#i HATE the scarlet ibis | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kyber-crystal · 1 year ago

Text

scarlet ibis (songbird) || anakin skywalker

summary: they say the purest love takes the longest time, and your story is nothing short of that. there’s fragility within beauty and to him, you’re a mosaic of stained glass (alt title: 5 times you call anakin skywalker by his last name, and 1 time you finally call him by his first.)

words: ~3.2k

warnings: angst, mild violence, mentions of blood + death (but no major character death dw), two oblivious idiots in love

a/n: 2nd place fic from my mini poll! not my best work LOL, but i think this is one of my favorite fics i've written (so far). i've had this in drafts for about a year or so as well...

one

It was safe to say that even a nanosecond of interacting with Anakin Skywalker made your blood boil.

He knew just how to push all your buttons and you hated it. How could one person exist for seemingly one purpose only—to piss you off—you didn’t understand it and weren’t sure if you ever would. “Loyal Jedi” my ass.

If you were the first person to speak up during meetings, he was also the first to counter your points and shoot you down. If you were late to meals in the mess hall, he took the last roll of bread, so you’d have to wait an extra half hour for more to come out. If you were dueling together, he would always point out every microscopic flaw in your technique. You were sure that your head would explode at any moment by his existence alone.

This is so ridiculous—you’re ridiculous.

“You know I can hear you, right?” Anakin glanced at you in his peripheral vision. “Don’t be mad because my plan worked, and yours didn’t. There’s this thing called accepting defeat.”

“Just because I don’t do things the way you do doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”

“They’re not wrong, but they’re not safe. You can’t declare safety compromisation a success. There’s a clear difference between the two.”

You scoffed. “Since when did you, out of all people, account for safety?”

“I should be asking you the same thing.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“And you’re not answering mine, either.” He reaches behind his ear and turns his comms on. “Now are we going to head home or what?”

“Aye aye, General,” you responded sarcastically, rolling your eyes. “Let’s embark on the journey of a lifetime.”

Awkward silence pierces the air like a dozen tiny needles, but you’ll take it over arguing with a wall any day. You knew what you were fighting for and why. You were confident in your actions and believed you always stood on the right side.

Except, he didn’t.

It was a quick two day recon and you got the job done in half the allotted time. In and out faster than you could blink. Of course, Anakin would find fault in that one way or another…and he did. You got caught as you were escaping…dragging the mission duration out by an extra day.

Granted, you were only delayed by a few hours, but it was enough to upset him. You couldn’t even feel the ropes digging into your wrists after hour two, anyway. But from the moment he broke in and saw the first speck of blood on you, a look of fury flashed across his eyes. I’d be surprised if he had even half a heart under all that thick skin, you grumbled to yourself. He’ll slice at anything that moves.

“You know—” Anakin’s voice breaks through the tension-filled air. He wants to say something else, but the words get stuck in the back of his throat and his tongue goes numb.

“I don’t care.” You pick at your scabbing wounds, not caring that they’re starting to sting and peel all over again. Before he can catch you doing so, you tug your sleeves over them and grit your teeth. “We got the job done, Skywalker, that’s all that matters.”

two

Maybe it was time to stop trying to commit mass murder on the punching bags. They weren’t going to do anything except break after two minutes of merciless attacks.

Hopefully…you wouldn’t get in trouble for the glass vase that happened to get in your path. Nobody ever bothered to wander to the west wing of the Temple often enough to notice, anyway.

As you clenched and unclenched your fists, the cracks in your knuckles slowly started to stretch out like thin, red spiderwebs. The dots of brilliant ruby seemed to glitter among the pristine flooring—almost like they were meant to be there from the start.

With every shard you threw away, the cracks and fury dug themselves further into your skin, threatening to explode.

You didn’t even need to look up afterward to know his scalding gaze was on you again.

“Are you trying to get an infection?”

“Fuck off.”

He ignored your biting reply and kneeled down to clean up the mess. Once he was done, he stood back up and grabbed you by the wrist, leading you down the hall to his quarters.

As soon as he sat you down at the edge of his bed, you shot him a death glare. “What in Force’s name is your problem?”

“My problem,” Anakin replied, “is that you’re about to bleed all over the place. Let me help.”

“I don’t need fixing, Skywalker,” you snapped. “It’s just a cut.”

Anakin raised a brow at you, then looked down at your hands. “Too bad, I think you do. Broken glass will buryinto places you don’t expect.”

“Then you’re severely underestimating what I’m capable of. So let me go,” you snapped, jerking your wrist out of his grip. You unfortunately did this too fast, and hissed in pain as a result. “I’m fine.”

Sighing, the young Jedi reaches for the bacta pads next to him and works carefully to patch you up. He pretends not to notice the tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. Or the way you pick at the skin by your thumb, or the way your left foot taps the floor in a nervous rhythm. He pretends not to notice everything you do, but you’re everywhere. It frustrates him because he can’t escape.

“Why do I have a feeling that exterminating the centuries-old vase of magic and splendor wasn’t in your original plan?”

“I was,” your voice wavers, fingers twitching. He notices this, too. “Leave me be.”

Shadows of the late afternoon light dance across the bridge of your nose, and he lets himself stare for a bit longer than normal. And…being who you two are, neither of you realize the fact.

“You can go now, if you want,” he finally says after the sun begins descending into the horizon. “But make sure not to overexert yourself again.”

You don’t move. You stay there; quietly sitting in the middle of his room with glistening cheeks. Anakin doesn’t bother asking you to leave a second time.

A fallen angel trapped in an endless prison; a halo and fractured wings that rendered her unable to fly. And yet, amidst all that death and despair, nothing could mar her beauty.

He feels those same little spiderwebs running through his palms, and he feels them shorten. Just a little bit.

three

The halls of the Temple were eerily quiet early in the morning. You would expect more Jedi to be up before the sun rose, but today, all activity had seemed to stop. Gathering the ends of your cloak into your arms, you made a careful climb up onto the rooftops to watch the sunrise.

It seemed like you weren’t the only one who had this in mind, though.

“The hell are you doing at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same exact thing,” Anakin replied as he stood up and turned around to face you. “You’re going to fall.”

“I’m fine, don’t—” You let out a small squeak as you lose your footing and slip. Luckily, though, he catches you in time by wrapping an arm around your waist and holding on tight. Fire shoots through your veins at the feeling of him pressed up against you. “Let go of me, Skywalker!”

Once he leads you to where you can get more stable footing, he lets you go. But even then, there’s a hand that hovers over the small of your back.

Brilliant bursts of sunlight stream over the horizon and wash over the world in pale red and pink. It stops you from saying something snarky to Anakin because you’re speechless at the breathtaking sight above.

“I have…something for you,” he clears his throat. “—And don’t hit me. I’m not trying to poison you.”

“Okay…?”

He reaches into his cloak pocket and pulls out what appears to be jewelry of some kind.

“How many innocent beings did you kill to get this? Please don’t tell me it was smuggled. Or that you robbed someone for it. I can’t keep something like that.”

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“Do you…like it?”

You paused and took one good look at the necklace in his hand. It had to be the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen in all twenty years of living, and even that was an understatement. A teardrop-shaped, deep vermillion stone encased by tiny, glittering jewels—it was as if he had captured the stormclouds himself. It was perfect—too perfect, almost.

Your voice came out in a whisper. “It’s so pretty.”

He takes a careful step to stand behind you in response. His fingers brush against your neck as he puts the necklace on, and fireworks explode behind your eyes.

Without another word, you turn towards him and rest your chin on his shoulder. He pulls you closer, and your heart feels a little fuller than before.

four

The warzone was an ugly place.

If hell was a real thing, this had to be it. The sky is bleeding red and each burst of lightning splits it further apart, the smell of death swirling around with the debris. Battle droids push forward in a stampede and you try your best to ignore the sickening crunch of bone beneath their metal feet. You squeeze your eyes shut as you tighten your hold around your lightsaber and pray to every god out there in the universe because war was cruel and mean and you just wanted to go home and sleep forever because anything, absolutely anything, was better than the suffering you were having to endure now.

When the shot originally meant for Anakin hits you in the side, you’re unable to fully comprehend the pain because your brain won’t let you. You force yourself to keep going. Pain was temporary…you’d deal with the aftermath later. You could afford to.

What feels like hours passes by and the gunfire doesn’t stop. The incessant ringing in your ears is something you’ve forced yourself to grow accustomed to.

“Y/N!” Anakin’s voice manages to cut through the howling winds. “You need to—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before a grenade detonates near you and throws you against the walls. A searing pain shoots through your body at the impact and the world tilts on its axis. Scarlet seeps into your tear-stained vision and suddenly, the whole world is drenched in blood.

This was it…

If you were going to die now, it would be as far from pretty as you could possibly get.

It’s another slow few minutes before he finally finds you slumped against the stone. Somehow, you manage to shoot him a small smile before wincing. “Took you long enough to get here.”

“You…”

“Oh, wow, I’ve been shot,” you let out a dry laugh, pressing a hand over your wound. The color immediately drained from his face as he saw blood seeping through your fingers. “That’s a whole lot of red.”

He crouches down next to you to assess your state, pressing the commlink in his ear as he does so. “Why is it that you’re always getting hurt?”

“My middle name is Trouble, that’s why.” You cough, and more red drips down your lips. “Trouble follows me around wherever I go.”

“It’s not fair,” Anakin mumbled under his breath, applying pressure to your torso as you wince again. “I’m supposed to be jumping in front of bullets for you and getting close to being blown up, not the other way around.”

“I decided that your massive ego needed a little break so I took the workload for you,” you snarked. “Happy now, Skywalker?”

For the first time ever, he doesn’t bite back with an equally sarcastic response. You don’t question it. “No. I’m not.”

The returning journey's dead silent, save for your labored breathing due to your cracked ribs. You try to sit up, but he places a firm hand on your shoulder to keep you from moving.

“I told you I’m fine—”

“You need to rest,” he exhales, the distress and tiredness evident in his eyes. “Please.”

“Okay…”

Wordlessly, Anakin reaches over to cup his hands over yours and and brings them to his lips. A pleasant sense of warmth overtakes you and you can almost pretend like the ship’s heater isn't broken and you’re melting, little by little. And if you look closer, you can see clusters of galaxies and shooting stars behind his steel blue eyes. The thought alone comforts you and starts to lull you to sleep.

His eyes shift to the necklace; the gemstone sits still against your sternum as your chest rises and falls. Beauty among chaos. He wonders every day how such stark differences can coexist in a peaceful manner.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmurs long after you’ve drifted off, “I never really hated you.”

five

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You placed your hands on your hips as you observed the pitiful scene before you. The Jedi Order could host extravagant events and use expensive artillery and clones, but wouldn’t account for comfortable sleeping accommodations. Making a mental note to politely complain to Master Windu, you let out a long sigh.

“If I stretch out, I’ll fall off,” Anakin pointed out as he too stared at the small queen bed (you were sure it was a twin, though).

“I’d fall off, too.”

“You know what…I’ll take the floor. I don’t want to hear you complaining about back pain in the morning.”

He was about to take his pillow and toss it to the floor before you grabbed his wrist. “Are you nuts? I can’t let you do that.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t know, share the bed without kicking me in the middle of the night?”

Both of you stopped and stared at each other at this.

“The audacity you have to say that when you’re the kicker…” Anakin began.

“I’m using the bathroom first.” You pushed past him to go wash up. “Don’t be a bed hog, Skywalker.”

Minutes later, you’re both settled in under the covers and have fallen into a comfortable silence. The only things you can hear are the crickets chirping outside and Anakin’s steady breathing. If you ignored the fact that you were on a mission and crammed into an incredibly tiny motel room, you could imagine that this was a peaceful weekend getaway to some tropical planet.

You’re the first one to break the silence and speak up. “Do you wonder when the war will end? Or if it’ll end at all?”

“All the time.” He rolls over on his side to face you. “And what I’d do afterwards.”

“Where would you go?”

Anakin hums for a moment before responding. “I don’t know. You?”

“I’d go back to Naboo. To the lakes, where the water is so clear you can see your future, and the roses are redder than your face under the summer sun. Padme would take me there all the time when we were younger.”

“I think I’d follow you, then.”

“But there’s sand, and lots of it,” you laughed. “Are you sure?”

“I’d be willing to bear its coarse, rough, and irritating qualities for you. Only once, though. I have my limits.”

Your heart warms at the mini confession. “I wish we could just end everything now. Call off the troops, sign a few treaties or something…end the war. I’m tired of the violence and bloodshed. I know everyone else is too.”

“I know.”

Anakin’s hand finds its way into yours, and the tension in your shoulders slowly unravels as your fingers lace with his.

And all the cracked and bleeding crevices on your skin start healing the longer you lean into his touch. It’s like he has a needle and spool of thread in hand, and he’s slowly but surely stitching you back together.

plus one

The giant metropolis of Coruscant had gone quiet under blankets of snow—it was a sight unlike any other. You hadn’t seen a speck of snow hit since you stepped foot onto the Jedi Temple as a child.

You stood alone in the hangar bay with bated breath and reddened, frostbitten fingers. Like you’d dipped them in blood before letting them dry for a bit.. He had to be here any minute now; you didn’t want him to return and not have anyone to welcome him back. So despite the subzero temperatures and barely-healing knuckles, you remained in place.

When his ship touches down and he hops out with a wide smile, you can feel a giant weight being lifted off your chest. He jogs toward you and brings you in for a crushing embrace, and for once, you finally feel at home.

“It’s freezing. What are you doing here?” He’s sweating, even though he looks like he should be cold. “You should’ve headed inside.”

“I waited for you, what else would I be doing?”

Anakin grins again and hugs you even tighter. “I missed you. More than anything.”

Your heart suddenly starts to ache at his admission and that’s when the realization kicks in. “I thought I lost you, Anakin. You could’ve died. I couldn’t sleep for three days after I lost your signal. And yet you’re standing here acting like it’s no big deal because at least you’re alive and in one piece.”

“Y/N…”

A chill runs down your spine and you know in that moment that it has nothing to do with the weather. You knew this wasn’t right; you weren’t supposed to be doing this, but it felt more natural than anything you’d ever done.

That’s when you find an Anakin-shaped shard of glass wedged deep in your heart and you don’t know how it found its way there, but you don’t even bother pulling it out. Glass splinters are supposed to be these jagged, disfigured things, but this one is beautiful and even shines amongst the rubble. It’ll bury its way into places you don’t expect. With the way he fits against your body, you can’t help but feel like he was meant to fill the gaping hole in your heart. So wholly, so perfectly without a single scratch or flaw.

You look up at him and feel your breath get caught in your throat. Since when did he make you so nervous?

He’s even closer now and so are you, so you press your mouth to his as if doing so would save you from falling apart. Your brain short-circuits, and as you sink into the sudden burst of warmth you realize you don’t want this to end.

“Took you long enough,” he mumbles against your skin as you pull apart. “I was starting to wonder when…”

“Shut up. Don’t ruin the moment,” you muttered before bringing your hand to his cheek and kissing him a second time. He doesn’t object and tightens his hold around you, and a fire spreads through you from head to toe.

“I love you,” Anakin says after a while. “Even though you like sand, and I don’t.”

“I knew that already,” you joked with a smile and close your eyes, taking in a deep breath. “You’re not exactly the most subtle person ever.”

“Neither are you,” he chuckles.

“But I love you too.”

tags, including people who may be interested: @arkofblake @dameronology @fl0ating @voguesir @lady-elena-adeline @aliciaasky @katelynnwrites @freeshavocadoooo @buckysbeloved @kelieah @kaleidoscope1967eyes @lam-ila @unstablecaffeinatedmind @elenavampire21 @joyfullyswimmingface

add yourself to the general taglist/top gun specific taglist !

#anakin skywalker x reader #star wars fic #star wars imagine #anakin skywalker x y/n #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker fluff #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin x reader #anakin x you #star wars fanfiction #anakin skywalker fic

232 notes · View notes

tmbgaresuck · 3 months ago

Note

favorite word?

that's a good question. Last week in English class we "read" (I didn't read it) this weird story about a scarlet ibis or something and one of the words on the vocab sheet was "careen". It means you go around a corner really fast. It's a good word with a nice meaning and it sounds nice.

in general, I think my favorite words are stuff like "hatred", "hate", "distain", and "naysayer". For words to describe things, I like "sinister" and "evil".

#tmbgaresuck #asks

35 notes · View notes

wanderingmind867 · 12 days ago

Text

I'm finally coming back to try and get all my notes about my Justice League Canada idea posted online. Because keeping it all just stuck in my notes probably isn't great, and at least this way i suppose i'll get to see what people think of my ideas.

Issue #39: The Justice League gets a call from CSIS regarding The Angel of Dawn/Ange de L'aube (Samantha Guizzon). She's gone missing! She was infiltrating a terrorist cell in the prairies, but CSIS unexpectedly lost contact with her recently. And now the government needs the team to track her down.

But while juggling all of this, the league gets another call: the same terrorist cell is operating in the United States. They've infiltrated the border state of Minnesota, and they're trying to agitate people into wanting war! So the Justice League has to split in two: one team to go to Saskatchewan and save Samantha, another to go to Minnesota and prevent the propaganda campaign from setting in.

Also, Sam is conspicuously missing from these issues. He apparently left after the adventure in Nanda Parbat, needing time to meditate on his conversation with The Phantom Stranger. But in any case, Issue #39 focuses mainly on the team in Saskatchewan. But I'll cover all of that under Issue #40.

1. Blue Beetle (Ted Kord)

2. Captain Marvel/Shazam (Billy Batson)

3. Booster Gold (Michael Jon Carter)

4. The Red Bee (Richard Raleigh)

5. The Geomancer (Emily Harrison)

6. Jean Boudreau

Issue #40: The team going off to Saskatchewan to try and rescue The Angel of Dawn consists of Blue Beetle, Booster Gold and The Red Bee. These three manage to work into way into the ranks of a covert fascist terrorist cell based out of Saskatoon, and this leads them to the Angel of Dawn. Samantha reveals that the group eventually learned she was a CSIS agent, and then they did unspeakable things to her. She's in a very weak state now, but she's still capable of putting up a fight.

Now that they've found her, our trio of League members try to escape from the terrorist group's headquarters. They narrowly manage to escape, but little do they know that samantha's body has been stuck with a tracking chip… But for now, we'll leave this team. We'll conclude their storyline in Issue #41. But first, we have to cut to our second team in Minnesota.

1. Blue Beetle (Ted Kord)

2. Booster Gold (Michael Jon Carter)

3. The Red Bee (Richard Raleigh)

4. The Angel of Dawn/Ange de L'aube (Samantha Guizzon)

Issue #40: Our second team of three (Captain Marvel, The Geomancer and Jean Boudreau) head down to Minnesota to investigate the claims of a terrorist group trying to spread division amongst society. While here, Captain Marvel says he needs to call in some favours. That's how we meet the Squadron of Justice, Captain Marvel's home state allies! Ibis the Invincible, Bulletman and Bulletgirl, Mister Scarlet and Pinky the Whiz Kid, and the whole Marvel family!

Together with the Squadron of Justice, our leaguers are easily able to pinpoint the hate group and their plans: they plan to blow up a monument in Fawcett City and blame the Canadians! And on the Canadian side, they plan to blow up the CN tower and blame the Americans! Total war! Knowing they need to stop this, our teams split up. Captain Marvel stays in the states to protect Fawcett City, but Bulletman and Bulletgirl accompany Jean and Emily back to Canada.

1. Captain Marvel/Shazam (Billy Batson)

2. The Geomancer (Emily Harrison)

3. Jean Boudreau

4. Captain Marvel Jr. (Freddy Freeman)

5. Mary Marvel (Mary Bromfield)

6. Bulletman (Jim Barr)

7. Bulletgirl (Susan Kent)

8. Mr. Scarlet (Brian Butler)

9. Pinky the Whiz Kid (Pinkerton Butler)

10. Ibis the Invincible

Issue #41: It's a race against the clock as Emily, Jean, Bulletman and Bulletgirl race to intercept Blue Beetle, Booster Gold, The Red Bee and The Angel of Dawn. Somehow, they've gotta get that tracking chip off Samantha before the terrorists can blow the CN tower sky-high! Meanwhile, Captain Marvel and the Squadron of Justice are busy defending Fawcett City from bombs and terrorists themselves.

1. Blue Beetle (Ted Kord)

2. Booster Gold (Michael Jon Carter)

3. The Red Bee (Richard Raleigh)

4. The Angel of Dawn/Ange de L'aube (Samantha Guizzon)

5. The Geomancer (Emily Harrison)

6. Jean Boudreau

7. Bulletman (Jim Barr)

8. Bulletgirl (Susan Kent)

9. Captain Marvel/Shazam (Billy Batson)

10. Captain Marvel Jr. (Freddy Freeman)

11. Mary Marvel (Mary Bromfield)

12. Mr. Scarlet (Brian Butler)

13. Pinky the Whiz Kid (Pinkerton Butler)

14. Ibis the Invincible

Issue #42: After heroically saving both Toronto and Fawcett City from Calamity, the Canadian and US governments decide to honour the Justice League and the Squadron of Justice. Everyone on the Justice League receives the Order of Canada, and everyone on the Squadron of Justice receives the Presidential medal of Honour! But there's one person who received both: Captain Marvel/Shazam. For his services to both the Justice League Canada and The Squadron of Justice, Captain Marvel receives both honours.

Sadly, Captain Marvel uses this happy moment to tell the Justice League that he's returning to the states. Fawcett City and the Squadron of Justice need him, and he misses home. But if the League ever needs him, just call. He'd come back. But tearful goodbyes are made, as Captain Marvel leaves the Justice League Canada.

But this happy, very celebratory comic ends rather dramatically. It signifies that the book is going to (at least briefly) take a turn for the more dramatic and serious. Because as the justice league returns to their mansion headquarters in Ottawa, a bright flash of light stuns them in the entranceway. And a booming voice brags about how they've just entered into his trap…

1. Blue Beetle (Ted Kord)

2. Captain Marvel/Shazam (Billy Batson) (leaves with this issue)

3. Booster Gold (Michael Jon Carter)

4. The Red Bee (Richard Raleigh)

5. The Geomancer (Emily Harrison)

6. Jean Boudreau

13 notes · View notes

sillypilled-friendcel · 4 months ago

Text

remembering my teacher getting mad at me for hating the scarlet ibis. bitch you just made me read abt a disabled child being murdered while my entire class kept staring at me and laughing. was i supposed to enjoy that shit.

4 notes · View notes

halloweenvalentine1997 · 2 months ago

Text

Arsenic Weather by Darla Cathilde Cutherford

I am as cold as the moonlit snow that drifts onto a frost-covered grave. I am the reason she is in a casket underground. She was the bane of my existence and a hollow, shallow piece of trash. Now, I live in a storm-colored cell. All I do is avoid the rest of the prison population and read an eternal supply of paperbacks.

I got sentenced in 2019. I was only fifteen at the time and am now twenty. My family completely disowned me. They never come to visit me. Each phone call I have made is a dead end.

“Charlotte, you are dead to me!” my mother screamed as the cops led me out of the mansion. My father glared and kept silent. I was arrested for the murder of Katrina Haze. I killed her in my bedroom when my parents weren’t home. I called 911 and turned myself in. My parents arrived at the house just as the cops were escorting me away from the crime scene. Blood stains and yellow tape and a teacup full of poison. They hate me forever now.

I have many years ahead of me filled with walls and text and dreams of portals that lead me out of the grim cell and into brightly-lit sanctuaries. Flowers as red as wounds, windswept beside a picket fence. A green lawn and a sky as blue as the skin of someone drowned in a pool. I don’t care for the world outside of the prison. All I want to do is read and dream of liminal spaces. I’m glad I don’t have a cell mate. If I did, they would probably end up like Katrina. For years, my rage has festered like a creature trapped in a basement, throwing itself against a bolted door trying to get out. I cried oceans and longed to construct chandeliers out of my teardrops.

Adolescence was a hard road, and I don’t regret the fucked up decision I made in my freshman year of high school. It’s not like I ever wanted a job or a love life or further education. I spent junior high wanting to run out the doors of the school, sprinting until I was out of breath. Away from Katrina, away from her tittering acolytes, away from the classrooms that seemed to suck the air out of my lungs. Katrina Haze transferred to my school in eighth grade. Her eyeliner was like black wings at the corners of her eyes. She had hair dyed purple and a vacant glare. Bow-shaped lips always painted a dark color. Katrina was obsessed with being thin and looked down on everyone who wasn’t skinny. She terrorized anyone that she found weak, inadequate or lacking in any way. I was one of her favorite targets. I remember the first time she ever spoke to me. We were passing by each other on the way to class. She said, “Charlotte Elizabeth Taylor, lose weight!” I thought, who is she? And how does she know my full name? It must have been an old acquaintance of mine who told her. I’m sure their conversation was callous and spiteful. I didn’t reply to her, but felt glum once I reached math class. I learned later from overhearing conversations at school that she transferred from somewhere in Seattle. Her family spoiled her rotten. She had too many followers on her vapid, depthless Instagram. She sometimes smoked and had once been arrested for shoplifting.

We had English class together in freshman year of high school. By then, she had been making my life a living hell with endless comments about my weight and my acne. She stole my clothes from the locker room. She wrote hate messages on pieces of scrap paper and left them on my textbooks and in my locker. As we were sitting at our school desks, studying James Hurst’s short story, The Scarlet Ibis, Mr. Woods received an urgent phone call in the middle of class. He stepped outside the room to take the call. As soon as Katrina noticed his absence, she also noticed an opportunity to tear into me. She was sitting at the desk behind me. She tapped me on the shoulder with a pen. I turned around. She leaned forward, her face close to mine, her eyes lined in black, pupils dilated. “Slit your wrists,” she whispered. A boy sitting nearby laughed as he covered his mouth. I punched her in the face. Her mouth filled with blood as I relished the shock in her wide eyes. Mr. Woods returned into the room after hearing the din of raised voices and urgent calling of his name.

“She hit me!” Katrina shrieked.

“Charlotte, go to the principal’s office!” Mr. Woods commanded.

“She just told me to kill myself!” I screamed at him. Before he could reply, I walked out of the classroom and accepted the principal’s punishment of suspension. He decided that me and Katrina needed to be in separate English classes. A few months later, I discovered that Katrina had developed a cocaine habit. I heard two jocks discussing it during gym class. When they noticed me listening intently, they asked me, “What are you looking at, weirdo?” I shook my head and sauntered away.

One late afternoon, next to the school buses, Katrina walked up to me. I rolled my eyes and pulled my earbuds out, interrupting the Talking Heads song I was listening to. “What is it this time, you stupid cunt?” I asked her.

“I can see why you would say that. I’m very sorry for making fun of you this past year. I don’t think it was right of me, and I feel guilty.”

Pathetic. Suddenly, an idea sparked in me like a red beacon in a dark cavern. It only took me a couple of seconds to jump to the conclusion that Katrina should die. So I fabricated a lie that would lure her into a trap. I can’t believe she bought it. I said, “You know, whatever. It’s in the past now. I want to ask you something, though. I heard some guys say you do cocaine now. Is that true?”

“Uh, yeah! It’s like my favorite thing to do now. I need to get more.”

“I’ve tried it myself,” I lied. “I have some at my house. You want to come over and get high?”

“Sure,” Katrina said. We decided to take the bus up the hill to the Tudor mansion I lived in.

To this day, I have no idea why she apologized for all of the things she said and did. I don’t know why she was stupid enough to believe that I would sincerely forgive her. I wonder what the last thing she thought of was before I killed her.

The mansion I once lived in was once owned by the Mulvenna family. They were a family of four, a husband and wife with two daughters. Sinead and Mathilde. Sinead committed suicide by slitting her throat while sitting at her vanity table. Later, Mathilde died when the cops showed up outside the estate, accusing her of the murders of Jamie Frances and Stormy Hale. She shot herself in the head. Unlike me, she was desperate to avoid prison. She killed them on a hilltop at Cliff Park and a witness saw her in that area and turned her in. The police had also received tips that she was involved in other dangerous, homicidal situations. Her parents sold the house to mine and they moved away from the city. It was a more exciting house than the one we lived in before.

Mathilde Mulvenna was an enigma to me. I found her journal in a hidden compartment and was enamored by her prose, about the dead speaking to her from underground, her addiction to methamphetamine, and the glimpses of a ghost with glitter tears gliding down her cheekbones. The ghost, according to her, was haunting the same foyer I walked into every day. I didn’t ever see the ghost until right after Katrina died. Sinead and Mathilde (I recognized their faces from true crime blogs and news headlines) were standing beside the ghost with tears of red glitter blood. She is still anonymous to me. But before I get to that, here’s what happened in Katrina’s last moments on earth. The bus let us off on Grove Street. We walked up to the door and let ourselves inside.

I told Katrina my parents weren’t home, which gave me the opportunity to carry out my plan. I led her into my room. “Where’s the coke?” She asked.

“Just a minute, let me go to the other room to get it,” I said.

Instead of cocaine in the other room, there was chloroform in a cloth. I kept it hidden in case I needed to use it someday. I returned to my bedroom and rushed at Katrina as fast as I could, pressing the cloth over her face. I stifled her screams and her protests. She went limp. I tied her to the bedpost. I left her there, unconscious, while I went downstairs to fill a teacup of water with powdered arsenic. I sprinkled in many spoonfuls. I went back upstairs and forcefully poured the water down Katrina’s throat. I slashed it and laughed as her blood gushed all over me. Once I realized she was dead, I was startled by three people standing over me. Sinead and Mathilde Mulvenna. A girl with bleeding glitter eyes. My mouth dropped open. I suddenly knew that ghosts are real. They didn’t say anything. They just smiled at me beatifically and nodded their approval before they vanished. I decided to call 911 and tell them what happened, unafraid to do time. Now I am here and I feel a strange sense of peace. I only leave my cell to eat or watch the occasional TV. I keep to myself so I don’t have to use my claws.

I don’t believe in purgatory, but I wander through a garden of it every night in dreams. I love the liminal spaces that seem boring to some, like the concrete parking garages, roadsides, riversides, waterparks and red doors of backrooms. Sleeping in my cell at night is a divine escape from reality. I dream of strangers with blurred features in unfamiliar houses, letting me kneel in front of a TV to gaze at flickering images. None of it ever makes sense. The screen shows a golden key, a wrought iron fence, a pink, bloodstained room. Many would say that I’m an evil bitch and that I’m forever doomed by now. But I’ve found that the mind can conjure a paradise out of a hell. My life was always hell before prison, and of course, prison is hellish, too.

So I transcended that in my mind, willing myself into different dimensions, fictional kingdoms, places full of foliage and blooms, where the sun never dies and the sky never screams. I’ve lost my ability to cry or care when I’m taunted. I shut down my emotions. I write all over my walls. Outside in the prison yard, I watch a group of birds circling a piece of animal carrion on the ground. I peer through the fence, watching them eat the dead thing, their black wings spreading as they fight over it. A fight breaks out between two inmates. They are at each other’s throats, attempting to strangle each other. Guards intervene and threaten them both with solitary confinement. I smile placidly. I wonder what the birds are eating. I see one woman crying silently in the corner of the chain-link fence. Another is on the outdoor phone, promising whoever she’s talking to that she’ll follow the conditions of her probation when she’s released. Nobody addresses me. Once it’s time to go inside, I’ll crawl into another world through the wall. Somewhere pretend, but ideal. I’ll stare at that wall until I see it turn to woodlands or meadows. I’ll stare at the ceiling light until it becomes a sunburst and my bed becomes a moor beneath my tired body. In my mind, I can go wherever I please, even if I’m locked up and damned. I can live inside of books. Pretend I’m sitting in a cottage or a gazebo. I can ignore the real world and live in an illusion, if I please.

I don’t miss what I left behind. I feel calmer since I got incarcerated.

I saw Katrina as a problem that needed to be eliminated, and I did the eliminating.

I am not sorry.

#prose #10-16-24

1 note · View note

moonillfated · 1 year ago

Text

.・。.・✭ 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘰 & 𝘔𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘴 ✫・゜・。.

"Even before I met you, I was far from indifferent to you." 🚬

☆ !! Happy birthday @raggedy-dxctor !! ☆

As much as Corin hated summer, it was always a nice view to watch the town nestled amidst rolling hills and drenched in soft hues of fire riding the sunrise, he tracked all streaks of orange blazes and tiger fur sluggishly ascending behind the horizon and overlaying the mountain tops like milkweed monarchs, resin and the plumage of a scarlet ibis. He leaned against his palm and sighed annoyingly as the sky turned to acacia marmalade and tumbleweed cotton candy. Fucking shit, why did his birthday have to be during these heats? The final embers of daylight casted a veil of twilight upon the sizzling asphalt outside the diner, a box of inseparables matches and an empty butterfinger packaging. It reminded the honey haired male of his old treehouse, where it always smelled of burning chalk and late breakfast. He groaned again while pushing himself away from the window and heading towards one of the bar stools, in the cusp of summer's rich warmth a cold fruit punch easily did the trick. They closed about an hour ago, having spend a little too much time with the last remaining visitor - he gave the little girl a jawbreaker after she showed him her Lisa Frank sticker album.

After taking a seat behind the counter and turning of the shitty hallmark sitcom on the old cathode ray-tube TV, Corin took off his apron and threw it aside on one of the pub tables. One of his annotated books was laying open on the wood with condensation rings, passenger to Frankfurt. He grimaced and quickly grabbed it, mouthing a small 'sorry Agatha' while hastily scrubbing off the moisture from the cover. Some other unnecessary and less precious items were placed there earlier during customer service, like an envelope from his neighbor Sherry, who constantly rambled about government conspiracies and how she wanted to hook up with a royal guard. Probably a job rejection, dental records from her ex fiance, or ugly infomercial floral maxi skirt coupons. Corin fetched himself a drink and sipped on the icy cocktail slowly as he waited for the door bell to jingle. There was still time left before he was picked up so he began reading rather lazily, skimming over the pages through round lenses and enjoying his cooling beverage. A calico cat walked past the large windows of the building and Corin found himself smiling softly at the flecked feline, her soft fur was matted, all oriental rugs and marble cake. He hummed as he adverted his hazel eyes from the kitty and continued scanning through the paperback crime fiction.

1975, the outskirts of Sacramento, far away from the shore and bustling turnpikes. His best friend Milo had found an old pickup truck, whose tailgate has clearly been through stuff, abandoned in a messy, green understory. He recalls how the unruly boy handed him the red volume with busted knuckles, scraped knees and a missing tooth. They spent the entire day there as Corin quietly declaimed his new gift with pooh bear bandaged fingers, scrabble boards and a spirograph. If he were being honest he didn't concentrate much on the book, because he already went through it so many times - something about ministers insisting on kittens. Between the idyllic backdrop of their small hometown, was the diner that they spent all their money on to open. With regular patrons beckoned inside by the smells of rich coffee and the atmosphere of pure nostalgia and camaraderie, Corin's eyes drifted to the yesteryear polaroids on the wall. He emptied his glass as he jumped off of the chair to place it in the sink and shoved the piece of literature aside carefully, outside night was beginning to settle as one of the diner's owners started to turn off the fluorescent lights.

As if on cue the entrance signaled being opened, Corin rolled his eyes as he heard the soft thumps of canvas sneakers against tile. "How about you start showing up on time?" The brit snapped playfully and heard Milo scoff, he didn't even have to look at him to see the shrug of his shoulders. "Can't teach an old dog new tricks." Just like last year, the younger male agreed to prepare a birthday night-out while Corin took on the working hours. Corin laughed lightly as he switched off the last lustre of a bulb and turned to face his cocky friend, and just like always that stupid leather jacket squeaked like melting rubber. He noticed how Milo's shaggy black hair was even more disheveled and messy, top crinkled like he's been chewed up by a cow. "Did you get hit by a tractor?" The other clicked his tounge and eyed Corin like he was the most irritating thing he had to deal with. His demeanor was tinged with an edginess that tended to keep poeple at arm's lenght, but Corin found it cringe if anything really. "A baler if you really give a shit." They could go on bickering for the rest of the evening but he'd end up being beaten up like a pinata when the taller male had enough.

"My god dude." Corin ridiculed and grabbed his jacket from off of the hanger by the entry. Milo always had been too reckless and bold for his own good, raven between doves and words sharp like shattered glass. Throwing forks out of ferris wheels, climbing wicker braid utility poles and ever the misfit as Mrs. Corenthal oh so lovingly dubbed him. "Close." He teased and bumped his shoulder against Corin's as he followed after him, the older of the two shoved back against him flippantly. Just across the beanery was Milo's motorcycle, a sleek cruiser with shiny silver details. The tires rutted stubbornly against the hot gravel over the months, oil puddles now way too dry and long gone to see on the concrete. Before either of them considered the idea of a shared buisness, during days of madeleines and holographic boomboxes. They used to play with post soviet comics and pogo balls, when Corin wrapped those stupid sesame street bandaids over Milo's bleeding cheeks on the toilet floor during third period science. It was childhood stratagems, handwritten bonbon wrappers, something short of bittersweet and purple stained.

"You comin' or what?" Corin didn't realize he froze after wrangling the keys out of the locket, quickly jogging up to Milo and taking the spare helmet. Even blindfolded it was familiar to sit on the upholstery leather of the vehicle. Suddenly the blue eyed man shifted and Corin barely managed to grip a chain hanging from Milo's jeans to steady himself as the obsidian colored scrambler leaned to the side. "Can you at least warn me next time?" Flushing barely at the embarrassing yelp that slipped out, hands coming up to safely curl around his waist. A small twitch, but that was all. Finally settling according to the proper safety precautions and squirming around for a solid eleven seconds to get comfortable, Corin rested his forehead against the healthy shoulder of the rider. "Better not drag me off to the middle of the forest again." It was a rather nice suprise sure, but he wouldn't put it past the incendiary to bury him alive where nobody could find his body. An irked grumble is all he got in return, accompanied by a kick to his ankle. "Dick." Corin gritted out through a painful hiss, tightening his hold around Milo's stomach and gazing at the now closed restaurant.

He scarcely registered the engine starting before he felt the upcoming wind on his jaw, fluttering past them as Milo drove across the streets. Summer was hell but this made it bearable, now they were drifting over the highway towards the neighboring city far up east. Furrowing his eyebrows under the helmet and digging his fingers into the belt of Milo's pants it was an obvious, wordless sign of confusion that he hoped the other would get. Great, the guy finally got enough and he was going to end up behind a fucking graffitied dumpster by the side of the road. Ignoring that line of thinking as he pulled himself closer to the rough surface under his face, Corin watched the passing signs and traffic symbols. The zooming of the rolling tires brought back a memory from camp, when he used to smile at all the kites and paperplanes. Soon enough the scenery became brighter with neon shades of red and blue, a metropolitan aurora borealis. He lifted his head up to take in all the surroundings and upcoming tunnels when Milo switched gears to a faster limit. In a quick duck they overtook multiple cars with precise outstrips, fluidly retreating into a straight position. Corin's arms loosened again when the intrepid move was over and the motorbike continued to rush over even cement like before.

Nearly an hour later the two arrived in Memphis, both hunched over the dark two-wheeler. The city's center was busy as always, loud crowds and nightclubs, like a massive lambent slinky. Corin was hardly holding onto Milo anymore, the tips of his palms faintly brushing over his hips as the brash male set a steady pace. It was nice to be back here for a little trip and private party, with luck maybe his corpse wouldn't be vandalized. They drove into a parking lot not far away from where the majority of the people collected like moth balls and dust. Corin was the first to hop off of the seat like always and yanking the helmet down to place it down. His best friend rolled his neck and the snapping joints that popped under the movement made the bartender shiver.

"Are you actually planning on talking to me today?" Corin crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head gayly. Milo just quirked a split eyebrow and continued to lock up his beloved, his baby. "Are you planning on stopping with that whining?" As if genuinely offended by his comment, Corin let out an insulted gasp. Without further words or sarcastic remarks, Milo lazily strolled along the illuminated pedway towards the teeming center of arching magnolias and the Delta's melancholic breeze. 1983, Beale Street. On the eighteenth of August, the two were barely teenagers. Milo's broken wrist held a copy of Robin Run-the-hedge, and the smell of nicotine - charted remnants of tobacco and smoke, still used to bother him. And Corin collected poplar tree seeds behind his tutor's pergola, convinced it was a fairy's cotton hassock. And if they ever held hands because they were scared of losing eachother in the throngs of Tennessee? Well, that was between them and the hopscotch drawings.

"Forgot how vibrant this place is." Corin murmured over the booming music festival close to the sauntering pair. Milo nodded in agreement and nonchalantly jaywalked, flipping off the ruby red stickman as he crossed the avenue. "I'm not paying for your fine." The older scolded and flicked his arm when the they arrived on the opposite side, many shops and all sorts of niteries lined the jammed streets. Under the shroud of an indigo, starless sky they arrived in the heart of Memphis late at night. The charming blend of history and modernity followed the cyan ripples of the Mississippi River, devil-may-care attitude and escapade scars. "Quit acting like you don't already." Milo quipped back, flashing his teeth. That reckless abandon that Corin admired but could never quite embrace, a caged bird unsure of its newfound freedom. A radiant summer afternoon, near the koi pond veiled behind the ivy-clad stone walls of Mr. Corenthal's mediterranean villa - the lady with the polka-dot bucket hat and persian cat Edgar. They forgot their sandcastle toolkit, a bottle of mello yello and some indie blockbuster Looney Tunes strip in her garage. The two ambled down the streets and soon enough Milo abruptly halted infront of a small, tucked away bakery. The lanky male stepped aside, spiked arm cufflinks like a silver vice, and urged Corin to walk inside first. With a suspicious side glance, obviously baiting, the shorter headed over the threshold and Milo followed.

"What is this place?" Corin asked softly as the aroma of pastries and coffee hit his nose. Warm, crisp and cozy. Milo tapped the rim of his glasses, leading him to one of the booths in the corner. "The fuck does it look like to you? Not a fuckin' laundromat is it?" Scooting into the narrow seats was not really a challenge, both of them already had enough practice in their own diner. "Oh shut up." Corin grumbled, throwing his feet onto the bruiser's lap under the table out of spite. An annoyed half snare got caught in Milo's throat as the older pressed his soles into his stomach, sure enough leaving behind pale pattern stains. "Get your fuckin' feet down." He gritted the warning out with a joshing exhale but not actually making an attempt to remove them. Corin smiled and placed them over his thighs, feeling the torn patches of ripped denim under exposed calfs. "Don't push it birthday boy." He knew that Milo didn't really mean any of it but it was always fun to goad, so he applied even more weight onto the other's legs.

After a few minutes of back and forth bickering, a waitress came to take their orders. Milo decided on an espresso, while Corin allowed himself a proper treat. 1981, Cherokee. Beside a babbling brook they buried Corin's hamster and sent out origami boats. Way later the same day when the sun waned, they raced towards a meadow. Doodling in their tattered sketchbooks, penning over 'The taming of the Shrew' each time Shakespeare wrote Sly. The young girl who took their order shortly returned with a tray in her slender hands, with a joyful beam she handed it over. Milo lit a cigarette with his steel zippo lighter and took a single drag before Corin shot him a disgusted look, he was going to get an earful later definitely. The meringue pie arrived, a delicate confection of fluffy sweetness and zesty lime filling. Milo leaned back in his chair as he gazed out of the window at the moonlit cityscape, a contemplative expression played across his usually stoic features. Corin watched him fondly, stabbing his fork into the crunchy top layer of the pie.

It wasn't anything special, or extravagant, or expensive. But it was summer and they were young, it was still Marlboro boxes and slices of pie. They had time, to rewrite more chapters of assay mark romance novels, to freeze more ice packs. Summer lasted only so long, no matter how much they both disliked it.

Yeah, Corin thought looking at Milo, this made it bearable.

6 notes · View notes

thejeweloftheworld · 2 years ago

Text

The short story "The Scarlet Ibis" seriously fucked me up. I saw one of the bird at a zoo once and disassociated for a bit. Every now and then the story just hits me out of nowhere. I didn't even understand what happened when I read it. The teacher had to explain. I hate how I can handle so much horror and tragedy (in media) but then something random traumatizes me.

#the scarlet ibis #literature #james hurst #jewel's ramblings

6 notes · View notes

cymorilcinnamonroll · 2 months ago

Text

Ibis - A Book of Enoch Watcher x Human Romance

In the Land of Nod fruits were plentiful, if bruised, and fragrant rains often poured. We watered our gardens, our trees, through a maze-like irrigation system that Forbearer Adam had taught Grandmason Cain, and Cain passed down to us. I recited my morning song, invoking my patron goddess Asherah:

“Oh, the fabled Cainites— whom Yah’s favored Sethites hate! Our men of renown, bound to the earth and her green yields, worshipping at the altar of strange gods. Mammon— industry; Moloch— empire; the port wine-stain feathers shaped like wings of rawhide upon our scarlet backs! ‘Industrious Cainites, cavort for us— wilt thou part the bloodied rose?’ the kings of foreign lands plead, “Dance the whip and flaming sword! Show us what sin is sweet on your tongue. Kiss away our sorrows and wipe away our tears, sweet Kohonet daughters of Cain!”

I accompanied the morning ritual to Asherah as dawn broke with the clash of my cymbals, naked at her altar enriching her sanctuary of beauty and fertility. My magick rippled throughout Nod, blessing both harvest and land, and I went to my palatial bedroom connected to Asherah’s inner chambers to ready for the morning.

“Sweet Lady, give me patience to deal with my little cousins, Istehar and Naamah,” I sighed, making a Tawu over my heart with thumb and middle fingers interlocked in an X. Lazily, I admired my wing-shaped birthmark in the mirror as I clothed myself in a gray layered dress, stitched with pomegranates interred within black, Egyptian glass beads. My aerial port wine-stains were shaped like an owl’s, spread from my elbows in fine feathery traces up to the nape of my neck. It was the fabled mark us Cainites bore; but to keep off misfortune or to attract it, I was never sure.

“I hate early mornings,” I sighed, “I have a feeling in my bones that the foundations of our world will shake. Perhaps High Priest Elizander is gambling heaven and earth with that errant angel again? I hope papa has not lost more money over craps or scarab races with them, dear Lady!” Papa owned a great temple and ten-thousand-cubit estate on the outskirts of Ken ha Gadol; it was the Kingdom of Nod’s finest palace, save his brother’s matriarchal sanctuary the Kohonet, ruled under the thumb of the wizened Rahab.

“Oh crap, I was distracted! I forgot the last part in my invocation for rain,” I sighed, preparing myself as I sang an old song I had learned from Nod’s High Priestess, Rahab, Queen of the Kohonet:

Mammon, empire! They are men of renown, the Canaanites! Men of giant stature, men of sages and might— their women of beauty, science, and song! As comely and brave as bulls the maidens all, as sandstone skinned as the great wind-worn sculptures in the desert!

I was summoning the old gods of the blood, as was my duty as Lady of Ken ha Gadol, and the spirits scraped at the back of my skull like a crow pecking pomegranate seeds. My patriotism swelled, and with war gathering on the horizon I shrilly cried the last verse in a toga that held both a ripe fig and bottle of wine, ready to loose red juice and blood at any moment, beating my breast in a frenzy that would make the First Architect Cain proud:

Life in Nod is sweet, as sweet as gristle on bone. Scorned of all Creation the Canaanites are, yet blessed by the Sitra Achra! Watch our demons cavort! Sing of our many conquests! Name the line of Kohonet priestesses and kings! Atop snowy Mount Zephon, watch as we topple the sky!

Only the Assyrians could rival our cruelty; the Egyptians, our majesty; the Minoans, our mystery.

I sent breakfast to Elizander as I wandered out to Asherah’s orchard at our palace at the base of Mount Zephon. Alisha of Chavah’s seed I was, she who was Samael’s beloved; I was a Kohonet-trained priestess, formed in the crucible of sisterhood, of blood, bark, and wine. Under Queen Rahab my birthmark had blossomed, and the secrets of Asherah— as well as serving the nation— had been drummed into my head like the thump of a war-drum.

“How is breakfast, my Alisha?” papa asked while a servant brought us garlic, herb omelets, challah, and dates. I drizzled honey on a loaf, drinking it down with some saffron tea. The fine brick walls of our home had high ceilings with windows made of costly Egyptian glass that, when opened, let drafts of sweet oasis air in. “Wonderful, papa. Say, does the High Priest have need of me today?” I asked, yawning.

Papa smiled. He had a face scarred by a Sethite prince’s sword, but was otherwise greying and handsome. After mama’s passing, papa took a harem, yet never remarried—she had been his one true love. I tried to stay clear of his consorts.

“Keep an eye on the Watcher atop Mount Zephon, Elizander says.”

I nodded, my mood souring. Things were changing, east of Eden: Watchers made camp atop mountains by the smatterings of cities and towns that ringed King Ahrand’s country, his holdings, like glimmering rubies. Cymballed Naamah led them, alongside peerless, virginal Istehar, with their lovers Azazel and Samyaza. Oh, how I despised my impish, coquettish cousins!

The Watcher of our town, Baraquiel, had set up camp on Mount Zephon, above the ornate, carved cave where hoary High Priest Elizander so divined. We entertained my Uncle, King Ahrand and Cousins Naamah and Istehar often; I did not have to work the land: I could have gone into the Kohonet like smiling Naamah and gorgeous, virginal Istehar if I wanted.

“Sister Alisha, come dance with us! Your hair is the reddest of us all, like flame across an amber night. We shall teach you the secrets of Lady Lilith and her starry Lilim, where there are men of pleasure and Watchers to delight our every wicked craving. Why, just yesterday Azazel crushed malachite into a fine powder to paint my bronzed lids, and for Istehar, Samyaza fashioned a bracelet of onyx and polished jewels to affix over her tanned wrist," Naamah had burbled; they were always begging me to join them.

I shook my head, remembering their incessant prattling last week— oh, goddess forbid I had to play hostess to them again!

I sat idly by after having finished harvesting palms, fruits, and nuts, as my labor on the estate farm was done for the day and my midwife’s herbs dutifully replenished; Elosha, my childhood best friend, was to give birth the town over next week according to her moon chart. And without warning there came a great wind racking up golden dust in the damp soil, shaving scruff from the wheat. I looked beside me to find that I was not alone at my favorite fretting place; the Worry Rock, as I called it. No, there was an angel, an angel of might and of

handsome mien to boot; he wore skin in midnight’s particular hue, eyes that shone like lapis lazuli, and was decorated with luxurious curls of white-turquoise hair that fell to his waist in braids. The angel held an astrolabe in his hands, charting the early morning stars that had stubbornly refused to set.

“To what do I owe the honor, introverted Watcher?” I teased. Our town misfit angel, Baraquiel, kept to himself; it was said he abhorred women and had refused every temptation Samyaza and Azazel had lured him to the Kohonet with. As for us humans, Baraquiel would only talk in whispers to High Priest Elizander. The fact that I was, in my dirtied state, the first woman he had probably laid eyes on in years, mattered very much to me.

I had my vanity, after all.

“Rain is coming today. Lightning strikes. It boils my blood, stirs my wings to ride aback the wings. That is the problem of sin, comely daughter of Chavah— Azazel’s wings are withered, having strayed too far from the Father, and Samyaza rots not long behind.” I crossed my legs, admiring his wings— ibis, like I saw on trips to Egypt with papa. “And yet, Samael and Lilith are still whole, and they have flown long after leaving Yah’s paternal court,” I pronounced.

Baraquiel winced. “Do not speak to me of the ways of God: you are a heathen. What would you know of my Father?” His inquisition rent my heart into ire and iron, and I rebuked him.

“Quite a lot, actually: I’m a Kohonet-trained qodeshah. I tend the sanctuary of Asherah, and nurse her sacred groves. I midwife babes, heal the sick and heal the lame with my sacred herbs and unguents, dancing for our kingdom’s rains.” Baraquiel smiled. His teeth gleamed sharply, his

midnight skin shining starlike with dew. “Isn’t qodeshah what Father’s humans call whores?” I winced. “That is not the heart and soul of our practice, Baraquiel. Indeed, we tend to the men

once a year at the Festival of Atargatis, turning away neither ugly nor old, sick nor poor from our patient breasts. That is how Lilith and Chavah love: given freely, humbly, like mothers— their suitors as if their own kin. The Sethites gossip a lot, but their lies about Cainites are rumors: they hold neither sting nor vinegar.”

Baraquiel twisted one of his intricate braids, laden with bronze beads. “So, then, would you not turn me away?” I blushed, and Baraquiel looked at me hungrily, like a lion waiting to pounce.

“It is many moons until the Festival of Atargatis…but I would be happy to show you Asherah’s grove.”

“You want me, Alisha. It is etched in sinful Cainite daughter’s bones to tempt angels. Why I signed that pact with damnable Azazel is repugnant to me. ‘Take a wife,’ he said, but the Kohonet was stifling— all those oudh-clad ladies barely clothed? Not like you, Alisha. That dress— it suits you well. Stately. Modest. Good for farming— good, in fact, for flying.”

“I do not want you!” I blushed, but I was certain he always saw me admiring him from my palace chambers as he made his daily walk to High Priest Elizander, where they gambled over dice; playing craps with a cantankerous, wheezing elder was not how I imagined I would spend eternity, if given the chance. Once, Baraquiel and father had raced scarab beetles. Papa lost and refused to see Baraquiel again; I could surmise papa forfeited quite a sum of money. In the morning Baraquiel appeared jolly at Elizander’s door with casks of fine Minoan wine, and by then it was not hard to guess where papa’s money went.

Baraquiel smirked. “You are a qodeshah, my Alisha. A heathen. It does not matter what you want, does it? It only matters what Azazel and Naamah deem you fit for.”

I scowled. “You are coarser than sand, Baraquiel, and are ignorant of our ways. I’ll let it be known that I have never done a dance with a Watcher.”

“Not even shy Samyaza?”

“That lunatic is just pining after closed-leg, prissy Istehar! I can’t stand the lot of them! Naamah is spoiled, and Istehar is a shrew.”

“And I cannot stand my fallen brothers. So what does that make us, dearest Alisha?”

“In a pickle.”

“I like to eat pickles; they are one of humanity’s finest creations. That does not sound so bad.”

We were leaning against each other by now, some sort of animal magnetism drawing us together, or simply us bonding over both being irascible, ornery bastards. I was not too sure which it was.

“Where does an angel get pickles from, Baraquiel?” “Elizander makes them. You really should talk to him more. He is wise. In fact, just yesterday he told me how to ingest Syrian rue so as to experience strange visions.”

“You’re doing drugs with an old man?” I laughed. “What did you mean, then, when you said ‘my dress was made for flying’?”

Baraquiel smiled. “Shall I show you, Alisha?” He lifted me gently but sturdily into the air as we set off flying. The air was sweet, warm, and thick, the clouds damp but not clinging, and his great ibis wings spread out like war flags.

“I could get used to this, Baraquiel.”

“Call me Baraq.”

We took to playing craps with Elizander.

Over time, I built up stamina to visit Baraquiel’s camp atop Mount Zephon. Always, we went flying, and over time, he fell from the stars for me like Lucifer struck down from heaven, in love with a comely daughter of Cain. We worshipped Asherah and danced for Samael, and made love for Lilith and Chavah. I found myself with child by the third month, and Baraquiel dropped his pickle mid-bite out of sheer joy.

“I will have to be a little more careful when you fly, then.”

The rains came that night with a loud thunderstorm, filling Nod’s wells for years to come. The canals were brimming with fertile waters, freshly churned soil, and loam. Baraquiel, the angel of lightning, was like a weathervane, the winds responding to his moods. We made plans to marry, and Rahab blessed us on our first journey to the Kohonet together. Naamah was ripe with her second child, and Azazel lingered at the edges like a black ink-stain, scheming.

That night, Baraquiel’s feathers began to fall out, one by one, like snow atop Mount Zephon.

By the fifth month, my husband had Elizander cauterize his dead ibis wings from his back.

“Where I’m going, as father to the fruit of my seed, I won’t need any marks of my old pact with Yah,” Baraquiel simply said, caressing my swollen womb as I cried over his lost bit of heaven.

Samyaza had finally had enough of Istehar refusing his advances; she asked him the Secret Name of Yah, escaping his assault by flying to the stars. Yah, taking pity on one of the Cainites for what might have been the first time in eternity, changed Istehar into a constellation. They came to call her the Star Maiden. Samyaza hung himself the next morning, and Yah made his death a starry tomb; you may know him as Kesil the Hangman. What it took for an angel to die, I did not wish to know.

The Nephilim, our children with the Watchers, grew fast if they were conceived out of lust, not out of love. Baraquiel and I heard rumors every day that they were giants, full-grown in a year, and Azazel and Naamah were setting their scions and the Kohonet’s other half-angel offspring as lords over our enemy the Sethites. And then the Nephilim turned on Nod.

First the Nephilim ate the cattle. Then they ate the sheep. Finally, the goats and pigs. When even that was not enough, the Nephilim turned on man. Azazel and Rahab had lost control, and the Land of Nod fell into misrule and infamy. Elizander, papa, his consorts and servants, Baraquiel, Elusha’s family and I fled to Egypt, carrying as many riches as we could to start life anew, and just in time at that, for Raphael was sent to bind the Watchers hand and foot in Dudael.

After that, Samael sent a flood, a great drowning of his son Grandmason Cain’s land, to wipe the Nephilim off the face of the earth.

All but one.

I gave birth to a girl with ibis wings, lapis lazuli eyes, amber skin, and red hair: Sarai. Elusha was her godmother, and we cut her wings like the Sethites circumcise their children.

Baraquiel has taken to dyeing his white-turquoise hair with henna. We work as scribes and gardeners, and I serve as a priestess of Qadesh— the name of Asherah in this foreign land. Every year I serve my goddess. I turn away no man, young or old,

Greek or Egyptian or Sethite, African or Assyrian. But it is a bitter service, and all I can do is think of Baraquiel, my dear husband, as the strangers ruthlessly spear into me from above.

One day, in our large house by the Nile, Sarai was playing with seashells, and I looked over at Baraquiel— still beautiful, but more mortal than he had ever been— and I squeezed his hand, asking him “Was it worth it? Leaving Heaven, leaving your holy post atop Mount Zephon, taking a heathen bride?”

Baraquiel smiled like it was the most obvious, pleasing answer in the world. “My darling, beautiful Alisha, is it worth it to spend months brining a pickle? Does rendering the common, humble cucumber into a treasure for the tongue not take some patience sacrificed, and tempers tried? Are you not my greatest service of all?”

And with that, we kissed, drank wine, and called over our darling little Sarai to enjoy a plate of dates. She pecked her papa on the cheek and told us stories about her doll. When I looked into Baraquiel’s eyes I saw the crackle of joyous lightning.

Love, true love, is often hard to find. But I lived in the Land of Nod once, wiped from the face of the earth, and I myself won a husband from the stars. Strange, us forgotten Cainites. Foreign in our magic, sinful in our ways.

Proud people, though, the memory of Nod.

And for Asherah?

I dance.

#book of enoch #baraquiel #watchers #anunnaki #grigori #angelology #angel x human #angel romance #angel oc #fallen angel #biblical fiction #biblical fanfiction #azazel #samyaza #short story #fiction #original fiction

1 note · View note

cathilde · 2 months ago

Text

Arsenic Weather by Darla Cathilde Cutherford

I got sentenced in 2019. I was only fifteen at the time and am now twenty. My family completely disowned me. They never come to visit me. Each phone call I have made is a dead end.

“She hit me!” Katrina shrieked.

“Charlotte, go to the principal’s office!” Mr. Woods commanded.

“I can see why you would say that. I’m very sorry for making fun of you this past year. I don’t think it was right of me, and I feel guilty.”

“Uh, yeah! It’s like my favorite thing to do now. I need to get more.”

“I’ve tried it myself,” I lied. “I have some at my house. You want to come over and get high?”

“Sure,” Katrina said. We decided to take the bus up the hill to the Tudor mansion I lived in.

The mansion I once lived in was once owned by the Mulvenna family. They were a family of four, a husband and wife with two daughters. Sinead and Mathilde. Sinead committed suicide by slitting her throat while sitting at her vanity table. Later, Mathilde died when the cops showed up outside the estate, accusing her of the murders of Jamie Frances and Stormy Hale. She shot herself in the head. Unlike me, she was desperate to avoid prison. She killed them on a hilltop at Cliff Park and a witness her saw her in that area had turned her in. The police had also received tips that she was involved in other dangerous, homicidal situations. Her parents sold the house to mine and they moved away from the city. It was a more exciting house than the one we lived in before.

Mathilde Mulvenna was an enigma to me. I found her journal in a hidden compartment and was enamored by her prose, about the dead speaking to her from underground, her addiction to methamphetamine, and the glimpses of a ghost with glitter tears gliding down her cheekbones. The ghost, according to her, was haunting the same foyer I walk into every day. I didn’t ever see the ghost until right after Katrina died. Sinead and Mathilde (I recognized their faces from true crime blogs and news headlines) were standing beside the ghost with tears of red glitter blood. She is still anonymous to me. But before I get to that, here’s what happened in Katrina’s last moments on earth. The bus let us off on Grove Street. We walked up to the door and let ourselves inside.

I told Katrina my parents weren’t home, which gave me the opportunity to carry out my plan. I led her into my room. “Where’s the coke?” She asked.

“Just a minute, let me go to the other room to get it,” I said.

I don’t miss what I left behind. I feel calmer since I got incarcerated.

I saw Katrina as a problem that needed to be eliminated, and I did the eliminating.

I am not sorry.

#writing

0 notes

zapsoda · 8 months ago

Text

i tend to like similar fucked up short stories but the scarlet ibis has pissed me off. i hate it. its exactly what i dont respect in a fucked up short story. i know that the brother is intentionally meant to be the bad guy but throughout theres these justifications like youre supposed to sympathize with him- like its saying something greater about the nature of the world and not that its just fucking needlessly cruel in an unbelievable way. sparknotes described it as a story of "brotherly love" if you think that you dont know the first thing about brothers or love

#i read it and its like this story is getting off on just how deep and emotional it is. ITS NOT

1 note · View note

imsosocold · 2 years ago

Text

My Evelyn hcs so far ( subject to change)

Evelyn used she/her, they/them, hey/hem, se/shim/ and emb/embers pronouns. Evelyn was trans masculine but not male. (Caleb, if you’re wondering, was trans fem and trans masc and used he/him and she/her pronouns).

Polyamorous Aro-Ace Spec. Se and Caleb were queer platonic partners and cuddle buddies.

Evelyn was sex negative to sex neutral and Caleb was sex positive to sex neutral.

Initially dated Caleb at first as a middle finger to their family and the Boiling Isles at large but hey eventually grew to care for him.

Evelyn and Caleb’s favorite thing to do was queesting.

Evelyn and Caleb wrote their own vows and it was like an hour of them complimenting each other and calling the other the most cursed nicknames “scrimbly bimbly, scrumpo blorbo, little meow meow, soft bean husbando” etc.

Evenlyn actually kind of hated herself for taking on such a big commitment on their own. Partnership required too many compromises heir eyes. Had considered getting a divorce before but ended up never doing so.

Was a hunter of witch hunters who tried to save those accused in witch trials. For his crimes Evelyn set upon Caleb to do community work, making sure to keep her under watch and separated from the accused they had saved. Evelyn also made his history and past actions public to everyone else in the Isles.

Evelyn met the Wittebane siblings when they were all kids ( emb was the oldest of the trio) and liked to mess with them. Evelyn also liked just watching them from afar, interested in their developments and existences.

Evelyn was delighted by how happy magic made Caleb, who saw it as fresh and new. Magic is so normalized and widespread in the Isles, that to Evelyn, it was being taken for granted and not given proper appreciation.

The Clawthorne family were Palistorm wood and Witch Wool growers in addition to wand and amulet makers. Evelyn hated her family and often called them “ the cult of Clawthorne”.

To Evelyn, Palismen are representative of the emotions and experiences of the current moment, forever memorialized, rather than sentient beings with their own emotions and desires.

In addition to Flapjack, emb had an Anhinga Palismen, a Quetzal Palismen, a Phoenix Palismen, a Caladrius Palismen, a Kākāpō Palismen, and a Scarlet Ibis Palismen. Evelyn also had a handkerchief with a Potoo on it that could turn into the bird and fly away and had a snake bracelet that could turn into a white lipped python.

In addition to giving Caleb Flapjack, Evelyn made a Pelican Palisman for her.

While heavily believing in the concept of destiny, Evelyn wasn’t worried about the legacy or plan of the Titans, refusing both prayer and practice to them, seeking only to not offend. If Caleb had survived she and Evelyn would have been famous together, something universally glorious, something that hadn’t happened before in recorded history.

Would fight Satan AND God ( to Philip's distress).

Evelyn and Philip’s relationship was more complex than hate; they both understood each other in a way Caleb never would and it drove them all to pieces.

Called Philip duckling since he followed Caleb to the Isles the way a duckling follows its mother. Had been making a Mandarin Duck Palisman for him before the incident.

Stress made lanterns, lamps, and fireworks. Philip picked up this habit from her and kept it as Belos.

Had heterochromia, one light blue eye outlined by a darker blue and one olive green eye.

Had a howling laugh.

German.

Was as warm as an oven, had a lingering smoke smell, and tasted of ash. Primarily used fire magic with a little bit of air magic mixed in.

Evelyn died peacefully surrounded by loved ones, something that greatly upset Philip who thought they’d go fighting, even “just” against a disease.

When Evelyn left home se found Hooty ( who back then was more of a villa, I hc the Owl House transforms into the type of home one needs most at the time) and took shelter in him, Caleb eventually moving in as well. Evelyn left Hooty after Caleb’s death, not wanting him to potentially be caught in the crossfire between se and Philip. Hooty never forget her though.

#planning to do a character profile for her... eventually #give it a couple years #probably #noelle's rambles #toh #evelyn clawthorne #toh hcs

0 notes