#battle creek roofing

[roofinglystersexteriors]

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[ethanhunt02511]

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[heliads]

okay, hopefully you have room for more than one request from me !! this time, could i pretty please request billy rocks with a gender-neutral reader, since you know i have to send in my obligatory magnificent seven request ? the reader is a member of the seven and their resident medic, in charge of patching up everyone else’s injuries after a fight. they’ve had a kind of flirting banter thing going on with billy for a while, but neither of them are planning on really doing anything about it anytime soon, until the reader collapses after a battle because they ignored their own injuries in favor of helping the others and billy completely freaks out. when the reader finally wakes up, the others tell them that billy hasn’t left their side the entire time they were out, and after billy soundly scolds them for ignoring their own health, they finally confess ?

again, obviously you don’t have to right this if you’d rather not, but if you do, thank you so much in advance, and i hope you’re doing well !! <3

'living, surviving' - billy rocks

masterlist

He will die tomorrow morning, but now, while the town of Rose Creek is still quiet and dark, Billy Rocks is alive. Alive and alone. No one sees him, no one knows him. He remains invisible, curtained by deep shadow. He looks around him at the wavering lights of candles in windows, and wonders, depressingly, when they’ll get blown out by gunshots. When every glass pane shatters, when every roof collapses, when each body falls and friend goes missing, Billy will remember this night, back when nothing had gone wrong yet.

The wind whistles through the slots in the door out back, bringing with it the vague lilts of laughter and conversation from a few doors down. There are people here who still harbor hopes of walking out of tomorrow morning’s fight alive, and they’ve gathered around fires or drinks to convince themselves that it’ll happen. Not Billy, though. Billy, as per usual, is alone.

He likes being alone, though. It lets him see what others don’t. Billy remembers being a child once, a long time ago in a place that was not this one. A schoolmate of his, a friend, maybe, had shown him a print of an ancient warship in the book with a proud figurehead at the front cut out to look like the head of a god. It was meant to guard the ship, apparently, and keep it from harm.

It had always struck Billy as a rather lonesome thing. One god, brought down to land in the form of a wooden carving, always staring ahead sightlessly and separated from the crew. Forever bond to solitude. Watching out for the men aboard that would never look it in the eyes.

Now, though, Billy thinks that he quite understands it. He is alone now, hidden comfortably in the shadows such that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness. Tucked away in a dark corner, he can see the various inhabitants of Rose Creek nervously passing the time before they’ll likely lose their lives. Lost in drink or card games, doing their best to do too much so their minds can’t sit and think about how little time they’ve got left, nobody has the patience or nerve to check for things hiding in the shadows. They certainly don’t look hard enough to find him.

They wouldn’t if they tried. Billy has had a lot of time to perfect the art of remaining out of sight. He shows off when he wants to, twirling a silver knife just right so the lithe blade reflects the sun like an arc of pure light, but he prefers being quiet. He’ll let Goodnight do the talking, or Billy’s knives. When he’s quiet, he can watch. When he’s quiet, he can learn the secrets about people that they aren’t aware they’re telling. He can guide his crew from the shadows. He can lead them from his place alone above the stormy water.

Usually, no one can find Billy unless he wants them to. The exception, of course, is Goodnight, because as business partners, it became somewhat of a necessity to find Billy when need be, so he’s let that slide. Tonight, though, with Goodnight gone and everyone else highly strung due to the battle looming ahead, Billy doesn’t think he’ll be found.

That makes it even more surprising when he is. Billy sees this new arrival coming, of course, but he assumes they’ll veer off towards the bar, or that they’ll go laugh with the drinkers or the dancers like everyone else sees fit on this restless night. Instead, their path stays true, and they not only find Billy at once but pull up a chair next to him. Like the only thing they want to do on what may be their last night alive is to spend time with him. Like Billy is the only person worth seeing at all.

Ordinarily, Billy Rocks has no problem holding his tongue. He’ll whisper a few biting jokes here or there, typically never above the volume of a sigh, but he’s never had a problem with keeping his peace. Tonight seems to be a night of surprises, though, because Y/N L/N, their resident medic, has hardly sat down before Billy’s asking them cautiously, “You don’t want to be with the others, then?”

Y/N glances towards him, surprised, as if they hadn’t even realized this would be an option. “Now, why would I do that when I’ve got such pleasant company here with me?”

Billy chuckles in spite of himself. “It’s not the most entertaining of company.”

“Mmm,” they hum, “but I like it better that way, I think. Tonight’s not a night for shouting. Seems wrong that way.”

Billy lets out a slow breath. He can feel his fingers curling at his sides, readying themselves for triggers or blades come the next morning. “No, it doesn’t,” he agrees.

Quiet falls. Billy waits for them to leave, but they don’t. They stay, and they smile at him, warm in the lamplight from across the room, and say, “You don’t mind me being here, do you?”

“Of course not,” Billy replies hastily. “Besides, what sort of man would I be to kick out our medic the night before a fight? I can’t risk upsetting you now, sweetheart. You might do something wild, like sew me up with pink thread.”

Y/N laughs. Billy finds himself glad for the isolation again– out there in the main room of the bar, the sound of Y/N’s laughter might have blended in with the stomping of heels, the creaking of wood, but out here, with nothing else to disguise it but his own bated breath, Billy delights in it entirely. The sound curls around him like music, and his fingers twitch again, this time not to reach for a weapon but to hold their laughter. To hold them, maybe. It’s a good thing he knows better. It’s a good thing he doesn’t want that more than anything, because if he did, he might do something foolish like try.

“I’d never mess with you,” they grin. “Promise. It would ruin my reputation.”

“Wouldn’t just ruin your reputation, it would ruin my skin,” Billy grumbles, but he’s smiling again.

Y/N knows it too. They always seem to smile all the brighter when he’s smiling too, like it’s a bet they’ve won. “I wouldn’t dare,” they promise. “Besides, I can’t go threatening one of our best shooters the night before I fight, can I? What sort of friend would I be? I need you on my side to keep me safe.”

Billy arches a brow. “I’ve seen you with a gun, darling. I’m pretty sure you can keep yourself safe all on your own.”

Y/N’s lips curl suggestively. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Something hot rushes through the back of his neck. “I leave it to you to find the fun in a gunfight,” Billy says hoarsely. Changing the subject is the safest thing to do right now. It’s safer than leaning closer, than returning Y/N’s fire with fire. Safer than touching them, which is what he wants to do right now most of all.

This is not the night for that, Billy reminds himself. They’re going to die tomorrow and he won’t cloud either of their judgment. So, even though he wants nothing more than to keep testing this theory and see where they break, he forces himself to pull back and resume a normal conversation. He encourages Y/N to get some rest before everything goes to hell tomorrow, and hopefully, they will. Y/N’ll have a lot of hard work headed their way by dawn. He doesn’t want them any more stressed than they need to be.

The sun rises, bringing trouble with it. Bogue brings a lot of men, too many by Billy’s estimate. He grits his teeth as he watches them ride in, and prepares himself for a long, bloody morning. They’ve set up a small medical center in one of the better protected buildings where Y/N can practice their craft. If Billy can only make sure none of Bogue’s thugs make it to them, he’ll die a happy man.

Y/N, however, doesn’t seem to like the idea of sitting pretty while their friends die. Ordinarily, Billy wouldn’t blame them for that, but he can’t deny that his heart starts racing whenever they sprint out into the streets to tend to the wounds of their fallen friends. Once Goodnight turns up, the other man wastes no time in teasing Billy about his obvious partiality to the brazen medic, but Billy’s only half listening, anyway. He can’t both partake in snide comments and keep Y/N alive, and he’s really only interested in one of those things.

The battle rages on, then, startlingly enough, quiets. Bodies line the streets, both the dead and the injured. Y/N has been moving non stop almost the entire time; how they haven’t passed out from exhaustion, Billy has no clue. He sees them swaying slightly on their feet as they move from patient to patient, and mentally reminds himself to make sure they’re doing alright. He just needs a little more time to clear the enemy from the town, then he’ll be free to check on them.

Once the final thug has been killed or chased off, Billy starts scanning the area for Y/N. A couple friends mention that they saw the medic recently, but none of them can point him in the right direction. He checks the medical center, but it’s only inhabited by the groaning injured, not sunny would-be doctors with a spark in their eye and a quick joke on their tongue. 

Heading outside again, Billy completes a slow loop around the building, but he can’t find them anywhere. Panic starting to grow in his chest, he pulls aside Sam when the other man walks by.

“You haven’t seen Y/N around, have you?” Billy asks hastily.

Sam gives him a slow, worried look. “Now that you mention it, I’m not sure that I have. They were keeping plenty busy while the fighting was hot, but it’s been a while since they crossed my path.”

Billy nods, not even sparing the time for a thank you before continuing on his careening search through the city. As he paces down the streets, some of his friends make to approach him, but he brushes them all off. Nothing matters except finding Y/N. Nothing matters except finding Y/N.

And then, almost by accident, he does. It isn’t how he’d expected. Somehow, some naive part of him was hoping he’d find them in the tavern, already with a drink in hand, or surrounded by some awestruck sharpshooters, dazzling them with their wit. Anything that would guarantee their safety. Anything that would keep them out of harm.

In reality, when he finds Y/N, it’s no different than finding any of the other fallen bodies. They’re slumped against the wall of a building, a roll of bandages fallen loosely from their hand. There’s a man unconscious next to them, a friend of theirs who’d evidently suffered from a gash across the arm. Billy spots Y/N’s expert handiwork in the form of a clean wrap across the injury, but the one who seems to need medical care now is Y/N themself.

Hurriedly, he crouches by them, lifting a hand to check for a pulse. “Y/N?” He asks, his voice wavering.

Y/N stirs slightly, their eyes half-lidded. “Billy? That you?”

“It’s me,” he confirms. “Sweetheart, what happened?”

They move slightly, grimacing in pain, and that’s when Billy notices the dark splash of red seeping out of their waistcoat. “Sweetheart,” he repeats unsteadily, “Don’t tell me you got shot, now. You can’t just bleed out like that without getting yourself some help.”

“I had to help him,” Y/N whispers. “That’s what mattered.”

“No, you’re what matters,” Billy hisses. “Fuck the rest. You were supposed to put your health above theirs.”

Y/N manages a slight slip of a grin, not even a half-smile, and the obvious pain it causes them makes Billy’s heart clench in his chest. “Now, what kind of medic would I be if I did that?”

“A safe one,” he sighs. “Now, come on. I’m going to pick you up and get you some help, alright? Don’t you dare close your eyes. I need you to stay with me.”

“I like staying with you,” Y/N mumbles as Billy picks them up.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he tells them. 

Y/N feels deathly still in his arms, and Billy doesn’t want to give that a single moment of his attention. All that matters is sprinting back to the medical center; calling for someone, anyone to help him; carefully setting Y/N down on a clear bit of space. He has to be moved away from the table so the doctor can treat them, so intent is Billy on staying within reach, and the second they tell him that Y/N’s going to be okay, he’s right back by their side.

Y/N will wake up soon, they tell him. Just a bit of exhaustion and blood loss. Y/N’s made of tough stuff, they’ll be alright. When they open their eyes again, Billy will be right by their side. This time, he has something he’d like to tell them, and this time, there isn’t anything holding them back from the love they were always meant to share.

requested by @faerieroyal, i hope you enjoy!

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[florida3exclamationpoints]

Since Taylor seems to be confused about what Mary's Song (Oh My My My) is, I put together a comprehensive list of potential mashups or pairings she could use during surprise song o'clock. Hope this helps 🫶

She said, (dear reader) I was 7 and you were 9. I hit my peak at 7. The tricky thing is yesterday we were just children. I looked at you like the stars that shine in the sky. Love you to the moon and to Saturn. The stars in your eyes shined brighter in Tupelo. I've never seen nobody shine the way you do. He's passing by, rare as the glimmer of a comet in the sky. The pretty lights. One night a few moons ago, I saw specks of what could have been lights but it might just have been you. I know looks can be deceiving, but I know I saw a light in you. And our daddies used to joke about the two of us growing up and falling in love. Up on the roof with a schoolgirl crush. And our mamas smiled and rolled their eyes. When you're on the phone and you talk real slow 'cause it's late and your mama don't know. And said "oh my, my, my." (My, my, my, my.)

Take me back to the house in the backyard tree. Please picture me in the trees. In backyards, winning battles with our wooden swords. Friday night beneath the stars in a field behind your yard. Said you'd beat me up, you were bigger than me, you never did. Hey Dorothea do you ever stop and think about me? Down in the park, honey, making a lark of the misery. You would break your back to make me break a smile. We were like the mall before the internet, it was the one place to be, the mischief, the gift wrapped suburban dreams. Take me back when our world was one block wide. We had this big, wide city all to ourselves. When I'm feeling alone, you remind me of home. I didn't choose this town; there's just one who could make me stay all my days. I dared you to kiss me and ran when you tried. Daring you to leave me just so I can try and scare you. I've been loving you for quite some time; I just like hanging out with you all the time. Just two kids, you and I. You throw your head back laughing like a little kid. Like a child when our eyes meet. At 14 there's just so much you can't do. When you're 15 and somebody tells you they love you, you're gonna believe them.

(Next chapter) I was 16 when suddenly I wasn't that little girl you used to see. 16 and wild. A teenage couple in the driveway, holding hands on the way to a dance. I'm crazier for you than I was at 16. Teal was the color of your shirt when you were 16 at the yogurt shop you used to work at to make a little money. The kind of radiance you only have at 17. But your eyes still shined like pretty lights. Your eyes look like coming home. Starry eyes sparking up my darkest night. And our daddies used to joke about the two of us. Any snide remarks from my father about your tattoos will be ignored, 'cause my heart is yours. They never believed we'd really fall in love. Seems like there's always someone who disapproves. Sun sinks down, no curfew, twenty questions, we tell the truth. You can hear it in the silence, you can feel it on the way home, you can see it with the lights out, you are in love, true love. Not trying to fall in love, but we did like children running. And our mamas smiled and rolled their eyes. And your mama's waiting up, and you're thinking he's the one. And said "oh my, my, my." "Oh my, love is a lie," shit my friends say to get me by.

Take me back to the creek beds we turned up, 2am riding in your truck. 2am, in your car. Just a boy in a Chevy truck that had a tendency of getting stuck on back roads at night. And all I need is you next to me. Everything I need is right here by my side. I'll be summer sun for you forever. Take me back to the time we had our very first fight, the slamming of doors instead of kissing goodnight, you stayed outside till the morning light. I remember that fight, 2:30am as everything was slipping right out of our hands, I ran out crying and you followed me out into the street; you took me by surprise, you said "I'll never leave you alone." This love is worth the fight. You fight, then you talk. When we had that fight out in the rain, you ran after me and called my name, I never wanna see you walk away. Oh my, my, my. My heart, my hips, my body, my love.

A few years had gone and come around. Our coming of age has come and gone. We were sitting at our favorite spot in town. I love my hometown. This place is the same as it ever was. And you looked at me, got down on one knee. And all at once, you're all I want, I'll never let you go. I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings. I wanna teach you how forever feels.

Take me back to the time when we walked down the aisle. Church bells ring, carry me home, rice on the ground, looks like snow. I want you for worse or for better. There you'll stand, next to me, all at once, the rest is history. Our whole town came and our mamas cried. I'll be there if you're the toast of the town, babe. I had the fantasy that maybe our mismatched star signs would surprise the whole school when I ended up back at our class reunion walking in with you. You said "I do" and I did too. I vowed I will always be yours. I'm so in love that I might stop breathing. You and me forevermore. Take me home where we met so many years before. I find myself running home to your sweet nothings. Barefoot in the kitchen, sacred new beginnings that became my religion. Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die. It's been 2190 days of our love blackout. Floors of a cabin creaking under my step. Just being in your arms takes me back to that little farm. He feels like home. I want to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet, 'cause I haven't moved in years. I heard your key turn in the door down the hallway. We'll rock our babies on that very front porch. Your little hand's wrapped around my finger and it's so quiet in the world tonight, your little eyelids flutter 'cause you're dreaming so I tuck you in, turn on your favorite night light. Give you my wild, give you a child. We could get married, have ten kids and teach them how to dream. After all this time, you and I. Time, mystical time. I've been sleeping so long in a 20 year dark night, now I see daylight.

I'll be 87, you'll be 89. Long story short, I survived. Time breaks down your mind and body, don't you let it touch your soul; I'm gonna love you when our hair is turning gray. All my days, I'll know your face. I'll still look at you like the stars that shine in the sky. When Emma falls in love, it's all on her face, hangs in the air like stars from outer space. Oh my, my, my, my.

[rookwurmwood]

The Witch Stone

Part One: The Wizard of Hangman's Hollow

There are places in this world which are still beholden to many secrets. Places where the vestiges of Heathen-Times still lurk, far from the peal of church bells. One such place is the rugged and lonely hill-country of Appalachia. Many superstitions still linger regarding the deep, unspoiled highlands; especially the hollows. Deep, narrow valleys nestled between the high peaks which always seem 'neath a perpetual shade of twilight cast by the dense canopy of gnarled, ancient trees and the ghostly fog which remains persistent long after the morning mist has been burned away by the midday sun. Nearly every one of these tales share a similar puritanical character, claiming that the forest and dark hills are the abode of mountain-witches, demons, and all other familiars of the devil and that those who stray too far from the amber halo of the porch-light into the trees are passing the threshold of Satan's Kingdom; surrendering themselves, both physically and spiritually, to the powers of darkness.

Yet there are those who lay claim to those desolate regions, sturdy folk who sought freedom from the powers that be. The mountaineers would lead simple lives as trappers, hunters, and farmers who survived however they could among the mountains; creating small outposts of civilization in the heart of wild country.

One such place is a small town called Shepherd's Creek in the heart of West Virginia, a decently sized settlement founded by a coalition of Scotch-Irish settlers who fled the tyranny of the crown back in the early days of the colonies and natives from the Adena and Hopewell culture who were drawn to the settlement out of curiosity before partnering with the Celts. It rests on a tributary to the Kanawha, which lent the hamlet its name. It was here in 1816 when coal was found in one of the clefts in the hills. This discovery caused the settlement to grow and expand in the intervening century as more were drawn to Shepherd's Creek to pursue mining, which generated much of the income and infrastructure based around the mine and the river at the town's heart.

By 1916, Shepherd's Creek had become a subsidiary exporter of coal which was sent upon barges down the river which cut its serpentine path between the rolling hills to meet the Kanawha. However, the location of the town in the backwoods, far from any main roads lent the area a perpetual obscurity which destined Shepherd's Creek to never exceed more than a couple thousand residents. Most of whom being misfit, desegregated blue-collars and rednecks and their families who sought better worker's rights than the ones provided by the major labor unions, especially after the strikes at Cabin Creek and Paint Creek and the ensuing Coal War which would come to a head in 1921 with the Battle at Blair Mountain which will forever mark a chapter of bloody history in the chronicles of the coal-country.

Shepherd's Creek itself is a microcosm of Appalachia in and of itself, almost idyllic in its quaintness. Its architecture hearkens back to the colonial period with many small houses packed against the banks of the river with the main street of the town leading from the cavernous opening of Cromlech Mine to the wharf where the barges take up their cargo. Several Georgian manor-houses atop the tallest hills overlooking the town and the meager skyline is punctuated by the white spire of the St. John's Church which rests at the heart of town and the steep roof of the Finicky Fox Public House which is but a short walk from the mine. Around the town is a spider's web of dirt roads which stretch across the rolling countryside which lead to either the driveways of the myriad small farmsteads which dot the landscape or join into a gravel backroad which will end its wandering path at a main road which will take you all the way to Charleston.

There is, however, one neck of the woods which many in Shepherd's Creek deem it wise to avoid; especially at night. South of the main street of the town is a muddy trail which will lead you to Hangman's Hollow. The general squalor of the locale sits in stark contrast to the rest of the town and is the source of much scorn for the residents, coupled with the perpetual sulfurous odor which permeates about the place as if the place were haunted by some feted grave-specter conjured back from the shapeless black gulfs of night to further add to the atmosphere of incestuous degradation. Most avoid the place for fear of having a run-in with those who dwell among the shacks and cabins which line the overgrown road through the hollow. Most of whom being outcasts and pariahs who slink about the dark trees, shunned by society often for good reason. One such individual was Chester Ogden.

The Ogden Family was once a respected clan and major pillar of the community, that was until the scandal which saw most of the remaining members leaving town in an effort to salvage their reputations. Chester was born the son of a physician, Dr. James Ogden, which granted him a life of relative opulence in a manor-house off Church Street; where his ancestors had dwelt since the first timbers of the town were erected. Chester himself inherited much of his father's intellect and was considered a prodigy in the natural sciences when he was but a boy. He had later proven his worth when the Spanish Flu came back with those few who returned from the Great War. After the plague had taken his father who had succumbed during his struggle to treat all the afflicted, Chester had taken up his father's mantle as town doctor and saved the populace from the miasmic hands of illness all while only 17 years old.

Chester was a tall and slim man with a pointed, bespectacled face, dark eyes, and a head of neatly parted black hair. His elegant features and polite, bookish nature made him quite the unobtainable prize among those who sought his hand as he was staunchly devoted to his studies, which had greatly broadened. By the age of 20, he was a true Renaissance Man in every sense of the word. Being an omnivorous reader, well learned in: medicine, chemistry, higher mathematics, philosophy, and archeology. His renown reached far beyond Shepherd's Creek by this point as he had published several papers which were universally praised in scholarly circles and scientific journals across the country. He had even been granted the privilege to host lectures at Marshall University.

Though, as is typical for those gifted with his level of brilliance, he did harbor some eccentricities; chief of which being his predilection for the strange and esoteric. A fact many saw as ironic due to his standing as a steadfast man of science but those who spoke with him on the matter claimed he dismissed it as a passing interest in the macabre; though the passion at which he discussed such topics alongside his small library of occult literature argued otherwise. Such volumes were often purchased from private collectors from overseas, often at exorbitant prices. His cryptical collection included works penned by Agrippa and Paracelsus, as well as several more obscure authors from various points in Classical as well as Medieval History, with all of the books focusing on a myriad of disparate and phantasmagorical subjects as: alchemical and hermetic doctrine, astrology, mystical philosophy, and arcane cycles of lore with one or two of his more aged volumes diving into shadowy topics of witchcraft, demonology, and necromancy.

As time went on, it would seem that Chester grew complacent with the conventional sciences and histories and began to publish more papers concerning philosophy and theosophy, often accented with extracts and passages lifted from those grimoires of his. He slowly dissipated from public circles and spent his days sequestered in his study. Pouring over those dread-tomes and performing queer experiments in a makeshift laboratory equipped with strange apparatuses and instruments. He would only venture out to have dinner or to walk down to the chemist where he would purchase all manner of chemical salts and compounds. Marcus Brown, the chemist in question, always seemed to be short of mercury, sulfur, phosphorus, and acid the morning after one of Chester's visits.

Gradually, Chester's routine became more and more nocturnal so that his studies would remain undisturbed with sightings of him becoming increasingly rare. He was only ever seen outside the walls of his family's manor when his stores of chemicals needed to be replenished or on long trips to the post office in the neighboring town to pick up another manuscript he had ordered. The only time he was seen outside without a clear motivation was on nights when the moon shone gibbous in the sky. On such evenings, Mr. Ogden would seemingly be gripped by some lunatic urge and would disappear for hours on end off into the wilderness; swathed in dark clothing and carrying with him an old surgeon's bag which appeared to be bearing a heavy burden, only returning when velvety black skies gave way to the radiant golds and reds of daybreak. Curiously, the woodmen and farmers on the fringes of Shepherd's Creek claimed that strange lights could be seen dancing among the ominously swaying trees, such phenomena synchronized eerily well with Chester's late-night outings.

Mr. Ogden was so consumed by his research that he had begun to neglect his own health. His well-groomed hair and boyish features gave way to a sallow, gaunt visage bordered by unkempt mane of long hair and the stubbly beginnings of a goatish beard. He also sported a festering wound on his left hand as it always appeared to be wrapped in bloody gauze when not concealed in the pocket of his coat and failed to show any signs of healing. Though he was no older than 22, his face bore premature lines of age as a result of the frequent exercise of an iron-clad will and many sleepless nights.

His mother was greatly disappointed with her son's abandonment of his prior ambition and prospects, calling it an insult to his father's memory. Tensions amongst the Ogdens grew after nights of harsh chemical smells and bizarre noises emanating from the study which Chester had claimed as his laboratory and forbade anyone to enter. This unrest eventually came to a head with Chester Ogden being forcefully emancipated when it was discovered that the dwindling family fortune had been funding the research which most in his house saw as frivolous. Thus the forsaken scion of the Ogden Clan relocated himself to a log cabin in Hangman's Hollow which he spent the following summer renovating. That autumn, his nocturnal expeditions and experimentations would increase in frequency and fervor.

He would still provide aid to those who sought him out as his reputation as the town-doctor had yet to be outshined by his eccentricities in the eyes of the public. Though this faltering image would not last long as those who were desperate or unfortunate enough to find themselves in his care were often assailed by the hermit's ramblings while he administered treatments. Even with all his oddities, it was clear that there was still a brilliance to him as he shared tidbits of metaphysical concepts with his patients. The most peculiar story came from Tommy Pierce, the foreman of Cromlech Mine who had sought aid for the morphine addiction he had picked up after his time with the army during the Great War. The whole time he was there, Chester spoke of things which he had unearthed during his studies into the esoteric regarding the inhabitants of distant spheres of existence where our notions of time and space hold no jurisdiction. Even he, a man beholden to the horrors of mechanized killing and chemical warfare, left Ogden's Clinic thoroughly disturbed. He regaled the patrons at the Finicky Fox of his visit, bookending the anecdote with:

"I tells ya, I'd rather live with them pains n' shakes then ask that crackpot for help ever again. Ya couldn't drag me back to Hangman's Holler even if ya tried."

Chester's cabin was in a constant state of controlled disarray. What was once a parlor had been converted into a makeshift clinic, cordoned off from the rest of the structure by canvas curtains. Behind which was the kitchen and bedroom which he used as his laboratory. Those who let curiosity coax them into pulling back the cloth barrier were greeted by table and countertop alike cluttered with heavy books of frightening antiquity, all bearing marginalia in Ogden's spidery hand. A chalk board was mounted upon the wall which bore all manner of equations, formulae, and geometric patterns which looked oddly like pentagrams. A telescope sat on a rickety tripod in front of the only window, next to it being a notebook full of crudely drawn star-charts. The stove was topped with beakers, alembics, and flasks of various sizes, all filled with fluids that bubbled and fizzed over low flames, giving off noxious fumes. In response, Mr. Ogden would become enraged, drawing the curtains shut and berating his guest for attempting to interfere with his delicate experiments.

Once in a while, someone would stealthily accompany Chester on his moonlit strolls to sate their own morbid curiosity regarding the habits of the eccentric. All returned with reports of uniform character and peculiarity.

When the moon hung gibbous over the hills, Ogden would steal away into the forest as he always did. He would tread along a briar-choked path down into the deepest recesses of a damp hollow. The trees shunned this place and the silver moonlight freely spilled into the clearing, bathing the weathered surface of a cyclopean edifice at its center. It was a huge, flat stone shaped a bit like a table which stood just over waist high. Its surface was cracked and stained by centuries of wind and rain. Beneath the moss and lichen it was engraved with patterns of concentric rings, all converging on a bowl-like recess in the middle of the stone. A relic of elder days standing defiant to the march of time. This was the so-called Witch-Stone, a local enigma with its own fair share of folklore surrounding it. It bears no similarities to the sacred earthen-works and monuments of the Adena, with the natives themselves claiming no ownership of the monolith and stating that it had been here far before their arrival.

The early European settlers of the region were similarly perplexed by what would have been an utterly benign stone and it is recorded that the pastor of Shepherd's Creek said in his 1785 sermon that it was "The Devil's Tea-Table" where witches would gather to perform their sabbatical pagan rites around bubbling cauldrons of moon-drugs. Later, the witch-hunting frenzy would crept its way into Shepherd's Creek and a midwife was hanged there after accusations of witchcraft. Legend has it that she called out to her infernal master as the life was being wrung out of her by her hempen executioner and now, if you visit the stone on certain nights, bad things will happen. Up until that point, it had just been a place where young'uns would wander to at sundown and dare each other to touch it but no one ever seemed to muster the guts to do so.

There, Mr. Ogden would begin his work. He would start by undoing the clasp of his surgeon's bag from which he would produce two flasks of chemicals, a knife, and one of the heavy books from his collection. The spectacle would begin with him emptying the two flasks into the basin of the altar which, by some chemical mechanism, would spontaneously burst into blue flames which bathed the clearing in a dim, ghostly light. Then he would open his grimoire to a marked page and begin to read aloud. Starting at a whisper and gradually increasing in volume until he was howling with feverish exaltation in an unknown language while he swayed and undulated in a ritualistic fashion.

"Ahrr'Ghaluathh ia khoduia! Gharr'Uaighahh ia nhoss nhuiidd ing bharnn'aos! Ghahll'Uiaghh dai aoshhan dhaan la'ad thae'fhathahl ahh ghuaiithh ah t'haahn urkh khanghaii ahhr dhraihh! Khafh'ohd ak ahmzharr rhoh'uikh iu'bhouahhdaiithh ia mhaah ahrr mhaesiithh ahsharnohl!"

He would continue this grotesque incantation as he set the book upon the weathered stone, the pages illuminated by the ghost-fire and flipping wildly in an unseasonably warm breeze which carried with it the stench of an open grave. He would then unwind the bandages from his left hand, reach for the knife which he had set on the stone, raise his hands high above his head while shouting to the sky, and quickly yank the edge cross the palm of his sinistral hand so that flecks of crimson smattered the surface of the monolith before him; all while singing, or rather shrieking, that strange chant with a precision which portrayed a notion of constant repetition.

While the display was already a testament to Chester Ogden's singular interest and character, there was more to this than the obsessive practice of some dead folk-religion by a deranged mind as occasionally, the Witch-Man would have his cries answered by a sound that was felt rather than heard. A curious subsonic vibration which somehow carried the impression of discernable syllables. It had no clear origin and seemed to come from the hills themselves. With every reply, the stone hummed and resonated in weird tones while the blue flames on the altar would dance in a sickening fashion, as if possessed of some will of its own. The flickering light of the flames as they swelled and faltered would illuminate the surrounding forest, shedding light on the things which furtively dwell among the deep hollows: silhouettes darted between the shafts of light which parted the curtains of ulterior darkness, shapes that were anything but human in outline that stood out against the darkness like fresh paint layered upon a coat which had already dried.

These exchanges would go on for hours as Ogden would have whole dialogs with unseen things, all in that croaking, guttural language of untraceable kindred. All the while, he would scrawl notes in the margins of his great books. Eventually, Chester would appear satisfied and utter a brief incantation which snuffed out the flame instantly; bathing the elder monument in darkness yet again before he gathered his implements and returned back the way he came.

Accusations of witchcraft were once again whispered among the people of Shepherd's Creek and soon it was common practice to bar your doors when the moon was gibbous.

The following winter is when animals began to turn up missing, mostly cats, chickens, and the occasional goat with the culprit being labeled as foxes or cougars which were growing desperate as the snow came down heavier and heavier, though there was always an undercurrent of suspicion towards the Wizard of Hangman's Hollow as the forest paths he walked always reeked of death. Investigation was futile, however, as crows began to appear in abnormal abundance along the tree-line. Attempting to shoo them off was fruitless and they would become unusually aggressive to anyone who tread too close with one man even being hospitalized after he had been mobbed by a murder of crows. Some of the more fanatical attendants of St. Johns and the more superstitious residents went as far as to claim that Chester had be-witched the corvids as his familiars.

By then, Chester Ogden's descent into madness was absolute in the eyes of most. Many wanted him institutionalized for his own safety though any relative or heir who could have authorized such an order had been long gone, departing from Shepherd's Creek in a struggling attempt to sever contact and cleanse their sullied image as soon as Chester's mania eclipsed his prior standing as a man of science, especially once the tabloid press caught wind of the gossip. Mr. Ogden was soon the sole member of his family in Shepherd's Creek, the last of a well respected lineage being a destitute lunatic. With his kinsmen gone, he had once again dared to reappear amidst the public, shedding his prior secretiveness. He was 24 by this point but looked nearly twice that in appearance. Gaunt to the point of emaciation, face dominated by deep-set eyes and a wispy beard. Light shunned him, the flames of lanterns and candles always seeming to dance away from him, regardless of breeze or lack thereof. What few cats remained in town arched their backs and hissed when their paths crossed. Dogs loathed him, snarling and barking wildly in his presence. The townsfolk regarded him with silent disdain whenever they chanced across him but they always avoided his gaze as those eyes which were previously too timid to meet another's in youth were said to freeze the blood and pierce the soul of those he leered at. Some swore his eyes possessed some vague inhuman quality or burned with an infernal light like the fires of Dis when his face was curtained by shadow.

The pale glimmering of the ghost-lights from the forest grew in intensity and nights of the gibbous moon were marked by an increase in unexplainable phenomena. Objects would move on their own accord, shadows moved about the trees after sun-down, and odd voices with no discernable point of origin harassed the miners as they walked home. It was as if some Poltergeist was called from beyond the waters of death, but the worst was yet to come.

Halloween, 1926. While neighboring towns celebrated with drinking and merriment in the guise of goblins and ghouls, the people of Shepherd's Creek were struck by the heavy fist of tragedy. A young girl, Dorothy Huffman, had gone out to trick-or-treat by herself in the late afternoon and had never returned. Henry, the girl's father, had returned from a late shift at Cromlech Mine to find his house empty and the neighbors clueless of Dorothy's whereabouts. He was beside himself with worry and organized a search party at once. The last person to see Dorothy said they saw her crossing paths with Chester Ogden who had been aimlessly wandering the streets, seemingly engaged in a vain search for something before laying eyes on young Dorothy. Suddenly, it seemed as if the girl had been gripped by a drug-like delirium while Mr. Ogden locked eyes with her, all while he muttered something under his breath. Then, Mr. Ogden began to walk towards the forest to which Dorothy began to follow with a shambling gait and a glazed expression. This information was brought to the sheriff who immediately went to assist Mr. Huffman's posse, fearing that Ogden had graduated from subjecting cats to his experiments and had gotten his hands on a larger specimen.

They made for the forest but were halted by an out of season thunderstorm which gathered overhead suddenly and without warning. The trees groaned and cracked under the force of an immense wind and bolts of lightning shot down from the sky like arrows which forced the posse to seek shelter. Lights shone from the forest brighter than ever before which only grew as daylight died. Mingled with the cracking of lightning and the howling of the wind was another sound, a voice which roared with lycanthropic fury over the storm in that gurgling cant, magnified by some otherworldly force as if to mock the party who wished to save the girl. A pillar of sickly blue light rose from the dark outlines of the swaying trees and pierced the raging clouds into the starry night beyond.

"N'hohsuun Bhrehn'hhenohd iir Hh'nhafh! Dhe whahs dehh ahh'dheegh ehna'iihd ghuirhyfh yg ahh'bhth! Chl'uihh fhiih!"

That night, devils danced on the roofs of Shepherd's Creek and madness rode the screaming wind on bat-like wings. Those who lived close to the woods told that they could see lumbering, polypus shapes and vast amorphous forms which could not be of this world accompanied by what men of an earlier era may have called imps and fauns engaged in diabolical Samhain revelry to the infernal piping and whining of ceremonial flutes, the incessant pounding of ritual drums, and an inhuman ululating of a singular pitch and tone which had not been described since the witch-hunts nearly two centuries prior.

When the storm had cleared and daylight banished the shadows, the search party had forced their way into the dank hollow, already aware they were far too late and dreading the scene they were to find. They eventually came upon the clearing and the Witch-Stone. The forest floor was burned black and the trees were bereft of the auburn autumn leaves and angled outward as if blown away by the force of an immense explosion, yet no cinders linger and there was not smell of smoke. There was no trace of Dorothy with the only sign of life being Ogden who sat upon the table-like stone, laughing or wailing at the top of his lungs. Between bouts of jubilant, child-like screaming and hysterical tears, he would rave to anyone he could:

"You yokels thought me mad but I have done it! The correct stars were in position, the sacred geometry was precise, the barriers were thin enough, the vessel was accepted! I have brought forth my quintessence, my philosopher's stone, my magnum opus. I will take my findings to Harvard and be praised for my research!"

Chester Ogden was dragged kicking and screaming to the jailhouse once he had been torn away from the pummeling fists of Henry and was committed, or rather condemned, to the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum. There he would spend the remainder of his years amidst padded walls, his dark woolen coat traded for a straitjacket with no home to return to as those who did share in his blood had long renounced the name of Ogden. Dorothy Huffman was never found and no amount of questioning revealed what he had done to the girl, the only indication of him having any knowledge being a slight smirk and a sardonic chuckle.

Mr. Huffman was inconsolable after the disappearance of his daughter, he spent his days combing through Ogden's cabin for clues or on his porch sipping hooch from a mason jar. He became a misanthrope who never gave up hope searching for his daughter when all others had given up after the first snow. Eventually, he himself would vanish during a violent snow-storm. Many assumed he had either gotten lost in the blizzard or simply wandered out into the woods to let the frost take him and the authorities had resigned that they would probably recover both bodies once the spring showers dispelled the snow. Though the relative peace in Shepherd's Creek was short lived, coming to an end with the next gibbous moon...

The ghost-fires shone out once again from between the snow-cloaked trees and the stillness of the night was broken by wild howls. The following morning, bare footprints were found in the snow along the tree-line which traced out an aimless and shambling trail, around which still lingered the stench of grave-soil and wet moss. Then came the disappearances as a new shadow was abroad. One which crept through the streets, wheezing and coughing all the way. It clawed at doors in an attempt to loose their hinges and crawled through unlatched windows to strangle the hapless dreamer and raid the squalling contents of unattended cradles.

To be continued in The Witch-Stone, Part Two: The Beast of Shepherd's Creek.

[starlightwielded]

♢ . SHAKESPEARE AESTHETIC. mordred edition.

romeo & juliet. suburban july. scraped knees. bruised knuckles. blood in your teeth. bare feet on hot concrete. restlessness. your high school’s empty parking lot. love poems in your diary. a window open to coax in the breeze. burning inside. an ill - fitting party dress. a t - shirt you cut up yourself. the time you tried to give yourself bangs. biking to your friends house. bubble gum. gas station ice. the feeling that you’ve met before. rebellion. a car radio playing down the street. cheap fireworks. a heart drawn on the inside of your wrist with a sharpie. switchblades. red solo cups. dancing in your bedroom. screaming yourself hoarse. running out of options. the forlorn looking basketball hoop at the end of a cul - de - sac. climbing onto your roof at night while your parents are asleep. flip - flops. a eulogy written on loose - leaf. the merciless noontime sun.

hamlet. speaking in a whisper. holding your breath. a browning garden.a half remembered story. furniture covered with sheets. fog at dawn. mist at twilight. losing touch. the ethereal space between winter and spring. the soft skin at your temple. the crack in the hallway mirror. things you’d say if you knew the words. uncombed hair. books with writing in the margins. books with cracked spines. books with lines scratched out. prayers on all souls’ day. a chipped ceramic bathtub. a cold stone floor. the uncomfortable awareness of your own heartbeat. the sparrow that got in your house. shadows. the creek you played in as a child. a dirty night gown. an oversized t - shirt. a collection of your favorite words. soil beneath your nails. ghost stories. the strangeness of your own name in your mouth. deep silence. exhaustion. a cliff with a long, long drop down.

twelfth night. wicker deck furniture. new england summer. large sunglasses and a blonde bob. a storm over the ocean. patio umbrellas flapping in the wind. the smell of chlorine. muffled laughter. sarcasm. starched cuffs. day drinking. bay windows. the idea of love. love for the idea of love. love for love’s sake. hangovers. wandering over the sand dunes. a vagabond with a guitar. fishermen with tattoos. a pretty boy with a slacked tie. a lighthouse. growing too close. boat shoes. feeling yourself change. big, floppy sunhats. double - speak. a song you keep listening to. turning red under their gaze. margaritas drank on an inflatable pool lounger. string lights on a balmy night. sleepy june days. fights you’re unprepared for. hope you weren’t expecting. pranks that go too far. bad poetry. pining. becoming less of a stranger.

macbeth. the space where your grief used to be. a bird that’s lost an eye. old blood stains. heavy blinds. the smell of sweat. the stillness after a battle. a fake smile. a curse. the taste of metal at the back of your tongue. your house, unfamiliar in the dark. a dusty crib. the smell of sulfur. an orange pill bottle. streaks in the sink. a black cocktail dress. your hand on the doorknob, shaking. a chilly breeze. crunching from the gravel driveway on a moonless night. clenched hands. a rusty swing set. a flashing digital clock stuck on 12 : 00. a snake that crosses your path. an owl that watches you. a dog that runs when you approach. red smoke, dark clouds. cool steel. tile floors. footsteps in the hallway late at night. a baggy suit that used to fit before. visions. insomnia headaches. nursery rhymes. being too far in to go back now.

much ado about nothing. the high drama of small towns. a pickup truck. military supply duffel bags in the hall. hugs all around. tulip bulbs. a wraparound porch. a pitcher of iced tea. a rubber halloween mask. someone on your level. ill - timed proclamations. stomach clenching laughter. rushing in. not minding your business. crepe paper. white lies. secrets written down and thrown away. southern hospitality. homemade curtains in the kitchen. a sink full of roses. hiding in the bushes. old friends. the wedding dress your grandma wore, and her mama before her. a dog - eared rhyming dictionary. chamomile with honey. the intimacy of big parties. lawn flamingos. gossip. a crowded church. friendly rivalries. unfriendly rivalries. shit getting real. love at five hundredth sight. not realizing you’re home until you’re there.

king lear. cement block buildings. power lines that birds never perch on. the end of the world. useless words. rainless thunder, heat lighting, a too big sky. arthritic knuckles. broken glass. chalk cliffs. the pulsing red - black behind closed eyes. something you learned too late. wet mud that sucks up your shoes while you walk. a cold stare. empty picture frames. empty prayers. the obscenity of seeing your parents cry. a treeless landscape. bloody rags. grappling in the dark with reaching hands. the sharpness at the the tips of your teeth. the blown out windows of a skeletal house. decay. jokes that aren’t jokes. biting your tongue. prophecies. aching muscles, tired feet. stinging rain. invoking the gods. wondering if the gods are listening. worrying that the gods are dead. white noise. shivers. numbness. the unequivocal feeling of ending.

a midsummer night’s dream. the smell of wet soil and dead leaves. listening to music on headphones with your eyes closed. wildflowers. the distant sparkle of lightning bugs. a pill someone slipped you. fear that turns into excitement. excitement that turns to frenzy. mossy tree trunks. a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness. night swimming. moonlight through the leaves. a bass beat in your chest. a butterfly landing on your nose. a kiss from a stranger. a dark hallow in an old tree. glow in the dark paint. drinking on an empty stomach. a twig breaking behind you. spinning until you’re dizzy. finding glitter on your body and not remembering where it came from. an overgrown path through the woods. cool dew on your skin. a dream that fades with waking. moths drawn to the light. giving yourself over, completely. afterglow. the long, loving, velvety night.

tagged by: @ashmored ! tagging: @witchdoctrines / @halfcaped / @noonesoldier, @witchhaunts / @fa1rytells , @playbarbies . @forwardmoved / @dorkustm , @nofooltadius , @grizzwalds , @chmarva , @grizzwalds & YOU! steal it! tag me!

[matrixxsystem]

Terrapin Soup Part 7

A few days had gone by as usual since Usagi's visit with Leos family, most of the questions about them had subsided. On occasion something would come up like Mikey asking for his favorite color, or April asking what Leo likes most about him and teasing him about kiss. Or even the few times Splinter would ask if he'd seen the Lou Jitsu movies yet and which ones he think Leo should show him first.

All of which was well meaning but it did get a little annoying after the tenth; "Are you sure he hasn't even seen Lou Jitsu in the Battle Nexus?" 

Leo sat in his bedroom scrolling on his phone when he found some Hidden City news sites finally, after hiding himself in his roof where he was finally able to get a bit of peace from his loving family. He'd been careful not to trip anything on Donnie's stupid parental controls he had on everyone phone to avoid them getting virus's or hacked by anyone. But this forum was pretty up to date and seemed to be fine, there were even a few links to some yokai app site where you could get channels to tune into.. Neat. Maybe he'd see something about Usagi and his teacher cleaning up the city.. If he asked Draxum would he know anything about that? Would he know what they were actually doing? What if it was human's.. Draxum didn't hate them as much now but would he go that far as to eat them if he had the option? Maybe he would be the person to talk to about his feelings.. Draxum's the one who made them after all, he'd probably have some kind of fix for whatever was wrong with him.. But... If he wasn't how he is would Usagi still like him? Don't be stupid of course he would! Even if they had different diets he still knew about Usagi's habits and didn't care. Maybe that would be something to ask next time he stayed the night and took Usagi stargazing again.. 

"Hey Leo-"

Instinctively Leo shoved his phone under his pillow and sat at attention hearing a voice come into his room. Not that he had anything to hide but his thoughts had been trailing off and his phone felt like proof of him thinking unsavory things. Oh, but it was just Raph. He stood up pretending like he was working out as the massive figure came into view, "Oh hey man what's up?"

"..I'm.. I'm gonna ignore whatever it is you're trying to hide"

"Hide? Me?? Never, I mean- I.. I'm offended you'd even think I'd- ... Yeah okay whatever, what did you want?"

"Raph wanted to ask you something, relationship related."

"Aww you having girl troubles big bro~ Came to the expert did you?"

"Uh- No."

"Boy troubles then? Which I mean I know more about I think April would know more about girl stuff-"

"I mean about your relationship."

"...Uhhhmm mine? Okay? Like.. Like what? Cause I mean you guys have been kinda all over us lately and not that I don't love the attention don't get me wrong but like- It's a bit much even for you guys" Raph looked like he was trying to find the right words, clearly he wasn't going anywhere till he got it out of his system, and Leo wasn't gonna kick him out of his room if it was so important he came all the way here to ask his question in privacy. He patted the spot beside him inviting Raph to sit down as he did. "Make it quick, I was thinking about.. Going out, later." Raph nodded and sat on the edge of the bed, crushing the mattress and causing the bed to creek and shift making Leo slide towards him, he never minded though, not like Raph could help it. "Well.. I... Its been on my mind a lot and I feel bad so I thought maybe I should tell you."

"This.. Raph don't mess with me, what's up?"

"I have a bad feeling about Usagi. I-I can't really explain why, and I know it's stupid and you can be mad but I just.. I just get this weird vibe from him and-"

"Imma stop you right there."

"But-"

"Raph seriously. I'm not mad. I get it, like full and total honesty I really understand what you mean." He craned his head to give him a sympathetic smile and pat his shell, "I won't tell you that you're crazy or whatever, but I need you to take that feeling.." 

"Yeah..?"

"And kill it."

"..What-"

"Take whatever you have against him and kill it, for me okay? You can feel however you want on your own time, and weather you like him or not isn't going to change anything. I know he's.. Done things. And y'know what, who hasn't. Y'know how many times Donnie's experimented on us or how many times we've beat those foot faces within an inch of their life? Or like Hueso was a literal pirate, a wanted man and we love that guy! I mean dad was in a murder area for who knows how long and we still near worship Lou Jitsu! Usagi's told me a bunch of the dirty laundry he has and if you get that feeling about him then you should be getting that same weird feeling about me. I don't blame you for getting weird vibes, but I'm gonna tell you right now that he's not a threat."

"Leo just.. All I'm saying is be careful okay? He seems awesome, and I'm glad he makes you so happy, really I am. I just.. It feels like he's hiding something bad, not everyone is who they say they are.." Leo sighed a little laying back on the bed with his legs hanging off, "Yeah well.. No one is who they say they are.."

"But I'm who I say I am?"

"Oh please, who are you right now then?"

"Well.. Raph?"

"Fake. Raph's voice is higher."

"Excuse me??"

"Fake! Fake fake fake!" Leo rolled from side to side almost like a child throwing a fit, but this was clearly in a more dramatic and mocking way, no real anger or upset behind it. "It's just Raph's body, you're.." He tilted his head a little to read the expression on his face, "You're Brick." He said little his head fall back to the bed. His tone more confident after seeing the face. "I am not! The body was named Raph so I'm Raph by default-"

"Faaaake"

"Why are you being so difficult!?"

"Well I named you Brick actually so I dunno if you've ever heard me call you that, from that time you ran into the wall face first to prove a point."

"And I was right!"

"But Raph doesn't remember that."

"No I remember-"

"Cause you're Brick."

"Well how do I not be Brick so you'll take this seriously! I'm trying to talk to you-"

"I unno- But I am taking this seriously though! And I proved my point! You don't even know who you are half the time and that's on accident! No one is who they act like, we all change for other people and act different when we're around others. Who you are when you're alone.. No one shows that to everyone right at the start."

"Well.. Well who are you then huh??"

"I'm... I.. I don't know yet. Even if I did I don't think I'd be able to tell anyone really, you guys might be my brothers but I don't think even you would understand. I will one day I think, but who knows."

"Oh.. Hm... So- Wait a second- Hold on, back to me being Brick-"

-_-_-_-

It took a while for Leo to talk his way out of his conversation with his brother in red, not fully understanding what he was getting himself into till there were a million questions he found himself unable to answer. Once he managed to slip away he headed into the labyrinth of sewer tunnels just outside of Donnie's security, there he was able to look though his phone without any fear of cameras or audio playing where his genius brother could find it.  He turned on the app for one of the few local news stations in the Hidden city, starting to scroll though different stories that'd been put out this past week. Most of it was fairly normal stuff, well.. Normal for the city's standards at least, things like;

'Flying Pet Saves Child Stuck In A Tree'

'Couple Gives Birth To Yokai With Five Eyes, Couldn't Be Happier'

'New Dog Park Being Built, Dogs Are Not Allowed In The Dog Park. Yokai Are Not Allowed In The Dog Park'

'New Tradition Sweeping City Of Placing Feathers On Doorsteps Preventing People From Leaving Via Front Door, Hilarious Pictures Of People Exiting Though Windows Here' 

'Battle Nexus Obituaries, Updated Daily!' 

That last once made Leo shudder as he quickly scrolled passed it and finally found something that caught his eye. 'Yokai Gang Disappeared Mysteriously. West End No Longer Under Their Control And Want To Thank The Masked Heroes Responsible' Leo smiled a little having a feeling he knew who the article would be mentioning. But.. Despite the threat of the gang being gone they didn't seem to be painting the aforementioned heroes in a positive light like the title made it seem.. "-may suggest that a rival gang or someone with intentions to oversee control of the previous gangs faction only dethroned the Cobalt Hues gang to take control into their own hands. Residents who decided to stay were advised to remain on high alert for any new activity and report any suspicious sightings to the HCPD immediately." 

Well that didn't sound great.. But it made sense to still be on alert in case something went wrong, better to be prepared then just let your guard down to have it happen again. But at least he was able to see some of what Usagi was up to now! He took a screenshot of the headline to ask him about it later and headed back towards the lair, right as he got better reception his phone lit up with a notification. Oh? Had his phone not be getting other messages while he wasn't in rage of the wifi? There was a few from Usagi now that they'd exchanged numbers, and some from his brothers too, shit.. It must be important if everyone was trying to find him..

Sagi<3: Hey are you free tonight?

Sagi<3: Leo?

Sagi<3: I really need your help with something if you can.

Sagi<3: Hey you know a bunch about medical stuff right? You told me you do most of the first aid for your brothers still I think.

Sagi<3: Call me when you see this okay?

Raps: Leo ur bfs texting me, where'd you go? Raps: I swear if ur goofin off and makin him worry were gonna fight

Angelo: Leeeeooooooooooooooo Angelo: Dude Raph said you vanished, he's gonna have the lair on lockdown if you don't answer soon Angelo: I have plans to tag a new wall tomorrow so if he grounds us I'm using ur swords to get there >:P

D0NN13: I'm changing your name to Dum-Dum. Oh and get another hose key if ur top-side I need another one for.. Things.

Leo sighed as he pulled a curtain back walking into the the blinding lights of the atrium unlike the dark sewer tunnels he'd been in earlier, he was only gone for like.. Half an hour maybe? What was so important that- Oh. Usagi was standing in the center of the room, Mikey clinging to him as usual while the others seemed to be talking with him. Usagi gave the brothers a sympathetic smile, one of his hands gently patting Mikey's head as he listened. Leo smiled a little seeing how gentle he was with Mikey, even though he had all the reasons to push him off or not even bother with affection towards him, it was sweet.. "Usagi?" He stepped in further, watching as all eyes turned to him. "Where have you been!?" Raph asked, stepping past the group ready to lecture his brother into the far future about leaving without telling anyone where he was going. "Ah- Sorry, I got a little.. Lost... And lost signal, but I'm here now. What's up?" He leaned over peeking past Raph to give Usagi a little wave, "Sorry I didn't see anyone's texts till now- Is something wrong..?"  Usagi's silence wasn't reassuring.. "Sagi..?" He sidestepped past Raph who didn't even try to stop him thankfully, "C'mon what's goin on? How'd you even get here?" From the looks of it no one else had been told anything either, he wasn't sure if that was good or bad. "I managed. Since you'd showed me the way once before, I.. Apologize for the intrusion." "No no- I'm not- I was just wondering because I know how far it is. It must really be important huh? Seriously though, is something wrong?"

"It's.. My sensei-" He finally said after a moment. "I didn't want to say anything without you here." Usagi gently nudged Mikey telling him he needed to move, and thankfully he listened this time and stepped back. "He was hurt on a mission and won't let me help. He's always been stubborn and self-reliant to a fault but I'm not sure what else to do, he hasn't taught me much first aid so I don't know where to begin. And.. I'd be eternally grateful if you'd help me with the next mission." Raph perked up hearing mention of a mission, "Just say the word Usagi and the Mad Dogs will be there to help-" "No." Usagi raised his hand to cut him off, "I'm already disgracing Hyo's rule of asking for help at all, let alone from a ninja.. He'd have my head if I managed to involve the rest of you as well. Please.." "Oh. Well I guess that makes sense-" Leo grabbed his sword, a light blue trail of sparks already flying from the metal. "So we need to get him and patch him up first? We should bring him here, the med bay has more then enough to spare. I know the most about first aid here anyway so.." He looked back to Raph, "Is it okay if we do that, you guys can watch over him and I'll bring back some pizza as thanks." Raph hesitated, but nodded, "We made a vow to help anyone in need of it, if you think this is what we should do I won't argue." Leo nodded and looked back to Usagi, "Think he'll listen to me? Or should we get some kinda trank darts from Donnie's lab to make things go smoothly?" He said joking mostly of course, and gently nudged Usagi when he saw the yokai giving his joke actual consideration, "Oh c'mon, no one's more stubborn then me Sagi~ I'll get him back here no problem. Which, I should ask first.. How bad is it? Like.. Anything broken or still oozing?" Usagi smiled a little and nodded, "Right, I trust you." He thought for a moment, "It's.. I don't think anything's broken, and I managed to get most of the bleeding to slow down, it shouldn't be fatal at least."

Leo nodded and firmly gripped the hilt of his odachi, waving it away from the others as a bright blue portal opened up, "Alright, Mikey, go tell dad what's going on so he doesn't freak out and get everyone pizza order, Raph, you can text April and have her come over and help me once we get him in. Donnie get's to turn on all the weird stuff he built in the med bay since Raph will pass out if he sees blood or anything like it. Everyone got it?" The all nodded and headed off the separate ways save for Usagi who stood close to Leo. "What can I do..?" "You're gonna help me drag him back, I don't think he likes me vary much so having you there might help things be less.. Tense."

Once on the other side of the portal, which Leo surprisingly managed to create in the genkan of their house. It just hit Leo now, but Usagi had his ears down, it was probably the first time he'd seen them not tied back.. Even when they would go out together he hadn't looked this casual. Maybe he didn't have time while worrying about his teacher? He'd mention it later once all this was settled, this wouldn't be the best time to try and flirt.. Usagi stepped inside glancing around before heading up the stairs, "This way. He must've gone to his room." Leo followed in silence, taking a mental note of the tiny red pools trailing up the steps. That.. Isn't a great sign... "Sensei-" Usagi called softly, stopped at one of the doors at the end of the hallway, "I'm coming in." He pushed the door inward, finding him sitting on the floor beside his bed, he didn't look too bad but not with the light Leo noticed more of his features. He wasn't a lion like he thought before, there were dark spots trailing all over, he was a leopard. Interesting.. "Sensei! You should've stayed put like I said! You got blood all over the floor and I'm gonna end up being the one to scrub it out.." "..Iss fine. Leave me be, imjus need ta sleep it off." "Sensei please even you must see how childish this behavior is.." Leo rolled his eyes, gently patted Usagi's shoulder, "Let me." He knelt down in front of him and gently lifted his head, Leo's hand firmly under his chin to hold it up, "Name?"

"Hyō. Tomogui Hyō."

"Age?" "Fuck off-"

"That's fair.. Alright where does it hurt?" "I don't feel pain." "So everywhere got it. We're gonna take you to a more comfortable spot, can you stand?" "..Howdya think m got up 'ere?" "..Also fair. C'mon then-" "M not goin nowhere. Jus lemme.. Rest." "Yeah see, normally I would, but my cute boyfriend over there said he's worried about you, and if you're important to him then it's kinda my job to make sure you don't bleed out. Unless you'd rather me pull out the stitching kit here without any pain meds? I'm sure under this low light and unsterilized room I'll be much better at patching you up.. Oh and how easily do you get infected? And how attached are you to your limbs? Cause I mean I'm just spitballin here but you don't look too good and honestly the odachi makes for a pretty poor bone saw- But hey! I'm open to trying new things!" The was a long moment of silence before Hyo shifted, forcing himself to stand despite how off balance he was. "I hate turtles.." He muttered as Leo smiled and motioned for Usagi to put an arm around Hyo to help keep him steady while he reopened the portal. Thankfully aside from a few deep cuts and probably some bruised ribs he seemed okay, sure there were smaller cuts and it was hard to tell just how bruised he was under that fur, but he'd live. 

"Why didn't you take him to some like, yokai hospital?" Leo asked, one arm under Hyo's other side as Usagi held up the other, walking him to the med bay. "He refused.. And I couldn't drag him that far. I was starting to consider getting some kind of taxi till I remembered you had the ability to portal. And he doesn't like those places, so having him in your care seemed like the better option." "Gotcha.. Well I'm glad you trust me that much, I'll do what I can. I'm sure he'll be fine though, it doesn't look that bad." They got to the med bay laying him down one of the already made bed, Donnie was still there using some kind of sterilizing light to make sure everything was still clean. "Please tell me you didn't make a mess getting him here." Leo rolled his eyes, "That's the least of you problems Dee, do you have your scanner, we'll need it." Donne nodded handing him a device shaped like a phone, "He's not in our database, clearly, so it'll take a little longer to show everything. It's fresh out of beta so be patient with it. Raph said April's on her way, it'll be a few minutes though." "That's fine, we should probably get his soaked clothes off any way so she probably wouldn't want to be here for that. I just need some extra hands to hold him till the meds kick in mostly, and someone to help clean up after." He held the scanner and let it do it's work as Usagi watched closely, wondering if this tech was only available to them or if most people had things like this.. He waited till Donnie left the room to gently tap Leo's shoulder, "Is there anything I can do?" Leo thought for a moment, "You can get some water if you want? And one of the rags over there, it'd be a pain if the blood dried and matted his fur. I don't think he'd be too happy if he woke up half shaved.." They both laughed a little trying to picture it.

-_-_-_-

Another half hour later April came into the room, "Raph said we had a medical emergency what happened-!" She froze in the doorway seeing Usagi dump a large bowl full of dark red water into the sink, and Leo standing over a body that looked like no one she'd seen before. "Oh jeeze okay- Leo you have ten seconds to explain who this is and why you're making your boyfriend play nurse for you-" "Ah April! I'm glad you're here! Also, have a little faith in me I know what I'm doing. This is Usagi's teacher, the one who raised him. He got hurt and I'm patching him up. Sagi offered to help so I gave him some busy work. But I need you to help wrap his arounds up after I finish with the stiches- Please."  April sighed and nodded, setting her bag down and rolling up her sleeves to go help. "So what even happened?" "Sensei takes some of the most dangerous missions to protect the Hidden City. He puts the safety of those above himself, and as usual he refused help and was out numbered. Allowing the orchestrator of the attack to get away." "..Okay so he was ambushed or something? That's no good. What's gonna happen now then?" "We're going after him" Leo pulled the last stitch through tying it tightly, "Make sure he doesn't get up either, if those stitches rip I'm gonna make sure he's awake when I put 'em back in. He should be sleep long enough to sort things out, but can you watch him while we're out? You and Donnie can take turns if we take too long. But Raph hates it in here and so does Mikey." "They're not going with you?" "Well.. It's a long story but yeah, text me if anything happens and we'll come right back okay?" "You're lucky I love you Leo. Fine, I'll do the wraps and I guess now's a good time to get my homework finished.. Better bring me back something cool okay?" Leo nodded and after washing his hands opened another portal for him and Usagi, "Thanks, you're the best! I'll find something super cool for you before we get back I swear-" And with that he and Usagi stepped back, Hyo had been set up with a pretty heavy dose of anesthetic so Leo really hoped April wouldn't have to deal with him till he was back home.. But that was a problem for future him to worry about. Right now he and Usagi needed to find the culprit and bring them to justice.

And that started, at the West End.

Part 8.1 Part 1

TS Master Post

[ultfan]

SHAKESPEARE AESTHETICS

ROMEO & JULIET:

suburban  july.  scraped  knees.  bruised  knuckles.  blood in your teeth.  bare feet  on  hot  concrete.  restlessness.  your  high  school’s  empty  parking lot.  love  poems  in  your  diary.  a  window  open  to  coax  in  the  breeze.  burning  inside. an  ill - fitting  party  dress. a  t - shirt  you  cut  up  yourself. the  time  you  tried  to  give  yourself  bands. biking  to  your  friends  house.  bubble gum.  gas  station  ice. the  feeling  that  you've  met  before.  rebellion.  a  car  radio  playing  down  the  street.  cheap  fireworks. a  heart  drawn  on  the  inside  of  your  wrist  with  a  sharpie. switchblades. red  solo  cups. dancing  in  your  bedroom. screaming  yourself  hoarse.  running out of options. the  forlorn  looking  basketball  hoop  at  the  end  of  a  cul - de - sac. climbing onto your  roof at night  while your parents  are asleep. flip - flops.  a  eulogy  written on  loose - leaf. the  merciless  noontime  sun.

HAMLET:  

speaking in a whisper. holding your breath. a  browning  garden. a half remembered story. furniture covered in sheets.  fog at dawn,  mist at twilight. losing touch. the  ethereal  space  between  winter  and  spring. the  soft  skin  at  your  temple. the  crack  in  the  hallway mirror. things you'd say if you knew the words. uncombed  hair.  books  with  writing  in  the  margins.  books  with  cracked  spines. books  with  lines  scratched  out. prayers  on  all  souls’  day.  a  chipped ceramic  bathtub.  a cold stone floor. the uncomfortable awareness  of your own  heartbeat. the  sparrow  that  got  in  your  house. shadows. the  creek  you  played  in  as  a  child. a  dirty  night  gown. an  oversized  t - shirt. a  collection  of  your  favorite  words.  soil  beneath  your  nails. ghost  stories. the strangeness of  your own name  in your mouth. deep  silence. exhaustion. a  cliff  with  a  long,  long  drop  down.

TWELFTH NIGHT:    

wicker  deck  furniture. new  england  summer. large  sunglasses  and  a  blonde  bob. a  storm  over  the  ocean. patio  umbrellas. flapping  in  the  wind. the  smell  of  chlorine. muffled  laughter. sarcasm. starched  cuffs. day  drinking.  bay  windows. the  idea  of  love. love  for  the  idea  of  love. love  for  love’s  sake. hangovers. wandering  over  the  sand  dunes. a  vagabond  with  a  guitar. fishermen  with  tattoos. a  pretty  boy  with  a  slacked  tie.  a  lighthouse.  growing  too close. boat  shoes. feeling  yourself change. big,  floppy  sunhats. double - speak. a  song  you  keep  listening  to. turning  red  under  their  gaze. margaritas  drank  on  an  inflatable  pool  lounger. string  lights  on  a  balmy  night. sleepy  june  days. fights you're  unprepared for.  hope  you  weren’t  expecting. pranks  that  go  too  far.  bad  poetry. pining.  becoming  less  of  a  stranger.

MACBETH:    

the space where  your grief used  to be. a  bird  that's  lost an eye. old blood stains. heavy blinds. the  smell  of  sweat. the stillness after a battle. a  fake  smile. a  curse. the  taste  of  metal  at  the  back  of  your  tongue. your  house,  unfamiliar  in  the  dark. a  dusty  crib. the smell of sulfur. an orange pill bottle. streaks  in  the  sink. a  black  cocktail  dress. your hand on  the doorknob,  shaking. a chilly breeze. crunching from the gravel  driveway on a  moonless night. clenched  hands. a  rusty  swing  set. a  flashing  digital  clock  stuck  on  12 : 00. a  snake  that  crosses  your  path. an  owl  that  watches  you. a  dog  that  runs  when  you  approach. red  smoke,  dark  clouds. cool  steel.  tile  floors.  footsteps  in  the  hallway  late  at  night. a  baggy  suit  that  used  to  fit  before.  visions. insomnia headaches. nursery  rhymes.  being too far in to go back now.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING:  

the  high  drama  of  small  towns. a  pickup  truck. military  supply  duffel  bags  in  the  hall,  hugs  all  around. tulip  bulbs. a  wraparound  porch. a  pitcher  of  iced  tea. a  rubber  halloween  mask. someone  on  your  level.  ill - timed  proclamations. stomach  clenching  laughter. rushing  in. not  minding  your  business. crepe  paper. white lies. secrets written  down and thrown  away. southern  hospitality. homemade  curtains  in  the  kitchen. a  sink  full  of  roses. hiding  in  the  bushes. old  friends. the  wedding  dress  your  grandma  wore,  and  her  mama  before  her. a  dog - eared  rhyming  dictionary. chamomile  with  honey. the  intimacy  of  big  parties. lawn  flamingos. gossip. a  crowded  church. friendly  rivalries. unfriendly  rivalries. shit  getting  real. love  at  five  hundredth  sight. not realizing  you're home  until you're  there.

KING LEAR:

cement  block  buildings. power  lines  that  birds  never  perch  on. the end of  the  world. useless  words. rainless  thunder,  heat  lighting,  a  too  big  sky. arthritic  knuckles. broken  glass. chalk  cliffs. the  pulsing  red - black  behind  closed  eyes. something you  learned too late. wet  mud  that  sucks  up  your  shoes  while  you  walk. a cold stare. empty  picture  frames. empty  prayers. the  obscenity  of  seeing  your  parents  cry. a  treeless  landscape. bloody rags. grappling in the dark  with reaching hands. the sharpness  at  the  tips  of  your  teeth. the  blown  out  windows  of  a  skeletal  house. decay. jokes  that  aren’t  jokes. biting  your  tongue. prophecies. aching  muscles,  tired  feet. stinging  rain. invoking  the  gods. wondering  if  the  gods  are  listening. worrying  that  the  gods  are  dead. white  noise. shivers. numbness. the  unequivocal  feeling  of  ending.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM:    

the  smell  of  wet  soil  and  dead  leaves. listening  to  music  on  headphones  with  your  eyes  closed. wildflowers. the  distant  sparkle  of  lightning  bugs. a pill someone  slipped  you. fear  that  turns  into  excitement. excitement  that  turns  to  frenzy. mossy  tree  trunks. a pair  of yellow  eyes  in  the  darkness. night  swimming. moonlight  through  the  leaves. a  bass  beat  in  your  chest. a  butterfly  landing  on  your  nose. a  kiss  from  a  stranger. a  dark  hallow  in  an  old  tree. glow  in  the  dark  paint. drinking  on  an  empty  stomach. a  twig  breaking  behind  you. spinning  until  you’re  dizzy. finding  glitter  on  your  body  and  not  remembering  where  it  came  from.  an  overgrown  path  through  the  woods. cool  dew  on  your  skin. a dream that  fades  with  waking. moths  drawn  to  the  light. giving yourself  over,  completely. afterglow. the  long,  loving,  velvety  night.

[roofinglystersexteriors]

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[sordidery]

∘ ▫ ♚ richard campbell gansey iii & shakespeare aesthetics.

romeo & juliet. suburban july. scraped knees. bruised knuckles. blood in your teeth. bare feet on hot concrete. restlessness. your high school’s empty parking lot. love poems in your diary. a window open to coax in the breeze. burning inside. an ill - fitting party dress. a t - shirt you cut up yourself. the time you tried to give yourself bangs. biking to your friends house. bubble gum. gas station ice. the feeling that you’ve met before. rebellion. a car radio playing down the street. cheap fireworks. a heart drawn on the inside of your wrist with a sharpie. switchblades. red solo cups. dancing in your bedroom. screaming yourself hoarse. running out of options. the forlorn looking basketball hoop at the end of a cul - de - sac. climbing onto your roof at night while your parents are asleep. flip - flops. a eulogy written on loose - leaf. the merciless noontime sun.

hamlet. speaking in a whisper. holding your breath. a browning garden. a half remembered story. furniture covered with sheets. fog at dawn. mist at twilight. losing touch. the ethereal space between winter and spring. the soft skin at your temple. the crack in the hallway mirror. things you'd say if you knew the words. uncombed hair. books with writing in the margins. books with cracked spines. books with lines scratched out. prayers on all souls' day. a chipped ceramic bathtub. a cold stone floor. the uncomfortable awareness of your own heartbeat. the sparrow that got in your house. shadows. the creek you played in as a child. a dirty night gown. an oversized t - shirt. a collection of your favorite words. soil beneath your nails. ghost stories. the strangeness of your own name in your mouth. deep silence. exhaustion. a cliff with a long, long drop down.

twelfth night. wicker deck furniture. new england summer. large sunglasses and a blonde bob. a storm over the ocean. patio umbrellas flapping in the wind. the smell of chlorine. muffled laughter. sarcasm. starched cuffs. day drinking. bay windows. the idea of love. love for the idea of love. love for love's sake. hangovers. wandering over the sand dunes. a vagabond with a guitar. fishermen with tattoos. a pretty boy with a slacked tie. a lighthouse. growing too close. boat shoes. feeling yourself change. big, floppy sunhats. double - speak. a song you keep listening to. turning red under their gaze. margaritas drank on an inflatable pool lounger. string lights on a balmy night. sleepy june days. fights you're unprepared for. hope you weren’t expecting. pranks that go too far. bad poetry. pining. becoming less of a stranger.

macbeth. the space where your grief used to be. a bird that’s lost an eye. old blood stains. heavy blinds. the smell of sweat. the stillness after a battle. a fake smile. a curse. the taste of metal at the back of your tongue. your house, unfamiliar in the dark. a dusty crib. the smell of sulfur. an orange pill bottle. streaks in the sink. a black cocktail dress. your hand on the doorknob, shaking. a chilly breeze. crunching from the gravel driveway on a moonless night. clenched hands. a rusty swing set. a flashing digital clock stuck on 12:00. a snake that crosses your path. an owl that watches you. a dog that runs when you approach. red smoke, dark clouds. cool steel. tile floors. footsteps in the hallway late at night. a baggy suit that used to fit before. visions. insomnia headaches. nursery rhymes. being too far in to go back now.

much ado about nothing. the high drama of small towns. a pickup truck. military supply duffel bags in the hall. hugs all around. tulip bulbs. a wraparound porch. a pitcher of iced tea. a rubber halloween mask. someone on your level. ill - timed proclamations. stomach clenching laughter. rushing in. not minding your business. crepe paper. white lies. secrets written down and thrown away. southern hospitality. homemade curtains in the kitchen. a sink full of roses. hiding in the bushes. old friends. the wedding dress your grandma wore, and her mama before her. a dog - eared rhyming dictionary. chamomile with honey. the intimacy of big parties. lawn flamingos. gossip. a crowded church. friendly rivalries. unfriendly rivalries. shit getting real. love at five hundredth sight. not realizing you're home until you’re there.

king lear. cement block buildings. power lines that birds never perch on. the end of the world. useless words. rainless thunder, heat lighting, a too big sky. arthritic knuckles. broken glass. chalk cliffs. the pulsing red - black behind closed eyes. something you learned too late. wet mud that sucks up your shoes while you walk. a cold stare. empty picture frames. empty prayers. the obscenity of seeing your parents cry. a treeless landscape. bloody rags. grappling in the dark with reaching hands. the sharpness at the tips of your teeth. the blown out windows of a skeletal house. decay. jokes that aren't jokes. biting your tongue. prophecies. aching muscles, tired feet. stinging rain. invoking the gods. wondering if the gods are listening. worrying that the gods are dead. white noise. shivers. numbness. the unequivocal feeling of ending.

a midsummer night’s dream. the smell of wet soil and dead leaves. listening to music on headphones with your eyes closed. wildflowers. the distant sparkle of lightning bugs. a pill someone slipped you. fear that turns into excitement. excitement that turns to frenzy. mossy tree trunks. a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness. night swimming. moonlight through the leaves. a bass beat in your chest. a butterfly landing on your nose. a kiss from a stranger. a dark hallow in an old tree. glow in the dark paint. drinking on an empty stomach. a twig breaking behind you. spinning until you’re dizzy. finding glitter on your body and not remembering where it came from. an overgrown path through the woods. cool dew on your skin. a dream that fades with waking. moths drawn to the light. giving yourself over, completely. afterglow. the long, loving, velvety night.

tagged by: @oddyseas. im smothering u in kisses and u cant do shit about it. tagging: @altarcup, for sabran or lestat or alice! @dreamlorn, love u. @damsul. @thanatologies. @wildkissed, for the trc kids or van or mal! @zerorisk, for the driver or grace!

[brawlqueen]

shakespeare aesthetic. 

romeo & juliet.   suburban july. scraped knees. bruised knuckles. blood in your teeth. bare feet on hot concrete. restlessness. your high school’s empty parking lot. love poems in your diary. a window open to coax in the breeze. burning inside. an ill - fitting party dress. a t - shirt you cut up yourself. the time you tried to give yourself bangs. biking to your friends house. bubble gum. gas station ice. the feeling that you’ve met before. rebellion. a car radio playing down the street. cheap fireworks. a heart drawn on the inside of your wrist with a sharpie. switchblades. red solo cups. dancing in your bedroom. screaming yourself hoarse. running out of options. the forlorn looking basketball hoop at the end of a cul - de - sac. climbing onto your roof at night while your parents are asleep. flip - flops. a eulogy written on loose - leaf. the merciless noontime sun.

hamlet.   speaking in a whisper. holding your breath. a browning garden. a half remembered story. furniture covered with sheets. fog at dawn. mist at twilight. losing touch. the ethereal space between winter & spring. the soft skin at your temple. the crack in the hallway mirror. things you’d say if you knew the words. uncombed hair. books with writing in the margins. books with cracked spines. books with lines scratched out. prayers on all souls’ day. a chipped ceramic bathtub. a cold stone floor. the uncomfortable awareness of your own heartbeat. the sparrow that got in your house. shadows. the creek you played in as a child. a dirty night gown. an oversized t - shirt. a collection of your favorite words. soil beneath your nails. ghost stories. the strangeness of your own name in your mouth. deep silence. exhaustion. a cliff with a long, long drop down.

twelfth night.   wicker deck furniture. new england summer. large sunglasses & a blonde bob. a storm over the ocean. patio umbrellas flapping in the wind. the smell of chlorine. muffled laughter. sarcasm. starched cuffs. day drinking. bay windows. the idea of love. love for the idea of love. love for love’s sake. hangovers. wandering over the sand dunes. a vagabond with a guitar. fishermen with tattoos. a pretty boy with a slacked tie. a lighthouse. growing too close. boat shoes. feeling yourself change. big, floppy sunhats. double - speak. a song you keep listening to. turning red under their gaze. margaritas drank on an inflatable pool lounger. string lights on a balmy night. sleepy june days. fights you’re unprepared for. hope you weren’t expecting. pranks that go too far. bad poetry. pining. becoming less of a stranger.

macbeth.   the space where your grief used to be. a bird that’s lost an eye. old blood stains. heavy blinds. the smell of sweat. the stillness after a battle. a fake smile. a curse. the taste of metal at the back of your tongue. your house, unfamiliar in the dark. a dusty crib. the smell of sulfur. an orange pill bottle. streaks in the sink. a black cocktail dress. your hand on the doorknob, shaking. a chilly breeze. crunching from the gravel driveway on a moonless night. clenched hands. a rusty swing set. a flashing digital clock stuck on 12 : 00. a snake that crosses your path. an owl that watches you. a dog that runs when you approach. red smoke, dark clouds. cool steel. tile floors. footsteps in the hallway late at night. a baggy suit that used to fit before. visions. insomnia headaches. nursery rhymes. being too far in to go back now.

much ado about nothing.   the high drama of small towns. a pickup truck. military supply duffel bags in the hall. hugs all around. tulip bulbs. a wraparound porch. a pitcher of iced tea. a rubber halloween mask. someone on your level. ill - timed proclamations. stomach clenching laughter. rushing in. not minding your business. crepe paper. white lies. secrets written down & thrown away. southern hospitality. homemade curtains in the kitchen. a sink full of roses. hiding in the bushes. old friends. the wedding dress your grandma wore, & her mama before her. a dog - eared rhyming dictionary. chamomile with honey. the intimacy of big parties. lawn flamingos. gossip. a crowded church. friendly rivalries. unfriendly rivalries. shit getting real. love at five hundredth sight. not realizing you’re home until you’re there.

king lear.   cement block buildings. power lines that birds never perch on. the end of the world. useless words. rainless thunder, heat lighting, a too big sky. arthritic knuckles. broken glass. chalk cliffs. the pulsing red - black behind closed eyes. something you learned too late. wet mud that sucks up your shoes while you walk. a cold stare. empty picture frames. empty prayers. the obscenity of seeing your parents cry. a treeless landscape. bloody rags. grappling in the dark with reaching hands. the sharpness at the the tips of your teeth. the blown out windows of a skeletal house. decay. jokes that aren’t jokes. biting your tongue. prophecies. aching muscles, tired feet. stinging rain. invoking the gods. wondering if the gods are listening. worrying that the gods are dead. white noise. shivers. numbness. the unequivocal feeling of ending.

a midsummer night’s dream.    the smell of wet soil & dead leaves. listening to music on headphones with your eyes closed. wildflowers. the distant sparkle of lightning bugs. a pill someone slipped you. fear that turns into excitement. excitement that turns to frenzy. mossy tree trunks. a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness. night swimming. moonlight through the leaves. a bass beat in your chest. a butterfly landing on your nose. a kiss from a stranger. a dark hallow in an old tree. glow in the dark paint. drinking on an empty stomach. a twig breaking behind you. spinning until you’re dizzy. finding glitter on your body & not remembering where it came from. an overgrown path through the woods. cool dew on your skin. a dream that fades with waking. moths drawn to the light. giving yourself over, completely. afterglow. the long, loving, velvety night.

tagged by.  stole it from @riwrite ! tagging: @zelotae @bonescribes @desuetmort @nulltune @nostomannia @paraleech @hopefromadoomedtimeline @lykaiia @causalitylinked @woeborns @sinplly @kiealer @toadmiretoweepover @peachrote @stellarhistoria @pleiadeshalo@sheyearns @psychcdelica + you !

[xbadnews-a]

SHAKESPEARE AESTHETICS

romeo & juliet. suburban july. scraped knees. bruised knuckles. blood in your teeth. bare feet on hot concrete. restlessness. your high school’s empty parking lot. love poems in your diary. a window open to coax in the breeze. burning inside. an ill - fitting party dress. a t - shirt you cut up yourself. the time you tried to give yourself bangs. biking to your friends house. bubble gum. gas station ice. the feeling that you’ve met before. rebellion. a car radio playing down the street. cheap fireworks. a heart drawn on the inside of your wrist with a sharpie. switchblades. red solo cups. dancing in your bedroom. screaming yourself hoarse. running out of options. the forlorn looking basketball hoop at the end of a cul - de - sac. climbing onto your roof at night while your parents are asleep. flip - flops. a eulogy written on loose - leaf. the merciless noontime sun.

hamlet. speaking in a whisper. holding your breath. a browning garden. a half remembered story. furniture covered with sheets. fog at dawn. mist at twilight. losing touch. the ethereal space between winter and spring. the soft skin at your temple. the crack in the hallway mirror. things you’d say if you knew the words. uncombed hair. books with writing in the margins. books with cracked spines. books with lines scratched out. prayers on all souls’ day. a chipped ceramic bathtub. a cold stone floor. the uncomfortable awareness of your own heartbeat. the sparrow that got in your house. shadows. the creek you played in as a child. a dirty night gown. an oversized t - shirt. a collection of your favorite words. soil beneath your nails. ghost stories. the strangeness of your own name in your mouth. deep silence. exhaustion. a cliff with a long, long drop down.

twelfth night. wicker deck furniture. new england summer. large sunglasses and a blonde bob. a storm over the ocean. patio umbrellas flapping in the wind. the smell of chlorine. muffled laughter. sarcasm. starched cuffs. day drinking. bay windows. the idea of love. love for the idea of love. love for love’s sake. hangovers. wandering over the sand dunes. a vagabond with a guitar. fishermen with tattoos. a pretty boy with a slacked tie. a lighthouse. growing too close. boat shoes. feeling yourself change. big, floppy sunhats. double - speak. a song you keep listening to. turning red under their gaze. margaritas drank on an inflatable pool lounger. string lights on a balmy night. sleepy june days. fights you’re unprepared for. hope you weren’t expecting. pranks that go too far. bad poetry. pining. becoming less of a stranger.

macbeth. the space where your grief used to be. a bird that’s lost an eye. old blood stains. heavy blinds. the smell of sweat. the stillness after a battle. a fake smile. a curse. the taste of metal at the back of your tongue. your house, unfamiliar in the dark. a dusty crib. the smell of sulfur. an orange pill bottle. streaks in the sink. a black cocktail dress. your hand on the doorknob, shaking. a chilly breeze. crunching from the gravel driveway on a moonless night. clenched hands. a rusty swing set. a flashing digital clock stuck on 12 : 00. a snake that crosses your path. an owl that watches you. a dog that runs when you approach. red smoke, dark clouds. cool steel. tile floors. footsteps in the hallway late at night. a baggy suit that used to fit before. visions. insomnia headaches. nursery rhymes. being too far in to go back now.

much ado about nothing. the high drama of small towns. a pickup truck. military supply duffel bags in the hall. hugs all around. tulip bulbs. a wraparound porch. a pitcher of iced tea. a rubber halloween mask. someone on your level. ill - timed proclamations. stomach clenching laughter. rushing in. not minding your business. crepe paper. white lies. secrets written down and thrown away. southern hospitality. homemade curtains in the kitchen. a sink full of roses. hiding in the bushes. old friends. the wedding dress your grandma wore, and her mama before her. a dog - eared rhyming dictionary. chamomile with honey. the intimacy of big parties. lawn flamingos. gossip. a crowded church. friendly rivalries. unfriendly rivalries. shit getting real. love at five hundredth sight. not realizing you’re home until you’re there.

king lear. cement block buildings. power lines that birds never perch on. the end of the world. useless words. rainless thunder, heat lighting, a too big sky. arthritic knuckles. broken glass. chalk cliffs. the pulsing red - black behind closed eyes. something you learned too late. wet mud that sucks up your shoes while you walk. a cold stare. empty picture frames. empty prayers. the obscenity of seeing your parents cry. a treeless landscape. bloody rags. grappling in the dark with reaching hands. the sharpness at the the tips of your teeth. the blown out windows of a skeletal house. decay. jokes that aren’t jokes. biting your tongue. prophecies. aching muscles, tired feet. stinging rain. invoking the gods. wondering if the gods are listening. worrying that the gods are dead. white noise. shivers. numbness. the unequivocal feeling of ending.

a midsummer night’s dream. the smell of wet soil and dead leaves. listening to music on headphones with your eyes closed. wildflowers. the distant sparkle of lightning bugs. a pill someone slipped you. fear that turns into excitement. excitement that turns to frenzy. mossy tree trunks. a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness. night swimming. moonlight through the leaves. a bass beat in your chest. a butterfly landing on your nose. a kiss from a stranger. a dark hallow in an old tree. glow in the dark paint. drinking on an empty stomach. a twig breaking behind you. spinning until you’re dizzy. finding glitter on your body and not remembering where it came from. an overgrown path through the woods. cool dew on your skin. a dream that fades with waking. moths drawn to the light. giving yourself over, completely. afterglow. the long, loving, velvety night.

tagged by: no one! i saw it in my recommended posts & snatched it tagging: @softersinned ( on any blog ), @deathwalkerr, @stellarhistoria, @whalefelled, @seeliecourt, @bookofvesper, @turnedfolkl0re, @khenzi, @zealctry, @barovianblood & literally anyone who wants to do it i want to Know

[belasso-blog]

ted's shakespeare aesthetics.

romeo & juliet. suburban july. scraped knees. bruised knuckles. blood in your teeth. bare feet on hot concrete. restlessness. your high school’s empty parking lot. love poems in your diary. a window open to coax in the breeze. burning inside. an ill - fitting party dress. a t - shirt you cut up yourself. the time you tried to give yourself bangs. biking to your friends house. bubble gum. gas station ice. the feeling that you’ve met before. rebellion. a car radio playing down the street. cheap fireworks. a heart drawn on the inside of your wrist with a sharpie. switchblades. red solo cups. dancing in your bedroom. screaming yourself hoarse. running out of options. the forlorn looking basketball hoop at the end of a cul - de - sac. climbing onto your roof at night while your parents are asleep. flip - flops. a eulogy written on loose - leaf. the merciless noontime sun.

hamlet. speaking in a whisper. holding your breath. a browning garden. a half remembered story. furniture covered with sheets. fog at dawn. mist at twilight. losing touch. the ethereal space between winter and spring. the soft skin at your temple. the crack in the hallway mirror. things you'd say if you knew the words. uncombed hair. books with writing in the margins. books with cracked spines. books with lines scratched out. prayers on all souls' day. a chipped ceramic bathtub. a cold stone floor. the uncomfortable awareness of your own heartbeat. the sparrow that got in your house. shadows. the creek you played in as a child. a dirty night gown. an oversized t - shirt. a collection of your favorite words. soil beneath your nails. ghost stories. the strangeness of your own name in your mouth. deep silence. exhaustion. a cliff with a long, long drop down.

twelfth night. wicker deck furniture. new england summer. large sunglasses and a blonde bob. a storm over the ocean. patio umbrellas flapping in the wind. the smell of chlorine. muffled laughter. sarcasm. starched cuffs. day drinking. bay windows. the idea of love. love for the idea of love. love for love's sake. hangovers. wandering over the sand dunes. a vagabond with a guitar. fishermen with tattoos. a pretty boy with a slacked tie. a lighthouse. growing too close. boat shoes. feeling yourself change. big, floppy sunhats. double - speak. a song you keep listening to. turning red under their gaze. margaritas drank on an inflatable pool lounger. string lights on a balmy night. sleepy june days. fights you're unprepared for. hope you weren’t expecting. pranks that go too far. bad poetry. pining. becoming less of a stranger.

macbeth. the space where your grief used to be. a bird that’s lost an eye. old blood stains. heavy blinds. the smell of sweat. the stillness after a battle. a fake smile. a curse. the taste of metal at the back of your tongue. your house, unfamiliar in the dark. a dusty crib. the smell of sulfur. an orange pill bottle. streaks in the sink. a black cocktail dress. your hand on the doorknob, shaking. a chilly breeze. crunching from the gravel driveway on a moonless night. clenched hands. a rusty swing set. a flashing digital clock stuck on 12:00. a snake that crosses your path. an owl that watches you. a dog that runs when you approach. red smoke, dark clouds. cool steel. tile floors. footsteps in the hallway late at night. a baggy suit that used to fit before. visions. insomnia headaches. nursery rhymes. being too far in to go back now.

much ado about nothing. the high drama of small towns. a pickup truck. military supply duffel bags in the hall. hugs all around. tulip bulbs. a wraparound porch. a pitcher of iced tea. a rubber halloween mask. someone on your level. ill - timed proclamations. stomach clenching laughter. rushing in. not minding your business. crepe paper. white lies. secrets written down and thrown away. southern hospitality. homemade curtains in the kitchen. a sink full of roses. hiding in the bushes. old friends. the wedding dress your grandma wore, and her mama before her. a dog - eared rhyming dictionary. chamomile with honey. the intimacy of big parties. lawn flamingos. gossip. a crowded church. friendly rivalries. unfriendly rivalries. shit getting real. love at five hundredth sight. not realizing you're home until you’re there.

king lear. cement block buildings. power lines that birds never perch on. the end of the world. useless words. rainless thunder, heat lighting, a too big sky. arthritic knuckles. broken glass. chalk cliffs. the pulsing red - black behind closed eyes. something you learned too late. wet mud that sucks up your shoes while you walk. a cold stare. empty picture frames. empty prayers. the obscenity of seeing your parents cry. a treeless landscape. bloody rags. grappling in the dark with reaching hands. the sharpness at the tips of your teeth. the blown out windows of a skeletal house. decay. jokes that aren't jokes. biting your tongue. prophecies. aching muscles, tired feet. stinging rain. invoking the gods. wondering if the gods are listening. worrying that the gods are dead. white noise. shivers. numbness. the unequivocal feeling of ending.

a midsummer night’s dream. the smell of wet soil and dead leaves. listening to music on headphones with your eyes closed. wildflowers. the distant sparkle of lightning bugs. a pill someone slipped you. fear that turns into excitement. excitement that turns to frenzy. mossy tree trunks. a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness. night swimming. moonlight through the leaves. a bass beat in your chest. a butterfly landing on your nose. a kiss from a stranger. a dark hallow in an old tree. glow in the dark paint. drinking on an empty stomach. a twig breaking behind you. spinning until you’re dizzy. finding glitter on your body and not remembering where it came from. an overgrown path through the woods. cool dew on your skin. a dream that fades with waking. moths drawn to the light. giving yourself over, completely. afterglow. the long, loving, velvety night.

tagged by: @andthe6 (thank you!!) tagging: @becoach @shegunner @afuckinglion @bekeeley @sangwoochos @consumare + anyone else who'd like to do this!!

[songandflame-archived]

—— shakespeare aesthetic.

romeo & juliet.

suburban july. scraped knees. bruised knuckles. blood in your teeth. bare feet on hot concrete. restlessness. your high school’s empty parking lot. love poems in your diary. a window open to coax in the breeze. burning inside. an ill - fitting party dress. a t - shirt you cut up yourself. the time you tried to give yourself bangs. biking to your friends house. bubble gum. gas station ice. the feeling that you’ve met before. rebellion. a car radio playing down the street. cheap fireworks. a heart drawn on the inside of your wrist with a sharpie. switchblades. red solo cups. dancing in your bedroom. screaming yourself hoarse. running out of options. the forlorn looking basketball hoop at the end of a cul - de - sac. climbing onto your roof at night while your parents are asleep. flip - flops. a eulogy written on loose - leaf. the merciless noontime sun.

hamlet.

speaking in a whisper. holding your breath. a browning garden. a half remembered story. furniture covered with sheets. fog at dawn. mist at twilight. losing touch. the ethereal space between winter & spring. the soft skin at your temple. the crack in the hallway mirror. things you’d say if you knew the words. uncombed hair. books with writing in the margins. books with cracked spines. books with lines scratched out. prayers on all souls’ day. a chipped ceramic bathtub. a cold stone floor. the uncomfortable awareness of your own heartbeat. the sparrow that got in your house. shadows. the creek you played in as a child. a dirty night gown. an oversized t - shirt. a collection of your favorite words. soil beneath your nails. ghost stories. the strangeness of your own name in your mouth. deep silence. exhaustion. a cliff with a long, long drop down.

twelfth night.

wicker deck furniture. new england summer. large sunglasses & a blonde bob. a storm over the ocean. patio umbrellas flapping in the wind. the smell of chlorine. muffled laughter. sarcasm. starched cuffs. day drinking. bay windows. the idea of love. love for the idea of love. love for love’s sake. hangovers. wandering over the sand dunes. a vagabond with a guitar. fishermen with tattoos. a pretty boy with a slacked tie. a lighthouse. growing too close. boat shoes. feeling yourself change. big, floppy sunhats. double - speak. a song you keep listening to. turning red under their gaze. margaritas drank on an inflatable pool lounger. string lights on a balmy night. sleepy june days. fights you’re unprepared for. hope you weren’t expecting. pranks that go too far. bad poetry. pining. becoming less of a stranger.

macbeth.

the space where your grief used to be. a bird that’s lost an eye. old blood stains. heavy blinds. the smell of sweat. the stillness after a battle. a fake smile. a curse. the taste of metal at the back of your tongue. your house, unfamiliar in the dark. a dusty crib. the smell of sulfur. an orange pill bottle. streaks in the sink. a black cocktail dress. your hand on the doorknob, shaking. a chilly breeze. crunching from the gravel driveway on a moonless night. clenched hands. a rusty swing set. a flashing digital clock stuck on 12 : 00. a snake that crosses your path. an owl that watches you. a dog that runs when you approach. red smoke, dark clouds. cool steel. tile floors. footsteps in the hallway late at night. a baggy suit that used to fit before. visions. insomnia headaches. nursery rhymes. being too far in to go back now.

much ado about nothing.

the high drama of small towns. a pickup truck. military supply duffel bags in the hall. hugs all around. tulip bulbs. a wraparound porch. a pitcher of iced tea. a rubber halloween mask. someone on your level. ill - timed proclamations. stomach clenching laughter. rushing in. not minding your business. crepe paper. white lies. secrets written down & thrown away. southern hospitality. homemade curtains in the kitchen. a sink full of roses. hiding in the bushes. old friends. the wedding dress your grandma wore, & her mama before her. a dog - eared rhyming dictionary. chamomile with honey. the intimacy of big parties. lawn flamingos. gossip. a crowded church. friendly rivalries. unfriendly rivalries. shit getting real. love at five hundredth sight. not realizing you’re home until you’re there.

king lear.

cement block buildings. power lines that birds never perch on. the end of the world. useless words. rainless thunder, heat lighting, a too big sky. arthritic knuckles. broken glass. chalk cliffs. the pulsing red - black behind closed eyes. something you learned too late. wet mud that sucks up your shoes while you walk. a cold stare. empty picture frames. empty prayers. the obscenity of seeing your parents cry. a treeless landscape. bloody rags. grappling in the dark with reaching hands. the sharpness at the the tips of your teeth. the blown out windows of a skeletal house. decay. jokes that aren’t jokes. biting your tongue. prophecies. aching muscles, tired feet. stinging rain. invoking the gods. wondering if the gods are listening. worrying that the gods are dead. white noise. shivers. numbness. the unequivocal feeling of ending.

Tagged stolen from: @leatherforhell || Tagging: those with an inner Jean Valjean

a midsummer night’s dream.

the smell of wet soil & dead leaves. listening to music on headphones with your eyes closed. wildflowers. the distant sparkle of lightning bugs. a pill someone slipped you. fear that turns into excitement. excitement that turns to frenzy. mossy tree trunks. a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness. night swimming. moonlight through the leaves. a bass beat in your chest. a butterfly landing on your nose. a kiss from a stranger. a dark hallow in an old tree. glow in the dark paint. drinking on an empty stomach. a twig breaking behind you. spinning until you’re dizzy. finding glitter on your body & not remembering where it came from. an overgrown path through the woods. cool dew on your skin. a dream that fades with waking. moths drawn to the light. giving yourself over, completely. afterglow. the long, loving, velvety night.

[feysworn]

SHAKESPEARE AESTHETICS.

romeo & juliet. suburban july. scraped knees. bruised knuckles. blood in your teeth. bare feet on hot concrete. restlessness. your high school’s empty parking lot. love poems in your diary. a window open to coax in the breeze. burning inside. an ill - fitting party dress. a t - shirt you cut up yourself. the time you tried to give yourself bangs. biking to your friends house. bubble gum. gas station ice. the feeling that you’ve met before. rebellion. a car radio playing down the street. cheap fireworks. a heart drawn on the inside of your wrist with a sharpie. switchblades. red solo cups. dancing in your bedroom. screaming yourself hoarse. running out of options. the forlorn looking basketball hoop at the end of a cul - de - sac. climbing onto your roof at night while your parents are asleep. flip - flops. a eulogy written on loose - leaf. the merciless noontime sun.

hamlet. speaking in a whisper. holding your breath. a browning garden. a half remembered story. furniture covered with sheets. fog at dawn. mist at twilight. losing touch. the ethereal space between winter and spring. the soft skin at your temple. the crack in the hallway mirror. things you’d say if you knew the words. uncombed hair. books with writing in the margins. books with cracked spines. books with lines scratched out. prayers on all souls’ day. a chipped ceramic bathtub. a cold stone floor. the uncomfortable awareness of your own heartbeat. the sparrow that got in your house. shadows. the creek you played in as a child. a dirty night gown. an oversized t - shirt. a collection of your favorite words. soil beneath your nails. ghost stories. the strangeness of your own name in your mouth. deep silence. exhaustion. a cliff with a long, long drop down.

twelfth night. wicker deck furniture. new england summer. large sunglasses and a blonde bob. a storm over the ocean. patio umbrellas flapping in the wind. the smell of chlorine. muffled laughter. sarcasm. starched cuffs. day drinking. bay windows. the idea of love. love for the idea of love. love for love’s sake. hangovers. wandering over the sand dunes. a vagabond with a guitar. fishermen with tattoos. a pretty boy with a slacked tie. a lighthouse. growing too close. boat shoes. feeling yourself change. big, floppy sunhats. double - speak. a song you keep listening to. turning red under their gaze. margaritas drank on an inflatable pool lounger. string lights on a balmy night. sleepy june days. fights you’re unprepared for. hope you weren’t expecting. pranks that go too far. bad poetry. pining. becoming less of a stranger.

macbeth. the space where your grief used to be. a bird that’s lost an eye. old blood stains. heavy blinds. the smell of sweat. the stillness after a battle. a fake smile. a curse. the taste of metal at the back of your tongue. your house, unfamiliar in the dark. a dusty crib. the smell of sulfur. an orange pill bottle. streaks in the sink. a black cocktail dress. your hand on the doorknob, shaking. a chilly breeze. crunching from the gravel driveway on a moonless night. clenched hands. a rusty swing set. a flashing digital clock stuck on 12 : 00. a snake that crosses your path. an owl that watches you. a dog that runs when you approach. red smoke, dark clouds. cool steel. tile floors. footsteps in the hallway late at night. a baggy suit that used to fit before. visions. insomnia headaches. nursery rhymes. being too far in to go back now.

much ado about nothing. the high drama of small towns. a pickup truck. military supply duffel bags in the hall. hugs all around. tulip bulbs. a wraparound porch. a pitcher of iced tea. a rubber halloween mask. someone on your level. ill - timed proclamations. stomach clenching laughter. rushing in. not minding your business. crepe paper. white lies. secrets written down and thrown away. southern hospitality. homemade curtains in the kitchen. a sink full of roses. hiding in the bushes. old friends. the wedding dress your grandma wore, and her mama before her. a dog - eared rhyming dictionary. chamomile with honey. the intimacy of big parties. lawn flamingos. gossip. a crowded church. friendly rivalries. unfriendly rivalries. shit getting real. love at five hundredth sight. not realizing you’re home until you’re there.

king lear. cement block buildings. power lines that birds never perch on. the end of the world. useless words. rainless thunder, heat lighting, a too big sky. arthritic knuckles. broken glass. chalk cliffs. the pulsing red - black behind closed eyes. something you learned too late. wet mud that sucks up your shoes while you walk. a cold stare. empty picture frames. empty prayers. the obscenity of seeing your parents cry. a treeless landscape. bloody rags. grappling in the dark with reaching hands. the sharpness at the the tips of your teeth. the blown out windows of a skeletal house. decay. jokes that aren’t jokes. biting your tongue. prophecies. aching muscles, tired feet. stinging rain. invoking the gods. wondering if the gods are listening. worrying that the gods are dead. white noise. shivers. numbness. the unequivocal feeling of ending.

a midsummer night’s dream. the smell of wet soil and dead leaves. listening to music on headphones with your eyes closed. wildflowers. the distant sparkle of lightning bugs. a pill someone slipped you. fear that turns into excitement. excitement that turns to frenzy. mossy tree trunks. a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness. night swimming. moonlight through the leaves. a bass beat in your chest. a butterfly landing on your nose. a kiss from a stranger. a dark hallow in an old tree. glow in the dark paint. drinking on an empty stomach. a twig breaking behind you. spinning until you’re dizzy. finding glitter on your body and not remembering where it came from. an overgrown path through the woods. cool dew on your skin. a dream that fades with waking. moths drawn to the light. giving yourself over, completely. afterglow. the long, loving, velvety night.

[handeaux]

For Poetry Month, We Salute 18 Renowned Cincinnati Poets From Days Gone By

Each April, the Academy of American Poets sponsors National Poetry Month. In recognition of Cincinnati’s extensive contributions to that genre, here is a collection of local poets who achieved distinction. If living poets were included, this list could easily triple in length.

A Careless Poet Soon Forgotten Among the earliest poets writing in Cincinnati was Charles A. Jones (1815-1851). He built a career publishing verse narratives about the Indians and outlaws of the western country. Between the years 1836 and 1839 he wrote frequently for the Cincinnati Mirror, and in 1840 contributed several poems to the Cincinnati Message, but paltry payments for these efforts led him to take up the law as his main career. A critic, William Turner Coggeshall, writing in 1860, admired Jones’ imagination and energy, but deplored his slapdash compositional habits and his aversion to revision: “The hasty production of an hour was sent to the press with all its sins upon its head.”

His Poem No Longer Memorized, Even The Plaque Is Gone Generations of American schoolchildren were compelled to read and memorize a Civil War poem by Thomas Buchanan Read (1822-1872) titled “Sheridan’s Ride.” The poem celebrated General Philip Sheridan’s rallying his soldiers to victory at the 1864 Battle of Cedar Creek in Virginia. It was so popular that newspapers often parodied it to skewer other topics. For many years, a plaque was mounted on the wall opposite the Public Library on Eighth Street commemorating the address at which Read wrote the famous poem. Read was popular and prolific; his poetry was collected in 1867 in a set of three volumes. In addition to poetry, Read was an accomplished painter. Several of his works, notably “The Harp of Erin” are displayed at the Cincinnati Art Museum.

Lawyer By Trade, Hero By Aspiration Although William Haines Lytle (1826-1863) studied law, he preferred the life of a soldier and composed poetry to celebrate his own heroic exploits. Lytle came from an honored line of military heroes. He fought in the Mexican War as a captain and achieved the rank of brigadier general during the Civil War. His verses were popular on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. When a sniper’s bullet found him at Chickamauga in 1863, the rebel soldiers recognized Lytle and posted a guard around his body until it could be sent back to Cincinnati. As they stood watch, the Confederates quietly recited Lytle’s poems. Lytle Park in Cincinnati was his family’s estate.

An Inveterate Revisionist Coates Kinney (1826-1904) was not a Cincinnati native, but he relocated to the Queen City at an early age. Kinney served in the Union Army during the Civil War and in the Ohio General Assembly afterwards while also practicing law and working as a journalist. He was just 23 when he wrote his most famous poem, “Rain on the Roof,” which was reprinted, collected, set to music, pirated, misattributed and celebrated throughout his life. Much of the confusion derived from Kinney’s incessant tinkering with the poem. Over his lifetime, he declared at least three different versions to be definitive.

The Piatts Helped Save Harrison’s Tomb Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt (1836-1919) and John James Piatt (1835-1917) were Cincinnati’s answer to England’s Brownings (Robert and Elizabeth Barrett). A married couple, each earned a reputation as a poet. James Piatt was a scion of the wealthy Piatt family, though he never had much money himself. Sarah, known as Sallie, was related to orator and politician William Jennings Bryan. The couple, who lived just outside North Bend when they weren’t posted to one of John’s political appointments in Washington or Ireland, worked to preserve the tomb of William Henry Harrison. In life, John’s reputation eclipsed his wife’s. In recent years, new critical appraisals agree that Sarah was, by far, the better and more innovative poet.

Newspapers Led Everard Appleton To Poetry Everard Jack Appleton (1872-1931) started out as a newspaperman, with stints at Cincinnati’s Tribune, Commercial Gazette and Times-Star, earning a slot as a columnist known for humorous items in verse and prose. He also contributed stories and poems to national publications. He left behind a half-dozen volumes of poetry of which the best-known is probably “The Quiet Courage.” Appleton lived on Forest Avenue in Avondale.

A National Reputation Based On Odes To Domesticity Bertye Young Williams (1877-1951) published as B.Y. Williams over a productive career that resulted in a half-dozen books of poetry and appearances in the New York Times, Ladies Home Journal, Good Housekeeping, Saturday Evening Post and other nationally distributed magazines. She founded a poetry magazine and publishing house, Talaria, with fellow poet Annette Patton Cornell. She was president of the Ohio Chapter of the League of American Pen Women and of the Cincinnati Women’s Press Club. A book she co-authored with Annette Patton Cornell, “Garland for a City,” was illustrated by Caroline Williams (no relation).

Cincinnati’s Unsung (But Prolific!) Poet, Horace Williamson Horace G. Williamson (1880-1943) was perhaps the most prolific poet in Cincinnati history. You won’t find him in English class these days, nor in any anthologies. Williamson wrote for money, not for art. In the early 1900s, Williamson built a profitable sideline writing poems for greeting card companies, sometimes ghost-writing love letters on spec. He had a lot of side hustles. While employed as social secretary of the YMCA, Williamson ran a talent agency and also performed in character as the Roman dictator Cincinnatus in quite a few civic celebrations.

Confined To Bed, Raymond Dandridge’s Spirit Soared Although he once achieved fame, Raymond Garfield Dandridge (1883-1930) is sadly forgotten today. His poetry fits comfortably between his predecessor Paul Laurence Dunbar (to whom Dandridge was often compared) and his successor, Langston Hughes, beacon of the Harlem Renaissance. Dandridge was almost totally paralyzed by polio when he was a young man. He spent his entire writing career confined to bed, supporting himself and his mother by taking orders for coal shipments. Eventually, Dandridge’s poetry was collected by his friends into three slim volumes, offered for sale to augment his income as a coal merchant.

George Elliston’s Poetic Legacy Lives On Eccentricity manifested itself in the person of George Elliston (1883-1946). She was a longtime Cincinnati newspaperwoman who lived like a derelict but cultivated a bohemian entourage. At her death, Elliston left behind a few slim volumes and an estate worth a quarter-million dollars, grubbed together over the years by living in cold-water apartments, wearing castoff clothing and mooching meals. She bequeathed all of this to the University of Cincinnati to establish a modern poetry collection. Some of the great poets of the English language, such as Denise Levertov and Robert Frost, have served as Elliston poets-in-residence.

Eloise Robinson Was A Rare Woman War Poet Few Cincinnatians knew that Mrs. Corda Muchmore, wife of a College Hill realtor, was, in fact, Eloise Robinson (1888-1958), one of the finest war poets of America. In 1918, she journeyed to France with the YMCA to hand out refreshments and recite poetry to support the American troops. Her poems inspired by her days at the front, such as “He Had Such Glory In His Closing Eyes” and “War” were published nationally and much admired. She taught verse writing to generations of Cincinnatians through UC’s Evening College.

Postmaster And Poet Samuel Schierloh (1889-1968) followed a colorful road to poetry. Born in Reading, Ohio, he served five years in the Navy during the days when it was known as Teddy Roosevelt’s “Great White Fleet.” After a few years as an apprentice tailor in downtown Cincinnati, he joined the Post Office and eventually became postmaster in Mount Washington. In addition to penning poetry, he was a league bowler, golfer and an amateur painter. His poems mostly debuted in Cincinnati newspapers, but were collected in several volumes including “Down the Bright Seas” in 1958.

Cornell Declined Appointment As Ohio’s Poet Laureate In 1974, Annette Patton Cornell (1897-1986) was named the best Cincinnati writer of the past 50 years by the National Society of American Pen Women. Over a long career, she published five collections of her own poetry and promoted the work of others through a literary magazine, Talaria, she founded with fellow Cincinnati poet B.Y. Williams. Cornell had her own radio show devoted to poetry and other literary topics. An Ohio governor tried to recruit her as the state’s poet laureate, but she declined the invitation as a resident of Fort Mitchell, Kentucky. Her son, Si Cornell, had a long career at the Cincinnati Post.

Lawrence Welk Boosted The Career of Cincinnati’s Greeting Card Poet All of Helen Steiner Rice’s (1900-1981) best-selling books were published by Cincinnati’s Gibson Greeting Card Company. Rice was born in Lorain, Ohio and married a Dayton banker who committed suicide during the Great Depression. After working in publicity and inspirational speaking, she joined Gibson as an editor and worked there for more than 40 years. Her book sales skyrocketed in the 1960s when several of her poems were read on the Lawrence Welk television show.

X-ray Damage Launched A Poet’s Career While still a teenager, Anna M. Tansey (1906-1989) almost died when a doctor exposed her to a nearly fatal dose of X-rays. She lost one lung and part of another. Long an invalid, confined to bed, she devoured piles of books brought by her family from the library. When new antibiotics allowed her to leave her house, she embarked on a career as a poet and an advocate for ecumenical relations among religions. Her poems were often on spiritual themes, as the title of her best-selling poetry collection, “Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit” illustrates. As arthritis claimed her ability to type, she composed on a dictating machine and had her poems typed out by an assistant.

A Poet Of Great Influence Kenneth Koch (1925-2002) was born in Cincinnati to a fairly well-to-do family. His father sold office furniture and the family had a live-in maid. The family was frequently mentioned in Cincinnati newspaper society columns. After military service during World War II, Koch earned his doctorate and began a long career at Columbia University. Although he published dozens of books and was frequently anthologized, Koch is often remembered more today as a teacher than as a poet. His book on teaching children to write poetry, “Wishes, Lies and Dreams” (1970) was enormously influential.

One Small Poem For A Man . . . The oeuvre of Neil Armstrong (1930-2012), poet, is slight, consisting as it does of only two published stanzas, and that bit of doggerel clouded by controversy. In 1978, the Mini Page, a nationally syndicated children’s section carried in many newspapers, including the Cincinnati Post, asked Armstrong to provide a quote or first-person account of his moon landing. Rather than jotting a few lines of prose, Armstrong, then a professor at the University of Cincinnati, penned eight lines of poetry, clearly aimed at a juvenile audience. Unfortunately, through an editing error, the Mini Page deleted two words from Armstrong’s final line. Armstrong was not happy.