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slurping-up-grass · 3 months ago

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Twinks and Sex Workers in 19th century wartime literature

(if this is of interest to you)

So I'm sure we've all heard of Dorian Gay *gray*- I hated that shit, too many descriptions of flowers, not enough evil satanic sensual not-so-heterosexual romance for my tastes.

This academic year, the school has decided that I should read Maupassant's Boule de Suif, a book set just after the french defeat in the Franco-Prussian war of 1871, where France is still being occupied by German soldiers.

The author himself fought in the war and has much to say from this experience, but as we stumble into the second chapter, we find ourselves face to face with "Mademoiselle Fifi", who, as a non native French speaker, took me a beat to comprehend is a male, German, second lieutenant so twinkish in attitude and physique that his comrades have nicknamed him "Little Miss Fifi".

French is a strictly gender-binary language, and Maupassant consistently refers to Mr Mme Fifi with feminine pronouns and conjugation, which is quite an incredible level of gender-bending for his time period, considering that the language requires you to specify far more frequently than in English the gender of the person you are talking about, and Maupassant narrates "woman".

Our introduction to this character is remeniscent of other notable twinks-

Hamilton:🎵peach fuzz and he can't even grow it🎵

Mme Fifi: "pale face where her burgeoning moustache was barely visible"

And continues:

Dorian Gray "made a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy"

Mme Fifi "had taken up the habit of expressing her sovreign discontent towards people and things"

-basically, the common thread is cuntiness.

Maupassant fixates on Mme Fifi's teeny-weeny baby white waist for a little bit too long and we begin to wonder what might have really motivated him to drop out of law school to join the big manly war of 1781.

The men decide that they need some good prostitutes for their party, and Maupassant notes that "Mme Fifi" "herself" seemed "out of place". She is very uncomfortable, sitting up and down in her chair and decides she wants to break something, so stands up and shoots a painting of a woman with a moustache, you know, like the moustache he is too "coquette🎀"* to grow? *feminine

So after Frankenfurter reminds everyone that this is his god-damed rocky-horror gay-ass castle and he gets uncomfy when people put women in it, they all go to the castle museum where Fifi begins happily stimming and clapping her hands because they are going to play her favourite game "making faces".

She created this game after her meanie superior officers refused to "Ding-don-don" the churchbells for entertainment even after she tried "pussycat manners, womanly cajolery, and soft whispers of a mistress hysterical with desire" to persuade them.

IS IT POSSIBLE TO CREATE A MORE CAMP CHARACTER?

Sidepoint- a consistent theme that redevelops here is whether french "women of pleasure" should feel guilty for betraying their country by sleeping with German occupying soldiers, or whether this is just a service they sell to survive (the prostitutes reassure eachother that it is just their job and they shouldn't feel guilty.)

"It's the job that wants that"

They don't desire the soldiers, the separate entity that is their employment does.

The women get put in size order and the smallest woman (Rachel) is given to Fifi, the twinkiest man.

He then blows smoke in her mouth, which is pretty gross, but she doesn't voice her anger. We get the impression he is either freaky, or really not into women because instead of engaging in traditional pleasure, he enjoys pinching her to make her shout, then making out with her and randomly biting her to make her bleed.

He looks her in the eyes and reminds her he is paying to be able to do whatever he likes to her.

The men begin toasting the things they own and include in this The Women of France. Rachel cannot help but correct:

"Me! Me! I am not a woman, I am a whore; that is absolutely all we have given to the Prussians."

-she breaks the illusion of desire, this is a job to her

He slaps her. She stabs him. FIFI DIES. The women are locked up. There is disorder and Rachel escapes. The soldiers are punished for forgetting the aims of the war and exploiting their position with prostitutes. Rachel hides in the church, which is sacred ground the soldiers cannot enter, and is remembered as a hero after the occupation.

So yeah, patriotic prostitutes and crazy, jealous twinks🌈

I am fully convinced that nobody will ever read this @strange-aeons

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maoisarap · 13 days ago

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PAINTBRUSHES AND ESCAPES;

Mao Isara centric oneshot

WARNINGS: blood, death, thin-hinted obsession, implied kidnapping...?, insane!tatsumi

PAIRS: tatsumao

WRITTEN: 29/10/24

WORD COUNT: 2.9k

I'm proud of this one... please somebody let me know what they think-

The noise of something banging loudly causes Mao to awaken with major fright. He jolts into a sitting position, tired eyes already wide and blinking the blurriness away from his eyesight as he looks around.

He finds himself in what could be deemed as a prison cell. Everything was grey and cold, barren of life. The walls, ceiling, and floor were made of the same grey cement. The bed he found himself sitting on had a rusty frame - once all black and now turning a horrible brown from the rust. The mattress wasn't soft. It reminded him of rocks. Uncomfortable and jagged with the springs begging to pop out of the thin fabric shell.

Besides all that, the only other thing Mao could see was a door on the other side of the room. A dark grey metal with a black screen for a window. Clearly, it was the type that was one-way. He can't see out, but whoever was on the other side could see in. In front of the door, Mao notices, was a tray with a plate and a plastic bottle of water. He slides off the bed and tiptoes towards the tray, kneeling down. The food was a simple fill of curry. Rice, meat, and vegetables with a thin slice of bread to dip into the curries remains if he ever left any.

The fork besides the plate on the right side of the tray was a white and plastic flimsy type - the types that come with takeaway foods when ordering for a delivery. Mao picks the fork up, using it to shuffle the mix of food around for anything suspicious. Who knows what could be in it...

"You should eat."

He yelps as a voice comes from in front of him. The fork drops from his hold as Mao jolts back, hands hitting palm flat behind him as he lands on his backside. Pain shoots through his whole body as he silently hisses. With looking up, Mao is met with someone around his age, their clothes tattered and bloodied, a mask adorned their face that had sharp cutout carvings for eyes, and a mouth made of stitches. The person before Mao stood tall and strong like a pillar.

"Who are you?!" The words slip from his mouth, anxiety racing through his core as his voice shook with fear.

Yet the person before him ignores his question, only to kneel down in front of Mao to pick up the fork he dropped in his fright. The person brings out a black hankerchief from his jacket pocket, wiping the dust off the fork and placing it onto the plate. The person focused on the food for a moment longer and tilted their head up towards Mao.

Shining purple eyes filtered through the inkling darkness of the holes of the creepy mask.

"You should eat." The person repeats themselves. "We can't go wasting resources now." They stand back up and walk back to the door.

"What do you mean by that?" Mao questions as he staggers into a standing position once more. Rubbing one hand into the palm of the other to ease the pain that shocked through him still.

Yet, just as before, the masked person doesn't answer. "Hey! Answer me! Why am I here?!" The person only shuts the door in front of Mao before he could make an attempt at escaping. "YOU CAN'T KEEP ME IN HERE FOREVER! HEY!" Mao bangs his right hand against the metal door. The ringing sound echoes through his ears like churchbells of the night.

After a few attempts of shouting and banging, he gives up. Hand slides down back to his side as Mao leans his forehead against the cold body of the door. A noise of frustration leaves between the small gap of his lips. "Damn it."

...

The next few days were just the same. He'd wake up on the same bed, find some food and a drink of water in front of the door, and shout for the mysterious person to answer his questions. Every so often, Mao would call out for help, but each try he attempted all ended in the same result. Nothing happens.

During the stay of being in the cell, during the moments Mao was quiet, he could hear faint noises coming from somewhere. The sounds of footsteps. Something being wheeled to some place else, and then... the sound of a saw cutting through something. Mao had ideas on what the noises could be, but to keep himself from throwing up every hour, he holds the thoughts locked at bay in hopes that he was wrong... even if the percentage of him being so was very little.

Mao once more limps towards the door, ignoring the tray that had a plate of food in an amount less than the days before. He wasn't going to eat anything that the masked person tries to give him, no matter how appetising the food looked or smelt. He ignores the rumbling pleas of his stomach and once more reaches a hand - shaking and cold - towards the door. As he ever so lightly touches the metal body of it, a gasp of surprise leaves from him as the door pushes lightly from his touch.

Gentle streams of yellow light fall through the gap. Did the masked person leave it open? Accidentally or on purpose? Mao wasn't sure, and he definitely wasn't going to stay to assume as he pushes more strength into himself to the push the door more forward with a heave large enough for him to shuffle past the doorframe.

Mao looks around himself. He found that he was in a hallway of sorts with dark blue painted walls. The floor beneath his bare footing turns from cold cement to a soft dark grey carpet, the small fluffy tendrils of the wool seeking comfort beneath his skin, warm and cosy. Inviting, even. Mao glances upwards, seeing that the light that held his curiosity in its hold was coming from a bare doorway at the end. He follows towards the brightness, each step light and soft, quiet and gentle.

The light at the end turns into a large room. Larger than the cell he found himself to be in.

Walls aligned with art. Paintings, sculptures, soft fabrics. Everything he saw dotted the walls.

The smell of death stenched through, causing Mao to gag and mask his mouth with a hand of his, plugging his nose as he only breathed out through his mouth.

The sculptures, Mao looks more closely, were all made from human body parts. A head sitting on a pedestal, the skin reached past the plate it was sitting on, a crown made of fingers and tongues lied atop of the head, eyes missing from its circuits and a smile made of stitches forever adorned its face.

He wanted to throw up. His stomach churned, regret of listening to his curiosity's teases sat heavily in his heart.

"Do you like it?"

The familiar voice of the masked person appears in front of him. Walking past a blue plastic-material-like curtain, something making a black silhouette stood behind it. Although, the person before him wasn't wearing his usual mask. The mentioned item was nowhere to be seen. Instead, stood what Mao saw was a pretty man around his age. The familiar sharp purple eyes hold a look of softness, a smile creasing his features with light mint green hair framing his face.

What Mao saw was a deity of beauty...

...But disguised underneath was the devil with sharp teeth and claws ready to feast upon the weak, such as people like Mao himself.

"Humans are the defined masterpieces of artistry. With all their uniqueness to beauty. By looks, personality..." The purple eyed male mutters, trailing off.

"You're a monster -" Mao let's the words slip past. A flinch flickers through his figure as he sees the other male before him sharpen his focus once more.

"Maybe that's how you see as I am, but how I see myself is an artist. An artist who learns to appreciate the fascination of humankind. Don't you ever think how beautiful we all are? We're all so different and yet the same. We're like paintbrushes. We all have a different purpose to strive for, but our ending still falls through the exact same, no matter the routes we take. Humans are the brushes painting the routes of life onto a canvas that is the world."

...

He doesn't remember what happened after the find of the masked man... the other man, but Mao felt frustrated and in defeat after realising he was in the cell once more.

This time, the door of the cell was left wide open, and there was no tray of food or drink on the floor teasing him to eat.

He felt cold.

He was really cold and hungry too.

The calls of his stomach begging him to eat something, anything, was louder than before. He clutches his arms around his stomach as he rolled to the side of the bed he sat at, groaning in immense pain. He felt as though the insides of his stomach had been lit on fire. Maybe he should have taken the risks when the guy offered him food... despite the risks, he knew what they could have contained. Was it ever better to risk than see himself crumble? He wasn't sure anymore.

Instant regret bloomed at the front of his mind.

Mao leans up from the bed once more, noticing the wide open door. The pretty-faced guy was begging Mao to leave his cell at this rate... and Mao took it. He staggered past the door, into the same hallway that led to the same room. He holds his breath, ignoring the horrible and rotting stenches flooding throughout the whole area, and tries his best to ignore the grotesque scenery. Although, on a table in the middle of the room sat a nude body of a figure he didn't recognise. The face had been skinned off, leaving remnants of red meat behind and for the eyes and teeth to be on full show.

He ducks his head away from looking at the table any further.

Ahead of Mao, though, where the blue curtain from before sat has now been unravelled, sat another doorway, once more wide open with a stream of light flooding through beckoning Mao to guide himself to its path of obsessive territory.

On the other side of the doorway was a set of stairs leading upwards. Made of dark coloured wood, tilting and close to collapsing off the nails. Gaps lie in between each step, showing an abyss of the area.

So Mao was in a basement, he figured. Of course he was...

He shuffles himself towards the stairway, reaching up one step slowly. Then another, and another and another until on the seventh step - halfway up to the top - a loud creak groans beneath his weight. He stands frozen still, heart raced with anxiety as the noises emit. He waits for something to happen. Perhaps for the stairs to fall under his weight, or for the man to burst out from anywhere and give him another scolding for trying to escape.

Yet, nothing did. The world was on his side, with a handful of hope and wonders. After a minute, Mao carries on walking up the stairs until he comes face to face with something in front of him made of wood. It wasn't a wall, but it wasn't a door. A slither of light comes from the right of it. He reaches towards it and digs his fingers into the gap. Mao then heaves with a pull. At first, the wooden related item in front of him doesn't move, but then he tries for a second and third try. Each try, he gives more strength to move the item out of his way until there is a big enough gap for him to slide past it.

Mao covers his eyes for a moment. Blinking and groaning at how bright everything was all around himself.

The walls were bright wooden panels, the lights were small chandeliers with fake candles, and the flames "flickered" every second. The whole area that Mao finds himself standing in was all open planned. The part he was in seemed to be a living room area of sorts. With a fireplace off to the left and mirror in a golden frame hanging above it, a rug with a fluffy polka dot print sat in the middle of the room with a singular settee facing towards the fireplace. Mao looked behind himself, seeing that what he pushed past was a bookshelf of sorts. Various books, all under the same few genres, lie in each shelf. About religion. Art. History and the nature of human bodies.

Off to the far right was a kitchen. There was nothing out of place with it, just some counters with a fridge and a small oven. A small set of chairs and a square table sat off to the side of it with another small plain red rug underneath.

On the settee, Mao sees the man from before. His figure still, with one arm leaning against the armrest, head leaning against his hand as a few snores emitted from him, which Mao was thankful for as right ahead from where Mao stood... was the front door. His last chance of leaving. He can just see that the door, for whatever reason, was open just a slither. Thin whisps of wind hollows through into the warmth of the house.

If he didn't know he was in the home of a murderer, he would have found this place to feel welcoming and warm. Yet, he knew that every grain that had been touched in this place was a disguise of deception and death.

Mao starts walking quietly, tiptoeing past the man who was asleep. It looked as though the greenette had fallen asleep in the middle of reading a book about the human anatomy. Mao holds his breath with each step he took. Kelly green eyes switch from looking towards the door and then towards the male until, at last, he stands by the edge of it. His right hand creeps towards the small gap that was open, fingertips bitten with the cold air that called out his name, and with his other hand, Mao uses it to push the rest of the doors body open wide enough for him to slip through.

The air was freezing outside. Causing Mao to shiver majorly. Snow crunched beneath his footsteps as the wind howled louder. Mao looks left and right, seeing that he was in the middle of nowhere. The only thing to be seen was an empty street with trees dotting the other edges of it. All leaves have fallen, disintegrated to nothingness. Everywhere he looked, snow had taken its life.

He takes another step forward, and a scream leaves from deep within his vocal cords. Eyes close shut, and his teeth gritting together in pain. A loud clang rings all around Mao.

A heavy breath leaves him as after a second, he opens one of his eyes and looks down. A bear trap... he's stood in a bear trap with the jagged sharp-edge-like teeth clamping to his leg. Fear rose within him once more, tears dared to fall warmly against his cheeks. Blood profusely spilt from his leg.

"Did you really think you were able to wander far?" That voice, it made Mao's breath hitch as he glanced his eyes up. The male felt taller than he already was compared to Mao. His smile looks like the face of the devil.

"I've prepared everything to make sure you won't leave. You're the tool to my next art piece." The man spills ever so smoothly as he kneeled down in front of Mao and works his way with taking the bear trap off of Mao. Immediately, Mao could feel himself going limp into the others' hold. The pain in his leg shot up twice over, again and again. "I can't have you going anywhere..."

The man chuckled as Mao could feel his head being tilted up - not with a hand, but rather what felt like a knife. "Maybe I should start my next piece early. What shall I turn you into? Perhaps..."

...

"My doll." The male scraped his feet against the floorboards. The sound echoed throughout the house. In his hands were flowers, all varying of different colours and types as he walked towards a corner of his bedroom where a figure sits in a chair, always sitting up straight, his smile made of stitches was soft, eyes replaced with glass, and bones replaced with fluffy stuffing.

The man... Tatsumi Kazehaya, as he calls himself, kneels before the figure. "My lovely cherry." He brings the flowers he held and places them gently into the hands of the figure on the chair. Tatsumi then stands up from his position and walks towards the table beside his bed and opens the top drawer. He reaches in for a lighter, playing with it for a moment to see if there was any fuel left to spark any fires, and once he saw small flames pick to life, he smiles and wanders back over to the same corner.

Once again, he kneels down onto the floor and leans all around the chair every few seconds to light up some pink and red candles with the lighter. He turns the lighter off, laying it on the floor beside him, and smiles up towards the sitting figure.

"Happy three years, Mao, my love."

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pentanguine · 1 month ago

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Things I love about my new apartment:

I have a room with room in it! My previous space was so small I could reach basically anything in the room from my bed, and now I have a luxurious amount of floor space, plus huge windows that let in the morning light

Sounds: Churchbells, airplanes flying overhead, the thwack of pickleball. All sounds I’ve lived with before that make it feel like home

I can see the city at night through my kitchen window and it’s so exciting. I love cityscapes at night. I love standing at the window and looking out at all the beautiful towers of light spread over the dark hills

That said, I have this view because my house is at the top of a massive fucking hill. My legs are going to be so strong after I’ve lived here for a year. I think my endurance is already better

I reflexively pour liquids at the top of the pan so it’ll slide down to the bottom with gravity, but this stove isn’t tilted dramatically forward so it just sits there. I don’t have to hold the toilet handle down for ten seconds to flush. There aren’t old beer bottles stuffed under the couch cushions. Little things

I think I’m comfortably middle class?? I’m paying more in rent, but I got a pay raise and I have savings, and I’ve been buying furniture for my new place without really caring how much it costs. Wow

I am becoming my mother. Now that I live in a nice place I actually care about interior design. I keep being tempted by whimsical lampshades on Etsy. I get excited about butter dishes. Who am I

#personal

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rustbeltjessie · 11 months ago

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7 Snippets 7 People

Thanks to @blind-the-winds for tagging me!

The idea for this is to share seven out-of-context snippets of your own writing, and tag seven other people to do the same. Unfortunately, my brain is fried right now, and I can't even think of seven writer-mutuals (even though I'm positive I have many, many more than seven) to tag. So just know that if you're seeing this, and you're a writer and want to share, please consider yourself tagged; and tag me when you share, because I'd love to read it!

Since I'm not supposed to give context, I won't. All I'll say is there's some poetry and some prose (and some prose poetry!), some fiction and some non.

I ask if I can flip through the 45s and pick the next tune. "Sure," she says, and I do, slow and casual, like I don't know what I'm looking for, until I find it. Tobi Legend—"Time Will Pass You By." I want to tell you everything about this song and where I first heard it. About Wigan Casino in the early '70s, the "3 before 8," those songs they played every morning after we'd danced all night. How it was my inside joke with myself, doing the soul glide—slide one foot, swivel the other, I wish I could show you those moves right now—to those songs about time passing. Tobi's was my favorite. The passion rending her voice. The jumping beat paired with the swell of the strings. The lyrics—those bleary mornings, I always wondered if they meant as much to anyone else in the club as they did to me. But I can't tell you any of that.

—

You are a fried egg sandwich. On a winter day in Philadelphia when I'm down to my last three dollars & I'm hungry & cold. I mean you are, specifically, the sandwich I ate that day, just before Christmas, when I'd been wandering the wet streets of Philadelphia for hours, that day I watched the lights sparkle off tinsel & wrapping in store windows, displays of presents & mistletoe,

—

Lento, I say now. Lento, though the music of those years was fast and harsh. Slow it down. Keep us here, just a while longer.

Here, this pause between everything which came before and everything that would come after. Here, saying our last goodbyes to the star-doomed lovers; here, in a blood-red car, on a Baltimore-bound highway. My rock’n’roll sister and I in that burning room, where we slammed like boys, then batted girl-lashes to tempt the boys into buying us beer. The gold foam of it, the distorted fuzz of amplifiers. The night’s black eye.

—

It was weird, right. The five of us had been friends since we were babies, practically; we were inseparable as sisters and hung around at each other's houses so much you could hardly say who lived where. But I guess even sisters have their quarrels. I guess we've all got some ugly shit in us and we're most likely to take it out on the people we're closest to. And of course, it was summer, and the sticky heat made us mean. It was summer, and we were 12, and we were bored, and there was fuck-all to do in Mound City, Illinois.

—

Q: What do you call it when dead girls fuck? A: Two coffins bangin' together.

—

Blue as the churchbells ringing six times in the blue hour. Blue as an hour’s three twilights: civil, nautical, astronomical. Blue as sex, as sin. Blue, also, as the astronomical heavenblue of the Virgin’s robes. Blue as Mater Dolorosa; her punctured, burning heart, her seven sacred sorrows. Blue as a claddagh ring worn on a right hand with the heart’s point facing out towards the fingertips; blue as a claddagh that will never be turned in. Blue as a pigeon, dead in the gutter. Blue as the gutter we lay in, drunk, and the nightblue heaven of stars we wished on. Blue as a wish that can’t come true.

—

And thank you hum of nighttime, my sleepless lullaby—the air filter in the hallway, the nearby airport's machinations, and the trains (always the trains). And (thank you) the voice of a favorite singer, the whiskeyed gravel, the Midwest desperation, the loneliness, the smoke. And thank you the rain bringing toadstools to my garden, and the autumn.

#jessie lynn mcmains #my writing #writers on tumblr #excerpts #poetry #prose #tagged for me

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justashadetalkative · 9 months ago

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What does your soul taste like?

Phosa: Salt

ah little kraken, bold are you. restless sailor, dauntless fighter, lower your sword, let me see your shield. ah, of course, they are but the same object. oh wave-tossed ruffian, lend me some of your mettle would you? you have been struck by the sharpest of spears yet you still stand here proudly. but off your guard, elsewhere of the battlefield, you will find your spirit can parch others. your words are but weapons crafted from your soul. little lion, sheathe your claws, or the ones you love the most will suffer. you do not have to be strong all the time love, there's nothing wrong with being soft. vulnerability is not weakness, and if it were, what's wrong with that? strength is not always your greatest tool, your heart is good. put down excalibur, and use your words. you'll find they will carry you much farther. not everything in life is a battle.

Linast: Mint

oh spry little dryad, spinning sprite, you drift through life as light as lion down. you are the chimes of churchbells and the laughter of faeries. gossamer and spidersilk shine from your ribs. life is fleeting, you more than anyone should know that. something we love today may never see tomorrow's sun. you pride yourself on skipping through moments, soft and merry. but you do not let your soul be tethered. is it for freedom or fear, sweetheart, that you do not let yourself be tamed? you are as fresh as and wild as bluebirds in snow, you smile at your problems before dashing away. hoping they will never catch up to you. but even nike can't run forever. you have been hurt before. but that is life. you wish to never feel that way again, but regretfully I must tell you that is nothing short of impossible. life is but part sorrow part sun, you cannot have teacups until they are burned by the kiln. oh I see the scars child, they shimmer down your chest, I see the pain in your eyes. but I also see the stardust. keep smiling, but allow tears also. you do not have to be solely wonder, fear, you are allowed to be bitter. so bite, and scream, and laugh, and love. that is what makes life worth living.

Diamond: Rosemary

ah, the old soul, nice to meet again. the time of ages is etched into your bones, you see clearly. you've watched the heartache in this realm and sworn to solve it. but kindness without limits is self destruction. oh little leaf, strong and wise, you seek to bring peace with your presence. I'd be wrong to say you fail at this effort, but you mustn't set yourself on fire to keep others warm. you wish to please everyone, to protect them all. but if you shield the saplings from the sunlight they will never grow, and you one day will wither. protect yourself too. you know there are no happy heroes, so don't be one. be a friend. your loved ones will not forsake you for not being perseus slaying all their demons. you have your own monsters, why not meet them first before you conquer anyone else's nightmares. oh true-hearted paladin you are brave, and you are good enough. you know that right? be true to yourself, one cannot do anything saintly if they did not tend to their own wounds first.

Clemcy: Honey

"sugared mel e lingua serpentis." sugared honey from a serpent's tongue. oh dearest, look how you gleam. how the sunlight dances off your shoulders, how the heavens shine across your wingtips. but you are hollow, hollow, hollow. even the taste of nectar can choke a man. sometimes the sweetest flowers hide the sharpest poison. you lie to yourself, the worst lie of all. you needn't be so obsessed with perfect. the greatest beauty lies in our faults. do you think the moon apologizes for their mara? no, their craters add to their glow. my dear, breathe. you are not an island, breathe, before the honey drowns you. you wish to be lovely, you long to be loved. but did aphrodite trade her powers for perfection? she did not. you can be beautiful, and also whole. be whole above anything else dear. a heart of diamonds is worth nothing if inchor oozes from it. inward. look within and question how well do you know yourself? little petal are you trying to be a god? why? can a god bloom from sullen soil? no. you are whole as you are.

(Stolen from @oflostinfound !)

#(Please do steal and tag in turn!)#Phosa #Linast #Diamond #Clemcy #musings #musings: Phosa #musings: Linast #musings: Diamond #musings: Clemxy

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chim-aera · 1 year ago

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I guess I like your eyes

I want to tell you things.

but the words are trapped in my throat.

I long to show you things, take the moon from her silvery spindle and weave you the cosmos.

but I can't.

I'm small, and tired, but never hopeless, perhaps. as I've been told, reiterated through my skull a hundred or thousand times.

"you're not hopeless,"

am I not?

then give me hope.

please.

I'm begging, but that doesn't offend me.

it doesn't bother me.

I've never been that prideful. pretentious, sure. vain, sometimes. but underneath is the longing, sinking, grasping need to be loved.

i've never thought of my pride as a tall striking figure sticking it's nose up at the mere notion of shame.

no, I'm no way far that self sure.

I am small, yes, and tired, I'm growing older every second.

and you,

you.

I was fine before I met you.

I didnt ask to feel this way (but oh how I did)

I longed to the sky gods, oh please let me love. even if it is never returned let me at least so much as taste it.

you let me, yes.

but at what price?

I was fine before I met you.

I should've expected this.

I am in no need of pity, but I am in need of care.

I have been flitting by on torn off wings, hemmed together crudely by spinning thread.

they shiver and shake, but never shatter.

they get the job done.

oh how you could rip them so easily from my back.

watch as the blood trickles down my shoulderblades.

staining the earth like hawthorn and raspberries.

would you laugh?

(you'd never)

but even then could I make myself hate you.

we're similar, you and I.

we're both fighting, perhaps different wars.

are we winning?

I want to tell you things.

things like how your smile makes me feel alright again.

how your voice sets my reeling, grasping mind back into orbit.

are you the sun? (no,)

I am the moon, or perhaps a star,

waiting, patiently for my glittering demise.

perhaps I will create new galaxies when I finally shudder my last breath.

or maybe I will simply cease from existence.

a final nod of delight and wear-wasted worry before my soul elipses into the universe.

but you.

there's you again.

I dont want to get too poetic.

but it's too late for that, I am writing you poetry.

I do not wish to confine you, place you on a pedestal, crown your glories and grossly disregard all your shadows and scars.

I'd like to know all of you, if you'd show me.

I sense sadness, it laces my soul as well.

but we are not meant for each other.

I am far too fickle, fragile,

but I am unwavering in these emotions.

they stay steadfast anchored to you even if it drowns me alive, the water pours in through my throat flooding my windpipe, how long will I have to suffer but I will not struggle once.

let the ocean consume me I'll grin at my fate and sink slowly into the sea.

I don't let others love me.

how could I expect you to?

I gaurd myself, center myself in corners, near exits, near hills.

so I can dart and run and flee when they get too close.

when the fingers linger at my open wounds, tracing the cuts that never healed.

no, I'm not good with affection.

I can offer it, but in fractured closed-off and gentle notions. in ways I am so careful, I will only come when called. beckon me on churchbells on windchimes on daybreak.

and like a sprite I may appear.

but not sugar-sweet and cotton-down, but thorn-sharp and grinning, blood-bitter and fern-wise.

I can offer help. I can offer comfort.

but I am no siren, perhaps I'd prefer to be.

I am a selkie, trapped between realms.

do you have my coat?

I have not seen it in a while.

oh how I'd let you keep it, hide it from me, bind me to this mortal hellscape.

tell me you love me, that you look into my eyes and see solace and starfire.

but as you would I believe I would crumble.

smoke-soft and fire-bright I would fall into ashes through your fingers.

into tears, sea salt, and agony.

I have gone this long without love, I believe the softest note of affection would cause me to truly shatter.

I would not be able to take it.

how could someone want me?

I understand of course,

but there's always a bitterness held in my mouth.

an aftertaste of rot and honey.

am I cursed of either two fates?

equally terrible and equally tragic.

will I forever be the dryad, petals in my footsteps, rabbit-eyed, deer-footed, my hair golden like a halo of sun, my eyes watercolor and shifting. mist and daybreak, fated to be wanted. fated to be sought.

but I will flee, unmistakably.

chased down by longing hearts I do not wish to harm them.

and as Daphne before me, I will fall to the dark embrace of Mother, let the ferns and the fungi and the worms and the shrews take me. they'll be kinder, I know.

or the other end?

I will chase my demise, flirting with death until they notice me, until they take these broken bones and kiss me, all enchanting, all empowering as the belladonna and aconite stains my soul.

icarus reaching and straining on melting wings to the lover that sent him to his watery grave.

but oh, there's a sickness in this allegory, I just realize.

both ill-fated lovers fell at the hands of the same golden god.

are you him?

perhaps I've always been twisted into a dark self preservation and self destruction.

a phoenix burning herself alive to taste eternity.

ouroboros consuming his own tail.

I'm quite fond of metaphors?

oh can you tell? can you tell?

so tell me,

what is my fate.

stars, gods, cards, and trees.

whispers and ruins what will be the death of me?

I long for love. (doesn't everyone?)

honestly, that's all I ever truly wanted.

a softness that can ease these burning bones of mine.

but I will mend others how I wish to be mended.

I'll tend to my books, to my studies, to my plants, to the stars.

when infinity is over perhaps they'll give me a nice seat from which to rest with them.

not next to orion, hopefully, I'd wish to remain in Artemis' good graces.

but yes.

you have lovely eyes, I believe I lost you.

I never had you, nor your heart, nor your attention.

I'm merely something of curiosity to most who encounter me, a strange speck of insanity and irony, earth-old and riddle-ridden.

try to ruin me, wrap your hands around my throat Death, as Life guides me by the arm.

I am somewhat here.

fluttering like a moth heart, beating like a bird song.

tell me what it is to live.

but yes, as we reach the end of this cacophony of condolences.

I do like you, yes.

in ways I cannot describe.

but in the very least, I do like your smile.

and your laugh makes me feel a small bit lighter and less dead seated to the center of the earth.

and your voice is a symphony of hope.

you gave me hope.

that's all I've ever asked for.

hope and love.

but at least I've been given one of those things.

godspeed.

I wish it to you, I'll bear a sword and mend your wounds.

I'd dress your scars and tend to your brokeness.

but in the meantime

yes,

I like your eyes.

#bad poetry #poetry

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ghostinxgiaw · 2 years ago

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"absolute love language"

The act of love, the choice to love deeply, to lead with love, to give love, to receive it.

It is the look of two souls, drawing to one another

Friends and so, hand intertwining with the other

A lovely distant memory close to the heart

A smile from a stranger

It is the love bite left on a shoulder

The Sun's first kiss to the clouds of the morning skies

The Moon joining the stars in fortnight.

How can dear Love do this, shining her bright light?

To what do we do owe her prescence, the greatest gift from above?

He told me he's never met anyone like me, his words understood the language of my heart

First love of our youths, our smiles reflecting well

Absolute divine love from God and to him, and to his son, and to his children

Mother said to be careful with my love, but I am overtaken and infatuated with you.

So this is love?

Is it always true?

It is not painful, it is not mean, it gives and nurtures, it is truthful, it is the greatest challenge of a gift.

She yelled to me, her life has been blessed with me

How do I enunciate my glee?

My arms wrapped her straight up, this must be

Love.

It is the churchbells after sunday service

It is the first slice of a dessert

It is the final rest before tomorrow

It is the paint strumming across our canvases

It is the memories and dreams dancing in my mind

Mother singing me to my slumber.

Love Love Love, special to thee

Does she know just how special she can be?

- opal

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benoitfelten · 2 years ago

Photo

*Churchbells* Dana 120 + Washi W ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ This is about as experimental as it gets. Spurred on by photos by @billthoo and @apkeedle I decided to do some radical multiexpo shots of Paris. I needed slow film in order to ensure it wasn't horrendously overexposed, and said Bill had given me a roll of Washi W, so I gave that a try. Note that the Dana 120 is seriously blurry at all distances (I tested that on a separate roll) so I wasn't expecting much here. And while this is not the look I was after, and the vignette is rather savage (strong vignette from the Dana plus sharp low-light drop off from the paper is my guess) I really like the results, in an impressionistic photography kind of way. Of course, the end result is that I can't even tell you which church tower this is ;-) ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ #filmphotomag #shootfilmmag #filmfeed #lonelyanalog #filmismorefun #thefilmcommunity #filmwave #back2thebase #deathb4digital #FilmShootersCollective #analogfeatures #argentiquesamere ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ #multipleexposure #doubleexposure #doubleexposures #doubleexpomagazine #doubleexposurefilm #2xfilm ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ #dana120 #toycamera #washi #washiw #paris #squareformat ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ #igblackandwhite #instablackandwhite #blackandwhitefilm (à Paris, France) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoUmqpmo6am/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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wrenqueenisboss · 2 years ago

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The rebellion has organized a protest, something peaceful, a last ditch attempt to end this feud without bloodshed. They use the wooden church as a basis. The Empress’s men come, in their shiny armor with their iron swords and pikes and bows and some upon their horses, who’s hooves sound like thunder.

The town burns, they barely had time to even ring the churchbell before it is struck down forcefully, hallowed fragments crumbling into the hungry mouth of the sea.

Down by the water, Eurus, Notos, and Boreas are being led to a hiding place by their mother. Eurus pauses, but what about Zephyrus? She left not even thirty minutes earlier, they should go look for her!Their mother, tears in her eyes, urges them to move on, they can’t go looking, their father has already been captured and it would only get more of them killed. Eurus, unable to tell if it’s just the smoke that’s hurting his eyes, moves forward with the rest of the group.

Meanwhile, Zephyrus is lost in a burning forest. Running through the forest, she comes upon the old maypole, with two figures standing below it. One in an out of place dress, glistening white and elegant, like Theis herself, with a silver crown upon her head. Distantly, she recognizes the Empress. The other is dressed in armor, sword at her side. She stops in shock and fury. You did this! There is a moment when the crowned tyrant’s eyes lock onto hers, before she is hit with a fireball, and runs into the river to relieve the pain and burning.

(3/???)

-🧋

why must you hurt me in this way, lori? /hj

this is amazing!! bc of all the other details you’ve shared about the world + the little story narration, i can clearly see this visceral scene playing out which is always such a cool thing

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sporkfan14 · 2 years ago

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Seeing tumblr go nuts over Goncharov is really funny to me because I grew up with a VHS tape of the edited-for-tv version of the film that NBC broadcast one time in like 1998 I think that my parents decided to record for some reason.

The thing you need to understand about this is that they had to remove a lot of the movie to get it past tv censors. Like seriously a lot. Like this is a 187-minute gangster movie that was brought down to 79 minutes plus commercials. They removed nearly 2/3 of the movie. Here are some of the highlites of this unhinged abridged version:

-All of the swearing is dubbed in fake Russian, except Mario. He gets monkey-fighting-snakes-style lines like "that matroishka-figure had better watch his flexing back!"

-The movie is now 50% looking at clocks.

-When the car explodes we don't know who's in it or why this is so upsetting for Sofia so her arc makes zero sense.

-Not only did they remove the scene where Ice Pick Joe dies, they also decided to remove the really tense build up where he's going through all the alleys and the churchbells keep going off. Like they could have just cut it off at the bit when he looks up, realizes that he's being followed, and starts to think that maybe he's going to die, but nope. He just walks out the back door of the cobbler's shop while slightly ominous music plays and we never see him again.

-They obviously had to cut the bit where Goncharov is starting to unravel and kills all the henchmen to cover the tracks, but this means that we go directly from him telling Andrey not to worry because he "has a plan for those loose ends" to the church scene, so it looks like his plan was to just go to church.

-Katya gets to slap Goncharov twice because they reused the end of that scene to replace their argument at the burlesque show and hoped no one would notice.

-The poker scene is really jumpy and short because all of the innuendo was cut.

-In the 3rd commercial break there's this bizzarre commercial for Fazoli's that has a tie-in for Antz in which the ants steal a Fazoli's and carry it away.

-Andrey is in this version so little that the homoerotic subtext is even stronger somehow?

-We don't get to see Goncharov die. Like he's just lying there on the floor and goes into the flashback and when that ends the movie's over. It just starts playing the credits.

#how did this get made?#why did my parents record this AND let child me watch it several times?#goncharov #goncharov movie #the greatest mafia movie ever made #goncharov 1973 #unreality

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greencheekconure27 · 2 years ago

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youtube

@tuulikki thought you might like this.as a fellow sad folk ballad fan.

(Six variants of the same ballad from France,Spain and Northern Italy/Piemonte.

I won't translate them entirely, but the basic plot is as follows: a king/ nobleman, usually injured, returns home from war and is met by his mother, who tells him that his queen has just given birth to a son.However the king is already dying and doesn't survive the night.Before he dies he warns his mother to keep his death secret from his wife: the mother then has to come up with various excuses to hide the funeral proceedings from her.( "Why are the churchbells ringing? " It's for my nephew who died in Andalusia" or "Why are all the manservants crying? "Our best horse drowned." or"What's that singing?" "A church procession passed by the palace" etc.etc.") until eventually the queen wants to go to mass and asks her mother in law what dress she should put on.The mother in law recommends the black one, as it supposedly looks best on her.The truth comes out either because she's either greeted as a widow by a passersby on her way to the church or because she sees the fresh grave.She begs the grave to open up and take her too, and the earth swallows her.)

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voidcenturyseashanties · 2 months ago

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WHAT FLAVOR IS YOUR SOUL?

tagged by: nobody tagging: whoever sees this! :>

salt: ah little Kraken, bold are you. restless sailor, dauntless fighter, lower your sword, let me see your shield. ah, of course, they are but the same object. oh wave-tossed ruffian, lend me some of your mettle would you? you have been struck by the sharpest of spears yet you still stand here proudly. but off your guard, elsewhere of the battlefield, you will find your spirit can parch others. your words are but weapons crafted from your soul. little lion, sheathe your claws, or the ones you love the most will suffer. you do not have to be strong all the time love, there's nothing wrong with being soft. vulnerability is not weakness, and if it were, what's wrong with that? strength is not always your greatest tool, your heart is good. put down excalibur, and use your words. you'll find they will carry you much farther. not everything in life is a battle.

lavender: oh moon child, restless sleeper, tell me what it's like to dream? you float along the margins of reality, picking up the pieces of fallen memories to sculpt into your own realm. you are searching, but your tongue is quiet, quiet, quiet. open your mouth and sing my dear, silence only does you good for so long. and here you planted roots in the darkness, where not even the moon can reach your leaves. there is such a thing as being too practical, for you sail your ship on perpetually calm waters, and never have you spotted land. your mind has wings, uncage them! allow yourself to dream, you are not too far gone. there is no such thing! trust in yourself dear.

vanilla: oh heart of ice and mind of gold, what am I to do with you? you are only good in small amounts, bittersweet fledgling, you are hard for most to swallow. your spirit is strong, your wit is potent, your biting essence drives even the most daring away. but why are you hiding your sweetness? I know within you, you are soft, but humanity has made you bitter. you mask your pain and sorrow with spite and sensibility. you say you do not care about trivial things, but don't you? sweetheart relax. you can let down your drawbridge, the waters are not poisoned. I know you have looked monsters in between the eyes and scoffed at them, but please, relax. you think your armor protects you but it is smothering you slowly. little owlet, when will you learn, words can only get you so far? feelings are what makes this world pulse. do not suppress your feelings. your heart can still thaw my dear. trust.

cinnamon: oh child of spice you are bound to the core of the earth. can you feel the heartbeat of nature pulsing through your veins. you are the mouthful of autumn that scorched through your throat, you are the pepper of life that wakes up the weary. the foolish and shaking will attempt to dilute you with sickening sugar, do not let them. your spark is what keeps us alive my dear. keep burning, little star. you see the beauty and the light, but oh you have been fed poison and refuse to drop it onto other's tongues. be wild. I know what your heart is chanting. run. run. run. run dear, find your story. do not trade your spirit for safety. you are a child of the earth, forever seeking, forever dancing.

mint: oh spry little dryad, spinning sprite, you drift through life as light as lion down. you are the chimes of churchbells and the laughter of faeries. gossamer and spidersilk shine from your ribs. life is fleeting, you more than anyone should know that. something we love today may never see tomorrow's sun. you pride yourself on skipping through moments, soft and merry. but you do not let your soul be tethered. is it for freedom or fear, sweetheart, that you do not let yourself be tamed? you are as fresh as and wild as bluebirds in snow, you smile at your problems before dashing away. hoping they will never catch up to you. but even nike can't run forever. you have been hurt before. but that is life. you wish to never feel that way again, but regretfully I must tell you that is nothing short of impossible. life is but part sorrow part sun, you cannot have teacups until they are burned by the kiln. oh I see the scars child, they shimmer down your chest, I see the pain in your eyes. but I also see the stardust. keep smiling, but allow tears also. you do not have to be solely wonder, fear, you are allowed to be bitter. so bite, and scream, and laugh, and love. that is what makes life worth living.

rosemary: ah, the old soul, nice to meet again. the time of ages is etched into your bones, you see clearly. you've watched the heartache in this realm and sworn to solve it. but kindness without limits is self destruction. oh little leaf, strong and wise, you seek to bring peace with your presence. I'd be wrong to say you fail at this effort, but you mustn't set yourself on fire to keep others warm. you wish to please everyone, to protect them all. but if you shield the saplings from the sunlight they will never grow, and you one day will wither. protect yourself too. you know there are no happy heroes, so don't be one. be a friend. your loved ones will not forsake you for not being perseus slaying all their demons. you have your own monsters, why not meet them first before you conquer anyone else's nightmares. oh true-hearted paladin you are brave, and you are good enough. you know that right? be true to yourself, one cannot do anything saintly if they did not tend to their own wounds first.

#[ 𝐝𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 🏴‍☠️ ]#[ ugh the last bit on Nami's ]#[ Law being vanilla is funny af to me ]

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skyfallstarlights · 2 months ago

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𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕗𝕝𝕒𝕧𝕠𝕣 𝕚𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕝?

Mint

oh spry little dryad, spinning sprite, you drift through life as light as lion down. you are the chimes of churchbells and the laughter of faeries. gossamer and spidersilk shine from your ribs. life is fleeting, you more than anyone should know that. something we love today may never see tomorrow's sun. you pride yourself on skipping through moments, soft and merry. but you do not let your soul be tethered. is it for freedom or fear, sweetheart, that you do not let yourself be tamed? you are as fresh as and wild as bluebirds in snow, you smile at your problems before dashing away. hoping they will never catch up to you. you have been hurt before. but that is life. you wish to never feel that way again, but regretfully I must tell you that is nothing short of impossible. life is but part sorrow part sun, you cannot have teacups until they are burned by the kiln. oh I see the scars child, they shimmer down your chest, I see the pain in your eyes. but I also see the stardust. keep smiling, but allow tears also. you do not have to be solely wonder, fear, you are allowed to be bitter. so bite, and scream, and laugh, and love. that is what makes life worth living.

Lavender

oh moon child, restless sleeper, tell me what it's like to dream? you float along the margins of reality, picking up the pieces of fallen memories to sculpt into your own realm. you are searching, but your tongue is quiet, quiet, quiet. open your mouth and sing my dear, silence only does you good for so long. and here you planted roots in the darkness, where not even the moon can reach your leaves. there is such a thing as being too practical, for you sail your ship on perpetually calm waters, and never have you spotted land. your mind has wings, uncage them! allow yourself to dream, you are not too far gone. there is no such thing! trust in yourself dear.

Cinnamon

oh child of spice you are bound to the core of the earth. can you feel the heartbeat of nature pulsing through your veins. you are the mouthful of autumn that scorched through your throat, you are the pepper of life that wakes up the weary. the foolish and shaking will attempt to dilute you with sickening sugar, do not let them. your spark is what keeps us alive my dear. keep burning, little star. you see the beauty and the light, but oh you have been fed poison and refuse to drop it onto other's tongues. be wild. I know what your heart is chanting. run. run. run. run dear, find your story. do not trade your spirit for safety. you are a child of the earth, forever seeking, forever dancing.

Honey

#jack of all trades ( dash game )#[ -screams- these are ridiculous fitting #and also I swear are things that they need to hear ]

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