track and how it reflects on Ahsoka herself and what it might mean thematically and for her arc.

The end credits track by Kevin Kiner is mostly built around Ahsoka's theme, originated by the same composer.

starts out slow, with higher, melancholy violins and rhythmic, darker cellos as a baseline that almost sound like drumbeats, plus there's drumbeats. Feels powerful, yet weighed down. (Like Ahsoka herself, commentary on that below)

then the theme starts rising with soaring horns, builds and climbs, becomes less weighed down, with more instruments joining in.

quiet passage with a flute which segues into more wind instruments, more energetic, and then it goes contemplative, quieter again.

track ends with more quiet horns that sound somber to me, but not heavy like the opening.

That end credit track has an arc. It's telling a story in itself. What that story is yet, what it all means, we don't know yet.

However the way music works in Star Wars, music reflects the story. The end credit track has clues tonally about the arc of S1. We haven't seen the build and climb yet. We've only seen the first 2 episodes.

It's not going to stay there. There's going to be an arc.

The "slowness" of Ahsoka's fight scenes are not a mistake. Notice how Shin Hati and Sabine's fight scene is paced a bit differently, and the way they move is different than how Ahsoka moves. Also "slow" isn't the right word. That's a shorthand. More precisely, I'll describe her movements as deliberate and steady. It may look less dynamic that what we're used to but there are several reasons for it.

One thing is that as an older, experienced Jedi, Ahsoka doesn't need to zip around like she did as a teen. She's very powerful and very experienced. She moves strategically, purposefully, steadily, and lures her opponents into traps. Another reason (a more practical logistical reason) is difference from animation to live action--animation has a weightlessness live action simply cannot replicate, and comparing the two makes no sense to me. But again, given that Shin Hati and Sabine's fight scene is paced more rapidly, I don't think this is simple logistical difference between animation and live action. It's a deliberate story choice that fits thematically.

Those moves of Ahsoka's were thought through. Very carefully.

The other reason is her emotional arc--it's a visual, stylistic commentary on Ahsoka's emotional state. It's the weight on Ahsoka's shoulders, along with how powerful and deliberate her fighting style has become. There's also her defensive posture so far in quiet non-combative scenes. Arms folded.

Ahsoka is carrying a lot of weight on her shoulders at the start of S1. Her regret and guilt about abandoning Sabine, her regret on not finding Ezra, her regret about leaving Anakin, not being able to save Anakin, the responsibility she feels, her fears of failing.

TV isn't random spaghetti thrown at the wall, especially not with something done with the care that goes into Star Wars. Stylistic choices are made deliberately. Visual choices, music choices, lighting, blocking, are deliberate. And Star Wars rhymes.

We're going to see an arc. Because that's how storytelling works.

[fantasyinallforms]

Do you adore alliteration? Are you prime for a rhyme? Perhaps mad for metaphors? Silly for similes? I love them all but alliteration is probably my favorite, which is yours? If you speak or write or read more than one language do you have a different favorite for different languages? I assume that these can all be applied to any language.

In case you need a refresher: Alliteration is the occurrence of the same letter or sound at the beginning of adjacent or closely connected words.

Rhyme is correspondence of sound between words or the endings of words, especially when these are used at the ends of lines of poetry.

Metaphor is a figure of speech in which a word or phrase is applied to an object or action to which it is not literally applicable.

Simile is a figure of speech that directly compares two things. Similes differ from metaphors by highlighting the similarities between two things using comparison words such as "like", "as", "so", or "than", while metaphors create an implicit comparison.

This ask is meant to be fun! No pressures at all! <3

If you ask me this question, I really must say, that I never really do things all one way.

To write means to do all and to choose would be droll but at this point I suppose you could guess I have a ...preference?

See! It's hard to just rhyme when you save something to say, but here we go, moving on anyway.

Simile and metaphor I use them as needed, but they lack the literaty acustics you can get from crafted words that dance, in a rhythmic trance

Now alliteration you say? A favorite for sure, but hard to use without sounding like you're stuck in a tongue-twisting tour. Sally sells sea shells by the seashore. Not a bore!

Now, yes, it's very clear to see rhyme is my favorite, sometimes a necessity! I don't get to use it nearly as often as I'd like. In the world of words, it's my poetic hike.

With verses that dance and lines that chime, A rhythmic journey, a symphony in time. Rhymes weaves tales in a melodic embrace, A lyrical art, a poetic grace.

In every stanza, a rhythmic delight, Guiding my emotions through the silent night. So here I am, in a rhyming spree, my poet's heart, forever free."

Thank you, my dear, you made this fun as the sun, but alas, time is finite, and we really must run.

I hope to hear from you again sometime very soon. I hope you know these are never inopportune.

I'm happy to see them each and every time and to not do more would surly be a crime.

No pressure at all these are meant to be fun! So here I will wait for our next session.

~~~~

This took me an hour. But it was a VERY fun hour! Also, I can speak other languages, but I'm not nearly as good at rhyming with them.