#i cannot stop coloring mori girls...

[savaralyn2]

[pinkgirl94]

SOKOKU -Underworld’s Nightmare- Prologue

This is my first BSD fanfic & still writing right now. Please give me your impressions, opinions or whatever about my writing. I’ll be glad to read them. Enjoy reading!

Sokoku

In Japanese, it means Double Black. For what I know, it is a duo formed for annihilating people with no self-pity, filled with black hearts.

Black is a symbol of evil, blindness, mystery, death, sins and other meanings I can find especially in literature.

In Bungo Stray Dogs, black and white are the color representatives that stand out to me throughout the story. Yokohama, a port city in Kanagawa prefecture, where the story is set.

During the day, when the sun rises above and lights the world, people come out of their house and start their own tasks like a colony of ants come out of their nest and do their duty.

Students attend to their school and study, company men and women went to their office to report their duties, shops, cafes and other places open for business, and vehicles drive on the road.

The city is just like a normal one, like any other places in my view but behind it there is a dark side when the sun goes down and a gloomy but aesthetic full moon shows up. At night, many criminals crawl out from the shadow to pursue their sins of crimes.

There are some groups which have a few special ability users like the Port Mafia. Those group of ability users are the kind of people to control and terminate the people who will get in their way. They are dangerous people but not all of them are that kind.

Because of these crime activities, the government already made a department, known as Special Ability Department, that specializes in monitoring the ability users in the whole nation, even foreign ability users who will come to visit. The department also has ability users for handling the cases regarding that matter.

Other than a government department, there are also a few other organizations which also have ability users to use their ability for good especially solving crimes that normal detectives and the police cannot do such as Armed Detective Agency.

In Yokohama, the government, along with military police, handle the cases at day. At night, the criminal organizations take over the city.

The city is always in the midst of war between special ability organizations. In order to reach the balance and peace of the city, a certain person named Natsume Soseki made his plan by, as a start, created a duo. A strong but dangerous duo.

Fukuzawa and Mori

At first, both of them never knew nor met each other before. Fukuzawa Yukichi used to work at the government as a bodyguard. He was a lone wolf who never wanted to work with anyone until he met a young boy named Edogawa Ranpo.

Mori Ogai was an underground doctor who, had his own clinic, worked in the slum where poor and street rats stay. He always bring a doll-like little girl named Elise to his office and spoils her all the time and always by her side.

How did they met?

Twelve years before an establishment of Armed Detective Agency, Natsume gave Fukuzawa a request for protecting Mori. No clear answer why he gave that kind of request but, in order to establish his agency, he accepted it and met him at his clinic for the first time.

They seemed to be never clicked each other. For example, Mori acted indifferent toward Fukuzawa about his fighting skills will become dull and Fukuzawa felt annoying on that. But once in a blue moon, when they faced their enemies, the two of them finished them off like a tornado destroy everything in a flash.

At one night, Mori captured by the foreign criminal gang from South America. The gang captured him because he was an information broker so they will require his knowledge of Port Mafia’s armory location by torturing him. Fukuzawa then came to their hideout and save Mori.

It was impossible for a man get through tight security filled with armed men but, for Fukuzawa, he killed them all easily. After that, it was Mori’s turn to kill other men in the same room as him.

Fukuzawa uses his katana to kill the enemies and Mori hiding his bloodlust to trick them until he took out his scalpel to either slice or throw at their throat. Both of them are the unstoppable that even the top assassins cannot lift his finger to stop them.

This is how the first generation of Double Black, Fukuzawa and Mori, formed by Natsume. As a writer, I will write the continue tale of them in the first chapter, about finding the true purpose of their fighting alongside together before they become the leaders of their respective organizations.

Dazai and Chuuya

They were the second generation of Double Black under Mori’s care but worked for Port Mafia. These two were not much different when in comes to fight together but, in terms of strategy and fighting style, they were much crueler than Fukuzawa and Mori.

One is a man in mummy-like bandage around his body who showed his inner demon himself and the other is a great fighter with his incredible gravity control ability. All people of the underworld knew them as the worst enemies they have ever encountered.

At the age of fourteen, Dazai picked up by Mori as a patient for attempting suicide. He always a type of person who continuously attempts his suicides but failed many times, always got himself hurt whether by those attempts or by accidents. Mori then brought Dazai along as a witness for his assassination plan.

To kill Port Mafia's predecessor.

Mori told Dazai a cover story and so that he became a new boss of his organization as his own. He kept him safe and alive in order to avoid the suspicious of the predecessor's assassination. To gain the whole organization's trust toward him.

One year passed.

Ever since Mori became a boss, rumors about him assassinated the predecessor spread around the Port Mafia. He even heard a rumor about the predecessor, who supposedly dead and properly buried, was alive and caused ruckus in their turf. If anyone learn about his assassination plan, then his position as a boss will be lost.

So Mori leave the investigation of predecessor to Dazai and, during his investigation, that is how he met a young boy as the same age as him, Nakahara Chuya, previously knew as King of the Sheep.

Chuuya is a natural fighter who only uses his legs to brutally kick his opponents like how he kicked Dazai when they first met. He never use his hands to fight until now. He also possess a special ability to manipulate gravity around him and his enemies will be crushed suffocating by touching him even the slightest hit.

When Chuya captured by Dazai, thanked to his ability-nullification ability, and Hirotsu, another ability user and the person who tag along for the investigation, Mori decided to let Dazai and Chuuya to investigate together.

Both Dazai and Chuuya disagreed together at first but Mori explained that things will work well by working together, with Dazai’s nullification and Chuuya’s fighting skills and ability, so they ended up investigate together. All that time, they always arguing and fighting each other like the small brats fighting over the small problems.

Throughout their investigation, they confirmed that the predecessor was not actually alive but it was a being called Arahabaki, known as a god of calamity, that can shape-shifting its body controlled by another ability user. Chuuya revealed himself that Arahabaki they saw was not a real one but actually himself because of his past.

Chuuya’s past is not a happy memory not because he was abused or tortured by someone nor started a harsh life like any characters you have seen in other stories who met their unfortunate fate. He was an empty shell, mere human body.

Eight, years ago, Chuuya was born as a vessel to Arahabaki and sealed away by the Japanese military. One day, two men, Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine, infiltrated the military base to take Arahabaki’s power but failed because Arahabaki was fully freed.

Arahabaki now merged with Chuuya and made his own personality and will but they lost their memories before the age of seven. Chuuya only recalled someone reached out to his hand and freed him from the seal.

Dazai and Chuuya found who controlled Arahabaki. It was Rando, a Port Mafia executive and his real name is Arthur Rimbaud, with his ability called “Illumination” that conjure hyperspace subregion. He joined Port Mafia in order to find Chuuya and kill him but failed to do so because Dazai and Chuuya defeated him in the end.

On Rando’s final breath, he gave Chuuya his final wish which is to keep living as a human being. Chuuya accepted his wish and still keeping onto him after that.

One month later.

Dazai finally became a mafioso and executive and made his own squadron. Chuuya also became a mafioso and even received Rando’s hat from Mori as a custom way of officially joining by giving a piece of clothing.

For the sake of continuing the event of their tale, I am going to write a chapter about an event when they fight against an enemy organization and made a debut as Sokoku which you never seen or read in the original work.

Atsushi and Akutagawa

Atsushi is an orphan and main protagonist of the series. At first, he had a low self-esteem, always considered himself useless by the people from his former orphanage especially the headmaster himself. After Dazai pick him up from the riverside while he was in a state of starvation, he recommended him to join the Armed Detective Agency and his life changed after meeting new people and slowly gain his self-worth.

Akutagawa is one of the antagonists and a member of the Port Mafia. He calls himself as Port Mafia’s dog and the agency members refer him as the most troublesome and dangerous ability user to be captured. Like Atsushi, he is an orphan along with his younger sister, Gin. They were raised in the slums of the city with other orphans. After the orphans were shot dead by a group of criminals and only him and her sister survived, Dazai picked them up, giving him a reason to live, to become stronger and get a praise from his teacher.

Their first meeting started with a bounty. The Port Mafia received an info from the Guild, a North America special ability organization, about a weretiger that needed to be captured with a big reward and that weretiger is Atsushi. They attempted to capture him a few times but Atsushi still be saved and protected by the detective agency.

In the last resort, Akutagawa successfully captured Atsushi and ready to deliver but Kyoka, a former assassin who became a detective agency member, tried to save him. Seeing her self-sacrifice for him in Atsushi’s eyes made him to save her and fight Akutagawa. That is when he finally begin gaining his self-confidence.

Both Atsushi and Akutagawa are always fighting in both physical and oral for their different resolve. Atsushi, who sacrifices himself to gain his right to live, and Akutagawa, who seeks an approve from a certain person, are likely same to gain something but different in terms of characteristics and morals.

During their final fight against Francis Fitzgerald, the Guild’s boss, they always arguing over their resolve like the stray dogs barking each other for finding out who is right and who is wrong and Francis saw them that way.

Which is why Dazai forced them to work together to defeat the boss and test his theory if their power have the potential to become a stronger duo than the previous Double Black pairs and he is right all along. Francis defeat with their combined abilities.

With Atsushi’s white tiger ability and Akutagawa’s black beast Rashomon, both of them are an unstoppable pair and that is the start of the new generation of Double Black, Shin Sokoku. Their tale of their fight is yet to end as I will write which they will face a new antagonist after the three-way war.

These three pairs are ferocious groups. Each character have different ideals and believe but their bond of fighting alongside is much stronger than we thought. When their tale is about to unfold, what are their string of fate lead to? Please enjoy reading them.

[theblankgarden]

Dear Jessie,

Plum Bun: A Novel Without a Moral (1928) centres on Angela Murray, a middle-class girl from a black family in Philadelphia. Angela and her mother, Mattie, share a light complexion and sometimes enjoy ‘passing for white’ and going to fancy places that would otherwise have been forbidden to them in the segregated city. On the other hand, Angela’s father, Junius, and her younger sister, Virginia (Jinny), cannot ‘pass’, and prefer less glamorous, more family-oriented pastimes.

From an early age, Angela starts to associate happiness with wealth – and wealth with whiteness. We follow the two sisters from the time they were children to their early adulthood, as their lives successively diverge and converge at different points, in their attempt to navigate the topics of gender, race, and class. It feels almost as though Angela and Jinny acted as doubles of one another, two lines running in parallel and yet to meet at infinity.

I particularly liked the use of flashbacks inside flashbacks at the beginning of the novel, where we get to see the family’s daily life and the sisters’ childhood, as well as Mattie and Junius’ past. Angela and Jinny are both artistically gifted, but, like many black female artists in the early 20th century (like yourself!), they decide to firstly train as teachers to be able to support themselves. Career opportunities for talented black women were rare and, like their peers, Angela and Jinny rely on teaching as the most respectable source of income available to them at the time.

When their parents die, Angela decides to move alone to New York and to forge a new identity for herself. She changes her name to Angèle Mory, fits in with a group of white art students, and starts to live constantly ‘passing as white’. “I’m sick of planning my life with regard to being coloured. I’m not a bit ashamed of my race. I don’t mind in the least that once we were slaves. Every race in the world has at some time occupied a servile position. But I do mind having to take it into consideration every time I want to eat outside of my home, every time I enter a theatre, every time I think of a profession.”

We follow Angela’s conflicting choices, as she struggles to live the life she longs for, while trapped in an intersection of racism, sexism, and class prejudices. Her complexity as a character is the highlight of the book for me: Angela is unlikeable and self-centred, and unashamedly so. “‘Why should I shut myself off from all the things I want most,—clever people, people who do things, Art,—’ her voice spelt it with a capital,—‘travel and a lot of things which are in the world for everybody really but which only white people, as far as I can see, get their hands on. I mean scholarships and special funds, patronage’”.

She knows what she wants and goes for it, but she also owns it, when confronted with her mistakes. There is an edge to her that is forever eluding the readers. Every time we feel that you are leading us through a beaten path, you refuse to meet our expectations – and, in this way, you make us confront these expectations; you turn a mirror to what lies behind them.

You also paint a complex picture of ‘passing’ – as a way (sometimes the only way, at that time and place) to gain access to education, wealth, power, professional fulfilment, social and economic opportunities; but one that can also comprise deceit, fear, loneliness, and loss of self-respect.

Angela is constantly reviewing and questioning her choices: how far is she willing to go? At which point ‘passing’ stops being a harmless entertainment or a way for her to be judged for her merits (and not for her race), and becomes a form of ‘selling out’, ‘suppressing her identity’, or ‘demeaning herself’?

You refuse to give easy answers, but we have a sense that, when violently unequal power relationships prevail, Angela’s power to choose may as well be just another illusion: the conditions under which she has to make a choice are themselves demeaning. “And again she let herself dwell on the fallaciousness of a social system which stretched appearance so far beyond being”.

This topic ties in perfectly with the title and subtitle of the book. “Plum Bun” refers to the nursery rhyme in the epigraph: “To market, to market / To buy a plum bun;/ Home again, home again / Market is done”. Each of the five chapters in the novel relate to one of elements of this rhyme – ‘Home’, ‘Market’, ‘Plum bun’, ‘Home again’, and ‘Market is done’ – as Angela progresses from her life with her family in Philadelphia (Home) to her ‘selling out’ as white in New York (Market); then her relationship with a wealthy (racist) white man, her betrayal of her sister, and her ‘selling out’ as a woman (Plum bun); her reconciliation with her sister and her coming to terms with her identity (Home again); and, finally, her decision about her racial heritage (Market is done).

‘Plum bun’ may refer to Angela’s heritage (a prune hidden inside the cake?), but also to the ways in which an idea of femininity (as related to something sweet, passive, and alluring) is imposed on her in the corresponding chapter; or even the way she sells herself as something that can be bought (like a cake in the market).

The subtitle is also particularly interesting – ‘A Novel Without a Moral’ –, given that the book is structured on a series of conflicting moral choices. But you refuse to reduce their complexity, you refuse easy answers, or moral lessons. Further, your aim is not to evoke sympathy in a white reading audience by sacrificing your protagonist’s claim on happiness, but rather to turn the mirror around and show white readers what lies behind such a fictional device, what it really entails. You refuse to use your protagonist to teach white readers a lesson that should have been obvious from the start.

Another highlight of the book for me was the way ‘passing’ (as related to race, but also class and religion) and ‘marriage’ play out as means by which disenfranchised characters hope to overcome structural inequalities, but which also perversely play the double-edge role of reinforcing such inequalities. ‘Passing’, in particular, is shown under conflicting lights: as a form of transgression of a set of arbitrary and fundamentally unjust rules; and, on the other hand, as a form of assimilation, a way of reinforcing racism and racial hierarchy. It is shown as an exercise of individual freedom; and, on the other hand, as an expression of selfishness, a way of avoiding one’s responsibility to the black community, and of exercising freedom at the expense of other people or other equally important values. Once again, you don’t give easy answers here. “Stolen waters are the sweetest. And Angela never forgot that they were stolen”.

The other side of ‘passing’ is the underlying (and arbitrary) imposition of a duty to ‘come out’ all the time. In one scene, at school, Angela befriends a new student, Mary Hastings, who, when discovering later about our protagonist’s black heritage, professes to have been ‘betrayed’: “You never told me you were colored!” To which Angela says: “Tell you that I was colored! Why, of course I never told you I was colored! Why should I?” And later, pondering on what she would have done, had she been in Hastings’ place: “She thought to herself: “Coloured! If they had said to me Mary Hastings is a voodoo, I’d have answered, ‘What of it? She’s my friend.’”

The book borrows from a series of genres and tropes – coming of age, Künstlerroman, romance, domestic narrative, marriage plot, protest novel, the ‘fallen woman’, the ‘tragic mulatta’ -, but I particularly liked the way it puts a twist on them and eludes expectations. Despite all the book’s flaws – the outmoded, overly latinized writing style; the occasional verge on the melodramatic; the reliance on bald coincidences -, I was won over by its edges, its unlikeable but unshakeable protagonist, its unwillingness to please a white audience or to conform to their pattern of what a novel by or about a black woman should be. Angela’s defiant question to her classmate echoes throughout the book: Why should I?

Yours truly,

J.

Laura Wheeler Waring. Woman with Bouquet, ca. 1940.

“All right,” she said to herself wearily, “I’ll keep on living.” She thought then of black people, of the race of her parents and of all the odds against living which a cruel, relentless fate had called on them to endure. And she saw them as a people powerfully, almost overwhelmingly endowed with the essence of life. They had to persist, had to survive because they did not know how to die. – Jessie Redmon Fauset, Plum Bun: A Novel Without a Moral

About the book

Beacon Press, 1999, 408 p. Goodreads

Pandora Press, 1985, 379 p. Goodreads

First published in 1928

My rating: 4 stars

Projects: Classics Club; Back to the Classics, hosted by Karen.

My thoughts on Plum Bun: A Novel Without a Moral (1928), by Jessie Redmon Fauset #readsoullit #zora100 Dear Jessie, Plum Bun: A Novel Without a Moral (1928) centres on Angela Murray, a middle-class girl from a black family in Philadelphia.

[redfreesias03]

Sugar pianist

“Melting sugar candy, a pianist who shouldn't be there. Drowning in the sound of fortissimo, let me forget all sensation.”

OR: A girl meets a mysterious, six-fingered pianist who seems to know her from a past life and immediately decides to go with him despite (maybe because of?) all the murdery vibes being given out.

nagaku utsukushii REESU ni mi wo yudanete kitsui biyaku no you na toki ga sugiru calando hiroi yashiki no oku no virtuoso no heya furui gakubachi no shashin shiroi shoujo

Succumbing to the long, beautiful lace Time like a strong aphrodisiac passes by, calando A virtuoso's room, inside a large mansion A girl of white in the photo of the old picture frame

marude kagami no you na detail koe wo ushinau katagoshi ni 「natsukashii」 to warau are wa watashi? sou ja nai demo wakaranai nee    naze naiteiru no?

The level of detail is just like looking in a mirror Over a speechless shoulder You say "How nostalgic!" with a laugh Is that me? No, it isn't, but I don't understand Hey, why are you crying?¹

kieteiku ritardando kaichuudokei wo kowashi decorate allegretto no mori wo kakeru senshoku wo tomerarenai

A fading ritardando Smashing the pocket watch to decorate the floor Running through an allegretto forest I cannot stop being dyed in color

nagaredasu ano senritsu anata kara wa nigerarenai jellybeans ni umoreteiku shuuchaku wo kobamenai waza to demo kurushimasetai

That melody that flows out– I can't escape from you Buried in jellybeans I'm unable to refuse this attachment Even if it's on purpose, I want you to make me suffer

hibiku neiro ni sasoware deatta delicato sono hitomi wa watashi wo mou shitteita tsumabiku amai egao iki wo koroshi otoshita tebukuro yogitta kioku tashika ni ano toki sou sasayaita 「osokatta ne, EMIRIA」 to。

Lured by the color of the notes ringing out, I met you, delicato Your eyes already knew me Your sweet, plucked smile stole my breath away Dropped gloves, a flash of a memory– I'm certain, at that time, yes, you murmured "You're late, Emilia."

roppon yubi no himitsu dare mo anata wo shiranai manekarete shimau hayaku koko wo sarou kaerimichi wa dokodemo shuuchaku wo kobamenai

A six-fingered secret Nobody knows you You offer me an invitation despite myself Let's leave this place quickly, I'll go back with you anywhere I'm unable to refuse this attachment

mata nagaredasu ano senritsu kanpeki na gakufu wo tsumiageteiku arpeggio ni makikomarete shinshoku wo sakerarenai

Once more That melody that flows out Builds further on a perfect score Swallowed up in its arpeggios I cannot avoid corrosion

toketeiku konpeitou iru hazu no nai PIANISUTO fortissimo no oto ni obore kanshoku wo wasuresou

Melting sugar candy A pianist who shouldn't be there Drowning in the sound of fortissimo Let me forget all sensation

waza to demo kurushimasete akai yubi ga koboreochiru mayakashi de shiboritsukeraretai

Even if it's on purpose, make me suffer It spills over and falls on your red fingers I want to be smothered by your deceptions

---

¹This is a vague line that can either be “Hey, why are you (the pianist) crying?” or “Hey, why am I (the female narrator) crying?” and I translated it as the former because this song is already creepy and dark enough without it being a mutually tortured relationship but the latter is probably more valid.

This song uses various musical terms in Italian that actually coordinate quite well with the lyrics, so for the non-musically inclined: calando=quietening/dying away (volume gets softer and tempo gets a little slower) virtuoso=a highly-skilled musician (in this case, pianist) ritardando=speed of music is getting slower allegretto="a little bit joyful", a light-hearted "springy" sound (but still a little restrained as opposed to a full-on allegro) delicato=music played "delicately" arpeggio=notes of a chord played in order, either up or down, (Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata is a famous example) fortissimo=very loud volume (music at this point has generally reached its peak)

Also, the “perfect score” mentioned in the song is a perfect musical score (written piece of music).

Finally, since colorpointe are a ballet-themed group, this song samples Tchaikovsky’s famous theme of Swan Lake.

[mintyoongiskookie]

Ludus Tibi Potentias Impiorum

Member: Jeon Jungkook

Genre: Fluff, humor, angst, Witch!Jungkook, father thing?

Word Count: 4,730

A/N: I WAS GOING TO MAKE THIS FOR HOBI BUT GODDAMN IT JUNGKOOK WAS TOO COCKY TO LET THIS PASS and I googled so many things and apparently a warlock kinda counts as an insult in this and so does a wizard just a disclaimer thing and everything that doesn’t look like it’s in english (aka a lot((including the title)) is in latin heuheuheuheu so I hope y’all like it and shit thanks for readingggg~

      “Darling… I-I’m so sorry… Please, take care of her…”

      This was the routine. The parents sobbing, gripping onto the small thing like their life depends on it. Their cheeks flushed and hair a mess, like they had already grown attached to the infant. Even though it’s been inside a whole different person for the majority of their bonding. Come on, why the hell are you talking to a woman’s stomach? Let her be! She’s got her own problems to worry about. Okay, so besides that, even though you had told them beforehand that you were going to take the damn thing, they still try to talk you out of it! Like, um, hello? You made this deal with me, you said, “Oh yeah, sure, I’ll give my firstborn to witch. Why the hell not.” (not that exactly, but you get the gist), and that was it. It was set in stone. You give your baby to me. Kapeesh? Good. Just give me the baby, and maybe I won’t have to put a spell on you.

      Really, it shouldn’t be this hard. Move your arms out, hand it to me, and I’ll leave. Ugh, I can’t believe these mortals. So complicated.

      “She’ll be fine Ma’am, but if you please, drink this. You’ll never remember anything that has happened. Both of you must drink it. Less pain for you.” Slowly, they reached for the vials, sipping them dry. You were ready to leave, pulling out a second vial until a crash interrupted you, a man appearing. Oh god, they made two deals?! “What do you want?!”

      A chuckle arose from the man’s throat, his deep eyes piercing through you. “I think the correct words you’re looking for are, here is the baby, now I’ll be on my way.” A sarcastic smile framed itself on both of your lips, quickly turning into snarls.

      “She’s mine. We made a deal, the newborn gets handed over to me. Nice try Jungkook.”

      “Oh, silly (Y/N). If only you knew. I made the deal with the father when he was twenty five.” Despite the fact that you two were mortal enemies, standing in the same room, fighting over the same mortal baby, and making deals with the same parents, there were a lot of other strange factors happening here. Main thing though: two witches made the same for the same firstborn.

      “I got the wife. She was fourteen. Nice try darling.” Pouring the bottle on your feet, you started your chant, only to be stopped by the other witch. A grip on your wrist had you looking up, glaring at him.

      “The baby is mine.”

      “Get your twisted hands off of me you warlock, I’m not giving her to you.”

      “And you think I’m letting you keep her?” Your bickering went on and on, not remembering about the two mortals still standing in the room.

      “Just share her. Y’know, like… Have you two switch days. She stays with either of you for so long. And by the way, what the fuck are you two doing in my house?” You had both been at each other’s throats, but with the mutter of  few words, you had taken him back to your cottage in the woods.

      “Share her? Please, mortals are so stupid. You cannot share a deal trade, that is simply nonsense.”

      A scoff tumbled its way out of your lips, a shake of your head adding to it. “Who do they think they are? ‘Oh, you can just share this damn baby, the one you both were going to raise and train.’ Yeah, like a weak thing like this could handle the training both of us would be giving it. That’s just torture.”

      A silence fell over you both, your heads raising to look at each other. “Did we just… Agree on something?”

      “No. I refuse to believe that. Now, leave, before I banish you myself.”

      “I’m not leaving until you give me the child!” Who does this man think he is? Gandolf?

      “If you’re so confident that the child is yours, then try the mortal’s idea.” The words left you before you could grasp what you had really just offered, your eyes widening as a smug smirk grew on Jungkook’s features.

      “You, (Y/N) (L/N), want me, Jeon Jungkook, otherwise known as your arch fucking enemy, to live with you?”

      “That isn’t what I said!” Oh deus. That is what you said, just not entirely what you meant. Well, what did you mean…?

      “That is exactly what you said. And, seeing as you offered it, I’m taking it up.” Did… Did you hear him right? This little filius canis is actually doing this just to piss you off. 

      You locked gazes with him, yours hard and unforgiving. His, however, had a glint of playfulness strung through his coffee irises, with the sheer look of determination laced in as well. “Ede faecam.”

      “Potes meos suaviari clunes.” This irrumator. 

      “I wouldn’t do that if my immortality was taken from me.” A smirk rose onto your face as you strolled into your room, the small child in your hands. “Her name will be Venus, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

      “There’s always my butt if you want it.”

      “Fututus et mori in igni.” His laugh echoed throughout the whole house, eliciting many cries from the baby. “Deus deodamnatus… You are a terrible father you faex.”

      “Flocci non faccio, darling. See? I can cuss too!” You rolled your eyes, flicking your finger up to silence the baby. You strolled back out to the kitchen, moving all of the wildly colored bottles in the fridge around until you came across the two mason jars filled with milk.

      “You know, if you plan on staying here and raising this child, you’re gonna have to make yourself useful somehow. Mix up some sleeping potions, make some lunch, kill yourself with a wooden stake. All of the above would be nice too.” Walking back to the baby, you maneuvered the milk well enough to where it would fall in it’s mouth. “Ugh, I do hope this thing doesn’t grow up to be as ugly as you.” 

      “You must be mistaken, darling. That’s my line.” He walked back into the room, surprisingly holding some bottles in his hands that would help with the baby. “And anyways, it looks better than most babies. Not as small or crinkled, she’ll be strong.”

      A heavy sigh left your lips, the color draining from the air. “I feel like this is something we will both greatly regret.”

      “Well, I know it is.”

      “Venus, stop running! You need to eat!”

      “Tempus adhuc stare - ut faciam tibi. Transiet per minutis ad non facere, quod ego facere non. Tempus adhuc stare - ut faciam tibi.” With the chant of a spell and the flick of his wrist, Jungkook calmly walked to the frozen Venus, hauled her onto his shoulder, and flicked his wrist again.

      “Jungkook, you can’t just freeze time whenever you need something…”

      “Of course I can. I just did, didn’t I?” You rolled your eyes, and smiled when your pupil squealed on the shoulder of your acquaintance.

      “Kookie, put me down! I’ll eat, I swear! Just pleaseeee, put me down!”

      “Cross your heart?”

      The girl rolled her eyes, were grin becoming wider and wider. “Hope to die, stick a needle in my eyes. You happy?”

      “Very. Now eat, before I feed you flies when I turn you into a toad.” A squeal came from the young apprentice, as she jumps into her chair and shovels forkfuls of the steak you had made, sounds of happiness coming from her.

      You glared at the man, blaming him for raising her to be so… Unprofessional. He would always swing her around, carry her, play hide and seek with her. Not even the good hide and seek, where you would cast a spell to help, it was the mortal’s game! He raised her like a human, and you were not in favor of the whole idea. “You are making this harder for her. She’ll never learn well if you treat her like, a-a princess! You can’t have her prancing around, making her think she’s all high and mighty. If anything, she’s lower than most humans. Don’t get her hopes up.”

      The girl was twelve by now, very intelligent for her age. You were never easy on her, and she knew your tactics. Jungkook was good for her - all three of you knew that, too. He was that breath of fresh air, the blanket draped over one’s shoulders on a frigid winter day. He made everything fun for her, making it all easier. You were harsh, keeping it straight to the point. No humor, no praise. A quiet, “good job”, was about the best she’ll get from you. She was the perfect combination of you both. The humor and confidence of Jungkook, but the mindset and persistence from you. You had to admit, having him here made things better. For one, it made her better.

      It made you better.

      A laugh poured out from his lips, a genuine one, at that. The way his nose crinkled, and his eyes shone bright with joy, it made you want to smile. But you didn’t. “It’s called having fun, (Y/N). You should try it with us sometime.” His laugh tickled your ears again, the sound melodious and cheery. You didn’t really like that combination. Unless it was with those two.

      “I don’t need fun to have a good time. I need spells and herbs. Nothing more.” Yes, that’s right folks, the emotionless (Y/N) (L/N) has grown attached to these two. The human and the enemy. Wonderful.

      “Yeah, sure you don-”

      “(Y/N), I’m ready for today’s lecture.” Looking down at the girl, a smirk rose onto your face. Her exterior had changed immensely, the once smiling and bright girl, had turned cold and stoic. She knew your expectations, and she lived up to them. You were proud of her for that.

      “Well, get on with it then. Protection spell today. Grab the herbs. Jungkook, if you die today, blame it on her.

      “Hey!” Their voices ran in unison, a laugh falling from your lips. 

      “Just saying. Now come. I need to summon something.” Taking Jungkook’s hand, you tugged him out of the cottage and into the clearing near the home. After Venus having grabbed the needed ingredients, you let her get on with it.

      Lighting the seven candles, she topped the bowl of herbs upon a Baphomet symbol, and cast the spell.

      “Ad ligandum eos pariter eos coram me.” Appearing behind Jungkook was a demon, who’s sole purpose was to kill him. Not something a twelve year old should be held responsible for doing, but, she’d live. Jungkook stood, as still as a tree, as he waited for the words to tumble from Venus’s mouth. A look of pure horror was spread over her face, something that read: “I can’t do it.” Stumbling over her words, she uttered the first few syllables of the chant, before bursting into tears. “R-regna t-t-terrae, cantat- I can’t do it! Jungkook, I-I’m sorr-”

      “Regna terrae, cantata deo, psallite cernun nos, regna terrae, cantata dea psallite aradia. Caeli deus, deus terrae, humiliter majestati gloriae tuae supplicamus ut ab omni infernamium spirituum potestate, laqueo, and deceptione nequitia, omnis fallaciae, libera nos, dominates. Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potetas, omnis incursio, infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis and congregatio secta diabolica. Ab insidiis diaboli, libra nos, dominates, ut coven tuam secur tibi libertate servire facias, te rogamus, audi nos! Terribilis deus sanctuario suo, cernunnos ipse truderit virtutem plebi suae. Benedictus deus, gloria patri, benedictus dea, matri gloria!” The words left your lips in a storm, almost inaudible from how fast you were saying them. A sigh escaped your lips once the demon busted out into flames, your figure walking over to Venus, who was curled up in a ball. “You… Go inside Venus, me and Kookie will talk.” Holy shit, “Kookie”? That’s the first time you’ve called him that. First time for everything, I guess. 

      With a nod, the girl crashed back into the house, leaving you and Jungkook alone.

      “What the hell was that?!”

      “What the hell was what?! Did you want to get possessed?! She couldn’t do it, she was too scared. We shouldn’t expect this from her… It’s too much. It’ll eat away at her later in her life.”

      An eerie silence swallowed up your fight, both of you looking in opposite directions. “… Why’d you do it?”

      “Do what, Jungkook? Save your fucking life? Because she needs you, Jungkook. I need you. And she doesn’t need the burden of killing the one person she loves and looks up to on her shoulders.” Packing up the remains of the spell from the ground, you turned and ran into Jungkook.

      “You… Need me?” Expecting to look up to a cocky smirk on his face, you rolled your eyes and brushed passed him.

      “If you’re gonna put it like that, maybe I don’t.” Slamming the door behind you, you stashed the supplies away in the cabinets. If only you had really looked up to see the pleading look on Jungkook’s face, begging for you to confirm that, in fact, he did hear you right. If only you saw how broken he looked when you walked away, the image of his heart shattering clear in his eyes. If only you knew that he was the one that needed you, and that he thought his chances of having that were slimmer than slim.

      A knock at Venus’s door had her head shooting up from her hands, her body scrambling off of the bed to get to you. “I-I’m sorry (Y/N)… It shouldn’t have happened, I-I can make it up to you, I’ll-”

      “Sh. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have expected that much from you. In all honesty, I don’t even know if your Kookie would’ve been able to do that. You’re a brave girl, Venus. Don’t ever forget that.” A nod came from the girl, a kiss on her head coming from you. “Go clean up, I’ll make you a post dinner snack.” You smiled when she kissed your cheek and ran to shower, a smile that hadn’t appeared in a long time. Standing to go whip something up, you were met with Jungkook, whose eyes were locked onto the floor.

      “(Y/N), I-”      

      “Save it.” Knocking shoulders with him, you held your ground, stalking back into the kitchen. He knew how stubborn you were, and how there were almost no ways in the world to get you to listen to him. Almost.

      Coming up behind your figure, his thick arms pinned you against the counter. The initial shock of what he had just done rendered you speechless, giving him a slight chance to explain himself. “Goddamn it (Y/N), I swear on a demon’s eye that I didn’t mean to say it that way. Honestly, I don’t want to know if you care about me, just for the sake of my own heart. I’ll leave it at that.” Just as fast as it had happened, he was gone, already out the door. Your grip had tightened on the bag of sugar you were holing, cursing yourself for taking it the wrong way. Shaking the feeling of butterflies rising in your stomach, you continued to put together the mix for the cookies you were making.

      You knew you couldn’t give him what he wanted. So, you wouldn’t. For the safety of this household. If anyone got too close, you’d all be weakened in a heartbeat.

      Years had already passed, and you had given Venus her first assignment. It was to hike up the mountain - with the accompaniment of you and Jungkook, of course -, gather anything she would need in the forest, and wipe out a majority of the demon population. The number of anything up there was scarce anyways, so it would be a simple task. The harder part was, to let her do it on her own.

      Truth be told, you had grown outrageously attached to the mortal, as well as Jungkook. Either way, the outcome wouldn’t be one you would particularly favor, so you kept quiet. There was always the occasional teasing from the both of them, which would tear a smile or a laugh.

      “Are we almost there?”

      “Shut your trap, Jungkook.”

      A laugh erupted from Venus’s throat, a glare from the man being directed to both of you. Venus had grown to be a beautiful young lady, but the passing years had done absolutely nothing to you and Jungkook. You both look the exact same - the scar that you had come to love on his cheek not looking even a day old. Venus had often made jokes about your immortality, and how you two are technically two walking corpses in disguise of very attractive people. But, being the teenager she is, she’s practically begged for you two to be together, saying that everything would be so much easier.

      And that she’d actually have a family.

     “Maybe if you were a bit more patient and observant, you’d notice we’re already here. It’s just the matter of whether or not the demons feel like playing.” You both looked up at Venus, a smile growing on your face. “You can both start out by setting up a symbol in the clearing, and I’ll set up a camp in case we have to stay the night.”

      “Okay, sheesh, fine mini (Y/N).” Jungkook grumbled a few things about how, ‘she really has worn off on you, I want the old Venus back.’, while taking out some paste to paint the trap. Dropping your bags in the middle, you grabbed some brushes to help with the trap.

      “Don’t spill it all this time, you dimwit.”

      “That was one time!”

      “Enough to almost get us all killed.”

      “If the trap doesn’t get set up, we will be killed. Please don’t fight today guys, just once. I get that you two hate each other and all, but act like you’re married for a day.”

      “We aren’t married!” You and Jungkook yelled at her in unison, a howl of laughter coming from her. “You might as well start calling us your parents if you’re pulling that game.”

      A smirk arose on her face at Jungkook’s words, her arms crossing over her chest. “Then get to work dad.” This earned a facepalm from you, snatching the bowl of paste from his hands.

      “Great job Kook. Great. Job.” Both of you glared at each other, before he moved to plop onto the pile of bags inside the circle. “What the hell are you doing?!”

      “You took the paint, don’t look at me.” Rolling your eyes, you flicked your finger and muttered a few words. In a second flat, he was no longer the handsome man you knew, but an ugly toad covered in warts. You bursted out laughing at the sound of horror that came from his throat, the mere croak of a toad showcasing his disgust. “Turn me back!” His voice was too big for his tiny body, a hiccup of surprise coming from him.

      “You’re more useful in this state. It may be easier to kill you. And plus, no demon wants to posses a creature as ugly as you. I’m just saving your life.”      “Forgive me, o righteous one, for I have forgotten my place.” His sarcastic tone dulled out the air around him, rolling his eyes and he hopped over to you.

      “You are forgive- ARGH! GET AWAY FROM ME, TOAD BOY!!!” Upon hopping his way over to you, he had jumped onto you. Except he landed on… Well… Your chest. Spewing out the return spell, your back crashed against one of the enormous tree trunks, and he had returned back to his normal form. With his face buried in your breasts. Unable to form a complete sentence, you instead went straight to kicking him away from you. Both of your faces were bright red, and Venus’s roaring laughter in the background didn’t help the situation one bit.

      “I-I, um, y-you, uh…”

      “Let’s just… Pretend none of this happened. Deal?”

      “Deal.” Handing him the bowl of paste that was set on the ground, you let him finish the trap as you went back to the center. Not before Venus could confront you, though.

      “T-that, was priceless! The look on your faces, oh god, you should’ve seen it! That was completely golden! Oh my god, BEST FIRST MISSION EVER!!!!” As the blush made a statement on your face, you rolled your eyes and hid away into one of the tents. One of the two.

     “Venus…?” A hum of acknowledgement came from her, and you rested your head in your hands. “Why are there only two tents…”

       A snicker came from the girl as she tried to contain her laughter about the situation. “So you and dad can have your own, of course.” A sigh fell from your lips as you dared not to press on the matter at hand, knowing that she would never cave, and that neither you nor Jungkook would be in the mood to put up another tent. Setting the floor of the tent with blankets and pillows, you laid your body down under a mound of wool to rest. Hearing the flap unzip and the strangled cough coming from the intruder, you knew it had to have been Jungkook.

      “So I’ll take it she’s making us stay together…?”

      “Yep.” A sigh came from him, the blankets next to you rustling. You tucked your head deeper into the blankets, falling fast asleep in minutes time.

      As soon as he realized you were out, his arms found their way around you, pulling you closer to his chest. If she wakes up like this, he thinks, I can just say I was keeping her warm. There’s quiet a breeze tonight. So, with you encased in his hold, he fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of none other than you.       

      Waking up later in the night, you decided you would get a head start on gathering some supplies. Only to be stopped by the grip Jungkook had on you.

      Not now, you thought. I don’t need these feelings hitting me in the face at this time of night. Sliding your way out of his grasp, you silently managed to escape the little camp without waking either of them up.

      Well, that’s not entirely true.

      The second he no longer felt you against him, Jungkook had been aware of the fact that you had wandered off into the night. Following your steps, he slithered away from the clearing, and followed you out into the dense clutter of trees. But, there he saw you, looking like a goddess in the light of the moon. You were sitting on a rock near a quiet stream, watching the shooting stars reflect their brilliant light onto the rippling water. He stepped on a twig to make notice of his presence, just so that he wouldn’t fall asleep again with an aching groin.

      Your head whipped around to see Jungkook, standing in the shadows of the trees. He looked absolutely stunning under the light of the moon, a smile gracing his lips. “Mind if I join you?” Your cheeks flushed after noticing his bare torso, and you motioned to the rock adjacent to yours.

      “Not at all. How’d you know I was out here?”

      “I have my ways.” You both laughed at his antics, the barriers of your heart all breaking down. Now was the time that he could see the real you, the person you wanted to be around him. He made his way over to you, and instead of taking a seat on the other rock, he sat on yours. “So what are you doing out here?”

      You tore your gaze away from his, looking back down into the water. “Ah… I was just thinking.”

      “About…?”

      “About what we would do if anything happened to the three of us. How we would deal. If we would want to even deal at all…” Your eyes fell from the skies to the stream, a tear threatening to make its way down your cheek.

      “Hey… Don’t get all sappy on me. Nothing will happen to any of us, not while I’m around. And that will be along time.” He quietly chuckled, bringing his arm back around your waist. “That I can promise you.”

      You smiled, resting your head on his shoulders. “Shut up, I don’t wanna break my record for longest days without crying because of you.” You both laughed, taking in this extremely rare moment.

      “(Y/N)…?”      Tilting your head up to look at him, you were met with his warm gaze, something that could swallow you up whole. “Yeah?”

      “You know I love you right?”

      “I love you too toad boy.”

      “Oh, wow, way to ruin the moment!” You lifted your head up in laughter, only for it to be ceased by his hand on the back of your neck and his lips pressed against yours. Warmth spread over your body, the sparks flying through every single nerve. But, as you were both about to pull away, the click of a camera had you two falling off of the rock.

       A scream of delight came from the direction the previous sound came from, both of you looking up to see Venus jumping around, tears dripping down her cheeks. “I FINALLY HAVE A FAMILY!” Her display of happiness injected the feeling of hope, of pride and joy into your veins, tears rolling down your own face.

      “A… Family…” Running over to the both of you, she threw her arms tightly around you two, hiding her face away from sight.

      “I love you mom, I love you dad. I love you both so much.”

      Jungkook looked over to you with a bright smile, kissing your lips and leaving a peck on Venus’s head. “We love you too darling.”

      “ANASTASIA! (Y/N), Where’d you go?” Hearing your call from outside with Venus, he heaved out a sigh and scoured the house to find his other daughter. “Oh, my little gumdrop… Where are you?” A muffled yelp of surprise came from him, as his daughter’s hand quickly clasped firmly over his mouth from behind.

      Coming in with Venus and baskets of fresh fruit, you set everything down on the table and brushed your hands off. “Jungkook?” Calling out for your husband, you only got silence in return. Looking over at Venus, she offered you a nod before you went off to find your husband and daughter. Upon seeing the thirteen year old trying to cast a spell on Jungkook, your laugh danced through the air. “Ahhh Anastasia, what have I told you? No spells before dinner. You can turn your father into a toad afterwards.”

      Your daughter looked up at you, a pleading look in the beautiful eyes that she shared with Jungkook. “But mom-”

      “You heard me. No buts. He’s all yours after dinner though, you’ll live. Now go help your sister with the vegetables.

      She laughed and hugged you, kissing your cheek. “Ugh, fine. Thanks mom, I love you!” She ran off to the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.

      “Love you too!”

      Looking back down at your hopeless husband on the bed, you broke out into a fit of laughter as he pulled you down and tickled you. “What about me?” 

      “F-fine, j-just let me go!” Gasping for air, he laughed and hugged you, leaving kisses all over your face. “I love you, toad boy.”

      He grinned and laughed at the nickname, placing a loving kiss on your lips.

      “I love you too baby.”

[mistressofmythsandlegends-blog]

Shadows took the place of clouds above the institute as His looming figure touched the ground in front of them. A Goliath, a Titan, He stood a false god. In all their near misses, in all the times they’d glimpsed each other before, nothing prepared her for this.

Apocalypse.

He stood a single man army on the grounds. The beautiful, pure blue sky was now an inky black, the emerald green of the lawn now darkened by his influence. Beauty ruined, purity tainted, he stood a cancer of the world as he raised his hands.

“Come to me, my Horsemen.”

A twisted, dark lightning streaked through the sky as she heard a familiar chuckle behind her. Dark, and twisted; the distortion taking away the attractive rumble of her husband’s voice, replacing it with the hollowness of a demon. She braced herself for the words she knew he was going to say.

“Mon cherì, it’s been a while,” he said, his voice so much like a velvety black strip of cloth being wrapped around her throat. It tasted of thick, dark wine and ink as it tugged around her neck, tight, choking the air from her lungs. “Did you miss me?”

Autumn refused to dignify his question with an answer. Her heart throbbed behind her ribs as it sank, settling somewhere deep in her stomach to be eroded by acid and bile. He would look like her husband, but he was not her beloved.

His hand slid around her throat from behind her. When did he get so close? Cold, dead fingers wrapped around warm flesh, pulse beating where his thumb was pressing. Faster, stronger. She was alive. Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. 

“’Cause I missed you,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear as he nuzzled into her hair. “I been thinkin’ ‘bout you a lot, chère.”

“You haven’t crossed my mind once,” Autumn hissed, the lie coming to her easily. “Forgot you existed.”

His other hand came to rest on her abdomen. The scar, the memory, twinged and she flinched. He laughed.

“Don’t lie, chère, we both know you ain’t ever gon’ forget about me,” he said as he clasped his hand tight around her throat. She did not notice the other Horsemen, or the other X-Men. “Hmm… I do love watchin’ you fight, girl. You’re cute when you think you got a chance.”

“You haven’t beat me yet, now, have you?” She smirked. Her mouth would get her killed; Logan told her that too many times in a week. “So let’s skip the usual routine, shall we? We kick your ass, you go into hiding, and I get to deal with my husband’s PTSD and a guilt complex.”

“You’d like dat, wouldn’t you?” Death said. “Playin’ de hero, tryin’ t’save him when you can’t save yourself. Couldn’t save your children. Makes you feel good, don’t it?”

Autumn’s eyes went wide. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t lie. He wasn’t wrong.

And that made the situation all the worse.

“Oi, you mind taking your hands off my poppet there?” Victor’s voice was an echo, somewhere far away. And then suddenly it was loud and clear.

“Bug him and drop.”

Bug—

“Memento Mori,” she whispered, the command near silent. The creature sprung forth with enough force to push the Horseman off her, allowing to scramble away and drop to her knees.

In the next instant, there was the loud explosion of a gun, and then a deafening silence as a body hit the ground. She did not turn to look. She refused to look. Looking would make it real and confirm her fears.

Her focus had to be on Apocalypse.

She got to her feet as she stared at him, a bemused smirk on his face making him all the more hideous. One step after another as she focused on her energy, on her power, on her gift as a near-goddess. Magical and strong, she was Mother to the universe, and be damned if she wasn’t going to use that to her advantage.

“You will kneel,” she shouted, focusing all her energy into the command. She could feel it, starting deep in her chest. Apocalypse’s smile faded and he stared at her, confusion clear on his face. Angry, she shot her arm out and shouted, “I said you will kneel!”

At first, there was nothing but the rushing wind. Famine stood at his side, followed by Pestilence. War was nowhere to be found.

And neither was Death.

Except she knew where Death was.

One second, followed by another, and another, each ticking by painfully slow. Then his knees buckled and she focused all her attention on his legs. She closed her hand into a fist and pulled her hand back to her chest.

And with that, Apocalypse fell to his knees.

“I am the Mother of this universe,” Autumn proclaimed as she marched toward him. “I have bled, I have cried, I have suffered for a world that cannot stand me. I was survived and earned everything I have, and I am not about to let you ruin it!��

“You think you can stop me, little girl?” Apocalypse laughed. “I want you to join me. I want to see you come into your full potential as War.”

“Fuck off,” Autumn sneered. Once she was in front of him, she placed her hands on either side of his head and concentrated. Killing him would not be possible. But banishing him?

“You’re not strong enough.”

“Shut up,” she snapped. “I send you away, somewhere far away. You will drift and wander, endless and aimless, lost in the darkness.”

“What a cruel woman to stand idle as her husband draws his last breath,” he said. She squeezed her eyes shut and focused, repeating her words.

Louder.

And louder.

And louder.

Until she was shouting it and could feel the burning hot energy emit off her hand. The metal of her other hand creaked and she was sure melted in some places. She ignored it, ignored the pain, and slammed her hands on either side of his head.

And as she did, he vanished. Darkness took his place and she dropped to her knees. Her entire body felt weak and her heart raced in her throat.

“I am so sorry, Autumn.”

The shock of it hit her with Victor’s words in her head. She turned to see the body on the ground before scrambling too it. She could taste the electric fear coursing through her veins, burning everything it touched.

“Remy?” Her voice was weak as she touched his face. His eyes were wide, but the light in them was gone. Her heart raced, faster and faster as tears filled her eyes, sorrow burning her throat and her lungs. “Remy? Come on, don’t make a widow out of me.”

She pat at his face a few times before sliding her hand down to his chest. As her fingers drew along his throat, she touched the wet and sticky substance. Victor always had been a fucking good shot.

“Remy…” Her chest ached. Throbbed. Her heart shattered beneath her breast, the pieces falling into a dark abyss as tears trailed hot down her cheeks. All the light in the world went out in that instant.

There was only darkness. In black, white, and shades of grey. Ugly and empty. The sun no longer shined, and the moon was now a dim hollow shell.

“No, no, no,” she cried as she shook her head, laying his head in her lap as she half-rocked forward. “This isn’t happening. After everything we’ve been through together—Remy, come on, let this be a sick joke!”

“Autumn…”

“Shut up!” Autumn screamed, scalded eyes narrowed at the redhead as he approached. He stopped and held his hands up. “Get help! Please, oh god, Victor, please, I can’t lose him.”

“I don’t think—”

“Go!”

He left without further protest as she continued to rock back and forth.

“Sinister, Apocalypse, the Sentinels, the Angels…” Autumn hugged herself. “We’ve survived it all together. Come back to me, please.”

Seconds felt like hours as she sobbed. By the time Josh arrived, she was afraid to move for fear of breaking. He ran to her, his footsteps on the grass the loudest sound. Gold hands touched Remy’s throat and she held her breath.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Nothing happened. The color did not come back to his face. The light did not come back to his eyes. There was nothing. Nothing at all in the absence of life, in the end of the victorious battle.

Autumn felt it before it happened. The terrible tremor that would wrack her body for hours, the scream bubbling up in her throat that hadn’t yet escaped, loud enough to destroy her voice for days, the scalding tears like rivers, currently still a trickle. Her world was broken, forevermore, as she stared at Death’s final victim.

And all at once, it hit her. A sound that would haunt anyone that heard it for years to come. A woman, so strong, so enduring, shattered in an instant.

[soldierwinters]

👕 ☂️🍟🏅💙 !!!

Hello, luv! Thank you so much for the questions. ♡

👕 What’s your favourite type of clothing?  

◇ If you want to know what fashion I prefer, I like cute ones like Mori Girl Fashion and Pastel Colors.. but you would always see me wearing a skirt, leggings and Converse High combination. Leggings will always be a part of my clothes whenever I go. ♡ There are only few scenarios where you cannot see me wearing one like during special occasions and the like.

☂️ What’s your favourite type of weather?

◇ Cloudy will always be my favorite. It’s not too hot and not too cold either. It can get too hot here in the Philippines so I prefer some shade. 😄

🍟 Favourite fast food place?

◇ I LOVE KFC! Not because of Merlin. My family and I used to eat there since ai was young so it is really special for me. I love theit hot and spicy chicken. Also, I’m fond of Mcdo chicken nuggets as well. 😍

🏅 What’s your best achievement? 

◇ My best achievement would be me earning my scholarship, I guess. My course is rather pricey and we’re not from a really wealthy family so I want to help my parents with my school fees. I word hard every term to earn it. ♡

💙 Introvert or extrovert?

◇ I’m not quite sure what I am actually cause I feel like I’m a mixture of both. Tests say that I’m an extrovert though but so I think I am. I really love socializing and I don’t get jittery whenever I try to talk in front of a lot of people. I’m just shy to strangers at first especially with men.. but when I start to be comfortable, one cannot stop me from talking. 😂

Ohhhh I had fun answering this! Thanks so much, luv!For others, don’t be shy to ask!

[woollyqueen]

usse 55

Floral Patterns ~ An Essay About Flowers and Art (with a Blooming Addendum.)

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by Andrew Berardini

A Change of Heart installation view at Hannah Hoffman Gallery, Los Angeles, 2016. Courtesy: Hannah Hoffman Gallery, Los Angeles. Photo: Michael Underwood

“Without flowers, the reptiles, which had gotten along fine in a leafy, fruitless world, would probably still rule. Without flowers, we would not be.”

— Michael Pollan, The Botany of Desire (2001)

“Not even the category of the portrait seems to have ever attained the profound level of painterly decrepitude that still life would attain in the sinister harmlessness in the work of Matisse or Maurice de Vlaminck… the most obsolete of all still-life types.”

— Benjamin H. D. Buchloh on Gerhard Richter’s Flowers (1992)

Don’t worry, nobody’s looking. Go ahead.

Stop and smell the flowers.

Feel that sumptuous perfume blooming from those spreading petals. That’s pleasure. That’s sex. That’s the body lotion of the teenage beauty fingering your belt buckle to take your virginity (or the one you wore when you tugged that belt off your first). That’s your grandmother’s bathroom and the heart-shaped wreath at her funeral. That’s the lithe fingers and supple wrists of the florist, an emperor of blooms arranging the flowers for your mother just so.

Those petals, that scent, those colors.

Somehow flowers have become a decrepit subject, “the most obsolete of all still-life types,” to use Buchloh’s words. Despite the eminent Octoberist’s antipathy (and he is hardly alone in his disdain), flowers in art are back in bloom.

Flagrantly frivolous, wholly ephemeral, though ancient in art, the floral’s recent return as a major subject for artists marks a pivot toward those things that flowers represent: the decorative, the minor, the ephemeral and emotional, the liveliness of their bloom and the perfume of their decay, a sophisticated language of purest color and form that can be both raw nature and refined arrangement, poetic symbolism rubbing against the political mechanisms of value, history, and trade. Flowers are fragrant with subtle meanings, each different for every artist who chooses them as a subject. They are a move away from literal explications, self-righteous cynicism—and toward what, precisely? Let’s say poetry.

Bas Jan Ader, Primary Time (still), 1974. © Estate of Bas Jan Ader / Mary Sue Andersen, 2016 / Bas Jan Ader by SIAE, Rome, 2016. Courtesy: Meliksetian | Briggs, Los Angeles

Free in the wilderness, rowed in gardens, in bouquets on tables, or as a decorative aromatic around the dead, flowers offer an opportunity for a simple, sensual pleasure—both a temporary escape and a corporeal return. Their origins as a species are a bit shrouded in mystery, but most who study flowers and evolution agree that they came about in order to employ insects and animals in their reproduction (a process that surely continues with our artful interventions). They lure with beauty, eventually tricking humans into agriculture and the dream of making such fecund and lively yearnings permanent, into art.

First and foremost, flowers are the sex organs of plants. Those bright colors and elaborate bodies were meant to turn us on. Georgia O’Keeffe transformed her blossoms from still-life representation into a kind of abstraction that tongued that first truth of flowers; all of her blooms wore the faces of interdimensional pussies. Robert Mapplethorpe’s photographs of flowers look even more suggestive to me than some of his more obviously lusty snaps of men in various states of undress and erect action.

Though their flounce and curve have a pornography of color, flowers as a metaphor can be easily read as safe, sanitized stand-ins for the real musk and squelch of sex. A vase of flowers in grandma’s parlor might be less notable than a bouquet of dildos erupting out of a bucket of lube. The opposite of badass to all the tough boys playing with their power tools, flowers to them are for old ladies and sissies and girls. Macho minimalists preferred stacks of bricks and sheets of steel to prove the heft of their seriousness. Besides, the florals look too comfortably bourgeois for the shock and spectacle of self-serious avant-gardists, though Giacomo Balla’s Futurist Flowers(1918-1925) look as radical as anything else those defiant Italians cooked up.

Virginia Poundstone: Flower Mutations installation view at The Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum, Ridgefield, 2015. Courtesy: The Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum, Ridgefield. Photo: Jean Vong

Though flowers have appeared in art for thousands of years, first evidenced in funerary motifs in the earliest Egyptian dynasties, they’ve been used mostly as a sideshow, a decorative motif, a signifying prop. But around 1600, during the time of the tulip mania that rubbled the Netherlandish economy, Dutch artists began to paint blooms as the main attraction: finely wrought bouquets with delicate strokes, an idealistic botanist’s attention to perfection and detail, each variety laden with meaning, some held over from religion, some devised for newly invented varietals. This efflorescence came about with the disposable income of the bourgeoisie and the introduction of the tulip to international trading with the Ottoman Empire; in the court of Constantinople, flowers were all the rage. As an object of desire and prestige, the flower earned its worth as a central subject.

By the Victorian era, the language of flowers became wildly popular, as that repressed period needed something sexy to finger, especially for the corseted women. The frivolity of flowers was perhaps an area of knowledge the patriarchy let ladies have mastery over, but male artists weren’t ignoring the chromatic potential of blooms, either. With wet smears and hazy visions, Vincent van Gogh and Claude Monet were among the best floral daubers of their time (with a solid shout out to the drooping beauties of Henri Fantin-Latour, whose 1890 painting A Basket of Flowers made it onto New Order’s 1983 album Power, Corruption, and Lies, itself an elliptical Richter reference). Flowers to these painters were a way to explore the power and range of their medium with unfettered color. “Perhaps I owe it to flowers,” said Monet, “that I became a painter.” As art took an intellectual turn, however, flowers fell out as serious subjects and became the provenance of Sunday painters, appropriate only for the marginalized. Yet as outsiders increasingly collapse binaries, the center cannot hold and vines snake into the heart of power to bloom a variety as diverse and beautiful as the spectrum of humanity.

A Change of Heart, an exhibition organized by the curator Chris Sharp at Hannah Hoffman Gallery in Los Angeles in summer 2016, touched on dreams and contemplations I’d been having about obvious forms of beauty and their force in art as both assertion and escape. Sunsets, moonlight, waterfalls, and, of course, flowers, all easily dismissed as sentimental kitsch, seemed to be enjoying a new life, born of a self-conscious romanticism that acknowledges these subjects as perhaps decayed and misspent, but lets their beauty sweep them up anyway. Sharp stated in the press release that the work in the exhibition “embraces the floral still life in all its formal, symbolic, political and aesthetic heterogeneity… a radical and even dizzying diversity of approaches, including the queer, the decorative, the scientific, the euphemistic, the memento mori, the painterly, the deliberately amateur and minor as a position, and much more.”[1]

Willem de Rooij, Bouquet IX, 2012. Courtesy: the artist and Regen Projects, Los Angeles. Photo: Michael Underwood

From historical works by Andy Warhol, Alex Katz, Ellsworth Kelly, Jane Freilicher, Felix Gonzalez-Torres, and Bas Jan Ader to art made much more recently by Camille Henrot, Willem de Rooij, Amy Yao, Kapwani Kiwanga, and Paul Heyer, the pieces in A Change of Heart approach the floral in wholly unique ways. Rather than cordoning off the artists in Sharp’s excellent show, I’m going to weave their methods, ideas, and visions into a larger conversation, some aspects of which were quite likely on the curator’s mind, as any art gallery and its resources can only be so expansive. In London as well, the gallerist and curator Silka Rittson-Thomas has opened up a project space and storefront called TukTuk Flower Studio to host the floral visions of contemporary artists.

Of course some artists in recent history focus on the base, mass appeal of flowers, like Warhol and his iconic screenprint Flowers (1964), or Jeff Koons with his giant, bloom-encrusted Puppy(1992) and solid shimmering metal of Tulips (1995-2004). But despite the blank-faced games of pop cipher employed by Warhol and the spirited industrial-scale exuberance of Koons, I can’t help finding a whisper of contempt in both, a pandering hucksterism, giving the people what they want. This obviousness and its exploitation is of course a part of the story of our modern interactions with flowers, but it obscures a more nuanced narrative.

Capitalism has so often turned beauty as a notion into kitsch, or as Milan Kundera puts it, “a denial of shit,” and we can find this modern kitsch in the unblemished bloom on the cheeks of a Disney princess, or in “America’s most popular artist” Thomas Kinkade’s creation of an imagined past of perfect old-timey townships, a good old days that glosses over all the problems of inequality and oppression endemic to that era. Donald Trump is the kingpin of this kind of kitsch these days. The best of our feelings can be easily hijacked for political purposes, but it is a mistake to cynically dismiss those feelings simply because others would take advantage of them.

All aspects of creation are beautiful enough to need little human improvement, including flowers. As John Berger writes in The White Bird, “The notion that art is the mirror of nature is one that appeals only in periods of skepticism. Art does not imitate nature, it imitates a creation, sometimes to propose an alternative world, sometimes simply to amplify, to confirm, to make social the brief hope offered by nature.” [2] We attempt to capture the power of these moments not to improve upon them, but to fix their power, to make ephemeral hopes and desires into something more permanent. Perhaps the natural versus the human-made is one more collapsing binary, and the diversity of flowers allows for such wild variety that the simple monolithic subject of “flowers” can’t easily contain it. In using flowers as a subject, artists have gravitated from the classic still life (like Richter on the ass end of Buchloh’s anti-floral sentiment), with its entwined poetical and political meanings and their elaborate symbolic language, operating at the decorative margins, toward the center. This can be traced in the atmospheric floral patterns of Marc-Camille Chaimowicz (enjoying a fantastic resurgence of interest), the pastel squiggles of Lily van der Stokker, and the softly erotic washes of Paul Heyer. Pulling the margins into the center is also of course one of the great political projects of our time.

Felix Gonzales-Torres, “Untitled” (Alice B. Toklas’ and Gertrude Stein’s Grave, Paris), 1992. © The Felix Gonzales-Torres Foundation. Courtesy: Andrea Rosen Gallery, New York

The poetical-political intertwining in flowers has a few significant contemporary exemplars. Felix Gonzalez-Torres imbued common objects with profound poetic and political force throughout his work, and included in A Change of Heart was his photograph of the flowers on the graves of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. In a single snap, an almost slight touristic photograph, the artist reveals a nexus of forces around flowers: as memorial, as assertion of love with all its political and artistic forces, as vaginal (given their lesbian sexuality), and as a visual poem that matches Stein’s “A rose is a rose is a rose…,” itself of course an invocation of William Shakespeare’s “A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.” A rose is a rose and love is love, by any other name.

With a blend of flowers, sometimes artificially constructed, and his own indexical variety of sharp critique, Christopher Williams takes a more distinctly political focus, working wholly on reclassifying a collection of flower models (fakes, to be clear) not into botanical hierarchies but into political relevance. The photographs in Angola to Vietnam* (1989) are snapped pictures of selected replicas from the Harvard Botanical Museum’s Ware Collection of Blaschka Glass Models, made between 1887 and 1936. Williams, however, focuses on flowers from countries where political disappearances were recorded in 1985, reclassifying them by country of origin rather than by the museum’s system. But although these are certainly flowers, one gets the feeling that Williams wants to undermine their bourgeois beauty and the colonial impulse that collected, modeled, and classified them.

This sharply political act finds force in Taryn Simon’s photo series Paperwork and the Will of Capital (2015) and Kapwani Kiwanga’s ongoing series Flowers for Africa (begun in 2012), with their similar focus on floral arrangements made for banquets celebrating important political moments. Simon’s pictures tend to flatten the arrangements into manipulated environments. Kiwanga presents living bouquets, with the intention that they rot over the course of the exhibition (I watched one whither in A Change of Heart) so as to describe a complex physical poetic. For Kiwanga, the flowers that stood on the tables of important moments in politics represent the colonial import of European flower arrangement: where, for what, and by whom these flowers were cultivated, but also the hope and heartbreak involved in many of the agreements they witnessed. Some represented a marked turn toward liberation, while other accords withered along with the flowers. (Both of these projects echo, for me, Danh Vo’s display of the chandeliers from the Hotel Majestic in Paris hanging over the agreement that ended the US-Vietnam War.)

Zoe Crosher, The Manifest Destiny Billboard Project in Conjuction with LAND, Fourth Billboard to Be Seen Along Route 10, Heading West… (Where Highway 86 Intersects…), 2015. Courtesy: the artist. Photo: Chris Adler

Zoe Crosher’s billboard series Shangri LA’d (2013-2015), produced in collaboration with LAND, displayed a lush array of flowers and greenery arranged by the artist and shot in a storefront in Los Angeles’s Chinatown formerly occupied by the Chinese Communist Party. As one drove across the country on the transcontinental highway, I-10, the flowers rotted further with each successive picture, until a decayed brown mass greeted the traveler as they crossed into California and on to Los Angeles. The dream of prosperity and possibility that drives a traveler westward became the hardships of the road and the realities of the place.

For the last decade, Virginia Poundstone has included in her artwork all aspects of floral cultivation. She has climbed the Himalayan mountains to find the wildest of wildflowers, and traveled to the factory farms of Colombia, tracing industrially grown blooms from growth to auction to wholesalers to flower markets and shops. Her interest grew from her day job as a floral arranger and her research into the gendered origins of that craft in the West and its resonance as a mode of art making in Japanese ikebana. She has also curated exhibitions at the Aldrich Museum that included floral works by Christo, Nancy Graves, and Bas Jan Ader (Ader’s video Primary Time [1974], of endless arrangements, is also in A Change of Heart) that have informed her deep investigations into the complex symbolism and language of flowers.

Other artists focus primarily on this language. Willem de Rooij’s Bouquet series (first begun with his late collaborator, Jeroen de Rijke, in 2002) speaks without literal language. Discussions around politics are followed by meditations on color or a collection of blooms gathered for their intensely allergenic qualities. The giant displays, in contrast to Kiwanga’s, are carefully maintained throughout an exhibition; a florist collaborator always makes regular visits to an exhibition to maintain the scent, color, and freshness of the expression.

In A Change of Heart, Sharp also included Camille Henrot’s ikebana interpretations of important modern novels as well as Maria Loboda’s A Guide to Insults and Misanthropy (2006), which attempts to use the symbolic language of flowers to insult their receiver.

Camille Henrot, The Golden Notebook, Doris Lessing, 2014. Courtesy: the artist and Metro Pictures, New York

For flowers, the recent turn holds an echo of romanticism, the intuitive, the emotional, the poetic, existing alongside a belief in political freedoms. The lusty poet Lord Byron died in the war for Greek independence. One of the fundamental human rights is a right to pleasure, to beauty. Beauty isn’t our collective ignoring of the hard struggles of the world, but rather an assertion of exactly what we’re fighting for.

As Fernando Pessoa writes in The Book of Disquiet (1984), “Flowers, if described with phrases that define them in the air of the imagination, will have colours with a durability not found in cellular life. What moves lives. What is said endures.”[3]

[1] http://hannahhoffmangallery.com/media/files/pr_acoh_web.pdf. [2] John Berger, The White Bird (London: Chatto & Windus, 1985) [3] Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (London: Serpent’s Tale, 1991)

~ BLOOMING ADDENDUM ~

Christopher Williams, Angola, 1989, Blaschka Model 439, 1894, Genus no. 5091, Family, Sterculiaceae Cola acuminate (Beauv.) Schott and Endl., Cola Nut, Goora Nut, 1989, from the series Angola to Vietnam*, 1989. Courtesy: the artist and Galerie Gisela Capitain, Cologne

Orchid / #DA70D6

General Sternwood: The orchids are an excuse for the heat. You like orchids? Marlowe: Not particularly. General Sternwood: Nasty things. That flesh is too much like the flesh of men. Their perfume has a rotten sweetness of corruption… — The Big Sleep (1946)

The shape of this flowering plant’s pendulous doubled root ball suggested to some ancient Hellenic botanist the particular danglers in a man’s kit, and the orchid got its name from the Greek word for testes. Thus the dainty beloveds of aristocratic gardeners and fussy flower breeders are buried balls, dirty nuts. Try not to snicker when granny effuses, “I simply adore orchids.” Flowers have always been symbolic of sexuality, and even more so for those for whom it’s suppressed. Women, especially older ones, have been forced by social norms to stanch their desires, rarely granted the allowance to fuck freely. It gladdens the heart in its own weird way to hear old folks homes have the highest rates of STDs these days. Not because it’s good for anyone to catch the clap, but because it means they fuck with more abandon than most might care to admit.

To some, orchids are the sexiest of flowers. Their namesake roots lie buried in most variants, while those strange blooms pump horticultural hearts with lively colors, generous curves, and lusty orifices. If vaginal decoration took a sharp surgical turn past bejeweled vajazzling, you might find yourself confronted with one of these psychedelic pussies when dipping down for a French lick. As flowers, they fall into an uncanny valley. Too close but not close enough, the effect is just creepy rather than alluring. While other flowers invite an inserted nose, a huff, and though not yet an erection, their floral perfume has turned my head in that general direction. But the fleshy orchid does not inspire my lusts even a little. Perhaps even the opposite—its odor and form the absence of body, a dry, funereal thing.

“Crypt orchid” is the term for an undescended testicle, though I dream a flower that can only blossom in tombs.

The bright, rich purple creeps its name from the flower, one of innumerable possibilities for a plant with wild variation. Though it has the crackle of electricity beneath its buzz, orchid’s too muted to be much beyond a suggestion. Bright but not the brightest, rich without being creamy, orchid’s a faded purple haze on a bright day, the fading neon of a strip club past its prime.

Rose / #FF007F

A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.

When a beautiful rose dies beauty does not die because it is not really in the rose. — Agnes Martin (1989)

Each five-petal-kiss of colors from the tangled, toothy green stems. A brokenhearted smear, a yearning expressed through the formality of its presentation, the rose’s simple obviousness is its charm. The color of nipple, just exposed before cold air and hot mouths harden it into a deeper shade.

In many languages, the words for “rose” and “pink” are the same.

Rose-colored glasses. Roseate glow.

Rose tints my world Keeps me safe from my trouble and pain. — The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975)

Ask any florist and he’ll know how much a dozen will cost, one extra thrown in for luck. The rose grows thorns to better climb over its neighbors, to push over other flowers hungry for a beam of sunlight. More than one rose has drawn my blood, the dripping finger quickly mouthed.

Rose, floating in the pond, a dead flower in the eddies of the silver surface spangled with light. A lover’s bathtub blanket, a romantic’s bedspread. Rose, a gesture, an empty signifier, a lover’s lament, a husband’s apology. A shapely scented flower, a dream of what pussies could be.

Flowers and fruits are the sex organs of plants. Georgia O’Keeffe knew surely what she was doing with her folded blooms, plumped petals peeled back. Victorian ladies corseted by rigid morality spent repressed hours devotedly fingering their carefully cultivated flowers. Fresh blossoms will wilt on the vine whether they are nabbed or not. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, you virgins who make much of time. The scientific term for wilted plants starved of nutrients and water is “flaccid.”

A lover once told me she only enjoyed flowers knowing that something was dying expressly for her pleasure. Every rose has its thorn…

Flowers began as a funeral tradition to mask the odor of a decaying corpse. Wreathed, bouqueted, and sprayed, apple blossoms and heliotropes, chrysanthemums and camellias, hyacinths and delphiniums, snapdragons and, of course, roses. Anything goes for funeral flowers, just as long as they are fresh.

One artist I know dreamed of casting in concrete the cast-off flowers at the base of a Soviet war memorial. All the original flowers she stared at for hours, snapping picture after picture, measuring and admiring the perfect war memorial, the waste of pageantry all heaped and rotting, all the showy pomp to be swept up and trashed. Failing to gather them all from a park one Sunday afternoon, she made a memorial to that one. Under marbles carved Pro Patria, sometimes you’ll find flowers, but you’ll be sure to find a corpse.

“Roses,” she thought sardonically, “All trash, m’dear.” — Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway (1925)

As bright blooms fade, what is the color of decay?

Is it a sinking brown, a pale green, a moldy black that captures the wilted flower, the rotten fruit, the decomposing body? Spotted and mottled, both wet and dusty, alive with death’s critters and aromatic with rot, the color is unsteady at best, a hue with a checkered future. Tuck a rose away, let it dry, and though the life goes and the color fades, its form remains.

Ah Little Rose—how easy For such as thee to die! — Emily Dickinson (1858)

I won’t forget to put roses on your grave.

Lilac / #CBA2CB

I lost myself on a cool damp night Gave myself in that misty light Was hypnotized by a strange delight Under a lilac tree I made wine from the lilac tree Put my heart in its recipe It makes me see what I want to see and be what I want to be When I think more than I want to think Do things I never should do I drink much more than I ought to drink Because it brings me back you… Lilac wine is sweet and heady, like my love Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, like my love

Pale purples are the fucking saddest. Lavender’s forgetful wash. Mauve’s lonely decadence. And lilac. The color of unwilling resignation to lost passion. The pale fade, a lost spring.

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. —T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land (1922)

The lilac flower originated on the Croatian coast whence it found its way into the gardens of Turkish emperors and from there to Europe in the 16th century, not reaching the Americas until the 17th. The scent of lilac has become for many the scent of spring. Carried by the compound indole, which is also found in shit, lilac’s aroma carries with its fade a special decay, heavy and narcotic. To a nose that does not know the tricks of the master perfumer, indole dropped in chocolate and coffee makes a product smell natural.

A note found in perfume, bottled spring, often worn by elderly ladies. In the Descanso Gardens near Los Angeles, there is a grove of two hundred fifty varieties of lilac, their names a horticulturist’s poetry of yearning: Dark Night and Sylvan Beauty, Snow Shower and Spring Parade, Maiden’s Blush and Vesper Song.

I missed their bloom this year, gone to the snowy mountains where the flowers blossom late, but to walk among the towering shrubs is to be punched in the face with perfume. So sweet, so heady. Running my fingers over its heart-shaped leaf, failing to feel my leaf-shaped heart. I dreamed of going to the gardens with my lover and went there many times after she left me. Dreaming of her. Feeling the sweet sadness of her perfume, the unwilling resignation of her love withdrawn. And this lover, all the lovers who always go away. One lilac may hide another and then a lot of lilacs… — Kenneth Koch (1994)

Walt Whitman dropped a sprig on the passing coffin of a murdered president and birthed a poem for dooryards and students. Not his most beautiful by far, but its love is real. As any love for a distant leader can only be so real, but the lilac is love. Staring into a screen full of its color, I am both spring and its destruction. Its bright lovely burst of life, its wilt and loss. The cool kiss of night, naked skin shivers but still you stay. And you stay and drink its sweetness and its rot, you drink your heart.

In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said, “Is it good, friend?” “It is bitter—bitter,” he answered; “But I like it Because it is bitter, And because it is my heart.” — Stephen Crane (1895)

Cherry Blossom / #FFB7C5

A Selection of the Traditional Colors of Japan; or, Bands I Wished I Was In

Cherry Blossom Ibis Wing Long Spring Dawn Orangutan Persimmon Juice Cypress Bark Meat Sparrow Brown Decaying Leaves Pale Incense The Brown of Flattery The Color of an Undried Wall Golden Fallen Leaves Simmered Seaweed Contemplation in a Tea Garden Pale Fallen Leaves Underside of Willow Leaves Sooty Willow Bamboo Thousand-Year-Old Green Insect Screen Rusty Storeroom Velvet Harbor Rat Iron Storage Mousy Wisteria Thin Color Fake Purple Vanishing Red Mouse Half Color Inside of a Bottle

Andrew Berardini is an American writer known for his work as a visual art critic and curator in Los Angeles. He has published articles and essays in publications such as Mousse, Artforum, ArtReview, Art-Agenda.

Originally published on Mousse 55 (October–November 2016)

[guided-by-the-light]

Memento Mori

Mercy’s glowing hooves created a lighted pathway as charger and paladin raced through the streets. Buildings burned around her and screams dueled in the air with the crackling of fire. She long since shed her armor in the temple of Elune in the heart of Darnassus, light blessed as she was, Mercy could only carry so much weight. The tall paladin slid from the saddle and rushed into a burning building, protected only by a bubble of Light that formed around her.

Soon after, a family of Kal’dorei rush out and Myaka follows after them. Soot and ash settle even more over her already sullied clothes and hair, making the dark brown strands look like the true black color they normally appear. A child screams out and she turns to see burning debris falling towards the young girl.

She moves, a prayer of protection already flying to her lips. She already knows there isn't enough time. Her outstretched hands connect and push the child forward as the burning wood land on top of the paladin instead. A cry is ripped from her throat but a shield springs quickly and pushes the planks from her prone form. She is stunned, feeling her skin blister and char from the flames clinging to the back of her tunic. After a second, she rolls, remembering an old fire safety chant from her childhood. The fire smolders and goes out under her. She pulls herself to her feet and sends Mercy back to the temple with the Kal’dorei family.

She keeps running and moving through the homes and businesses, she ignores the burned skin, numbed from the severe burns on her back. Her only thought is a running tally.

4 saved...

10 saved...

15 saved...

Every time she sends another family towards evacuation she ticks the mental number higher.

Not enough...nowhere near enough.

Smoke invaded her lungs and stole her breath, but she kept moving.

30 saved…

32 saved…

It was getting harder to move through the area, even Mercy began to flag.

36 saved...

40 saved…

She had to keep going, she had to find more people.

45 saved…

48 saved…

Debris in her way stole her balance and she fell forward. The impact knocked what air remained her her lungs free. She lay stunned, struggling to breath as she coughed harshly. The Light soothed her throat and gave her enough energy to heft herself to her feet. She stumbled to Mercy, looking around to see if she could find anymore people to save. The tree listed to one side, rocking like an earthquake. The horse canted to one side, pulling her towards the temple. She nodded and began to lead the horse towards the temple. Her heart was heavy, if she was lucky, she was able to send fifty people to the temple for evacuation. There were thousands, maybe tens of thousands of civilians living in Darnassus. She got barely any of those trapped in the city.

They ran up the pathway leading to the temple, seeing the structure burning. It was a miracle of Elune the building had not collapsed already. The thought had barely passed her mind when she heard the front entrance creak and groan. A glance behind her revealed one last family running for safety. She shouted out, knowing she couldn’t do anything but prayed anyway…

A barrier of Light flared out around her, it expanded into a tall bubble, holding the entrance open and allowing the family and others to begin to stream into the opening and through the portal to Stormwind.

A power word barrier spell? She marveled at it, long ago she learned priest healing. After all, what was a paladin but a priest trained in martial combat, trained to weave the Light and combat into a cohesive whole? All of her healing spells and abilities had their basis in that beginning training in priesthood.

She strained to maintain the barrier, out of practice she certainly was with priest magic, and in truth she had never learned this particular spell. The Light answered her prayer however and that was all that mattered.

“Myaka!” Her brother’s voice called out behind her. “That’s enough! We have to evacuate.”

“There...might be...more coming.” She panted the words out, so much of her energy and focus devoted to maintaining the opening.

“Myaka...Myaka please.” He pleaded, running towards her. “We have to leave.”

Black creeped in her vision. More debris fell from the ceiling to land on the barrier. She gasped out in pain. Falling to her knees as the barrier flickered and collapsed. She blacked out, watching the burning stone and wood fall towards her.

____________________________________________________

Nathan watched his sister rest with concern. They were able to pull her from the burning debris, but she had not yet awakened, and if she did not awaken soon…

“How many?”

The question pulled him short, and he looked more closely at her. Her eyes were still closed, but her breathing was no longer the weakened cadence of the recovering. “Mya?”

“How many Nathan?” She asked again, her eyes opening as she started to work herself upright. “How many didn’t make it out?”

“I…” How did he answer that. After a moment, he gave the only answer he could. “Too many, Mya. It...they are still doing counts.” He rushed forward, he knew she should rest but…”Mya.” His voice broke and she looked at him as she was able to work herself to a sitting position.

“Mya...Mya, Papa...Papa, tried to help with the evacuation.” She gasped, air leaving her again as if the debris crushed her again. “Papa...he’s not well, he...they were able to get him back to Stormwind. But he...he won’t let them heal him.”

“What?!” She gasped out, moving to stand even as she wobbled in her balance. “He...why?!”

He moved to prop her up, “Come, Mya you have to see him.”

“Of course I do! I have to convince him how much of an idiot he is.”

“Mya…” He trails sadly, “He misses mother.” The reminder brought her up short, her mother's death during the invasions of the Legion hit her father harder than anything, it was well believed that was why he was so badly injured in the Shore. The Light cannot help those without the will to ask for it. Her shock had kept her quiet as they moved through the Cathedral of Light to the room her father rested in.

“Do you want me there when you talk to him?” He asked gently. “This...is going to be your chance to say goodbye to him.”

“I...I will talk to him alone.” She said softly, walking slowly into the room.

************************************

“Papa.” She breathed out. His salt and pepper hair was more salt with ash, his cheeks were sunken and skin pale. Had it really been this long since she saw him? Weakness and sickness had turned the man who had been so strong as she grew into a skeletal man who seemed so small in the bed.

“Mya.” His voice was ready but warm. “Oh my sweet lil My-My.” The child nickname was a stake to the heart, he stopped calling her that when she was a little girl, no more then maybe ten. She had told him very matter of fact she was a ‘big girl’ now and she didn’t need such a childish nickname anymore, it was when they started to call her Mya.

“Papa, I…” Why are you leaving us? I want more time. “Nathan says you…”

“Won’t let them keep me alive.” He says softly, she moved mechanically to his side. “Papa…” Her voice broke slightly as she kneeled by the bed. His hand reached up to cup the side of her face. She reaches up and rests her hand against his.

“Mya, I am ready to see Tori again.” He says softly, his voice quiet and thready.

She couldn’t ask him, she swallowed against the lump forming in her throat, hoping her voice stayed level. “Papa..” she breathed in softly, before Light started to form around her hand. She could see the pain and age loosen on his face, a smile forming as he realizes the Light is just enough to ease his pain.

The Light eased her too, allowing her to speak past the pain damning her throat, to will the tears burning her eyes to not fall.

“I love you, Papa. I am glad you will be with Mama again.” The nickname came easily, stopped for her mother around the time the nickname for her was no longer used. “Tell her we love her, and Nathan and I miss her dearly.” Another swallow that is eased by the thankful smile on her father's face as he seems to relax further into the bed. The words came to her, spoken in any Last Rites, and she let them flow.

“Go forth into the Light, Micah Winterborne, and be at peace.”

He breathed out, and his features relaxed fully into a peaceful cast. It was only when his eyes fluttered closed, and his hand slackened in her grasp against her cheek that she let the tears flow.

******************************

Days had passed after the death of her father. Nathan let her have time to cry and sob after he peacefully passed into the Light’s embrace, and she willingly went back to her own room in the Cathedral to recover. Her walk to her father’s side had aggravated the injuries she sustained in the burning of the World tree. Burn scars now covered her back and shoulder blades, a reminder of the burning debris that landed on her as she worked at saving others. She knew she could have healed the burns easily, her time as the Highlord of the Silver Hand and her use of the Silver Hand itself marked her abilities in the holy arts. She wanted them of a reminder of what the Horde does, a reminder that they burn and raze everything they touch. She stood in the middle of the Sanctum of the Light, seeing the empty way it looked. Just weeks ago paladins of all races worked together to defeat the Burning Legion. She moved towards the area that weapons known to the Paladin order were held, a slight nod was all she did when she saw Truthguard hanging there. Her expression twisted into a scowl when she thought of the tauren sunwalker she had last tasked with using it to find the demonic commander Highlord Kruul. She had trusted the paladin had the best interest of the citizens of Azeroth in mind, only to see him leading a regiment of Horde soldiers in the skirmishes of Darkshore. Her first order after watching over her father was to remove every Blood Knight and Sunwalker from the Sanctum. They could not trust the Horde, she remembered the attempts to take the Divine Bell through Dalaran, an attempt uncovered by Lady Proudmoore who also forced the Sunwreavers from Dalaran.

Perhaps Lady Proudmoore saw the duplicitous nature of the Sin’dorei before the rest of us did. She mused lightly. Truthguard had been recovered, the Ashbringer was also safe, used as it was by her brother Nathan. And of course, the Silver Hand had been in her possession until..

The thought of the large warhammer reminded her of her armor and the weapon that she left in the Temple when she started to assist the evacuation. The armor she didn’t care about however;

“Nathan, what became of the Silver Hand?” The large warhammer no longer held much of it’s legendary power, nearly all of it was lost when the power of the artifact was used to drain away the dangerous energy left in the great sword plunged into the planet by a dark titan. She continued to use it, it was a mark of her time in the Silver Hand, and she couldn’t bring herself to toss the weapon away.

“We...were able to salvage it but, something...happened.” She turned to look at him, confused by his words, he motioned her towards another area of the armory. A large warhammer rested in a weapon stand. She realized as she got closer that it was the Silver Hand, but as her brother said the weapon looked much different.

The head was burned, and pieces of it had broken off, giving the head the rough hewn shape of a gravestone left to be weathered by the elements. Vines added to the old look, snaking around the head and highlighting the only marking left from the original hammer; a closed fist in a circular marking. Blue flowing mist like energy drifted around the closed fist, it made her think of the wisps that the Kal’dorei become when they die.

She leaned down and griped the pommel and a gasp worked its way through her. The hammer hummed with a solemn power. It was not the warm healing feeling of the Light, but a cold sadness. It was a mother mourning the loss of a child; a husband mourning a wife; A friend mourning another friend; a…

A daughter mourning her father.

“Sorrow.” She says softly, “Loss. Darnassus left its mark even on the weapon of Tyr.”

“It is still not as strong as it was before the Sword.” Nathan echoed. “But the Silver Hand was bolstered by something.”

She frowned, the name didn’t feel right any more. The weapon, what ever had changed it, was no longer the Silver Hand. It was no longer a weapon showing the endless bolstering ability of the Light, it was- “A memento mori.” Myaka murmured softly, finishing her thought. “It has been bolstered by the memories of those fallen. By the sorrow and pain of those mourning those the Horde slaughtered in their cruelty.”

“Memento Mori.” Nathan tested the name, even though Myaka already knew how well it fit. She could feel the weapon hum in her grip. “A worthy name for what it has become.”

A messenger ran towards the two, stating Myaka was wanted for a diplomatic meeting to assist the Alliance in preparing for full war with the Horde.

“A fitting song.” Myaka says softly as she moves to follow the messenger. “One I will make sure is echoed by every butcher that calls the Horde home.”