#malady unseen

[maladyunseen]

Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween from Malady Unseen! have Ken and Posleal as Francoeur and Lucille from A Monster in Paris! (go watch it if you havent seen- its a fun movie)

[glowbat]

Felt like drawing Posleal, my friend @Syntheticcharmva's character from a series we're working on

[syntheticcharmva]

A Mother's tears.

In realms above, a mother sighed,Her two sons face the world, and tried,

Through trials hard, and grand plans drawn, they hope to reach a brighter dawn.

With worried love, she'll watch them soar, praying they return home once more.

Art by @glowbat

Happy late mother's day

[kmodoposts]

A wonderful music box commission from @syntheticcharmva ! Art by: Gl0wBat

'Malady Unseen' is an upcoming project of theirs full of amazing characters and I'd highly recommend following them for updates.

[bloodredfountainpen]

@juneofdoom day 2:

“It didn’t have to be this way” | scream | double cross | made to watch

(Getting a liiiiiitle peak into Cedar’s life before becoming a Pet, up to you to guess who in the story is him tho eheheh)

Contains/CW: implied organized crime, tortured for information, kidnapping, made to watch, non-medical amputation (a thumb is taken off with bolt cutters), two whumpers, two whumpees

——————————————————————————

The bodyguard was completely silent, enduring the duo of torturers’ increasingly severe methods for, in the bodyguard’s best estimation, a week. They knew that their captors wouldn’t lay a hand on their charge, even the infamous Santi family couldn’t afford to hurt a senator’s daughter after all. Safe in the knowledge that their charge was okay, the bodyguard held steadfast, refusing to give up even a scrap of information. It was difficult, but so was the rest of their job.

Their entire body ached, covered in cuts and bruises. Their worst injury thus far, a stab wound that their younger captor had put in their shoulder on the second day, was infected for sure. If the bodyguard didn’t get treatment soon, they might just die from the festering malady. They’d hardly slept in that time, and been given only a few sips of water and a stale piece of bread for sustenance, and that was three days ago.

The bodyguard was, in a word, exhausted.

After the last session, the bodyguard had been left in their cell. They expected to be left alone while the brothers cooked up something new to throw at them. However, after only a few minutes, their makeshift holding cell, a freezer (the older brother’s idea from two days ago), was opened, and the bodyguard was dragged out, gagged, and strapped to a chair.

They saw through their bruised and swollen eyes,, their charge sitting across from them in a similar predicament.

“How dare you restrain me!” she shouted, “My father will hear of this, and then you two psychos will be sorry!”

The bodyguard flinched as the volume, and the girl took a long hard look at her battered keeper, realizing how much they’d gone through for her sake.

The older brother, a twig of a man standing only 5’2 and a weighing a hundred pounds soaking wet by the bodyguard’s esitmation, made his presence known behind the girl.

“I’m so sorry dear, but your guard here won’t crack, and we thought maybe you might. You care about them, right?”

The girl nodded.

“And you’d do anything to end their suffering, right?”

Another nod from the girl, but the bodyguard had caught on, and shook their head the best they could, silently pleading for their charge’s comprehension as a blow slammed into the side of their head; a now familiar strike from the younger brother. Their vision blurred as they braced for another session of pain. They blearily wondered if their charge would break, and came to the worrying conclusion that she would. They found the silver lining in that they might go home once the girl told the brothers what they wanted.

“Well then dear, all you have to do is tell us about your father’s dealings with the Ventura clan. You have ten chances, and we’ll know if you lie to us.” cooed the older brother, voice sickly sweet like poisoned honey. Nothing good could come for her father if she spilled. She shook her head, perhaps too petrified to speak.

The older brother pouted cartoonishly, then nodded to his unseen younger counterpart. The next thing the bodyguard knew, the hulking younger brother was reaching over their shoulder with a pair of bolt cutters, and in a flash of burning pain, their left thumb was severed.

“Augh!” The bodyguard screamed through their gag, tears threatening to spill. It killed them to show weakness in front of their charge, but it just hurt so much, and they were just so tired.

The girl turned away, but the older torturer tutted and grabbed her head, forcing her to look at the horror scene in front of her.

“It doesn’t have to be this way dear, you can always choose to end this. You have nine chances left, but I’d encourage you to capitulate earlier than that. I’m afraid your poor guard might not be able to take all ten.”

The body guard wanted to tell her the brothers were lying, that they could take anything, but the gag kept them silent. They went to shake their head again, but their younger captor gripped their head and squeezed, tugging at their hair and digging into the cuts and bruises he’d given them earlier in the week.

The girl went to shake her head again, but as soon as she saw the younger brother go to sever the bodyguard’s left index finger, she changed her mind.

“Wait!” she cried. The younger brother paused, inches away from taking off the finger. “I mean, you want to know about my father? Fine. He’s been taking the Venturas’s money for decades. He threw the cops off their trail while he was Attorney General. He and Don Ventura are meeting this coming Saturday at our house. That’s all I know, I swear! Please just… let us go… please.”

The brothers grinned, and the older kidnapper patted the girl as the guard glared at him. “Good girl,” the older one told her, and she knew she’d just blown up her father’s entire life.

@maenr

[wanderlust-writings]

Into the Ether

Here I am, again screaming into another digital ether, hoping and praying that someone will see me.

It’s odd I suppose this continual sense of longing. I don’t know if it will ever be satiated. Perhaps this is the malady that is etched into my DNA; a predestined curse that I will never be able to be fully free from. It will always linger, dormant at times but always festering waiting, feeding.

People tell me to stop, to simply ignore it or force it into submission. But how can I change something that is so intrinsically a part of me? These are the questions that I want to scream in their face when they tell me to smile more or simply turn off the roaring thoughts in my brain. The only cure that I’ve thought about consists of carving open my skull and scooping out my brain like cantaloupe. Finally my mind would be an empty basin of silence that I could reside in, bathe in peacefully, maybe even potentially thrive in.

I think the worst part is having the things that comfort my soul be turned against me. I wonder if it has always been like that or is this new phenomenon of self-comparison and hatred an unseen side-effect of social media.

It’s all just so loud.

Voices are being poured into me constantly until I’m choking and gasping for air. I question how can my voice even be heard amounts all the traffic. Even if I were to scream, it would only sound as loud as a penny being dropped on the sidewalk—unnoticed. Their voices rip into my heart like sharpened talons tearing into my self-worth and confidence. That lingering presence stirs at the scratch of these talons. It knows it’s about to be fed, that the dinner bell has been rung. I try to beat it into submission to tell it the sound was merely a drop of water in a bucket nothing worth stirring for but it doesn’t believe me. Soon it has me tied up, laying belly-up on a placemat, wet saliva dripping onto my belly, rabid for the feast that is about to take place.

You’re not enough. How dare you call yourself an artist, let alone a writer? You’ll never amount to anything. You’re nothing.

I don’t want to listen. I don’t mean to inflame it any further but I can’t help but throw more wood on the burning flame. It’s hard to believe these soft, light, hopeful dreams when the evidence points to the contrary. How many followers? How many likes? Views? Reposts? Push harder and harder, scream louder and louder until your vocal cords are shredded and torn and you’re once again silenced.

Is it a fatal flaw of mine? This longing for glory? This need to self-mutate my dreams until they are nothing more than a scrap of garage buried underneath the unfulfilled dreams of the millions? Is it my pride that is secretly my poison? The double edged sword that I can’t use without slicing some part of me open as well, will I ever learn to wield it? Or will this dragon that dwells within me hoard that information until I’m withered and grey and unable to lift it anymore? Am I the problem? I must be. This mutation within my DNA is as much a part of me as it is a foreign adversary. Will we ever be able to exist in harmony or forever be caught in this war of dissonance?

I don’t have answers for these questions that haunt me at the wee hours of the morning?

So I’ll continue to shout, cry, purge, unburden, and fight into this dark ether until I stumble out into the light again.

[wanderingmind13]

Invisible implies unable to be seen

The diagnoses I carry are labeled as such and maybe people can’t imagine, don’t want to imagine but it’s easy to dismiss something you claim is hidden from sight

what I experience is far from unseen

My disease reveals itself in the armor I don for battle each day, compression as a second skin, braces and tapes to hold together tissue and bone frail and bird like

It is visible in the hours spent in waiting rooms, the familiarity of cold, clinical sterility associated with pain

My skin bears the burden of illness, marked with bruises and scarring delicate as aging paper

Punctured daily with medicine intended to heal glass bones but simultaneously eroding my spirit

At times flushing on my face akin to a butterfly’s resting place, red hot wings branded onto flesh

This malady is seen in the repeated fractures and tears, limping and adjusting to find relief

It is identified in my need to sit, the sweat that blossoms when I must stand, the blood pooling in extremities, swelled and discolored

Mostly it is evident in the absence of me, the late night gatherings that happen as I rest, physical activities exceeding what I can give

The pain and exhaustion dragging me back to a point of isolation, one from which I’d escape if I could

The manifestations are intricate but revealed with empathy and the mindful gathering of information

To call my conditions invisible negates the palpable evidence of affliction

Minimizes my experience

And exacerbates my pain

[docgold13]

I randomly googled Shaver Mystery and after reading Richard Sharpe Shaver's wiki I just can't stop thinking about how people with schizophrenia might have had a huge impact on scifi. Like take telepathy. A person hears voices and logically assumes they are hearing other people's thoughts. Richard thought he was telepathically picking up torture sessions from evil subterranean people. Like any person is capable of radical creativity but there must be something to schizophrenic peoples who are trying to make sense of disordered thinking. Idk am I out of line in saying that? I don't mean it in a derogatory way. Maybe they believe their own fantastical stories maybe they don't. As a person who grew up in a mentally ill religious family I also liken it to weird lore in the Bible. There's an all powerful man in the sky who can hear your thoughts. Sometimes believing in God made my mental illness better sometimes it made it worse. I imagine writing scifi is similar. You could get deeper in your delusions or you could feel validated in your writing.

That’s not out of line at all.  The human mind is endlessly fascinating 

It appears rather evident that the esteemed Richard Shaver did indeed suffer from some sort of paranoid schizophrenia. According to his friends and colleagues, Shaver truly believed that his life was being controlled by unseen forces residing in deep, subterranean caverns.  The voices that emanated from this underground realm were sometimes kind and benevolent, other times cruel and vicious.  Both voices spoke to him regularly, constantly assailing with all manner of ideas, assumptions and commentary.  

Shaver coped with these intrusive verbal hallucinations by creating a rich and textured mythology around it all.  The benevolent voices came from the righteous Tero; whereas the malicious voices came from the villainous Dero.  These two races of beings lived in the center of the earth and were the descendants of extraterrestrial travelers.  

The stories that Shaver wrote about the Tero and the Dero were super vibrant and rich.  They were fantastical, often absurd, yet told in such an ernest, convincing and multifaceted fashion that readers were just whisked away.  Fans couldn’t get enough of these wild tales his contributions to ‘Amazing Stories’ made it a hugely successful pulp periodical.   

Shaver’s ability to seize his psychological difficulty and use it for the benefit of his craft is similar to the mathematician John Nash, author Zelda Fitzgerald, jazz musician Buddy Bolden and painter Vincent Van Gogh.  This is not to suggest that genius is derived through psychological malady but rather there can be instances were extreme adversity can contributed to the brining about of something unexpectedly awesome.   

[veryqueermovies]

Happy Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month! Here is a short list of Queer Asian films to watch all year long!

Funeral Parade of Rose (1969)

Farewell My Concubine (1993)

The Wedding Banquet (1993)

Fire (1996)

Happy Together (1997)

Intimates (1997)

Drift (2000)

Lan Yu (2001)

Blue Gate Crossing (2002)

Tokyo Godfathers (2003)

The Gathering (2003)

Tropical Malady (2004)

Ethan Mao (2004)

Saving Face (2004)

I Don't Want To Sleep Alone (2006)

The World Unseen (2007)

Love of Siam (2007)

Drifting Flowers (2008)

Just Friends? (2009)

Yes Or No (2010)

Muli (2010)

The Dance of Two Left Feet (2011)

Two Weddings and a Funeral (2012)

Night Flight (2014)

Loev (2015)

Front Cover (2015)

Naanu Avanalla…Avalu (I Am Not A He…I Am A She) (2015)

Our Love Story (2016)

The Handmaiden (2016)

Spa Night (2016)

Die Beautiful (2016)

Fathers (2016)

A Bride For Rip Van Winkle (2016)

Taste Of Betel Nut (2017)

Present Perfect (2017)

Close-Knit (2017)

Malila, The Farewell Flower (2017) 

Billie & Emma (2018)

Fish Bones (2018)

Dead Ex (2018)

Our Body (2018)

Song Lang (2018)

Rainbow’s Sunset (2018)

Twilight's Kiss (2019)

How I Felt When I Saw That Girl (2019)

Goodbye Mother (2019)

Moonlit Winter (2019)

Monsoon (2019)

Super Deluxe (2019)

The Half Of It (2020)

Your Name Engraved Herein (2020)

I Told Sunset About You (2020)

A Distant Place (2020)

Midnight Swan (2020)

Wish You (2021)

Everything Everywhere All At Once (2022)

Joyland (2022)

Cobalt Blue (2022)

[alpydk]

Love is...

Felt like indulging my inner crazy today. I'll take inspiration wherever it's at right now, so long as it gets me to write something.

Sometimes love needs a little push...

Word Count - 1338 - CW - Hurt/No Comfort, Mental Illness

Love is…

A smile when you think you’re not being watched. It’s the bite of a lower lip as you as your cheeks blush, and you want to hide your face out of embarrassment, but then they lift your chin with a gentle finger. Dancing in a kitchen as a pot boils forgotten. Love is sunshine, starlight, hope, all rolled into the feeling of being complete. It is everything, and it is not enough.

She watched him from the back of the library, how he turned a page slowly, a freshly licked fingertip flicking at the corner of the paper. An unseen smile at the thought of her own flushed lips wrapped around those digits. Each day for the last week she had observed him, seen the titles he perused diligently, learnt the authors, but more importantly, learnt about him.

His name was Gale Dekarios, professor at Blackstaff Academy – Illusion Magic and Research -, recently single and living in the tower overlooking the coast. He enjoyed poetry, especially over a glass of red wine - Dancing Maiden – and from what she’d been able to discover, despite his charisma, he was lonely. Just like her. Every third day he would enter the library, browse the cluttered shelves of literature before settling in at the same desk near the window. He’d whisper the words to himself when he came upon a particularly interesting quotation and then would close his eyes, lifting his head as if questioning the mysteries of the universe.

---

Speaking to him at random would be odd, of course, a complete stranger making conversation in the sanctuary of the library. If only there was a way, a situation, happenchance on her side. She waited outside the building that rainy afternoon. Not on purpose, she told herself. If he were to walk into her, they both get wet, then it would simply be a pleasant accident, fate on their side. And who was she to argue with fate?

It was not long before she shivered from the icy chill, the autumn rain hanging heavy from her locks, and it was also not long before the door swung open behind her, Gale with his eyes on his boots as he kept himself shielded from the grim weather.

“My apologies,” she uttered with a shy smile as they inevitably collided.

He was quick to place his palms upon her shoulders to keep her steady, his touch firm but polite. “No, my dear. I should be more aware of my surroundings.” Deep brown eyes focussed on her. Warmth. Love.

Her heartbeat quickened with his touch. This was fate.

“Your soaked, my dear.”

The scenario played out as she had dreamt up so many times before. He would take her home, offer her a warm robe whilst her clothes dried in front of the roaring fireplace. They’d sit together, drinking tea, speaking lines of their favourite poems. Blanketed in fresh snow, the morning lark gives way to night’s end. How cruel the song can be. Her cheeks blushed at his touch, at his concern for her. “I was waiting for a friend, but it seems they’re not going to show.”

Hands rubbed down her upper arms, soothing the subtle shiver. Was it from the cold or his touch? She dared not think about it. She was drowning in him, in the magic that swelled and burst behind those dark eyes, the strands of chestnut hair that wisped against the breeze. Unspoken words sung in her mind. Kiss me. Kiss me now and I will be yours. I will be anyone you need me to be.

“Then they are not much of a friend. Perhaps you should return home, lest catch an unfortunate malady.” Gale’s words were as soft as his hands. Concern for her, validation of the situation she found herself in. Love for her.

Not the response she had scripted in her imagination, but no issue as she glanced down at the book clasped in her arms, its pages now dampened and creased. “You’re probably right. I’ve already brought the nine hells to this poor tome. It’s best it not come to further harm.”

His eyes widened in alarm, more worried over the state of the pages than the state of her. She buried the idiotic jealousy, knowing this was another step in fate’s plans for them. One more sacrifice in the name of love.

“The Folly and the Fall…”

Of course, the story of the Gale Dekarios, fallen from grace and risen from ashes, had been public knowledge around Waterdeep. What better subject to discuss with him than the one who started it all?

“Oh, this?” she replied with the hint of confusion. “I’m a writer of sorts and needed inspiration.”

He lifted his hand, brushing wetted hair from her cheek. “Then it seems fate has brought us together, for I may be able to assist you without the use of such literature.”

Fate. He said it. He felt the same way she did. They were bound together as two souls in the cosmos, drawn together through time and space, and she would be his, and he would be hers. Forever existing in love’s palm.

---

The rain continued to pour, but neither seemed to mind as they took the winding paths back to his tower. He offered a fresh robe, ignited the fire with an experienced sway of his hand and for hours they spoke of Karsus, of poetry, of cooking. She listened to each word that spilled from his supple lips, hung on his descriptions of the world around them, of magic. It was the subject of Mystra that stirred her heart most, as he quietened down and gazed at the fireplace as if trying to forget a long-buried memory. He is broken, just like me. I will give everything to save him.

“My dear, I would not wish to burden you with such a miserable display. Though my heart still bears many a wound, it is no longer the life-threatening condition it once was.”

He bristled under her touch as she moved closer. Instantaneous analysis of him, each blemish, each subtle action taken, was read by her. Was she even aware of the calculations she was making as she took his hand in hers and gazed into his eyes? “Maybe it’s not, but it seems to be one that still lingers on your soul. If I could help in any way, I would want to.”

His smile was genuine, thankful for her existence and she revelled in it, her heart beating quicker, her skin growing warmer. She would fix him. Maybe if he healed, she could heal, too. Maybe they really were meant for each other.

She clutched his hand tightly as he fought through his past, a topic he tried to soften for her. Listening to each word, each memory, each regret, she held him. She whispered comfort to him, stroked his hair as the worst hit him. He was alone, but not anymore, as she loved him, as she became everything he could ever need.

---

Time passed. In love simply became love. The fires dwindled and the sunlit skies became greyer. Routines of meals and nights together became the norm and though she did still love him, the beat of her heart for him had slowed. The poetry no longer brought her to tears. The words of affection didn’t make her bite her lower lip as they once had. He had healed, but she was still the same.

She sat in the library watching a young elf, his hair shining like the very sunlight she chased. He was inarticulate, loud, everything that Gale was not and by the scars that lined his body as he passed, he was as broken as she was.

---

And I would fall in love with you a thousand times over, if only to experience that feeling again, to be complete, to be wanted, to fall for the sake of falling. But as we both know; it will never be enough.

[ecc-poetry]

WORKING TITLE: GAY QUESTIONS FOR LOBSTER DADDY

Remember when pride was a sin? Order goeth before the fall. Remember when we stole fire from the gods?  Remember when our mothers were like, so bad, and our fathers had their reasons? Remember when Saturn ate six of his children? (Chaos from calories.)

Remember the great nothing of sea and sky? Remember the flood?  Remember when blood ran the clocks, when we tumbled the moon out of heaven and drove thorns through our tongues? Remember the great mother? You remember her: Her tail is split like history. She tributaries, capillaries  to capulet capture: her scattered children drink. She is a healer of maladies–order from chaos. Remember when we lived in the swamp in a chicken-legged house? Remember when Hera wished for a son and whipped her ordered cells to holy parthenogenesis? Remember when the husband laid down  at the feet of his wife? Remember the lamb? Remember when property was a sin? Leave all things you have. Remember what the wolves did under scarcity? Remember when all the witches got together  and they hanged the town fathers? Me neither. Remember when the regiments came? Remember fire? Chaos from orders. Remember when love was a commandment? Remember when my girl taught you  to play vinyl backwards and she reknit Osiris? Remember when the girls were all turning into laurel trees and the boys were all turning into swans? Quadrupling their chromosomes! Remember when the angels came down from heaven and fucked the shit out of us? Remember how this poem is not a biography? Remember Gaia? She loved her children the same, the communist. Remember when I gave birth to you? Remember how you told your mother the material world was an illusion and she smacked you with her jewel-encrusted spoon? Remember the queen who was feted  with her own two sons? Chaos from hors d'oeuvres. Remember the lesbians who lived at the bottom of the sea?  Remember when pride was a catalyst? Remember how fire was so thirsty for the moon? Remember when you were wet with miracles? Remember how we cried ourselves whole again? Remember when the girls were wine,  how their laughter fizzed like champagne floats and we drank and drank?  Well–you didn't. Remember when the men stiffened with milk? How we drank and drank! You mistook the trees for the harvest again, orgasm from chaos. Remember when we could always tell what not to do by the little piles of ash? Remember the time before gravity? Every natural law looks like chaos while you're inside of it. Remember how late you got to the vineyard? Remember more things in heaven and earth? All that is seen and unseen? Remember all the things we can't see? Remember when the world was an egg? Remember before it all went wrong? Remember how I stopped apologizing for my body and now my body lives rent-free in your head? Remember when I was made of flowers? Remember when I was made of blood? Wearing Hecate's three faces of maiden, multiplier, swamp. Remember when I went skinny-dipping in an ocean of milk? Remember how you blamed me for something I did in a dream? Remember how physiologically, you're bigger than me with more upper body strength, and how spiritually I don't care? Remember when I hid my heart in a knotted oak so I couldn't be killed? Remember how I danced the night after  my wedding was spoiled: Drowned and dragging seaweed, order from choreography. Remember how this poem is not a biography? Remember when flesh was a prison? Life sentence. Remember the lady in a cage? Remember how we really lost Eden? Remember how evil is not just good backwards? Remember when the mask of your face sloughed off and all that was left was a hole no man could fill? Remember that this poem is a biography? Remember when love was a commandment? Do you remember when pride was a sin?

-elisa chavez

[maladyunseen]

any plans for the spooky season?

Posleal here! Elias has been showing me what people do around all Hallows' eve, I like the bits about the candy and the giving! But learning that the insides of pumpkins are refered to as guts, and being witness to an orange massacre was a little more.... Unsettling!

[glowbat]

some sketches i did a while ago for a series me and a friend are working on about a fallen angel trying to redeem himself by helping humans ~~ofc its gay also~~

[syntheticcharmva]

Chet Harvey 2 electric Boogaloo!

More of this Devilish Gameshow host with the most!

Chet (Chester) Harvey, hosting his marvelous and terrible gameshow TRIVIAL LIVES!

Chet will be the antagonist for the first episode of Malady Unseen, what will happen next? who's to say.

Make sure you stay tuned, or else!

Art as always by the beyond Talented @glowbat

[kmodoposts]

Another commission for 'Malady Unseen', which belongs to @syntheticcharmva, go check them out for future updates! Art is by the talented @glowbat ! Exploring their world through music is a lot of fun.

[metamorphiisis]

@chronal-anomaly

Lena Oxton is a woman of petite height, made seemingly smaller in the welted, crumpled blankets of a medbay bed. Someone had set her off spiralling in a verbal malady, eyes locked to a frenzy towards something unseen in ad infinitum. Sacrifices have always been a staple necessity in the route to Discovery, iterations of failure coagulating the building blocks to success. For all that Oxton has been borne to witness, to discover, it is a shame that she has been cursed the same fate as Apollo's Cassandra, tongue vexed in a frenetic mania and mind scorned to bouts of salt. It is bizarre to think that this is an experiment that has been forbidden to be recreated. The Russians sends a Dog hurtling into orbit; The Americans respond by launching a human being onto the barren dust of the moon.

When, she thinks dully, Did humanity become so timid?

The plastic shell of a pen clacks against a clipboard. Moira drags a nail down a stack of emptied checkboxes, the scrawl of a doctor's chicken-scratching entailing mental statuses by the hour in ball point blues. Her gaze flicks up.

The glaze of a sedative is clearing from the pilot's system, clouded eyes teetering away from non-response towards a slow bleed of cognizance. Moira slots the paperwork back into the footboard. Her shoes click as she sidles broadside to the bed, palm loosely cradling a wrist behind her back. She busies herself by replacing the hanging IV bag, eyes the disfigured masses of color stretched within down the slope of her nose.

"Sleep well?"