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englass · 5 years ago

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Holy Gold

Pairing(s): Polyseed x Deputy

Warning(s): Moral ambiguity, mentions of murder, blood, sexual thoughts/interpretations, possessive thoughts/interpretations.

Word Count: 4,230

A/N(s): Been working on this for months now and it had me stumped for a good while; wasn’t sure where I wanted it to go. It’s definitely been a labour of love though, I’ll say that. Any likes, reblogs or feedback is more than appreciated!

- - -

There is something peculiar about the deputy. Everyone notices it, can sense it in the subtle shift in the air as they enter a room or confrontation; all eyes turning toward them in a magnetic draw that traverses any form of reasonable comprehension. Air pressed down by a heavy pressure that is swiftly eased by a lighter touch, dunked underwater only to be pulled into the cool embrace of newly birthed air. Their presence on par with a spiritual baptism, enlightening and unburdening. Catching on forgotten instincts, profound and unnamable.

Even away from conflict and in a more public setting – out in the wild where they are the most at ease – people can still feel that distinct air, can see it like a slipping glamour in the way they move and hold themselves. A controlled certainty in the slightest movement, a pivotal purpose that holds them tall and hauntingly regal; an old deity in a tale now lost to time. The sweet and evocative scent of a freshly watered earth hangs off of the young deputy like a heaven-forged shroud, cotton soft and compellingly serene. Oozing a reposeful safety and a forbearing reassurance.

People can even see it in their eyes. An abstruse gleam that ripples like a pebble skipping across the surface of a vast and empty loch. Their honeyed eyes a hidden cenote filled with mystic treasures that reflect the iridescent wink of lonely stars. A concealed sorrow twinkling benignly within the depths of their veiled eyes, watching the ripples, as they throw an enigmatic glance; silently eluding but never telling. A fond and near teasing smile on their lips, a secret not yet shared.

And that never will be.

Even the Heralds of the resident cult, key figures in this long-awaited plan, know that this rookie deputy is not all that they appear to be. There is so much more to them (old and pained and lonely) than appears at face value, but what that is even God’s chosen messenger cannot say. They are a special kind of child, that they do know. In need of righteous guidance like any other member of God’s shepherd’s congregation. But they are different, they are something special. God has told him so.

They are a painting posed with resolve and weighted by troubles unseen, bowed to a higher authority that cradles them as lovingly as a mother would her babe. Littered with many meanings and interpretations, clues scattered and inconspicuous like the remnants of an old world in the shadows of the new dawn. Joseph Seed wants nothing more than to tear that picture down, peel back the canvas to look inside, and discover the truths that the rogue lamb so selfishly clutches with greedy hands.

God has whispered to him of their significance, hinted at it as vaguely as the deputy speaks. Spoken of their attachment to this polluted world, how they refuse to bend to the task they have been divinely given even though it is a plan long in the making. Their loyalty to this world is boundless, and as much as they long for a time past they cannot bring themselves to destroy the one they have worked so hard over. It is why they hold still, buy time, and barter over the fates’ of those that are still yet undecided; those that could be saved. No matter how futile the endeavour.

They have amassed an abundance of experience, secrets from times gone and nonexistent, that now aids them in their own self-appointed task; goals not yet fully known. Yet, despite their newfound use, they are still secrets, theirs to keep and look upon, theirs to weep and toil over. And weep they surely do; their sorrow unmissable. It is a glue that keeps their determination so strong, keeps them high and raised with an aura of assurance, never arrogance, in the face of certain adversity.

It is because of this accumulated wealth of garnered experience that they are so efficient at their sworn duty. Why the Voice whispered in the remnants of an osculant tone, that is only ever felt and never heard, with a sensation of forlorn surprise, known betrayal turned resignation, brushing against Joseph’s edges as the deputy came forward that destined night. His words, existing within the cosmos of ideas, leaving his prophet cold.

Oh. It’s you.

No matter how Joseph asks, begs and prays on the crutches of a wavering faith as his flock perish under the jaws of roaming wolves, the Voice does not answer. Letting him stew in the many possibilities that such ambiguity creates. Although, the chosen prophet does take notice of the change within the Voice; the edge of a scolding twang vibrating through the air, tinting it with a parental disappointment as the deputy marches upon His prophet’s people; against His awaited plan.

The Voice does not outright speak of the deputy, of who they are or exactly what it is that their duty entails, nor give a number to the secrets they have banked, but It does concede in the slightest brush of an absent touch that they are wayward. The knowledge they are in possession of a burden that no one else but they can withstand; but that it has also wounded them the sensitivity of mortality. Their position, and all that surrounds it, whatever that may be, is sacred. Even when coated sour in the wake of this rebellion.

And Joseph can believe that, and not just because the Lord has told him so. The weight in the deputy’s eyes, even through the film of a picture, is a turmoil unexplored; treacherous and unfathomable. There is a deep sorrow, a scratching want, and a dormant rage that swim with the fluidity of an eel beneath the reflective lakes of their eyes. Each blinking star upon the surface a new flare of emotion, another tale within an untold saga, all obscured from view; distorted in the ripples.

From what the Lord has told of them to Joseph, shared what little pieces He can of the lonely martyr, and what the prophet has heard from the conflicted whispers of his flock, he believes he understands the part that they are meant to play in this long promised prophecy. What their role may be in this divine scheme.

And Joseph refuses to be denied any part of it; any part of them. He will see it through, see them down the path God has dictated they walk. The Lord’s chosen lamb was always meant to be his; his to nurture and coddle, his to guide and direct and to heal. A child should not be without its parents, nor be keeping secrets from said parents; and the secrets of the deputy are vast and unnamable.

No doubt they will need to be cleansed, shown the path to atonement so that their burdens may be unpacked from their weary vessel. Gifted the opportunity to seek salvation and acceptance in the arms of those that will listen and truly love them unconditionally. The lost gleam in their auroral eyes given new life under Joseph’s promised salvation, and the love they would share; the love he was promised and they are bound to share.

Yet, the price for such hypocrisy is a steep one, for gifts are nothing more than veiled investments.

Herald John knows this better than anyone, and still his hypocrisy runs deeper than the bed of the darkest seas. He preaches beliefs and teachings that he does not practice, pounding pulpits with the fervour of a man with too much power and zero regard for the responsibilities that follow it. He claims to be another sheep in the flock, another humble follower looking for salvation, yet he wraps himself in self-aggrandisement and forces needless suffering upon those who are brought before him on bended knees.

However, for all his flaws John does not stray too far from his brother (his reverence for Joseph‘s praise exceeding the one he should hold for God), nor his desires concerning the elusive deputy.

John has always been exceptional at reading people, finding their truths, washing out their real colours, and scrubbing the numerous sins that stain their tainted souls away. A master at his own deep-rooted hatred and resentment, twisting it into a deranged form of salvation that has him mutilating all those that come to him; some willing and others not.

The deputy is just another sinner. Another poor soul that has not yet been warmed by The Father’s light, lost to wander a blackened void where sins fester like mould. They must be cut from it. They must atone. They must be shone upon by the light of The Father, dragged from the depths and forced under its righteousness. Wrestled and hauled and torn asunder so that they may emerge free from the cage of their own transgressions.

At least, that’s what John thought. That’s what he believed. But he knows now. John sees a lot more than people give him credit for; a lot more than what other people see in general.

On the surface they may be another sinner, another drowned vermin that John would take an abundance of pleasure in squeezing until they have bled out across his floor; grin manic in questionable ecstasy as they spill secrets like viscous liquid, bright and raw and unavoidable. Holding, bending, twisting, pulling, cutting until they have been broken down to the core, shredding through inhibitions like a power saw through iron-forged bars. Soul laid bare for him to reap like a God-given harvest.

But the deputy... they are different. John can see it. The bars to their cage have long been eroded, their sins nothing but rust. Grounded down and then forged into a courage that does not drool over the spilling of life. Wielding a dedicated fury and a divine mercy within each hand, scales even and in balance, at peace in their coalition as they kneel side by side beneath the reigning banner of ‘Deputy’.

John is not close to said deputy, does not know their stance on God or religion, but he knows they have been touched. They radiate a glow that is not there, move with an elegance that outshines the noblest of steeds and the craftiest of snakes. Holding strong despite the burdens at their back; the world trembling in the knowledge that they could bring it all down should they share in those veiled troubles, yet they choose not to.

Instead, they ease the suffering of others while they drown beneath a disembodied pressure. Offering assurance to even those who are undeserving of it. Reaching out with a tender touch and a slipping smile as they whisper with a forgiving hush, stars submerged in the water of their eyes, that it’s okay, that you don’t have to worry anymore; everything will be okay.

It was never your fault.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

Let me save you, John.

And John believes them. For some inexplicable reason he believes them – trusts them, as surely as he believes and trusts in his own brother; their words a cooling hand on blistered skin, a refreshing drink after days without. Their accent holds and nurtures and pleads for an alternative to the path they walk, a raw passion built from the fury of their mercy as they compel you to listen and consider. Never forcing you on bended knee, making you bow your head in subjugation toward them, but raising it. It is personal and close and strikingly reminds him of his brother. They are just like Joseph.

Only their edges are cashmere soft and universally merciful, not forged from broken pieces and laced with eclipsing threats. Tones rigged with a soul-tearing disappointment. Instead they are cleaner and sweeter than the freshest nectar, pure in their sincerity and melodious in their understanding. Yet, so distant and doleful. Ancient and unexplainable. Thunderous in their ire as they are restless in their compassion.

And John wants to crumble at their alter. Wants to lay praise upon them a million times over, until his throat bleeds raw and his hands are carved white. He wants to sacrifice the sinful, flagellate the faithless, and swear himself beneath their reigning banner. Purge his hunger for materialism and drought his thirst for bloodied salvation so that he may collapse wantonly within their tender embrace, mouthing at the swell of their fulfilling fruit that they would so submissively offer him, creating a safe haven solely for him within the cradle of their thighs so that he may sate his thirst by drinking deeply from their divine deluge; allowing him to take and indulge as he givingly and exclusively explores the plains of their sanctity. If only they would let him (he’d be good).

They could ask him to sell his soul, to let them own it and do as they sordidly pleased with it, and he would scrape his knees in order to thank them for that privilege. If only they would give him the opportunity. They could ask him for anything, to reveal every detail, no matter how small and no matter how petty, about himself and he would not miss out a single day. Someone could hurt them, desecrate their purity, and no matter how they pleaded, begged that he rise above the corrupted, he would descend in order to enact his own form of rightful punishment; carved in blood and formed from rusted iron.

He would let the world burn if it meant he could have them. He would rather Joseph be wrong than risk losing them and the gift they so graciously offer him with hands outstretched. He would do anything for them, for no one but them, and all because they are different, because they can see and they can understand; because they are something special. It is not a sin, it is not lustful, if it is with the divine; it is praise and it is worship. And if his family cannot accept that, cannot accept the love that he so greedily wishes to feast upon, then he would rather forsake them with reluctance in his blackened heart and blasphemy for their false god on his vile tongue than lose his sacred deputy.

They are heaven sent, divine in every way, and John only wishes that they would keep their light upon him. Remain at his side and bless him with all that they are as he would surely do for them and more. All jagged lines begging to be filed down to a smoother edge by their loving guidance. They can teach him, show him the love that he is so sorely lacking and desperately searching for. The love that his older brother says will change his fate. He knows they can offer that to him, he has glimpsed it, tasted it in their sweetened words and smelt it within their rain-fallen proximity. He knows they would. He just needs them to accept him, for them to allow him this greatest of gifts.

Show to him the path that they speak of with an ethereal reverence, guide him down that fate changing road with their fingers interlocked in a picture of genuine love and intimacy. Just the two of them, for no one else but the two of them. Only that is not what they do. They cannot walk that path with him, only show it, stepping away the moment he is on it (no, don’t leave me). The journey is his alone to make. They can only watch and follow and steer him back when he falls astray. They are not meant for him. They are meant for all who are lost, who are troubled, who need direction in the dark. He wants – needs all of those things and more, so, so much more.

But what about them? What do they want? Who is there for them?

Surrounded by companions that sing their praises with insipid tones, uninspiring and lacking in the true majesty that they deserve. John could do so much better, could give them so much more. He can see the void in their far off gaze, a lonesome lake that makes the iridescent stars in their eyes shimmer like glitter and gold. He can hear its echo in their voice, a forlorn undertone that murmurs between the splinters. Pleas that they know with regretful smiles will go un-listened to.

John’s brothers and makeshift sister are left conflicted by the youngest brother’s shift in attitude toward the deputy, his growingly frenzied need to capture them stirring a mixture of emotions within the crooked family.

Joseph is mutely elated by the interest and selfishly wishes to know everything that John has gleaned from their wayward lamb, every touch and word and utterance they have been gracious enough to bless his broken brother with; anything that may draw them closer to understanding the troubles that plague their lost and weary child. Joseph knows more – silent whispers gossiping in nonexistent tones around veiled words –, but also less than John (we can’t have that).

The eldest brother, Jacob, on the other hand is wary of his siblings fevered interest. For a sheep can still bare its teeth like any feral wolf.

Unlike his siblings Jacob has seen a lot more of the tactile deputy than either of his brothers, or his farce of an adopted sister, have. Not necessarily in terms of time spent in person, but rather through the monitoring of their actions and all that they interact with; every person killed and saved, every battle lost and won. And the picture this deputy paints for Jacob is a very different one to the piece that Joseph preaches so sweetly of – a soul to polish and love and make his own – and that John chases after with a desperate abandon – his to love and cherish and worship with bloodstained offerings.

Jacob’s deputy is a tactician looking down upon the board, places held by pawns marked with nicks and notches. A sharp eye for all that is seen and all that is not.

Jacob has run them through his trails, thrown them into the pits with his wolves, both literal and otherwise; beastly soldiers with copper on their tongues and flesh on their teeth. Corralled and trapped them in a room stained with viscera and littered with chalked bone, cracked and whole, under a twinkling melody that chisels the cave of the mind into a tunnel directed at a singular purpose: to cull the weak, and all those that threaten them.

Yet, they hardly budge. Standing tall with a stilled expression, remorseful shifts of water in every glance, in every flowing action and blow that merges into the next; streams to rivers and rivers to lakes. But Jacob is nothing if not observant, and he catches the sunken sheen of ice, glistening within the star filled void of their auroral eyes, with a stilted breath. A primal glare buried beside a dormant rage.

Despite the compassion they twirl like a finely crafted staff, the gentle hands they may outstretch with a tranquil smile, they also brandish a blade forged from hell-risen flame. Merciless in every swing, vicious in every trigger pulled without a single glance, and cruel to every cowering wolf that they hum and hush to before snapping with a loving smile; soft words of praise to their corrupted souls, horrors made real, before freeing them with a sudden flick. Their smile a brand worse than any nameable scar.

Just like God is all merciful he too is equally as wicked, his mercy a cruel mistress which knows no bounds.

The scales even and in balance.

Jacob can see the duality within the deputy a lot clearer than his siblings, the caring murder of his brother’s latest version of Faith a testament to that, and suddenly the eldest wolf of this pack begins to shift his paws, head tilted and fangs flashing; interest peaked and curiosity gained. And when his chosen hunters finally capture the miscreant deputy, an easy endeavour that Jacob questions with instinctual suspicion, they merely smile at him. Sitting amongst the dead and dying, hand placed upon the pale pallor of a sickly man, they speak in a tone that barters no interruption; quiet and calm, but weighted by motives unknown. A dangerous hint of something more undulating beneath the waters.

You don’t have to keep fighting.

They’ve lead you down the wrong road.

Faith doesn’t play a role in our game, Jacob.

And Jacob does not doubt them. War is a game that harbours little need for faith, for having faith does not win you wars. Faith is – and was – a loose end, a means of control over the weak and worthless. Jacob knows it. John understands it. Joseph does not, but the deputy certainly does. They understand the need to remove the pitiful and undeserving, when to save a life and when to extinguish one. When to turn your back on those that can no longer rise, strength diminished to an exhausted lick of fire.

It is why Jacob is unsurprised when he turns away, catches the soothing murmur of a poisoned prayer, then hears the echoed crack of bone and the rattled wheeze of a final breath; a life stolen and claimed under a monochrome mercy.

He merely chuckles when he finds their cage empty.

His brothers however are less than amused by the loss, their respective rage and disappoint rearing their heads like threatened cobras, eager to tag and reprimand, but Jacob hardly cares. They do not see what he does; their poor, sweet deputy a warrior who understands the battlefield, the plans laid upon it, and the stakes at which this hunt is played at. Chips made of flesh and bone placed upon a gambled tactic, an uncertain move that can lead you to certain victory; or down the wrong road.

While his brothers chase and pursue the slippery deputy – the days drawing on and turning to weeks, creeping toward the fall of the month – Joseph starts to wonder if his own subdued hunger toward the mystery of a deputy is actually a blessed gift or a veiled curse from the Lord himself; each sibling stepping off their labelled path. In a way it is a blessing, for his brothers are not motionless husks strewn at his feet; but it is also a curse, for how will the promised Collapse occur without the spilt blood of fallen martyrs staining a broken seal.

Yet, when all stand as one, a trifecta of blood as they each stand united in the presence of the other, does the deputy come before them. Content amongst the screaming birds that flock toward the distant north, the screech of warning sirens piercing the thickened air. Eyes placid pools that sparkle like dying stars, glittering off the treasures they conceal in the wounded chasm of their soul; endless and bleak and shielded by a smile that speaks in different tones. A whisper forgotten in the void of time, the echo of one without a home, a broken cry of a fractured spirit; the lonely whine of an abandoned child.

You don’t have to be alone anymore.

I only want to save them.

You have to believe me, Joseph.

And Joseph wavers. The sincerity of their plea resurrecting a long silent doubt. His brothers praise and respect, and Faith’s gentle removal, causing him to question the only companion he had for the majority of his difficult life; the Voice’s guidance and promises for the future the only thing to give him hope when all else seemed dark and dire.

The sky rumbles, the wind roars, and the ground quakes; and through it all the deputy stands before them like an immovable tower within the storm, unconcerned by the approaching destruction and the liberation it will bring. Expression fierce as the world begins to burn (an unplanned variable in a well laid scheme). Hand outstretched toward them all, palm skyward, in an unspoken gesture; a silent offer.

John lunges for their hand.

Jacob prowls to their side.

Both call in a blended mixture of panicked, excited and hurried tones to their dispirited brother.

And all three follow as their peculiar deputy leads them to the gates of their promised salvation; beneath the earth and into the womb of their metal tomb. The brothers arm in arm, never to be separated again, huddle close as they hold and cry and preach in equal measure; all that they worked for finally coming to bloom. A prophecy made true. Not as intended, or as foretold, but true all the same. A far better outcome than the many that Joseph had once envisioned.

And as the deputy watches them, iridescent stars drowning beneath the darkened water, something shifts in the lonely loch of their eyes; a ripple upon a still and empty pond. The bulwark breaking as a serpent born of ancient sin skims the surface with withered scales, fins rotted and horns splintered. Their eyes flare, water dyeing, as a hidden geyser drools a molten sunset; lips tilting, twisting with ill intent and the sweetening taste of a ripening revenge, as the lake in their eyes droughts into a scorching sea of holy gold.

#i had an idea and i ran with it #it’s defo changed a bit since i first started working on it tho #but not by much #just couldn’t decide how to end it lol #ambiguous deputy #polyseed x deputy #joseph seed x deputy #john seed x deputy #jacob seed x deputy #joseph seed #john seed #jacob seed #far cry #far cry 5 #fc5 #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #narrative piece

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queenelsawestergaard · 6 years ago

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Last month or so, when Disney Store announced it would be making a Briar Rose 16" LE doll (which I'll be buying--she's so lovely!) and a Platinum Wedding Set of Aurora & Phillip, I was pretty excited, since 'Sleeping Beauty' is one of my main two Disney Collections. (The other being 'Frozen'- Elsa & Hans).

But then, I saw photos of the platinum set and was severely disappointed in Aurora's gown (it's PEACH PINK and just not what I was hoping for at all in terms of design) and I don't even want to think about how disappointing was Phillip, on top of it. :cries: I was truly torn because I collect all things 'Sleeping Beauty' but didn't really feel like spending $800+ on a platinum set I wasn't happy with. :( (I know I am being extremely picky but I've loved Aurora and Phillip since I first saw the film in theatres in 1986 and subsequently watched it on vhs about 75 times in a row when I was sick in 1990 [to the point I can recite the film word for word by heart even now] and wanted her wedding doll 'perfect.')

For a week, I fluctuated on 'buy it anyway for your collection' or 'don't spend such money on something you don't like and you don't have space for anyway' until I then realized I should just MAKE my own Wedding Aurora 16" LE doll in the gown she should be wearing. (Her mother's white/lavender 'roses' gown as seen in 'Aurora's Royal Wedding' Disney book.) I really liked the main design of it with all the roses, shimmer, and especially the sentiment behind it---that is was her mother's wedding gown. I then decided to make her in LE Style. :)

So I bought an Aurora 16" LE doll and began gathering the materials needed to make her 'correct' gown! I considered making a Phillip too, but decided against it in the end, since my Wedding Elsa, and my sister's Wedding Rapunzel and Wedding Anna 17" LE dolls are all solitary and Aurora should match them, too. :)

Anyway, I just finished her the other day and took photos yesterday!! She came out so much more beautiful than I expected, and I am so pleased with her result! I used white satin with embroidered white iridescent roses for the bodice, edged in scalloped venise lace and handmade satin rosettes with gold beading along the top and AB crystal gems in the center of each rose. The sleeves are a white sparkle glissenette lined in iridescent organza for extra shimmer but still leaving them white. Overlaid on top of the tight sleeves, are embroidered white lace draping long sleeves for the 'medieval' look of the 14th Century. Her double tiered skirt is a layer of lavender satin brocade, on top of which is a white chiffon, lined in iridescent organza, overskirt, with gold embroidery all around and up the front panels. Both skirts are huge and full with a tulle petticoat underneath. All over the embroidery and roses are various sized Aurora Borealis gemstones and gold crystal gemstones for extra beauty and elegance. A golden cross is at her bust, and her long veil is embroidered lace, intermingled with gold threads for a really opulent look. The entire gown is fully lined and I also repainted her face to look more like Aurora--with a slightly coquettish glance.

I hope you like her, too! I am glad now I decided not to buy the Platinum set, which is so expensive and I wouldn't be happy with it anyway. (I'd probably open it up and redo her dress to be like this!! :laughs: ACK!)

Anyway, thank you for reading my story and for viewing the photos!!!!!!!!

@love-disney-dolls @disneylimitededitiondolls @jg-omniaart @arianbutlerart

#auroraweddingdoll #auroraledoll #auroralimitededitiondoll #aurorawedding #auroralimiteddoll #princessaurora #aurora #princessaurorawedding #auroradoll #sleepingbeautyplatinumset #ooak #customdoll

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haechan-haedamn · 7 years ago

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I. Timid - Taeil

‘The Duality of Man’ - A Rupi Kaur Collab With @hcechans

THE LIST

“I am timid

cause falling into you

means falling out of him

and I had not prepared for that”

- forward, rupi kaur

Characters: Taeil, Johnny, Reader

Pairing: Taeil/Reader

Genre: Sad but Okay (?? idk)

Word Count: 2.4K

Warnings: Past Abusive Relationship

Cornerstore sky lights and the buzz of a broken a/c pulsed against your eyes like a miraculous omen from above. You left him three weeks ago, but he held on like melted summer gum to the sole of your shoe, his fingertips violent but passive along the bruises of your ribs. Your sweater still smelled like alcohol, but you could barely tell, the blood crusting against the rims of your nostrils blocking out the scent like curtains drawn tight. It had been three hours since you had last seen him, his guts creating paisley wallpaper against your hotel’s structure, the iridescent puke of his bourbon pastime melting into the cracks of your tiled floors.

You were hoping he would rot.

It took twenty minutes to drive to the police station, forty-five to file a report, fifty-six to wipe the tears from your eyes, ten for the blood on your lips to dry, thirty to tell your mother what you had done, nineteen to drive here.

It was empty inside, humid with late summer memory and exhaustion, your lonesomeness only met by a sleeping worker and isles of sodium-filled packages. You wondered around blindly, one eye still swelling shut, your mind vaguely reminding you to buy bandages as you ran your fingers across the soda-machine dispensers.

You needed to wash the red off your hands, wash the bruises off your palms that still outlined your grip.

The bathroom mirror was secured to a wall mottled by inked phone numbers and small hearts, the silver shard of reflection covered in a film of something sticky. You stared at yourself, at the sweater that hung off your shoulders so that it could showcase the purple blemish that coated over your collarbones like a slather of sugar-flecked syrup. Your eyes traced the swell of your stained lips, the cut across your nose- the way your eyelashes disappeared against the dark gray bruise clouding your right eye. You looked like hell.

You left the bathroom after scrubbing at your hands for seven minutes, finally succumbing to the fact that your nail beds would stay crimson and the water would still sting no matter how hot it got. The store still looked the same, the a/c still hummed like an army of wasps, the light still glared at you like a disappointed relative asking the same questions over and over again: “You always have random bruises nowadays, when did you get so clumsy?” “When are you planning on getting married?” “Kids?” “Don’t be so rude to him, honey, you’re lucky to have him. Who else would want you?”- you never could give them the right answer.

The register was enveloped by a man’s arms, the pale coloring developing the intensity of his veins like indigo rivers against a desert. You set down the contents of your hands, leaving a mess of a half-opened box of band-aids, a large diet coke, and a package of berry starbursts against the glass countertop. You played with the edge of a lottery ticket as you whistled loudly, waiting for the man to wake up and price your purchase. You weren’t in a rush- the opposite, really- but your eyes were starting to drift closed.

A masked groan floated to you, announcing the timid stretch of arms from the clerk, his messy head rising and blinking away the stress of uncomfortable sleep. He was squinting at you, the deep richness of his eyes pooling with the liquid in his waterlines, a hand scratching through his wavy hair- mussing it more than it already was. The collar of his shirt was crooked, half-tucked under the mesh vest of his uniform and showcasing his name tag. The rectangle of plastic was pinned to his chest, a third of it covered by the remnants of a circular sticker (whatever had been printed on it had long-since faded away). You glanced over his name without much thought, catching the tail-end of a bolded –eil and not much else.

Now awake he realized the broken state of your existence, his eyes now swimming in the alertness of chilled water on a spring night, his posture rigid as he froze.

“You can ask,” you told him, but part of you wished he wouldn’t.

You pushed your items closer to him and he picked up the first thing, ringing it into the cash register as he casted glance after glance towards the blood on your nose. You scrubbed some of it away, looking at the back of your hand, distracted by the way the red flakes looked like stars against the galaxy of bruises on your wrist.

A loud beep and the scratching noise of the register pulled your eyes back to his. “I don’t know if I should,” he told you, taking the waded cash from your shaking hands.

“Neither do I.”

He nodded, turning around a picking up a package of Virginia Slims and setting them in front of you. “Do you smoke?” he asked, adding a small, silver lighter on top of the box.

“I haven’t before today,” you answered honestly, “but right now I don’t think I would mind it.”

He nodded, adding the two items to your purchases without scanning them, ripping your receipt from the dispenser and walking around the counter with your plastic bag in hand. He didn’t say much, just a quiet murmur of ‘follow me’ as he exited through the back of the convenience store. You were too tired to argue, your feet following the path of his movements without thought, your hands fisted into the pockets of your jeans.

You stood with him now, gazing out into the sporadic traffic as it trickled along, red lights appearing and disappearing like your childhood demons- like the blood that matted against your lips. You could still hear the buzz of the a/c in your ears like fog, a promise that you were still alive in the early August morning with your hair sticking to the back of your neck, your mascara melting under the weight of your tears and the warmth of the static lights that lit the gas pumps. You burnt your fingertips three times before the man lit your cigarette for you, his hands cradling yours to retrieve the shiny lighter.

You didn’t like the taste of the smoke as you took your third drag, then your fourth, but you could feel your nerve endings start to repair themselves as you relaxed. You could feel yourself start to breathe again, through the polluted cloud of gray mist that made your eyes water and your cheeks flush. You told him you didn’t like how it tasted, not looking to see the pity in his eyes.

The feeling of poor, pitiful you was already manifested in the pit of your stomach like a virus, its legs hooking deep into your appendix with envy.

“I don’t like it either,” he said, blowing out another puff and watching it disappear into a glass-covered advertisements that were plastered inside the store’s windows..

You sat down on the curb, and rested your head on your knees, allowing your eyes to close as the volatile bud hung limply between your lips. The embers cascaded into the pavement and over your legs, leaving no trace but the thin taste of weariness in your mouth and the sting on your ankles. “Why do you smoke, then?” you asked, talking around the slim.

“I don’t.”

You flipped your head around so that you were facing him, your crown still resting on your knees, your hair against the back of your hands. “Then I must be hallucinating from shock or something,” you muttered, “because it sure looks like you’re smoking.”

“Well,” he said, dragging from the orange wrapped stick again, his free hand wiping against his jean-covered leg, “I don’t usually smoke.”

“Then why are you smoking, now?”

He shrugged, a limp piece of dark honeyed-hair blocking his right eye.

“People come into this gas station a lot,” he said, rolling the cigarette between his fingertips, “and those people sometimes look like you- like they have the weight of six worlds on their shoulders- and they ask for a pack of Marlboros or Virginia Slims and they come out here and they smoke a couple. Then, they look back through that window and they wave at me before they leave.”

“That’s a lovely story with absolutely no point.”

“Patience,” he chided, turning to look at you, his head closer than you remmebered, “When they wave and get back in their cars I notice something- their hands always shake less after they leave.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “That’s called a nicotine addiction, not some magic voodoo trick that makes the world turn better.”

“Maybe,” he pointed at your hands, “but you aren’t shaking anymore.”

You curled your hands into tight fists, pressing them into the denim that covered your calves.

“You seem too philosophical to work a dead shift at some random interstate gas-station,” you snarked, letting your cigarette bud fall from between your lips and onto the ground to flicker its gold like a beating heartbeat. The flame breathed less as the breeze blew, its death seconds away like a wish.

You grounded your heel over it, kicking away the ashes with your toe.

He chuckled slightly, making you open your eyes to see the end of his grin, the pink fullness of his mouth stretching like bubble gum. It faded quickly, just like the taste of bubble gum.

“I think you have to be a little philosophical to wait around alone, at three a.m., in a random interstate gas-station,” he commented, dropping his own cigarette on the ground and letting it die out on its own terms, the yellow fading to red fading to black. His feet stayed where they were, stretched out alongside you.

“Most philosophers have a god complex,” you said, “so I’m not sure if you want to brag.”

“I’m not bragging,” he snickered, “I’m just stating the obvious truth.”

“Sounds like something someone with a god complex would say.”

You left him at the end of July, watching his begs and pleas slip under the front door like a flash flood of insincerity. Your bag was hurting your hand from the weight of it, from how hard you gripped it- it had your life in it- two books about the Cold War, a tube of bright red lipstick, a couple sets of clothes, four hundred dollars and a pair of flip flops.

The smash of a glass bottle against a wall celebrated your departure, your car stuttering to life and your foot already pressing on the gas pedal. Your car smelt like poker chips and Jack Daniels.

It took him two weeks to find you. It took three hours to break down the door to your hotel room, his hand fisted in your hair as he pulled you to the bathroom and yelled at you. You barely heard what he said; too busy relishing in the numbness of your scalp as he pushed your face into the molded tile of the hotel floors. He left an hour later once his voice had gone hoarse and his hand got tired of holding you done- he was used to a response, used to hearing your beg for help at the dominance of his brutality. You were done giving him what he wanted.

Four days later he came back and presented you with an encore of callous vengeance, his hand on your hair again, but your face met the moth balls the molted in the hotel carpet this time. He yelled about something else this time, the words ‘slut’ and ‘cheater’ a distant memory to your clouded fear. He left again, one hour later- again. You could taste metal in your mouth, wonder about how hard you bit your tongue this time.

Three days later he came around again, finding you incompliant and risky, your gaze firm and sober. He had started yelling as he came in the door, parading around like a testosterone filled gorilla, his fist in the furniture like he was playing a mini-game. You watched him, remembering the way he used to gently say your name. He spat in your face.

His hand rose to find the back of your head, to find itself back in the bushel of hair to latch there and force you under his will, again. You told him ‘no’. He ignore you until your hand stung across his cheek like hellfire, whipping a laceration against the stubble on his chin as you remembered his laughter and the way he used to stroke your hair. He growled at you, possessed by possessing you, his hands shoving against your shoulders and forcing your back to the wall- pining you up like a picture frame of past memories where you used to eat lunch in a park during the weekends. He broke that picture frame four months ago.

He broke you two years ago.

He tried to glue your wrists to the wall like you tried to glue your relationship back together that night he drank too much whiskey and came back with a girl’s number on his chest in red ink. You screamed and spat, kicked your legs into his stomach like a child throwing a tantrum because that was just it- you were done. He shuddered back, not used to a frontal attack of vicious animosity. He didn’t recognize you- this girl with claws instead of pretty pink nails, with bared teeth and anger polluting her fear, her hands striking at him like a cobra that enjoyed playing predator. You hadn’t recognized yourself since the first night he left a bruise on your arm.

You left him face first in the tan sheets of your hotel bed, letting the bed bugs crawl into his ear canal like a silent omen of death- wishing he would sleep well. You left him and you left the old shell of yourself behind, ridding yourself of his touch as he struggled to breathe into the sweater you had left on your bed.

You drove to the police department. You called your mother. You drove to a gas station at two in the morning and smoked a pack of cigarettes with a boy named Taeil. He was the first person to meet the new you.

You still tell him that every night before you fall asleep, wrapped in the comfort of his arms as he breathed deeply- reminding you that you were alive still, that life doesn’t end when you always think it will.

The fear was present still, a dull drum that still haunted you, but it was never going to go away. You never though you would find someone again, be able to trust someone again when you stilled flinched when offered a handshake, but you hadn’t planned on smoking a Virginia Slim in August next to a boy who was patient, who didn’t ask you questions you couldn’t answer.

Falling into Taeil was easier than it should have been, but when you had been on the edge of a cliff for so long you decided jumping was the only option you had left.

FIN.

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frank-o-meter · 7 years ago

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Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planet

A favorite movie of mine is Luc Besson’s “The Fifth Element” (1997) starring Bruce Willis and featuring Milla Jovovich as Leeloo. The film is an over the top space opera with some of the most imaginative aliens and trippy characters (practical, not CGI). There’s nothing like it - although it reminds me a little of Roger Vadim’s “Barbarella” (1968). I saw TFE again on the big screen recently and I thought it still held up after 20 years.

I knew I had to see Besson’s new space extravaganza, “Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets”

What’s great about “Valerian”:

The film opens with the creation of the international space station. As each new country adds to the construction, a welcome celebration is shown with inhabitants shaking the hands of new comers. I loved the execution and symbology of the scene - which gets even better when aliens races arrive.

The next scene depicts the peaceful inhabitants of the planet Mül. These aliens are pale skinned, tall and slender, with skin that glows iridescent colors reflecting their mood. Although you know they are entirely CGI, these aliens are beautifully realized - the essence of grace and peace.

The art design of the film is terrific with more aliens and technology than a dozen other sci-fi films (including Star Wars/Trek). I wish the movie had been a blockbuster so I could buy toys and action figures based on it. If you’re a lover of fantastic art - that’s a great reason to see this film.

What’s not so great about “Valerian”:

The film’s star Dane DeHaan has been horribly miscast. While I thought DeHaan was good as the troubled-teen-turned-supervillain in “Chronicle” , he’s been bland in other films I’ve seen him in (ASM2 and “A Cure for Wellness”). We’re told that DeHaan’s as Valerian is a lady’s man with a long list of conquests - yet he comes across like a wet fish - without one bit of charisma or sex appeal - he’s pale and skinny and has perpetual dark circles under his eyes.

In-between action set pieces DeHaan and his co-star Cara Delevingne as Laureline engage in pity banter as he tells her he love her. But there is no chemistry between them and their banter falls flat. I think Delevingne could have shined in her role if she had a worthy costar.

While the main plot requires the duo to locate the McGuffin, midway the story segues into an entirely different rescue plot. The main plot stands still while Valerian goes to a sex bar and meets Rihanna as the shape shifting Bubbles. No fault of Rihanna’s (her song/dance number is great) but this entire section could have been cut without anyone noticing.

Towards the end someone give a speech that’s basically “Love makes the world go round” - a message far too similar to the theme “The Fifth Element”. It doesn’t compliment the earlier film but rather feeling like a swipe.

The overall story is muddled and I think I would have enjoyed it more if the dialogue had been in French WITHOUT English Subtitles. That way I could have enjoyed the visuals without being distracted by clumsy story telling.

I really wish I could recommended “Valerian” but ultimately it’s a disappointment.

2 out of 5 stars on the Frank-o-Meter.

#valerian #Luc Besson's #the fifth element #dane dehaan #space opera #review

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sensitivefern · 8 years ago

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...I investigated Petronius intensively for the first time since I had read him at college in Bob Scoon’s Silver Latin course. The film [Satyricon] does follow the original more closely than I had remembered... This week of convalescence constituted, I suppose, some of the happiest days of my life... I did not worry about my obligations except writing my T’ville book, which was easy – my writing table is just at the foot of my bed. I have decided to give up boring novels, not to feel that I have to finish them: Mademoiselle de Maupin, Peregrine Pickle, Conrad – with such limited time left me, what is the use of reading anything that does not instruct or amuse me? Petronius and his problems seem more enjoyable.

[Edmund Wilson]

===

An excellent Preservative Balsam against the Plague.

Scrape fine twelve Scorzonera and Goatsbeard Roots; simmer them over a gentle fire in three quarts of Lisbon or French White Wine, in a vessel closely covered, to prevent the too great evaporation of the vinous spirit. When the roots are sufficiently boiled, strain off the liquor through a linen strainer with a gentle pressure: then add to it the Juice of twelve Lemons, with Cloves, Ginger, Cardamom Seeds, and Aloes Wood, grossly powdered, of each half an ounce; and about one ounce of each of the following herbs, viz. fresh Leaves of Rue, Elder, Bramble, and Sage; boil all together over a gentle fire, till one quart is wasted away; strain the liquor off immediately through a strong linen bag, and keep it in an earthen or glass vessel close stopped. Drink every morning fasting, for nine days together, half a pint of this Balsam, by which means you will be able to resist the malignancy of the Atmosphere, though you even visit infected persons. The same end may be promoted by washing the mouth and nostrils with Vinegar; and by holding to the nose a bit of Camphire, slightly wrapped in muslin; or by frequently chewing a piece of Gum Myrrh.

[The Toilet of Flora]

===

You should keep occupied with your business till breakfast or, if necessary demands it, till midday; after that you should eat your meal. Keep your table well provided and set with a white cloth, clean victuals, and good drinks. Serve enjoyable meals, if you can afford it. After the meal you may either take a nap or stroll about a little while for pastime and to see what other good merchants are employed with, or whether any new wares have come to the borough which you ought to buy. On returning to your lodgings examine your wares, lest they suffer damage after coming into your hands. If they are found to be injured and you are about to dispose of them, do not conceal the flaws from the purchaser: show him what the defects are and make such a bargain as you can; then you cannot be called a deceiver. Also put a good price on your wares, though not too high, and yet very near what you see can be obtained; then you cannot be called a foister.

[‘Advice to a Norwegian Merchant’]

===

In the Restoration era the common people still firmly believed in the presence of witchcraft. On one occasion at the Exeter Assizes the clamour of the populace for the condemnation of two old women was so terrible that an outbreak was expected if the thirst for blood had not been gratified. But the movement no longer found leaders among either the dominant clergy or the governing class. The witch-hunt had been set on foot by James I himself, backed by a credulous Parliament, Magistracy, and Bench... No longer in the reign of Charles II, as in the reign of his grandfather, would a high law-officer of the Crown soberly discuss over the supper-table whether the best way to cure disease among horses were to burn one of them alive, or to roast its heart on a spit in the presence of a witch.

[England under the Stuarts]

===

spotted laurel | Aucuba japonica ‘Crotonifolia’ Dioecious... zones 6-10... ‘Tolerant of even dry shade, this cultivar will bring a little light into the darkness’... seeds may be sown in containers... propagate by taking semi-ripe cuttings in summer... this cultivar is a female plant... also recommended: A. japonica ‘Gold Dust’ (another gal)...

English mandrake | Bryonia dioica A common site in the English hedgerow, this climber is simply ‘not to be overlooked. The whole plant is a shining bright green, and looks succulent threading in and out of darker hedging’... it is, of course, dioecious... the entire plant is poisonous... zones 8-11... sun-shade... the ‘real’ mandrake is Mandragora officinarum; in Medieval days ‘clever fakers’ grew bryonia roots in molds to make them look like the ‘strange, human-like’ roots of the mandrake...

[Green Flowers]

===

hedge bindweed | Convolvulus sepium The insect that supposedly inspired ‘The Gold Bug’ is oft found on this weed – Metriona bicolor... the iridescent hues vary and change fairly quickly... the larva is brownish and spiny with a forked tail... the main pollinators of hedgie are bumble bees and honey bees...

===

❚“HEAVE an egg out a Pullman window,” H. L. Mencken wrote in 1926, “and you will hit a Fundamentalist almost anywhere in the United States today.”

They decided not to have the cameras there today when Trump signed the bill to make it easier for seriously mentally ill people to buy guns.

Today would have been Brian Jones' 75th birthday.

“There is a sickness among tyrants: they cannot trust their friends.” -- Aeschylus

It's Fat Tuesday, which means SEMLA TIME in Sweden!

Posters of Barack Obama have popped up around Paris in what started as a joke by four friends calling for the former US president to run for the Élysée Palace. The organisers say they began plastering Obama posters around Paris because they were disenchanted with the homegrown candidates in France’s forthcoming presidential election. While the posters read “Oui on peut”, the French translation of Obama’s “Yes we can” slogan, the US president cannot run in France’s presidential election as a foreigner. And yet more than 42,000 people have already signed an online petition linked to the poster campaign, calling for the 44th US president to become the 25th president of the French Republic. The former US commander in chief remains a hugely popular figure in France, having averaged approval ratings of over 80% throughout his eight years at the White House. Obama returned the French public’s affection with frequent trips to the country, including shortly after the November 2015 terrorist attacks in Paris, and by commonly referring to France as America’s “oldest ally”.

José Alberto "Pepe" Mujica Cordano (born 20 May 1935) is a Uruguayan politician who was the 40th President of Uruguay between 2010 and 2015. A former urban guerrilla fighter with the Tupamaros, he was imprisoned for 13 years during the military dictatorship in the 1970s and 1980s. A member of the Broad Front coalition of left-wing parties, Mujica was Minister of Livestock, Agriculture, and Fisheries from 2005 to 2008 and a Senator afterwards. As the candidate of the Broad Front, he won the 2009 presidential election and took office as President on 1 March 2010. He has been described as "the world's 'humblest' president" due to his austere lifestyle and his donation of around 90 percent of his $12,000 monthly salary to charities that benefit poor people and small entrepreneurs.

The Hummer H2 Is the Most Embarrassing Vehicle You Can Drive

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