#i fucking wept the first time i heard this poem

[sharkfish]

good ghost bill // "it will be loud"

[thatfanficstuff]

The Light in my Darkness - 22

Pairing: Clint x Reader ???

Warning/Note: Still angsty and shit.

***

The thing about loving someone was the pain that so often came with it. You knew from the beginning that this agreement with Clint was a risky proposition. That there was the chance it would all go to hell and you’d be left picking up the pieces of your heart. What you didn’t realize was just how deep that pain would go. Your chest ached with the loss of him. This wasn’t heartbreak, this was pure devastation. He had become such a part of you that his absence was a physical thing you felt deep in your soul.

God, it hurt. You laid on the floor of your studio for hours and wept. The coolness of the wood beneath you seeped through your clothes and your skin grew tight with dried tears, but still you cried. Grieving for the loss of the man you loved and for the love you were so certain he’d felt for you even if only for a moment.

Eventually the tears stopped but you remained curled up on the floor not willing to move just yet. You ran your eyes around the room taking in the photos that lined the wall, the sketches you’d drawn, the paintings you’d created. You hadn’t been wrong. He loved you. The proof was all around you. And nowhere could it be seen more clearly than the photographs still in your computer. 

You sat up with a sniff and ran the sleeve of your shirt over your face to wipe away some of the tears. You reached up and pulled your laptop from the counter where you’d sat it when you’d first entered the studio. After firing it up, you went immediately to your photos to scroll through them again. The images that had brought you such joy earlier now only served to hurt you more. You took a deep, stuttering breath, trying to center yourself.

You opened one of the images in your graphics program and, after making a couple of tweaks, sent it as an attachment to Steve. The email you sent with it was lengthy and detailed and perhaps a little rambly but he responded almost immediately. He loved every rambling thought you’d typed out.

This was it. This is what you had been missing. That central theme Steve wanted your show to have. Love. Loss. Him.

***

Clint woke the next afternoon with a dry mouth and throbbing head. He might have had a drink or five too many after returning home from your apartment. How had everything gone so colossally fucking wrong in such a short period of time? He’d taken the day off intending to spend it in bed with you. Well, your plan had been to do some prep work for Thanksgiving the next day, but that wasn’t what had been on his agenda at all. Shit. Thanksgiving. At least it was only supposed to be the two of you and Wanda. His girl wouldn’t give a shit what her old man whipped up for the holiday. If she even showed. She would probably be too pissed at him to even come.

And he deserved it. He knew he did. He should have stayed well the fuck away from Y/N and continued to admire you from afar. Instead, he’d just had to have a taste. He had just wanted to know for a moment what it would be like for you to be his. God, he was an idiot.

Natasha was right. This had been different from the beginning. Hell, if he was honest, he’d been in love with you before he ever had Loki write up the damn contract. But you were supposed to be stronger than him. Than all of this mess he was now in the middle of.

You weren’t supposed to fall in love with an old man like him. And as much as he wanted to toss all of his worries and concerns aside, he couldn’t. He already knew what would happen if he did. He’d become even more tangled up with you. Until he couldn’t function—couldn’t live—without you.

And then you’d realize that behind the success, behind the money, he was nothing. That deep down he was still that dirt poor soldier with nothing more than a good aim. And he wasn’t sure he could survive that look in your eye when it happened. That utter disappointment and regret. Not from you.

He swung his feet off the bed and sat up with a groan. He dropped his head into his hands and tugged at the strands of his hair. He’d lived his life the way he had for years to avoid this bone numbing ache that settled deep in the core of him. He sucked in a breath and released it in a sob. He was so, so broken without you. But if he let himself love you, let himself live the life he so desperately wanted, it would end him when you finally left.

***

Clint was more than a little surprised when Wanda showed up late the next morning. His head was buried in the fridge trying to decide what to make when her happy hello announced her arrival via the kitchen door. He straightened with a jerk, his eyes finding her immediately and taking in her happy expression.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” he said hesitantly. Surely, you had called her. Texted. Something. She was your best friend.

Wanda frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?” She looked around. “Where’s Y/N?”

Clint groaned and let his forehead fall against the fridge.

“What did you do?”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, otherwise not moving. “Who says I did anything? Maybe she did something.”

She placed her fists on her hips and stared him down, waiting for him to break, to admit what he’d done.

With a sigh, he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer before sitting at the table. “Things just didn’t work out, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay. Go fix it.” She stomped her foot and for just a moment, Clint had a flash of the girl she used to be.

“I’m sorry. I know she’s your friend, but there’s no reason that has to change.” He meant the words. He really did, but he also knew that there would be no more casual swims at his house or holiday dinners together.

“Why did you start this if you weren’t going to see it through? Why her?”

“Come on, Wanda. You know you can’t predict how a relationship is going to turn out. You just jump in and hope for the best. Sometimes things work out, sometimes they don’t.” He leaned back in his seat and ran his thumbnail along the edge of the label on his bottle.

She dropped into a chair across from him. “I’m not stupid, you know. I know you didn’t care about any of those women that you went out with. That’s why I thought this would be different. I thought maybe you were finally ready to give yourself a chance to be happy.”

Clint wasn’t surprised to hear that she’d figured him out a long time ago. She was always smarter than him anyway. He kept his eyes glued to the bottle in his hand.

“You are allowed to be happy, Dad. You know that, right?”

His gaze found hers but still, he said nothing.

After the silence stretched for too long, she sighed and got back to her feet. “As much as I love you, I’m not going to let my best friend spend the day alone. Especially when it’s your fault.”

He nodded to let her know he heard and watched her walk to the door.

She stopped in the doorway to look back at him. “By the way, you look like shit.” With that she left, slamming the door behind her.

***

“Y/N?” Wanda’s voice called surprising you. She had apparently let herself in with the key you’d given her. You hadn’t been expecting her to just show up.

“Back here,” you called back and returned to your project.

“What are you…” her voice trailed off as she stepped into the doorway. She sucked in a breath and the corner of your mouth kicked up in a smile. “You’ve been busy.”

You hummed in agreement but didn’t quit working.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you asked in an attempt to dodge her question.

“Besides the fact that I know what happened? Well, sort of.” She stepped into the room and walked over to the large canvas you’d finished earlier. “If I’m not mistaken this is a hand crushing a heart made of love poems.”

You glanced at her. “Don’t you like it?”

She blinked at you and you grinned before turning back to your current piece.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t think that’s really the point here, Y/N/N.”

You didn’t respond as you kept painting.

Wanda stepped closer to you. “How long have you been working like this?”

“Since he left.” Your voice broke a little and you reached over to grab your coffee from the counter. A long swallow of the lukewarm brew and you leaned on the counter to look at your friend.

Her worried gaze ran over you taking in your paint spattered appearance. “And when was that?”

You scrunched your nose in thought before shaking your head. “When I came back from the photo lab.”

She tilted her head and her gaze sharpened. “Tuesday?”

You took another sip of the coffee and nodded.

“That was two days ago. Have you slept at all?”

You ran a hand down your face. Of course, you hadn’t slept. You were too afraid you’d see him in your dreams.  

“Have you eaten?”

“Sure.” You’d had a bowl of cereal sometime the day before and enough coffee to keep you fueled for days.

Wanda plucked the paintbrush from your hand before pushing you toward the door. “Go get in the shower. I’ll make you something to eat.”

You wanted to argue, to tell her that you had work to do but she was right. You needed food and rest and you weren’t going to get either until you were clean. You stumbled into the shower and started to scrub rich, blue paint from your hands.

By the time Wanda appeared in your room ten minutes later, you were already curled up on your bed sound asleep.  

[bbydemjin]

a shitty harry styles and david mazouz fanfic: chapter 1

this is all a joke, please don’t take any of this seriously. i made this for a joke for my friends and for some reason i have decided to post. be grateful.

My alarm clock let out a screech of agony as it woke me from my crack induced slumber. I lifted my head from my pillow and opened a single eyeball to view the shitty display of the digital alarm clock I brought from the Khanvenience Store that I spotted when I visited Small Heath to see if the Peaky Blinders were still around. Fuck, it was nine o clock! I leapt out of the bong littered heap of teenage odour I called a bed and rushed into the bathroom. I twisted my knee-length brown locks into a messy bun on top of my hair and gazed into the mirror. I was ugly- anyone could see that. My pointed nose, full lips and cheekbones so sharp that l accidentally killed my dad when he cut himself trying to kiss me goodnight at age 8. I was as plain as could be. The worst was my eyes: emerald green, blue if you looked at them in the sun, blood-red if you looked at them in Hell and surrounded by the souls of the Wronged. Men wrote poems about my eyes. I retched from the sight of them and pulled on a loose baggy sweater I nicked from Primark and went down the stairs, careful not to wake my alcoholic stepdad. As I walked over to the front door, my mum screamed at me from the kitchen. “MAEVE YOU FUCK, HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU TO STOP DOING BLACK TAR HEROIN IN THE FUCKING LIVING ROOM”. I flinched slightly and let out a small whimper and scuttled out of the house like the measly rat I am. I ran all the way to school, scared of being late, though as I walked into the school gates, no one seemed to give a fuck because the whole ‘being late thing’ was a shitty plot device used by the writer because she is tired, writing this at midnight and has no other way to introduce Love Interest 1.

I ran down the hallway, my bag the size of a small bag thumping against my ribs because I have a BMI of -5 and am unhealthily skinny to appeal to the paedophiles on Tumblr reading this. Suddenly, I collided into a large object with an exact height of 5ft 9”, the weight of 74kg and shoe size of 10(US). I looked up and met the eyes of someone I had never seen before. They were green. I thought they were sexy. They happened to belong to a boy that I had somehow never met despite being in this school for years now. He was dressed in black (more specifically the black suit Harry wore for the 2019 Met Gala but he does not get dress coded despite being in a generally conservative high school somewhere in Michigan). “H-hi”, I stuttered, focusing my emerald green eyes on the conveniently placed pile of dog shit across the hallway (we are in Michigan remember). “Oh hi”, the brunette boy answered, giving a small smirk. “Sorry, for bumping into you,'' I mumbled, tugging the sleeves of my jumper down nervously. “No problem”, he grinned, “my name is Harry Styles, I’m new here” “My name is Maeve” “Nice to meet you Maeve”, he chucked, “do you know where Room 34 is? I have maths in there” “Oh, yeah, that’s mine. I’m going there anyway”.

Me and the green-eyed, brunette male with the shoe size 10 (US) walked through the halls, silently. I wasn’t like other girls, I physically could not talk to boys. I once had a spastic attack when a boy asked me if he could copy my homework. I went to a doctor but I couldn’t afford the 5 grand consultancy fee. I opened the door to our classroom and walked in and sat down, with no reaction from the teacher despite literally being two hours late. Harry took a seat right next to me, also with no reaction from the teacher. I ignored him and did my work. Suddenly, a piece of paper landed on my desk. I opened it and, in handwriting that looked like someone had put ink on a spider’s legs and watched it die on the paper, it said the words “dumb bitch whore slut cunt piece of shit dickhead prick absolute fucking spastic retarded asshole smartass dumbass fuckass piece of honky donkey doodle shite GO KYS!!!!1111”. I looked back and saw Satan herself grinning at me. Her long blonde hair and pale Aryan skin glowed as she let out a cackle at my face. She was Stacy Smith, my childhood bully for as long as I can remember. On my first day of school, I accidentally called her autistic instead of artistic and the Aryan bitch has hated me ever since. I turned back around angrily. I heard that bloke Harry whisper to me. “Maeve are you okay?”

I, on the verge of tears, stormed out of the classroom and into the men's bathroom. I wept loudly in front of the mirror, scaring off some twig limbed boy using the urinal next to me. I heard loud footsteps behind me, ones that could only belong to a size 10(US) foot. Harry put his medium-sized hand on my bony shoulder. “Maeve, what’s the matter?” “That blonde cunt Stacy Smith threw some paper at me that said I was a dumb bitch whore slut cunt piece of shit dickhead prick absolute fucking spastic retarded asshole smartass dumbass fuckass piece of honky donkey doodle shite” “What? That’s horrible!” “I know-” “But it wasn’t Stacy that threw it” “What?” “It was this other boy in front of you that threw that paper of your desk” “Who was it?” “I’m not sure, I literally got here approximately nine minutes ago. But he was short, scrawny and had matted curly hair. His kneecaps looked tasty.” Then, it hit me who he was describing. He was known across the school for his crimes: bullying, threatening, kidnapping (free my mans starlit rn), murder, musical theatre. Before I could say anything, a dark figure appeared in the bathroom doorway. The shitty flickering light of the budget cut affected bathroom illuminated his features and my worst fears were confirmed. The long stick figure of the one and only Mazodave stood in front of me.

[dokidoki-tae]

(that crying anon inspired me) What would La Squadra react to their s/o getting so emotional over being in love with them they cry whenever they're feeling all lovey dovey. (totally not projecting here.. heh heh.....)

i hope this is okay =w=

Risotto: You were a little tipsy from the wine you had from dinner. Risotto surprised you to a night out as a gesture of apology for being so busy. You got a little ahead of yourself, and now you were leaning on Risotto, smiling, singing, and attempting to dance. Risotto chuckled, humoring you as you asked him to dip you and help you twirl. As you walked back, you were sobering up but still leaning against his muscle frame, taking in his scent. He was strong and powerful but he held and cared for you in such a gentle way. Once to your home, Risotto brewed chamomile tea and began to set out your pajamas for you. “Tesoro, how are you feeling?” He went to check on you. He was feared by many but there knew nothing about him. You loved this man and the duality of his entire being. You had so much love for him and you didn’t have to state of mind to properly show it and you cried. “R-Risotto, you’re t-t-t-oo won-wonder-f-f-ful. I-I l-love you.” You managed to hiccup. Risotto tried to cough to hide the laugh. He loved you too, and seeing you like made him smile and his heart swelled. He picked you, directing you to wrap your legs around his waist and arms around his neck. “I love you too, Tesoro. When I had thought I would experience nothing but misfortune this life, you came into my life and made me believe there might some good still left in this world.” He stared was intense and filled with honesty. You were sober before, you sure were sober now. Risotto kissed you deeply, pulling back out of breath, hoping you could show each other your love.

Prosciutto: It happened as you watch Prosciutto gladly and readily cook dinner for the two of you. Sure, Prosciutto loves it when you cook for him. But he can’t help but feel at peace cooking dinner for the person he loves and it shows as he smiles and sometimes hums a classic tune. Watching him in such a domestic setting, with such a handsome smile reminds you of the love you feel for him, and you begin to cry, thinking about how lucky you are to have a man like him. When he brings over your plates and sees you in tears, he puts the plates down unceremoniously, repeatedly calls your name as he goes to press his forehead against yours. When he asks for the reason for your tears, you tell him through small sniffles, that you were just thinking about how much you loved him. He sighs in relief but also at your silliness for crying for such a thing but feels honored that you would shed tears that that. He strokes your wet cheek with his thumb, “Amore, I should be the one overwhelmed to have you to love.”

Pesci: You watched Pesci as he fished. It was one activity where his talent shined through. He was always successful in getting several delicious fish, always picking out the good ones from the bad. You couldn’t tell the difference but he could. Normally, Pesci was hesitant and nervous, questioning his abilities. Even with you, he felt like he had to prove himself, which made you sad. So you brought him to the beach often to see him relaxed and confident. He was such a gentle spirit and loved him greatly. You thought of your love for him and your desire to see him happy always and it overwhelmed you. When Pesci turned to look at you, he dropped his fishing pool and was immediately concerned. “[Y-Y/N], what’s wrong?” You shake your head, wiping your tears away and smiling. You tell him how much love you had for him and felt overwhelmed. It was Pesci’s turn to start crying and now you were comforting him. “I-I love you too! I’m so lucky to have you.” Pesci managed to say between his sniffles. 

Formaggio: As he watched the soccer game, Formaggio stuffed his face with pizza, his cheeks looking like a chipmunk. It was so uneloquent, but to you, he was the most handsome man on earth. You couldn’t help that butterflies always formed when you were with him. He’d turn and feed you some, which you didn’t hesitate to take a bit. You both looked at each other, cheeks stuffed, as you chewed and couldn’t help but break into laughter until you started crying. Formaggio almost choked when he began concerned. “Bella/o, what happened?” He asked while running his hand through your hair to sooth you. “I-I just l-love you so m-much!” You wept, accidentally spitting small bits of pizza at Formaggio. He paused before laughing again and grabbed you and sat you on his lap. “Here you are, making me worry that I fucked up somehow,” and leaned in to kiss the tears away. 

Illuso: Illuso kept to himself a lot and was often needed for gathering intel for his team. He spent as much time as he could with you. Most of the time, you’d find he has left flowers or notes in your home to make up for it. You didn’t mind as you knew worked was life or death for him. It was your birthday when you found he had left you breakfast, flowers, a gift, and a note for you. He must have set it up before going back to his work. You smell the flowers, your favorite and Illuso knew of course. Before eating, you open and read his note. He wrote you a poem and message, reaffirming his love for you. You stood in your kitchen, sobbing knowing that he loved you just as you loved him. You wanted him to be there to tell him just how much you loved him too. “Now I’m wondering if I had made a mistake in my plans.” Hearing his voice, you swiftly turned to see him, leaning in the doorframe from your room, smirking. “I didn’t anticipate for you to cry,” he said as he walked over you, “have I’ve upset you for making you think I’d miss today?” He tilted your chin up to look at him, eyes showing concern. Shaking your head, you tell him the real reason, and you can see the anxiety that was building up inside quickly vanish, and his usual cocky smile is back on his lips. He grabs your waist and pressed it against his. “Tesoro, allow me to show you all the ways I love you.” 

Melone: You were laying as you watched Melone sit and read a book while in bed together. He was always reading something before you two fell asleep, but it was usually you then it was him. But you this time you watched him, memorizing his every movement. The ways he tucked his hair behind his ears and the way his lips would sometimes curl and the way his nose scrunched up. This type of domesticity was what you longed to have with him. You wanted him by your side always because your love for him was greater than any other dream you had. You thought about being with him and being able to love him and tears began to flow and dampen your pillow. You tried to hide it, but your movements caught his eyes and now his attention was on you. “Amore, why are you crying?” He asked you gently, laying down next to you at eye level, reaching to smooth over your hair and gently run his fingers over your neck and shoulder. ���I was just thinking about how much I love you and want to spend my life with you.” You reveal. Melone eyes widen as he stared at your puffy wet red ones. Melone face softened and pulled you into a hug, resting his chin on your head. “Amore, I will always be by your side.” He let you cry softly in his arms, as he shed his own tear or two.

Ghiaccio: Ghiaccio was walking you back home after watching a movie you’ve been wanting to see since the trailer came out. Now you were spending the rest your night hearing Ghiaccio rant about everything wrong with it. And if you were being honest, you loved it. You loved how passionate he was and how knowledge he was about things. You know his team would be annoyed but you don’t care, you loved how expressive he was, the way his eyebrows furrow and the way he would sometimes pout and lick his lips as he talked. He squeezed your hand slightly and used his thumb to caress your skin, showing a gentleness that he didn’t show others. Ghiaccio only allowing you to see that side of him was touching and you began to cry, thinking your precious moments with him. He first noticed you were crying when he heard your quiet sobs. “H-hey? Why the hell are you crying for?” You were trying to control yourself and couldn't answer immediately. “Are you crying because the movie was shit?  S-shit...I-I mean the movie wasn’t all bad, I guess. Now stop crying!” He demanded, wiping your tears away. You laugh at his attempts to console you. After you’ve calmed down, you tell him why you were crying. He’s dumbfounded for once second before scolding. “What the fuck. I thought it was because of the fucking movie. Why the fuck are you crying about that anyway, idiot?” Ghiaccio pinches your cheeks, stretching them. He scowling before letting out a single laugh. “I guess I love you too, idiot.”

Sorbet & Gelato: Gelato and Sorbet were both free from missions for the next two days and decided to spend time with you. When they arrived to your place, you weren’t home but they called you and you told them to let themselves in since you had to go pick some stuff up at the store. When they enter, they see you’ve been doing laundry, leaving piles of unfolded clothes on your couch. Bored, they both sat on the floor and began folding. Gelato messed around, placing your underwear on his head, making Sorbet laugh. When you get home and see them, you laugh, snapping a picture of Gelato. Sorbet strides over kisses your cheek and takes your bags from you. They don’t let you lift a finger as they put things away for you, talking about all the things they have planned since they were free to spend time with you. Your sitting at the counter with Gelato and Sorbet is looking in your fridge and cabinets to prepare something for dinner. Gelato is chatting away as Sorbet concentrates on dinner. You rarely get to spend time with both of them. Usually, it’s either Sorbet without Gelato or Gelato without Sorbet. You feel like the heavens have blessed you by allowing these two to be a part of your life. You feel whole when you’re with them both. You begin to feel emotional, your lips quivering and tears running down your cheeks. “A-Amore, what happened?” Gelato broke you out of your thought and caught Sorbet’s attention. “Hey,” Sorbet cupped your face, “Are you alright?” Gelato rubbed your back, coaxing you to let out your feelings. “I’m just thinking how much I love you two,” your voice soft. Gelato sighs dramatically and hugs you tightly. “You scared me, Amore! I thought I said something bad!” Sorbet ruffled your hair and kissed your forehead. “And we love you too, I’m sure Gelato means to say.” Gelato followed with a “YUP! Love you more than all the money in the world!” “H-Hey let’s not get carried away...” Sorbet added and brought you into laughter.

[rotzaprachim]

марсианка (KOS The Martian AU)

This started with me thinking SPACE PIRATE NIKOLAI, and then not wanting to have to google a bunch of Star Wars shit to write that AU, and then remembering Mark Watney Space Pirate, and then writing that convo out, and then this whole mess grew from that one scene, and it’s almost 2000 words. So: Space Pirate Zoya. 

I know nothing about space or space agencies. I apologise so much.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17714387 - AO3 link

----

He talks to her in Russian, over the coms. English is the main language of communication with Earth; it’s what she leaves her logs in, it’s what she got her climatology doctorate in even if, for the most elemental things, she looks out at the night sky and thinks, כוכב, kochav, before she hears the English. نجم, звезда, those come easily, too. And তারকা, she reminds herself. Najim, zvezda, tārakā. You play such games with your mind to keep from losing your grasp on earth, all the way up here.

Russian, though, it’s what her aunt spoke to her in, after she saved her life, in a tiny flat in a smoggy bloc of Petah Tikvah. The current pulls her home.

“Nazyalenskaya,” he drawls over the fritzy connection system, “I want to kill Rietveld.”

She quirks a smile at that; everyone has wanted to kill Rietveld. She would give a lot to want to kill Rietveld right now.

“I think you can spare him another day. If only for all the Van Halen tapes he left behind. And the ridiculous quantity of Indonesian rap.”

“I’m never going to forget about that.”

“Hmmmm, I’d be careful about talking, considering the number of romance novels I’ve found on the system, downloaded by one N. Lantsov.”

- 

“In the face of oblivion,” she tells the crew of the Терешко́ва, “the only course of action left is to science the shit out of this.”

-

How does it feel to be the dying goddess of your own planet?

Sometimes, that’s what she feels like, when she pulls water from Rocket fuel. No one around to hear her swear.

It may be on Mars, but growing potatoes in a literal field of shit pulls her from that revery, into some kind of ancestral, rain-soaked Russian field.

She wonders, absentmindedly and only half-jokingly, if she’s gonna be here long enough that attempting to distil some vodka for the pain would be worth it.

No. She’ll pull herself out of this on pure spite alone, if she has to. It’s gotten her out of other tough places. She’ll pull herself out of this mess, and above a dust clogged atmosphere to the sky above, and all the way home. She’ll buy a cheap- no, an expensive one, it’s what Earth owes her- an expensive bottle of wine from a corner store and uncork it with her eyes out to the sea and she’ll drink life down to the dregs.

I am not going to die here.

-

Look at the stars she tells herself, and try not to feel the fear.

The first English poem she memorised through to the end. Sarah Williams, the full version, not the one chopped to a fridge-magnet length quote. Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, -- I would know him when we meet. Considering that in its entirety it’s about a scientist comprehending his own imminent mortality, it is perhaps not the best choice of reading material. You may tell the German college that their honour comes too./But they must not waste repentance on the grizzled savant’s fate; Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”

She was a girl, once, and she wanted to get away and leave her old life in flames behind her, and she did. She ran and ran and ran, past national borders and past agencies with long acronyms and past the fiery bounds of earth herself. She ran until, quite literally, she could go no further, until she was a woman in a duct-taped house in a place no thing can live, like some kind of mid 21st century Slavic witch.

-

           “Not only am I the best meterologist on earth, I’m the best fucking botanist on this planet. Best surgeon, best cook, best-” she isn’t one to lighten the mood, usually, but what else is there- “best lover.”

-

She points up, through the palm branches of the sukkah’s roof and to the night sky above.

“You can see Mars, right there? See, you can see me. It’s not that far away.”

Lada doesn’t seem convinced.

“You might not come back-”

“You think a few million kilometers is gonna stop me from getting back to my best research partner? Huh. Thought you knew me better than that.”

“A few million?”

“Closer than the nearest bus stop.”

“It’s gonna be years.”

“And so? I’ll expect you to be a proper scientist, when I get back. Or a proper poet, or painter, or chicken farmer.”

“But you’ll come back?”

“There’s nothing that can stop me.”

-

“Nazyalenskaya,” he asks, and in her name is the universe. “How are you?” is not the question to ask a lone crew member stranded literally on Mars. “We got a letter from your family. Gonna patch it through to you.”

“What do you suppose the requirements for building a sukkah on Mars are?”

Not that there’s much of a rule book for this kind of thing, but it’s something she thinks about. Humans, they look at the void and the unlivable planet, and they make it theirs. Genya’s calculations for the direction to face Mecca. The whole crew’s World Cup fervor. The solid week she and Rietveld spent in a subtle face off with the rest of the crew about using the big screen to keep up with Eurovision. The constant, unending, awkwardness of Ghafa and Rietveld, though both were far too professional to act on it.

-

“Red wire to the green and-”

“Lotta fucking duct tape, I know.”

Repairing the rover- that’s a lot of fun. She never really learned how to fix cars, back home. But it gives her something to do, something active, besides staring at potato plants.

She opens another one of her precious rovers for the parts. A weather probe. Says a silent prayer for the death of science.

It’s a long way to Schiaparelli crater. Zoya’s hated road trips for as long as she can remember, both in the environmentalist, fume-hating way, and also in the traffic-hating kind of way. So, she tells herself. Channel that spite into doing what scares you.

-

“Nazyalenskaya,” he says, “I’ve been thinking about the international implications of what you’re trying to do.”

“Mhmm” she says

“First off, I’d like to thank you for being possibly the most diplomatically complicated climatologist alive. Got Roscosmos, ISRO, and the ISA all breathing down my necks.”

“Good. Use it. Play ‘em against each other. This is either the biggest propaganda win or worst failure of their fucking lives.”

“The other thing is law on Mars. There’s an international treaty saying no country can claim anything that’s not on earth. By another treaty, if you’re not in any country’s territory, maritime law applies. So, Mars is international waters.”

Treaties, red tape, diplomatic stuff- that was never her job. Her job was making sure that six other people could breathe in space. Maintaining, linking the systems of the Hab to be survivable.

The storms, though, that was why she was really there. Or at least, that’s what pulled her from earth. The kinds of weather this galaxy had, beyond the limits of earth.

(Once upon a time, Mars had a viable atmosphere. Once upon a time. She looks out at the orange hellscape and wonders: will this be us?)

And then a storm had been her death. She was just biding her time until it happened.

Pessimism. What else was left?

“So?”

“So, Nazyalenskaya, the Hab’s a tripartite effort. ESA, Roscosmos, CNSA. Non-military, but you know as well as I do there’s enough earth-based bitching about who owns it. The second you walk outside, though, you’re in international waters. Soon-”

“No-”

“Soon you’re gonna leave it for the Schiaparelli crater, and you’re gonna commandeer the Ares lV lander. No one on earth gave you explicit permission to do this, and they can’t until you’re back with us on Терешко́ва .”

She realises where this is going. “Fucking hell, Lantsov, not more with the-”

“So you’re going to be taking a craft into international waters without permission, which by definition makes you a pirate. “

Even she cracks a smile.

“DOCTOR ZOYA NAZYALENSKAYA, SPACE PIRATE!”

She can feel the excitement down the line.

“I better get an eye patch at the end of all this.”

“Nothing less for the best meteorologist on the planet.”

“A ship. Commandeered Spanish galleon.”

“Of course.”

“Crate full of gold bullion.”

“I promise you. I think the rest of the crew’s been planning their first meal back on earth for the last year.”

“Shut the fuck up. You’re not the ones living off potatoes and protein bars.” She’d found a few secreted-away bottles of kecap manis and a jar of sambal oelek in Rietveld’s luggage, which- completely against regulations for cargo by weight, but it’s inadvertently the best thing he’s ever done for her. At least when she eats her dwindling space rations, she can burn her fucking tongue off, due to Rietveld’s stubborn Dutch insistance to never listen to any rules, ever. 

“Yes, but. We’ve heard all the drafts of the epic-length poem Yul-Bataar’s written to herald you with on your return.”

“Almost makes me want to die alone on Mars.”

“Hush up. We’ve already had to watch your funeral once. I even wrote a speech.”

“I better get a recording of that when I get back,” she says. “You better have cried. You better have wept over the untimely demise of Earth’s best meteorologist.”

“You better believe it was a speech for the ages. Wait, i can find a draft and read it-”

“Save it. I want to savour my death, after I know I’m gonna live.”

“This is next level Slav gallows humour. How many people get to watch their own funerals?”

Zoya Nazyalenskaya does not giggle, but the thought of all those puffed-up world leaders saying things about her importance, her intelligence, her beauty. (Will men see anything else?)  Shedding a few tears about a brown, Jewish, Russo-Bengali meteorologist who’d they’d barely cared to listen to in her life, but here, dead, she’s the ultimate pawn in their games. . . .

It might make her laugh. Slightly.

           And then she thinks about Aunt Liliyana and Lada sitting shiva for her in that flat in Haifa. The first thing she’d bought with her earnings after the ESA had taken her on was a nicer flat for the two of them, in walking distance to the sea.

“Lantsov,” she says, although it feels like exposing some part of herself she doesn’t want to recognise. “Lantsov, keep talking. Please.”

“Of course. What about?” “The crew’s first meal. Back on earth. What is it?”

“Zenik said red-velvet waffles with, quote, “a fuckton of whipped cream. An entire can of whipped cream.” Andreyev like a good Moldovan says it’s gotta be sarmale, and I swore Rietveld lives off coffee and the destruction of his enemies but I know he’s got a thing for nasi goreng and. . ..”

-

This is a dumbass long-shot solution that will probably get them all killed.

It takes a certain kind of long-shot nihilistic self-destruction to enter the airless murder void in the first place, but this is. ..

“The only thing that might work.”

Bo nods and then glares at him to shut up.

The ship’s got a big whiteboard, and Bo’s hands move almost as fast as his mouth does as he sketches, scribbles, draws, talks. They’ve got a direct, illegal, verboten, unknown, lifesaving link through to the CNSA, and as Kuwei’s the only native Mandarin speaker aboard, he’s the main one doing the talking. He’s a chemist, though, - Ghafa’s the pilot, Zhabin’s the chief navigator, and it’s a controlled frenzy of different langauges and disciplines as the crew hashes out the most wild rescue plan in human history.

“How do we know-”

“He’s the best astrodynamacist alive. Also, my dad, but-”

He, Zhabin, Ghafa and Rietveld all independently run the calculations.

Да, Да, हाँ, Ja.

“Who’s ready to go against the explicit instructions of five space agencies to bring the best space pirate alive back home?”

It was never even a choice.

-

“Zoya,” he says, over the link. “We’ll get you home.”

[doth-quoth]

Poem #016: The One That Left...

15 years ago to this day was the time you left our lives. I didn’t know I’d never see you again, never got to say goodbye. Life cut short at forty-eight, fate can be a cruel mistress. I didn’t ask why or react at first, before by delayed-reaction my tears burst. My dad wrapped arms around and wept.

You walked out of life with calm reassurance, a headache shrugged off “I’m fine” you said. No one saw that two weeks later you’d be dead. The pain inside remains. My soul is clasped in iron chains locked with no key to release it. It hurts much harder when thoughts of you hit.

I was playing a game when the call came, You should’ve been home in 40 minutes and I waiting to hear the front door knowing instinctively you were in from work, rushing down stairs to hug you home. Instead you was being rushed to hospital I was rushed away to stay with my aunt as though I was in the way. Never once got to see you before you died. I always regretted that. Always will.

Annie’s Song played at your funeral. The words have darker meaning now: The forest has burnt, the mountains have collapsed, the rain has ceased, the desert is wrought with death, the ocean is acid.

When I look to your photo for good memories to see I don’t feel happy, only pain and sorrow, only empty and hollow. You're not here where you should be.

The loss of you I still feel. the hole never will truly heal. The role can’t be refilled. A broken pillar that we can’t rebuild. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.

15 years you’ve been gone. Life has moved on but I haven’t. I still miss you. It still fucking hurts. I never got to tell you these precious few words:

“Goodbye mum. Love you, will always miss you.”

So... author’s note. Usually I have one, so I guess I’ll feel I’ll add more background to this... if it wasn’t blazingly obvious from the poem what the topic is about.

About 15 years and two weeks ago today, at approximately 5.30pm, when my family was gearing up for Christmas, my brother had my first nephew on the way and I was looking forward to the Christmas holidays from my first year of secondary school, a phone call came through to the house phone. I was sat upstairs at the time playing a video game, before i received a shout to turn it off and come downstairs.

The phone call was from the hospital, who’d just rang my dad to tell him my mum had been rushed in after collapsing in the supermarket on her way home from work. I don’t know if it was my dad trying to protect me from the whole commotion of rushing around, or if he felt I would just be in the way, or whatever, but I was sent to stay with my aunt around the corner, not completely understanding the situation itself. I’m assuming it’s because he wasn’t in much of a state to look after me with the stress of everything.

I recalled him telling my brother, or my aunt that he should’ve told her to go to the hospital earlier in the day, when she complained of a strong, sharp sudden onset of pain in her head. Instead she shrugged it off as nothing, told him it passed, she was fine and went off to work. Guess what, it wasn’t fucking nothing.

The death certificate, lists it as a subarachnoid haemorrhage, a rupturing of a blood vessel that causes a bleed on the brain, an aneurysm. Life threatening and in need of emergency surgery. Without release, it causes a build-up of pressure, that left untreated eventually causes loss of consciousness and irreparable brain damage. Typically these are made at greater risks by weaknesses in the cell walls. They’re not guaranteed to burst, but they’re at risk of it. Risk factors also include smoking (she was a smoker), family history (her mum died of it, from what I heard, in front of her), head injuries, excessive alcohol consumption and high blood pressure. It doesn’t necessarily come on over time either, it is sudden when it happens and that kinda makes it harder to accept, because not everyone sees it coming. It’s kinda the reason why I’m a little bit adamant when it comes to people who have chronic headaches or something to get them checked.

There is usually a 1-in-3 chance of survival (if treatment and diagnosis is received immediately), to make a full recovery, 1-in-3 chance of survival with varied loss of brain function, or 1-in-3 chance of death (if not caught in time). Hers wasn’t caught in time. She was in intensive care for two weeks before there was no detectable brain activity. She was essentially brain dead with only life support keeping her heart going when my dad OK’d them to turn the machine off.

Never once in that time, I saw her in hospital. Maybe my family wanted to protect me from seeing her with so many tubes and pipes and whatnot, not responding to people. I don’t know. I never asked him, it’s not something I perhaps what to get into a discussion about. The only thing I do know now is that I wish I had.... because perhaps it would’ve helped down the line. I don’t know. It’s speculative, but it’s something I’ve deeply regretted ever since. I never saw her again

My dad came to see me after that decision was made, to tell me she had gone. He wrapped his arms around me and wept for a few minutes, I sat motionless. I didn’t react immediately. It didn’t register until afterwards, when my cousin entered the room, and asked if I didn’t care. It took that for it to register completely and I cried into her arms.

The funeral was held a few days before Christmas. She was given a cremation, her ashes still sit in a small casket at home with a little doll sat on top, sat waiting for the day when it is time for my dad to go, to have their ashes mixed, reunited and sprinkled on a favourite holiday spot of theirs. She was cremated to John Denver’s Annie’s Song (you know, the on that goes You Fill Up My Senses).

Her photo has stayed with me in my room ever since though. Sat there, with a small lock of her hair in the frame. That photo is probably the one thing that will follow me to any place I move. Unfortunately the lock of hair is becoming loose and move around in the picture. I need to find a way to rebind it (somewhat) and secure it there again, but I’m also a little bit reluctant to open the frame and take it out because it’s something I don’t want to lose and it is easy to lose. It’s the one possession in my life that is never going to change, never going to disappear.

Truth be told, I don’t think I’ve ever properly grieved, even to this day... or perhaps it’s because I’ve never properly talked about my feelings. I’ve kinda left them to one side over the years and there is perhaps only one other person who I have told. They might eventually read this when it’s published and reblogged to my main, if they’re awake and scroll past it at some point if their time zone allows. They know who they are, they’ll probably mention it to me at some point in fact. I want to give them a massive thank you for the help they’ve given me over the years figuring stuff out. Thank you.

I want to round this note off now. There is a truth that is probably left unacknowledged to some, that people who have experienced profound loss come to realise in time. That truth is that the pain of loss, it never ever really truly goes away. The hole it leaves is never ever able to be filled. Time may be called a healer, and it does help a bit, it closes up a bit, but it always remains with you, that one person you’ve lost in your life that can never be replaced. Be it parents, friends, partners, pets, etc. You learn to cope with it, you accept they’re gone and not coming back, but you will never stop missing them. Never, no matter how much time has passed. It may not be every single day, but there are days, moments in life you will wish they are there.

As much as that hurts though, it’s also still acknowledgement of the bond you shared. I guess if there is a comfort somewhere in it all, there is that. But still, it remains shit to feel sometimes and there are still times it pulls at you to remind you it is still there.

Anyway that’s it. I’ve said all I can on the topic.

Love you mum, always… and I’ll miss you, always.

[francisthegreat]

Book Rec List

HI GUYS I did it and it took ten thousand years, but here’s my book rec list! 

So this is long and I’m ~fairly stoned~ right now, so I’m only going to do little write-ups for ones that like, knocked my SOCKS off, like one in a million. HOWEVER every single one of these is an amazing book that i love from the bottom of my heart like my own child. 

Poetry

Citizen // Claudia Rankine

Calling a Wolf a Wolf // Kayeh Akbar

Dancing in Odessa // Ilya Kaminsky 

Bluets // Maggie Nelson 

The Glass Essay // Anne Carson 

This one. This one deserves a hundred words. This poem was the first poem I ever read by my one and only lord and savior, Anne Carson, who I would die for. Her use of language and metaphor, her fucking grasp of the depths of human emotion and understanding and cruelty and joy and all the complexities of life just. Ugh. Absolutely the most beautiful single poem I’ve ever read. It also has a lot of really beautiful things to say about Wuthering Heights.

Helen in Egypt // HD

The Voice at 3AM // Charles Simic 

Leaves of Grass // Walt Whitman

Howl // Allen Ginsberg 

The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, in particular The Bitter River

Antigonick // Anne Carson (*This is a play, a very strange and wonderful adaptation of Antigone)

Nonfiction

Sapiens // Yuval Noah Harari

This book fucked me UP.

A Brief History of Nearly Everything // Bill Bryson 

Between the World and Me // Ta-Nehisi Coates

Seven Brief Lessons on Physics // Carlo Rovelli  

Bad Feminist // Roxanne Gay

Too Much and Not the Mood // Durga Chew-Bose

The Argonauts // Maggie Nelson 

Another woman at whose feet I would literally cower if given the chance. There is so much in this book it almost defies explanation, but it explores relationships and love and gender identity and sexuality all in such a beautiful way, half memoir and half poetry and half love letter and I don’t care if that’s three halves, it’s Maggie fucking Nelson

Jane: A Murder // Maggie Nelson 

Zami: A New Spelling of My Name // Audre Lorde 

Graphic Novels

Fun Home // Alison Bechdel 

Saga // Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples 

I included Fiona because, even though she’s the illustrator here, the art is as much a part of the story as the narrative. This is probably objectively the best graphic novel series I’ve ever read. Absolutely stunning. Deep and insightful and clever and funny and scary and sad, so honest and so frightening in its ability to hold up a mirror to modern society, despite being science fiction. Really a work of genius.

Monstress // Marjorie Liu

Saga of the Swamp Thing // Alan Moore 

Probably the single greatest comic ever written. A fucking inspiration. Groundbreaking in its art and its narration. 

Midnighter //  Steve Orlando 

East of West // Jonathan Hickman

Y The Last Man // Brian K Vaughan 

Sandman // Neil Gaiman 

Black Panther // Ta-Nehisi Coates, Roxanne Gay (World of Wakanda)

Historical Fiction (requested by @meinesterne) 

Girl Waits With Gun // Amy Stewart

All the Light We Cannot See // Anthony Doerr

The Underground Railroad // Colson Whitehead

Lincoln in the Bardo // George Saunders

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle // Haruki Murakami (I’m reaching with this one)

Sci-fi/Fantasy written by authors of color (requested by @rex-luscus)

Akata Witch // Nnedi Okorafor

Binti // Nnedi Okorafor

Parable of the Sower // Octavia Butler

OCTAVIA BUTLER IS A SCIENCE FICTION GOD AND SHE SHOULD BE WORSHIPPED.

Kindred // Octavia Butler 

Futureland // Walter Mosley 

I wish I had more authors for you. If anyone has any, please add, I’d love to read more of this!

Same Sex Couples/Queer Characters (requested by @kyluxtrashcompactor)

Call Me By Your Name // Andre Aciman 

You guys have probably heard me screeching about this lately because the movie is coming out, but jesus mary and joseph if it’s not legitimately the most beautiful romance I have ever read in my entire life. I wept like a baby when I finished it. Like a little baby. The level of intimacy explored and reached in this book between the characters and, through them, the reader is just like. Fuckin unreal. The most intimate, most vulnerable, most delicately emotional romance I’ve ever read.

The Passion // Jeanette Winterson 

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST I LOVE THIS BOOK

Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit // Jeanette Winterson 

The Song of Achilles // Madeline Miller 

Autobiography of Red // Anne Carson 

This is a novel in verse and it is without a doubt my favorite book of all time. I’ve never read something that has affected me like this. I don’t know if i ever will again.  The way Anne Carson understands desire, the way she communicates it to her audience. There is literally no one on this fucking earth who has a better grip on the very definition of Eros than this woman. I was covered in chills basically the entire time. I had tears in my eyes from the sheer fucking beauty of the language and the sentiments she was writing about.

The Color Purple // Alice Walker 

Middlesex // Jeffrey Eugenides (falls mostly under the Queer Characters part of this)

Orlando // Virginia Woolf (also falls mostly under the Queer Characters part of this)

Her Body and Other Parties // Carmen Maria Machado

Unreal. UNREAL. UNREAL. Extraordinary. Fucking searing. Seriously, just. Go read it. 

General Fiction 

House of Leaves // Mark Z Danielewski 

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao // Junot Diaz 

Blood Meridian // Cormac Macarthy

This is How You Lose Her // Junot Diaz 

I just want to say that I would die for Junot Diaz and that everything this man has ever written is un freaking believable. He is a legend. This story collection broke my heart and it felt so sweet while it was doing it. It’s so deeply personal, when he writes. You can really feel it. It crawls inside you.

Things We Lost in the Fire // Mariana Enriquez 

The Handmaid’s Tale // Margaret Atwood

A Constellation of Vital Phenomena // Anthony Marra 

Fucking devastating. I was gutted. 

Kafka on the Shore // Haruki Murakami

John Dies at the End // David Wong

As I Lay Dying // William Faulkner

Slaughterhouse Five // Kurt Vonnegut 

Alright guys. That’s all I can think of right now. If you have more specific requests, hit me up. And you KNOW how much i love playing the “book playlist” game so PLEASE SEND ME CHARACTERS AND I’LL TELL YOU WHAT THEY READ.

[celebratorypenguin]

Fic: Cherry Ripe

Rating: R for sexual situations and language

McLennon

Summary: George leans forward, puts his hands on John's shoulders, and whispers, "He's grieving for you, Johnny."

"Ringo is?" John asks in a reedy, confused voice he scarcely recognizes as his own.

"No, you clot - honestly, RINGO?" George rolls his eyes and gestures theatrically toward Heaven. "It's Paul, for fuck's sake, it's Paul!"

Notes: Well, my inbox exploded with complaints about how "Cherry Bomb" ended, so I'm presenting this as a possible fix-it.

Millais' "Cherry Ripe" painting, which is disturbing on a number of levels (seriously, look up its history and prepare to be made extremely uncomfortable):

The song "Cherry Ripe" was written in the late 19th century using the words of the earlier poem. It was still popular around WWI and was therefore something their mothers should know. ::rim shot::

Cherry Ripe

Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, Ripe I cry. Full and fair ones Come and buy. Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, Ripe I cry. Full and fair ones Come and buy. --Robert Herrick (1786-1849)

August 29, 1966

San Francisco, California

Their last show is over, and now all they have to do is pack up and go home.

Go home and do what, exactly, is beyond John's scope of imagination. He'll worry about that later, when he isn't dealing with the after-effects of half a dozen stiff drinks and a truly outstanding joint.

John takes stock of the "party room" that divides the two bedrooms of their suite. Paul and George are sharing the sofa, a large bottle of champagne, and a murmured conversation that John can't hear no matter how hard he tries. Ringo is slouched in, over, and around an armchair, sound asleep with his head almost touching the carpet. It's a marvel how such a small frame can take up so much room.

There have been many chances for John to observe Ringo's sprawl over the last ten days. While no one seems to have made an official request or announcement, the night of the two Missouri concerts John's suitcase and Ringo's were placed in the same bedroom, George's and Paul's in the other. It's been that way every night since Memphis.

John and Paul haven't shared a room since the aftermath of the Memphis concert. A firecracker tossed at the stage had scared John out of his wits, to the point where he woke screaming from a nightmare and had to be consoled by Paul.

The night had, incredibly, gone downhill from there, with Paul likening John to the cherry bomb that had terrified them so badly, then declaring that their physical relationship had to end. The awful evening culminated in Paul's Bye-Bye Blowjob, with John's Farewell Fuck serving as an encore early the following morning.

Paul's flesh, tinted golden-pink in the rising light of dawn, had been covered in a fine sheen of sweat as John worshipped every inch of him.

John has been using all his charms and wiles this week.

Knowing that he'd never have the chance again, John took his time to give Paul every possible pleasure.

However, it isn't helping him to change Paul's mind.

John kissed him, licked him, even sang to him, little nonsense verses that he timed with his thrusts.

Paul is pleasant enough on the rest of the tour, friendly and outgoing and oh-so-charming that John isn't sure if he wants to fuck him silly or punch his lights out. But the few times John has tried to touch him, Paul has politely but firmly rebuffed him.

At the end, as Paul's back arched impossibly high, he lifted his hand and placed it gently over John's eyes. John would never know what mysteries were revealed in Paul's expression at the moment their bodies melted together.

Sometimes Paul's eyes will mist over when he speaks, or he will bite his lower lip as he looks at an imaginary spot just over John's shoulder.

They held each other and wept afterwards, John mouthing "Don't leave me, Paulie" into the flesh of Paul's shoulder.

John knows all the symptoms, knows that Paul is devastated, knows that his own presence is causing Paul even more pain.

"I have to go, Johnny. I love you."

No matter how godawful he makes Paul feel, John can't resist the temptation to try again and again to regain what he hadn't realized he'd been losing.

Paul had risen, dressed, packed his bag, and left the room all in the ten minutes John was taking a quick shower.

Salt in the wound. Rock salt with jagged edges, laced with sulfuric acid.

What a marvelous life.

If pressed to find a silver lining to this wretched state of affairs, John can honestly say that he's grateful that George has stopped being such a whinging prick. George's tone with both John and Paul has become gentle, brotherly. Nowadays George casts sympathetic glances in John's direction - John wonders how much George knows and for how long he's known it - and he makes an effort to speak to John, to hold actual conversations with him rather than spouting diatribes at him.

Ringo, who always understands the three of them better than they understand themselves, attaches himself to John and listens to all the things John isn't saying. It's Ringo's best-kept secret gift, hearing between their words and seeing into their souls.

Whatever conversation George and Paul are holding tonight is wrapping itself up. Paul rises and starts examining the heinous Pre-Raphaelite prints that hang on the wall. They're slightly crooked, as if ashamed of themselves.

George wanders over to John, too casually, and offers a kind-hearted smile.

"So," George says, and John swears that he sounds nervous, "I'm gonna grab Ritchie and pour him into bed before he falls down and breaks his neck. I'll get his stuff out of your room and put it in mine so I can look after him, okay?"

The analytical part of John's tries and fails to kick in.

George leans forward, puts his hands on John's shoulders, and whispers, "He's grieving for you, Johnny."

"Ringo is?" John asks in a reedy, confused voice he scarcely recognizes as his own.

"No, you clot - honestly, RINGO?" George rolls his eyes and gestures theatrically toward Heaven. "It's Paul, for fuck's sake, it's Paul!"

John manages to stumble while standing still, grabbing the back of a chair to help him regain something like balance. "What...how did...?"

George's smile is simultaneously compassionate and conspiratorial. "A few drinks before bedtime and Paul gets remarkably chatty. Plus, I've known him since we were kids, remember?" George lets out a little sigh and adds, slower and more seriously, "I've seen him mourn before."

John knew what he means: Mary, the mother Paul had lost a year before he met John. At first John hadn't understood the depth of that wound, but now he bears a matching scar.

"I'll try not to fuck it up," John says quietly, aware of the silent warning in George's protective gaze.

"I've got faith in you, Johnny." George pats his arm and goes about the task of scooping Ringo out of the chair he's inhabiting.

Just as John begins to wonder exactly how to go about validating George's belief in him, he hears Paul's voice softly singing a gentle, lilting melody.

Paul is standing in front of one of the prints, a picture of a little girl sitting next to a bag of cherries. The little plaque at the bottom of the overwrought, faux-gold frame reads "Cherry Ripe - Millais." Paul is singing tenderly to the little girl's portrait. Even though his voice has to be worn out from the night's show, it still has a sweetness about it, the essential Paul-sound that sets him apart from every other singer John has ever heard.

"Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, Ripe I cry. Full and fair ones Come and buy."

Paul's voice cracks a little on "fair ones" but to John, that's perfection itself.

"My mum used to sing that," John says softly. "Different tune, though."

"I don't know the tune - just saw the sheet music lying about on Da's piano one day."

They're not looking at one another, but Paul's not running away, either. John dares to step a little closer, his heart beating in a dangerously irregular rhythm. "Kind of a naff painting, though. Cynthia wanted it for the nursery back when we didn't know if we were having a Julia or a Julian." John takes a breath and asks, "What's making you sing to her, then?"

Paul turns just a few degrees toward John. His face is pale above the five-or-ten-o'clock shadow and his eyes are shimmering. "Because she's spilled those beautiful cherries, and that's made her sad."

John knows that the painting isn't about any of those things, and he has his mouth open to explain it to Paul, but for once he has enough sense to just shut the hell up and let Paul keep talking.

"Some of them are gone, and some of them are bruised." The tempo of Paul's words accelerates madly. "Maybe they were the last ones of the season and she doesn't know if she'll ever see any more."

Paul reaches out with an unsteady hand and traces the face of the girl in the picture. John can see a tear tracking its way slowly down Paul's face, the droplet catching on the scar above his lip.

John has a sudden, almost irresistible desire to kiss that tear away. Instead, he does something marginally less dangerous, coming up behind Paul and wrapping his arms around Paul's waist.

Paul doesn't move.

John can't breathe.

Then Paul tips his dark head toward John and rests his cheek in John's hair.

Now John REALLY can't breathe.

"Maybe," John manages to rasp, "those are the ones she's saving for something special."

"Mmm." Paul rubs his face against John's scalp, more and more of his body weight shifting over to rest against him. "Maybe she ate the others too quickly, and she regrets not savoring each one."

Normally, Paul's shite metaphors make John bark out in derisive laughter, but this one hits hard in the solar plexus and there's nothing funny about it. It hurts, oh, God, it hurts so much.

"I did. I do," John babbles. "I remember every single time, Paul, I swear to God. From that time I tossed you off because your hands were sore from practicing, to Paris, to Florida when you were so loud that we couldn't hear the hurricane, I savor it all, Paulie..."

"John, please..."

Please what? Please stop? Please throw me on the carpet and fuck me until I can't speak anymore? Please throw your useless ass off the roof of this building?

Where before he'd been sure and unyielding, Paul is now pliant in John's embrace. John turns him around so their foreheads are touching, burnished brown hair mixing with inky black. They stand so close that the very air John breathes comes from Paul.

I want you more than my next breath, Paul had said.

Paul's fingers stroke along the edges of John's mouth, then up to his cheeks and finally to the tender skin at his temples, reading John's face as if it were Holy Writ in Braille. Astonished, grateful, amazed, John stares into Paul's eyes. Their hues are never the same from one day, one mood, to the next, and tonight John notices traces of green the color of a storm at sea.

"Macca," John whispers. "It's gonna be okay."

Paul nods. His lips are pressed tightly together and he's breathing harshly through his nose the way he does when he's fighting with an overflow of emotions.

John rubs his hands up and down Paul's arms, warming him, grounding him. "I'm sorry about all of it," he says, punctuating his words with little kisses to Paul's cheeks and nose. "I'll take you to Paris when we get back, how about that? We can stay in some grotty little hellhole with a single bed, and I'll feed you banana milkshakes." Paul chuckles a little, which thrills and emboldens John. "Or we can get a suite somewhere swanky and have champers and caviar, and I'll buy you a leather jacket, a diamond-studded guitar, anything you want, baby, anything..."

Paul stops John's mouth with his own.

They fall on the sofa in perfect unison, clutching each other until they're pressed together like photos in an album, like flowers between the pages of a beloved book.

John wants to thank every deity that's ever been dreamed of. Paul, Paul, his Paul, is opening his lips and his heart to him, and John's prayers for expiation have been answered with a loud thunderclap, a YES from Heaven, sent to him through Paul's cries of pleasure.

It's not the last time, after all. It's the first, a rebirth, a ripening of something sweet.

*** END ***

[arinsaffron]

Eurydice

You all know the story of Eurydice and Orpheus, right? 

If you don’t, I’ll give you a summary. Basically, Orpheus was considered one of the best poets and musicians of Ancient Greece. He used to play the lyre, which made Eurydice fall in love with him. The day of their wedding, she got bit by a snake and died. Orpheus went to the Underworld to rescue her, and Hades let him take her soul back to the Living World, the only condition was not to look back. Orpheus, obviously, looked back at her and thus, Eurydice was taken back to the Underworld. That’s the story we know, that’s what mythology says.

But then feminism made its appeareance. 

Carol Ann Duffy published a book in 1999, called The World’s Wife, in which she tells the stories of women of history from their own point of view. It includes "Little Red Cap", "Thetis", "Queen Herod", "Mrs Midas", "Anne Hathaway" and many others; including Eurydice. 

Now, listen. This poem is a masterpiece, in my opinion, and here’s why. 

It starts by saying: 

Girls, I was dead and down in the Underworld, a shade, a shadow of my former self, nowhen. It was a place where language stopped, a black full stop, a black hole Where the words had to come to an end. And end they did there, last words, famous or not. It suited me down to the ground.

With that “girls” it’s clearly stated that this poem was made for women. It doesn’t matter if it’s the readers, or the other women included in the book. Eurydice says she’s already dead and lives where “the words had come to an end”, as a reference to Orpheus and his damn poetry.

So imagine me there, unavailable, out of this world, then picture my face in that place of Eternal Repose, in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe from the kind of a man who follows her round writing poems, hovers about while she reads them, calls her His Muse, and once sulked for a night and a day because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns. Just picture my face when I heard - Ye Gods - a familiar knock-knock at Death’s door.

Eurydice is “in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe”. So Eurydice is, literally, resting in peace, away from the dude who writes poetry and shows off about it. 

Orpheus called her “His Muse”, with capital letters. She doesn’t have a name of her own anymore other than His Muse. 

The dude who once threw a tantrum because Eurydice pointed out that his rhymes were weak has shown up at the Underwold.

Him. Big O. Larger than life. With his lyre and a poem to pitch, with me as the prize.

The funny thing here is that “Big O” is an eufemism for a female orgasm. Go figure. 

And of course, Orpheus is there to retrieve His Muse by doing the only thing he’s good at; singing and playing the lyre.

Things were different back then. For the men, verse-wise, Big O was the boy. Legendary. The blurb on the back of his books claimed that animals, aardvark to zebra, flocked to his side when he sang, fish leapt in their shoals at the sound of his voice, even the mute, sullen stones at his feet wept wee, silver tears.

Eurydice says that “things were different back then”, but in the next stanza we’ll find out they remain the same until today. The gods loved Orpheus, and his poetry was so moving, even the rocks would cry.

The line “aardvark to zebra” is so pleasant; the animals picked for this symbolize all of the animals, from A to Z. 

Bollocks. (I’d done all the typing myself, I should know.) And given my time all over again, rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess etc., etc.

“Bollocks.” What are you? British? (Scottish, mind you.)

“I’d done all the typing myself” implies that Eurydice had been dragged into this artistic world unwillingly, and she’s not having it. She’d rather speak for herself, have her own name and voice, instead of an epithet. 

(Dark Lady was the epithet used by Shakespeare. Although, Anne Hathaway differs from Eurydice.)

In fact girls, I’d rather be dead.

AND SHE IS. But Orpheus can’t leave her the fuck alone. 

But the Gods are like publishers, usually male, and what you doubtless know of my tale is the deal.

Here we have it, the connection to one of the previous stanzas, more especifically to the “things were different back then” line. Because “Gods are like publishers, usually male.” There’s so much to say about this, I don’t even know where to start. 

We’ve already stablished that Orpheus was a poet, possibly the greatest poet in Ancient Greece. And if we look back at mythology, it’s said that Eurydice fell in love with him because of this poetry. Therefore, we can deduce that his writings were mostly about love, passion; the Ἔρως, if you will.

But even if the subject of his writings shall remain a mystery, what we do know is that women often had to change their names and publish their books under a male/androgynous pen name because publishers think that a book written by a woman is not gonna be succesful. Even if men often write cheesier stuff than women, but that’s another story.

Orpheus strutted his stuff.

And oh, did they gods like it. 

The bloodless ghosts were in tears. Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years. Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers. The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears.

Sisyphus was punished by Zeus to push a stone uphill for all eternity, and Tantalus was punished by staying inside a lake, with fruits and food close to him, but he would never be able to eat any of them. And even they took a break from their punishments to listen to Orpheus’ poem. And they’re all so stunned by him, they don’t even bother asking Eurydice if she wants to go with him or not.

Like it or not, I must follow him back to our life - Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife - to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes, octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets, elegies, limericks, villanelles, histories, myths…

Yeah, Eurydice isn’t happy, but the gods decided for her, so  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

She’s nothing else than a literary figure for Orpheus, and after his writer’s block, he’s decided to go save her from the Underworld. 

He’d been told that he mustn’t look back or turn round, but walk steadily upwards, myself right behind him, out of the Underworld into the upper air that for me was the past. He’d been warned that one look would lose me for ever and ever. So we walked, we walked. Nobody talked.

And of course Orpheus, after his performance, now isn’t gonna even ask Eurydice how she’s doing. At all. 

Talk about keeping the appeareances. 

Girls, forget what you’ve read. It happened like this - I did everything in my power to make him look back. What did I have to do, I said, to make him see we were through? I was dead. Deceased. I was Resting in Peace. Passé. Late. Past my sell-by date… I stretched out my hand to touch him once on the back of the neck. Please let me stay. But already the light had saddened from purple to grey.

Again, the “girls” reminds us that Eurydice is talking to a group of girls, setting the record straight. 

She was dead, why couldn’t he leave her alone? And she’s willing to do anything to make him look back. 

It was an uphill schlep from death to life and with every step I willed him to turn. I was thinking of filching the poem out of his cloak, when inspiration finally struck. I stopped, thrilled. He was a yard in front. My voice shook when I spoke - “Orpheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again… “

The “when inspiration finally struck” makes reference to Orpheus’ quality as a writer. Women are also capable of getting inspired. And what she did was tease his ego to make him look back...

He was smiling modestly, when he turned, when he turned and he looked at me. What else? I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I waved once and was gone.

...and it worked! Eurydice went back to the Underworld, just like she wanted.

The dead are so talented. The living walk by the edge of a vast lake near, the wise, drowned silence of the dead.

The dead are talented, yes, even more than the living, who “walk by the edge of a vast lake”, meaning the living are always close to death. 

The “wise, drowned slience of the dead” implies that Orpheus’ poems are of no significance, since only death brings true peace and wisdom. 

[power-is-the-words-we-create]

The first time I laid eyes on you isn't a good judge of my love for you. I can remember how you looked, sure, with all your pointy, lanky limbs hanging at sharp angles, with how your hair looked ready for the imprint of my hand, with your wide eyes and lovely smile. And, I can remember the first time my eyes saw you but that's not the first time my heart managed to see you. What my heart remembers being the most vivid was how you made me laugh. The way your smile was infectious. The way a sparkle made your eyes brighter. The way you seemed to genuinely love laughing with me. I remember our first touch, even though my heart didn't register it as so. We were good friends and you were a hugger. Me? Less so. But, for you, I let you give me a small hug anyways, barely even batting an eye, not even registering it as comfort. My heart, though? It remembers the first time I woke up with your arms around me. You were staying the night and we'd slept on opposite sides of the bed, never touching. I'd warned you that I was a cuddler, despite hating it. You never warned me and the feeling of your breath skittering over my neck was strangely nice and the way your arms tightened around me when I began giggling because of all the things I'd pegged you as, clingy just wasn't one, and how you were embarrassed when you finally woke up will forever be the first time my heart ever tapped on my rib to let me know a change was approaching me. I remember the first time I pitied you, though my heart just wasn't in it. You'd just been dumped by your girlfriend of a year and we'd go to the park at midnight, both knowing we had to work in the morning, and we'd just talk. You'd obsess over her, her name passing your lips with such longing. But, I'd tell you that the feeling within you would dull with time and maybe you should branch out to other girls to help yourself move on. Mostly, I was just tired of hearing about her. The first time my heart cried out for you was the night you learned your cousin had died. You'd lost multiple people in the past year and you were going through a rough time. That phone call set you off and all I could do was hold you as your tears soaked my shoulder. For one moment, you bared yourself to me completely, pain and all, and didn't hold back. My heart wept for you and you hair was just too thick to feel my tears. I remember the first romantic moment we had, though my heart rejects it. We were standing outside in the yard with my roommate, tossing back beers and playing childish games like Truth or Dare. My roommate was being over the top and she dared us to kiss. We laughed, tossing our heads back and roaring to the stars. It was funny because you were going through that breakup and we just spent a lot of time together but that didn't mean anything. Grudgingly, we came together and kissed, just a small peck, and I laughed again because the beer bottle sat better against my lips than yours did. My heart couldn't dream of forgetting what it considers our first real romantic moment. To be fair, it was pretty memorable. I'd handed my innocence over to you like it wasn't golden. Flippantly, I decided you were the person I wanted to remember forever as my first time. You took it eagerly, gently making sure I wasn't regretting it. I didn't. I don't. My heart never will. It was everything a girl dreams about, everything they say it's supposed to be, and you made it so. I remember the first time I realized I had feelings for you, but my heart knows it's a lie. I say I noticed when you fucked the girl we had a threesome with without me, even though I'd told you that you could, and I was upset about it. To be fair, that girl was a best friend and she should've known better and it was rather upsetting to think neither of you cared enough about me to stop. But, in truth, my heart fell flat on it's face for you at one of the weirdest times. You were asleep and I just couldn't get there, no matter how hard I tried. So, I cuddled close to you and ran my fingers over your skin, thinking silently to myself. And, I looked at you and I wondered what it would be like if you left. What happened if you up and decided to go home, or you found a girlfriend and not just a fuck buddy? Like smoke, my heart seemed to shrivel in my chest. That idea could NOT come to fruition, no matter what. My heart decided then and there that it would take you however it could have you. I remember the first time I wanted you to leave and never come back, though my heart denies it. We were practically in a relationship but we didn't dare call it that. We agreed not to be in one and we were sticking to it. Or so I pretended. I was going on a trip and an old flame was waiting for me. I waited for you to care, to speak up and ask me not to go to him, to be jealous, to do anything. You didn't offer me anything. I knew I wanted more and I convinced myself to ask for it but the words never came, even as I hated myself for ignoring the old flame's calls. What my heart remembers as the first time I wanted you gone and away from me was only a split second. We were fighting more than people who "weren't" a couple had any right to. And, I just lost it. All my feelings came out in words and everything I never wanted to say fell into the tension between us. My heart begged for reciprocation, even as my feet took me from the room, from the house, from you. Sadly, you didn't seem to hear my heart's pleas and I was left sobbing as I wished I'd never even met you in the first place. I remember the first time I ever wanted to leave you, though my heart scoffs at it. I was trying to shake you, trying to put some space between us, trying to give myself a break from all those overwhelming feelings. Instead, you kissed me and your hands began roaming and I wanted to get up and walk away, to have enough willpower to leave you hanging and wanting for once. All I did was pull you closer, opening my body and my heart for you just a little bit more. My heart can remember the first time it ever wanted to leave you. Like, genuinely just up and leave you and hurt you. See, you were in some major denial. You were aloof, claiming that it didn't matter what happened between us, that it didn't matter which way we ended up, as long as you didn't lose me as a best friend. My heart wished you could miss me like I missed you. My heart wanted to waltz out and stay gone long enough for you to actually crave me. Even then, I didn't. I remember the first time you ever showed me that you wanted me, though my heart doesn't believe it. I told you that it all had to stop, that I couldn't do it anymore. I gave you the choice: Relationship or Separation. I hated to do so but I couldn't take it anymore. You chose relationship, assuring me that you wanted it, but I still had a sour taste in my mouth along with a flutter in my stomach. My heart remembers the first time you gave proof that you actually cared. We were fighting and I was majorly stressed out to the max. I said some things I shouldn't have and you were rightfully upset. You wouldn't hold me before we went to sleep and it was all too much. I broke down, my sobs echoing in the room, and I tried so hard to not let you hear. You heard anyway and with a hefty sigh, you put aside your anger, and you forced me into your arms, holding me as I wept like a small child for two hours. You just held me and you let me cry, you cared. I remember the first time I fell in love with you, though my heart hadn't caught up yet. It was right in the middle of sex. Something about this night was beyond intense. We were connected and I was a mess of moans and shaking muscles. You took it slow, seeming to treasure every square inch of my body. You made actual love to me and my mind turned to complete jello. It was only biting my lip that stopped me from spilling the words out, despite how much they scared me. My heart? A different story. I wish I could say my heart had a more passionate moment but it was pretty simple. We were bickering again. Shocker. But, it wasn't a fight. In fact, I can't even remember what we were talking about. But I can remember the way my heart stuttered in my chest when we both started laughing at something and you leaned down, giving me a small kiss. It was like my whole world fell apart and was put back together in a matter of seconds. It shifted to fit you in perfectly and since then, if you asked me, I'd lay my heart at your feet so you can do whatever you wished to it, to me. And, now, I look at you as you sleep on the couch, your hair a mess and your snores drifting lightly through the room. You're still lanky and long and pointy and you still drive me nuts. But, for all this looks like, my heart will forever remember something else. I will remember how I couldn't take my eyes off you, how I smiled at your relaxed face, how I wanted to come curl into your heat, how I couldn't wait for you to wake up just to bother me, how happiness and love swelled to an overwhelming capacity in my chest and you weren't even doing anything. My heart will remember this moment as the time that my love was so strong for you that I couldn't do anything but write a poem for you. Regardless of what happens, I will always know my heart's truth and I will forever be thankful to have them. God, I fucking love you.

A look into my head/jjw; he's my everything

[heartlikethunder]

Femslash February Trope Bingo: AU - Flowershop

Hi again! Here is the next installment of Femslash February per @nooreva’s trope bingo challenge. Also have a rare pair and hope @hprarepairnet enjoys as well as @slytherdornet!

Burning Blooms 

Narcissa will not be outdone by Lucius. She will not burn to ash.

AN: A big thanks to @well-done-draco for her support and @byesweetheart for beta-ing and for all her wicked ideas. :) 

Please review!

“Does Lily look upset to you?” Severus says. He is boring holes into Lily Evans, who is delicately nibbling on her toast, thin lines creasing her forehead.

Narcissa does not care if Lily is upset. She has dress robes to order for the upcoming holiday banquets, a Charms assignment due later that day that she has yet to complete, and she has to deal with the dreaded post. There is more to life than just Lily Evans.

That’s what she likes to tell herself anyways. Reluctantly she gives the girl a cursory glance, seeing the sullen blankness of her face.

Odd.

Lucius resolutely doesn’t look up from behind The Daily Prophet. “Potter has been declaring his undying love for her in artistically more nauseating forms since first year. I’d be upset too – or at least resigned.” He flips the page, and fleetingly glances at Severus and then at Lily.  In the end he lingers on Severus, a moment too long, but discreet enough that no one notices – unless they are Narcissa, who has been watching this dance for too many years.   

Narcissa takes pity on him. “Your hair looks…smashing, Lucius,” she lies through her teeth.

It looks awful and she’s been avoiding looking at it all of breakfast. A second year a few seats down inhales sharply as he overhears her…compliment?

“What do you think Severus?” she presses.

Severus dazedly glances over and blanches, as if he were seeing it for the first time despite sleeping in the same room as Lucius.

“It’s terrible.” He eyes the cropped, tousled blonde hair with distaste. “I don’t know why you insisted on Mulciber cutting it.”

So he had noticed.  

The second year from before looks gratified and releases the breath he has been holding. He glances over at the monstrosity on top of Lucius’ head and glares at it murderously. Narcissa finds the entire exchange amusing, but concentrates on her unfinished Charms homework.

“It’s in fashion,” Lucius insists with no heat, a shy flush creeping over his sallow skin, and still hiding behind the Prophet. Good for him.

Severus scowled. “Your long hair suited you better.”

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion, Severus,” he snapped, no bite to his words, harshly turning the page.  Narcissa catches an advertisement for Madam Wilkins’s Devilish Desires perfume and contemplates adding it to her list of purchases.

Severus presses his lips into a thin line. “You should have. I could have saved you from looking like some theatrical tragedy.” He narrows his eyes at the shortened hair. “Did Mulciber take a knife to it? It looks like a rat has been nesting in it.”

Lucius purses his lips, his vanity clouding his fashion forward choices.

“At least mine doesn’t look like Filch’s mop,” he hisses defensively. “You look like you haven’t cut that mane in weeks.”

Severus grits his teeth. “Narcissa--”

“I’ve been trying to convince the house elves to cut it in your sleep, but they wept you’d hex them and leave them to Peeves’ entertainment,” she drawls absentmindedly.

His hair now sweeps the tops of his shoulders, jagged and uneven, with a stringy greasy appeal. Narcissa is reconsidering their friendship.

“It’s because he has,” Lucius interjects.

Narcissa quirks an eyebrow at Severus.

“I did, however, take the liberty to switch out your shampoo.”

Severus’ scowl deepens. “Fine – after class, take care of it.” He barks at Lucius and sinks his anger into an apple from their breakfast spread. Lucius sneers but there is a pleased glint in his eyes.

Narcissa resists the urge to roll hers, focusing on question four, the charm to repel water and its magical theory.

The sounds of beating wings and low hoots pull her attention to the opened windows that line the Great Hall. A swarm of owls come fluttering by, and Narcissa prays to Merlin that today will be a no post day. She almost gets her wish, and just when the last flock of owls are leaving and she is ready to delve into relieved elation, a brown owl with yellow eyes drops a bloody package before her.

She wants to scream. Silently.

Lucius is delighted, the newspaper shuffled to the side and forgotten. “What is it this time, dear?” he says with sickening glee, and she contemplates throwing her inkwell at his poncy face.

“I don’t intend on finding out.” She readies her wand to vanish it when a letter flutters up from the parcel and unfurls into a swan. A serenading swan. Complete with a storyline where it flutters in the air and music.  

Dear Merlin. She internally groans.

The swan passionately delivers its sonnet, catching the attention of the remainder of the Slytherin table. Slytherins do not make a public display of guffawing at the misery of their housemates, unlike the Neanderthals in Gryffindor, but there are smirks and haughty faces that do the same.

Severus and Lucius continue on as if it is commonplace for her to be receiving singing paper swans and parcels, which she loaths to admit it is, but there are glimpses of joy in their eyes.  

“Keats,” Severus intones, crunching into his apple.

Lucius appears impressed. “One of his more classic poems. Very tasteful. At least Regulus is more refined than his brother.”

“He’s my cousin,” Narcissa says, distressed.  

“All the better,” Lucius insists.

“I would have personally gone with Edgar Allan Poe’s morbid poem, Annabel Lee.”

“It sounds charming. Will you perform it for me?”

Narcissa almost rewards Lucius with an impressed eyebrow at the lack of eager hope in his voice.

“I’ll recite it for you tonight, with the moonlight highlighting the wickedness in your eyes,” Snape deadpans.

“Severus, you beast! What will the others think?” Lucius says with cool indifference and sips his tea.

Narcissa knows exactly what Lucius thinks of Severus reciting him poetry.  

“I think they are still trying to determine what inspired you to hack off your hair.”

Narcissa doesn’t really care for Lucius’ hair or the singing swan in front of her, and it is only the fear of retribution and her well-mannered upbringing that keep her from setting Lucius’ hair aflame alongside her post. She sees Regulus from the corner of her eye, and though he does not appear outwardly bothered, there is a line of disappointment etched into his shoulders as the flames lick away at her parcel and the screeching burning swan. Someone should write a poem about the paper swan’s burning grief. They finally crumble into black ash and Narcissa returns her attention to her homework.

The second-year is openly looking at her in horror, and Avery sigh deeply from next to them, spelling away the aftermath of Narcissa’s demure rage.

“And that, is why we do not fuck with the women of Slytherin,” he gravely informs the second year, who is nodding along in understanding, mouth still parted open.

Lucius offers her low clipped applause. “Well done, Narcissa. You always had a way with pyrokinetic spells.”

He turns to Severus. “She set my peacocks on fire for opening their feathers during her grand entrance at my birthday ball over the summer hols.”

The corner of Severus’ lips curl up into a half moon. “So I’ve heard. Bellatrix was quite disappointed you didn’t include her in the roasting,” he directs at Narcissa.

She hums thoughtfully and skips question four on her parchment.

A cry of admonishment reaches their ears. There’s commotion brewing over at the Gryffindor table, Sirius Black egging it on while James Potter cheers in camaraderie with his housemates, and Lily, whose face is still solemn, hastily collects her things and escapes the Great Hall in the mess.

“I’ll see you in Charms.” Severus abandons his apple and hurriedly follows the young woman out of the Great Hall.

Narcissa counts to five before Lucius’ water glass shatters, dousing Mulciber, who is falling asleep on his pancakes. He’s wide awake now and dripping wet.

“Impervius,” Narcissa recalls, and scratches it down onto her parchment.

There’s a beat of silence, aside from Mulciber’s dangerously calm interrogation of who had hexed him, before Narcissa cuts in, “Your hair, Lucius? Your pining has become ludicrous. Your father would be appalled.”

Truthfully his father would be screaming imposter because no Malfoy would ever dare to disgrace their pureblood ancestry and taint thy hair.

Lucius clenches his jaw. “Malfoys do not pine, Black,” he says pointedly

Narcissa looks up through her lashes, and sees a waterfall of long tendrils cascading down Lucius’ back.

“Your glamor is wearing off.”

She had known it was a glamour all along. Malfoys are as religious about their hair as they are about their peacocks.

Lucius emits a low growl of frustration, gracefully collecting himself from the table.

“Perhaps next time you should glamour your hair red.”

She blocks the hex with ease and it goes soaring towards Regulus who looks up at the flash of pink smoke and is left with a duck bill and feathered shoulders. He squawks indignantly.

Narcissa smiles faintly and wisely does not look up from her homework.

Severus doesn’t have a chance with Lily. And so long as Lily is within Severus’s eyesight, Lucius will never with Severus. Unrequited love is ever so…lonely. Narcissa is quite familiar with it herself.

And despite the fact she still has not answered questions 3 or 7, the only thing whirling around in her thoughts is who has dragged the somber moon across Lily’s face.  

XXX

When Narcissa comes to Hogwarts the whole school is eating out of Lily’s palm. There’s Potter, her shameless cousin, Severus, and Merlin help them all even Lucius who watches her like a hawk, waiting for her to swoop in to take what’s his so he can fend her off.

Lily is already in her head before she even has a chance to meet the girl. When they do eventually meet, Narcissa is nonplussed as Lily has exceeded her expectations in being both dull and blindingly plain. She also finds the clashing colors of the girl’s hair and house colors to be revolting. Lily Evans is just another Gryffindor - as fascinating as dung beetles.

She doesn’t get the chance to see Lily as everyone else does until Quidditch tryouts. There are a few spectators scattered across the stands from all houses. Out of the corner of her eyes Narcissa sees Lily and a group of her friends sitting amongst the crowd.

The Slytherin team is in the middle of a practice drill with a new beater. Technically Narcissa is not needed for this training exercise, as she’s the Seeker and they fly on their own, but she enjoys being in the sky and the hum of anticipation under her skin when the Snitch is released.

She’s too busy looking for it when their potential beater accidentally sends a Bludger flying into her broom. It bustles past the bristles and sends her spinning out of control. She curls up on her broom, trying to steady herself when she hears a groan and the sound of more thrashing and breaking wood. She turns in time to see the Bludger has torn through the Ravenclaw stands and is hurtling back toward her at alarming speed - too quick for her to escape.

Fuck.

She braces for impact, tucking her head behind her shoulder, already calculating the number of broken bones she’s going to need repaired and the days she’ll be stuck in the infirmary recovering, when a clear voice rings out, “Daracks!”

There’s a pause, and then a deafening plummet of stone smashing to the ground.

Narcissa immediately looks up and sees the Bludger that had been coming toward her innocently sitting on the ground, her teammates all watching her with bated breath as they realize how close they had come to losing her for the season.

Standing just a ways off from the Bludger is Lily Evans, wand pointed at the Bludger and eyes wide in alarm.

Narcissa clenches her jaw, rage bubbling to the surface as she flies toward the Gryffindor, neatly dismounting from her broom before her feet are even able to touch the ground.

“Spectators are not allowed to use magic during Quidditch games. It’s a punishable offense,” she starts dangerously.

Lily's mouth falls open. "I stopped a Bludger from bludgeoning you over the head. I hardly did anything that could be considered offensive.”

“You could have been trying to sever my head for all I know. You Gryffindor snots are all the same,” she sneered.

“The only thing I did was save you from a month long stay in the infirmary, Black!” There’s a wild look in Lily’s eyes as she gets in Narcissa’s face. “You could have been killed!”

“Aww little lion, didn’t know that you cared.” Narcissa’s voice is sickening sweet and distrustful.

“Of course I care! Are you even listening to me?! YOU COULD HAVE DIED!”

“You’re being melodramatic, Evans,” Narcissa refutes. “The worst that would have happened is I would have broken a few bones and had a mild concussion. That’s no cause for you to be pulling out your want in the middle of our tryouts!”

Lily’s lower lip quivers and a pinched look crosses her face. “This game is barbaric! The headmaster--” Her rant falls on deaf ears.

Narcissa is surprised - not because Lily had saved her, but because she cared.

XXX

Lily’s melancholy stretches over the next few weeks. There is a blanket of faded sunlight and gray skies that wrapped around her. She’s quiet in classes, aloof and distracted. She grazes during meals, tiny bites and always not enough. She’s usually always surrounded by her friends. Now, it’s just her saddened eyes that keep her company.

Narcissa doesn’t understand the onslaught of depression that encompasses Lily. Lily has always been radiant. Even as a Gryffindor and as a Muggleborn, no less, she continues to penetrate all four Houses. Lily is everywhere – her name perfumed into a breeze. Narcissa does not understand how a girl like Lily Evans could ever fall into mourning.

She also doesn’t know when she started noticing Lily Evans.

Somehow, with Lily’s decline, the sun has been chased away from Narcissa’s mind, and she is subjected to darkened days. Lily has her on the edge, clinging onto her for dear life as she hovers over the impending doom beneath it. She is the light in all of the darkness. Lily is more than just blood and bones. She is magic alive and not just living. And she can’t stop looking.

Narcissa does not think that justifies her watching Lily.

However, Lily does eventually find solitude in Severus, to whom she has not given the light of day in over a year. Of course the foolish boy goes to her, drawn to her faded light like a confused fairy drawn to candlelight. He carries her books, their chatter is cloaked in the nights – as if their Houses haven’t noticed, he gracefully accepts the vile hexes thrown by Potter and his crew, and even takes his pranks with a regal air that he must have learned from Lucius. All because Lily Evans gives him a shard of her life.

Narcissa hates that she knows how to read Lily.

Lucius is of course not pleased. There is a feral light in his eyes and there is a too wand-happy twitch that doesn’t go amiss. She’s seen it in Bellatrix. She’s even seen it in herself. But it has never before surfaced in Lucius.

“Mulciber is beginning to notice,” she murmurs softly as she passes him in Potions. The twitch subsides and Lucius viciously rips into his Potions text.

Lucius has taken great care to keep his feelings for Severus hidden under lock and key. His father would not approve of a Half-blood watering down their Pureblood status. Had it not been for Severus’ potential his father would have forced Lucius to cast aside their friendship.

Narcissa floats to an empty workbench and prepares for the lesson. Moments before class, another pair of students slip in next to her, and she’s startled to see Lily’s tentative sweet smile.

“Hello, Narcissa.”

She swallows thickly. She’s never been so close to the sun – close enough to touch it. To taste it.

“Evans,” she returns confidently.

Whatever uncertainty that was wavering over Lily evaporates, and Narcissa is offered the full intensity of her brilliance. The rest of the lesson she basks in the rays, potion left to Severus as Lily reads aloud the instructions, occasionally pausing to ask Narcissa her opinion.

She mulls over the memory and the warmth for days after.

XXX

Narcissa doesn’t give herself a chance to back away and wonder what it would mean to fly so close to the sun. Later on Severus mentions if she had bothered to read Muggle mythology, she would have learned from Icarus’s mistake. She only scoffed and waved away the Muggle drivel.

It is a random evening and she is searching for Severus for his assistance on a Potions essay that she is burned.

She has found Severus. And she has found Lily.

There is a whistle of robes as Lucius, who had followed along to demand Severus write his essay, angrily retreats. His footsteps echo behind her, diffusing through her ears to heart – telling her to leave.

This is what she gets for playing with the sun.

But she stares, transfixed and burning, as Lily kisses Severus.

XXX

If Lucius was ever worried of Mulciber, he certainly isn’t any more. The common room is in shambles – shattered porcelain, ashen flame marks marring the walls, and the entire House watching him with fear and interest as he destroys their home.

For Lucius, Lily will always be a shroud of darkness taking from him the thing he has never known he needed. Like Severus’ heart. He will never see Lily as anything less than a dagger that bleeds his heart and dragged its silver edge into Severus.

After tonight, Narcissa sees her as the same.

Lucius raises his wand, intent on sending another hex at a sobbing portrait. She deflects it easily, and alarmed he turns to her, his lips curling into a nasty sneer.

He sends another.

She blocks it with ease, like they’re playing a game and he isn’t actually trying to hurt her.

He’s advancing on her, a flurry of hexes flying toward her.

She deflects them all and they bounce off Lucius’ shields.

When he’s before her he’s breathing so deeply she can see the rise and fall of his chest. When she quiets the storm in her head she can hear her own ragged breath. Lucius’ eyes are cutting into her, devouring her.

The crushing kiss is inevitable. Narcissa puts all of Lily Evans into it, because someone deserves to have her if not Lily.

She tastes like ash she thinks, and the portrait door swings open. Lucius recoils and Severus looks at them, haunted by what he has witnessed.

Lucius clenches his jaw, and grips her by her neck; his mouth is on her again.

This time she’s not sure if the bruising kiss is meant for her or Severus.

XXX

They’re in Potions again, but this time Severus is not there to serve as their buffer and the tension is so thick their housemates have left two empty rows of workbenches between them.

Narcissa flips to the next page of her Potions text, tasting the ash on the tip of her tongue. “You won’t find what you’re looking for in Severus.”

Lily stares at her in surprise, eyes narrowing as an afterthought. “Severus is my friend--”

Contrary to popular belief, Narcissa is good at Potions. She grabs for the Jobberknoll feathers and holds them over the cauldron as if she were holding her own ashes over the flames.

She stares at Lily icily and says, “He’s your friend.”  

She releases the feathers and the cauldron bubbles warningly. Lily doesn’t notice – she’s still staring at Narcissa, realization awakening in her eyes. The potion explodes and Narcissa doesn’t mind that she has damaged her lavish Yeti wool cloak.

She can always order another.

XXX

Lucius comes to her after her nightly fly around the Quidditch pitch. He reaches for her, reeking of desperation and despair. She stops him firmly with her wand, the wood digging into his jugular.

“I will not be making the same mistake again,” she informs him darkly.

He’s too proud to be cowed and Narcissa can see the defiance in his eyes.  She walks away but keeps her wand at the ready for Lucius’ impending hex.

XXX

She is jealous, and jealous of Lucius of all people.

Lucius has always been the sort of monster that resorted to curses and hexes to alleviate the source of his reign of terror. With Severus, he throws punches, draws blood, and screams his passion into spiteful words that he throws at his lost love.

And without Narcissa to relieve his animosity, he decels into an animalistic spirit that claws into Severus and won’t let him walk away.

Narcissa has never had the courage to love something so deeply and to hold onto it.

She purses her lips and ignores the two troubled boys rolling around on the common room floor throwing punches.

XXX

It’s a Hogsmeade weekend, and she’s ambling through the town, pockets lined with purchases, when she sees the store. She considers it briefly then walks past it. She reaches the end of the block before she hesitates, spins on her heel, and marches into the store.

Soft blushing warmth enthralls Narcissa’s senses, and she’s accosted by visions of plums, delicate blues, daring buttercups – it’s a sight to behold. There are darker, vengeful blooms tucked away to one side. Narcissa has always been fond of flowers. The rose garden at her manor was designed for her.  She fingers the stem of a puckering violet when the thought comes to her.

She weaves through the rows once more, looking at them with new eyes.

She finally finds what she is looking for, tucked between an Angel’s Trumpet that wouldn’t stop trumpeting and Sneezewarts. They’re short and cropped. They look nasty and not at all kind.

“Is there something I can help you find, Miss Black?” The shopkeeper creeps up behind her. All of Hosgmeade recognizes the Blacks.  

“Do you have any more of these that look less... dismal?” she says after a pause.

He furrows his bushy eyebrows. “I’m afraid those are all I have in stock. And they’re the top of the crop,” he adds.

She snarls, “You think these are the best?”

He cowers and hastily explains, “Well no, but yes they are--”

Narcissa is disappointed and stares at them again, before another thought comes to her.

“Can you order more bouquets?” she cuts off his excuses.

He looks faintly confused and curious. “O-of course, absolutely. W-would another bouquet of –” he stammers.

“No,” Narcissa cuts him off again and this time grimaces as she explains. “I will be needing one from a Muggle shop.” She shudders as she says it, the words dripping from her voice like acid.

XXX

He promises to deliver it within a week. She threatens him into sending it in three days. She receives it by post, before the sun has come up, and painstakingly wraps it with attractive tissue paper and ribbon that she has stolen from a second year.

When it’s ready she hands it to her owl who stares at it as if he is deeply offended. She gives him a firm look and he reluctantly accepts it with one clawed foot, keeping it from him at a distance.

Boys. She thinks.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. Lucius and Severus are still warring and the house is uncomfortably confused. Lucius is sporting an angry purple welt on his cheek, showcasing his trophy despite having a wand to chase it away, and Severus has scraped by with barely a smudge on his alabaster skin.

The post comes fluttering in, and for once, Narcissa feels nervous butterflies fluttering in her stomach. A familiar brown owl drops an offensive package before her and zooms off. Narcissa searches for her owl and when she sees him, he is slowly dropping the package before Lily. The Gryffindor is startled, a change from her usual look of sorrow, and looks at the package in confusion. She hesitantly touches it and the package grows and morphs into a lush bouquet of petunias.

Her mouth drops open and she looks up, unexpectedly locking eyes with Narcissa who hasn’t looked away like she promised herself.

A moment of awed understanding passes between them and then a rush of relief.

Narcissa resolutely looks away and pushes away from the table.

XXX

She’s flying in loopy circles, try to console her erratic heart. When she glances down she sees the familiar green eyes sitting in the stands, watching her.

She sighs deeply and descends. She flies over to Lily, hovering over the benches.

There is so much she had wanted to say, threatening to spill out of her mouth, but at the sight of Lily it’s spelled away.

“You gave me petunias,” Lily says finally.

Narcissa’s demeanor softens. “Yes, I heard you were rather fond of petunias… like your sister.”

Lily searches her eyes looking for a Narcissa she might know.

“My sister and I were best friends growing up. It was her, and me, and Severus.” She paused, still looking at Narcissa, analyzing and cataloguing. “But you already knew that.”

“I know too much about you,” Narcissa admits.  

Lily smile grows sad as she scans the Quidditch pitch. “I miss her. She used to write to me every week… It’s been two months since her last letter.” She turns her wistful eyes to Narcissa, curling in her lower lip, trying to keep herself together.

Narcissa knows this too, but she doesn’t say that she overheard Lily mentioning this to her roommates, or that Severus had rambled over their lifetime together before Hogwarts, or the lingering hopeful looks she gives her owl when it swoops in empty handed. Narcissa has figured out Lily forever ago and now they are just playing catch up.

“You won’t find what you’re missing in Severus.”

Lily grins, all traces of melancholy fading away. She reaches out and Narcissa stares in confusions as wraps her fingers around the air, and slowly peels it back to reveal a bouquet of daffodils.

“Is that an invisibility cloak?!”

Lily shrugs innocently. “I borrowed it from James. These, however--” She picks up the bouquet and presents them to Narcissa. “--are for you.”

Narcissa turns her astonished eyes to the pretty blooms and hesitantly takes them from Lily’s outstretched hands, thighs still clenched around her broom.

“What for?”

The resulting pretty pink flush of cheeks causes Narcissa to raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I think… I was just looking at the wrong person.” She looks Narcissa straight in the eye and breathes deeply before holding out her hand. “I’m Lily Evans.”

Narcissa looked her up and down, eyes finally settling on her elegant fingers.

“Seriously?”

Narcissa’s heart is beating madly and Lily’s smile falters.

“Evans, don’t be foolish,” the Slytherin mumbles, blushing, and decides that she won’t be outdone by Lucius Malfoy. She grips Lily’s hand and yanks her forward, her own face lowered so she can press her mouth to Lily’s.

Heat flares up between them and Narcissa is pleased to note that she no longer can taste ash - just Lily.

A/N: Who else would like a ficlet on Lucius/Severus? hehe

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The Lie of Black and White: 2/9

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Remus was throwing some ugly vases against the wall in his room. Their shattering sound always managed to inspire him. And he was in need of some good ideas. Just something fun and juicy. Some light-hearted arson or poisoning.

Arson? That usually wasn’t his go to. Why had he been thinking of arson?

Only now Remus realized that he had stopped throwing vases and let the one in his hands fall down to the floor and stumbled backwards to his bed. Sloppily, he sat down and blinked several times. His vision was weird. The wall was blurry.

He blinked some more. He felt a water drop fall on his hand.

Was he crying?

Pain ripped over his right arm and he felt something like agonizing guilt in his guts. His breathing got quicker. His eyes flew all over his room, rested on the door in the corner of the room. He ran to it.

There was dust on the door knob. Of course. He hadn’t tried to open it since Roman had closed it all those years ago.

He tried to open it anyway.

It opened.

Remus wept. Everywhere. Lying unfinished pictures, poems, scripts. Scattered on the floor. Some edges were burnt. A clay statue was smashed. The air was thick and the big golden framed mirror was glowing on the wall.

Roman had left the portal into the imagination open.

Remus ran outside. To the dining table in the living room.

Oh Roman, thank God you don’t have a moustache. Otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is.

Oh Roman, thank God you don’t have a moustache. Otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is.

Oh Roman, thank God you don’t have a moustache. Otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is.

Oh Roman, thank God you don’t have a moustache. Otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is. Oh Roman, thank God you don’t have a moustache. Otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is. Oh Roman, thank God you don’t have a moustache. Otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is. Oh roman thank god you don’t have a moustache otherwise between you and remus i wouldn’t know who the evil twin is oh roman thank god you don’t have a moustache otherwise between you and remus i wouldn’t know who the evil twin is ohromanthankgodyoudon’thaveamoustacheotherwisebetweenyouandremusiwouldn’tknowwhotheeviltwinis

The snake. Sitting on a chair, talking to nerdy wolverine. Stopping. Staring at him. A small movement from his lower eyelid.

Popsicle said something from the kitchen. Maybe even shouted. Remus didn’t hear it. He bolted towards Janus and grabbed him by the collar. Pulled him up from the chair, as if he didn’t weight as much as a feather.

Now popsicle screamed something and nerdy wolverine stood up. Remus didn’t care. His arm hurt more. He had finally recognized which kind of pain it was. He finally recognized the burning sensation of his brother’s flames.

“What have you done to Roman! What have you done!?!”

Remus didn’t sound mocking nor dramatic. He sounded desperate and enraged. Janus had never heard him like this. Had never seen him cry like this. Had never thought he would actually be able to fear him. And yet now he did.

And at once, Remus dropped him and stared angrily at Patton, who had stepped forth probably to try and stop Remus from doing anything harsh.

“Remus! Clam down”, Janus tried to get Remus’s attention back “I did nothing to Roman! I haven’t sseen him in days! I don’t-”

Before Janus could end, Remus turned around and rushed past him back to the hallway leading to their rooms. With no much thinking Janus went after him, so did Logan and Patton.

Just as Janus was able to see around the corner, he noticed Virgil rushing out of his room and blocking Remus’s way. Virgil had a scared look on his face, yet seemed determined to stop him and was about to shout, as Remus simply jumped against the wall, over Virgil’s head and sprinted further towards Roman’s room.

And at that point the other sides started sprinting. Somehow, Janus got in front of the group and was first to reach Roman’s door and first to see the mess that his room was. The first to see Remus crying, pacing in circles in front of the glowing mirror and muttering, whispering, spurting things. He stepped inside and Logan pressed forward, looking around in utter disbelieve.

Patton and Virgil were still behind them and Janus heard Patton utter a loud gasp. He could almost see how tears formed in his eyes.

“What the fuck!?!” Virgil half-screamed and the other sides flinched at the creepy echo that had come with Virgil’s words.

It made Remus turn towards the group. Suddenly he was still. He stared at Janus, then Patton. The tears were still running down his face.

“He’s burNING!” Remus squeaked pained and a paper behind him evaporated in flames.

“Remus come back to your senses!” Janus demanded and tried to step in front of Logan, who was still closest to Remus.

But as the word ‘senses’ had fallen, Remus’s eyes lit up and his whole focus shifted towards Logan and just like that Remus grabbed his arm and bolted towards the mirror. He was too strong for Logan to fight against and the whole move had been too unpredictable for him to anticipate. And so, Logan was dragged into the imagination and Janus, Patton and Virgil stood back in Roman’s room in quiet shock.

That was until Virgil rushed forth about to follow them blindly, before Janus and Patton held him back.

“What – We – We need to get to Logan! What do you think will the mad man do!?” Virgil hissed agitated towards Janus.

Latter only shook his head and quickly exchanged a look with Patton before he turned his attention back to Virgil. Remus and Virgil had always had a weird relationship even before Virgil had left him and Janus behind. At times it was as if they were partners in crime, at times it was as if they were cellmates. The more anxious Virgil grew the more bizarre and gruesome Remus’s illusions and acts got.

And right now, that Logan was in Remus’s hands Janus could not risk Remus getting any more gruesome. He couldn’t risk Virgil getting too close to him.

“I don’t know”, Janus admitted and took a step backwards towards the mirror, “but he will get more random the closer you are to him! And like that I won’t be able to do anything anymore! Especially not in the imagination. It is their territory, Virgil. It is their land and we certainly won’t stand a chance against Remus’s craziness in there, if you make him anymore mad.”

Then Janus turned his head towards Patton and held onto the side of the mirror.

“I’ll go in and get them back. Sstay here and take care of him. Will you?”

Patton was shaking, his eyes uncertain and his breath unsteady. But his words sounded true as he said: “I will. I trust you.”

And with that Janus jumped inside the mirror into the imagination. It felt like falling for an infinity but was over with the blink of an eye and Janus landed wobblily on his feet. And before he could even start to begin taking in what he could see, he was overwhelmed by the smell of thick and heavy smoke. Janus blinked and his eyes stung. Only after a few seconds of adjustment he managed to truly open his eyes and found himself standing in front of a wall of fire. Just fire.

He was frozen. Remus could not be right. He could not. Be. Right.

Janus shook himself out of his state and looked away from the wall and finally found Logan standing only a few feet away from him. He seemed to be uninjured, if a little unsettled, but Janus would take whatever he could get at this point. Quickly he walked over to him and soon saw Remus wandering along the fire wall, forth and back, both hands pressed against his skull.

Logan saw Janus approach out of the corner of his eye and turned slightly towards him.

“Are you unharmed?” was the first question out of Janus’s mouth and Logan just nodded.

“Well, at least one thing is all right then. Did he say anything concerning this…”

“Catastrophe? No, he did not. He has been mumbling incoherently since he has gotten here and as much as I want to say that such behaviour is quite usual for him, I know that this is cannot be usual for him”, Logan responded and pointed towards the still wandering Remus.

Janus just stared at Remus, then back to Logan, gulped and waved for him to get closer towards the Duke. Logan followed and they soon heard Remus mutter: “Fire. Burn. Blaze. Flame. Bruise. Blister. Blood. Red. Red. Orange. Orange. Sun. Campfire. Witch burning. Burnt flesh. Burn. Burn. Burn. Pain – Pain! Blister. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. O p p O s I t e!”

An association game?

“Water?” Logan blurted out and Remus immediately turned towards him with a big smile.

“Water! Rain! Rain clouds!” Remus screamed and immediately the sky went grey and clouds formed to pour down to the earth.

The flames didn’t go down but it stopped the fire from spreading and steam rose up into the sky. Within moments the sides were wet to the bone and Remus turned towards the two others. Meretriciously, he watched both for a moment before his focus went back to Logan and he made a step towards him.

Logan let him approach. He wanted to ask Remus, what was going on but was not sure how well Remus could even understand his questions at this point. He seemed to be absolutely delusional and his eyes were red from crying. This was an absolute mess.

“Can you hold my hand?”

Logan rose his eyebrows as high as it was possible for him and asked Remus simply: “Pardon me?”

“You make sense! I need to make sense to think and to find Roman. If you hold my hand, I will make sense. Please. We need to go. Now. He’s getting worse”, Remus pledged with the lowest voice he could muster to utter.

Logan didn’t understand what was happening. Not completely at least. He was aware that Remus’s state certainly was linked to what was going on with Roman and that Roman probably was the source of this ridiculous fire, since it was his half of the imagination which was burning. What he did not understand was the fact that of all sides Remus decided to trust him and ask for his help. He was so far out of his territory of expertise that it felt almost ridiculous to think he might be of any help in here.

But here Remus was the Duke. He knew how this world worked and quite honestly after looking at the fire wall again Logan decided he might as well just listen to him.

“Very well”, Logan said and held out his hand for Remus to take it.

Remus grabbed his hand and started walking, while Logan looked back over his shoulder to Janus who stared at him flabbergasted. Logan just shrugged and then focused on the path in front of them.

And so, they followed Remus through the pouring rain. Minutes passed and the two sides felt slowly how the imagination started pulling on their nerves. Things here didn’t follow the laws of nature or some sort of coherent concept. What was believed to be true, would be true. What was believed to be wrong would be wrong. There were no rules, no sense, no time and neither Logan nor Janus liked being part of such world. It just didn’t fit their mindsets.

And naturally, there was also the fact the humongous fire was burning next to them and it seemed not to stop. This fire which probably was Roman’s doing and made them question, how greatly they had underestimated Roman’s mental state. They both had assumed that it wasn’t too good; the Prince hadn’t come to their dinners, but ate alone in his room. He hadn’t come out to present his ideas, didn’t sing and didn’t smile anymore. But he had done his part for Thomas and it had been decided to let him have his privacy and not fester him too much. In hindsight, a decision they should have thought through more thoroughly.

Thunder. Logan flinched and quickly looked around to look where the sound had been coming from.

Thunder.

Go away.

Remus stopped. Logan looked around hysterically. Where was this voice coming from? It couldn’t just be projected through the sky- Unless it could since this was imagination and Roman had seen Lion King about a million times and loved Mufasa speaking in the clouds.

So, he looked up but found nothing. Instead, Logan suddenly felt how Remus let go of his hand and started running straight towards the fire. Janus next to him shouted for Remus to stop but at once shut up as they both realized that there was something standing out of the fire. A glass surface. Logan and Janus exchanged a look and followed Remus, who had already started to knock against the glass wall.

The heat was blazing and even though they both were able to just heal themselves, in case they were burnt, neither had the urge to get closer to the flames. They didn’t understand how Remus could be so close to it and not show any signs of pain or exhaustion at all.

And then they were close enough to see through the glass. It was a gigantic glass dome, within flames burning just like outside of it. Only that in the middle of the construct sat a white character. With a red sash.

“Rooman!”

Remus’s voice was shrill and dry.

Nobody understands. How much… it hurts.

“Stop being dramatic! Stop! Stop! Stop!”

I can’t do this any longer… I can’t…

“StoP! If I can, you-”

Remus stopped. He turned around. His eyes again on Logan. Filled with desperation. And –

Hope.

“I forgot”, Remus laughed and scratched his head maniacally, “I forgot, I don’t know why, but I forgot and – I need to remember! I need to show him, Logan! I need to remind him too, to make him stop! Will you help me? Please?”

Logan just gaped at him for a solid twenty seconds. He was unable to do anything. He had no power in here. How could he possibly help Remus resolve this situation?

But if he didn’t try, he would surely be of no use at all.

And so, Logan fought off his paralyzed state and got closer to Remus.

“What do you need me to do?”

Remus smiled desperately and waved him towards the glass dome. Janus just walked beside them, holding up his cape, which he had conjured to be longer and fireproof, to shield the two other sides.

“Just put your hands on my back. I need to project something onto the dome, so Ro sees it. I’ll need to focus pretty hard so please don’t go away. Stay.”

The monotone tone of Remus’s voice scared both Logan and Janus but there was no time left. Swiftly, Logan positioned himself behind Remus and laid his hands on his shoulder blades while Remus carefully held his hand onto the glass.

Nothing happened at first. Then there was a static through the crackling of fire. Then there appeared a light, a projection on the other side of the glass dome.

And a sob. The projection showed one of their rooms out of Thomas’s childhood. Judging the angle, it was the view from a child sitting on a floor. Their gaze fell down on the floor and another sob made the whole frame waver.

It was one of them. It was a memory.

More crying. Louder. Heavier. Pained. The view got black as the boy blinked and was fogged when he opened his eyes again.

Logan felt himself gulp. Janus felt a cold shiver running down his spine.

 The scene seemed to never end, seemed to get mushier, more desperate. The crying didn’t stop, the pain got deeper and more chaotic.

 Then white. The boy blinked. White and red. A red sash. Roman. Merely eleven it seemed.

 “Remus?”

 His voice was so high. So childish.

 “Ree?”

 Remus sobbed harder. The scene shook. There was a shoulder. The scene grew steadier. Roman had hugged Remus.

 “It’s them, isn’t it? They fight all day long, so they must be screaming at you at night, aren’t they?” Child Roman said so softly.

 A nod. A little wail.

 Remus answered: “D says I – I – I overdramatize what they say! Says that I shouldn’t do what I’m doing! But – but-”

 He cried more.

 “I know. This is what you do. This is what you are for. You give Thomas’s fears and doubts form”, Roman said for him.

 “Yes!”

 Remus’s view had cleared a bit. Roman kneeled in front of him and held his hands. His eyes were filled with so much adoration and sadness.

 “Does it hurt Thomas? Am I bad? Should I not be? Are they right? Should I just die?”

 Roman’s eyes were also filled with tears.

 But on his lips, there was a smile.

 “And take me with you? No, thanks I wanna live and we both know that Thomas wouldn’t stand a day without me.”

 “Yeah”, Remus sniffled and watched his brother put on this faulty self-confident smile.

 “And if he cannot stand a day without me, he couldn’t stand a day without you either, dummy. We need your shouting just like we need my singing and Logic’s curiosity.”

 “But- But why? How am I helping now?”

 Roman frowned in frustration. Irritated he put his hand on Remus’s shoulder.

 “Ree, you’re awful, right?”

 “Butthole!”

 Remus hit his brother in the chest and Roman yelped and then sighed impatiently.

 “Not like that! I mean you feel awful, right?”

 “Oh, yeah I feel like cow dung.”

 “Yeah, and that means Thomas is feeling awful too! And nobody of the others can see that as clear as you do! This is why you need to show them all the things you show them.”

 “Why can’t you just tell them that Thomas isn’t feeling happy? You’re not good either”, Remus replied.

 Roman’s smile faltered a little before he caught himself and shrugged.

 “No, I’m not but Morality and Logic won’t listen to me. I’m not there to warn them but to be brave and talk to people and give Thomas energy and motivation. And to dream. They think I’m just dramatic. So, I can’t make them listen to me. But you can be loud and bizarre and gross! You can make Morality snap and then Logic is going to realize how bad it really is and will finally accept that we need to talk with Mom and Dad!”

 “But…” Remus voice was weak as he spoke. “What if I unsettle Thomas so much that he can’t talk to them anymore?”

 “Then I will be brave! I will ask Logic to let me take the lead and he will let me because I’m brave enough to talk over stupid Fear!”

 There was Remus’s laugh. He pulled Roman in another hug. Roman laughed too. The moment held on for a long time.

 “But”, Roman carefully pulled back and sternly looked Remus in the eyes, “I can only do that with you. I need you. We all do. You are essential for Thomas.”

 For a second Remus said nothing. A last sniffle.

 “And you’re my and Thomas’s hero.”

“And you still are!”

Logan finally tumbled backwards, as the projection faded away and fell on his backside while pressing his hand against his mouth to silence his crying. Janus had dropped his cape and starred at Remus in utter horror. They had almost got him killed. They had almost killed Remus, without even realizing it. Without ever noticing how bad he was.

But Remus didn’t care. Not about the pain he had been through nor the many times he had been ignored. He only cared for the glass dome that finally evaporated and sloppily ran towards his twin in the middle of the flames.

Remus’s skin was burning. He smelled cooked flesh, ashes and smoke. Almost tasted the roasted air, as he fought through the flames on his way to Roman. Roman didn’t move, when Remus reached him. His clothes were burnt into rags, the visible skin was red and blistered. It didn’t look like Roman anymore.

Fiercely, Remus grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him backwards out of the heat. Roman didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t protest. When Remus dropped him outside of the fire, he just flopped on the ground. He would have hit his head had Remus dropped himself on his knees and caught him messily.

“Ro. RoRo! Come on! Look alive! Look alive dangnabbit!” Remus cursed weakly and cradled Roman closer to his chest.

And in that moment Remus felt how Roman’s clothes changed and a weak arm being thrown around his back. Remus laughed and pushed him into a more upright position, while Roman started to hold him more ferociously and press himself against Remus. Remus let out another chuckle and felt how Roman started to cry against his shoulder. He didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all.

Slowly Logan and Janus got closer. The rain was still pouring down and the flames finally started to falter and in the nearby forest, which had been spared from the fire, silhouettes moved in the shadows. Janus kept an eye on them while Logan quietly approached the brothers and waited for Remus to look up and notice him.

It took Roman a while to stop clinging to Remus. But no one dared to say anything about it and in all honesty Logan and Janus were just relieved to have a little time to calm down themselves. It had been so overwhelming to register what had just transpired and neither felt comfortable enough to console the Prince in this very moment.

As Remus eventually felt Roman slightly let go of him, he leaned back and tried to catch Roman’s look. His eyes were red from crying. His bottom lip still shivering. Remus cracked a smile, ignoring that he himself was still crying from the whole situation.

“Hey shit face”, Remus greeted Roman who promptly giggled, which led to him having a coughing fit.

Finally, Remus felt how the tears stopped running down and grinned towards Roman, while patting his back a little too hard.

“You asshole!” Roman blurted affectionately and scratched his nose. “But thanks for – yeah. Who from the others came with you? I can’t think right now.”

Roman still sat with his back turned towards Logan and Janus and Remus immediately realized that his brother might be not too happy with who had chosen to come with him. But they were there and he wasn’t going to tell Roman something else.

“Microsoft turd and J. I only brought the brain with me though”, Remus confessed and held Roman’s shoulders, which for everybody visibly stiffened by the mere mentioning from Janus name.

Logan and Janus heard Roman audibly gulp before he nodded and straightened his back.

“Makes sense. They couldn’t leave Virgil back on his own. That’s okay. It’s okay.”

Remus grinned. Roman shivered and so did Janus. The rain had made the air quite chilly and his fire-y brother as well as his coldblooded bastard friend didn’t like chilly that much. But with the fire still burning behind them he didn’t trust to stop the rain quite yet.

“Mind to put the fire out now?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course!” Roman said as if he had only now realized what was going on and tried too fast to get up, so that he almost fell down again had Remus not caught him in time.

“Sorry”, Roman mumbled and turned towards the fire. With a slight wave of his hand the flames went out and with an additional snap the rain stopped just a second later.

With a twist Roman turned towards Logan and just like that Logan’s clothes were dry as if it had never rained at all. It was the same for Remus and Janus, just that the latter didn’t get a look from Roman.

“Is it possible for us to get back to the mindscape, Roman? This environment is …” Logan inquired stiffly, while crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Roman gave him a weak nod, looked over to Remus only to then notice that there were silhouettes standing in the forest. Slightly panicked, Roman shook his head, guiltily shot a look over his shoulders to the ashes and then to Logan.

“We’ll – You – Give me a moment. I need to fix this mess”, Roman said and conjured a little camp side with a fire place and materials in order to rebuild a small town.

Then Roman took a deep breath and wandered wordlessly towards the forest, where now one of the silhouettes had stepped out. Remus recognized her. The stout, blond woman was the general Ren of Roman’s castle guard. She was an impressive nemesis to him and his people.

“Your Royal Highness!” Ren said and bowed for Roman, who held up his hand to stop her.

With a quick glance he found other citizen of the nearby villages and towns hiding in the shadows and then addressed his general: “General. Are our people safe? Did you manage to evacuate everybody?”

“We have a few people left missing and I haven’t heard from all my men yet, but as of now we know of no casualties yet, Your Highness!”

Roman suppressed a relieved sigh and told Ren calmly: “Perfect. Go and look for shelter over there. You should find enough resources for everybody for at least a week. Treat the hurt and let the tired rest. Also distribute the food I’ve provided. It should be enough for a while. As I am now, I can’t help you with the reconstruction quite yet. As soon as I can, I’ll be back though.”

“Thank you, Your Highness! Thank you so much! We will do our best with our work and will make you proud! You can count on us!” Ren exclaimed happily.

Roman smiled slightly, bowed his head and said before going back to the other sides: “I know. You have never let me down before.”

His face fell the moment he turned away from his subjects. His expression was pained and he motioned for the others to wait. Logan furrowed his eyebrows and Remus glanced over to the tree line. Janus just observed Roman, who still avoided eye contact.

As soon Roman was in reach, Remus put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and muttered: “I can’t teleport us right to the exit. But I can get us closer. That sounds like a plan?”

Roman only nodded and stared to the ground. Logan and Janus got closer to the twins and with a snap Remus teleported them back into the direction from where they had come before. Roman looked around. No subjects in sight. He let out a pained groan and Remus immediately went to support him. To Roman’s surprise Logan soon stood next to his side and as careful as he managed to helped him stand upright. Slightly confused he observed him, noticed his eyes being red and a certain unsteadiness in his look. He decided to let it go and just let the two help him out for the next few minutes.

They didn’t talk as they walked back to the portal into the Mindscape. They didn’t know how to start talking about what had happened or focus on what would happen next. And so, they reached the portal with no plan whatsoever on how to explain to Patton and Virgil what had just gone down.

“You go first”, Remus said to Logan and Janus.

Logan hesitated but let go of Roman and stepped in front of the waiting for Janus to join him.

Janus watched Remus for a moment. He stood there so straight and seemingly lucid. He had rarely seen him portray anything but silly grossness and tonight he had seen him being everything but gross and silly. He knew that Remus didn’t tend to lie. He knew that he was not a deceiver. But he wasn’t so sure if that was true at this very moment.

“If we go first the portal closes and you’re stuck in here.”

Janus clicked his tongue, nodded and reluctantly walked over to the portal. He exchanged a look with Logan and then both stepped through.

For a moment the imagination was silent. Remus just held on to Roman and the both simply stared at the glowing portal. If they wanted, they could just close it. Stay here and never face the others again. Roman knew that he was tempted to just do that. To just back down for eternity.

“Are you ready?”

Roman hated Remus’s voice, the tone he used, the way he put so much more emotion in every word than he ever could. He hated it that it made him want to try.

“No, but I’ll never will be and we might as well just get started”, Roman answered and pushed them both towards the portal.

Remus smirked and felt relief wash over him, as they stepped through the portal.

[soundonreadings]

Sound On InstaReadings Series Volume 3 with Amber Dawn, Amy Leblanc & Nancy Lee

Welcome to Sound on InstaReadings Series. Our second installment features readers Amber Dawn, Amy Leblanc & Nancy Lee and is hosted by Dina Del Bucchia and David Ly. Posted here for your enjoyment are the bios of our fine readers and the text of their readings. Thanks!

Amber Dawn is the author of five books and the editor of three anthologies. Her sophomore poetry collection, My Art Is Killing Me and Other Poems, launched in March 2020.

Reading text:

fountainhead 

Sure, I’ve tossed three pennies over my left shoulder into Trevi 

Fountain in Rome, but the mermaid fountain in Piazza Sannazaro

Napoli is my favourite. Napoli is a city of mermaids. I lost count 

of mermaids. Two tailed and bathing in cracked frescos. Marble 

reliefs carved into arched doorways. Mermaid faces on old coins. 

I almost bought myself a tears of Parthenope necklace. A gold 

chain hung with two blue teardrop shaped Swarovski crystals. 

Parthenope and her sisters swam (or flew, myth shows sirens as half 

bird or half fish. Either femme beast works) to Ulysses’ ship to curse 

him with their song, but Ulysses tied himself to the mast, stopped 

his ears with wax and withstood. The entire crew of men survived

simply by not listening, so the story goes and goes. The defeated 

mermaids wept at their failure and filled the bay of Naples. 

Parthenope died from the shame and was swept ashore. Her blonde hair 

turned to sand and her body, stone. A beach I myself have walked along. 

I audibly sobbed before the gorgeous baroque blood of Artemisia

Gentileschi’s famous Judith Slaying Holoferneson, on permanent 

display at the Uffizi. A man my father’s age asked me nine 

times to leave the gallery with him. One of the only Italian 

expressions I know so well that my subconscious has spoken 

it back to me in dreams is lasciami stare. It means leave me be. 

I drank too much at the strip club in Pescara, Abruzzo as a topless dancer 

listed the times homophobia nearly killed her. I understood her perfectly

when she asked what Canada is like. Is there libertà per lesbi in Canada? 

I furiously recorded the words that I misunderstood in a notebook 

as if I might one day retroactively follow meaning. I couldn’t call 

upon language fast enough to console her in real time. I couldn’t say 

fuck this shit, I’m sorry or chin up, tits out, you know or you

deserve better, femme. I’ve come to associate speaking half a language

or less than half, a tender handful of comprehension, with being 

a survivor of sexual violence. My body has breath and spasm where it

should have words. My body can picture ease and desire, but is forever 

learning how to say what it wants. I’ve spent a humbple lifetime looking 

for others who labour to live inside their skin  My kink is to loudly love those 

who’ve been told to keep quiet. Erotic boom. I want outlaster’s love. Against-

all-odds love. I, finally, want myself, and slick fluency in this desire.  

While in Napoli I wrongly read a museum label to say that Parthenope 

wished to marry Circe the sorceress. I read queer determination, and imagine 

how that beach might feel if my mistranslation was an origin story.  

Image if the grounds we walk were build from queer love? What song

would our queer scion sing six thousand years from now? What shape 

would story take? If our bodies were fluid loose, waxy and loud 

and fluent in our madrelingue, in a kin spit, in the looped vernaculars 

we have long deserved, then imagine what words we’d know so well 

that even our subconscious could speak this love back to us in our dreams 

tragic interview

An anagram for “creative writing” is “tragic interview”

We will ask you if it is true

We will ask you how true it is 

We will ask you where you’re from

We will ask you to verify you belong

We will ask you about vice and god 

We will ask you to legitimize blood 

We will ask for a pathos worthy childhood

We will ask you about your thronged body 

We will ask why you inhabit both and many 

We will ask if your kin tolerates such veracity 

We will ask if you’ve told the whole story

We will ask if you are attracted to danger

We will ask you if your shame overlingers 

We will ask for trauma to be in past tense

We will ask you to narratively arc triumph 

We will ask you to lip service progress 

We will ask you about free speech 

We will ask to contract your name 

We will ask you to trouble in stereotypes 

We will ask you stroke those fleshy ethics 

We will ask how outsiders may write about you

We will ask you for your blanket endorsement 

We will ask you wax widespread as hot and now

We will ask you attest to your own exceptionalism

We will ask to couch your fine ass in the theoretical 

We will ask you to table round with your enemies  

We will ask that you prove pain makes great art 

We will ask you to represent en masse

We will ask you to do it for less 

We will ask for your free consultation 

We will ask you to recommend your own

We will ask where do you find the time

We will ask you to exalt your labour 

We will ask if your success is a surprise 

We will ask if you’re surprised to be alive

We will ask you to front face as the hero

We will ask you exhibit the future possible

We will ask how the next gen will fathom and ken

We will ask for a kind offering to the institution 

We will ask you for the ever positive spin 

We will ask you cleave homage and imitation 

We will ask your craft for credible dimension 

We will ask if the work appears to be uneven

We will ask you to trial your live version  

We will ask you how true it is 

We will ask you if it is true

Dear IncorrectName: found and redacted from my inbox

Please allow me to introduce myself as the OfficialTitle at the College_University_ GovernmentFundedInstitution. At my InstitutionalPlaceOfEmployment we are Studying_OtheringtheLivingHellOutof Prostitution in Canada_FeministViews
on Prostitution_ProstitutionExploitationTrafficking_and other topics related                       to your “hellish existence.”

Your book How Poetry Saved My Life is on my students’ critical book review list alongside TextsbyFeministsWhoHateYou and UnethicalResearchers. I feel strong- ly that your perspective would contribute to my students’ learning. Sorry
for the ridiculously late notice, but I want to invite you to visit our class
next Friday. I do not have funds for guest speakers, but I would be happy to offer
a $50 honorarium from my own SalarythatIsFourTimesWhatyouEarnedLastYear and parking permit for the day. Please let me know if this would work for you.

Dear IncorrectName

I am writing on behalf of the AcademicConferenceWithA$200+FeePerAttendee. Part of this year’s goal is to include a performance “cabaret” [erroneous use
of quotation marks for reasons unknown] that will feature any or all varieties
of literary performance (spoken word, performance poetry, slam poetry, sound poetry, etc) with a focus on the voices of diverse populations.

Your presence at this “cabaret” would be of great value
to the conference attendees in their role as AnalyticalOnlookers.

I have heard back from the PlanningCommittee regarding finances and what we can offer you is a BelowStandardArtistFee honorarium, but we are tight so__could you accept a conference pass? We have several other authors who are only getting conference passes. So paying you is a bit of a “double standard” [substantiated use of quotation marks] and there might be hard feelings. 

I look forward to hearing from you.

Dear IncorrectName

WeAreOtherArtists. We’d love if you would come to OurSHOW and read
your work_talk about your work_talk about your life_talk about the state of our community_talk about doing work in community. No hard hitting talk_just talk talk_casual talk. You would be fabulous. Our stage is yours
for one hour. We expect around 150 guests.

This is your opportunity to reach a large crowd.

We don’t offer you an appearance fee, but you will see OurVision is VeryInnovative.

Dear Amber Dawn
I  am a Writer_Artist_BodyThatisHoldingStory.

I have always loved &admired your work &it would be an honour to have your feedback. It would be awesome if you could read my ScriptCollectionNovelOutlineTreatise &give me some honest &brutal feedback. Read it whenever you want! I hope I see
you in person soon! I can come by your office. Do you still work at ArtsCommunityJob_ FrontLineSupport_DropIn_HeathCentre_CollegeUniversity?

I am HoldingaStory &it is PAINFUL. How did you write your first book?

I have always wanted to be             a writer. 

Did it feel                    like a relief
to get that first book out?

How do you read in front of all those people &do interviews &does your mom 

still speak to you? I’m afraid                    of my parents
&hometown &people 

I used to know                             &MySurvivorsStory &what 

people will think if I                           SpeakMyTruth.

What do you like about being a writer

Amy LeBlanc is an MA student in English Literature and creative writing at the University of Calgary. She is currently non-fiction editor at filling Station magazine and will be assuming the role of Managing Editor in July. She is the author of three books: her debut poetry collection, I know something you don’t know, was published with Gordon Hill Press in March 2020. Her novella, Unlocking, will be published by the UCalgary Press in 2021. Pedlar Press will publish her short story collection, Homebodies, in 2022. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Room, PRISM International, EVENT, Prairie Fire, CV2, and the Literary Review of Canada among others. She was recently a finalist for the Minola Review Inaugural Fiction Contest judged by Heather O’Neill.

Reading Text:

Wintering

 He torched the skin that I’m still in. 

Counting Januarys— 

I hold my hair

to sing psalms

and semi vowels.

The wasps bloat with 

my belly in December, 

gashing panty lines

and pot holes.

The burnt space will tear from my hips.

I am a calamity

asking for armistice. 

   The storied life of Grace Poole

         She dangled striated

         scarves from the window

         rattling her head as I

         held her waist.

 He told me to keep her

quiet, to keep her safe, compliant—

this significant

paranoia

that she might be

         vaulting

         purging

         dancing

         like red fiber from rafters.

          She tells me

         my hair reminds her

         of a fox. My brush is

         a signal to enemy lines:

         her lips parting

         on a stolen glass

         of honey soaked wine.

 She and I

watch the tree,

as it splits and succumbs

in the orchard, a slit

where the tree was licked

with a voltage charged tongue.

 She says that it will never

be the same again.  

 We are both behind

the lock and chain, but

I can abscond

to the halls and gates.

         She lingers behind

         the latch—

         her fingers

         entwined in a lock

         of my red hair.

 We are curious bedfellows

with sweetness on our thighs,

         the topographical curving

         of bones and banks.

She is hers and I am mine.

 I will never ask

for more than the chill

of her hands that cool me

until I drown.  

         She won’t jump with someone

         to hush the light.

   Girls reading in red coats

– For Paula Jean Welden

 She tucked a book

into the folds of her red coat 

when she left her room.

 She felt the spine against her ribs,

and the edges of paper wrapping

around her skin:

a pair of legs in a claw foot tub

a little birth with a belly full of rocks.

 The book would last her

the better part of three days.

 She buttoned a scarf to her throat

and picked bloodroot and ate carrots,

nine almonds a day with a glass of water.

 She expected to wander and to find an altar

in the trees, in the wasps, in moist roots

and the mud that caught her heels.

 She freed insects from jars that never held water

and heard a rattling sound

in her bone marrow,

in her ears eyes hands and teeth.

 They searched and searched,

but she stayed hidden at her altar

or the meeting point

of her own sternum and her spine.

 She read her book

in her red buttoned coat.

 She thought about ivy

and garden walls,

moths that bleed cyanide,

women in turtlenecks,

wine and cake and uncomfortable pantyhose.

 Her coat, red as pomegranate seeds

trailed behind her, moist and well-watered.

 Her exposed belly could cut open letters

and bloodroot was the bedrock of her spine.

 Her book had moistened in the rain,

so she made an herbarium

and slept in the vines.

 Stripping the moths of their poison,

she dripped them over a porringer

and encouraged them to dry.

 When her fingernails rooted to the paper,

she swallowed herself whole. 

The brief reincarnation of Mary Webster on the Amtrak from Boston to New York

Leaves clung to the woman’s shoe


and hair hung from the sides of her face.

 It had rained for a week.

 She’d eaten a biscuit,


then fell asleep on the train

to the hissing until the low whistle sang.

 The man across the aisle

was watching her sleep.

 He pretended to read his newspaper

licked his inked fingers,


smudged editorials, blurred black

and white photos with spit on his hands.

 She dreamt about being a cat, a fox,

an apple hanging from a tree.                         

 She opened her eyes and found


the man had moved to sit beside her.

 He’d been so silent,


she’d hardly felt the air move.

 He held out a cigarette


which she placed between her lips.

 When his hand shifted closer to her hip,

she put her bag between them


and asked if he had ever played scrabble:

 He played cart,


she played cruel,


he played slick,

she played sway,


he played cyan,


she won by adding an i and a d and an e.

 She sent him back to his side

of the train with a biscuit

wrapped in a napkin

and a half-drunk mug of tea.

 She returned to her dream of the hanging fruit,

felt her small body sway in the breeze

until the train arrived in New York.

   Hereafter

He says that she’s unattractive, but the subtext is that he doesn’t like girls who are more comfortable in their skin than he is

with his masculinity. He made me realize I can stop apologizing to the mannequins I run into—stop slipping confession notes into the books

I read for whomever needs them after me. I don’t apologize to the boy who left his gum between my knees, because my arteries continue

to pump and my feet fit into my shoes without him. The amassment of buildings and bodies and dealmakers and white men tells me that I don’t

need to rip eyelashes out for wishes. I’ve learned that the squeaky wheel gets taken away. The arbiter of wineries, golf clubs, mortgages,

window frames, casinos, finds that these are grasping at the ceiling, fingers spread into spider webs. In this bottom-less wanting,

unnecessary roughness earns you a slap on the shoulder and an extra hour of locker room talk. We learn to grab back (if sex happens before

you wanted it) with chemicals between our fingers. I burn my throat on oatmeal and my skin turns to scales– my pages are dog-eared

from turning corners too soon. In this one hundred and forty character locale, I’ll blast out a constant reminder that

this mimeograph heart won’t be stopping any time soon.

Nancy Lee is the author of two critically acclaimed works of fiction, Dead Girls and The Age, and a new poetry collection, What Hurts Going Down (McClelland & Stewart). Her poems have recently appeared in Ploughshares, The Adroit Journal, The Puritan, Arc Poetry Magazine and The Malahat Review. She teaches at the University of British Columbia and lives in Steveston, BC with her husband, the author John Vigna, and their jerk of a dog, Rudy the cardigan welsh corgi.

Reading Text: 

four-eyed girls 

I’m sitting at the bar with Mary Katherine Gallagher watching prospects grind hope into anything blond. 

I’ve peeled off wool tights so my pleated skirt flashes white cotton panties when I cross and uncross. No one notices. 

For fun, we switch eyeglasses. In hers, I drown. Fish wriggle and shimmer, groove beyond my reach. She says, 

Through these glasses everyone looks thinner. She says, Why aren’t there more girls like us in movies? I tell her 

there are plenty, floating in rivers, folded in dumpsters, naked, nameless. She says, It’s time for another shooter. 

Something to clean the sink, something the bartender will set on fire, something that hurts going down. 

no place for a heart 

Start a fire with women’s bodies; stack them deep for heat. What keeps a kind girl alive in the wild? The men in town are crapshoots, sawbucks, coins striking heads and tails. They post naked snaps of her on 4chan, ferry fifteen-year- olds across state lines, weigh options like: hands up her skirt, hands around her throat. She’s ready for a chorus of frogs, a convent timeshare, ready to train a dildo to mow the lawn. Abandon romance. This one’s for mothers who catch their boyfriends fingering their daughters. Here’s to bff date rape in the old man’s sedan. Today a high school football coach showed cheerleaders the glory of his half- hard penis in a hot dog bun, tomorrow a man will cram his wife into a Naugahyde suitcase and drag her to the river. It’s so fucking hot inside; she isn’t surprised. 

alphas 

i. At three a.m., lip gloss and crop tops wasted in empty clubs, only you are brave enough for new terrain. We hunt at a crawl, every gin joint gated, marquee dim. On the boulevard, we roll down windows to watch a coyote lope, head bowed. A bloody rabbit swings from his jaw. I tell you he’s my first. 

ii. Alphas beside the car. Caps pulled, track suits baggy, shoulders rolling, chests sunk, a lazy jog with beer cans, sidewalk be damned. The pack must get hungry at three a.m. They stare through glass, blow their liquored smoke. I say, Ask where they’re going. You shake your head. The night is wild with them. 

iii. Once, in a town on the coast you chose celibacy over the hazard of ocean men, woodsmen, mountain men, unwashed hair in pelts. Men with thick paws, bark faces, who stank of wood chip, coal dust, fish. When they entered your bed tangled in nets and splinters snuffled wet muzzles to your neck, you played dead. 

iv. Now you raise two hatchlings in a sanctuary. You pound fence posts, lay tripwire, stock bear bangs, kneel at the water to check muddy ground for tracks. Satellites beam our hushed talk of coyotes, mangy middle-aged cheeks, half-eaten carcasses, how they chew old wounds, cut and run. We forget their feral cologne, teeth and charm, until they startle us from the stupor of married sleep. 

daughters 

i. Tell the daughters we were heartless, crouched behind trees with rusted wire. That flanks bucked as we bled the bodies on beds of pine, stabbed with flint blades and the ends of spoons from a grandmother’s hope chest. Eyes whaled white, pupils drained of ink. One by one in the fog of morning, we scrubbed them from our petticoats. 

ii. Stretched and sticky in the sourdough starter, shovels scraping the stable floor, scouring water in the tin tub, sewing flecked with blood. A childhood bridled, saddled, stung with lye, hung to cure in salt and sun. No one believed what their eyes didn’t see, what gnawed through a girl, rustled her work-worn body in the brush. 

iii. Did they even want daughters? Sons so adored, rut-hungry, bottle-weak, sloppy work with a scythe. Who didn’t know his charm, the lanolin musk of his wool? And what if all daughters turned to ghosts? Whale bone, sadness, smoke. Tell them, it was kill or be killed. Tell them, we shivered for days beside their cribs, then stood to answer our own prayers.   

wife at the end of the world 

Fever on the streets as our planet swings closer to the sun, as ocean levels rise, biohazard atomizes, nuclear runoff seeps. Lives mundane 

with disaster. At the store, we snipe over which canned soup has more nutrition, chunky or creamy, which shattered pack of crackers 

has mice. A stock boy with peeling palms counts water bottles, while outside, men in lab coats debate timelines of extinction. 

I climb into a shelf for the last box of oats, and a woman in full makeup, French twist, purse dangling from a charmed wrist, stretches 

on tanned legs to help my husband reach a can of waxed beans. Her fingers pulse his biceps. His eyes finish her like a meal. 

My T-shirt smells of dead guinea pig, and I wish for one last bolt of catastrophe: a fissure, a sinkhole in the dry goods aisle. 

So that weeks from now, it will be my hair unravelled, flecked with debris, my ash-smeared skin in a strappy slip as I lie beside a naked man 

whose name I do not ask. Too busy tracking diseased dogs with my night scope and rifle, too busy brewing carboys of anti-toxin, 

wielding my flamethrower against mutant spiders, too busy calculating orbit-altering supernovas to settle for repopulating the earth. 

[moonchilddd36963]

Chapter Two

Kim Seokjin- Self Loathing

Kim Seokjin is probably the only person Namjoon hasn’t had to stalk. Instead, Seokjin stalked him. They’ve been friends since they were 11. Maybe they have feelings, maybe they dont.

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“Namjoon-ah stop running!” Jackson shouted. Namjoon’s father, Choi Minho, remarried an ‘evil’ man. If Namjoon were to even look at him wrong, he would be hit. But it was never ever around Minho or with his consent. Namjoon was constantly criticizing himself due to this. For the longest time Jackson was the voice inside his head. The worst time

was when Namjoon was 10. Jackson took Namjoon out for ice cream and to Hangang park. The man did horrible things to the young boy including-and I hate to say this- rape.

Namjoon was so horrified at the time, not knowing anything that was happening. And he refused to go home with Jackson. So he sat in the grass near Han River and wept. “Hello? I’m sorry but I saw what happened between you and that man.” Namjoon looked up to see a soft looking boy.

“I’m Kim Seokjin, is everything okay?”

Namjoon couldn’t talk, body shaking with embarrassment. Everyone had heard his cries of pain and no one thought to help. This changed from embarrassment to a flashback. His eyes began to water and Seokjin could only hug him.

And then Namjoon told him everything. About his mother dying, his father remarrying. About everything that Jackson would do to him. Everything. “I can take you home, if you’d like.”

Namjoon shook his head. “Right, silly me. Why would you want to go back with that monster?”

Namjoon laughed and wiped his nose. “Well Namjoon, my moms would be happy to have you over tonight as long as you give them your dad’s phone number.”

After that was said, Seokjin took him home to his two mothers. Lee Chaerin and Sandara Park.

“Oh no, you poor thing! Come here.” Chaerin opened her arms for the young boy to hug her. “Do you know your dad’s phone number? And possibly his name as well? Would you like us to report it to the police, because that is very possible. Chaerin’s brother works there.” Sandara was speaking softly, but a hint of anger was there.

Namjoon told them not to report it and gave them Minho’s number.

“Ah, Choi Minho. My brother works with him, says he’s having a tough time with his new marriage.” Sandara responds. “Would you like us to make you a bed on the floor or would you prefer sleeping with Seokjin?”  

“Sleep with hyung please.”

Seokjin’s face grew red, and Chaerin knew why. In Seokjin’s mind, ‘I’m gay, I’ve liked this guy for a year. I just watched him be fucked. Is he sure he wants me to….ugghhh’

Ever since that day Seokjin had been in love with Namjoon, but they're best friends.

Jin has been battling his own stuff too. He doesn’t  like himself. And it isn’t like most people fishing for compliments. He doesn’t own a mirror except for the one in his bathroom, but there is a sheet over it. Sometimes he wishes people didn’t have to see or hear him. He’s afraid that they can see everything about himself that he does.

-Timeskip-

It was after gym class 1 and Seokjin was breaking down. He had already showered and was now waiting on Namjoon to finish. And he could only cry, incapable of anything else at the moment. He couldn’t understand why he had to talk to Jisoo. Sure she was nice, but Seokjin fucked up so bad when speaking. And he was definitely ready to crawl in a hole and die.

“Jin? Are you okay?” Namjoon had finished showering and was now kneeled down next to Seokjin.

“I’m fine.” the older whispered and buried his face further into his forearm. “Bullshit, what’s going on?”

Namjoon pulled Seokjin into his chest and just let him cry. “Jinnie hyung, it’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

“Namjoon I can’t deal with it anymore. Everything’s falling apart.” The older was now sobbing into Namjoon’s chest.

“I could...come over tonight? I can see if I can stay the night and try helping you. If you’re still like this, I can do your homework so you don’t fail.”

   “No, no! It’s okay, don’t do my homework.” Seokjin protested.

“Hyung, I have mine finished. I don’t even wanna go home. Jackson got worse recently. But let’s clean you up. You look a mess.”  Namjoon took Seokjin into the showers after taking off the older’s shirt. He stuck Seokjin’s head under the cool water. The coldness would turn Seokjin’s face red and it wouldn’t be as noticeable that he was crying. Namjoon really thinks of everything. And the only time his anxiety isn’t messing with him, is whenever he tries helping other people mostly Seokjin.

Once the boys went to class, they sat in the back. The class was going great up until the teacher called on Namjoon. His heart felt like a ticking time bomb, like his entire body would explode. He could feel his pulse in his ears and fingers. Seokjin raised his hand to divert the attention from the taller male.

 “What is it Seokjin?”

“May I be excused, Ms. Jung? I have to use the restroom.”

  “Go Seokjin. No longer than 10 minute or I’m sending someone to find you.”

Seokjin looked at Namjoon who mouthed a ‘thank you’. Seokjin walked out and he could hear the teacher call on Mark Lee.

When Seokjin got to the bathroom he pulled out his phone, having nine minutes left he decided to just think. He put in his headphones and idontwannabeyouanymore came on. Kind of ironic though, because he didn’t wanna be him anymore. He would much rather be anyone else, he’d be the least attractive, most criminal human if he could. But he isn’t, instead, he is himself.

  I’m such a horrible person. I can’t speak correctly, I don’t look normal. I can’t seem to do anything right. I am honestly done with being me. I’ve changed the way I look or act so many times and I cannot stop feeling the way I do. It really just sucks in general because I am too scared to go to my moms about it. If I talked to Uncle Jiyong, he’d tell Mom. I can’t tell Namjoon because he will worry a lot about me. Maybe I’m just a milksop. I swear, if I told anyone they’d hate me as much as I do. If I showed anyone the real me, they’d all have different reactions wouldn’t they? This isn’t me, not really. I’m so fake. Around my parents and Namjoon, I am able to make jokes, cook food, laugh, look a mess. They don’t care. It’s when I get into public that I really feel this way. Every move I make is being watched. I feel the need to look close to perfect, act close to perfect. I really like looking and acting feminine, but I can’t do it outside of my bubble. Everyone would hate me, maybe even more than I hate myself.

The door opened and a guy went into a stall. I turned the volume all the way up, Don’t Listen in Secret now playing. I love the way ballad songs feel whenever I feel this way. It’s kind of like when you’re sad on a train and see the rain. Or it kind of feels like the rain, you know?

“Jinnie hyung? Ms. Jung sent me , Math is almost over and you’ve been gone for 20 minutes. Is everything okay?”

Seokjin didn’t look up and Namjoon just sat next to him.

  “You can stay here, hyung. I’ll go tell Ms. Jung, give me a minute. Can I have the pass? I’ll see if we can go home, I can text your mom.”

Seokjin stood up nodding, going to wash his face.

  “Jinnie hyung? Is everything okay? Do you want to be left alone?” Namjoon was now throwing away his perfect attendance streak for Seokjin. And if Seokjin has the balls to-

“No it’s fine, don’t wanna be a burden. You can go back to-,”

   “Kim Seokjin if you dare say that again, I will see that you die at my hand.” Namjoon laughed. Seokjin on the other hand, curled in a ball on his bed. “Don’t leave please. Stay so I know at least one person cares.”

And that’s what Namjoon did. He turned Princess Mononoke on and grabbed the banana milk and snacks, and layed next to Seokjin. They were wrapped in blankets and cuddling.

     Namjoon kept getting notifications from Jimin who was asking where he was. He silenced his phone. The only reason he was still with Jimin was to make the younger happy. Once he moves on, Namjoon will be able to be with who he really wants to be with.

Namjoon felt a weight on his lap and realized Seokjin had fallen asleep.

Namjoon was planning what to do once he was done.

He would write a note, to everyone he helps starting with Jimin.

                             Park Jimin

Go to the field behind Kim’s bookstore. There will be a path

Once the path ends you will be presented with an empty pool.

Meet us there at 9:50 pm. Right after the street lights are on.

        -Moonchild

Seokjin woke up and saw Namjoon writing, his tongue sticking out a bit. It was cute, until Seokjin’s mind wanted to twist it. Maybe Namjoon had finally seen what Seokjin’s been seeing all along. Maybe he was writing down everything he hated about the older. Maybe he was writing a note on why he had to leave. Maybe-

Namjoon looked up and smiled, his cute dimple was very prominent. Seokjin’s mind filled with different things that he loved about the younger. Namjoon was the key, the key to self love. Seokjin loved how he was around Namjoon. He loved how Namjoon looked at him. It made Seokjin want to love himself just as much as Namjoon loved him.

Maybe he was simply just writing something. Maybe he could be listing reasons he loves Seokjin. Maybe he was writing a love poem to him. Maybe it was for Jimin!

“Jinnie hyung, you’re awake. C’mere, I was writing something and wanted your opinion.”

 Jin stood up and stood next to Namjoon, who pulled him into his lap. Seokjin’s eyes widened as Namjoon leaned his head on Seokjin’s shoulder. His hands were around his waist.

“Jimin and I decided to break up. He’s in love with Taehyung, and I never actually liked him. It was someone else…” Namjoon spoke softly. Jin looked at the piece of paper on the table.

 Kim Seokjin

I love you, quite literally everything about you.

First of all, you’re cute as hell.

You make ridiculous jokes,

Youre smart,kind, well spoken.

I wish you’d see everything I do,

How amazing you are.

I know I cannot force it,

But i can try helping.

Kim Seokjin, please be my boyfriend.

I love you.

Kim Namjoon

“Yes, I’ll be your boyfriend you dumb egg. I love you.” Seokjin kissed him.

I need to help my boyfriend.

[johnsonncream]

Just some thoughts

I think I found religion in music I heard the metaphors and sonnets and poems written by people who have truly experienced love and had it taken away. We all had a yearning and a desire for love that couldn’t be filled the same way as another person or loved one that you don’t realize you have untill it’s gone. But it isn’t always reciprocated. The Bible says if it fades it was not love but it doesn’t say that the other person meant it when they said it back. I have these feelings of love lost that I can’t get over which lead me to music. The same way I looked for music after my mom passed away although I didn’t have the music access I do now. I find that each artist that expresses a love for something or beautiful voices talking about all the good out there and that it’s out to grab I gravitated to more. At some point they probably had a song talking about being different than all these drones out here and that they could do something great. I have the same voice in my head saying I can. in the world complaining of heart break where alcohol is used plentifully which can lead to depression. Then suppressed by drugs you are effectively masking your need for love and you can look at society and ask where has the love gone. Why does my father slave away for almost 40 years to enjoy very few liberties that we should already have free access to. Offered these manufactured drugs that dull us down and open us to what we consume via propaganda instituted by evil under the guise of every day things in social media. That has taught us not to confront our emotions but to become bitter and petty. Unloving and unkind. Bottle up emotions and not seek help or solace in other because everyone else is nothing but a drone. As stone sharpens stone so does one man another. We watch these shows that glamorize infidelity and glamour and fame and fortune while we sit on our sofas eating microwave pizza cuz college. Longing for something more while they enjoy the lavish. What happened to real free press. Where people could report what they wanted. And not be prosecuted for “spreading propaganda.” Or “spreading panic” yada yada yada. I’ve done the partying and drinking. It didn’t help me do anything but suppress and forget emotions I wish I was experiencing at the time. The kind of love that can make a grown man cry. Bring the strongest to it’s knees. Love. These people in charge and find ways to slave us. By charging us for rights we should have for free. Effectively slaving a whole country. isn’t that interesting that Disney is made by an anti Semite and is broadcast by companies that own other companies that own other companies that Meter our intake of resources to then charge us to use them. And if you can’t pay the bills you’re now jailed. Now Tennessee governor signs a bill limiting the rights of the lgbtq community. Humans. Stripped of basic rights. Taxation without representation. While the rest of us pay a little more and are still being taxed. Using God as a weapon to suppress people. If I recall correctly a congressman wept saying homosexuals are this and that. You aren’t them and have not walked in their shoes who are you to judge? I’m not perfect but I’m all for individuality and finding yourself. Women who are products or rape and molestation SHOULD be allowed to abort. The people voting on abortion never carried kids in the first place. I wouldn’t want a rapist’s child in me either. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. A chip off the old block. Something beautiful has been perversed. Let the woman who were victims decide what to do with the babies. You don’t have that right. Trump didn’t win the popular vote. That tells me we aren’t being represented. Yet still taxed. These people were electing aren’t doing what we’re asking what we need. Teachers barely scrape by teaching our future everything they need to free us of these bonds. Other countries don’t charge to go to schools. Why are we going into debt to earn degrees in fields that we love only to be sent away because our degree doesn’t mean we have to skills to be what we want. Ask anyone on the street what if any degree they have and how they use it. I make as much money at 20 doing electrical as someone fresh out of college with a 4 year degree and I do a fraction of the schooling they do. That isn’t fair but I saw the trap for what it was. A money pit for the rich. The US is TRILLIONS in debt. WHERE the FUCK Is that money of its not being used to improve our living conditions infrastructure and overall quality of live if not into the greedy hands of people that don’t love us as individuals but love our labor to pay rent pay the bills. Free the love. Go ask the questions why. Be careful what you fill your head with and what you open your mind to though. I hope people read this not word for word but apply it to what’s going on around you. Critique this and repost it. I’m open for discussion always .