#like watching a sculptor chip away at marble

[astroprojectology]

I found a neurodivergent enby hairstylist who is actually amazing and the salon is really chill, I love going there in the mornings when it's more quiet. I don't mind the small talk with my stylist but I wish they would unmask a bit bc the customer service mode erks my autism a little. But that's a me problem. It can be a tad loud if it's busy there, but I feel safe and cared for.

I love the feeling of the razor on my scalp getting my fade trimmed, and the fingers massaging my scalp and the feel of the warm soapy water as they wash my hair. I love the feeling of my head becoming lighter as the shape of my hairstyle is sculpted, and the feeling of the air around me brushing against my newly exposed scalp.

I used to cut my hair myself but taking the plunge to find a stylist and style that I love has been super worth it. It's relaxing, and I never have to worry about my hair getting messed up because it always comes out better than perfect.

If you’d like you can also say in the tags if you’re neurodivergent or not

[fearandhatred]

Hehehehehe for the one word thing: theft (or words related to that)

i'm so sorry for this it could be five sentences if you squint real hard. also me when writing absolutely anything at all: how do i make this about angel crowley

the dollmaker

the teeth went first, which you lined up with extreme care onto curved wires caressing a plain, wooden pole. they say teeth are what make a face, and i guess that must be true—you would know. i hadn't known yet what you were going to do, so i just watched with my bare, gaping mouth as you chipped my teeth into asymmetrical shapes, carving them into a beast's.

the tongue was next, the larynx too—just as well. i wasn't much keen on speaking anymore, anyway, what with all the blood in my gums. i wasn't keen on smelling anymore, either, the tang of iron and wood flecks that surrounded you like a visible aura. the silence must have been music to your ears, now that i couldn't scream through the pain, could hardly even take a breath.

there were the lips, the nose, the cheekbones. you took it all off my face, like a sculptor trying to return their creation to a clean marble slab, and all i could do was watch. and maybe, along the way, i was even resigned. that settling that inevitably came with constancy.

but then the panic surged back up and out of my body along with my eyes, which you scooped out with ease, and i could scream again, only it wasn't coming from me—no, maybe it was me, the other me, if it was me. i didn't know which way was left, couldn't comprehend what my eyes were seeing: it's one thing to see fragments of yourself scattered around like an unfinished painting; it's another to see the remains of where those fragments were stolen from—oh god, it would have been kinder to be less methodical, to have had gnarled and brazenly sliced pieces of flesh and marrow exploded off of my face, rather than the precise and surgical peeling away of skin, all in one piece like wool from a shearer's hand.

and you painted them a lurid, reptilian yellow, slitted pupils like a knife's scar. i saw this, i saw my eyes only through yours, gold reflected off blue, and for a moment there was something so intimate, so complementary in that gaze, you with your deceitfully gentle smile and weightless hair, that i forgot what you were doing to me. just for a moment. but then it came into focus again, that garish, nauseating colour of my eyes, and that moment was gone. the colour of sick, one more step away from the angel i was, if an angel was defined only through construct; if an angel was defined by spirit, by grace, by acts… you're the farthest thing from an angel i could possibly fathom, and yet here you are.

i closed my eyes, then, and one by one you took, and you took, and you took, stealing everything from me, stealing myself from me. when you lifted my brain out of my cleaved skull, the pain finally quietened, if only for the few seconds it took to rewire it, but it was a reprieve, and i was grateful. and i didn't feel it when my limbs were hacked off at their stems, tourniqueted and cauterised. i didn't feel it when you ripped out the nails from my fingers and toes and replaced them with claws.

and so even as you took, and you took, and you took, i didn't struggle, no, and soon i couldn't struggle. but i didn't want it, i didn't, i didn't. but one by one by one, it got easier, with every limb and organ and joint, with every side sweep of my hair; you've changed that, too. because i thought—oh, i thought that with every piece of me you changed and fit into this new mold, i thought you would at least take it all. i thought you would complete me at the end, so that even changed, this new thing may still be me.

but we're at the final stages now. here come my lungs, my intestines, my stomach, fitting into this new me so perfectly it's as if i'd never changed at all. you've taken the stray clumps of my meat and stuffed them back into me, you've fed me back my blood, and it all works, as if i'd never changed at all. there's just my heart now, resting on the stool you'd propped me up on like a doll, nothing left but stray splotches of blood, but you're not taking it, you're not taking it, what are you doing?

i feel each individual stitch now as you sew me up around my joints and from my pelvis to my neck, a long line like snake vertebrae, weaving in and out of my skin. and still my heart remains untouched, outside of my body, discarded like waste. i start to beg now, because i can, and i didn't want this, but now i'm so close to reformation, to being whole, and oh, i feel so empty, you left the hole in my chest there where something is supposed to fit, and now my centre of gravity is off, and i can't be expected to live this way.

please, all i'm asking for is my heart, just this one thing. i know i haven't been good, i know i struggled, i know i screamed, i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry. oh, but please, won't you take it?

[obetrolncocktails]

Who's up for another horny Danny snippet?

Edit: Snippet below the cut (18+)

“Don’t worry,” he said with a flirtatious wink before lowering off of you, reaching underneath your oversized sleep shirt to pull at the waistband of your panties, rolling them down off of you. You watched as his head lowered, and his dark curls swept over your lower belly, tickling your skin. Gently, he placed a soft, velvety kiss on the lines from the waistband that had dug impressions into your skin. Glancing up at you through dark lashes with an eager grin, he rolled your underwear down further, exposing your last vestige of privacy–and yet, beneath his heavy gaze, you felt inexplicably radiant. He looked at you like exquisite, cherished art–like something to behold and to protect–or like how a well-learned sculptor gazes at a monolithe of marble, his mind chipping away the extra pieces to reveal the masterpiece beneath it all. 

“I’ll never get tired of that,” you smiled down at him. 

“Of what?” He asked. 

“The way you look at me.” 

He smiled gently, the apples of his cheeks rising. His arms moved to hook around your legs as he repositioned you, spreading them slightly so he could place more soft kisses on your tender, warm skin. 

“Danny,” you half-whined, feeling restless as he continued to litter your skin with tender kisses. 

“I will,” he answered, predicting your thoughts. “It may be three A.M., but I’m perfectly fine with taking my time with you.” With that, he shut you up and you laid back tossing your hair around you as you watched him take charge below. 

[hodari-pavels-good-boy]

Espresso Chapter 1:

Knock on Wood

Ch1 Ch2 Ch3

Pairing: Hodari Pavel x Reader Word Count: 2.1k Chapter 1/? Rating: E Summary: "You take a moment to silently watch him work, a true master at his chosen craft. You take note how his arms tense before bringing them down in a powerful swing, a rhythmic motion he repeats over and over as he carves the ore from its resting spot in the Earth. You find it not too dissimilar from a sculptor chiseling one's vision from the marble slab before them. His eyes were heavy and focused on the mass of stone he was chipping away at and clearly he had been at it for quite awhile by this time if the sweat that’s beaded along his forehead and down his temple is any indication. His hair is stuck to his face and you can follow the trail down to a damp shirt and skin that almost seems to lightly glisten in the lantern provided light." --------------------------------------

You find yourself in an unfamiliar world with a new life before you. Maybe... you'll help someone find a new life too?

Tags: Angst, Angst with a happy ending, miscommunication, fluff, eventual smut

A/N: This is a multi chapter story! Gender is not specified (though I did originally start writing it with the intention of it being a male reader lol). Tags will be updated as the fic goes. Cross-posted Here on Ao3. Fic below the cut! Enjoy :)

It’s getting late in Kilima as you start to cross the path that leads from the town proper to Bahari Bay, the lantern bugs greeting you as you pass through the gate. Catching a few, you secure them in your empty lantern before starting our evening walk down to the mines. This is one of your favorite times of day, the busy world winding down and coming to a slow stop.

Most people are comfortable in their homes by now, starting dinner for them and their families and relaxing from a long day of work. The glow in the windows of the Pavel’s house ahead of you lends itself to your point. The local miner and his daughter must be settling down to tuck into a good meal right about now after a hard day down in the mines and the thought makes you smile as you pass by.

Over the last few months you’ve been here you’ve started to pick up a bit of a routine for yourself while also observing the local’s daily routines around you. It hasn't escaped your notice that you're one of the only humans that’s decided to stay in the Kilima region for now, most supposedly having moved on to The Capital in search of answers. While you understand the reasoning, that fact definitely aids itself to a feeling of loneliness and otherness in this foreign place, so it helps to see everyone around you maintain a sense of normalcy while you adjust to this new ‘normal’ for yourself.

Sooner than later, the earth beneath your feet becomes more gravel than dirt while the hills on either side of you that frame the well-worn path have become cliff faces and you know you're nearing the mines. The sun has long since set by now and the light evening chill now has a little bite to it. As you approach the entrance, you can hear the sound of metal hitting rock echoing off the cavernous walls. Adjusting your pack, you curiously follow the noise into the depths, wondering who is here so late besides yourself. Usually it's just you and silence that surrounds you to keep you company, so your interest is piqued. Rounding a corner, you find the town’s respected but quiet resident miner, Mr. Pavel. You haven't had a chance to really talk to him since he gave you your first pickaxe and helped you settle in on the plot you’re slowly starting to make into a home. He seems like a very private person who minds his own, so anytime you've seen him around town you haven't wanted to bother him. Besides he always seems like he's busy with places to be and you don't want to interrupt him if that's the case. Outside of the village though you hardly see him. Usually, he's long since left the mines to return home by the time you've made the lengthy journey from your plot all the way out here.

Since he hasn't noticed you yet, you take a moment to silently watch him work, a true master at his chosen craft. You take note how his arms tense before bringing them down in a powerful swing, a rhythmic motion he repeats over and over as he carves the ore from its resting spot in the Earth. You find it not too dissimilar from a sculptor chiseling one's vision from the marble slab before them. His eyes were heavy and focused on the mass of stone he was chipping away at and clearly he had been at it for quite awhile by this time if the sweat that’s beaded along his forehead and down his temple is any indication. His hair is stuck to his face and you can follow the trail down to a damp shirt and skin that almost seems to lightly glisten in the lantern provided light. You feel a light dusting of heat grace your cheeks as you watch him continue for another minute before the sound of the pickaxe abruptly stops, dragging you back into reality as a rough rough voice speaks up. 

“You comin’ in here or are you just enjoyin’ the show?” He asks, no patience in his tone as he turns to look where you’re standing. He raises his hand up to the light blinding you to him and you quickly turn the lantern away so it’s no longer shining directly in his eyes.

“Oh, it’s you.” He says in recognition. “Here again? At this point m’starting to get used to it but don't you have anything better to than spending your time down here in the dust and dirt this late?” He says it genuinely as if he’s actually curious and you wonder how many times he’s noticed you coming here. Enough that he isn't surprised by your presence it appears, but surely it can't be too often, you almost never see him yourself.

You set your lantern and pack down on the floor while you pull out your own pick that's ready to begin its service for the night. “Nah, I’m gonna be up for quite awhile yet. No rest for the wicked and all that.” You chuckle at your little joke for a moment before it dries up when you realize he’s not laughing with you. You clear your throat before looking back at your things, closing your pack and gathering all the items you set down as you stand up. Quickly glancing around you decide to head down one of the side shafts to save you both from any more of this awkward interaction and let the miner get back to work, clearly he has things he wants to get done if he’s still here this late. 

“Okay then, well, good chatting with you. You have a good rest of your night and I’m gonna go look for some ores to mine up. Good night.” You rush out a little awkwardly as you move toward the mine shaft, pausing at the entrance to give the wooden support beams a few knocks before heading down the carved out path. 

When you reach the end you give yourself a moment to collect your thoughts before getting to work. You like it down here, it's quiet and gives you time to think about anything and everything while your hands stay busy. As a small bonus, you're always so tired afterwards that by the time you return to your home plot and clean up you're always too exhausted for those same thoughts to keep you up. Seems like a win-win in your book.

Not too long after you start, you hear shuffling and the soft sounds of footsteps coming down the same route you just walked, the sound echoing off the long walls behind you. As the sound gets closer to you you hear the miner clear his throat before speaking up.

“I’ve been meanin’ to ask…” he starts and then trails off. You stop your mining and turn to get a better look at him, giving him the respect of your full attention so he knows you're listening to him. He's shifting his weight from side to side as he tries to find the words to convey what he’s thinking. Clearly he’s out of his comfort zone so it must be something he's been thinking about for a bit if he’s willing to go through the trouble of.. whatever this is.

Trying to help, you silently motion for him to continue, knowing you won’t be able answer whatever is on his mind if he doesn't share it. He clears his throat again before starting over. “I’ve been meanin’ to ask you, why do you do that?”

You blink a few times waiting for him to continue, but he just stands there with his arms crossed as he looks back at you. After a silent staring contest, you reach the conclusion he isn’t going to elaborate or say anything else. “Do what?” you ask confused, looking for clarification. 

At your response, Hodari looks down as if he regrets saying anything in the first place. He takes a sharp breath through his nose before he mimics your earlier knocking on the support beam next to him. “That- This knocking thing you do. I promise those supports are as sturdy as they get. Check ‘em myself twice a week.”

“Oh no! I’m not worried about that at all! I-” Stopping abruptly in your attempt to give an explanation. After a beat, “I’m not actually sure why I do it. I guess I've never really thought about it.”

Hodari stands across from you, recrossing his arms as he listens to your reasoning a little unbelievably. “You don’t know?”

You look away, breaking eye contact with the man. Being put on the spot like this has you feeling exposed, as though he can see right through you. Maybe it's just a symptom of being a father but it unnerves you, like he’ll know if you lie to him. A little self-consciously you answer, “Well.. yeah. It’s not like any of us remember what life was like before..” you trail off. Hodari stays silent. This time, however, it feels less of an oppressive silence but rather more curious as he nods his head for you to continue, so you do. “Humans, I mean. We don’t remember anything from before we appeared here, just our names. We tend to do a lot of things out of reflex but I don’t know where they're from or why I’m doing them. It’s not like we know nothing per se, I know the Earth is round and that a hot stove will burn and things like that even though I haven't done it or been explicitly told by any of the villagers. But I also sometimes feel I have to avoid cracks in the road when I'm walking and that I should avoid breaking mirrors at all costs but I cannot for the life of me tell you why. We all seem to have little things like this and it absolutely adds onto the ‘out of place’ feeling we experience, besides the whole being human in a world that humans don't exist in anymore thing. It's why it doesn't surprise me that most of us leave here, we all just want answers and to understand why we are here and where we are from as much as the rest of you want us out of your hair.” You lightly chuckle at the end but Hodari looks like he’s actually thinking about what you've just said.

The silence continues to stretch between the two of you as he absorbs all the information and you find your face flushing with embarrassment realizing you dropped a bunch of information about humans he didn't ask you for. Having gathered he’s not really one for talking this much you open your mouth to apologize and he holds up his hand to cut you off. He’s not looking at you now but rather down at the ground, his gaze locked on a pebble as he toes it with his boot. He doesn’t look up as he starts talking.

“I, uh, I didn't know that. The not rememberin’ anything.” He looks back up at you now, a little sheepish in his confession. “I haven't really talked to many of the humans after they appeared here. I just helped a few like you get set up on a small plot of land and give a few pointers every now and then so they don't get themselves killed in my mines before they head out of town to explore the rest of the world.” He hesitates for a few seconds before grabbing something from his back pocket. “Here.” he says, holding out his hand between the two of you, a pile of well worn leather in his hands. “Speakin’ of givin’ pointers, since you seem to be sticking around longer than most, you really should be wearing some gloves if you're gonna be at it this long. Take em’, it’s an older pair but they’re broken in and your hands will thank me later.”

Recognizing it as the olive branch it is, you reach out and take them. Before you can even begin to thank him, the miner is already picking up his own lantern and turning to head out of the mines. You follow him to the entrance and he pauses looking at the main wooden beam before giving it a quick rapt with his knuckles as he throws over his shoulder, “I’d wish ya luck findin’ those ores, but I don’t believe in luck.”

As his footfalls on the dirt and gravel fade away as he starts his trek home, something clicks inside your mind. Luck?

[Dividers by the-aesthetic-shop and firefly-graphics]

[probablyahazard]

love me like a sculptor loves his sculpture. look at me and see only what you could mold me into, only what i could be. kiss me gently, press ur lips to skin like a chisel kisses marble. precise and certain with just a little hint of blood. recreate me the way u imagined me, the way you wanted.

when you've finished loving me, i will stand there, resplendent and polished. surrounded by the wreckage of who i was before. chips of me lie on the ground, abandoned and unwanted. i will watch as you begin to chip away at someone else.

pygmalion loved galatea, love her perfect skin, her perfect smile, her perfect creation at his hands. but then he noticed the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, the way she laughed a little too loud. she wasn't the way he made her anymore.

[slight-chance-of-rain]

You were never intact to begin with.

You were chipped from the day you were born,

and every day of your waking life

has chiseled a little more of you away.

A broken, fragmented person,

holding on to every remaining piece,

in fear that one day might be the day

you finally fall apart

and cease to exist.

You don’t have the slightest idea when that will be.

And so, you live in fear, every day of your life,

trying everything you can to delay it

and protect what pieces are left.

A porcelain statue in a china shop building walls around itself

before the bull finally arrives.

You like to imagine that one day, you might finally be whole.

All of the disparate pieces will find their way home again.

To you.

To make you a real person.

To feel the ceramic giving way to the flesh and blood held inside.

To see your true body climb out of yourself, shards piercing and slicing your flesh in the escape.

You want nothing more than to kneel in the dirt

and watch the statue you’ve painted in blood fall apart.

A withered, shivering newborn with a forever-haunted look in its eyes.

-

Who told you that you were falling apart, child?

Who would have so egregiously deceived you of yourself?

Whatever voice is telling you such things does not love you, child.

Whatever voice has misled you like this wants only one thing:

For you to shatter.

It’s true; you have chipped many, many times over now.

In all of these years, the damage is unavoidable.

But what I need you to understand

is that your being is not a perfect work of art,

falling apart as you fail to preserve it.

It is the marble slab with which the sculptor begins their work.

These chips do indeed damage the stone,

but always in the pursuit of the soul contained within.

Please forgive yourself for your inequities;

they only serve to show more of the whole.

You are unfinished.

You may still become anything.

This is slow, slow work.

I need you to listen to me.

You are not falling apart.

You are being born.

[inabcck]

Slowly she had watched bits and pieces of what made Logan chip away to reveal the darker animal beneath. It was almost like he was a slab of marble and her the sculptor chipping away to reveal the dark master piece beneath. Or perhaps she had trained him like one of her precious babies? He was turning into a good boy for her either way she looked at it and she loved it, it meant she had a new pet. Even if she couldn't see his smirk at her little bit of praise she felt that it was there.

The promise of playing another time had her grinning again. She did wonder what Logan looked like when he gave in to that darker side of him and played as she did. Would he be an artist with a knife, a breaker of bones, or would he take a bit more gruesome approach? Time would only tell and she couldn't wait at all. "Ya promise?" She asked with big eyes that held a lot of dangerous intent. Though he was right they should go.

His willingness to hold her eyes as he faced possible death made her happy and giddy almost. With a flourish she pulled the knife away from his neck and sheathed it on her belt while her other hand came up to pat his cheek. "Good boy." She turned on her heel to look around the room and gave a shrug. "We can just leave out the back." As if that whole moment didn't just happen and she was back in control as she walked through the puddles of blood towards the back door.

Logan never imagined himself wearing a mask to obscure his face. He never imagined being part of this crime underworld where he ended up falling for the queen, so to speak. He never imagined he'd begin losing himself down the spirals of his own darkest desires and falling prey to his pure hatred for what he'd already gone through. Doing this, going with Harley to places like this, well...it gave him such a thrill he wasn't accustomed to that it almost frightened him.

Only the attention she gave him helped iron that out.

He'd be a good boy for her and only her. He'd get used to things like this: the stink of blood staining the back of his throat, the scent of gunpowder under his fingernails, the sing of a knife if he chose to use it. Even now, after that crunch seemed to reverberate off every surface and echo around them, her manic smile unable to be diminished by the ugly mask concealing her, the way she was giddy about it and clapped her hands...his spine tingled, his heart rate increased. He smirked behind his mask, since his was only open around his eyes.

"We can play another time. We might want to think of getting outta here." His voice is soft, a little breathy from the exhilaration of all this, but he looks around them, wondering where they should make their best escape. However, when he looks back to her, she's wandered closer and he's barely lifted his head from that blade. Holding eye contact as those words left her lips, the threat was there yes, but she held a sweet little joy in her tone he couldn't exactly avoid. "Loud and clear, sugar."

@inabcck

[nirakarchuma]

Ugh I’m a cliche, (I)

there is so much

hope and happiness

——in life——

there is so

much sadness and fear

——in life——

that wraps,

happiness and hope in its arms

-have you seen petals

of a flowering plant

maybe a tree

protecting its seeds-

—like the cloth that clings

to

the—

———masterpiece———

———how a sculptor———

who has chipped his life away

for a woman of his dreams

——the image of a Goddess

the maiden who shows him

gently smiles at him

leads him to

the white marble garden

-as he wakes

he dreads

what his reality is——

the pursuit of the Godly image

only the one thing

the woman he

sees

when he falls

of hunger games

when awake

he covers

with the the very thing

he sleeps in—the dirty linen

protecting over woman’s face, woman of his dreams

———white marble——flawless——

in her stillness.

her glow, woman, she’s pristine

———————sculptor—————

and his

parched, dirty linen—the only cloth the hunger artist has to spare—to share—

he offers

—the body, he is in love with

such cold, smooth skinned

glowing with the moon and starts

or just by itself

under his

roofless house—

with

such tender sweet nothing

such certainty,

——he throws it over her head

draping her lifeless body

with its existence,

(a piece of cloth

not fit

even for mopping)

—-or his own,

existence

he sees no difference—

-smiling to the thought of it-

over hers

existing

——protecting——

the only thing he has to offer

from his being

——the purpose of a man——

a glance over his unattended hands

only to uncover

when

her face needs to be seen

to remind him

what’s in between

the linen and

———the piece of rock

that’s his previous stone——

to remind himself

—it’s an angel—

—a manifesto—

of a starving artists dream

A present

you may call it’

if you wish to.

which fate has left it at his door,

for him to keep-

for him to cherish and share

a gift,

he was born with

a maestro, of his dreams

———So they come————

the audience gathers. the masses arrive

critics line up, have their glasses out

the youth come sit in the back

they can sense they can smell it

the dirty house. the dishes left neglected

the bench where he sleeps the dogs that were there

aren’t there anymore they have better places to be

only he can survive on exhaustion

the dogs now know

the white marble may look like bones

but they weren’t made for eating

——————the artist, knows all this

knows the crowd that watch him

almost daily they seem him

sick and hollow

but all they do is mock him

tell him how that stroke of hammer to the stone was heavy handed

they don’t know

he thinks

——they don’t know her like i do

but the day has come

it’s done he knows whatever was asked and expected of his unholy hands

hands that have now started to feel useless

the anger is misbehaving maestro and his beautiful woman

the one he was born to love and create

his suffering and his cure

——so early morning he prepares makes his way

to the centre of his own home with crowd growing, humming something about

how awful his place his

how he looks like life was sucked out of him

it’s true

his face hollowed

his ribs poke out like

freshly plucked wings

of a foul

he has nothing on but his dust covered apron and

a rope that starts at his neck and ends in tatters at his feet

that look like they can’t stand the weight of the man anymore

the talent you see the divine streaks

that is confined in this artist

is too much for

dainty little feet

of a mere mortal

to carry

nevertheless

they do their due duty—in front is a sculpture

—they crowd has guessed, unanimously

he sighs and sits on the bench, he can rest now

the rats that snuggle with him

his protégés, all come out

as if to cheer him on

—-face that is hung, looks like is smiling—-

the carvings, the material-the tools much loved and looked after

have been his pillows. his next set of arms.

he looks at them

thanks them, individually

the great supporters

the ones that know

the ones who understand his strokes

his radical moves

carrier of all the knowledge

but never will they speak

they never will share

the secret he keeps

the secrets between

the artist and his effort

the relentlessness

the frustration

like a midwives hand

they are the tools

they birth

something entirely new—————

he had to do it he knows

he opens the window and the sights fall on the cloth

people laugh, they gawk

some gag at the look of veil

most people are turned away

——perplexed—— he looks around

only to find a young man and a girl

who are there

waiting for him,

so are the children that have their mouths open and some covering them

unable to contain the emotion they feel——

“perfect” he says

children are the most honest people around

and the youth are the people who need know the actual truth of it all

all the other adults seem to know it all

—like vessels, filled. but small indeed—

so he closes his eyes

in his slow movements of getting up and around he-unveils her—— and walks away

silence befalls

——what fine work——

-the grace of the woman, the appeal the elegance-

-the charm, full of life- though lifeless is her best

——as the man hears some applause, he grabs his piece of bread and some water——

-they talk about it still, you know the people

they talk about him like he did the wrong thing by putting a rag over a Goddess-

-but do they know, do we know, does anyone ever, know?-

——————If you say you don’t see it,

if you say you can’t picture it———————

u ask “how it can be”

-let The Sculptor, show you-

—i may not not know all truth

that lies between heaven and earth.

however so what angels do in the clouds

what demons drink underground—

but

-in this case

if you don’t agree with me,

how in life,

-gain and loss-

-hope and fear-

[fictionwriting]

Casting Call?

Not quite yet, as I’ve only posted three very brief chapters on what is, at the moment, an extremely obscure fiction site, but networking is very difficult when one is obscure, so let’s put it out there: someday, I’d like to turn some of the stories I’m writing into low budget movies or videos, plays, or maybe both. This raises a few questions.

Q: Will there be pay?

A: No, probably not. This is just for fun. I can’t picture making any money off of these projects, myself, and will be delighted if I manage to break even. There is no revenue to share. Professional actors probably will have much better places to be, both creatively and financially, than on my backlot.

Q: How do we get in touch with you?

A: Online, you don’t. Any casting or other recruitment I do will be done in the real world, offline. There are a number of reasons for this.

1. Many, many people, down through the years, have come to grief by doing their networking online. Yes, one can fill a party very quickly doing that, but one can also get one’s home trashed by a group of psychopaths who will then vanish anonymously into the night, leaving one with a very large bill for repairs.

2. If you really don’t like getting out, theater is not the hobby for you. There is no hiding from the audience. A little mousiness is not an insurmountable problem, but if one is not willing to go out and wander, just how far outside of Emily Dickinson territory is one, at that point? Far enough that one won’t freeze on stage as the reality of there being no second take sinks in, and one’s eyes adjust to the point at which one sees the audience, again?

Even amateur theater calls for a little bit of a background, even more so with us, because there will be Improv work. Those experiences you have as you wander exploring the parts of the city, the ones that you don’t know in advance of your arrival, are what kick you out of creative ruts that you didn’t know you were in and give you something to play with when you’re up there. There is no virtual substitute for that gift of real world experience. I’m counting on you to go out and get that experience. The way you make contact helps to ensure that you’ve done that. When the time is right, I’ll be advertising in the real world. How? Maybe in PerformInk, if I can persuade the staff to not post the notice online. Maybe in hardcopy zines I’ve distributed. Maybe through the posting of flyers, though probably not, given how quickly those get torn down. One way or another, in you’ve wandered into the right place, you’ll see some sort of notice that points you in the direction of a short lived, throwaway website that will give more information, and maybe the time and place of a meeting.

Q: I hear that Supplicants has a scene in which a character appears in a state of undress. Is that something that you expect of those working with you?

A: You’re hearing from somebody who skimmed the story much too quickly. There is a scene in which “Meg” is unpleasantly surprised to discover that she has been so seen, in the past,  by somebody who was spying on here, but there is no scene in which, present tense, she is going out there “thusly”, as Meg puts it. If that story should be dramatized, and you’re playing Meg, all that you’re going to be putting on display is your embarrassment and anger. You will be fully clothed throughout. Assuming that Supplicants even gets dramatized, which it probably won’t, given how much of the story is taking place inside the character’s thoughts. As for what I expect of the performers, in general … Note that I’m using Youtube to host our videos. The TOS there would not allow for the uploading of amateur R rated videos, even if I wanted to upload them. Which I don’t. Such a video would probably go viral, with a great potential for uncomfortable consequences for the performers later in life, even those who remained clothed. For this reason, not only would I not ask this of you, I wouldn’t let you do so on video. As for stage … I can’t picture a reason for there to be such a scene, and I will guarantee that I’ll never surprise you with one. As an actor, you’re creating a role, and like an other artist, you might get a little territorial about your creation. I understand and respect that. Having appeared as a given character on stage or video, you might not be too thrilled with having somebody else fill in for you in the same cycle of performances you’re in, any more that a sculptor would feel pleased with the thought of somebody else knocking a few chips of marble out of his statue. While I will write what I will write, and can’t make any promises about what your characters will be up to in print while you’re away, I can say that not everything that happens in print has to happen in front of an audience or a camera. If the understanding has not existed from the time you started playing a character that this might be asked of you, then I’m not going to ask you to choose between having somebody else intrude on your work, or you physically stepping outside of your comfort zone. We can just work around that scene. “So you’ll be telling everybody to expect this from the beginning, right you dog, you?” No. If I were to be putting on a play about the experiences of an artist’s model, then yes, there would probably be nudity. But why would I do that? In real life, all the model does is stand motionless. Where’s the story in that? Running a mental checklist of other possibilities, I just can’t come up with a scenario in which such a scene would be anything but gratuitous, advancing neither the plot nor the development of the characters. That being the case, such a scene should not appear on stage at all, I believe.

Q: “So you’re a bluenosed Puritan?”

A: I don’t think so. Others have disagreed. I would say that in any sort of art, there is a point at which less becomes more. While there might be something to be said for having a little extraneous material to make the piece feel more real, give it a little of the untidiness of real life, if one doesn’t keep the amount of that material under control, is one really crafting anything at all? Can one see the art under all of that undergrowth? If we’re introducing entire scenes that have nothing to do with why the piece exists, then I think that’s maybe a bit too much clutter. In Supplicants, it’s a fair bet that Jack had dinner before he headed off to Church. Notice how I don’t tell you what he had for dinner? This is not because I morally object to eating. It just doesn’t have anything to do with the story, at least not yet. The same principle applies here. Meg probably isn’t a virgin at this point in her life, but what would be the relevance of her love making technique in the story you’ve seen to this point? I think that to show Meg in the heat of action would be like having you sit down and watch Jack cook up his pot of white bean goulash. There. So now you know. Jack is a horrible cook. Who cares? Yes, we could probably get more people into the seats - assuming that there are seats and we’re not doing this out in a Park somewhere - by having people watch Meg do her thing. No, I’m not so clueless that I don’t understand this, but if we sink to that, is the audience watching the play or is it just biding its time, waiting for a striptease? To say “let us know why we are here” isn’t Puritanism. It’s focus. It’s also particularly fitting, given what I’m trying to do.

Q: How’s that?

A: In describing this site, what I’ve said is that if a baby is tottering down the center line on a highway on page one, by page two a truck will have struck the little one. “So, this is about sadism?”, somebody asks. No, this is about merciless realism, what would happen instead or what we’ve chosen to pretend would happen. Having a hero sweep in at the last moment and carry the child to safety would be a feel good ending, and certainly something that would make us cheer in real life, but it wouldn’t happen in real life. So, that male fantasy driven business of having women throwing their clothes off because the hero says “good morning” with a winning enough smile, aside from being in bad taste as far as I’m concerned, just doesn’t fit. In terms of performance, what I’m aiming for (and hoping to hit), again, is realism, taking the tone down a notch until the characters look like real people. Less screaming and breaking of furniture, even if that is what people have come to expect out of Chicago theater. We’ll leave the mugging to the professionals, as we move toward a more conversational tone, and try to have the drama grown out of the situation rather than out of the volume with which the situation is discussed.

Q: So you’re a professional director?

A: Hardly. Just an amateur who knows what he likes, and has noticed, of late, that he hasn’t been getting it. Contrived, “high concept” plots, acting that seems more like clowning than anything else - and high priced acting instruction that seems to offer the student very little. If all we are getting for our money is a few exercises that we could find out of a book, and some grumbling out of the instructor at the end of a scene as the only feedback we’re getting, then can’t we do that for ourselves? Just take the books and play, with maybe a small audience around from time to time so that what we get isn’t just an echo chamber.

Q: So why should we care about whether or not you like what you’ve been finding? Why should we go to so much trouble to seek you out?

A: You shouldn’t. If you run into one of my offline promotions, like the writing and ideas you see, and want to play, drop by and maybe we’ll have fun. If you don’t, no big deal, either. There are a lot of other people you can hook up with, and some of them can probably put on a much better show than I can. So, just let it happen. Or not.

I’ll be back, later. Coffee awaits.

Note: This was reposted to my Posterous, Livejournal (and Elsewhere) comment journal, having been moved from its original location in response to concerns raised by a number of incidents of censorship, at a company that had kept offering assurances to its users that it had mended its ways in this. Over the years, at each point it insisted that henceforth, it would sin no more, but the return to old, comfortable vices would always come so swiftly that clearly, no effort to resist then had been made, at all.

I had to move the post again, today, because my previous host, the victim of an acquihire, will be closing down in a few days. What a nuisance! One spends more time repairing the damage done by the unprofessionalism of supposed professionals, than one gets to spend writing.

[jilyarchive]

Hey I was wondering if you had any tear-jerker fics? thanks!

Check out our angst and drama and death tags, plus these in particular:

Title: New YearAuthor: scaredofcloudsRating: TGenre(s): Romance, FriendshipChapters: 14Word Count: 92,000Summary:  Lily Evans is planning on seeing the New Year in alone, then just getting through the rest of the year with as few problems as possible. Unfortunately for Lily Evans, very little in her life is that simple. Still, what difference can a year make.

Title: FadeAuthor: petals-to-fishRating: TGenre(s): Drama, RomanceChapters: 2Word Count: 11,682Summary: Imagine if Voldemort had picked the Longbottom family instead of the Potter family. Hold onto hope if you've got it, because survival is harder than you'd imagine (Jily if they lived AU)

Title: Dust to DustAuthor: petals-to-fishRating: MGenre(s): Drama, RomanceChapters: 1Word Count: 2,916Summary: "The cancer chips away at his body like a sculptor chips at marble stone." A muggle!Jily cancer AU because some anon on tumblr wants to watch the world burn. Rated M for feels.

[jenroses]

Organization?

This is for @thehausghosts and @ishxallxgood I guess, lol.

First of all, most of the things I write start out as one idea, and usually something that comes out in under 5k. Plot bunnies happen, and that’s where it’s really easy to wander off into distraction land, and honestly? I don’t fight it all that much.

Google docs and Chrome make it pretty easy to keep things from getting lost. 

I wish I could give a steady answer for “I outline things and then I write the first part, the second part, etc.” but that is simply not how my brain works or how I work best.

The muse is fickle, but is most responsive to consistent attention.

So what I’m describing below is not “the” method, but “some methods” that have worked for a couple of different pieces.

For me writing comes first and foremost from ideas. In Check Please, the idea that sparked the Rules series was simply this idea that Bitty told the Internet his parents didn’t know they’d met his boyfriend, and I’ve had a little experience on both sides of the coming out thing, and so I let my inner Mama Bittle flow. That’s the short thing. Someone said they wanted to see Coach’s response. That provoked a longer story. I’d hinted at something in both stories that readers wanted to see, that got the next part. None of this required much planning. 

Then Rule Number Two’s plot bunny hit, and hit hard. I wrote it quickly. Like, I think it was a couple of days? The idea was cohesive--someone figures out what’s going on between Jack and Bitty and they decide to come out. Everything around that just followed logically. Organizing it was simply a matter of breaking things at “breathing points”. Breathing points are the places in the narrative where either everyone’s gone to sleep or there’s so much drama that the reader needs a moment to deal. (or a week, in serial television.) 

I don’t do chapter breaks “because I’ve hit my writing goal” or “because I’m tired of it and want it posted.”

I have a lot of little scene breaks throughout any piece longer than 5k, usually, and while I might choose to turn one of those into a chapter break for length, I want my chapter breaks to make sense.

Some stories get chapter breaks by the day, or by the week. Some get them by the emotional milestone. 

I think it’s kind of like a sculptor, staring at a block of marble and chipping things away to find the art that is already there. As writers, we are presented with an idea, that is this formless block of thought, and we have to shape it and push it and paint it with words until the idea is realized in a form that the reader can resonate with. Chapter breaks and chapter lengths are a byproduct of the story being told. So in my YOI fic, some of the stories are about a single night, or a single week. Some cover a longer span. Two of the earlier stories are almost exactly the same length and one of them has 7 chapters and the other has none, only scene breaks, because that’s how the story went. 

And that brings in the series. Here are my long things: Facing Janus (X-files), 250k, 3 “acts”, 30 chapters (including the prologue). It is not a series. The action covers a month or so, IIRC, but is one story from start to finish. It took me 10 years to write (but the first 6 chapters took a few months and the last 200,000 words took 6 weeks). I knew when I started what the gist was, and it changed dramatically once I picked it back up again, but I had in my head several of the scenes SO clearly and was mostly writing my way from one to the next so that they would hang together. (Scully walking over the border and how she did it was HUGE in my mind through the whole thing. I legit thought that would be the end of it.) (finished 2008)

Symbolon. Doctor who. So the two little stories up front were written pretty much last. Symbolon was the beginning for me, and the bookends for the series were “Even RTD says there’s no way Rose would have stayed with the clone” and “The Eye of Harmony must be restored”. And I knew there were a lot of upsetting canon things that would change if Rose stayed, so I explored that, and Jack’s arc had pissed me the fuck off so I wanted to write some resolution to his pain and grief, and and and and next thing I knew I’d written 250k in about 10 weeks. The main thing that kept me going was that I did NOT allow myself to publish before it was done, and I really wanted to share it. Chapter breaks happened when they happened. The story breaks were obvious within what I knew was going to happen. I spent a lot of time during those months curled up under a shower in the bathtub with my mind on another planet and I’m not even kidding, it was the single most immersive experience I’d ever had as a writer. IIRC I wrote it almost entirely in Open Office, which was great because I could turn on the UK dictionary and not look incompetent for the most part, but HORRIBLE for proofreading. Dear god. It got proofed in email. 2010 seems a long time ago right now. But it was the happy ending for the tenth doctor that would NEVER happen on air. 

I published Therapy (90k, perpetual WIP but not a terrible ending point) in the Castle fandom during the summer of 2011, while pregnant, as a throwaway “I’m writing this between now and the season premiere” and I had a lot of ideas but didn’t track them well, the thing was a disorganized mess and I swore off publishing WIPs for a long time.

Somewhere in there I rewatched JAG, wrote 90k, abandoned it, never published it anywhere because there was no one interested in JAG fanfic and I couldn’t bring myself to finish.  I also wrote a few one-offs for Stargate, IDK when, that might have ended up being a huge thing but then I decided I hated my OC a lot and that it was not really all that interesting once I’d taken care of the annoying plot holes the series had left around Moebius and Egypt... Those I posted and got practically no feedback and so didn’t really continue. 

So then I got bit by a bug and was really pondering this original concept and just let it percolate for a few years. I wasn’t going to write fanfic. I wasn’t. I had this idea. But I was also very busy and knew my kid would start kindergarten in 2017, and so I wasn’t going to write fiction until then. (yes, you can start laughing at me now.)

Fastforward to early 2016. Here’s me, struggling with depression and undiagnosed and diagnosed health issues, and I was looking for something to watch on Netflix, and there was Merlin, and the ratings were good. 

And I watched. And I watched. And I got angrier and angrier. I nearly turned it off. I kept going because, and this was literally my mantra, “The fanfic is going to be amazing.” And it was. And I read... god, so much fanfic in the Merlin fandom. It’s a pretty large fandom, with a lot of fics, and I sorted by kudos and read and read and read until the quality dropped. 

And I got involved in the fandom and there was a rewatch and after seeing the whole series and getting mad at it, I reluctantly started it again, got to episode 8, and went, “Well, if Merlin could go back in time, THIS is where he’d go back to to fix everything.”

THAT, folks, is how Plot Vorpal Bunnies are born. I started writing, and wrote feverishly, and signed up for a Big Bang, and was like 50k into this thing....

When someone (*cough* @ayantiel *cough*) in the Merlin Chat said, “I love that my fandom can generate a fic called, “Exeunt, Pursued by Heteronormativity”. 

There was a record screech in there as I scrambled to go find Check Please and that fanfic, and then I was lost in Check Please for a while. I wasn’t going to do a big fic. I WASN’T. I did a few little throw-away one offs. And then Mama Bittle happened, and next thing I knew I’d written something like 70k for the fandom, and I was seriously in danger of not getting my big bang thing finished for Merlin, so I dragged myself back to that, got an artist, got inspired, finished that, and then came back to Check Please to work on Healing Rules (which is still not finished but because Google Docs never forgets, I actually have worked on it.) Right around then I hit my late-year lag and my no-fucking-way-am-I-writing-NaNoWriMo stubborn streak, and fandom started talking YOI, and we know how that went.

THIS IS ALL incredibly long and roundabout and I’m going to post it under a cut and then reply to my own thing to talk about the organizational systems I have now, because I actually do, and they help.

[flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash]

22 27

22. How many drafts do you need until you’re satisfied and a project is ultimately done for you?

Is it strange that I only have one draft? Usually, my chapters or fics start out as a weird outline. I might write random sentence ideas or dialogue, then start rearranging them into the order I want, and start expanding on those ideas by writing a paragraph or section in the middle, then go back to the beginning, etc. I sometimes jump around a lot. 

I’ve learned that intros are super difficult for me, so it’s usually easier for me to write one or two outline ideas for an intro, then delve into actually writing somewhere in the middle. And then if I hit a roadblock in the middle of the chapter, I skip that “section” and jump down to some dialogue or descriptions that I know I want to have happen, and I’ll come back to fill in the previous roadblock at a later time, so I’m not just sitting there staring at the document in frustration forever. Right now, the next chapter of ID is half-outline, half some sections that I wrote paragraphs for. It’s a jumbled mess right now, and will come together as a complete chapter at some point, if I keep chipping away at sections of it. It’s like being a sculptor and trying to slowly chip away at the marble block, to find the story underneath.

But I don’t think I’ve ever scrapped a draft and started a second one, I just have the one document that starts as a funky outline and slowly fills out into a chapter/fic. 

27. Do you share rough drafts or do you wait until it’s all polished?

I wait until it’s polished. Once the “rough draft” is finished, I’ll go back and re-read it a couple times for any editing mistakes, but I’m super anal, so I tend to be editing as I write, as well, and will go back and re read paragraphs or sections as I write them. So even my “rough draft” is usually basically my final draft, just with some random grammar stuff I probably missed the first time around. Even when I was in school, I never was one for “rough drafts” and having to rewrite any of my papers. What I write the first time is usually what I stick with, which is probably why I hit writer’s block a lot, because I don’t like to put down any ideas on paper, unless I plan on using them. 

Sometimes I’ll send a few lines or a paragraph of smut to ppl, if it’s an idea that I discussed with them ahead of time, and I do it as a small tease to show I’m writing the idea. But otherwise, I only send my draft off to my two betas when it’s polished, so they can do a final edit. And actually, since I’ve been writing some non-Negan fics, I haven’t even been using my betas (since they don’t watch Teen Wolf), so any mistakes in my recent fics are purely my own lol. 

[greathorned]

45. Chisel

I’m watching the flakes of stone fall away from my body. Softening the rough edges over the course of months and years. Once a hardened block, formless in granite or marble, monolithic dense, immobile, but now multi-faceted and even smoothed and defined in places. There is still a long way to go. Each chiseled chip falls away and sometimes the sculptor’s gouges seem like irreparable errors, but I’m a work in progress, a man out of stone. These arms, once atrophied under the pretense of only doing ‘intellectual work’ now build and carry and create structures of their own. These legs have carried me and roads and paths around the world. This heart, buried deep within the rock, has softened and opened. And though this mind occasionally gets locked in strong blocks where hopes and fears feel like traps, on most days it is free, gazing outward with wonder at the sculptor’s work.

[ninjagoestogreece]

WORK(SHOP) IT, GIRL

     Tuesdays aren’t particularly busy days. I’ve got a singular philosophy class that runs from 5:20 to 7:00 in the evening. Still, I can carry the stress of my heavier Monday and Wednesday into the evening, and usually leave my class in a heady daze. Most people would simply go home, have some food, and get down to some homework before calling it a night, but I find my solace elsewhere. Together, my friend Tenzin and I walk from class down the block to the lowest level of an old apartment building, pick up some mallets, and chip away at stone.

     In the middle of Πανγράτι, a young man named Yiannis and his father host a marble workshop in a cramped little basement studio. Half of the area is dedicated to a gallery filled with sculptures, paintings, and photographs from other courses they’ve led, with collections cycling every couple of months. The rest is solely a work-space. The small, industrial room boasts old work and scraps from the walls and shelves. A giant wooden carving of Christ looms next to the stairs leading from the street into the shop. In the corner, a sander sits surrounded by piles and piles of dust. There’s a few tables made out of 2X4s stacked to make a platform, a few others made of boxes painted white and pushed close together. When you chisel away at the marble, the whole thing shimmies under the weight.  

     It’s warmer than you’d think in there, what with the exposed pipes and all. Around fifteen sculptors -- both students and locals -- as well as Yiannis, his father, and another young teacher, Panos, can fit snugly in the space. CYA students have access to the materials -- chisels, hammers, a slab of marble, paints, even gold leaf -- for a discount, and in exchange, the locals get to ask us endlessly about our classes and other extracurricular activities. It’s often hard to hear the questions over the cacophony of 15 chisels, though, so we get the bulk of them three hours into the session, when Yiannis rings a bell to signal us to stop working and break for a light dinner and wine. Well, usually light -- sometimes it’s potatoes and salad, sometimes kebabs of tomatoes and feta, and sometimes platter upon platter of παστίτσιο.      I work in a corner with a few friends from my other classes: Aaron, Kalya, Madison, and Tristan. We’ve all been instructed by Yiannis’ dad to work at something we treasure as a symbol of strength in our lives. The men have been moving at lightning speed and are almost done sculpting, Aaron with his nautilus shell and Tristan with an alien floating among the stars. Madison and Kalya have been a little more careful, each having chosen a more spiritual symbol. Madison handles her chisel with a particularly wicked precision, cutting the straightest lines I’ve ever seen into an image of the Virgin Mary. Kalya asks for help with the corners in an image of herself swinging from a crescent moon. As for me, I rub at my cramping palm as I carve out a hand grasping a pencil that I hope to coat in gold leaf when the hammering and chiseling is all said and done.

     The working itself isn’t so hard. I’m artsy; I know how to maneuver the point of the diamond-tipped chisel to carve out what I need. Years of working on stage sets has prepared me to use a mallet without smashing a finger. It’s really more the angles I need to move my arms and elbows at to work atop such a high table, and the iron-grip I’m so used to having on a pencil now being exerted on a thin rod of iron. For at least an hour or so, I can bliss out listening to music and chipping away, or else gossiping with Kalya and Aaron about how she’s managed to score a dinner date with Panos. After a while, though, the weight and the pressure yank at the tendons in my hand, and I’m stuck cradling it quietly until Yiannis notices and slips me a small vial of witch hazel to massage into the skin. Makes holding the mallet a bit trickier the second time around, but it’s worth it to get the sting of overworked muscles to go away. I’m thankful they have it lying around.

     Yiannis figures they’ve got the only workshop like theirs in town, and I wouldn’t be shocked if that were true. Marble and gold aren’t exactly cheap, and what with the ongoing economic crisis, very few other people would be so willing to let non-professionals or non-art students give such sculpting a whirl. Furthermore, most of the locals have gotten more than enough of a taste for marble just walking around the city, from the Acropolis to the Temple of Zeus -- and most visitors simply don’t have the time or space in their luggage to make something of their own. For us CYA students, though, it’s incredible to have such access to this kind of activity, one that we’d be hard-pressed to come by at home as well. For a few of us, it’s the one and only regular extracurricular we do, and it’s well worth the money to give such a unique opportunity the focus it deserves. For others, it’s a chance to explore their creativity, while their other out-of-school experiences are more about travelling, cooking, or exercising. And me? I’ve spent a lot of my extra time only going back and forth to campus, or committing extracurricular energy to added academic pursuits, like lectures about modern Greek history, films about the refugee crisis, or watching performances of ancient Greek theater and music events that my host brother’s DJed at. The rest of my time is focused on homework, improving my Greek, and trying to keep up with my wonderful host family (and sending the occasional message to my actual family -- hi Ma!). Yeah, it’s about the art and the message I can make with it. But honestly? Sometimes all that can get to you ... and there’s something undeniably gratifying about working through your thoughts with a hammer in hand, creating something from a blank slab with your hands and a bit of sweat and elbow grease.

[bibliophxle]

Someone Safe

What a lovely gift it is to be wanted by someone safe.

The Unsafe did not deserve your secrets. 

They traded your confidence like currency, took your moments of silence as invitations to fill the space with their own voices. They did not try to hide the greed their hands carried.

Perhaps you never wanted them at all. Perhaps you only confused fear for desire; mistook the urge to flee for the urge to be chased. If knowledge is power, then they are the self-proclaimed gods who pocket the gifts meant for your deities. 

But Someone Safe lays out their most precious offerings just to ask their gods to keep you safe too.

Their name passes through your lips like a prayer. You dream of warm hands and warm smiles and warm words because you’re convinced you’re standing in direct sunlight as you watch how freely they give their love away. 

The Unsafe deemed themselves sculptors and tried to mold you by forgetting the parts they did not like. Someone Safe does not know how to chisel away the stone so they choose to love it anyway. You are both made from the same marble; you will not allow each other to become chipped. 

Someone Safe has grown out of their secrets; secrets whose shame has been whittled away as they’ve grown into themselves. They no longer hold these secrets as destructive weapons strapped to their chest against their will, but as yet another molecule that comprises their being. 

While The Unsafe left bitter aftertastes disguised as angst inseparable from desire, Someone Safe feels like a good omen. Their smiles are easy, and their laughter too. Their weight against your back does not smother you. Their hands are not greedy. They trail over your skin as though it were breakable.

When The Unsafe grinned, you knew they were conjuring up a curse, but when Someone Safe smiles against your lips, it feels like death and resurrection all at once.

The Unsafe played with fire because they thought it was more fun when you were both burning, but Someone Safe finds other ways to warm your hands. 

Such a shame they were only gifted to you by your own head. Such a shame they do not take up space beside you.

Although you laughed away their image before falling asleep, you woke up in love with them all over again.

[businessonlnemarketing]

An Incredible New Weight Loss Product: Your Brain!

An Incredible New Weight Loss Product: Your Brain!

An Incredible New Weight Loss Product: Your Brain!

I would like to introduce you to an incredible new weight loss product: Your brain...    A Bit of History I discovered a very unique mental technique for weight loss many, many years ago from a great New Thought teacher, Dr. Joseph Murphy. When I posted it on my business forum a few years ago, members publicly thanked me for their weight loss a short time later. In 2005, I decided to conduct a formal test of the technique with a group of volunteer participants to prove the effectiveness of this method, which had not been revealed to the mainstream, for the purpose of potentially adding it to my library of prosperity programs. But first, I wanted to see enough positive results from the general public to support it. I added my own enhancements to the technique based on my extensive knowledge of the subconscious mind and the results from that challenge proved the value of the process. The experience supported my conviction that to achieve success in any area of our life, we must first create the inner foundation - the mindset. Our bodies are the mirror of our mental, emotional and spiritual states. And the good news is that we can change that reflection! I believe that whether most people realize it or not, there is a profound hunger for this knowledge (okay, pun possibly intended) - the missing link and shift in consciousness that will produce fast solutions in all areas of life, including what I refer to as "body prosperity." Everyone is focusing on the outer solutions without attending to that vitally important foundation that will ensure their progress and results - the inner solution.   And Current Views Using mental laws, you can lose weight in a natural, effortless way - by gently shifting the dominant thought in your subconscious mind and no longer thinking of yourself as having to lose weight. You change the focus of your consciousness to what you do want instead of what you don't want. As long as you keep thinking of what you don't want, you will continue to manifest more of what you don't want. That is the nature of the subconscious mind and the foundation of mental law. You must eliminate any belief in being a "dieter" or having to "lose weight" and instead create a new dominant thought in the mind of a fit, healthy body. Your subconscious mind will accept your new belief and will compulsively guide you to do everything necessary to accomplish that result. A sculptor does not think at all about chipping away at stone or marble or clay... I believe he (or she) sees in the mind's eye the image of what they want to create - the vision of the end result. And that's what you are going to be doing with your body. You will no longer be concentrating on "chipping away" anything. You will be focused on the desired result. You will be creating the body that you want instead of bemoaning the body that you don't want. You may have to lose a large amount of weight or perhaps you need to lose minimally. You are not alone in any category and many others share your challenge. That's what makes this process so interesting. A great teacher once said, "The law is no respecter of persons." This means that the mental and spiritual laws work the same for everyone, no matter who you are and what your situation is. We are all made of the same mind stuff and spirit. Just as gravity will work for all alike, so will these mental laws, if you align yourself with them. By instilling new seed thoughts in the subconscious, you will be creating a new set of core beliefs, and those beliefs will in turn create healing and a new physical condition.   Magic Pill What is fascinating is that there is an ever-increasing number of diet books on the market, there is more knowledge available to us than ever before about nutrition and health, there are probably more gyms and fitness centers in our nation than at any other time. Yet our nation is "fatter" than it has ever been (and we need to stop blaming it all on sitting at computers). The proliferation of weight loss programs and equipment marketed on the Internet, in all traditional media, and specifically on television, speaks volumes to the public's search for a new and better magic pill. Something does not make sense here. My opinion is that we are attempting to solve the problem from the outside when what we really need to do is establish a foundation on the inside as well. All of the books, knowledge, diets and equipment in the world will not result in your "body" prosperity unless you first have the mindset for a fit, healthy body. Only then will those other tools help you. If you don't have the mindset, then you will automatically keep reverting back to the tangible evidence of your core belief. Thus, the all too familiar "yo-yo." Applying the laws of mind and spirit is the closest thing you will ever find to a magic pill - it addresses the problem and provides the solution at the core level of belief which is the foundation for anything that we wish to create in life. And what is unique and refreshing is that this process does not promote any specific diet or exercise - you make the conscious effort to do your part and your subconscious mind will do the rest. Any changes in your habits or routine will be inspired from the inside out...naturally...not from will power or forced action. The whole point of subconscious conditioning is to bring our consciousness to the point of acceptance that we already are where we want to be. Then the subconscious is compulsive and will intuitively guide us to the right foods, exercise, or whatever it takes to fulfill that vision. But we must instill the right message in our mind at the core level. Using mental techniques does not "replace" healthy eating habits. It creates them! That's the whole idea. The subconscious is the seat of habit. And of intuition. With the right mindset, your habits will become just that - healthy habits - instead of the compulsively unhealthy ones. If your weight situation is not the result of wrong eating habits, then your subconscious knows the answer and is capable of creating the adjustments that are necessary for you to achieve your goals. There is that Universal Storehouse of Knowledge that is All Wisdom and knows all answers - all we need to do is tell it what we want by aligning ourselves with the laws - and it knows how to get us there. So again, we use our minds to accept the idea, thought and picture of a fit, healthy person at his/her ideal weight. Once that idea is instilled in the mind, you will automatically be guided and directed to all that is necessary for you to fulfill that vision. You will intuitively want the right foods and pass on the wrong ones. You will adopt the proper exercise habits. You will be guided to the right coach or nutritional information to manifest your subconscious idea. It must happen because that is the law - the nature of mind. Mind will always create according to the seed thought.   When the imagination and the will are in conflict, the imagination always wins. - Emile Coue   Mindset of Being a 'Dieter' Here is something that I want you to think about carefully. I want you to consider this and keep considering it until you grasp it fully. It will be a very important factor in your solution. If you have the mindset of being a dieter, of having to lose weight, if that is what you consistently feel like, then your subconscious keeps adjusting your habits to conform to that idea. It keeps you being "a dieter" or "on a diet.". The subconscious does not think or reason, it just takes orders. Those orders are your thoughts and feelings. In other words, when you do manage to lose some weight, your core belief of being a dieter will have you gain weight again so that you can continue being a dieter because that is what your subconscious mind thinks you are and thinks you want. When you are constantly criticizing and condemning your body for its weight, you are reinforcing the very thing you don't want. Your mind will perpetuate the condition because your mind thinks that's what you want. Do you get this? You now have conflict between what you desire on a conscious level and what your subconscious mind thinks you want - opposing ideas. That great teacher Dr. Murphy said that if you tell a taxi driver to go to two different addresses, you will never get to your destination.   Am I qualified to make such claims about this mental process? I will let you decide. But the photos of me that appear online were taken within the past couple of years and with minor fluctuation, I have maintained this body for most of my life. I am healthy, trim, fit and look 20 years younger than my years. However, I come from a "fat" family. My mother wasn't just overweight...she was obese, and when she died in the 80s, she was younger than I am now. My younger sister is gone too. But don't think I can't gain weight easily. Oh, yes I can, but my mind won't let me. I have mentally conditioned my subconscious to it to never let me go beyond a specific weight and to keep me fit and healthy. I don't think about what I have to do to maintain it, my mind does it for me - I lift weights, I eat healthy foods and I can indulge in fattening foods sporadically without repercussions. Automatic pilot. Will the mental technique work for you? I say...what have you got to LOSE? Body back guarantee. Forget the word "diet." This is the natural way we are created to use our minds - constructively and in alignment with Universal laws.   Footnote As a teacher of mental and spiritual laws, I learned these universal laws and prosperity principles from the most brilliant New Thought teachers, far ahead of their time. It is time for this valuable esoteric knowledge to become more mainstream. Are you ready to become your own case study? How's this for a marketing idea: Mental weight loss clinics called "Brain Watchers International." You have permission to publish this article electronically or in print, as long as the following text is included and the article appears in its entirety and unchanged. © Copyright 2003-2017 Marilyn Jenett, Feel Free to Prosper® All rights reserved. Marilyn Jenett, renowned prosperity mentor and accomplished entrepreneur, founded the Feel Free to Prosper® program to mentor and teach others to become aligned with Universal laws and accept their right to prosper. For more information and her free gift, visit http://bit.ly/2AjgOMg. Her book, "Feel Free to Prosper - Two Weeks to Unexpected Income with the Simplest Prosperity Laws Available", is available from Penguin Random House at booksellers worldwide. http://bit.ly/2iADQb4 Article Source: http://bit.ly/2AjgQDS

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