#if i see a strong/tall woman i would ask her for help too hashtag equality

[quaranmine]

survived the layover. next gauntlet was the mortifying ordeal of almost giving a poor man and woman a concussion as i unsuccessfully tried to lift my own bag into the overhead bin. a nice old man helped me <3

[ecotone99]

[SF] Matilda and the Questionable Queen

[ XXX ]

It had been one long-ass battle after another: Matilda literally couldn’t stand up anymore from the trauma lacing her spine: inducing early onset Degenerative Disc Disease on her lumbar and collar bones. She wore her stupid Pocahontas ruffles even in her dreams: stuck a mascot of those victims enslaved and murdered for this Nation. She would always laugh at these weird props and situations meant to keep her hashtag humble: the gloves and the milk she could smell falling from her own chest somehow.

Matilda had no qualms with her ruffled collar, but had grown exhausted from the spike textured gloves strapped to the backside of her palms: another curse from Hera: acted out by Carmen. It were the same self-disgust she felt as a young girl: shamed for having kissed a boy she were once tethered to named Chucky. Matilda would panic naked in every shower even today: remembering Carmen and her shrill voice calling her disgusting. Her pale, scaly arm slowly reaching in and checking that the water could fully sanitize her whoredom. She were one of the witches that they had once campaigned to murder in Salem in a past life: the same villain in every story somehow.

She’d hold her tongue as she leaned over looking at their progress: dawning her frilled collar after her first incarnation: an Indigenous Warrior named Matoaka: a cursed name known only now as Pocahontas. It reminded her it were time to fuck some shit uppp: and that she had returned from the stars to help her friends while she gained her wings. She had been there to support Kness when his mother "Jake" who had been struggling with lyme disease: meeting a somber and lost Kness soon after her passing. He were lost with his siblings: Jada, and Cynths: left choosing between bottle and a mirror. She had also been an interesting and frustrating distraction to Harper: when his elder sister were battling sickness, his boundaries set specifically to keep her out of the loop. Matilda hadn't wished herself on these planes of existence: she had been summoned in their dreams: exiting because of one: dying inside because of the other. Never allowed to state an answer to either: left in limbo alone. She no longer believed in romance because of these two tall men: still managing to care deeply somehow as she still blushed if she had to look at them.

Such lunacy warranted a cot in the mad house: so Matilda went on her way without overthinking why this one individual bothered her so much. Surrounded by love and support: finally safe from the grasp of the woman who used to try and rip off her face. She were along the lines of the cunning and unpredictable evils she often avoided deep in the dark webs of her Golden Apple. Carmen were not to be trusted in the exact respects to how Matilda felt aboot the Questionable Queen in the East: her families rule dubious in sexual proclivities and violence. Finally Matilda had decided on a name for this queen that fit her old wrinkled face: a name given on a random whim: Queen Cersei. Matilda needn’t bash this old queen and her family since they did equally fucked up things: on ever timeline. Instead she cursed her readers blind if they ever chose to unsee it as she had commanded: watching the growing proof she had ordered the execution of the Princess of Wales the over-romanticized marriage to her own cousin. The queen forever de-crowned only by vanity somehow.

Matilda had only found the old queen after she had seen her worm and minion: a beast with no face: Benedict XVI. He had came out of his slimy hole after his predecessor out shined him with his take on the future: mad the new wizard had allowed them to be written in Matilda's permanent ink admitting themselves child molesters. Such slimy sons of bitches thinking they were slick locking her in a catacomb of static. Only remembering when she caught them trading posts: hypnotizing the people of the world with their magic Golden Rod. Matilda couldn’t wait to break that shit: or shove it up their butts. She hadn’t quite decided somehow.

Matilda were tired of the rape and pillaging over all this nonsense: no options other than to rip her spirit from her body until she could prove she were ready to elevate all those around her. Instead of always running from the Queen Cersei through space and time: Matilda hid her Indigenous Warriors in a dimension where they were safe. She put her wounded family in Tipis that were always half-full and a warm chant that kept them alive: A. She hid her Dupree standing in plain sight with his arms held up as he bore the weight of the world on his back kneeling from an injured shin: Y. Lastly she hid her Viking in his beloved lost culture: V. She were already: I and O. Sitting there in plain sight for all of times: mocking all those who dared wear the headdress that represented such an intellectual Nation built of alchemists. She knew her fellow criminals and occasional fuck ups would remember her smile the more time passed on: making them repent in their lives over and over again with sickness of disability or crime: according to their previous lives as traitor(s) overthrowing her rule. Sitting in plain sight as both a criminal and disabled individual who vaguely remembered being overthrown as ruler and had to turn a Golden Apple inside out in order to remake a Kness and find a Viking. Mad she were still unarmed, creating code in hidden in alphabets that she made forever ago: naked and chained to a wall...drifting through space somehow.

Matilda had flipped an apple inside out by blowing yo minds. Boom. That’s how you debate. Either way she were still stuck forever having caught ya’ll up on the deets of whatever shit is aboot to go down. Endgame style. She had lifted a veil of confusion for herself as watched as others looked for her finally in words and symbols everywhere, a Greenman walking in a tech filled world. Matilda knew her only job was to kill some beasts whenever she got a command from tech support. Her job was only to confess her sins in away that reflected the gracefulness of the last name Brooks, and hope that all those around her would finally love their children. Seeing that they were people too, and know that they needed help by others who weren’t their parents. Orphans just like Matilda: sad that the world left them behind as children somehow.

Matilda had no solution or series build up of a grandeur epic battle showdown. She did not believe in drawn out characters and open plot holes created to beat a dead horse for profit. Instead she memorialized her friends in a book: trusting their judgement in people as they had decided in their previous lives: hidden in plain sight. Instead she dedicated this book to her birth mother: A woman named Melissa Brooks: a beautiful, tragically fallen Indigenous Warrior. No words can say moments lost by anger, and so Matilda wrote her a book: in her sadness wondering why she had been abandoned. It was not her right to ask her how she had came to be so broken: but only drink her tears from a magic vase if it meant she understood privilege. Matilda had use this manuscript to weep her tears and refill her vase: mending it with her joy. She were finally a woman strong enough to understand that sometimes awful things happen, and that she had to work extra hard to differentiate what was right and wrong with the aid of her friends. Matilda was finally free to be a person of situation: no longer a victim to circumstances, finally gentle enough to say she were sorry for all the damage she had done. She would tuck away the vase left by Melissa for another winter: her tears still needed but no longer burdening. She would thank her elders for their efforts providing her clean water and air and continue to try and save their children from the epidemic of youth suicide, finally ready to let go of her past. She had wrote this as her dreams erupted when a scholar from Marysville had taken the lives of his peers: despite the fact he we an angel on Earth. The Indigenous Warrior had fell sick to the ways of Western culture, and Matilda now only worried aboot the rest of her scholars. She would have dreams walking up to him: begging him to put the gun down or point it at her in a crowded cafeteria. She would return telling him stories to calm his demons, always to the same result. She would say softly: this isn’t who we are fam, finally truly sorry that the statistics and facts only proved him right. Clamoring with her sweaty hands: annoyed she could still feel her gloves i her dreams. She were always unarmed or forfeiting her weapon. Other students were now in danger: scared he were no longer an Indigenous Warrior she could resurrect if he spilled blood. It would take almost three days and no sleep to write down the entirety of the story she once told him in his murderous rage dreaming: preparing to earn the title of privilege of life-taker like all the other dead-eyed savages. Matilda would now only reflect on that dream that became reality: shooketh to the core by how fucking awful this story panned out. Ending it all with a simple warning for her peoples: to never partake in human flesh, human waste, or bloodshed. She had broken the loop by finding her lost scholar and naming him after his once kind and gentle heart: Jaylen. Finally executing her mission by whispering: the last curses in the manuscript that had once started this all: Eureka.

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