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sequinsmile-x · 2 months ago

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I Knew You'd Linger Like a Tattoo Kiss - Head Kisses

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A series of unrelated one-shots and mini fics about the many types of kisses Aaron and Emily share.

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Hi friends,

Here's another one of these prompts to wrap up the week. This is just soft, with a touch of mommy issues because I can't help myself.

Please see the masterlist for a full list of tags, and the list of prompts for this series.

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Words: 2k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Emily tried to avoid one-on-one time with her mother as much as possible. It was easier to do since she’d had Samuel, the 18-month-old and Jack both excellent distractions for Elizabeth when she came over to the house, her love for her grandsons obvious whenever they were together.

On her worst days, Emily envied her mother's relationship with Samuel and Jack. The easy way she showed her love for them, the affection Emily had to earn when she was young given away as if it was free. It was nothing but proof to her that Elizabeth had always been capable of it, but had prioritised different things when she was young.

She’d tried to get out of lunch with her mother, not entirely in the mood to be her best self after a rough night with Samuel. He was sick, the 18-month-old refusing to sleep and crying if he was anywhere but in her arms, so she and Aaron had barely slept as they took turns to soothe him. She’d almost called her mom to tell her she couldn’t make it, but Aaron had encouraged her out of the door, reminding her if she didn’t do it now she’d just have to rearrange it after a week of building herself up to it. She’d kissed him goodbye, whilst grumbling about his need to always be so damn sensible, and she’d made her way to her mother’s favourite restaurant.

The first thing she does when she arrives is order the biggest coffee she can, wanting to make sure she is as alert as she possibly could be. She’s barely sat down for 5 minutes when she hears her mother’s voice echoing around her.

“Emily,” she exclaims, stamping a kiss on each of Emily’s cheeks as she stands to greet her, “It’s good to see you,” she says, frowning as she pulls back, “Are you okay? You look exhausted.”

She suppresses an eye roll and clenches her teeth, wondering if it is too early to order a glass of wine, “Thanks, Mom,” she says as she takes her seat again, “Sammy is sick so we had a rough night.”

“Oh no,” Elizabeth says as she sits down, “Is he okay?”

Emily nods, “He’ll be fine, it’s just a bug Jack brought home from school. He’ll be okay in a day or two. He’s all about me when he’s sick though,” she says, unable to pretend she didn’t enjoy all the extra snuggles from her toddler who was seemingly always on the go these days, “So Aaron tried to help but I was up most the night.”

Elizabeth raises her eyebrows, “Well, if you didn’t coddle him so much he’d manage just fine I’m sure.”

She sucks in a deep breath and smiles tightly, knowing that the only way to stop herself from biting at the bait offered to her was to change the conversation. “How are you, Mom? How’s work?”

Her technique works, just as it always did, and she sits back and half listens as Elizabeth talks about work and the embassy. She checks her phone to make sure Aaron hasn’t attempted to contact her, and she smiles at the picture of Samuel and Jack that she has set as her wallpaper, the two of them giggling at something Aaron had said.

“You’ll never guess who I saw - Steve Clemente.”

Emily frowns, “Who?”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes, “Really, Emily. You’ve met the man at my Christmas party the last few years. He’s the President over at Primrose Academy.”

She hums and nods, “Of course, sorry,” she replies, sipping her coffee, “I remember now.”

“Well, I was able to get Samuel on the list for their Preschool programme,” she says, opening up her menu, missing the confusion that passes across Emily’s face, “We’re a bit late but this is why it pays to know people.”

“Sammy is 18 months old.”

Elizabeth sighs, “It’s like you’re being purposely obtuse today,” she says, shaking her head as she looks back up at her, “I know how old my grandson is, Emily. But the waiting list for these programmes is 2 years. It’s a very prestigious school.”

Emily presses her lips together and swallows thickly, preparing herself for an argument, “I appreciate the effort, Mom. But we’re not going to be sending him to private school.”

Elizabeth’s head snaps up, her eyebrows furrowed as she looks at her daughter, “Excuse me?”

“When the time comes we’re going to send him to the same preschool Jack went to,” she says, looking around for the waiter, the idea of a glass of wine with lunch more appealing than it had ever been, “It’s a great school.”

Elizabeth sighs, “Emily, Samuel has the benefit of the Prentiss name-”

“He’s a Hotchner,” she corrects, her smile tight as she stares at her mother.

“What?”

“Sammy. His surname is Hotchner, not Prentiss.”

“You’re being obtuse again, I know that too. But you seem to be ignoring the benefits your son has purely from who we are.”

The waiter chooses that moment to walk over, his smile kind as he starts to ask what they want to drink, a question Emily answers before he’s finished asking.

“Wine, please. A large glass.”

The waiter clears his throat, looking back and forth between the two of them, “Any particular one, ma’am?”

“Whichever one is closest.” ___

She smiles as she steps into her house, the tension automatically seeping from her shoulders the second the warmth of home washes over her. She hears cartoons coming from the living room and she walks in to find Jack sitting on the couch, his focus on the television.

“Hey sweetie,” she says as she leans over the back of the couch and kisses the top of his head, “Are you okay?”

He nods, barely looking away from his favourite show, “Yeah. How was grandma?”

“She was…” she scrunches her nose up and blows out a breath, “Grandma,” she smiles at him, “Where are Daddy and your brother?”

“Upstairs,” he replies, “Dad is trying to get Sammy to nap,” he shrugs at her, “It wasn’t going very well.”

She laughs and leans down to kiss his head again, “I’m going to go see if I can help,” she says, pushing his hair from his forehead, “We’re upstairs if you need us, okay?”

“Okay, Mom.”

She heads upstairs and smiles as she steps into the nursery, love spreading through her chest as she’s met with the image of her husband pacing back and forth, their grumpy toddler in his arms.

“Come on, buddy. You’ll feel better if you nap.”

“No,” Samuel grunts, rubbing his face against Aaron’s chest.

“Daddy’s right,” Emily says from the doorway, both of them looking at her at the same time, matching expressions on their faces, “You’ll feel better if you nap.”

“Mama!” Samuel exclaims, his lower lip pushed out in a pout as he reaches out for her, scrambling in Aaron’s arms.

“I’ve got you, baby,” she says, lifting him into her arms and kissing the top of his head, “Mama’s got you,” she looks up at her husband, “You’ve been giving Daddy a hard time whilst I’ve been gone?”

“Only you have the magic touch, it seems,” Aaron says, kissing the top of her head and then her lips as she tilts her head up, “How was lunch?”

She groans and runs her hand up and down Samuel’s back, “It was as expected,” she grumbles, turning her attention back to their son who was already a little calmer, “You want to get some sleep, sweet boy?”

“Not tired,” he complains, and Aaron hides a smile, a look in his eyes that lets her know exactly what he’s thinking.

He gets that from you.

“Well, I am,” she says, kissing his head again as she walks towards the loveseat in the corner of the room, “Why don’t we all just sit down for a little while.”

“‘kay,” he says, pressing his face against her neck as she sits down. She rests her cheek against the top of his head and rubs circles on his back, knowing it is a surefire way to get him to fall asleep.

Aaron joins them, his arm around her shoulders, and he pulls her closer, “Want to talk about it?”

She hums, “She mentioned getting Sammy onto a list for a private preschool.”

Aaron frowns, “He’s 18 months old.”

She chuckles, “That’s what I said too,” she replies before her smile slips away, “I made it clear that isn’t what we want but…” she blows out a shaky breath, “But then she made it clear she didn’t agree.”

He tightens his grip on her, his lips against her hairline as he blows out a slow breath, an obvious attempt to keep his cool, “What did she say, sweetheart?”

“She said I’m risking my kid's futures for the sake of being stubborn.”

He clenches his teeth and sighs, stamping a kiss against her head before he replies, “That’s not true, Em.”

“I know,” she sighs, shaking her head a little as she looks down at Samuel, the little boy halfway to sleep already, “At least I think I do,” she looks up at Aaron and offers a half-shrug, “I don’t know. I hated going to private school, and I want something different for the boys. But we could afford it,” she licks her lower lip, “Hell, we could afford to send half a dozen kids to private school all the way through to high school if we want to,” she raises an eyebrow at him when she watches something spark in his eyes, “Down boy,” she jokes and they share a smile, “We could afford it but…that doesn’t mean we should do it, does it?”

“Of course not, sweetheart,” he says, tucking some of her hair behind her ear, “We know what’s best for our children, not your mother, or an old friend of hers, but us,” he smiles softly, “And if we want to send Sammy and Jack to public school, or all half a dozen of them,” he winks when she rolls her eyes, “Then we will. And we can change our minds in the future if we want to. But you aren’t doing them a disservice or depriving them of something because you want them to have a different experience to you.”

She nods, leaning forward and pressing her forehead against his shoulder, “I know,” she says, believing this time, and she blows out a slow breath, “I just never felt like I could be myself at those places,” she says, “All that mattered was getting good grades and being the best,” she sighs contentedly when he kisses the top of her head, “I never want the boys to think that’s all they are good for.”

“They won’t,” he assures her, kissing her head one more time before he encourages her to look up at him, “You’re an excellent mom, Em,” he says, his smile growing as hers does, “Our boys are lucky to have you.”

She stamps a kiss against his lips, “They are lucky to have you too.”

He smiles and looks down, shaking his head slightly when he sees that Samuel is fast asleep, “He’s sleeping.”

She hums and looks at her son, his nose bright red and sore from where he’d been rubbing his fists against it, “Poor baby, was he okay whilst I was gone?”

Aaron nods, “He was fine, he missed you - but he always does when you’re not here,” he runs his fingers up and down her arm, drawing a soothing pattern as they silently agree to stay sitting there with their son for a while, “So, about this half a dozen kids-”

“Aaron.”

#hotchniss fanfic #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #emily prentiss fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotchniss fan fic #hotchniss fanfiction #aaron x emily #hotchniss

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whalesandstars · 1 year ago

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I FINALLY FINISHED MY FIC/MINI NOVEL AFTER 10000 YEARS ASDFGHJKDJ

You can get it for free here:

Platonic/familial, Nahida and Scaramouche Fan Novel PDF file format, 177 pages, with chapter art, plus free wallpaper

Synopsis:

She once dreamed of becoming a gold medalist figure skater like her mother, who died giving birth to her. But as it turned out, she was just a shadow of her mother’s dazzling radiance, a moon incomparable to the sun. After losing a series of competitions and facing the humiliation of being a failed successor to a legacy, Nahida decided to quit figure skating.

Although her love for the sport still lingered like undying embers, she was considering leaving the field altogether…

Until one day, she met a young man on the ice.

Determined to find a place for them in this world, she offered to become his coach and guided him through the world of being a figure skater.

"Two birds, rising from the ashes of their failures, Rose to greet the snowflakes and basked in the warmth of ice, As a coach and athlete, As souls dancing to the tune of purpose and self-acceptance."

Cover art by @ventique-genshin

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muse-write · 1 year ago

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The Starsail

Here's my Inklings Challenge (@inklings-challenge) for 2023! It's not exactly what I hoped it would be, but I don't see myself having much time to work on it over the next couple of days. I expect to be able to give it a more natural ending sometime soon, just not before the 21st, so look out for that.

Lieutenant Pekka met him at the atmospheric lock at the top of the gangway, saluting him sharply with the flat of his shimmering blade. “Welcome aboard, sir.”

“My ship in one piece, Thom?” Captain Vadya clapped him on the shoulder, the clang of his gauntlet star-hard against the links of the lieutenant’s mailshirt. Lieutenant Thom Pekka hurried after him as he moved up the deck toward his office, filtering through the list of data hovering in front of them at a practiced speed.

“Mostly, sir. The sails are fixed and replaced with new synthweave, the hull has been modified with facet-steel, and the kitchen has been restocked with…” He made a face. “…The best ration-packs the Center has to offer. Quite a treat to look forward to, I’m sure. That nebula-rip tore through some roping, but we’ve got men working on it.” When the Starsail had limped into Sula’s main war-port in front of the Center of Administrative Warfare, they had feared the repairs might take weeks. Captain Vadya blew out a sigh of relief and turned a quick grin onto his first lieutenant.

“If some roping is all we lost, Thom, I’m a happy star-knight.” He continued to his office, the data visualization scattering away from the interference of his passage through it, and Pekka, with fond exasperation, swiped it back together again and pocketed the projector.

“Where are we off to now, Captain?”

Nem Vadya paused in front of his door. “That’s a good question, Lieutenant. It’s one I won’t answer until we’re well on our way. Just trust me, huh?”

Pekka was quiet for a moment. He’d been friends with Vadya since they were children. His trust was hardly in doubt. “Another disagreement with the Admiral, sir?” This came out tentatively, with just a hint of distaste.

Vadya’s grin this time was a bit more strained, but no one could have noticed except Pekka. “Believe that if you want. Let’s just say…clear the records of our ship’s departure, and mask our trajectory. This mission is…perhaps not advised.”

Pekka’s knuckles whitened. “Heading for danger, sir?”

Vadya laughed now. “Danger finds me, Thom, I promise you!��

“Yes, of course, sir,” Pekka agreed, knowing when to pick his battles with Captain Nem Vadya and already mentally reviewing their medical inventory.

Nem Vadya shut the door to his office and leaned against it with a sigh. He was back on his ship, the familiar blue waves of his wallpaper greeting him, and the vastness of space stretching out past his window beyond the lights of the war-port. Still, he was full of nervous energy that wouldn't be relieved by the wonder of space.

He reached into the pocket of his synthweave cape and took out his mother’s note.

My dearest Nem, it read,

I and your father are proud of your accomplishments in Sula District 3974, and wish we could have been there to greet your return in Sula proper, but unfortunately we were called away by your grandfather’s most recent crisis of health. I shall send another note concerning his state as soon as I can.

Of more pressing concern is the second letter included in this envelope. It has been four years since Zyn was taken into custody of the King’s Police, and in all that time I have not been able to gain entrance to see or speak to him. In the included letter is what I and your father wish him to know. With your advanced stature in the King’s Armed Forces, I have hopes that you will be able to give this letter to him. I know your opinion of your brother, but have pity on the grief of a parent, and do what you can.

Vadya pursed his lips. Thus had been the purpose of his meeting with Admiral Jent, which had come to naught; visiting with Zyn Vadya, traitor of the Galactic King, was firmly prohibited. “You know the rules, dear boy,” the Admiral had said, softening a bit. “Traitors, especially to the extent of your poor brother, are sentenced to a solitary life. That is their punishment.”

Vadya knew the rules quite well; he had never once wished to break them, much less for the sake of his murderous younger brother. But this letter from his mother, while restrained and pleasant, carried her unique brand of desperation; he could practically see her composure cracking.

His father had added a short post-script:

Nem, all of the above. I love you. I trust you to do what is right.

Which was about as wordy as his father got. It made Vadya’s heart warm; his father likely had written those words with hands aching from pulling sheets of facet-steel from the compressor for ten hours, and he’d probably had his customary glass of takka immediately afterward.

Vadya sighed and brushed his hair behind his shoulders, staring out at the void of space they’d soon be setting off into. 400 lightyears away the prison planet of Wintral slowly burned itself up beside the ever-expanded sun of the same name. And on that planet sat his younger brother, one-time failed assassin and revolutionary. And since there was no way to legally get their parents’ letter to him through the right channels, well…

Vadya would be leading his crew in an attempted prison break.

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By 21:00, the small mess hall was full, even with only the 14 crew members he’d chosen to accompany him out of the usual 35. They had gathered for dinner and celebratory drinks, cheering finished repairs and a fine cast-off. The depths of space were too dangerous to have real alcohol on-board, but the War Center had provided the standard limited amount of ferment-packets, which provided an extremely short-lived buzz that felt nowhere near the same.

Vadya watched as men and women laughed and clanged metal cups together, staring through the atmospheric shields at the stars passing by at a sedate pace. Whether they knew where they were going, or what they were in for, they were pleased to be off-planet after a week of inactivity.

Vadya had spent that week meticulously planning.

The mess hall was small and hot, and his flight uniform was stifling, even with his hair pulled back. He fidgeted. On Wintral, the prison had to be ten times this uncomfortable.

The thought made him still. His appetite, already small to begin with, was gone completely. He picked at the freshest of the ration-packets, and he had been doing so for half an hour without making much of a dent when there was an outcry on the other side of the mess hall. Vadya sighed, already moving to rise as Pekka hurried over to him, his eyes wide and his face contorted in that expression that meant he was apologetic but too duty-bound not to go through with the action.

“Captain, sir, midshipman Temner has captured a stowaway, sir.”

Vadya paused. “A stowaway? How did they get past the sensor beacons on the gangway?”

Pekka shrugged helplessly. “You’ll have to ask her, sir.”

Her. That made a bit more sense; Sula was not a planet known for its kindness to women and girls. After a short hesitation, he unbelted his sword and blaster-holster and set them on his chair. Pekka paled. “Sir…”

“Leave it to me, Lieutenant,” Vadya said gently but firmly, and moved past him to join the huddle of bodies that had formed on the far wall. When they noticed their Captain approaching, his crew swiftly made room. It was enough to let him see the ‘her’ they were all so curious about.

She was a young woman, barely more than a teenager, perhaps 20, if that. She crouched by the wall, hands wrapped defensively around a small roll, one that had already been micro-risen. Her clothing was odd, not at all what someone should be wearing when the radiation of an atmospheric shield was all that separated them from the vacuum of space—a white blouse, plaid skirt, and sensible shoes were all well and good, but not on a starship.

This was all somewhat unimportant against the obscenities she was yelling at them. She directed these first at the largest of the men standing nearby, then more fiercely at Vadya as he approached. He stopped, belatedly realizing just how this might look to her, then after some deliberation he knelt a few feet in front of her. She went pale and her mouth snapped shut, teeth grinding together. Her glare remained as fierce as before.

Now that she was quiet, he took the opportunity to speak. “I’m Captain Nem Vadya. You’re on the starship Starsail. I hear you’re a stowaway?”

Her hands clenched around the roll she gripped. “I’m not supposed to be here,” she bit out. “You won’t believe me, but I’m not supposed to be in this world.” She bit her lip. “I swear, I’m only on this stupid ship so I can get home.”

“The Starsail’s not stupid,” Vadya corrected absently, turning her claim over in his mind. He’d heard stories in the far reaches of the system, tales of portals and wormholes, and after everything he’d experienced, someone coming from another world wasn’t the oddest thing out there. But was she telling the truth?

He observed her for a moment—her curly hair slipping out of its bow, her cheeks flushed with anger and panic, the tear-tracks almost hidden on her face—and abruptly decided it didn’t matter. She was here, after all, and he had his own mission, and they wouldn’t be going toward a portal in the far reaches of space any time soon. If she wanted to get home, she’d have to find another way. For now, she was stuck here.

“Why did you choose this ship?” he asked as gently as he could. No doubt Pekka was already tallying up the amount of rations one extra woman would use.

She gulped. “I don’t know, it was just…the closest one. I would only have one chance.” She glanced at the group behind him. “And there were women, so I thought…” She trailed off, but he saw her point.

“Well, unfortunately, you chose wrong. We aren’t headed toward a portal, or a wormhole, or anything that will allow you to get back home.” He met her dark eyes, noting the fear and anger and utter, utter bewilderment there, and wished he could comfort her. “I cannot tell you anything else. My crew trusts me. Will you?”

Tense silence.

It was broken in only a few seconds as Litt, the navigator shouldered his slight frame through the crowd. “And what business do we have with her, a stowaway who doesn’t even dress for a spaceflight?” Vadya observed Litt for a second. Belligerent and hotheaded he was, but not merciless, even as he glared at the girl. And Vadya saw his point. Taking stowaways on a dangerous journey into the edge of known space was not ideal, but there was nothing else to be done.

Turning from the girl, he addressed the crew. “Our business, Litt, is to take care of people who come running to us for help. We can’t take her back now, anyway.” The obvious reason his crew would come to was the time wasted, and he didn’t say the unspoken part out loud–that this spaceflight was completely off the record. “Ruka.” He singled out one of the female crewmembers, one he knew would be a stern companion but not an unkind one. “Take the girl and find her a suit and some real food. She’ll bunk with you in the womens’ cabins. She says from another world; please explain anything she needs to know, using your own discretion. And keep her safe; she chose perhaps the worst ship possible to make her escape in.”

The girl lifted her chin and met Vadya’s eyes. “And a weapon? Could I be permitted one of those?”

He surveyed her: slim, almost delicately weak. But only almost.

He liked to think he had an honorable crew, but he knew what young men were wont to do for long voyages away from their home planets. And this girl was terrified, of him not least. The least he could do to gain her trust was to show some back.

“Ruka, give her one of your knives.”

The knife Ruka offered was a sensible pocketknife, a cheap one of Prithane make but imminently serviceable. One Ruka and her interminable sense of duty wouldn’t feel badly about dying at the blade of. The girl took it, looking relieved.

Ruka started for the door, but before she followed her, the girl turned to Vadya. “My name is Cassia. And…thank you.”

~~~~~~

It would take them time to get to Wintral, as well as many stops to refuel. Though Pekka didn’t know their exact destination, Vadya had given him information enough to allow him to make an accurate list of fueling stations and their general trajectory. Those fueling stations would only get more infrequent as they reached the edges of known space. Pekka was flitting about here and there stamping out the myriad of crises that came with crewing a warship with a skeleton crew of 14.

In general, the first few days passed in a peace so uncharacteristic that it was almost boring, and the crew was getting restless. There had been entirely too much time to think about the state of their mission and the mysterious stowaway from another world quietly keeping to herself in the women’s dormitories.

Vadya himself was not exempt from this, and sometimes wished that Thom was a little less capable just so that he had something to do other than sit in his office and stew over his mother’s letter. A week into their mission, he summoned Cassia to his office. She appeared at his door dressed in the standard silver armored flight suit—not entirely necessary inside the pressurized cabins, but a useful precaution to take.

He had prepared a carafe of coffee and poured her some. “Cream?”

She hesitated, but she seemed less suspicious than she had the last time they’d met. “Please.”

“I guess Ruka has put in a good word for me,” he chuckled.

Cassia sipped the coffee in lieu of an answer. “Why have you called me here?”

Vadya sipped his own mug of coffee and gathered his thoughts. “How did you get to Sula?” he asked first.

Cassia’s fingers went white at the knuckles. “Please don’t answer my question with a question, Captain.”

Vadya observed her—the meticulously combed hair, the brown eyes set in a round, pretty face. There was nothing at all, beyond her dark hair and relative short stature, to set her apart from the Sulian people. “I and my crew are setting out on a particularly dangerous journey,” he relented finally. “I wonder if perhaps you’ve been sent to help us with it.”

She scoffed. “Help you? I was walking home from work looking forward to seeing my sister when a wind swept up around me and dumped me in the middle of a back alleyway. I thought I was still at home until I saw…one of your kind, whatever you are.” Her voice trembled a bit. “It was autumn at home. My favorite season.”

He didn’t know what that meant, but he put it aside for now. “So it wasn’t a portal or wormhole which brought you here.” Not one he’d ever seen, anyway.

Her eyes flashed. “Well, what else could have? I’ve read Lovecraft! Lewis!”

He had opened his mouth to respond when a horn sounded through the speakers in his office, followed by the sound of running footsteps and Thom bursting through the door to pant out, “A sonar-dragon, sir, to port!”

Vadya tensed and rose, coffee and Cassia forgotten. “How large?”

Thom turned grim. “Large enough. Drij shot it in the eye as soon as it turned up but it’s stubborn.”

“Well, thank the stars for Drij’s aim,” Vadya muttered, heading for his armor and assembling it. “The shields?”

“Weak but holding.”

“Recharge them to full power.” Atmospheric shields wouldn’t keep out a physical obstacle larger than a small asteroid, but if they tuned them right it might affect the sonar-dragon’s hearing. “Cassia, stay here.”

“Don’t worry,” he heard her mutter under her breath, “do you think I’d go out there?” He grabbed two pairs of deafeners on his way out and threw one to Thom, who paled but clipped them onto his ears. Vadya kept his in his hand until he’d strode out on deck and faced the chaos that awaited.

A skeleton crew was little match for a sonar-dragon, but they were putting up a fine struggle. Blasters and starswords combined made up a formidable armory, but the sonar-dragon, as stated, was large enough that a crew of 35 would have been hard-pressed to keep it at bay. Starry mist streamed from the hole Drij had gouged in its eye, but the other was bright and golden and stared down Vadya as soon as he exited the cabin.

Vadya ignored it for now, taking a glance over his ship. The main-mast was in one piece and the synthweave sails were intact, though that hastily-repaired roping was showing signs of strain and fraying. Through the deafeners, he couldn’t hear the chaos, but he could certainly see it—and Litt’s body lying still against the navigation center in the middle, a wound in his head bleeding freely.

Vadya’s anger burned cold. He had chosen these knights for a reason—they would be the least likely to have something to lose in the event they didn’t return. But he hadn’t intended to get any of them killed, and by a sonar-dragon, at that.

The atmospheric shields glimmered above them, visible now that they’d been recharged to full power. The effect on the dragon’s hearing he’d hoped for didn’t seem forthcoming. His heart sank: there was only one tried-and-true method to slaying a sonar-dragon. With another burst of sharp anger Vadya threw the deafeners onto the deck and met the dragon’s gaze.

The sonar call of the dragon, though just on the edge of hearing, resonated through him and the ship’s hull, a pitch scientists had fought to explain for years. Immediately, the dragon’s mind—if it could be called that, for it was a mind as much as a sonar-dragon was really a dragon—touched his, sliding and slithering through his emotions and pulling on them one by one. The anger was the first to go numb, and then the concern for his crew, and the burning curiosity about Cassia, and his concerns for the quest ahead.

Vadya stood there silently struggling not to protest throughout.

Then the dragon found his memories of his brother and pounced eagerly. There went the hatred, gone cold and fizzling in his chest, and then the confused anger, and then the despair, and then the small bit of worry Vadya hadn’t even realized had been there until it went dark. The dragon stumbled over the tiny burning flicker of love still remaining and grasped at it, a bit lethargically, sluggishly, to swallow up.

No, Vadya willed as strongly as he could, no, you will not have that.

And now that the dragon was thoroughly sated, finally full, had gotten its meal, it relented. It backed away from the ship. Before it could go, Vadya wrenched on that mental line connecting them, bound together with the sonar hum, dragged the dragon’s form close enough to him that he could see the galaxy that swirled in its one remaining eye, and stabbed his starsword through its temple.

The emotions the dragon had just swallowed up were released as it died, filled Vadya until his legs were weak with all of them at once, like someone had wrung out a sopping sponge straight into his nerves, and someone shoved Vadya’s discarded defeaners over his ears just in time, as the dragon let out an angry bellow, its pitch—reputedly—enough to knock an entire crew unconscious.

The form of the dragon fell still and silent, and after a few minutes Vadya took off his defeaners. The crew followed suit, and the next thing Vadya heard was the cheering. Drij slapped his shoulder, Ruka saluted him sharply, Pekka hovered anxiously.

Vadya took a couple of steps away, feeling more worn-out than he could remember even after his most hard-won battle. His legs threatened to collapse under him, and seeing it Pekka threw an arm around his shoulders to support him. Just before he let himself be led into his quarters, Vadya threw a look at the dragon’s corpse. “Get that thing off my ship.” His voice was a little monotone, but he couldn’t muster up anything beyond the weariness and jittery nerves that had overtaken him.

Pekka took him to his office, but moved past it into his actual room. Vadya groaned as he lowered himself gingerly down onto his bed. “That was more difficult than the Admiral’s stories made it sound,” he admitted, grateful to be sitting.

Pekka looked him in the eye. “You killed a sonar-dragon. A big one, too.”

Vadya shrugged uneasily. “Don’t mention it.”

“Oh, we will.”

Vadya realized belatedly that he was shuddering and that Pekka’s arm was still wrapped around his shoulders. “Do you need anything, Captain?” he asked quietly.

“Just…time,” Vadya replied, equally as quiet. At least he was able to put a little bit of inflection into that one. “Thom, don’t ever get your emotions dragged out of you and then pushed back in all at once.”

“I’d sleep it off if I were you,” came a voice from the doorway connected to his office. Cassia, true to her word, must have stayed back. She held out a cup of coffee. “Here. I can’t see how drinking something warm won’t help. Wish it was tea, but then, I’m British through and through.”

He pushed past all the extra confusion everything she said seemed to cause him and took the coffee. All told, it probably hadn’t been thirty minutes since he’d made the carafe, and it was still warm and pleasantly bitter. It energized him just a little bit. He turned to Pekka. “Go and make sure they’ve gotten that quantum-warped dragon off this ship. And, Thom…Litt?”

Pekka gave him a sad smile. “Dead on impact, sir. The dragon got him over the head.”

“Tonight, cryofreeze, then. I’m sure he went out fighting. His family deserves a real body to mourn when we get back.”

“Aye, sir.” Then Pekka, with a courteous nod at Cassia, went out into the hall, leaving the two of them alone.

Cassia tapped the hilt of her knife nervously, shifting her weight back and forth. For his part, Vadya sat still, sipping his coffee while he waited for her to speak and feeling his emotions resettle themselves gradually, each slipping back into its spot one by one. “What was that thing?” she asked finally.

Vadya tried to stand, but his legs were still shaky, so he lowered himself back onto the bed with as much dignity as he could. “Sonar-dragon. They’re hungry all the time. They feed on emotions. Hence…” His gesture encompassed the whole of him, sitting there shuddering in his room instead of commanding his ship. “They aren’t actually dragons,” he thought to add. “Just appear that way. They need a form, you see.”

“And…will we come across another one?” she asked.

“We didn’t think we’d come across that one,” he pointed out. “Wintral is just on the edge of explored space, as distant from civilization as you can get without shoving it into the unknown galaxies. After the next refuel, we’ll enter warpspeed and it should take us three years. Warpspeed will protect us a bit. I don’t know what’s going to happen beyond that.”

Cassia shook her head. “Warpspeed? What’s…no, you said we’ll be on this quest for three years? And you told no one?” Her voice sharpened. “I really did choose exactly the wrong ship to board, didn’t I?”

“Don’t get angry at me,” Vadya snapped back. “This is a Royal Sulian Warship, you should have gone for a merchant vessel if you wanted a nice relaxing ride to the next wormhole to throw yourself into.”

Cassia looked as though she had a response to that, but she bit her cheek. “What’s the real reason you’re doing this? Going to Wintral?”

Vadya closed his eyes. “It’s complicated.”

“And I’m stuck here for the next three years,” Cassia reminded him, “so I’d like to know what the plan is. And I think your crew would probably like to know why they won’t see their families for six years, and why they're down one.”

Vadya gritted his teeth, already regretting his decision to take in this strange girl. “I’ll tell you, because you deserve to know. But you won’t say a thing to my crew.”

He explained his mother’s letter, and went—briefly, because his emotions about it still hadn’t settled—into his brother’s history, and his intentions to bring him the letter, since the proper channels didn’t seem to be an option. Any other intentions he had he kept to himself.

The coffee was long since gone, and Cassia fiddled with her empty mug. “It’s not much of a plan,” she commented finally.

“I know how I’m going to get in and how I’m going to get out, and what I’m there to do. That’s all I need.”

Cassia brushed her hair behind her ear, her dark eyes serious. “Back at home, I was studying statistics. If I had the numbers I could tell you the odds of this working to a decimal point. Right now I'll at least hazard a guess that they wouldn’t be high.”

Vadya stared at nothing. “I don’t need the exit plan to work. It’s just going to be me in there, anyway. The crew will be able to escape.”

“And when it’s reported that Captain Nem Vadya of the Starsail has been arrested for a security breach?”

Vadya met her eyes. “I’ll be thrown in jail to be forgotten, my brother will have heard from his parents for the first time in seven years, and all 13 crewmembers on board this ship will be able to plead complete and utter innocence. If you tell anyone, you’re endangering their lives.”

#inklingschallenge #theme: visit the imprisoned #theme: shelter a stranger #genre: space travel #team: lewis #story: incomplete

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skylarmoon71 · 1 year ago

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Leonardo (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles)- Chapter 3

“Good morning (Y/N), would you mind helping me across the street.”

Your eyes lifted and despite yourself, you blushed.

The second they landed on the male you could feel your heart increase against your will.

See, you might have been oblivious to a lot, but this was different. The male that stood in front of you held a cane, sunglasses perched on his nose, and a smile on his face.

“O-Of course Mr. Murdock.”

Matt was somewhat of a family friend after he helped your father with a small legal matter. Although he lived a few blocks down, you’d known him since you were a child.

Hence your stupid crush.

“He’s twice your age!”

Technically. You were probably tripled his age with all the lives you’d outlived.

“How is your family?” Guiding him over the street you reply.

“They’re fine. Mom says you can stop by whenever you’re longing for something other than Chinese. “ He laughed.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Why couldn’t I have been reincarnated into an adult body!!”

Even his laughter was a crime.

Truth is, when you first met him, you hadn’t fully recognized him. Still, that didn’t deter your young mind on how attractive he was. Then you realize just who this man was.

Hell’s Kitchen’s very own Daredevil.

That seemed to spike your interest. Now every time you saw him you would lose all composure.

When you got across he released the hand from your shoulder.

“Thank you.” You nod.

“A-Anytime. See you around Mr. Murdock!”

You were speeding off, because your heart was about to constrict.

“I still have a few months. Calm down, you cursed organ!”

He definitely knows.

After school you make it back to your home. Your mother greets you, asking about your day. For some reason it feels easier. To be honest about what you experienced. Honest about how you feel.

“Peter sounds like a nice young man. Are you two friends then?”

Sitting at the table, you look down at your plate.

“I..I guess so.”

You’ve never really had friends. Never cared for something that you would ultimately lose.

“That’s great, sweetheart.”

Whenever she speaks, you can hear the subtle hint of pain in her words. You want nothing more than to quell those fears, but there is nothing that you can say. Because the time is literally counting down.

Several months and you’ll be nothing but a memory. A picture hanging on the wall. When you feel her hand covering yours on the table, and the smile she offers, somehow that thought floats away. You enjoy the moment, rather than dwelling on it.

After dinner you help clean up and you move to your room. You find yourself sitting by the window, just staring up at the sky. You hope that the constellations have some secret answer to your life. Your irises glow gold, and you blink at the shadow that casts over your window. The ring on your eyes disappears almost immediately.

“Still fighting crime I see.”

There isn’t a word, but then you see his arm as he pulls himself up. Leo sets himself right on the branch set outside your window.

“How did you know it was me?”

“You’re the only vigilante running around at this time of night who’s crazy enough to come back here.”

He smiles at that, and you open the window for him. He accepts the invitation, lowering his head as he steps inside. He surveys the space. He isn’t even shocked at the lack of posters or small trinkets you would expect from a normal teenage girl. Aside from the colored wallpaper and books, there is nothing personalized.

It’s a room of someone who doesn’t have attachments.

“How much longer do you have?”

That was not where you thought this conversation was going.

“Seven months.” Leo nods.

“So I have seven months to convince you that the human race isn’t completely irredeemable."

“What makes you think you can change what I’ve known for centuries in a matter of months.”

“Well, you never met me.”

“I thought Raph is supposed to be the self centered one.”

“Hah, you’re hilarious.” You smile at that.

“I’m sure you have better things to do that waste time on me.”

Leo takes a step closer to you.

“I don’t see any of the time I spend with you wasted. Especially given the circumstances.”

His earnest responses always throw you off. You direct your gaze elsewhere.

“What exactly do you have in mind?”

He grins.

“Glad you asked, follow me.”

He holds out his hand, and for a moment you just stare at it. This isn’t just a request to venture out there. By taking his hand, you know you’re taking a chance on feeling the pain of ultimately losing all of this when it’s time to move on. It’s a terrifying thought.

But for once, you don’t feel as terrified by it. You take his hand, and when he pulls you close, it feels like just a piece of you has changed.

#reincarnation #leo x reader #tmnt fluff #tmnt leonardo #feelings #newyork #crime #friends #family #brothers

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zimwritez · 2 years ago

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summer stars

WC: 2.1 K

Warnings/BYR: nothing!

A/N: hiii! this is my first story on here! i wanted just to test the waters with some pure fluff (plz read it), but there will be a part two with more suggestive/smut parts! let me know how you like it! <3

After coming in from loading up the moving truck, you stand in front of the off-white house, your eyes wandering over its familiar suburban facade. Memories of your younger years come flooding back as you take in the sight before you. It's been years since you last saw this house, before you left for college. As you take in your surroundings, you realize that you had almost forgotten its shape.

Stepping inside, you're greeted by the scent of roses that fills the air. Your mom has always been obsessed with these flowers, ever since you were a little girl. The scent is so familiar that every time you catch a whiff of it outside your house, you're hit with an odd sense of deja vu. But here, inside the house, the fragrance is overwhelming, as if it has been bottled up and released into the air. The living room is cluttered with boxes of all shapes and sizes, piled high in every corner. The cardboard smell of the boxes mingles with the sweet scent of roses, creating a strange, yet comforting aroma.

You had to come back home, out of the city, because of your dad’s hospitalization. Your mom has to move full time near the hospital because of your dad’s permanent residence there. He’s always had health problems, but they haven’t been this serious until now. You'll be spending the summer here too, in case anything happens.

As you move through the house, you notice how much has changed since you left for college. The furniture is different, the wallpaper has been replaced, and there are new curtains hanging in the windows. You step into your childhood bedroom, and even though the rest of the house is changed, this room seems to be stuck in time. The posters are still on the wall, the bed is still perfectly made, and the air seems still. You scan the picture frames on your dresser, each one holding a memory of days gone by. They're snapshots of a time when life was simpler, when your high school friends and you would spend hours laughing and making memories. The faces staring back at you are those of friends you barely even see anymore, people you once considered your closest allies. In the years since you graduated and parted ways for college, time has lapsed and made it difficult to stay in touch. It's a bittersweet feeling, realizing how easily life can pull people apart.

You focus on one particular picture, a small frame holding a picture of you and a boy around the age of six. You squint your eyes and furrow your eyebrows, trying to remember who he is. The picture is a bit faded, the edges of the frame worn and chipped with age.

Suddenly, it all comes back to you. It’s the boy that you live next door to. You were friends up until middle school when he randomly transferred to online school. Somehow, you can’t remember his name. It may have started with a K? A C? You're not too sure.

You hear your mother calling your name from downstairs. Sluggishly walking down the stairs, you see another slightly older woman standing in the kitchen. She’s wearing a pink, knitted sweater, which is odd because it’s so hot outside. She wears a genuine smile on her face, too.

“Oh, Hello Ma’am.” “Woooow~ You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman!”

You stutter for a moment, trying to remember if you’ve seen this lady before. She barely looks familiar. Thankfully, after almost a full minute of silence, your mom chimes in.

“This is Mrs. Ji, from next door. She’s going to be helping you out if you need anything while I’m gone helping your dad.”

It all clicks in your head. This must be the mom for the boy from before. You speak,

“Oh, thank you so much! I doubt I will need much, but it’s nice to know I have someone to lean on!”

“Yes..You must remember my son, right? Changmin? He’s home for the summer too!”

Bingo.

“Oh that’s nice, I’ll have to say hi sometime.”

There’s a silent agreement as your mom whisks you away to continue moving boxes into the U-Haul, you take a moment to look around the house that you once called home. Despite the bittersweet feeling of having to help your mom leave, you push aside your emotions and focus on the task at hand. You diligently continue packing boxes and loading them onto the U-Haul, trying to make the move as smooth as possible.

Hours pass by as you work tirelessly to finish packing up your belongings. You finally reach the end of the moving process, but you're left with only the bare necessities in your temporary home. The house won't be sold until you go back to college for the next fall semester, so you'll be staying in this old place for the next couple of months.

As you say your last goodbye to your mom and watch her drive away, you take a deep breath and feel a mix of emotions wash over you. Relief that the move is over, sadness that you're leaving your childhood home, and excitement for the new chapter of your life that lies ahead.

After, you decide to take some time for yourself and settle into the new house. You turn on a movie and make some popcorn, enjoying the familiar comfort of an old favorite. As you sit on the couch, you realize that even though this house is new and unfamiliar, it's slowly becoming a home.

When looking at the clock that reads 11:58, you start to drift off, getting sleepier and sleepier as the night goes on. Just then, you hear a quiet knock at your door. Scared and confused, you move towards the blinds to look outside, but you can’t see anything since it’s so dark. You were contemplating opening the door when you hear a whispered voice call out your first name, followed by the words,

“It’s Changmin! Open the door!”

Even more confused, you gently crack open the door, and finally get a look at the boy that you haven’t seen throughout all of these years…and he’s beautiful! A small tipped nose, cute round eyes and an oddly long neck, you stare in awed silence as you admire who’s in front of you, pushing the confusion aside.

“Uhh…Earth to Y/N?”

You snap back to reality, focusing your eyes on his slightly concerned expression. You finally speak,

“Sorry. What did you need? Was I being too loud?”

He thinks for a moment, and continues,

“No, It’s not that. Um..” He stalls. “Do you maybe wanna go somewhere?”

Confused, you ask,

“What do you mean?” “Like right now, we can go somewhere and talk. I know a spot and I’m bored and I really need some fresh air.”

As you hear the poor boy stumble over his words, you can sense his nervousness. Without a second thought, you compassionately say yes and quickly put on your shoes. As you step out of the door, you feel the cold nighttime wind hit your skin, bringing back memories of sneaking out as a freshman in high school. You can't help but feel a sense of childhood mystery in the air that used to be filled with overworked tiredness. Tonight feels different.

You take a look at the tall boy who is kicking rocks with his worn-out Converse as he walks. He seems to be focused on nothing but the ground, lost in thought. You notice his slightly sparkling brown eyes and hair that's tinted differently due to the orange-colored street lights. You feel a sudden urge to know more about him and say,

“So…”

“Ah, sorry…I don’t talk much”

“Yeah, you aren’t really like the kid I remembered you to be. You used to scream bloody murder all the time, scaring every parent around. You smiled all the time too.”

“Hey! I smile now, you just haven’t made me do that yet”.

“Oh…I see…That’s my job?”

Flustered, he spurts, “No! I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just trying to show how I’m a positive person”.

You both quietly laugh as you hear cicadas in the background, really exemplifying the mood of summer. It gets quiet again though, between the two of you that is, and after a few minutes, he speaks.

“I’m sorry about your dad”.

A little stunned with such a dark topic, you continue, “Oh…It’s okay. It’s always been like this”

“Yeah, I remember. It’s just gotten worse, and I feel bad”

“What do you have to feel bad for? You’re the one that got him sick or something?”

He almost gets offended, but laughs again. “No-no, I just want to make sure everyone’s okay”.

As the conversation between you and him continues, you can't help but feel a sweet yet slightly awkward vibe. It's strange to see someone who you haven't seen in years, especially since so much has changed within that time. You find yourself staring at him, trying to see if there's any trace of the person you knew all those years ago.

You remember the last time you saw him, and how different things were back then. The way he spoke, his mannerisms, and his interests all seem different now. However, despite the changes, you're grateful that he's turned out to be a decently good guy. For some reason, it gives you a sense of satisfaction.

“Oh here, this is what I wanted you to see”

He reaches for your hand and pulls you through a small section of woods, where you come out to see an amazing view. You’re at “The Cliffs”, the town's high point. You can see everyone and everything from up here, and the sunsets are beautiful. Right now, though, you see hundreds of lights, some of them shutting off as the people of the town go to sleep. It’s always been a place that’s tender to your heart, because you spent it with…

“Do you remember?”

You stall for a moment, frozen in your tracks. This is the place where you spent many nights with Changmin, sneaking out of your parents house to go watch the sunset. You would talk about childish things, and it always made you two feel closer.

“Of course I do. Thank you so much for bringing me here, again”.

He smiles shyly, looking out towards the horizon and taking a seat on a rocky edge. You can’t tell if it’s just you, but there’s so much energy to get to know him, or eachother. It’s like you want to make up all the time that you lost.

“So why did you disappear when highschool started?”

He looks up at you with those big brown eyes, that are slightly illuminated by the moonlight. He murmurs around for a minute, and speaks,

“Oh, It’s just because I didn’t really like school. The days started to drag in middle school and you were one of the only reasons why I went everyday. The bullying was bad so I just decided to drop it.”

You had known about the bullying before, and how bad it affected Changmin, but you can’t really change much now so there’s nothing to say. What shocked you was what he said before that. The way he said it so matter of factly was so shocking. He said it as if wanting to see you everyday was a normal thing, which you guess it was. You two were friends, and who wouldn’t want to see their best friend everyday, right?

“That’s nice…I mean! It’s not nice that you were getting bullied, it was nice that you felt comfortable enough to drop school.”

He laughs at your embarrassed expression. “It’s okay. Was it lonely without me?”

Sarcastically, you speak, “Oh my god, it was unbearable. The worst torture I’ve been through in my whole life.” You both laugh.

The silence was back, but it wasn't awkward anymore. It was like a giant wave of calmness washed over us, making everything right. The air was filled with unspoken thoughts and emotions, but it was a peaceful silence that we both welcomed.

Changmin's nervousness melted away and was replaced with a feeling of security and comfort. You could feel the trust he had in you, like he knew that he could open up to you about anything without any fear of judgment. You felt a sense of responsibility, but also gratefulness for having him in your life.

Sitting there under the stars, you both knew that this moment would change everything. It felt like the entire summer was full of new possibilities and a chance for a deeper connection between you two. The future felt uncertain, but there was an unspoken promise that hung in the air, luring you to take a leap into the unknown.

#the boyz #tbz #tbz scenarios #tbz q #tbz changmin #kpop #changmin #q #q tbz #tbz kpop #tbz fluff

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eclipsethemagic · 2 years ago

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CH 1. "Who are you?" (1)

"The season full of you is special even when it comes again."

⇆ ◁ ❚❚ ▷ ↻

The phone rings bring Yoongi out his thoughts as he stares at the the box television in front of him. The black and white images blinks from the screen, his mother walks over to the phone hanging against the cream wallpaper. The radio playing from the kitchen as she was getting ready to make dinner for the night. Kimchi fried rice, Yoongi's favorite. His mother has a short conversation, the only words Yoongi can make out is "yes." "No." "I haven't started." Which lets him know that she's taking to his father and he's on his way home.

Yoongi's lucky he lives the life he has. His parents work a lot for him, and the family they do have. He always felt like he had to work harder than others, him only being the only Asian kid in his class all his life with a few other people. He had a reputation to hold. His older brother on the other hand? Well he moved back to Korea, finding him a nice job in Seoul, working in a office like his father. Yoongi trails his eyes back to the television watching a show he never seen before but it takes his mind off of things before dinner.

Yoongi helps his mother set the table, his father walks in with his bag of papers, he sets his brown leather bag on the hard wooden floor and goes to take his brown hat off. Mr. Min was a good man, he had beautiful looks and a good brain. He worked hard, and so did his wife. "Welcome home dad." Yoongi says when his dad walks in the kitchen. His father smiles and ruffles Yoongi's dark brown hair and then goes to greet his wife with a kiss. They sit down for dinner shortly after, then they head to bed.

Yoongi walks to his room, after he got out the shower putting on his shorts and a shirt he found in his drawer. It was snowing outside, the first snow touching New York was breathtaking. The beautiful white snow covered the sidewalks, making Yoongi smile. He made a mental note to bring his gloves so him and the boys could build a snowman for the first time this year."Yoongi?" He hears his mother call his name. He turns away from the cold window and looks at his mother in the doorway. She was already in her sleeping gown, her black hair was up into some curlers and her silk bonnets over her head. "When you come home from school can you stop at the store and grab some more milk, oh and some more cigars for your dad." He gives a nod and she tells him good night closing his door for him.

The next morning wasn't easy as Yoongi walked to school. His book bag on his back, his hands inside his coat. The bitter New York cold made it hard for him to walk to school. Cars passed as people was on their way to work, the snow never stopping them for getting the money they needed for the coming up holiday. "Yoongi!" A voice yells from behind the pale boy. He stops walking and turns his head seeing a tall boy with dragon like eyes with bridge wide glasses on his face. His pants looked looked like high waters and the gray sweater he had on looked tight around his thin waist. He boy runs up to Yoongi, his thick boots crunching the snow at ever step he took. "Oh you waited? That's good for a second there I thought you'll treat me like one of those Drugstore cowboys." His friend says and they began walking again. They don't talk much, only asking each other how the others day was but nothing too serious.

"Are we going to build a snowman today Namjoon?" Yoongi ask his friend after they are close to the school. Namjoon shrugs and digs his hands into his pant pocket. "Last time we did that Hobi almost got Dip, and I don't wanna have to fight a Bruno again. Ma almost killed me." The image doesn't leave Yoongi's mind. He remembered it clear as day, that was the last time they actually played in the snow. Him, Hobi, and Namjoon was trying to build a snowman, it didn't snow hard enough but they still tried to do something. A guy, who they never met before came up to them and tried to take Hobi money. Namjoon stood up for him and let's just say it didn't end as peacefully as Yoongi hoped. As an Asian, you are targeted, everywhere you go, you become an instant outcast.

They walk to class, nothing saying a word. They had a rule, and rule one was when they walked in those long crowd halls was that they never talked. The more they blend in the better. Around Yoongi's second bell his other friends come around, which makes Yoongi feel calm. Rule two was that they could talk if everyone was around, if no one else wasn't then you couldn't. Why? Because if they said anything I'll make them an target. Yoongi didn't want to get jumped in the hallways again. Him, Hoseok and Namjoon walk into the cafeteria. It wasn't loud as it normally was, kids filled every area, music playing, girls talking loudly and food filled the big room. They go to there regular seats, eating as they begin to talk about random things that came to their minds. "Movies this weekend?" Hoseok ask his two friends as he goes to grab his water. Namjoon nods and Yoongi shrugs thinking of an answer. His eyes trail around the room and land on a person he never seen before. His heart beats, his pale cheeks feels hot as he stares at the boy down the cafeteria.

He had on a dark brown sweater, earrings in his ears. His eyes was dark brown and looked like you could get lost in them. His dark brown hair looked so fluffy and when he smiled Yoongi heart melts. "Who is that?" He mumbles never answering Hoseok question. Both his friends turn there heads meeting their eyes on who Yoongi is looking at. A little glee leaves Hoseok lips as he looks back at Yoongi. "That's Taehyung. The kid that bumped into you that one day on accident." He answers and Namjoon nods looking at his friend. "Why? You seem..lost in his eyes." That's because he was. Yoongi was lost in the poor boys eyes that he didn't know how to look away.

"You gotta look away yoons, he'll think we are being weird." Hoseok says and that makes Yoongi look at him. "Weird? Us? Stop being such a Beezer." Yoongi simply rolls his eyes and looks at his lunch. Maybe he wanted to get to know Taehyung. But how? Taehyung was bubbly and vibrant, while Yoongi was quiet and never talked much unless it was with Hoseok and Namjoon. You have to try Yoongi, it's not like you wanna date him. Right?

#bts #chapter 1 #90s

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doitwrite · 2 years ago

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One word prompt: note

Keys

She stares straight ahead. Her eyes are a cornflower blue, the way the ocean looks on a rich summer’s day. They are beautiful, but they are unseeing. Nevertheless, her hands dance across the shining white keys, quick and sure and striking every note perfectly. The crowd murmurs and admires from the darkness beneath the stage, marveling at her.

“How does she do it?” A man in a suit whispers to his wife. She mumbles back that some people are simply blessed, talented, born with innate ability. They turn back to watch her again, her golden hair glittering beneath the spotlight, her hands moving quick and sure and agile.

They don't know. None of them know.

She feels the smoothness of the keys beneath the pads of her fingers, roughened from striking the unforgiving coldness of the ivory again and again. She sees nothing. But she doesn’t need to. It’s as if her hands are magnetized to the next note—searching and finding in less than a moment, every motion coming quick and easy as the next breath.

***

It had been a cold, cold night. Mother had already gone to bed, exhausted from working two jobs, and the house was dark. She sat shivering on the hard, cold bench of the ragged piano in their shabby living room, wearing three layers of blankets on her lap. Her hands were so numb that she wouldn’t have known she was striking the keys had the sound of dissonant musical notes not floated from the splintering wood of the piano’s innards. Wrong notes, again. Her hands were clumsy, and she was so, so cold. She’d stared at the barren, peeling wallpaper and spoke, quietly. Aloud. Her voice was thin, a whispered wish in the white cloud that puffed from her chapped lips that was barely audible.

But it had been enough.

He’d appeared silently, eyes shining yellow in the dark, cloven hooves clopping softly on the worn floorboards. He offered, and she accepted. It was as simple as that, really. She had opened her eyes, now unseeing, the next morning, and felt no different. And yet everything had changed.

Concerts, competitions, a whirlwind of roses and praise and applause—no one could get enough of her, the little blind girl who could play like a concerto master. No more cold nights hunched in front of the splintering piano, no more mornings where she got up to be greeted by her mother’s ragged face. They lived in a nice house now, freshly painted and with huge windows that she couldn’t look out of as she played. But she could feel the warmth of the sunshine in the summer months, and hear the birds singing to each other in the morning, and that was enough.

***

Her hands came down for the last time, and the shivering echo of the last notes drifted into the concert hall. She could hear her own breath, her heartbeat in her ears.

And then the applause roared up.

#20 minutes #my prompt #writing #writing exercise

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may-attempts-to-write · 7 days ago

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Prologue

I woke up sweating, agitated. I blinked a couple of times and then I grabbed my phone, located under the pillow. It was almost five AM, too early to get up, but too late to go back to sleep. I sighed, tossing the device to the other side of the queen sized bed.

It happened again. I dreamed about her, for the fourth time this week. We went to the park, that little square near our house. It was summer, I think, the sun was shining brightly and dyed everything a golden tone. She ran ahead of me, laughing as her light brown hair fluttered behind her, turning to look at me and encouraging me to quicken my pace. "C'mon darling! Come! “she said, fixing her soft eyes on mine. They always told me I had my mother's eyes, and I never knew how to respond. I almost reached her, but she rushed onto the street, a scream arose from the laughter. My mother was lying on the cement, crushed by the wheels of a truck. I saw her brains scattered, the eyeballs protruding from the skull. All the neighbors came out of their houses, pointed their cell phone cameras at the scene, and then directed them at my face. A couple approached me, they asked me where my father was, I didn't know what to answer.

I stared at the ceiling for a while, deciding what the hell I would do next. It was a Saturday, so I had the whole day free, which meant only one thing: I was going out with friends. Actually, friend in singular. I have more than one, I'm not a loser, but they are quite different from each other and rarely hang out.

I got out of bed, as I took off the sheets I remembered that I should have changed them a week ago. They didn't smell bad; I could do it tomorrow. I didn't care about the state of the bedding, but I did care about my hair. No one would come to my room with the sole purpose of checking my (poor) hygiene, on the other hand, having long hair as a man makes me stand out quite a bit. I get bullied enough without being called “greasy” too.

After taking a shower and eating breakfast, I wrote to Kevin, my best friend.

“Do you want to come in the afternoon? I have something to show you, you're going to fall on your ass! “

It was still quite early; he was probably asleep. Although he is the most responsible person I know, he doesn't have this obsession with getting up early every day, he needs plenty of sleep.

I heard a couple of footsteps approaching the kitchen, shit. Quickly, I took the half-drunk glass of juice and walked quietly towards the stairs, his voice indicated that it was already late.

"Good morning," greeted my father, or as I like to call him, Dr. Dead Fetus Head. Obviously I don't use that nickname in front of him, at least not after that incident.

“Hello,” I responded quietly, calculating the remaining steps to get out of there.

“Do you have plans for today?”

Oh, now he wants to play the role of “present father”. I tried to hide a giggle, a crooked grimace appeared on my face. I turned to look at him, and as usual, I didn't think before speaking.

“Since when are you interested in what I do?”

He closed his eyelids, frustrated. It gave me an adrenaline rush to argue with him, to make him uncomfortable. It was the least I could do, I hated knowing that he emerged unscathed from all the family dramas while my mother was abandoned, exiled.

"Oh, I see you want to start the day off badly" he said, keeping his voice calm “. Do what you want, I don't care.”

With that said, I started to go down the stairs towards the basement. In the distance, he shouted “I'm going to play tennis with Roger, don't burn the house down!"

Yeah, sure, I wasn’t that stupid. I moved deeper into the basement, my refuge from the world. Years ago I took that space, after she left. I hung posters of all the bands I had heard up until then, and added other decorations as time went by.

Sitting on a beanbag, I looked at the wallpapered walls as if they were sacred paintings. Because that's what they represented, gods. Men who raised their voices, stomped their feet and created a kingdom of power, darkness, rebellion, etc. for all the marginalized. By doing so, by transporting us with their music into that space where one can feel unattainable, they became gods.

I always felt a comforting heaviness in my chest when I admired those images, seeing the strength of those men awakened something in me that was difficult for me to name. I decided to call it for what it probably was: admiration, venerating certain role models. What else could it be?

I glanced at my favorite guitar, an idea flashing through my mind and leaving my fingertips electrified. I grabbed the instrument, plugged it into the amps, and started playing. I left the volume at seventy percent, loud enough to bother my father, but not so loud that he would run down from the kitchen in his bathrobe and insult me.

I spent the rest of the morning rehearsing a new song, “Machinery of Torment.” Days ago I was trying to define what chords I would use for the verses, nothing sounded good enough.

#metal lords #hunter sylvester

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theoriginalyssa · 3 months ago

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a girl's last breakfast

a short story

Bones grounded into milk swim in glass cups placed at empty seats for guests that may not come. Glasses set atop saucers paired with teaspoons already dipped in honey, sitting not far are sugar cubes nestled in miniature ceramic baskets. A girlish woman watches her pitcher full of milk fill the last cup. Any hand would have failed at attempting her care, each drop begging to spill over. No shakes could be found in her soft steady hands. Firmness of her soul achieved from haunted echoes of spilt drinks she used to graced these halls with. Sounds from a time once covered in citrus wallpaper, now an asylum eggshell with bare wooden beams. Palmetto bugs sleep behind baseboards dirtied from time’s aged steps, waiting to collapse –waiting for it to finally rot.

Waiting for everyone to come for another dinner. Long tapered candlesticks lit, wax melting down onto candelabras made from thrifted shot glasses fixed straight with aluminum foil and jewelry wire for support. Plain paper crowns hung from the backs of each empty guest seat. Bowls of china were filled with glitter, sequins, tissue paper, pipe cleaners, markers across the length of the chocolate stained table. Every was to be fashioned for a victorian dusk, she awaited in theme: a nightgown made of baby’s breath, raw edges sewn over with lace trim, her hair smelling of rosemary slick with oil and all braided up –dead split ends tucked away– , fresh dew skin a shiny supple honey –an aura of trapped wisdom in such a young face–, calcium build up on smiling china soft teeth.

Time is supposed to be of the essence. Prepared food once warm has grown cold, the hours between sky’s darkness and light waning. Glasses full of milk have become lukewarm. Wax is beginning to melt on top of itself, dripping into baby puddles. No creases of worry have settled above or in the space separating her unkempt brows. She still believes they will show, circling the table to correct a seat, fix a glass, move a fork, all doing it enough times to make anyone feel sorry for themselves. But not her. She gazes outside behind floor to ceiling window panes overlooking an overgrown garden. Forgotten but once alive with laughter of friends that will be here any moment. This girlish woman watches her reflection float in her gaze. Vivid are eyes still full of curiosity framed by dark eye bags. Lips plump and puppetered by smile lines. Something that ought to be a woman living as a child. A wooden creak reaches her ears. Turning around in excitement, she sees her decorated table only seats the company of her own silence.

Quiet makes way for stunted bones of her home to creak. Sounds of a rough breeze passing through green leaves of bushes and trees are heard. A window opens, its rough awakening carrying a breeze swaying linen curtains. With her eyes closed she imagines the curtains to be the rustling nightgowns of her guests, window hinges forks and knives scratching plates, winded leaves just tissue paper being glued to paper crowns. Dawn’s muddied blue light is being swallowed by the cold yellow of morning. She reminisces on once having that same appetite, yearning to be born into a new day. She has no strength to do it: not enough to break the table, only enough to destroy her china. Her guilt in feigning want in starting anew curdles in the warmth of her belly. Thinking of a day when the sun will wrinkle her skin instead of burning it, her china soft teeth being lost to mother of pearl grins, endless cups of milk for water, coffee, tea –a terrifying dawn that will one day be in her horizon.

Sunrise touches her toes, sickness of a new day beginning to curdle her stomach full of milk. A resounding knock echoes from the front door. Quick as uncalloused feet can be, she becomes a flurry of lace and linen to greet her guests. They’ve decided to come, to stay for another meal, she thinks to herself. Unlocking the plenty of locks, a rush of mornings’ rough wind burdens itself into her home. Her guests were only branches and the wind. Tears well up in her eyes, a first wrinkle forming in between in her unkempt brows: no one is coming. They have no appetite for milk, no energy to make paper crowns, no reason to arrive. She shuts the door as rough as the wind tried opening it, stumbling back down the halls of her decaying home –a mess of tears and braids.

Suns’ orange glow has warmed the forgotten milk. Gone were her friends and their china soft teeth; They had all traded them in for pearl right before her eyes. Their reflections in windows must now show signs of someone living. They all had enough of overlooking their overgrown gardens, now wiping away morning condensation to see landscapers trimming their hedges. Lace linen gowns put away with the soft violence of a wrinkled hand stuffing it into a box labeled “hand-me-downs”. They’ve all choked on curdled juvenescence.

The girlish woman picks up a glass to let it smash against eggshell walls. Milk stains where it crashed, dripping down to a floor of glass shards. Pieces of her past stab the underbelly of untouched feet, piercing the veins waiting to burst. Her nightgown’s lace trim dyed crimson. Bringing a finger to the puddle, she baptizes herself under the sun of a new day.

~ Alyssa Q.

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celestialvexation-arch · 9 months ago

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Some entertainment for yall (and because I was bored)

Chapter 1 - The Man

Gray skies over looked the town as rain pitter pattered on the car window. Tommy gazed lazily, watching the buildings pass by one by one as they slowly disappeared

The memories of that fatal incident haunted Tommy as he could only remember a week ago of the late night movie marathon and the laughter over burnt meatloaf still fresh in his mind slowly being taken over with the smell of copper and sound of metal grinding in to each other

He was snapped out of his thoughts as something soft shifted on his lap he looked down and smiled at the guinea pig Pug gently he scratched the top of its head to comfort his little friend but he wasn't sure if it was necessary for Pug or Tommy who needed to comfort

"How's it going back there? Are you doing alright?"

Tommy looked up at the social worker, his auburn eyes meeting hers in the review mirror

"I guess"

Tommy gave a flat response, looking down to pet his little friend. The woman hummed in response, looking back at Tommy with sympathetic eyes

"I'm sorry about all of this, kiddo. I know how hard it must be for you, but I promise you'll be in safe hands"

Tommy didn't reply he chose to keep his gaze on Pug all around them. The scenery began to change what started as buildings upon buildings slowly turned into greenery trees upon trees

Tommy looked up and saw a rather large house it was intimidating as it was haunting. Tommy almost recoiled this will be the place he would be staying in from now on. This was his home now

As the car pulled to a stop, a nicely dressed man stood in front of the main entrance with his hands in his pockets. The social worker stepped out of the car to greet the man as they talked. The man's eyes landed on Tommy, his piercing blue eyes practically making Tommy freeze into place. He was unable to breathe slowly, and Tommy began to sink in his seat, not wanting to look at the man's gaze anymore

He closed his own eyes, wanting to wake up from this nightmare that is his new life he doesn't want this he wants his family back he wants to hear his father's voice and feel his mother's embrace and play with his younger sibling

He just wanted everything to go back to how it was before... before..

The car door swung open, startling Tommy. The woman smiled, but something about the smile didn't reach her eyes, almost as if she was tired of the same story as well

"It's Ok, Tommy. Your godfather will take good care of you, I promise"

Tommy slowly stepped out of the car. The man stepped towards Tommy, a sympathetic smile on his lips

"Tommy, wow, I haven't seen you since you were this big"

The man hovered his hand on the ground, almost trying to get a laugh out of Tommy, but it clearly failed

"Ah, you probably don't really remember me... " The man hummed almost as if thinking of something his blue eyes light up as he looked at Tommy with a much bigger smile

"Do you remember Christmas day where you met Santa? That was me. "

Tommy does recall a Christmas where his parents surprised him with Santa Claus he remembers Santa hand delivering his parents taking pictures with Santa on his lap and even kissing the man on his cheek

Despite Tommy remembering this, he couldn't recall the man from any of his other memories

The man must have picked this up because his smile depleted

"Let me help you get your stuff inside"

The man passed by Tommy, which sent a chill down his spine after waving goodbye to the social worker. Tommy stepped inside the house with the man. The inside of the house was more cold and intimidating than the outside the wall where a dark green wallpaper that looked as it hasn't been changed for a while and the floor was an even darker shade brown the lights where badly dimmed overall this wasn't his old home

"You could pick any room you want except the one in the far left that one is mine"

Tommy nodded as he took one of his suit cases out of the man's grip. Their hands brushed against each other, almost making Tommy recoil the man's hands where rough and unpleasantly warm

Tommy quickly took the suitcase and began to climb up the staircase when he heard the man yell

"You could call me Hal by the way I hope you and Pugs make yourselfs at home"

Tommy continued to make his way upstairs when he finally picked a room he shut the door behind him, fiddling with the lock as even the door was old when he finally managed to lock the door he places Pugs cage on the empty night stand he ploped himself on the bare mattress curling into himself he let out a quiet sob as he buried his face on the mattress but his tears stopped as a thought peirced his mind

How did he know what Pug's name was?

#Anonymous #👀👀👀👀

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livingwallverticalplanters · 1 year ago

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Transforming Spaces: The Magic of Living Plant Walls in Interior Design

Welcome to a world where walls come alive, not with paint or wallpaper, but with a burst of lush greenery that can change the entire vibe of a room. We're talking about the enchanting trend of living plant walls in interior design – a trend that's like giving your home a big, comforting hug from Mother Nature herself! & that is why we feel proud of being one of the best

Imagine stepping into your living room and being greeted by a vibrant tapestry of plants that seems to dance in the sunlight. Indoor & outdoor plant walls are not just decorations; they're natural works of art that breathe life into your spaces, literally! Let's explore the magic they bring to interior design, with a touch of fun and a splash of green.

Bringing the Outdoors In

Living plant walls are like bringing a slice of the great outdoors into your living space. They're not just for mansions with sprawling gardens – even cozy apartments can benefit. Take that dull corner in your bedroom; a living plant wall can instantly turn it into a cozy forest retreat, making you feel like you're waking up in a secret garden every morning.

Greenery Anywhere, Anytime

No need to worry about a lack of outdoor space. You can have your very own garden right inside your living room or kitchen! Have a wall that's been begging for attention? Turn it into a canvas for nature's palette. From herbs in the kitchen to soothing ferns in the living room, the possibilities are as vast as your imagination.

Green Wall, Good Vibes

Living plant walls aren't just about aesthetics; they're practically a spa day for your senses. Imagine being surrounded by the gentle rustling of leaves and the earthy scent of soil – it's a sensory escape without ever leaving your home. And the best part? These walls improve indoor air quality, making your space a haven of freshness.

A Garden of Creativity

Think of your living wall as a living, breathing canvas. You're the artist, and the plants are your paintbrushes. Experiment with arranging different types of plants – mix some evergreens with edible herbs, or throw in a few air plants for a touch of whimsy. There's no right or wrong; it's all about your personal green masterpiece.

From Faux to Fabulous

Don't have a green thumb? No problem! There are fake living wall plants that require zero maintenance. They're like your own secret garden that stays perpetually perfect, no matter how forgetful you are about watering.

Taking It Outside

Living plant walls aren't just for indoor spaces. If you've got a bare outdoor wall, consider transforming it into a living canvas that changes with the seasons. Imagine sipping your morning coffee on the patio while being serenaded by a chorus of fluttering leaves.

What are the Benefits of Indoor Plant Walls?

Indoor plant walls offer a plethora of benefits that extend beyond aesthetics:

Improved Air Quality: Plant walls act as natural air purifiers, removing toxins and releasing oxygen, resulting in fresher and healthier indoor air.

Enhanced Aesthetics: These living installations are visually captivating, adding a touch of nature's beauty to any space, making it more inviting and appealing.

Stress Reduction: Surrounding yourself with greenery has been linked to reduced stress levels and improved mental well-being, creating a more relaxing atmosphere.

Noise Reduction: Plant walls can also dampen noise, providing a quieter and more serene environment, especially in urban areas.

Temperature Regulation: Through a process called transpiration, plants release moisture, helping regulate indoor humidity levels and contributing to a comfortable atmosphere.

Why are Plant Walls Important?

Plant walls hold immense significance in creating healthier, more vibrant spaces:

Environmental Impact: They contribute to environmental sustainability by absorbing carbon dioxide, reducing the urban heat island effect, and promoting local biodiversity.

Well-Being: Plant walls positively affect human well-being by improving air quality, reducing stress, and enhancing overall mood and productivity.

Design Innovation: Plant walls allow for creative design expressions, transforming plain walls into dynamic living artworks that spark conversation.

What Material is Used for Plant Walls?

Plant walls are typically built using sturdy materials that provide support and irrigation for plants. Modular systems made of materials like metal or plastic are common, providing structure for plants to grow. The chosen material ensures the longevity and health of the plants while complementing the overall design. In the realm of interior design, where creativity meets nature's finest, the wall of plants stands as an embodiment of transformation. At we've embraced this enchanting trend wholeheartedly. Our commitment to innovative designs, nurtured by horticultural expertise, ensures that your living plant wall is not just a decoration but a living, thriving creation that brings nature's magic indoors. From precision engineering to installations tailored to your space, we're dedicated to crafting spaces that reflect the harmony of greenery and design. So, whether you're embarking on a journey of relaxation, enhancing your surroundings, or seeking the pure joy of connecting with nature, our living plant walls and comprehensive services are here to usher in a world of transformation and enchantment. Welcome to a space where walls truly come alive!

#vertical living wall planters #vetical planters #indoor living wall planters #outdoor living wall planters

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herpoetryshelf · 2 years ago

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[Blog #5] Fall 2022, Bishop, Limón & Stevens

Beginning this week, I will be reviewing individual poems rather than collections. My Contemporary Poetry Seminar professor only assigned 4 poetry books for that course; the rest were individual poems.

Today, I am comparing and contrasting Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Fish,” Ada Limón's “The Conditional” and Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” by using my professor’s T.R.I.F.F.I.D. method

Before I analyze the similarities and differences between those three poems, I would love to greet anyone who happens to stumble upon this blog post.

This is the link to my first blog post on Ada Limón's The Carrying (2018):

My Contemporary Poetry Seminar professor assigned a poetry book collection or individual poems every other week. My main objective was to dissect a few poems (4-5) that left an impression on me while using his T.R.I.F.F.I.D. method.

Tone: the voice, mood, or attitude the reader believes the author is conveying through subject and word choice.

Rhythm: the pattern and beat between the stressed and unstressed word syllables.

Imagery: the details told through the five senses (touch aka physical, sound aka auditory, sight aka visual, taste aka gustatory and smell aka olfactory).

Figure: or figure of speech, is the non-literal expression of language. Figures of speech include hyperbole, irony, metaphor, simile, anaphora, antithesis and chiasmus.

Form: the way a poem is presented on paper or a screen. Think of how the author physically shapes the poem -- the use of dialogue, line spacing, paragraph breaks, rhythms and patterns.

Idea Density: how the author expresses their ideas throughout their poem. Can be literal (concrete) and/or figurative (vague or hidden).

Diction: the word choice and arrangement within a piece.

Our first subject is Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Fish” (1946):

Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Fish” leans on visual imagery to create an air of mystique, wonder, and empathy for the titled fish.

For example, we are shown visuals through the metaphors and environmental resemblances Bishop utilizes to describe the fish in intricate details:

He hung a grunting weight,

battered and venerable

and homely. Here and there

his brown skin hung in strips

like ancient wallpaper,

and its pattern of darker brown

was like wallpaper:

shapes like full-blown roses

stained and lost through age.

He was speckled with barnacles,

fine rosettes of lime,

and infested

with tiny white sea-lice,

and underneath two or three

rags of green weed hung down. (9-21)

Here, Bishop incorporates these visuals such as ‘ancient wallpaper’ and environmental infestations to show how long said fish spent in the water-- its survival until the narrator captured it.

Ada Limón's “The Conditional” (2020) uses visual imagery to transform every day/known objects into outlandish metaphors to convey a sense of ‘staying together’ no matter how crazy/apocalyptic life becomes.

For example, Limón shows us the visual images through the bizarre ‘what ifs’/outcomes of a known entity/idea (non-human) such as the moon and the sun:

Say tomorrow doesn't come.

Say the moon becomes an icy pit.

Say the sweet-gum tree is petrified.

Say the sun's a foul black tire fire.

Say the owl's eyes are pinpricks.

Say the raccoon's a hot tar stain.

Say the shirt's plastic ditch-litter.

Say the kitchen's a cow's corpse. (1-8)

It is in these visual images of these known and transformed concepts that we are encouraged to see the world differently.

Though Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” (1917) conveys visual imagery, it also incorporates many indescribable/indefinite ideas that give the poem a realistic, grounded feeling.

For example, we are given big concepts such as minds and beauty in between the visual imagery of the blackbird or the environmental:

Among twenty snowy mountains,

The only moving thing

Was the eye of the blackbird.

I was of three minds,

Like a tree

In which there are three blackbirds.

III

The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.

It was a small part of the pantomime.

A man and a woman

Are one.

A man and a woman and a blackbird

Are one.

I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of inflections

Or the beauty of innuendoes,

The blackbird whistling

Or just after. (1-17)

What have I learned from all three poems?

Overall, I believe Bishop and Limón's poems are more similar to one another, since both women showcase their ideas through visual metaphors and descriptions.

Stevens, on the other hand, grounds his poem in a more realistic place as he relies on prose writing and limitless concepts. In a way, Bishop and Limón's big use of visuals makes their poem seem livelier and colorful, whereas Stevens gives an air of silences and muteness.

Despite the 74-year difference between Bishop and Limón's poem, their similarities convey the lasting power of certain poetic techniques -- imagery.

Who are Elizabeth Bishop, Ada Limón and Wallace Stevens?

Both Bishop and Stevens are Limón's predecessors: Bishop won an Academy Fellowship and served as one of the Chancellors of the Academy of American Poets organization, whereas Stevens won a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for his Collected Poems (1955) poetry collection.

Limón, as mentioned in her personal blog post, is currently the 24th Poet Laureate of the United States.

For more information and poetry by Bishop, Limón and Stevens, check out the links below:

Lastly, are there any poems from different poets -- despite their varying topic(s) and theme(s) -- that share similar tones, imageries, figure of speeches, etc.?

Feel free to comment some below!

#poetry review #poetry book #poetry recs #Elizabeth Bishop #Ada Limón #Wallace Stevens #poems

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