#lyricist & novelist

[luminescentlyricist]

🎪 Bird’s Call - Identity V ✒️

There were shoes, clicking slowly yet distinctly against the tiles. The young man that they held aloft was wandering without a goal in mind, though that was only because of his preoccupation. Looking upwards and through one of the Manor's windows when carpet cushioned the sounds, Mike let out a sigh. He wasn't prepared for the days that stretched ahead. Such dejectedness hadn't come to him for some time, but it felt like it was going to drown him. Even thinking about the man he'd once held dear was making his head whirl. As much as he would've liked to return to his room and bury his face in the pillows, he'd promised his former troupe members that he'd always continue forwards. Refusal to do so would be an insult to their memories.

This, more often than not, led to his being awake during the later hours, and it wasn’t just because he had trouble falling asleep. As a performer, he had given himself many ways to quickly get rest, even if the resultant naps made him feel more rotten than before. Bernard had instilled in him a faith that hadn’t wavered, a need to do his best, so sacrificing a few hours to a visit wasn’t a big deal. Letters from the Acrobat were characterised by long rambles, paths of sentences calling back to performances already long forgotten by the recipient, because he wished for each encounter to be a memorable one. It was a shame they took so long to complete, for his handiwork needed to be legible.

As he passed the kitchen in his aimless wander, his chest tightened despite his internal protest and logic; the smell of smoke was pungent as ever, though it was only an accident with food and no disaster. From the nape of his neck to his tailbone, the acrobat focused on the tingling feeling of a shiver to take his mind off the tragedy that lingered ever-present. Pulling at the ruff around his neck had become habit. Even though his breaths were no longer shallow gasps, he'd almost forgotten how deeply his lungs would let him inhale. Remembrance… he had no time for it, if he were to honour those he'd left. Those that remained, and those he'd walked away from. Mike slowly bought a hand up to pinch his nostrils closed, lowering his head as a defence against the smell.

His feet carried him, still, even though he didn’t quite know where he was going. He walked out to the gardens visible in front of the Manor, sitting cross-legged atop one of the white benches and unintentionally taking up more space with his long legs. It was late enough that he doubted anyone would join him, which filled him with a sense of long-awaited peace. Relief. Eyes sweeping the area, the man finally let himself go - he untucked his curls from the hat that so often held them, fingers curling around the brown fabric so loosely that it might’ve fallen. To anyone else, to him in another night, this would mean nothing. But his muscles ached with their burdens, and it signified a small victory of sorts.

Reaching into the pinched and pinned-back portion of his hat, he drew out a small note, unfolding it with the utmost care he could provide. It had been pinned down there, in a little pouch, as were commonly found dotting the insides of the innovative Acrobat’s everyday wear. Always hidden from view. This note was something very important to him, but he refused to show even Margie what was written. She remained his dearest friend in the troupe’s Manor populace. Before he could read it properly, however, the noise of wings alerted him: a raven, black against the nearly starless sky, gazing down at him with beady eyes. He suspected the smell of food had followed him out from the kitchens, and it sought something from him.

“I have nothing left out here for you, you know.”

Mike remarked, the smallest of smiles curling the edges of his mouth as he replaced the note and put his hat back on. He hadn’t expected such an encounter, let alone at an unusual time. He watched as the bird tilted its head, as if to enquire ��why not’, then flew up to a higher branch in the tree overhanging the bench. It continued to watch him, but he couldn’t satisfy whatever it was they wanted. Instead, this only left the acrobat feeling undeniably unsettled, with no true way to get the point across without sacrificing his peace - away from humans, that was - and returning to the Manor to get much-needed rest. His mind was soon occupied by the raven’s antics, as he found a sense of strange familiarity in that stubbornness.

“Certainly nothing seedy and aptly delicious. Shouldn’t you be with your roost-mates? It’s late.”

Of course he knew that the raven didn’t have any understanding of his words, but thought it rude to leave them without an explanation regardless. Despite how there weren’t many stars, the lamps flickering to bathe the gardens in a soft light were enough to avoid Mike straining his eyes. From one of the pouches on his belt, he pulled out a bottle of water, deciding to drink from it first and then hold up the filled cap to the raven, who simply stared at it for a good ten seconds. This was enough for Mike’s cheeks to colour in embarrassment, so he tipped it out onto the grass and replaced it before wandering over to a decorative stone basin that the Baron had commissioned from the Sculptor - Miss Galatea, whose self-reservation did little to stop the unease Mike felt even bringing her leering face to mind - some time earlier but never used. Now seemed as good a time as any, even though he couldn’t provide exactly what he assumed his new companion wanted.

So he emptied the rest of the bottle into the basin, heedless of how hot it’d been getting for him. He could remember to refill it any day. After a moment more, the raven came to perch on the edge of the basin and dipped its beak into the cool water. Mike was pleased, but he still took a few cautious steps backward so they wouldn’t see him as an invader. When he turned away, there came a squawking - the raven was indignant, almost, to hold his attention. The acrobat didn’t immediately turn on his heel, no, but instead pulled on the thick gloves hanging at his waist-belt (usually situated in his cabinet, he’d strung them there with little regard in a sleepless stupor that morning) and held his arm out to the bird, twisting his body appropriately.

Ruffling its feathers as if to puff out its chest in pride, the bird took the opportunity to use Mike’s arm as a perch. The young man stiffened in caution and alarm both as it landed so close, breath hitching. Muscle by muscle, he allowed himself to relax, mis-matched eyes meeting the small bird’s for a second or two. He needed to keep it occupied so nobody else would be disturbed by the racket its call produced, however futile. Tentatively, he reached a gloved hand over to run his fingers through the raven’s head feathers, almost as if giving it a pat, and it responded by leaning into the hold, a gurgling sort of quieter vocalisation eventually coming from its throat. Of all the thrilling things Mike had done, getting so close to a bird usually heralded as a vicious and dark omen wasn’t on his list. It didn’t seem to want to harm him, at least, and he was grateful for that.

The moment, perfect in its stillness, didn’t last. A familiar yet unwanted presence had arrived. The raven flew up to its tree once again, making its silent protest known. The acrobat sighed, unwilling to acknowledge what’d been shaken for a second longer. His eyes slipped closed, if only to preserve the waning peace of the situation, mind and focus lingering on the vague sensations left in his hands from the raven’s feathers. Until it was shattered, at last, by a crowing of another type - that man’s voice, grating on his ears like nothing else could. The tone wasn’t so bad in reality, but Mike personally couldn’t stand it. The obnoxiousness oozing from each syllable seemed nearly palpable to his sensitive ears.

The only thing Mike could think to do to stave off the novelist was to cut him off, and he did so with little regard to any possible greeting paid before. It wasn’t like him to be as careless as he appeared to Orpheus, but he knew well enough how long the conversation would drag on otherwise. He was too tired to deal with it, as the soothing of the raven’s visit had left him without the energy he naturally carried. The bird was more of a friend to him than someone of the Baron’s standing could ever be, though he didn’t speak it around anyone to avoid backlash. Sure, he could whine to his cousin or Margie, but the time ticked on. It would have been discourteous, he felt, even though both Survivors had assured him they’d be there if he needed them regardless of how early or late it was.

“Mister De Ross, I’d thank you to leave before I throw something fire-lit in your general direction.”

Mike hoped sincerely that his threat would be heeded. Orpheus was his own man, however, and would do nothing of the sort. Instead, he moved toward the acrobat even further, craning his neck to look at the raven in his own right. The bird stayed away from him, gaze nearly unblinking, and it appeared not to want to come back down for the disturbance. His smile was soft, serene, but held some air of superiority - he knew well that the acrobat wouldn’t be able to do anything to truly stop him, not while he was in the Manor’s grounds. Placing a hand over his chest, he continued to mock further, taking a slower step forth.

“How you wound me, Mike. I was simply coming to check on you. I’ve taken to doing the rounds, though Miss Dyer tells me I may stretch myself too thin checking on each of you.”

Who else he was talking about was left unspoken, but the acrobat knew better than to ask the novelist for confirmation. It would only make matters worse, indulging the Baron like that. He’d talk for hours, and Mike couldn’t hold attention for that long unless it actually concerned him. His gaze trailed up to the bird on the tree-branch, taking comfort in its presence. It was almost guarding him. Orpheus continued to talk to him, but his thoughts were elsewhere, distant as the raven. He wasn’t intending to ignore, really, but his captivation with the simple scene soothed him more than being almost interrogated by his visitor.

Said visitor became irritated, the patient curving of his mouth falling away, and he did the only thing he could think of - as if commanding the staff of the Manor, he clapped his hands twice sharply.

Mike’s breath caught in his throat, and he seized in fear.

Of course, somewhere in the back of his mind, Mike knew that Orpheus meant no harm. But the noise was so distinct, so painfully familiar, that his logic had abandoned him. His eyes were wide, startled, and it was all he could do to sit back before he fell, gaze redirecting to the man of the manor naturally. Just because he no longer craned his neck enough to see the raven. His palms scraped against the worn concrete of the path, but the pain barely registered for the aching of his heart. The last time he’d had such a thing happen, had a command be given in tandem… no. He wasn’t going to think about it.

Soon pulling distractedly on the cuffs of his ruffled sleeves, Mike’s movements were little more than twitches. He’d tuned Orpheus out, entirely oblivious to the concern of the Baron upon seeing the frightened display. Though his heartbeat pounded in his ears, he barely felt the rise and fall of his chest. Lightheadedness caused his eyelids to droop, though he knew he couldn’t stay like that forever - a futile attempt to stand left him on a course to the ground, yet more senseless tears blurring his vision and logic both.

“Mister Morton, I’d advise you return to your quarters. You’re not well.”

The voice came from a direction the acrobat couldn’t process, and he closed his eyes, bringing shuddering arms upwards if only to grind the heels of his hands into them. He didn’t like showing weakness, much less around someone of higher standing. He never had, really. He continued this movement until he felt a soft grip take his wrists, pulling them away from his face. The force caused him to tense, shivering in resistance. Though he didn’t open his eyes, he could tell that it was Orpheus - the callouses atop each of the novelist’s fingers told him everything he needed to know, sensitive as he was to the small things when overwhelmed. When he tried to formulate a reply, nothing came from his mouth.

He disliked feeling so pathetic, but the sound of the clapping still rung in his ears.

It should have only taken a moment for him to recover. That was what was expected of him, after all - being at another’s beck and call, especially for matters of entertainment. Always maintaining a smile, even when it was a struggle to bring one to his lips. He had to respect Orpheus, as his new source of… haphazard companionship, he thought, but the shaking of his body and mind both were doing terrible things. He couldn’t do it, and that stressed him out more than he was able to articulate. It was akin to a mask breaking, and the curtains opening on the backstage proceedings. He couldn’t afford to let it happen, but there was no strength left in him to pull everything together again.

Bernard had done that to and for him. Given him simple cues and commands, a list to follow, and they were once helpful. But he was no longer a child who needed to be shepherded around, and retrieving his easily diminishing sense of pride and growth had taken him a longer time than he cared to admit. Joker mocked him more than enough for his liking, and did him no favours. These cues were turned into weapons, even though the acrobat was the only one who thought of them as such. They were just another reminder of his lack of control, no matter how finely crafted his defences were.

Mike simply twisted his body, wrenching his hands from the Novelist’s well-meaning hold.

“Leave me be, Mister De Ross. Of course I’m not well, and It’s because of you. Just go. Please. I cannot cope with you right now. You should know better than to treat me that way.”

The acrobat’s voice was uncharacteristically cold, flattening almost into indifference but holding an obvious edge of irritation. He wasn’t feeling right, not at all, and the presence of someone he’d only consider a friend at the best of times was draining him of energy. He took his hat off, rubbing his hands across his ears in a vain attempt to rid them of the sound lingering. Of course Orpheus didn’t care to know the reason why the clapping had startled him so, and Mike didn’t expect it. It was a petty thing, and would have seemed ridiculous to anyone who hadn’t been through it.

This sort of loneliness was something he wouldn’t care to explain, but only one person in the Manor would have responded in the right way regardless. Curling his hands into fists to protect his palms, he leaned back onto them with heaving breath. Tears continued to run down his cheeks, but he didn’t move to wipe them away. Despite being unable to properly let it out, for fear of losing his composure around his superior in its entirety, Mike felt the relief sweeping through him as he allowed himself to cry. He was too tired to resist, even if he wanted to. It was something entirely foreign: the lack of performance in the display of vulnerability.

Orpheus was taken aback, to say the least, to see Mike crying, but he didn’t have the means to comfort the younger man. So he left, as was asked of him, and didn’t think to look backwards. However nagging his discontent with the issue, he knew that it’d all just make things worse if he tried to push forward with something likely to devolve into an argument. He, too, was tired, and he wasn’t looking forward to a sore back from falling asleep at his desk again should his journey take too long. He had writing milestones to meet before indulging himself with rest like that.

It was in this way that the acrobat found himself once more alone, sitting down on the path to the gardens with the sun threatening to set behind him. He didn’t care to sit back up on the bench, as nobody would think to go outside at that time. Much less to the gardens themselves, which were a subject of avoidance for any wary manor resident - save for the Baron’s closest, and the maintenance workers - due to an accident prior. This was yet another mystery surrounding the novelist, but he hadn’t had the time nor the actual courage to pry for answers. With a short and exasperated sigh, Mike kicked one leg up to steady his other foot on the ground, leaning against it with the majority of his tired weight in order to straighten and stand.

It was time to visit a friend.

Sparing a glance up to the sky, he wondered where the raven had flown off to. As disappointing as it was to find he’d lost that company, the acrobat knew such a thing wouldn’t have lasted. Idealism did him no favours. Grounding himself in the moment with the familiarity of his customised shoes would have been easy otherwise, but his heartbeat pulsed in his ears and drowned out all other noise. The plates he’d added to most if not all of the soles were reminiscent of proper tap shoes, and allowed him to keep the lively spirit of performance around. Sure, the modification was met with significant complaint, but he’d allowed himself a moment of relief and ignored it. They made him feel better, and the manor’s residents either learned to put up with it or reach that understanding themselves. Mischief didn’t equal the discomfort of others to Mike. That was different.

Soon enough after walking in a detached haze, the acrobat found his place, slipping out of his shoes and placing them at the front of the grounds (simply outside the entrance) before stepping through.

That morning, Orpheus had tasked himself with checking back up on Mike. Despite not having any understanding of what had caused the acrobat to lash out at him, he’d boiled it down to the night’s irritability, and had no real intent to stir enmity between anyone. There was a time and a place for that, and it was beyond the position of the Baron De Ross. Unbecoming of a nobleman, unexpected of a novelist, and thus out of place in his goals. First, he checked around the young man’s tent - a simple structure, donned with white and red striped cloth in its stereotypical fashion, serving as his retreat beyond the confines of the Manor despite being put up right beside it. That was where Mike spent most of his time, despite looking rather barren. A desk, a bed, a cabinet and a few piles of miscellaneous belongings, stacked with unprecedented care. That was all he needed.

Not meaning to intrude, he backed away from the tent and allowed the fabric to flutter behind him, closing the entranceway from view when it settled. He wondered why the acrobat hadn’t asked him about increasing the security, but hadn’t cared to look for enough. There was a panel that served as a doorway, and Mike held the key, but he hadn’t returned to his tent and set everything back in place.

Instead, he continued to the next place he thought Mike would be: around where his cousin’s boar was often kept with some of the other animals. Occasionally, Wick the post-dog would greet anyone there, but Victor had told him he preferred to keep them close. The Postman's companion, therefore, was likely still curled at the end of the boy's bed, sleeping soundly. Stranger still was the entire absence of the boar. It was commonly content to be there, snuffling away, tail flicking until Murro needed to take care of it again. The two were as inseparable as ever, but their bond remained rivalled by another.

That gave him the last idea. The woodlands beyond the Manor where the Gamekeeper prowled were often home to more wild boars. Contrary to the beliefs of some on the grounds, what was whispered between guest and servant alike, Bane didn’t intend to harm unless threat was bought to the animals under his care. So long as one kept in the many beasts’ good graces, he’d turn a blind eye to those entering and exiting his ‘territory’. Bane considered their opinions more than his own. He was one of the more unfortunate Hunters, twisted by circumstance and tragedy, but outside the game he was circumstantially gentler.

Orpheus took a deep breath, gathering his coat and heading out to the woods. Luckily for him, as he walked further into the various connected thickets and copses, there was no sign of Bane about. No further complications. The animals weren’t hostile, per se, but enough of them were large and frightening to those as unadjusted as he was. There were a few survivors who liked the forest, fewer still who may have preferred it to the Manor’s shelter, but the narrowing of options was exactly what he needed. So he walked further in, even though the trees’ canopy thickened and begun to block out the light. He took a pause to pull on his coat, fumbling with the buttons as his hands shook with the sudden cold of the shade.

A bird’s crowing cut through the oppressive silence as Orpheus walked, but he couldn’t see where it was coming from. They didn’t often come to the Manor, let alone straying to the darker parts of the trees. He followed where the sunlight struck, trying to keep himself as safe as possible. It wasn’t as if he were a frightened child, unwilling to go into the darkness; getting lost running around the unfamiliar parts of the Manor’s boundaries was just going to be more of a hassle if he had to help Mike get out as well. So he thought. Thanks to someone else’s careful guidance, the acrobat knew the woodlands better than Orpheus himself.

Turning a corner, he was lead to the entrance of a large clearing. Here, there sat a sight he’d never seen before, but was pleased to witness nonetheless. Mike and Murro were both asleep, side by side in the clearing, supported by the large boar’s soft body that it seemed perfectly content to let them lean against. It was simply something lovely, something peaceful, an occurrence seldom given within the Manor’s walls. The raven, the past night’s guardian, sat atop a tree-branch nearby, fluffing up its feathers as its own ward from the cold. It was only when Orpheus was leaving, unwilling to disturb the cousins in their moments of relief, that he knew what he was truly seeing.

A memory of the past, framed in waning sunlight.

[beyourselfchulanmaria]

那些不害怕孤單，他們不怕獨處，也不總是拼命找事做、和找點樂子尋自己開心的人是有福的。

保羅‧科爾賀 Paulo Coelho

“Blessed are those who do not fear solitude, who are not afraid of their own company, who are not always desperately looking for something to do, something to amuse themselves with.”

— Paulo Coelho

[robotpussy]

RIP Benjamin Zephaniah (15th April 1958 – 7th December 2023)

Dub poet, novelist, lyricist and playwright, Dr. Benjamin Zephaniah paved the way for so many black british writers with his pen. His work focussed on racism within the UK and colonialism.

It is so cliche to start talking about somebody's work once they pass away but I would like to do so anyway:

"Too Black Too Strong" (2001) - Poems that address the struggles of black Britain that, compared to his works before, are much more forceful. Some of the poems featured in this were written when he was working with Michael Mansfield QC and other Tooks barristers on the Stephen Lawrence case. (Available on The Anarchist Library)

"Propa Propaganda" (1996) - His second collection of poetry that continues to surround around the themes of anti-colonialism, racism and anti-establishment features some of his most famous works such as "I Have a Scheme", "The Angry Black Poet" and "White Comedy"

"Rasta Time in Palestine" (1990) - a travelogue and a collection of poetry he wrote while visiting occupied Palestinian territories. (Available on Internet Archive). Zephaniah was an avid supporter of the Palestinian Solidarity Campaign and attended demonstrations calling for an end to the Israeli occupation of Palestinian land. The photo above is of Zephaniah at a London Protest in 2010.

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Die Sense rauscht, die Ähre fällt, die Tiere räumen scheu das Feld, der Mensch begehrt die ganze Welt.

The scythe rustles, the ear of corn falls, the animals shyly vacate the field, man desires the whole world.

Theodor Storm (1817 – 1888), German lawyer, writer, lyricist, and novelist

[scotianostra]

Clifford Leonard Clark “Cliff” Hanley was born on October 28th 1922 in Glasgow.

Hanley was a journalist, novelist, playwright and broadcaster from Shettleston in the city’s East End, he was educated at Eastbank Academy.

His journalistic career began with a life of crime - reporting from the city courts for a local news agency. By the time he had graduated to the Daily Record, it was clear that he had an astonishingly versatile range. In particular, he loved the then hectic world of Glasgow show-business, reporting on the raft of theatres which still survived in the city in the 1960s.

On that scene Hanley was always more than a commentator and reviewer, his membership of Equity testifying to his skills on the speaking circuit, and to his talent as a lyricist. With the musician Ian Gourlay, he wrote some marvellously witty parodies of Scottish folk songs, substituting institutions like the Glasgow underground for Granny’s Hielan’ Hame.

Hanley’s hallmark was that brand of self-deprecating, but sharp, humour which ensures that no Glaswegian can entertain ideas above his station in the company of a fellow citizen.

Cliff Hanley’s childhood in Glasgow’s East End provided the material for his most celebrated novel, Dancing In The Street, a semi-autobiographical work which was much acclaimed on publication in the late 1950s. It is still considered one of the most engaging books about Glasgow, the grittier experiences always leavened and laced with Hanley’s irrepressible humour. Several other novels quickly followed to a similarly warm reception.

I know some of you will still be struggling to recall Hanley’s work, but he wrote the lyric for one of the most famous Scottish songs ever, putting the words to well known bagpipe tunes that we know as “Traditional” Hanley gave us the words to Scotland the Brave, which emerged as the de facto national anthem. It remained so for two decades before being supplanted by Flower Of Scotland, I still remember football matches where they played the tune at International matches as our national team anthem.

Of course, Cliff’s tongue-in-cheek verses were never designed for mass singing, as was evidenced by the confused expressions on the faces of the national soccer team when they struggled to get their bagpipes, heather and glens in the right order. But played at full tilt by a pipe band, the anthem struck the appropriate note of terror into the opposition.

For a while Hanley also worked in radio, but although he continued as a regular contributor, his career as a presenter was relatively short lived. In 1970, he was hired to work on Good Morning, Scotland, the flagship morning news programme, but fell foul of the accent police - at that time received pronunciation was still considered desirable. Thank god we still don’t adhere to the old rules, we would never have the likes of Lorraine Kelly, Dougie Henshall and Ken Stott using their own god given accents on TV

Hark when the night is falling

Hear! Hear the pipes are calling,

Loudly and proudly calling,

Down thro' the glen.

There where the hills are sleeping,

Now feel the blood a-leaping,

High as the spirits of the old Highland men.

Towering in gallant fame,

Scotland my mountain hame,

High may your proud standards gloriously wave,

Land of my high endeavour,

Land of the shining river,

Land of my heart for ever,

Scotland the brave.

High in the misty Highlands,

Out by the purple islands,

Brave are the hearts that beat

Beneath Scottish skies.

Wild are the winds to meet you,

Staunch are the friends that greet you,

Kind as the love that shines from fair maiden's eyes.

Towering in gallant fame,

Scotland my mountain hame,

High may your proud standards gloriously wave,

Land of my high endeavour,

Land of the shining river,

Land of my heart for ever,

Scotland the brave.

Far off in sunlit places,

Sad are the Scottish faces,

Yearning to feel the kiss

Of sweet Scottish rain.

Where tropic skies are beaming,

Love sets the heart a-dreaming,

Longing and dreaming for the homeland again.

Towering in gallant fame,

Scotland my mountain hame,

High may your proud standards gloriously wave,

Land of my high endeavour,

Land of the shining river,

Land of my heart for ever,

Scotland the brave.

[beyourselfchulanmaria]

Ph. by oformat

簡單的事也是最不平凡的事，只有智者才看得見。 The simple things are also the most extraordinary things, and only the wise can see them.

─  保羅‧科爾賀 Paulo Coelho，是一位巴西填詞人及小說家，以《牧羊少年奇幻之旅》成為世界知名作家。 He is a Brazilian lyricist and novelist and a member of the Brazilian Academy of Letters since 2002. His novel The Alchemist became an international best-seller and he has published 28 more books since then.

[loriahlikeswriting]

Hi! I recently started writing fanfic again. With Hazbin Hotel finally getting a season I was really inspired to dabble into writing something pertaining to Angel Dust, and so I really got hooked on the idea of a human alternate universe taking place in modern times following not only Angel’s struggles but Alastor’s as well! It’s really just a character analysis and me trying to write different characters (one being kinda loony) but regardless I put a lot of effort into each chapter and would love to get feedback! ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

I’ve also drawn some pictures of all the characters here and will post some art I have made pertaining to this fic.

I’ll attach a link to ao3 story after the summary and snippet of the first chapter <3 thank you so much for taking your time to read this post and I hope you enjoy!

Am I Making You Feel Sick?

TW: abuse and violence, disordered eating, death, abuse of a minor, SA

Summary:

Anthony Di'Angelo wasn't always like this, he had dreams like any other kid. Yet here he was at the ripe age of twenty, a crack whore with a shitty ass pimp and an even shittier means of living. As far as anyone was concerned this life would consume him and leave him to rot on the streets like many of those before him. His decline is ever apparent, especially to his next door neighbor who just happens to be a novelist from New Orleans who after many successes has begun to lose his spark. A wannabe lyricist who is damned to live life as a whore stuck in poverty and a twisted writer aren't quite a match made in Heaven but maybe the heavens weren't meant for them anyway.

Chapter 1 Snippet 🫶

Anthony’s life wasn’t really one worth living if he was being honest. He had a lousy apartment, lousy job, lousy friends, lousy attitude- he himself was simply lousy. Recognizing just how miserable he was did little to change anything, though, so he kept going with some weird faith that things may somehow, some way get better. Between being disowned by his family only to be taken in by a pimp disguised as a lover he wasn’t sure what else could possibly go astray.

He’d lost another ten pounds, which meant another size or two down, and another shopping spree which would soon enough result in spending funds he really didn't have right now. Maybe he shoulda picked up sewing like Molly- that perfect little angel- just so he wouldn’t have to waste time getting shit retailored. Staring at what became of himself in the mirror was fucking trippy. What stared back at him were large muted blue eyes smudged by smeared eyeliner and mascara, sunken in freckled cheeks, pale skin which was once sunkissed now tainted by bruises, a thin frame no longer toned and instead starved. Mobster to crack whore- what kinda transformation was that? A laughable one. Damn, if only Pa could see him now. Naw, Anthony didn’t wanna imagine it if he was being real honest.

Pulling off the slightly loose sticky latex one piece, the blonde reached over into his dresser for a tattered old tee he managed to convince Val to let him keep. He had to let Valentino know if he could wipe his ass for fuck's sake, God forbid he had a shirt the man didn't fuck with. Sliding on the shirt and some boxers which loosely fit his frame, Anthony quickly flung himself into bed. His mattress was stiff and his blankets were thin, but at least he managed to get a place to call his own. Moving out of Valentino’s was such a step forward- no more nightly beatings, no more degrading insults outside of work, no more being used and abused whenever wherever. Sure, he dealt with allat on the clock but the minute his shift ended he had somewhere to return to that was his own. He hadn’t had something to call his own in a long fucking time.

Staring up at his ceiling, Anthony couldn’t help but toss and turn, his head pounding and begging for attention. The boy was a mouthy one, and mouthy ones get put in their place real quick. Today was extra humbling for the blonde, his eye was puffed up and colored purple, a testament to his treatment. It wasn’t just his eye, he’d gotten a full body beat down today, but that meant he could stay out of work for a day or two til they gradually lost their color. Two days of lazing about? Fuck yes. He could really use the break.

Huffing, the thin blonde shoved his blanket aside as he stumbled onto his feet. Grabbing his lighter and a pack he kept ready at his night stand, Anthony made his way to his small balcony. The crisp air burned the blonde’s nostrils, a sensation he'd learned to adore as time went on. Shivering, he made his way over to the iron rails. He was hardly dressed, but that was something he was used to. Shutting his eyes, the blonde let himself feel the night’s frigidity, wanting to succumb to the numbness which would eventually overtake his limbs.

Lighting his cig, the boy scanned the night sky for some type of reassurance when the cold hadn’t done its job. Disappointed, the blonde knew the stars couldn’t give him any answers no matter how much he bothered them. So he pressed his lit cigarette to his lips, breathing in a burn which would warm his rotting core. The first huff wasn’t satisfying, nor was the second. Anthony was used to more nasty shit, nic did little to ease his mind. Well, it did help with the headaches, but the dancer was itching for something stronger tonight. Flashes of his last client wormed its way into his skull and Anthony could feel his shoulders tighten in anger and resentment. Clenching his jaw, the blonde rubbed at his eyes aggressively wincing in pain once he was reminded of the bruise that bitch left behind. That motherfucker was extra sleazy on the floor and in private, and he was a recurring patron. Lucky him, huh?

Frustrated, the man put forth all his weight onto the railing, letting his forehead rest against the cold metal, hoping some contact would relieve the pressure. Rubbing his forehead against the bar, Anthony felt his eyes burn familiarly. A pain settled in his throat, an achy pain that continued to increase in strength. His face burned in shame as he felt himself begin to sniffle. Ah God, he hated these types of nights. Everything was just too fucking much and he was just so tired and in so much pain. Whiny bitch he was, but at least he was a whiny bitch by his lonesome.

“God, I can't do this shit sober.” The blonde huffed, as he finished up his cigarette. Putting out the cigarette onto a used up ashtray, Anthony pushed himself off the railing. He just got through his last bottle of booze and he was aching for more. What? Cheap shit was all he could afford when he was away from Val. Matter of fact, Tony came to crave that shit simply because it signified he wasn't anywhere near that fucking cunt. He promised himself he wouldn’t spend any more pocket change on shit that was bad for him, but that obviously wasn’t going great. Nothing was ever going great, so drink til he got crunked was what he was gonna do. Slipping on some fuzzy light pink slippers and grabbing a coat, Anthony wrapped himself up real tight. Rummaging through his nightstand did he find his house key, some change, and his ID. Aw fuck, he had to get that shit updated. Staring back at him was his wide eyed seventeen year old self. If only he knew there wasn't anything in life to look that excited for. Smiling slightly at the picture of himself, Anthony shoved all that shit into his right pocket, shaking any longing that started to yank at his heart strings. He'd cry after he got fucked up.

Shutting his door and quickly locking up, the lithe dancer shoved his shaking hands into his pockets. His apartment complex was nice, not necessarily cozy but livable. Making his way down the stairs Anthony lost himself in thought. Nights like this he reminisced on back to when he didn’t rely on substances to feel warm, before he was labeled a deadman by his father, before his mother died. He thought back to sibling banter, Sundays post church, elementary school playgrounds. The blonde could feel himself getting choked up again, but he couldn’t stop himself from spiraling. If the man was being honest, dysthymia was such a comfort. Being sad was all Anthony knew how to do properly, and that in itself reassured him. The tightness of muscles when he was on the brink of a meltdown felt akin to the ghost of a hug, something the man was desperate for. Funny thing was, he got hugs all the time- none of them were fucking genuine though.

Making his way down the staircase, the boy felt a bit of his mind dwindle with every step. His mind was going numb, instead he focused on his breathing and the way his bones felt like they were being suffocated under his skin. He focused on the way his hips ached, and his eye burned, barely able to keep itself open because of how swollen it'd grown to be. He could feel every spot that man touched him, like his finger tips were pressed so deeply into his skin they left a mark not just on skin, nor fat, nor muscle, but on his fucking nerves. He could see the way the man looked at him in a disgusting lustful haze, and how he had to pretend he liked every second of getting his ass handed to him. He saw himself, and he saw himself drowning deeper into the pit he had created for himself the second he got disowned. He could feel just how much it hurt to breathe, so Anthony forced himself to gasp heavily like a fish out of water. The sting was nice, he wished that was all he could feel for forever. His body on autopilot, the dancer was met with a light which dimly lit up the corner store before he knew it. Cheap liquor? Not his favorite, but it did the trick. It made his brain fill with static. And static was all he wanted to hear and see for the rest of his shitty life.

[waterloggedsoliloquy]

i was talking to lestat the other day about poetry. i have a friend whose art i love and admire dearly but their poetry is weakened by their need, or perhaps simply their tendency, to write into their poem an explanation for everything they feel. not a justification necessarily but an overarticulation, more words to carve out the shape of the unspeakable thing

they do not come to me for poetic critique and so i do not give it to them. but in discussing this, and other poets, with lestat i of course had to use poetry to explain my own feeling about why i dont think poems work if you put too much effort into explaining them

as anne carson puts it:

its not that we want to understand everything or even understand anything we want to understand something else

i think this extends to most fields of art. david lynch notoriously refuses to explain his films. many authors disdain readers who try to "solve" their books. i suspect i am a mediocre poet for the same reason i am an altogether skillful cartoonist. there come multiple points in the process of writing (longform) prose where i shake my head and imagine pulling my manuscript out of my readers hands and say no no no i wrote it all wrong, im doing you a disservice by feeding your imagination the wrong thing, let me just show you instead. not out of a lack of faith in my readers sevicable imaginations (though maybe this is the case on my more misanthropic days) so much as a glaring self-consciousness that my words mean less when not juxtaposed against another movement. (and i wonder if musicians and lyricists feel this way towards poetry as i the graphic novelist feel towards novels.) my ability to articulate that "something else" requires more than one axis of imagination. if im feeling bad about myself i will point out that this means i am inefficient and prone to making more work for myself. if i find some generosity and compassion for the plight of the cartoonist i inhabit i will point out that this meaning is multiplicative, and only some stories can come out in this form without suffering some kind of mutilation.

i dislike thought bubbles in multiple levels for multiple reasons, partly because they also overexplain. i wont deny thought bubbles have their placeand im even outright fond of the manga tradition that blends it with narration wherein western comics theyre much more distinct but for the kind of comics i read and write, the characters' inner psyches are the one place i need to go alone, without the author. if i do my job right my comic will help my readers go there on their own path, and thats a privilege solely for them

is the thought process that Zizi goes through here even able to be articulated in a manner where one word can be put after another in a comprehensible order? if it was, is that more important than the reader moving through these emotions with them, and coming to these conclusions? im not so egotistical to presume i get to tell my readers how to feel or think or understand. its only my hope that through my art they find out what they want to understand something else.

[dreamsinmytotebag]

Classic Poets and Modern Songwriters

As we delve further into the domain of “Classic poetry and Modern Lyricism”, let’s take a look at some of the world's most renowned poets and celebrated lyricists/songwriters:

Classic Poets

William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth was an English Romantic poet who, with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped to launch the Romantic Age in English literature with their joint publication Lyrical Ballads.

Some of his famous works include: “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud”, “The World is Too Much With Us”, and more.

Emily Dickinson

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson was an American poet. Little-known during her life, she has since been regarded as one of the most important figures in American poetry. Dickinson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, into a prominent family with strong ties to its community.

Some of her famous works include: “I taste a liquor never brewed”, “Because I could not stop for Death”, and more.

Robert Frost

Robert Lee Frost was an American poet. Known for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech, Frost frequently wrote about settings from rural life in New England in the early 20th century, using them to examine complex social and philosophical themes.

Some of his famous works include: “The Road Not Taken”, “Fire and Ice”, and more.

Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath was an American poet, novelist, and short story writer. She is credited with advancing the genre of confessional poetry and is best known for The Colossus and Other Poems, Ariel, and The Bell Jar, a semi-autobiographical novel published shortly before her suicide in 1963.

Some of her famous works include: “The Bell Jar”, “Daddy”, and more.

Oscar Wilde

Oscar Fingal O'Fflahertie Wills Wilde was an Irish poet and playwright. After writing in different forms throughout the 1880s, he became one of the most popular playwrights in London in the early 1890s.

Some of his famous works include, “A Fragment”, “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”, and more.

John Keats

John Keats was an English poet of the second generation of Romantic poets, along with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley. His poems had been in publication for less than four years when he died of tuberculosis at the age of 25.

Some of his famous works include, “Ode on a Grecian Urn”, “To Autumn”, and more.

Other famous classic poets include, Pablo Neruda, Maya Angelou, Edgar Allan Poe, Walt Whitman, T. S. Eliot, and many more.

Modern Songwriters

Taylor Swift

Taylor Alison Swift is an American singer-songwriter. Known for her biographical songwriting, artistic reinventions, and cultural impact, Swift is a leading figure in popular music and the subject of widespread public interest.

Some of her famous works include, “folklore”, “The Tortured Poets Department”, and more.

Lana Del Rey

Elizabeth Woolridge Grant, known professionally as Lana Del Rey, is an American singer and songwriter. Her music is noted for its cinematic quality and exploration of tragic romance, glamour, and melancholia, with frequent references to pop culture and 1950s–1970s Americana.

Some of her famous works include, “Violet Bent Backwards Over Grass” “Norman Fucking Rockwell”, and more.

LORDE

Ella Marija Lani Yelich-O'Connor, known professionally as Lorde, is a New Zealand singer and songwriter. She is known for her unconventional style of pop music and introspective songwriting. Lorde expressed interest in performing at local venues in her early teens.

Some of her famous works include, “Melodrama” “Pure Heroine”, and more.

Hozier

Andrew John Hozier-Byrne, known professionally as Hozier, is an Irish musician, singer and songwriter. His music primarily draws from folk, soul and blues, often using religious and literary themes and taking political or social justice stances.

Some of his famous works include, “Wasteland, Baby”, “Hozier”, and more.

Sufjan Stevens

Sufjan Stevens is an American singer, songwriter, and multi-instrumentalist. He has released ten solo studio albums and multiple collaborative albums with other artists. Stevens has received Grammy and Academy Award nominations.

Some of his famous works include, “Carrie & Lowell”, “Call Me by Your Name: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack”, and more.

Frank Ocean

Frank Ocean is an American singer, songwriter, and rapper. He has been credited by several music critics as a pioneer of the alternative R&B genre.

Some of his famous works include, “Blonde”, “Channel Orange”, and more.

Some other contemporary songwriters include, Adele, Justin Vernon, Lady Gaga, Olivia Rodrigo, Paul McCartney, Elton John, Eminem, and many more.

[lilymaddison]

Hey There! An Introduction

I'm Lily Maddison, a 16 year old musician, writer (lyricist, novelist, poet), music engineer, and graphic designer. I've been doing this since I was five, and I'm looking forward to sharing my work with Tumblr!

Here is the list of my current stories in-progress:

I have two worlds, Drant (fantasy, adventure) and South Side (YA contemporary fiction).

Drant

Sixteenth Summer

Sixteen-year-old Ellie Hunter is quiet, reserved, and friendless. Having spent her whole life on the sidelines, the last thing she ever would have expected was a rain-soaked boy to arrive on her doorstep, claiming to be a significant figure from her past. As Ellie gets to know this boy, who calls himself Tetsu, someone emerges from the shadows who is determined to ruin Tetsu and destroy Ellie. A story is rapidly unraveling, a story much older and bigger than little Ellie Hunter… and somehow revolving entirely around her. (A modern retelling of a Japanese legend)

Mythicals: The Star-Holder

In a human-dominated society, magical creatures known as mythicals have been forced into hiding. But after centuries of mistreatment and abuse, a man called Undric rises to power. His agenda will result in the Earth being a human-free planet— and soon. When Trace’s best friend loses her family to this regime, a message from the divine will provide Trace’s own family with special abilities. Together, they will rise to stop Undric once and for all. (Book 1 of 3)

Kingdoms

Princess Enya of Honthe grows up in the castle, living a soft life- until the stars go out. Then, the world as she knows it will be forever be changed. An ancient beast from Drant's folklore awakes from slumber, leading to the offering of children all throughout Drant. Only a few are chosen by the beast, including Enya, and they are whisked away to an island where they will be 'prepared' for their journey. While on this island, Enya finds out a few dark secrets about Honthe’s past that spark the largest war Drant has seen since before even the beast… and this time, not everyone will make it out alive.

The Petrified Sea

Arthi lives a land all about essence. His essence is Delinquent- the only one that brings shame upon families . While many Delinquents are cast out altogether, Arthi's parents keep him in a gesture of agonized love for their son. But when he’s at the wrong place at the wrong time, a bounty is placed on his head for a crime he didn’t commit. His sister dead and the whole country looking for him, he begins to plan his escape. That is, until he's forcibly taken in by a Delinquent outcast by the name of Risha. She teaches him how to live on the outside, and he's welcomed into her rag-tag family with open arms. Together, they aim to find the Petrified Sea- an ancient myth that can supposedly put an end to their suffering.

The Blackbird King

Meet the Under Earthers, a group of people who have been banished to the undergrounds by the Dictator of Bindarra. But they fought back, and went on to build a civilization underground. 6 hasn’t been there long, but she knows that NOBODY rocks the boat. But then a new kid comes running down the Lift declaring that there are other lands beyond Bindarra, despite the Dictator’s claims that there aren’t. Nobody bothers to believe the boy- who gets dubbed 112- until 729 gets captured by the Dictator’s forces and sent to be killed. There’s only so much time until the Under Earthers get discovered, and the clock is ticking. The Council decides to send a group of teens to see if the Myths are true, and 6 gets chosen to come along.

South Side

Letters in the Rain

In the sea of South Side students, one student drifts unanchored. Struggling with a vicious mental health battle, they travel through their freshman year in an introspective and reclusive haze. What they fail to realize is how many people love them and will stop at nothing to keep them safe. As their illness spirals over the course of the year, their friends rally around them with increasing desperation to show them that, whatever their mind may tell them, they are not fighting alone.

Carol's South Side Survival Guide

Through a turn of events, Carol and her best friend/cousin combo Harper are attending South Side Academy for the first time as freshmen. A whirlwind year ensues, one of explosive friend groups, tricky romances, and painful family developments. The social politics prove hard to master, but Carol is careful to write each rule down in her Survival Guide as she discovers them. When the end of the school year finally arrives, Carol is given her English final: to tell her story, whatever it may be. Stumped, Carol decides to consult the Survival Guide and discovers the single most important rule she missed... and the one that tells her story the best.

The Smoke in the Mirror

What do you do when life as you knew it crashes around your ankles? Stephanie and Zoey North, twins and freshmen at South Side, are about to find out. Zoey and Stephanie both have a crush on the same boy, and with their focus on the related proceedings, they don't notice the real trouble brewing right under their noses. Lies, double-crossers, and unexpected secrets go unseen throughout the school year, finally boiling over in a series of events that change everything they thought they knew about each other, themselves, their friends, and even a few people they swore they'd never trust again.

The Room of Misfits

Penny is, in her friend's terms, “living her best life”. She has a healthy group of friends, a stable home life, and good grades. All the same, she finds herself growing tired of the shallowness in her life. Auden is the elephant of the room. As an autistic boy used to stares, laughs, and pointed looks, he eventually settles into hiding himself in public. Penny and Auden meet face to face for the first time in the park and agree to help each other make friends. As the year progresses, the two of them form a group like nothing South Side has ever seen: a group where Titles mean nothing and nobody is left unheard.

The Buddy System

Clea, a new student at South Side, has never been good at making friends. Almost immediately she catches the attention of Ross, a Christian boy who takes pity on her situation. Despite her noticeably rough edges, he chooses to give her a chance at his friendship. Celestial (Ed Sheeran) meets Cruel Summer (Taylor Swift) when two unlikely friends fall in love.

[jgroffdaily]

In theater, chemistry is crucial, particularly in a musical about deep, long-lasting friendships. Fortunately, the stars of the highly anticipated Broadway revival of Merrily We Roll Along are filled to overflowing with admiration for one another and for the show they’re bringing to vibrant life at the Hudson Theatre after a sold-out 2022 Off-Broadway run. As they navigate the reverse chronology of Stephen Sondheim and George Furth’s portrait of three mixed-up people, Jonathan Groff, Daniel Radcliffe, and Lindsay Mendez draw the audience in with empathy and immense talent.

Groff nabbed a best actor Tony Award nomination at age 22 for Spring Awakening and went on to TV’s Glee, Looking, and Mindhunter, as well as a juicy role as Agent Smith in the most recent Matrix film.

During a lighthearted rehearsal-break chat with Broadway Direct, the stars referred to themselves as “theater nerds” thrilled to be sharing the stage for a second time in Merrily We Roll Along.

“The three of us have a very similar sense of humor and outlook on theater, which we love,” Mendez begins. “Jon and Dan are incredibly gifted actors — so complex, so present, and so fun to play with in every moment. It’s the biggest honor of my acting life to do this with the two of them.” Radcliffe praises Groff’s truthfulness and likability in the notoriously difficult role of composer-turned–film producer Franklin Shepard, and calls Mendez “one of the most ferociously talented people I’ve ever worked with.” Not to be outdone, Groff says that Mendez “has this backbone, this inner strength, that lifts the entire company. Her skill is off the charts.” As for Radcliffe? “Dan is like Beyoncé,” Groff declares with a laugh. “I’ve never met a person more passionate about acting. It’s an inspiration to be around him every day.” Laughing, Mendez concludes, “Our friendship will never fade!”

This mutual admiration is key to director Maria Friedman’s thrilling production, which invites audiences to identify with Franklin and his friends Mary Flynn, a novelist-turned-critic, and Charley Kringas, a lyricist-turned-playwright. In scenes that begin around 1980, we see the painful effect of Mary’s unrequited love for Frank over the prior two decades and Charley’s disappointment at the fracturing of his and Frank’s youthful songwriting partnership. “It’s a complicated show about a really simple thing,” Radcliffe observes. “It shows the complexity of relationships over time, which, in some ways, is an intimate story, but it’s also the biggest subject in the world.” Adds Mendez, “It’s rare to tell a love story about friendship, not to mention telling it backwards, which is a fascinating exercise for us as actors. Normally in a show, you carry everything you just did into the next scene, but here, you’re letting it all go [as the characters get younger]. That’s been hard, but also really fun and freeing — it forces us to stay absolutely present at every moment.”

In Friedman’s production, Franklin is the linchpin whose memories set the musical in motion, a framing that works because of Groff’s quiet magnetism. “He finds the truth in what Frank wants and never judges his character,” Mendez explains of her costar. “We all know people who bend the way the wind blows, but Jon does it with this incredibly huge heart and soul that no one can resist or say no to, including myself and Dan.” Groff modestly turns the conversation toward the show’s opening sequence, when every cast member — including wives, ex-wives, collaborators, and hangers-on — take the stage to sing “How did you get to be here?” during the title song. “We’re looking to the audience and encouraging them to track our journeys from the 1970s to the ’50s,” he says, “but we’re also asking them to reflect on their lives and how they got to be where they are. We’re inviting them to see themselves in all of us on stage.”

The miracle of Merrily, which had a disastrous Broadway debut in 1981, is that it includes some of Stephen Sondheim’s loveliest songs, including modern classics “Old Friends,” “Good Thing Going,” “Not a Day Goes By,” and “Our Time.” “It’s such an interesting Sondheim [score] because it is so hummable,” says Groff. “The songs are so tuneful, and yet the stories are so thorny; I think we ache for more musicals like that. This show is 42 years old, but it feels ahead of its time. It’s thrilling to deliver big scenes and complex characters and adult themes in a musical. It’s inspiring to young writers to be able to say, ‘You can write a show this complicated, and it can be on Broadway.’”

From the first note of the overture, Merrily We Roll Along is a deeply satisfying, emotional ride for both the stars and their audience. “When the music begins and the people start cheering, I’m thinking, ‘Oh my god!’” Radcliffe says with a laugh. “There is nothing better than doing a show you know people are excited to see.” Echoes Mendez, “We’re going nuts too, because it’s such an honor to be in this, and I’m happy we’re getting to share it with more people. This is what we all dreamed of when we moved to New York: a Sondheim musical on Broadway.”

[luminescentlyricist]

✒️ A Prologue - Identity V 💉

CONTENT WARNINGS: IMPLIED DEATH/LOSS

This is modelled around Season 19 Essence 3, with Homesick and Awaiting! The third figure called to is Aging, though she's not mentioned by name.

Once again, I would like to credit @immortalpheus as a major source of inspiration, even though this isn't about Immortal!

~

Orpheus De Ross was painfully lonely, and had been for a longer time than he cared to admit. He had dragged himself out of bed and to his desk, monocle affixed to his face as always, but the fountain pen he claimed to treasure sat unused in its ink pot. This had long since dried up, as had his motivation to do anything more than dream. Sleep was his only release from the deepening depression that gnawed at him as if eating a hole in his chest. Though the manor’s staff had upheld their duties and attempted to make the place cleaner and brighter for the lone resident, he hardly noticed the changes. The man had been stagnating for an unknown amount of time, and not even the freedoms of his writing felt like they could save him from the haze that enveloped his emotions.

What use was it all if nobody was around to read it?

This phrase whirled around in his mind as he stared listlessly forwards, eyes tracing the heavy velveted curtains that blanketed the space in near-darkness. He’d made a request earlier that week for his bed to be moved into his writing room, for he felt so little motivation that getting from one location to another was a chore. It had only been a mistake. Instead of relief, what little he felt was taken over by a dull regret, being unwilling to accept that he’d weakened so drastically. Laying his head down on the desk, Orpheus longed to close his eyes and float away. If anyone found him in such a state, he knew his already poorer sales would dwindle, and the only source of joy he could find in the greying skies of his life would fade.

Instead he forced himself to be awake. There was no wound clock in the vicinity, but the deepening bags beneath his eyes were no longer a source of concern. All that mattered was continuing to produce works, whatever internal protests his body had in store for him. Taking up the pen, he unfolded a notebook, reasoning that it was useless to attempt extending an actual book. The ideas necessary to make anything coherent and publishable just weren’t going to come to him in such a slump, after all. His eyelids drooped for a moment before he pushed himself back upright in the chair, arms trembling from the strain. There came a knock at the door of the study, but the young man had no voice to answer it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to anyone that wasn’t his own face in the mirror.

That accompanied a sense of loss deeper than even he, a writer by trade, lacked the words to articulate. He often wondered if it was all wrong for him, and others had told him he was free to retire because of his inherited estate, but making others happy with his writing had hardly seemed like a job before. Now, his resolution was wavering, as was his sense of identity - “Orpheus” was simply a pen name assigned to him by his publisher. True to the profession, he moulded himself to suit whoever saw him for the best effect, and spent little time wondering about personal preferences. Nobody had cared about him enough to tell him that was wrong before it was all too late, and he’d forgotten who he was behind the mask of the Baron de Ross. He no longer knew, but at least they did. The soft clicking of the door handle roused him from his morose thoughts in a matter of seconds, and he plastered on a gentle smile for no benefit of his own.

Emily Dyer, unexpectedly, had come to his aid. Though she worked silently, she knew the reclusive novelist would only let a precious few people into the Manor, let alone the study. He needed someone to take care of him, however small the gestures. Pulling the curtains open and tying them aside, the doctor placed a small object on Orpheus’ desk as she passed to leave: a white paper boat, folded carefully and hand-painted with flowers. She looked backwards upon placing her hand on the door, poised as if wishing to speak to him, but swallowed this notion just as soon. What little response she could’ve gleaned from his words wouldn’t be worth the effort for either participant. She left him be after that, as much as she regretted it. He was one of the two most important figures in her life, and guilt would prevent her mind from settling for some time after that. It didn’t much matter that the (perceived) uselessness was unavoidable. It stung anyway.

The light from the window did nothing to improve Orpheus’ mood, but one thing did catch his attention: a small black feather drifted downwards from a tree in the garden. That garden… it was like a mockery of times long gone. Yet every staff member he could muster the will to contact insisted that it would make him feel better some day, and they continued to maintain it to the best of their abilities despite his frequent protest. It’d been quite a while since he’d been out of the manor, and even longer since he’d seen any animal that wasn’t a fish drifting aimlessly in the aquarium of the common area. However restricted they were, the novelist often felt they had more freedom than he did. Not that he had the motivation to fix that, of course.

That feather, though… he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The birds had long since fallen silent, and yet they continued to visit him. The manor was feeling less and less familiar the longer he wandered within its walls, like some sick, reversed alienation tactic. Standing up, Orpheus cleared his throat, pulling a suit jacket on and fixing the angle of his slipping monocle. The flowers embroidered across the lapels reminded him of home, even though he couldn’t quite remember where that was to him. Two special people - Miss Dyer being one of them - had sewn the design onto it long ago, and the feeling of the raised threads against his fingers gave him a small burst of comfort. 

To be homesick for somewhere he couldn’t remember was torture, but fate had never been kind to him in the first place. Rubbing a hand across his eyes, he didn’t bother to find a proper brush, instead running his fingers carelessly through his hair. Grease came off onto them, but he simply assumed it was because of hair gel, though the container sat empty on his desk as it had for many days. Taking care of himself was just one more expenditure of strength. Removing the familiar presence of a ball-point pen from his shirt pocket, the novelist scrawled down a simple phrase on the paper, as if beginning to make an outline of the day’s plans for himself: ‘The Novelist visits the gardens.’ Doing so was by no means a regular practice for him, but he had a feeling it’d give him a needed sense of direction in such a slump. Tucking away the pen and the notebook both into his pocket, he came to a stand, eyes distantly scanning the window for any sign of another feather or accompanying bird.

Gently, he unfolded the paper boat, refolding it into the smallest square possible. He wasn’t going to distract himself from the bliss of the moment by reading it. There were people who cared about him, and that was all he really needed to know. Details were irrelevant at that point. Unfastening the three topmost buttons on his dark jacket, with trembling fingers the man folded back the top of his suit’s fabric. Resting against the space nearest to his heart, there was a shakily sewn pocket. Tugging at the stitches, he soon managed to loosen those up the top. Despite how badly he was trembling, Orpheus managed to place the paper inside, searching afterwards for a needle. The pocket was usually kept open or simply buttoned closed on other suits he’d added it to, but he felt there’d be no need to replace it any time soon. Sewing the top up, he buttoned his coat before allowing himself to relax.

Opening the door of his study, Orpheus took a deep breath. The air no longer smelled stale. Hearing his own shoes clicking against the floorboards as he walked down the hallway almost made his head begin to spin, but he bore it anyway. He felt distant, as if he were floating within his body, heedless to the environment around him. As much as he longed to be free of sensation, if only for a moment, that wasn’t going to happen. As soon as he turned the corner to go out to the gardens, an ear-splitting cry rang out. The call was familiar, and bought to mind a sleek black feather. This didn’t make him stop - instead, it only furthered the resolve he thought was lost. For the first time in too long, the novelist heaved open the manor’s doors and stepped into the dimming light.

The garden was there, freshly maintained, but the flowers and foliage were the only traces of life. Not even the insects that Melly had once trailed behind her remained, which was a continual worry for the maids in regards to growing produce. Pollination helped in terms of diversity as well, and it made their jobs a lot easier. Orpheus was oblivious to all of this work, of course. He left the manor with returning reluctance, for the burst of motivation he felt was draining away. The sleek black feather remained in his thoughts, but the appeal of it was lessening because of his sobering mental state. Such quick change was exhausting. The novelist continued on his journey at a more relaxed pace, eyes flickering about to take in the sights.

The maze was still standing. After everything that’d happened within the confines of the hedges, it loomed there as a reminder of Orpheus’ failures. He took a rattling breath inwards, trying not to let the heat creeping on the back of his neck unnerve him too much. It was just a bunch of leaves. Nothing else. There would never be blood spilled there again. There never... there never had been. Whatever was he thinking? Shaking his head to clear his thoughts in a physical manner, he continued to walk, though his footsteps were getting increasingly louder in his head. This strange warping was chalked up to tiredness, as the young man had no idea how long it’d been since he’d had a full night of sleep. The demand for his writing was lowering as he’d become more of a recluse and inherited his father’s estate, but old habits were hard to break. To Emily’s dismay, he’d often find himself asleep at his desk despite having no ideas to write.

Sitting on a small bench with his back to the maze in question, he spied the feather lying on the ground a few metres away. It was being ruffled by a slight breeze, but that didn’t deter him. If the bird it’d dropped from were to return, then that could provide him with the burst of motivation needed to complete his next chapter. Why he was so captivated by a small thing was beyond him, but went unquestioned. As he stood to collect it after a momentary rest to collect his thoughts, the feather was swept up in a gust of wind, and lodged itself firmly beneath a tile on the mosaic covering one of the building’s walls. This mosaic was something he often came to when inspiration was lacking, for the manor’s residents and guests were free to decorate one of the numerous panels as a way of leaving their impressions if they were to leave. Many were those he had painted himself, alongside Emily and his other regular visitor.

With another flick of the pen and notebook cover, a yawn was stifled when Orpheus found his resolution in the script: ’The Novelist continues his search, and will not stop until he has uncovered the truth of the gardens that he seeks - whether this be a feather or something more.’ Truthfully, he expected nothing more than the owner of the feather, but as a story writer was prone to slipping into fantasies and dreams. It was detrimental to others in terms of keeping his attention, but on many occasions Orpheus considered this trait to be the only thing that kept him sane. Awareness to the world outside the manor terrified him more than he cared to admit.

Tugging gently at the feather, Orpheus’ eyes roved across the designs on the tiles. Caught up in remembrance, he hardly realised that he’d almost freed the object until something sharp and familiar jolted him away from the wall, tearing part of the feather’s fluff off in the process - the call of a crow, indignant as ever. Well, that was one way to find out who it belonged to… His gaze flickered up to the crow in question, a small smile dancing across his lips. They weren’t a common sight in the manor grounds, so seeing their sleek forms was always a surprise. This one was adolescent, and fluffed up delightfully against the crisp breeze rustling through the garden. Though it would be a bad idea, he almost longed to climb the tree so that he could feel how soft it was, and perhaps get it to a better place. Heedless of the fact he hadn’t asked anyone about their natural habitats, the gardens certainly weren’t safe enough.

Nodding to the bird as acknowledgement before setting back to work, the novelist bowed his head toward the wall once more. Running his fingers along the grout between the tiles, his bitten nails snagged on something unfamiliar. Pulling his hand back, he heard a soft click. That wasn’t a sign of anything good. Before he could move to alert one of the maids of the maintenance issue, a glint of silver caught his eye. The crow had returned, bringing with it a coat pin that it dropped at his feet before letting out an alerting call and retreating to its branch. Orpheus bent down and picked it up carefully. It was a small snake pin, curled in an infinity symbol and biting its own tail. This was similar to one of the mosaic tiles’ designs, but he had no recollection of what it meant to him at the time of painting. That sort of forgetfulness tended to happen a lot, but the mosaic was there to remind him, not take his understanding away…

This was a hassle he wasn’t quite prepared for, so he turned his attention momentarily to adding another point to the day’s itinerary. Uncharacteristically, he nearly dropped the pen from his hand as it shook as if by nerves. Though the wind was becoming colder when the days wore on, it wasn’t enough to send a significant chill through the thick and dry fabrics he wore. Unable to afford himself another brief moment of respite, he scrawled onto the page, ignoring how harsh his strokes turned out. Unless the paper tore properly or the ink stained, it wouldn’t be a problem to record small things such as these: ’The Novelist confidently approaches his destinations, for his fate can always be rewritten.’ This wasn’t true, but he chose to believe what he wrote anyway. Self-confidence was something he needed.

Stowing the pin safely in his other jacket pocket, Orpheus resolved not to waste any more time ruminating on things that didn’t make sense. The crow had disappeared from the treetops, which filled him with an unexplainable sense of regret and sadness. Perhaps it was simply that morning’s mental fog catching up to him, but they had felt like a companion in the isolated garden. Digging the rest of the feather’s misshapen plume away from the tiles, his fingers lingered around the snake design for a few moments longer. If his eyes weren’t deceiving him, the tile had been pushed in slightly, and he could have moved it aside. The ink on his notepad didn’t lie to him: he’d continue looking around the garden itself, and not stray off the beaten path too much this time. With a huff, he reached up and swept a stray hair away from his monocle. The lens was cracking in some places, but he’d never bothered to get it fixed.

The sky was beginning to darken considerably by that time, so Orpheus’ pace quickened. Before he knew what he was doing, he had circled back into the maze, and was weaving through the foliage with an unnatural steadiness. He’d not visited the maze in a long time, much less soon enough to remember all of the twists and turns with such certainty. The leaves blurred together in front of his face, and he continued to walk even though he could no longer tell where he was going. The branches that hadn’t been trimmed back in some time stung as they cut his face, small gashes that luckily weren’t deep enough to bleed. As the sun truly set, the lights flickered on, but the novelist ignored everything around him. He felt a compulsion from his own instructions was stronger than ever, and he wasn’t going to ignore it just for someone else’s sake.

As soon as he reached the centre of the maze, Orpheus sat down and retrieved the mysterious pin from where it was safely stowed away. His suit was going to get dirty, but the significance and comfort of that particular jacket was, at that moment, the least important thing to him. Running his fingertip over the snake’s emerald eye, he wiped the dust onto his pants. His breathing became so quiet that it was a wonder he was awake, for the rhythm of his chest’s rise and fall was more appropriate for someone lost to dreaming. After a few minutes of this, his eyelids truly drooped. Staying still with his eyes closed, Orpheus was unable to stifle a yawn. Pressing the cold metal of the pin into his palm to renew his alertness, he reached up to fasten the pin to his jacket, but dropped it for the second time. Cursing quietly, he bent down to retrieve it. He decided that he’d prefer not to be interrupted, lest he lose his train of thought again.

The doctor, on the other hand, was becoming increasingly worried for his absence. Though it was true they were both adults and had no need for curfews, she hadn’t been able to tell him important news of the day, and he had hardly ignored her before. Adjusting her capelet’s position and rubbing her arms as a ward from the cold, she exchanged a few quiet words with a maid for preparations to begin a search before slipping out the manor doors. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but if dawn broke and he hadn’t returned, then there would have to be more serious efforts made. The Baron wasn’t simply the most important person to her: jobs needed to be allocated, calls taken, and he was still the novelist she dearly loved the stories of. He had his own occupation and a life to continue.

Turning the pin around in his hands a few times, he observed how the emeralds gleamed dully in the lights. He heard nothing except the pounding of his heart in his ears, the sound seeming to dwarf everything beyond, but paid no mind to it. How had he been so careless? The pin was beautiful… yes! That was it. He had to show her… Staggering to his feet as if swept into a trance, the novelist swayed in place. There was something in the back of his mind, and he was unable to shake it. He’d write it down just in case… disregarding his shaking hands, he drew the pen across the page of his notebook, but was unable to finish the bullet point as his pen began to leak, staining the paper and his hands both with ink.

Without these directions, he was aimless. A dull thud was heard as the pen and notebook, the latter rapidly drying in the wind and heavy with ink, hit the grass. A single tear trailed down the man’s cheek as he looked down towards it, but he had no voice left to cry. He didn’t want to show weakness to the ones who loved him, but that strange pin felt like it was amplifying his emotions tenfold. He’d simply stay out in the gardens, then, and bother nobody with his feelings as usual. Though he felt strange, light-headed and almost feverish, there was nothing he could do to ease the sickness building in his stomach. Sinking to his knees in the maze, he gripped the grass as if it were the only thing keeping him from floating away, letting out an uneasy chuckle. 

It’d be fine, right? The young man hoped so. All that was left was to wait, but he wasn’t so sure that he wanted to be found. Sleeplessness was catching up to him, and his thought patterns caved to falsities and illogical conclusions. The pin… He had everything he needed right there, even though the wind bit into his clothing. How little everything else mattered! Ignorance… why, his father had been right to shove everything into his arms. Maybe now he could let everything fade away, and the emeralds could capture the gaze of his adversaries. That crow knew better than people what was best for him! What fools they were, not to listen to the shrill calls of the birds. Blocking his ears had done him no good before, but now he felt enlightened. He was finally finding the truth!

To Emily’s concern, the Baron was making no effort to reveal himself, and she stumbled through the gardens even as the moonlight began to fade. She wished above all else to find him, of course, but there was only so much she would be able to do. Her fingertips were beginning to go numb from the cold, but she didn’t want to lose track of him. Pulling on the gloves that hung at her waist, she wriggled her fingers to check if some of their sensation had returned. They weren’t lined with the same warm black fur as she’d requested for her capelet, but they’d do well enough insulating her for now. And so she continued to search, but everything was fruitless. Returning to the main building in the early hours, Miss Dyer was left to crawl into Orpheus’ own bed, soaking in the warmth from his lingering presence to attempt easing her thoughts.

If he found her, yes, there might have been some questions, but all of the love in the world to go along with it. Though Orpheus had never been a verbally affectionate man, he’d often leave her a paper crane or something of the sort on her bedside to welcome her with a poem in the morning, and she kept all of these. She used them to teach origami, as his folds were always so perfect it showed how much he cared for her. In return, she would nurse his paper cuts, scolding him with a laugh held back in her voice all the while. “Now, Orpheus, you must be more careful! Your hands are important, you know… No, not as much as your heart. Don’t be silly. I’ll take care of that too.”

He’d never make it back to the Manor, after all.

Orpheus had put the pin through his chest pocket whilst trying to fasten it onto his own jacket, tearing the paper so that he’d never be able to read what was written within. To some superstitious individuals, this was tantamount to making the text a lie, but none of the manor’s residence allowed such negativity to reach them. Emily hadn’t been the only one to write it: a child’s small, shaking script echoed the message in their own writing, but the sentiment was a clear truth in both instances. The state of the paper didn’t matter.

“You’ll always have a place here. I love you.”

[iohera]

so, gray

i like pete wentz, theoretically. i'm drawn to his lyrics because i think they're clever, self-aware, self-aggrandizing in a way that i find to be tastefully ironic and relatable. however, i think there's a difference between pete wentz (lyricist) and pete wentz (novelist). spoilers for gray (2013) ahead.

gray is not a good book. or, at the very least, i found it very difficult to enjoy. one, it crystallizes a misogyny from fall out boy's early lyrics in a much more detailed, virulent way that honesty made the novel difficult to get through sometimes. i don't think there's a single female character with a name throughout the entire book, and the way wentz writes about women conveys an inability (or disinterest) in seeing them a people rather than accessories to the narrator's life. this is most evident in the character Her. not giving her a name is a stylistic choice i can appreciate— only calling the character "Her" conveys that the narrator deifies her and puts her on a pedestal, stripping her of the fallibility inextricable from human nature. i wish the novel went literally anywhere with that theme, because it's good! instead, the ending seems to reinforce the narrator's view of her. it literally ends with him fantasizing about her as an angel waiting for him on the other side after she's suddenly died. the only interesting scene between a woman and the narrator was when he met ashlee simpson an unnamed hyperfamous celebrity party girl constantly bombarded by the paparazzi. i can't say that her portrayal was particularly nice, but i found their dynamic to be very compelling; she was someone who had her own desires, evident flaws, she made the narrator nervous and put him on his toes. the one chapter that she was in was the only point in the entire book where i was engaged in the relationship between the narrator and one of his many sexual conquests (each of which the novel takes great care to detail), because she was the only one who it felt like wentz was interested in empathizing with her point of view and the root causes behind her problems.

i would criticize the ending for having the main female love interest (who was treated very poorly by the narrator throughout the entire book) die for the sake of the narrator's character development, but i can't because his character never develops! this is the second major flaw in the novel; the characters are shallow, go nowhere, and not as interesting as pete wentz thought they might be. the toxic downward spiral of the narrator and Her's relationship might've been compelling if we knew anything about Her flaws as a person, because as it is it just makes the narrator look like entirely unsympathetic. main characters don't necessarily have to be sympathetic, but the story reads like "the narrator torments and manipulates this girl repeatedly until she kills herself, and then uses it to advance his own myopic self-pity"— which is as uninteresting as it is unsympathetic. it makes the structure of novel unbearably route; the narrator and Her get together, fall apart due to the narrator projecting his insecurities onto her, he goes on a drug binge and harasses her until they get back together and have sex, rinse and repeat. i think that wentz was going for meandering character study, a catcher in the rye type story, which for me did not work at all. for the record, i also dislike a catcher in the rye but can at least recognize that at the time it was published it was a unique look at teenage angst and depression— that type of miserable ennui is far less engaging when the narrator is 27. the narration itself is also just not very compelling— what makes wentz's lyrics good (clever, smug turns of phrase, florid descriptions of internal malaise) makes for insufferable prose.

i could go on. the side characters (who go by transparent pseudonyms for dirty, andy, and patrick), barely in the novel, who way more interesting than the main characters and "plot"; the sprinkling in of fall out boy lyrics reformatted as prose is bizarre and masturbatory; the constant, stagnant, mean-spirited pseudophilosophy that reads like baby's first misanthropy; etc, etc. there are things i liked about it— his descriptions of anxiety and addiction are raw and real, for example— but i cannot recommend this book to anyone. 2/5. go read the bell jar or even a catcher in the rye for a more competent version of the same thing.

[perfectlytremendousbananasposts]

When I talk about love, I lace it with loathing

Love simply doesn't exist in this world

The novelists have their way with words

So do poets and lyricists

But those words are a bitter lie

Choking me at midnight

Now it's my turn for seven circles

As he stains my pure ivory soul

I'll prepare for the disappointments

Forgotten birthdays and anniversaries

Sick jokes about my domineering ways

Couple of laughs later he's a comedian

Miserably turning my sacrifices

Into a laughter debacle and I'm just too soft

And weak for not laughing at all.

Love simply doesn't exist in this world

Last year they wed in a lush forest

Now they live apart in a bustling city

I watch how he mocks her,

Putting her down so he can get a rise out of it

And one day, perhaps I'll have to endure it

My little one will watch me wither

As he breaks me down in the name of love

And I'll helplessly endure

Like mothers before me

Because love simply doesn't exist in this world

Late at night when I dream of her lips

I'll muster every bit of repugnance

To squash that pretty dream

Every lovely word I've stitched to her name

I'll rip them apart at seams

Because, love simply doesn't exist in this world

Don't pick the petals apart,

The roses, the kisses, the words

Are just a standard procedure

Nothing personal,

Because love simply doesn't exist around here.

-Rach

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Am Ende pflegen die Idealisten doch recht zu behalten, wenn auch mitunter vielleicht hundert Jahre, nachdem sie begraben sind.

In the end, idealists tend to be right, even if sometimes a hundred years after they are buried.

Theodor Storm (1817 – 1888), German lawyer, writer, lyricist, and novelist