#black poetess

[jamerasjournal]

I don’t want casual. I want you to eat me alive. No silverware. No napkins. No soft apologies for the mess.

I want to feel your hunger in the marrow of my bones. In the way your hands shake when they touch me. Like you’ve been starving in the dark for centuries. And I am the first taste of light.

Do not love me in halves. Do not sip me slow. I want to be devoured. Consumed whole until there is nothing left to second guess.

I want a love that carves its name into the backs of my ribs. So that I feel it every time I breathe.

Do not love me in whispers. Do not ration me like I am something you must conserve. I am not made for patience. Not built for slow burns or waiting games. Touch me like it is the last thing you will ever do. Kiss me like the world is ending. And you want my taste to be the last thing you remember.

I want reckless. I want ruin. The kind of passion that does not fit inside polite conversation. The kind that makes people uncomfortable.

I want you to worship. At the altar of my body. Press prayers into my skin with trembling hands. To hear my name spoken like gospel. Ache for me in rooms I am not in. I want my absence to feel like something missing from your bloodstream.

Don’t give me lukewarm touches and indifferent eyes. I want the fire. The fury. The all consuming. Take me whole. Taste every part of me and never look away.

I don’t want casual. I want you to eat me alive.

-jamera naquai, EAT ME ALIVE

[vintage-russia]

Russian poetess Olga Bergholtz (1910-1975)

[alliwanttodoiscollectpoetry]

Nikita Gill ~ Black Hole (Despair)

[black5wan]

my poetry book (work in progress)

did i find my audience? because i am very proud of my poetry & i would like for it to not go unnoticed,

thank you in advance and i hope you enjoy <3

[ladyofthenile]

Yes, I have walked on water

Did you not see? The trail I left behind?

It is inked in blood, footprints of the Nile,

A wayward daughter who turned the river into wine

Lady of the Nile , Nisa

[owl-wrts]

Even An Electric Shock Does Not Burn The Entire Body As Much As A Person's Recollections Do.

Bijili Ka Jhatka Bhi Rom-Rom Nhi Jalata Jitna Kisi Ke Yaadein

[venniekocsis]

🆓 My Gift To You 🥳

Hello, my sweet friends. First let me tell you how grateful I am for your presence in this space. I appreciate your time, your attention and your never-ending support. Please accept this free gift as a thank you. Starting today, through Monday 11/27/2023, my latest book, “Keeper of Backwards Men” is FREE for download! Download Here I hope you enjoy this book. It is a culled collection of…

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Ancient Greece (1000 B.C.–1 A.D.)

TIMELINE

Geometric period, ca. 900–700 B.C.

Archaic period, ca. 700–480 B.C.

"Age of Tyrants," Athens, ca. 650–510 B.C.

Classical period, ca. 480–323 B.C.

Age of Perikles, Athens, ca. 440–429 B.C.

Rise to power of Macedonia, 359–323

Hellenistic period, ca. 323–31 B.C.

Roman rule, Greek mainland, 146 B.C.–330 A.D.

OVERVIEW. Following a period of sporadic incursions and large movements of people, demographic and economic changes in the 8th century B.C. lead to overseas colonization, spreading Greek language and culture across the Mediterranean and Black seas. Communities throughout the Greek world evolve into city-states, laying the foundations for democracy. Literature, science, and the arts flourish for several centuries, and new genres of artistic and intellectual expression evolve.

KEY EVENTS.

ca. 776 B.C. The Olympic games are founded. Held once every four years, the games honor Olympian Zeus. A list of victors from this year to 217 A.D., drawn up by the historian Julius Africanus, has been preserved for us by Eusebius. The earliest games are held in one day and consist of running and wrestling. In the seventh century B.C., they are reorganized to include chariot races and single horse races.

ca. 750 B.C. According to tradition, the blind bard Homer composes the Iliad and the Odyssey.

750 B.C. The Greeks begin to venture overseas and establish colonies in southern Italy and Sicily. Greeks from the island of Euboea (northwest of Attica) establish the first known of such colonies at Pithekousai on the island of Ischia in the Bay of Naples. Many of the colonies in southern Italy and Sicily eventually become city-states in their own right. Greek-style temples are built at Agrigentum (ca. 430 B.C.), Selinus (sixth–fifth century B.C.), Segesta (fifth century B.C.), Syracusae, and other sites.

743 B.C. The Corinthians establish a colony at Syracusae (modern Syracuse) in Sicily. Within a century, the colony increases so rapidly in power and wealth that it is able to found three subcolonies at Akrai, Kasmenai, and Camarina. Syracuse eventually rivals Athens as the largest and most beautiful city in the Greek world.

ca. 650 B.C. The earliest Greek lyric poets are active in Greece. Archilochos, an iambic and elegiac poet of Paros, is regarded as a great innovator in meter and language. Tyrtaeus, an elegiac poet from Sparta, exhorts the Spartans to fight in the Second Messenian War.

ca. 610 B.C. The poetess Sappho flourishes on Lesbos. Her poems are personal, reflecting her reverence for Aphrodite and the Muses and her affection for her friends.

ca. 594–593 B.C. The Athenian archon Solon replaces the Draconian law code and lays the foundation for democracy in Athens. By canceling all debts, he releases the peasants from serfdom and redeems those sold into slavery. He also introduces coinage to Athens and a corresponding system of weights and measures, and grants citizenship to immigrant artisans, all in an attempt to stimulate trade and industry.

mid-6th century B.C. The theater at Syracuse is constructed. Enlarged under Hieron II, it is one of the largest known Greek theaters in the ancient world, and the largest in Sicily.

ca. 525 B.C. The red-figure pottery technique is pioneered in Athens. This technique is the direct opposite of black-figure since the background of a vessel is painted with a black slip and the figures and other details are left in reserve as the color of the clay. Contour lines and some interior details may be added with a dilute slip.

508–507 B.C. The Athenian statesman Kleisthenes furthers efforts made by Solon and establishes a democratic constitution at Athens.

490 B.C., 480/479 B.C. The Greeks repel two attempts by the Persians to conquer Greece.

477 B.C. The Delian League is founded after the end of the Persian Wars.

449–432 B.C. The Greek architects Iktinos and Kallikrates design and build the Parthenon, the temple of Athena Parthenos on the Akropolis at Athens. The temple is the principal element in Perikles’ building programs overseen by the sculptor Pheidias. The Parthenon incorporates the Doric and Ionic orders and is made predominantly of Pentelic marble. It houses Pheidias’ gold and ivory cult statue of the Parthenos.

ca. 420–410 B.C. After the Temple of Athena Nike on the Akropolis is completed, a parapet is begun around the bastion. It is carved with processions of Nikai bringing offerings to Athena. They are clothed in near-transparent garments that cling to their bodies like wet linen or silk.

404 B.C. Lysander, an admiral of the Spartan navy, installs the Thirty Tyrants, a pro-Spartan government, in Athens. They are overthrown the following year.

ca. 403 B.C. Dionysius of Syracuse founds Tauromenium (modern Taormina) in Sicily. Its theater, the largest in Sicily after the one at Syracuse, is famous for its remarkable scenic setting.

399 B.C. Sokrates, an Athenian who devotes himself to inquiry into righteous conduct by cross-questioning, is brought to trial on the charge of corrupting youth. He is condemned to death and drinks the deadly hemlock.

380s B.C. Plato founds the Academy at Athens.

338 B.C. Philip II of Macedon establishes the Corinthian League, which provides the framework for Macedonian domination of Greece until it is dissolved in 322 B.C.

335 B.C. Aristotle founds the Lyceum in Athens.

323 B.C. Alexander the Great, king of Macedon, dies. Having defeated the Persian king and won a great empire, he extends Greek influence to the east as far as the Indus Valley and Afghanistan.

214–205 B.C. Rome successfully faces Philip V of Macedon in the First Macedonian War.

200–196 B.C. Rome enters the Second Macedonian War, which ends with the victory of Flamininus at Cynoscephalae.

172–168/167 B.C. Perseus of Macedon challenges Rome and thereby brings about the Third Macedonian War. He is defeated by Lucius Aemilius Paulus at Pydna, and Macedon is divided into four republics.

146 B.C. Under the consul Mummius Achaicus, the Romans sack Corinth and dissolve the Achaean Confederacy. From this time onward, Greece is ruled by Rome.

86 B.C. The Roman general Sulla sacks Athens.

48 B.C. At the Battle of Pharsalus in northern Greece, Pompey is defeated by Julius Caesar.

43–42 B.C. Antony, Octavian, and Lepidus form a triumvirate and defeat the Republicans led by Cassius and Brutus at Philippi in eastern Macedon.

32–31 B.C. Octavian (later Augustus) defeats Marc Antony and Cleopatra of Egypt at the Battle of Actium.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[belliexpog]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Love me, poetess- Sae-Byeok

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Synopsis: You are the muse of a famous poet.

Pair: Sae-Byeok×F!Reader

Warning: none.

Words: 2,9k

Style: Fanfic | Imagine | Headcanons

You walked into the house, smelling cigarettes in the air. You close the door with your back and head to the kitchen, placing the the cardboard bags full of food on the white counter. "How come this girl hasn't smoked her lungs out yet? My god..." You mutter, waving your hand from side to side in an attempt to chase the smoke away from the place - something impossible, considering that the entire house was scented with that smoke.

Your girlfriend Sae-Byeok, a writer famous for her poetry books, spent her days at home, sitting at the dinner table with her black leather-bound notebook, writing her sentimental and melancholic poems. A real poetess, so to speak. Everything this woman did was poetic. The way she played with words, the puns and the most spontaneous yet calculated rhymes was something that moved you. The poems written for you made you wonder if anyone loves as much as a poet.

You sighed, walking into the room with light steps, seeing the figure of your girlfriend with her back impressively straight, but her neck bent slightly downwards. You smiled and moved closer to the girl. You leaned your body forward, hugging the girl's neck carefully, kissing her cheek. Sae smiled, and you could feel the girl's muscles relaxing under your touch. "You've arrived... Finally." The girl murmurs, pulling your chair back carefully and patting your legs twice, inviting you onto her lap.

"Can I see what you've been working on?" You ask curiously, sitting on the girl's lap sideways, putting your arms around her neck. Sae nods, hugging your waist. You pick up your notebook and read out loud the last poem you wrote.

"I closed the door, and called your name

I know you can't hear it, but i know you can feel it

Don't opean up, but i hope you do

Cause,

Love is nothing without you"

"Who is this for? Your lovers?" You ask playfully, closing the notebook and placing it back on the table.Sae lets out a laugh and nods. "Uh-huh, for lover number 5." You let out a loud laugh, amusing Sae, who was looking at you fondly. "Number 5? That's a lot! How do you manage with the others?" Sae shrugs, playing along, "I can't tell you, or you'll ruin my plans." You open your mouth in a perfect "O," and place your hand over your chest, pretending to be offended.

"Oh no! You unmasked me!" You exclaim, letting out a laugh when Sae nudges your waist. "I know every bit of you, it's easy to read you" The girl responds, pulling you closer. "Yeah, i know..." Sae smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and gently grabbing your chin and pulling you into a calm, affectionate kiss. You melted with the kiss, placing your hands on the girl's neck, giving her a light caress, giving the girl slight shivers. Suddenly, Sae slips her arm under the crease of your knee and lifts you bridal style, making you let out a sound of surprise, and quickly grab the girl's neck. "Sae! Put me down!" The girl, He shook his head and let out another laugh. "No, I have to get inspiration for the next poem." Sae says, releasing you on the bed, climbing on top of you.

Being loved by a poet is good, but being the poet's muse is even better. And there was no one with more morals to speak of than the true muse of Seol: You.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

i loved this sososo much, omg

hope you liked it too, babies

xoxo!

[jamerasjournal]

Being a lover girl is gonna be the death of me. No, really. I think my heart is clocking out early, filing for retirement, because it’s tired. Tired of being the lifeboat for people who never learned to swim. Tired of being the diary for feelings that don’t belong to me. Tired of being loved like an echo, only returned when I call first.

You, with your heart like an open wound, always bleeding onto my hands, expecting me to hold the mess without flinching. You, with your thunderstorms for moods, your tidal waves for love, drowning me in the rise and fall of whatever you’re feeling today.

And I— I was built for deep waters, but damn, even the ocean needs rest. Even the tide pulls back sometimes. Even I can’t keep carrying the burden of every tear you were taught swallow.

Because loving you feels like excavation, digging through layers of feeling you don’t even want to claim, dragging your ghosts into the daylight just for you to bury them again. You want love, but only if it doesn’t ask for too much, only if it doesn’t require you to stand in the mirror and face what you see.

And I? I am love in its full, messy, open-handed form. I don’t do halfway. And I don’t do almost. I don’t do the kind of love that waits in the doorway, too afraid to step inside.

Being a lover girl is gonna be the death of me, because I keep setting myself on fire for people who only love me in the glow and never in the ashes. I keep giving my softness to hands that don’t know how to hold it gently.

And I’m tired. Tired of loving people through their storms, just to be the only one left standing in the wreckage when the clouds clear. Tired of being the steady palms, the safe place, the healer who never gets to be healed.

And I am trying to pour my love back into myself. Let it rise like a flood, wash away every piece of me that thought love meant infinite sacrifice.

Because don’t I deserve to be held, too? Don’t I deserve to be the sun, not just the firewood? Don’t I deserve love that doesn’t feel like a battlefield?

So if I have to choose between drowning in someone else’s emotions or finally breathing for myself then I won’t stay to see if the flood subsides. I won’t keep patching up boats that you keep trying to sink. I’ll let the tide carry me somewhere new. And I’ll let the ocean swallow what it must. Even if it’s you.

- jamera naquai, LOVER GIRL

[toomagazineperfection]

In the sweetest fire, we are death gasping for her beauty. She is like a moon crying. She is. A burn of saddle eyes. Innocent eyes, a girl craves her burnt candy. She is so slow, like poised death. Of all the bustling eyes, I have never seen hers before. Life is weak before her. Lovely tinge blue eyes. Addictive like God's. And moving is her self. Driving me places I don't know. The centre of heart. The lover of mar. Kiss. I was just as a willow point breaking her apart. As. I draw pipes of my girl, singing in scenic drawing. I was killed before, like the break of time. Like all a girl can start a muscle of day. You are breathing and heating tea. What is all a loose breath a man can hold her too, do. Lizzy's sister and Alpine's death. How is a false death, a lesser mint. A dye can waste on you. Unforgettable. All I loose is a gathering wound. Like all passing visual archery. Visceral archery. I was. Ain't love a fair game? Throwing world down a poem. An end to a slow moon. Kiss ed me. Archer. I lived her. I was hers. I was all loose. I was all mousse. All teeth. All burnt. All, you. You. Death like a pine and oak marriage of rights and love capacity to ask of you. Flew me by. Hate to be all with, you. All poetry. Like a flowing game. Of vile. Night bale. Night Houstan. French Mountains and Death Montanna. Kisses like Rouge Taylor. Like Lily mentioning all places in her notebook. Senate rivers. I can't be the car Arabella drove too. Sao. All the red maids know. Too. Maiden Language. All fauna said was your Jesuit falling to his Lallah's wind. If I was walking away. Thought, enough? Would you like to dine at my house? Arena 100 and thousand soldiers died telling you? I loved you too. I was a black man today. I was his whitest teeth. I was slander. Black loves chess. White freckles over his neck nape. I touched you, hard love can't faint no more. All singers sin and gleam a poetess and a bride walks away. A night. A day. Was. A rud mud. His ickle rained us down. His Magda knew Butrym well. His fais. His dais. His dool. His atmosphere. His singing at the advocate's office, to pray for sin. Angelic. Praying like all beacon hope. And we were all death praying. How intense was he. His selfless life and his dead man. His allergies. His death and a wing man. His joke and his deed. How about you. Little bit of eye in hope and God in you. Life. In you. Girls walking mights and making her red bloom around her singing truth. You were apocalypse. He was epileptic. Selfless tea. Cynical seems off the manor names. Anugraha. Prayer child and juvenile diction. You.

Sunidhi

[alliwanttodoiscollectpoetry]

Zora Neale Hurston by Yael Valencia Aldana

[anamelessfool]

𝔓𝔞𝔭𝔞 ℭ𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔬 (1907-1983) and fic!

Reign 1942-1954, Satanic Bishop of New York City (1954-1983)

Everybody needs a mentor, especially delusional people like Young Nihil. So enter Papa Camino, a Papa Emeritus who is heavily influenced by Cab Calloway. (And is wearing an actual Schiaparelli silk tie from the 1950s) Notable Ghouls: Phantom, Dewdrop, Cumulus

The Path (AO3 Link)

GEN Young Nihil & OC Papa, Young Nihil & Family 3K Words

Tags: Mentor Figure, Deal With The Devil, Family Angst, 4 Year Old Primo Is In This One, This is Officially the Most Self Indulgent Fic I've Written and Yes I'm Including the Smut, Alternate History, Ghost Scenes from the Void AU, Ministry Lore and Dramaaaaa

1957, New York City: Bishop Camino always got what he wanted. And he wanted to share what he took from life with everyone he thought hungry enough to work for it. He was also a man who today invited Zero, of all the siblings in his care, to a private meeting in his office.

More Art and the Fic Below the Cut!

1957 New York City

Camino was a man who demanded what he wanted, and created for himself what he was denied. After his wildly successful tour as Papa Emeritus of the Satanic Church of the Void, he brought his expertise, his talent, and his cunning to his new post as the Satanic Bishop of New York City.

After the fourth rejection of his application to join the most prestigious gentlemen’s social club in the city (and it was definitely not because he was a Satanic Anti-Pope) Camino decided to run his own club out of the New York Ministry location. The music was hotter, the skirts were shorter and the booze flowed higher than the runoff in the gutters after a rainstorm.

The New York City chapter of the Satanic Church of the Void soon became less a place of organized worship and more the most chaotic and happening nightclub no one dared talk about in the sunshine. No act was denied, no artistic experiment too bizarre— almost twenty-four hours of the day there would be something to see for everyone. At two PM there could be a poetry reading for moody folks in black turtlenecks. At four PM was a 1920s Big Band Revival stint, six to ten PM Camino himself took command as bandleader. Midnight to two AM was reserved for drag shows. Often at three AM some interpretive dancer could be writhing on stage wrapped in tinfoil wailing about his daddy issues. It was vibrant, sometimes exhausting but never ever boring. Just like the Bishop.

And any high society man caught sneaking in would be promptly hogtied and left out in the alley with the rest of the trash.

Camino always got what he wanted. And he wanted to share what he took from life with everyone he thought hungry enough to work for it. He was also a man who today invited Zero, of all the siblings in his care, to a private meeting in his office.

As Zero sat uneasily in a plush armchair he could pick himself out from the posters and photographs covering the wood-paneled walls of the bishop’s office. He was often in the background— a blur holding a guitar, a trombone, hiding behind a mountain of drums. In six years Zero had become an established character in Camino’s church. He had stopped his rail-hopping life and settled in with a pretty blonde poetess, living just outside earshot of the church turned nightclub with a couple of potted plants and a young son. It surprised him how much he enjoyed the ebb and flow of a domestic existence. But then again, living and working in a place of constant change and noise and life and art is like wandering without ever leaving home.

“Brother Zero, I can hear your knees knocking from over here!” Bishop Camino closed the humidor cabinet and returned to his massive desk with a choice cigar. He winked his eye, his human eye. The Infernal Eye, his gift and his curse from his time as Papa, leered into Zero. It was as icy and silvery as the tools Camino used to delicately trim and light his smoke. “You'd know if you were in trouble! Relax, stay a while! How's junior?”

“Oh, swell, just swell,” said Zero, slowly uncurling himself in his seat.

“I got box seats at the Polo Grounds whenever you two want to see a game,” Camino replied. “Owner of the Giants owes me. Funny how many folks owe me, hm?”

“You're more than generous, all the time.” Zero couldn't help but feel a fondness for the man. “You helped me.”

“Alley cats are hungry, feed ‘em. Keeps the rats away. Now…” Camino noticed the smallest mote of dust on his suit, frowned deeply, and brushed it off. Camino never wore formal vestments outside of Mass, preferring instead a red silk suit with razor-sharp shoulders. Firstly because that was his look during his time as Papa Emeritus, and secondly because there was no one in New York City who would dare tell the bishop otherwise.

“Have you ever thought about the path?” He continued. Bishop Camino leaned back in his leather chair, settling in to a languid taste of his Cuban cigar. “I think you have what it takes to be Papa. Believe me, I know.”

Zero’s eyes widened, his mouth stretching open cartoonishly in shock. “You really think that?”

“Claro. Really. You've played in the house band many a time. You know more instruments than most, and catch on so quick. You're more Ghoul than man sometimes,” Camino chuckled. Zero had indeed performed for a few years in Camino's exclusive club for degenerates, and his saxophone playing was described as “a good start” which was a big compliment coming from the Bishop.

“Times are different. Big bands are out. Five pieces are in. More flexible. Digestible. What with television everywhere now.” Camino nodded. “Jazz clubs are gone, thing of the past. I'm not too proud to admit that.”

“Oh, you got more talent in your little finger than most in their whole body!” Zero piped up. “Don't sell yourself short!”

Camino gave him a wry look. “Hermano, I didn't say anything about that. Of course I'm talented. I'm the most talented motherfucker you ever saw. But times are changing. The Church needs fresh blood. And you'd be perfect for it. You got a face for television!”

Zero looked through the wooden blinds of the window, at the lines of taxis dutifully filing past. A limo turned the corner, its black and silver form sleek amongst the herd of yellow and checkerboard. Zero saw the shining sweep of the Rolls-Royce maiden perched on the hood, bowing low with her steel gossamer cloak frozen forever against the wind. A face for television, Zero thought. He never really had a television, or an actual home to plug any sort of luxury into since leaving Milwaukee, but everyone that did had the potential to see him. To hear his music. To see his face.

“That sounds swell, how would I even start?”

Camino grunted a laugh, his teeth gripping his cigar. From his place behind his massive desk he elegantly poured a finger of amber liquid from a crystal decanter into two equally opulent glasses. “Well, you have to let everyone know your intention. Even when you're not saying a word. Especially then. Your whole body must…vibrate…with that desire.”

Zero took a glass from him, nodding eagerly. “I can do that. I can vibrate with desire!”

“Naturally,” said Camino. “I'll put you in touch with Mother Imperator’s assistant, a em…a Sister Rebecca. She'll help me authorize a transfer and you can move to the heart of the Ministry.”

They clinked glasses, and Zero took a sip. It burned across his throat, tore a hole in his belly. He coughed in surprise, making every attempt to choke as politely as possible. “Move? There's somewhere else?”

“Yes, a few hours drive up north,” Camino replied. His perfectly sculpted thin moustache twitched as he frowned. “And how the hell you choking on that, boy? That's a goddamn forty year.”

Zero mumbled an apology, then felt Camino’s strong hand on his chin, jerking his face upwards for inspection. His hand was surprisingly soft, well manicured. The floral scent of hair oil drifted down from his clothing. The older man smirked, his eyes crinkling as thoughts passed through his mind. The Infernal Eye glared down at Zero from its socket in Camino’s skull, its glow removed from this realm, a separate entity also holding judgement towards him. He could have sworn the steely pinprick of a pupil moved independent from the human eye just across the bridge of the jazz singer’s nose. Zero swallowed. “Face for television,” Camino murmured, and with his other hand took a thoughtful sip of his own glass.

Zero stretched his mouth into a submissive smile. “Maybe.”

Camino gave Zero a rough pat, nearly a slap on the side of his face, and stepped away to pick up his cigar again. “Listen here, I sent my successor up to their headquarters, had them start meeting people, gather friends— boom! They're now Papa Emeritus and gaining traction in the charts every day. The trick…is to be underfoot.” Camino let out a satisfied puff of smoke. “Thing about that place is that running the Ministry is the only thing anyone can do up there in that godforsaken wilderness. So if you want something you're front and center!”

“But…moving?” Zero had just finally put roots down after a youth of wandering. He thought of Nance, of little Primo waiting for him back at their apartment. Nance with the baby on her lap as she sat by the plants on the fire escape, her red lips smiling contentedly out at the symphony of asphalt and blaring car horns.

“Fresh air, sunshine, forests and mountains,” said Camino. “Kids love it out there. At least I'm pretty certain they do.”

Camino was met with an awkward silence, and he settled into his chair, the leather offering a tired wheeze. “Yes, the city is difficult to leave,” Camino continued, steepling his fingers. He grinned. “Which is why I came back.” And promptly at midnight a town car would pick him up and drive him back to his home in Queens. “But, I've done my time, and did the work. I'm here to guide now. And I think you need to take bigger risks.”

“Nance loves it here. She was born here.” Zero smiled slightly into the middle space. “Primo was born here.”

“It's not easy raising a child in the city, believe me. My sisters complain enough. And me…well, I became a jazz singer.” He chuckled. “That tells you everything you need to know about that.”

“Could be good for junior,” Zero mused.

“Would be good for his old man too,” Camino replied with a wink. “You just say the word. I'm serious about you.”

Horns blared from outside on the street, followed by shouts and curses. The chauffeur of the Rolls-Royce rolled up up his sleeves and unbuttoned his vest as his cap fell on the sidewalk. Across from him, an equally irate taxi driver wrenched himself from the crumpled yellow door of his taxi. A woman was trapped in the back of the Rolls, hanging out the window and screeching while the rat-like dog in her arms barked. The taxi driver jumped across the hood of the limo and delivered a heavy-fisted crack to the chauffeur’s mug that Zero could hear all the way from his spot by the window. He winced as he unconsciously massaged the same place on his jaw. Camino clapped his hand across Zero’s shoulder, laughing, his lips peeled back over sharp white teeth in a roar of amusement. The Infernal Eye shone. “Fresh air and sunshine, hermano!”

-------

“Fresh air, sunshine, forests and mountains,” said Zero as he and Sister Nance held hands on a park bench and watched their young son totter around the steel playground. “Would be good for junior, yanno?”

“This sounds rehearsed,” Nance snorted, flashing him one of her elfin grins. “What's the deal? Why all of a sudden you want to move?”

Zero shrugged. “No deal. Just…need a change, maybe.”

“Zero, dear. Don't even try to lie to me.”

“Bishop Camino… thinks I should be Papa Emeritus.”

“You?” Nance made a face. “You haven't held a single job for more than a year. And you…want to run this whole thing? You want to be Papa?”

Zero frowned back, a little wounded but willing to fight. “None of those gigs were ever that interesting.”

“And you can't just up and walk away from this one,” Nance said. “No session musician or delivery boy or taxi driver ever had to commit his soul.” She tapped the place under her left eye. “Camino and the others…got a piece of their immortal soul committed to the Void. A chunk of it is just…it's just gone.”

That whitened eye of Camino burned in Zero’s brain once more. The sharp-toothed wicked grin, the bone-chilling tension of that pinprick pupil sliding across him and passing judgement. Zero had a face for television, sure— but Camino…Camino’s visage came from someplace else.

Like any blow he's ever taken, Zero shrugged it all off. “Wasn't using my immortal soul much anyway,” he chuckled.

“Goddamit Zero.” Nance crumpled into a fussy search of her coat for her silver cigarette case. He felt the cold air return to the palm of his now abandoned hand as it rested on the park bench.

Primo zoomed over from across the playground, falling into his mother’s arms. Irving Robert, really, but Primo was a better nickname for him than Uno.

“Push me on the swings?” asked their son, grinning under the hat Nance had knitted for him last week.

Nance cupped his face in her hands, smiling sweetly. “In a few minutes, Primo, your father and I are talking. But I bet you know how to do it yourself. We want to watch.”

“Oh, I can!”

“Good, now run! We're watching!” And Primo spun around and raced over to the swings across the park, leaving them for a few precious moments. Nance lit the cigarette in her mouth and took a drag, sighing on the exhale.

“Feels like the only thing that sticks in your brain are bad ideas, Zero,” Nance muttered. “I'm saying that affectionately.”

“You're one of ‘em,” he teased back, and she shoved him with a little laugh.

“Fine. You want to move to the Ministry Headquarters. Work right under Mother Imperator and Papa Emeritus and their whole shitty retinue.”

“And bring you along, of course,” Zero added in an attempt to reassure her. He was glad that she was even considering his idea now.

“I've been up there,” Nance continued. “Not much to do, so siblings get obsessive. I didn't want to stay long.”

“Obsessive?”

“Mother Imperator…” Nance stifled a laugh. “Absolute bag. A good hundred years old, easy. Refuses to speak anything but Italian. There's two siblings waiting for her to drop dead. Any day now, it feels.”

“Oh really now?” Zero mused, half listening.

“Sister Rebecca, for one. She went right to the top as the Dark Mother's Personal Assistant. Fluent in six languages, Italian especially. Comes from a bloodline of senators and government officials. Family's got mob money. She's next in line, for sure. And then there's…” Nance winced, as if an icy wind passed through her. “Maestra Eunice.”

“Oh, she's important?” Zero had seen her from time to time, conversing with Camino. Her hooded eyes, her deep scowl. He remembered her because he thought it a shame when blondes scowled like that. And Camino always looked queasy after their meetings.

“Leader of the Conclave,” Nance explained. “Old, old Ministry family. She's been shuffled around. She doesn't make too many friends.” Nance smiled crookedly. “And Rebecca would easily cut her throat in her sleep if Eunice doesn't get to Rebecca first. It's no good out there. Too heavy while those two wait for old Imperator to croak. You really want to live in the middle of that?”

“Two broads in a spat,” stated Zero. He figured early on that if there were two women left on the entirety of this Earth they still would think the other was talking behind their back.

“One has the keys to the entire global network of our Church, the other the deepest understanding of the magic that comes from the Void,” said Nance. “These are the two broads no one wants to stand in between.”

“Who says I have to stand between ‘em? I can make my music. And that's all I got to do.”

“There's no budging you, is there.”

“Camino…believes in me.” It was the first sincere thing Zero had said in a long while, and it left his heart with a wrenching whine that was carried through into his voice. It held such a sad little timbre that Nance shifted in her seat to look at him. “He believes in what I do.”

Zero knew few people in his life ever put their faith in him. Teachers thought him stupid. Fellow tramps on the road thought he was easy pickings. Not even his own father had much to do with him; his father, who's only belief was in his own ability to pick winning dogs at the track.

“You got to take risks on what you believe,” Zero added as she continued to contemplate his expression.

“But…moving…”

“Six years is the longest I've been in a single place,” announced Zero. He wanted to add “and loved someone”, but the thought felt intrusive and not at all something Nance wanted to hear. She knew his feet got restless if he sat for too long. She had been good to him, good for him, and he owed her his affection.

Nance grabbed his hand, turning his attention to look into her soft brown eyes. “Robert,” she began quietly, and she only used his real name when she wanted him to really listen. “What about your son? Robert…what about me?”

“I want to live my dream,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. “And my dream includes you. And Primo. I…I promise I'll do right. You know I always try to do right.”

Nance smiled faintly back. “You always try,” she said quietly. “I can't argue with that. I'm happy…you found someone else who believes in you.”

“Mo-om!” Primo called to them both from his place on the swings, his arms and legs dangling as his body lay across the steel seat.

Nance got up and dropped her smoke to the ground, crushing it underfoot. “Just…give me a few days to think about it."

Zero gave her a thin smile as he watched her cross the playground. He felt he had moved the pieces in the way he wanted them, needed them to move. And he was pretty sure of the rules of the game, so how hard would all of this be? Except he felt a queasiness now instead of relief. The feeling of his words being more of a wager than a sign of honesty hung about his shoulders. He had the faint memory of being on the other side of that conversation. And in those moments what he thought was a promise, was really only a way to buy time.

It would be well worth it in the end, he assured himself. Good ideas always are, and Camino had said himself how much of a good idea Zero was. Zero got to his feet, brushing off his knees as his good-natured smile returned to his face. There was nothing to worry about. He always came out on top. He always pulled through, and folks always leant him a helping hand. And of course he'd always support Nance, and Primo. He promised her and so he owed her. What more is a promise than an IOU to someone else?

Funny how many folks owe me, said Camino as his dead eye flashed. Great men are owed. And Zero was ready to be a lender.

My Fic List | My AO3 | More Domestic Fics

Papa Camino & Dewdrop, Phantom Fic

[valthepoetess]

Present OC: ⛤Saturna Cloudford⛤

Yea, its Poetess again!

As you may already know...

Saturna Cloudford, aka "Poetess" is a First Lieutenant and an elite paramedic leader in the UK Armed Forces. 💉⚔️

More about her:

Age: 28 years old

Height: 5'9" (1.75 m)

Hair: Short, wavy, and black (always rebellious)

Birthplace: Queens, New York, USA

Date of Birth: 03/22/1996

Truly patriotic.

She has a "little" thing for weed. (She says she only smokes to relax, but... do you really believe that?)

Main tattoo: A small carnation on her chest (🏵).

She’s a rockstar-hippie—what did you expect?

Always finds time to perfect that star design on her eyes—it’s her signature look now.

Music is her oxygen. Someone, please take away her mini speaker already!

And last but not least... She could wear 30 rings on one hand without a problem. She’s a jewelry maximalist.

Although it might not seem like it, Poetess has an impressive record: she has saved hundreds of lives throughout her military career. But today, I’m introducing her in a more relaxed way—showing her as someone more down-to-earth, more human.

Saturna is agile and clever, flirty and fun, VERY STUBBORN and COMPETITIVE, with a sarcastic sense of humor and a carefree attitude.

XOXO, I hope you like her! 💞

∘₊✧─────────���─────────✧₊∘

∘₊✧─────────★─────────✧₊∘

∘₊✧─────────★─────────✧₊∘

[elfilululuuu]

[verseandrhyme]

piano, sender teaches receiver how to play the piano.

on the bench, dorothea shifts just enough to make space for mitama.

gently, she takes her friend's hand, adjusting the fingers before placing them over the correct keys. “my expertise lies more in singing than in playing,” she says brightly. “but i’ve picked up a few things along the way—some tricks, some stories. the latter i’ll save for another time.” one of mitama’s fingers is pressed down onto a key, producing a soft, clear note.

“it’s not about hitting the right note every single time. instead, focus on finding the feel of it. get comfortable with the rhythm.”

dorothea hums the melody, letting the sound float between them for a moment. then, she reaches over to the lower keys, her left hand dancing over the black and white with practiced ease. she plays the sequence again, slow and deliberate, offering it as both a demonstration and encouragement.

“your turn now. if you start to feel frustrated, we can always take a break. music is meant to be enjoyed, after all. if you force it—”

a flicker of something unspoken crosses her features. the songstress pauses, her gaze momentarily drifting as if lost in thought.

“—it becomes something of a performative chore.”

a long exhale. she meets mitama’s eyes once more, and this time, dorothea flashes another smile. "go on, then. the poetess might just surprise us both."

ask meme | accepting!

Her caretakers had made it plain to her from a very young age. Perhaps music is not where your talents lie... A book of poetry had been pushed into her hands, and that was that of the discussion.

And yet, even still, she did always find herself longing to be able to recreate that melody her mother had sung to her.

Dorothea's hands are soft. Mitama carefully notes the position she guides her own hands into. She shifts a bit to settle comfortably, always hovering her fingertips just above the keys. The piano is an imposing instrument. If she should play the wrong note, will it echo for all to hear her failure?

It is hard to think so, when Dorothea's hands guide hers gently. The note that her fingers ply from the piano is singular, but beautiful. Clear and steady. Her instruction makes it all sound so easy, as though it is not a craft people spend their lifetime honing.

As if a girl who cannot even sing her mother's song can make anything worth listening to.

When Dorothea's hands pull away, Mitama's gaze follows to watch as she lays claim over her own section of the instrument. The melody she plays is lower, almost somber, but still beautiful. The poet finds her gaze shifting from hands to face. Does the other student know, she wonders, how her face changes when she concentrates?

A flicker of something then. She has seen that before. The expression Asugi makes when he speaks of his future. The expression Rhajat makes when she speaks of her father. It is gone again before Mitama can pin it down to examine it. She meets Dorothea's gaze and lovely smile and laughs, softly.

Listen a moment / in the chords of melody / can you hear my heart?

Her fingers press the keys slowly. The first few notes fill the air hesitantly. Her fingers shift, and the next notes come slower than they should. Still, she presses. Offbeat, out of time, but the notes still come. The music still comes.

It is not a song. But Mitama thinks it sounds lovely.