#rev singing love poems

[comet160]

HELLO?????

[suffering-is-cute]

I don't understand or remember you sometimes, and your soul is unfamiliar to mine, but we've shared the soup. Minestrone stains. Crumbs from that time I broke bread in bed. Tomato under a corner. We've shared the soup. Imprints of you in me.

why else would I write poems?

I forgive myself for wanting to love you so badly i lied about it. I forgive you for pretending to believe it. Distance will blur everything. You can fly now. Still, come back to see me sometime. I think you'll still miss me, so I'll meet you by the gate where the cornflowers, long grass, and thistles grow.

You can pick some of the miniature violets. You planted them, afterall.

I'll play you couplets and you'll read me cello. Maybe one day we can write a beautifully messy, entirely distracted script together and the notations will be written in soft black ink the colour of berries. I'll hum the tune under my breath when I'm alone at home and you'll play it on guitar on a bench at a bar on your holiday and when pressed for more information we'll tell the birds and the drunkards who hear that this is a song we wrote together to sing as a duet,

as a couple,

to an audience.

and when we meet again, when you come home, we'll turn our faces away from each other and pretend to have forgotten ever writing such a song whilst making pointed references to it and refusing to look at each other while trying not to mutter and whisper the lyrics under our breath.

And we'll get drunk on cooking alcohol in the kitchen while our German potato pancakes burn and curse out the local politicians with no lock on our door, the car engine revving outdoors, and the birds chirping at a twilight that seems entirely too rowdy for just the two of us in a house more like a barn with gaps in the wooden steel-banded door. You'll sit on the step and give me a long look and I'll stand in the doorway and fall over immediately, wobbly as a horrid

drunk, and you'll let me fall in the mud without catching me.

the mud will splash on you too and then, then you'll pull me up with one hand and drunk, you'll whine a soft growl into my ear and we'll giggle like kids, again - again, when the sun starts to set and we get inside to shower and sober. Sober, we might do something inexplicable. We might watch TV together with the fuzzy static on the channel and one of your hands on mine, the other holding up the remote as you surf focused through the channels, tilting your chin in concentration. I'll have my leg linked over yours and the other foot on the coffee table and we'll lean over each other to savour the only warmth we've had in a long time and sabotage our relationship.

whatever I have with you, I cherish it, even when I can't name it. Especially because I can't name it. I feel like what I have with you defies naming. And that makes me happy.

happier than I've been in a long time. Being with you helps.

inspired by @viverid 's poetry

[tilbageidanmark]

Movies I watched this week (#186):

“How can Zuckemborg let this happen?…”

Thelma (2024) is a lightly-paced, adorable comedy about a strong-willed 93-year-old June Squibb, who's scammed of some money, and is determined to get it back. I loved it because she reminds me of my own independent mother (94), and because we need more non-condensending movies about really old people. Also starring very old Shaft (Richard Roundtree) in his final role, very old Alex deLarge with an oxygen tank, and as 'Winston', the very same guy from 'Focus Group'. 9/10.

🍿

Last week I discovered British auteur Terence Davies, and saw 5 of his movies. Distant Voices, Still Lives (1988) is the first feature he directed, another period piece based on his own tortured youth in poor working class Liverpool of the 1950's. With abusive father Peter Postlethwaite, his traumatic memories remain bearable only when he reflects on the other members of his family. They only survive because they can sing. Unvarnished pub-life, where the rituals of drinking, and carrying on together transcend. No wonder the British film critics hold this film is such high esteem.

🍿

2 by Yugoslav Zvonimir Berković:

🍿 My apartment (1963), a young girl narrates her impressions of moving into a new apartment. A lovely snapshot of post-war realism.

🍿 Rondo was decidedly not what you would expect from socialist entertainment of that time. A psychological play of ménage à trois between a sculpturer, his wife, and a judge who starts as a chess partner to the man, becomes a friend of the two, and then seduces the woman. It was interesting, but eventually became unfocused. The actress, Milena Dravić, was one of these pretty European divas from the 1960's. 5/10.

🍿

My 17th & 18th by Agnès Varda, both about Parisian streets:

🍿 Varda made Daguerréotypes in 1976, when she had to stay at home with her baby. So she shot around the street where she lived, 90 meters on each side. It's basically the life of the little stores, and the customers who visit them. The local boulangerie, plumber, hardware store, butcher, accordion repairman, the small grocery, perfume maker and barber. Also, a driving instructor and a magician who dropped by for a show. Absolutely beautiful.

🍿 L'opéra-mouffe (Or as it was called in English Diary of a pregnant woman), one of her own favourite films, is a wordless, impressionistic poem about the Rue Mouffetard street market. What a great photographer eye she had! Lovely visuals with lovely-as-always score by Georges Delerue. Perfect! 9/10. [*Female Director*]

🍿

Three ages (1923), the first feature Buster Keaton wrote, directed, produced, and starred in. A 3 part anthology about love, repeating the same story during the "stone age", Roman times, and at present. The Stone age predate The Flintstones aesthetics. Includes some great, classic gags.

🍿

2 Nordic Noir (both from 1949):

🍿 Another classic Danish Noir from their most prolific period of the 40's and 50's, John and Irene is about a pair of small time ballroom dancers who travel all across Scandinavia, struggling to make a living. The woman, Bodil Kjer, is tired of their hardship, the man is naive and tries his best. Her unhappiness, and yes, nagging, driving over the edge. It's dark and tragic, dealing with powerlessness in a slightly different way.

🍿The debut film by Edith Carlmar, Death Is a Caress was the first Norwegian film directed by a woman. It used the same framing devise of flashback confession, and told again of an obsessive, ill-suited love affair. This time between a young auto mechanic and an older wealthy femme fatale. But it was weak and completely unconvincing. [*Female Director*]

🍿

Watching John Wick (after reading this fluff piece on GQ about the saintly Keanu Reeves). They killed his dog, so he seeks revenge on the evil Russians, check. I am not the target audience for this type of action flicks. But it's filled with nothing but male cinematic cliches: The Mustangs always revs, Whiskey for breakfast, it always rain during funerals, and the video game-action, wow, the action... 2/10.

🍿

2 shorts about pussies:

🍿 Pussy (2016) is a line-drawn animated short about a woman who relaxes alone at home, decides to smoke some pot and play with herself in the bath. Delightfully funny first film for a young Polish maker. Sweetest NSFW film of the week! [*Female Director*].

🍿 Pussy's Breakfast, a fantastic 1905 film about a girl and her cat eating breakfast, enhanced and colorized version. 9/10.

🍿

3 horrifying documentaries:

🍿 "Why have you avoided confronting your family past?"

I've been obsessively thinking about the Nazi "Final Solution" for 50+ years, so I've come to despised most movies about the holocaust. 'The Zone of interest' was different, because it tackled the subject soberly, with unsentimental brutally. Now comes the new documentary The Commandant's Shadow, which is like a companion piece to 'Zone', tackling the same topic, Rudolf Höss’ family life. But it approaches it from a different angle: The generational trauma suffered (only partially by his son who's 87 now) but mostly by his grandson. And it contrasts that with a parallel story about a Jewish survivor, now 98, and her adult daughter. Together, these four deal with the burden of knowledge, shared guilt over unspeakable horror that was not of their doing, but which cannot be diluted even after 80 years. It features (new-to-me) footage from inside the camp, including many of the selection. Harrowing and hard. 9/10. [*Female Director*]. [Screenshot Above].

🍿 Retribution, "Investigating Trump, Project 2025 and the future of the United States". A scary Australian doc. which was released just after the assassination attack on Trump, so it's very current. They interview both critics as well as some of the proud architects of Project 2025. Absorbing, alarming and well-done. 8/10.

🍿 People You May Know (2020) is about Cambridge Analytical, and the misinformation warfare conducted by the ultra-right with the help of Big Data. How the The Council for National Policy and others brainwash and radicalize evangelical Christians, in order to merge State and Church. It's highly disturbing and mostly-known information, but it was done in a sloppy, amateurish way.

I must stop watching documentaries about religion - It does nothing but aggravate me!

(These last two were found on a list by Mara Einstein, a professor of media studies with a specialty in religion and cults. She recommends the documentary 'Bad Faith' as the best documentary on the subject. Having seen it recently, I agree.)

🍿

3 more by Russian Aleksandr Petrov:

🍿 Petrov is a Russian animator who employs pastel oil paints on individual glass plates, a tedious process which causes his films to look dreamlike and surrealistic. He usually tells stories with old-fashioned agrarian themes, like classic Russian literature. I previously saw his Oscar winner 'The old man and the sea'.

The Dream of a Ridiculous Man is based on a Dostoevsky story, and is narrated by Alexander Kaidanovsky ("Stalker"). A suicidal man finds a reason to carry on after meeting a little girl. Fantastic hallucinations. 8/10.

🍿 My love, a romantic story about a boy and two young girls, done in the same dreamy style. It was released by Ghibli Studio, as they expanded their world-cinema offerings.

🍿 The cow (1989) is a symbolic little story about a village boy and his cow. Nominated for an Oscar.

🍿

A bunch more short films:

🍿 Larisa is a tribute to filmmaker Larisa Shepitko, made in 1980, a year after she died in a car accident at the age of 40. It's my first film by her husband, Elem Klimov. (I know! I couldn't make myself watch his 'Come and see', but now I'll see that, as well as her 'The Ascent')

🍿 Students at an Hungarian film school were shown a black & white photo of three peasant women standing all looking outside the frame, and were told to write a short story about it. Wind ("Szél", 1996) is the award-winning, stunning result.

🍿 In All the World's Memory (1956) Alain Resnais explored the Bibliothèque nationale de France, the enormous depository of everything that was ever published in France, as well as extensive collections of manuscripts, artworks, and priceless historical artifacts. As a record, it's rudimentary, and at 21 min. too short. But now I want to see a newer, better film about the topic. This National Library must be one of the greatest institutions in the world.

🍿 The French An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge won the 1963 Oscars. It is based on the Civil War writer Ambrose Bierce's story. A man is about to be hanged from a bridge, and his life flashes in front of his eyes before his neck breaks.

🍿 The Life and Death of 9413, a Hollywood Extra was a renowned avant-garde short from 1928, one of the few experimental silent film to receive general distribution. It was famously made for a total of $97 in German Expressionistic style, and was the first film shot by Gregg Toland.

🍿 "...It was time for secret games and conspiracies. The workers were ready to rebel. They had learnt a new word... Exploitation. Strangely enough, the three leaders of this underground movement went missing over a year. Rajan Shreshta, Narbu Lama, Charmie Gurung..."

Six Strands is a poetic Bengali story about mysterious, lonely lady who produces the most expensive Darjeeling tea in the world. It opens like a loving, magical nature documentary, but turns into a subtle, symbolic political manifesto. 8/10. Now I must see his award-winning feature 'Court'!

🍿 Outside in, a personal diary by an Irish filmmaker about the surreal experience of living in New York during Covid, when the the city was shut down and the streets were empty. Well done. 7/10.

🍿 A supercut of movie scenes that feature eggs, from a YouTuber named Patrick Tommaso. The list is here. Now I want eggs.

🍿 Stanley Pickle, a strange British short, with even stranger pixilation-type animation, about an automated boy who lives in the middle of nowhere. [*Female Director*]

(I also dreamt that I was running a marathon carrying two heavy backpacks, and that it was like watching myself actually doing it in a movie, but it was very difficult, and fortunately after a long while, I woke up…)

🍿

"Haben sie Homer und Peter mit Chevron pump?"

Because of this clip, I watched my first few episodes of Family guy, pulled randomly out of a list. S2E3, S4E1, S9E7, S11E4, S13E1, S17E11 .. I could easily add some more. Seth MacFarlane must be a fun guy to hang around and crack jokes with. Lots of gross-inappropriate sex and drugs jokes. I'm not too familiar with much Adult Animation otherwise.

🍿  

(My complete movie list is here).

[delicateartisantrash]

"Song of War" - Poetry for Megs

Written as a poem for Megatron to claim authorship of in one of my possibly way too many stories. I'm working on a Cybertronian translation to then sing and turn it into an alien song \o/ we'll see how that turns out. If it sucks, I ain't posting it sorry XD

If you don't wanna see my poetry, my tag for it is "DatPoetryTho"

“Song of War”

Oh, the tonal Sound

that reaches ever deep;

across the mires of Death’s decay,

and through the inner guard;

I hear your call, old friend;

once more we sound the beat,

and rev the engines loud;

the chorus to your Song;

Oh, the tonal Sound

the same in victory or defeat;

the difference only stemming,

from who listens and who Sings

I hear your call, my friend;

the sound of war and grief;

and never I shall ever hear,

a Song so bittersweet.

Oh, the tonal Sound

that haunts and clings and seeps,

of Sparks' harmonics ended,

Songs of War, made from their notes.

Oh, truly am I wretched

for I love to hear the Song

that reaches ever deep;

across the mire’s of Death’s decay,

and through the inner guard.

~DelicateArtisanTrash 2024

[riverdamien]

The Ground of Our Being

The Ground of Our Being!

"God is not found in the soul by adding anything, but by a process of subtraction." —Meister Eckhart, sermon on Romans 8:18 

In his writings and sermons, medieval mystic Meister Eckhart (1260–1327) counseled detachment from anything that would separate us from God, whom he understood as the very ground of our being.

I am coming to the end of my three week break, a time of weeping over four young men who died, and of weeping over how the crackdown by the Mayor and Governor are effecting people on the street.

My colleague Rev. Keenan Kelsey use to say to me, "You have a different message than me and others." What she was saying in other words is that I am called to "Bear witness!

To bear witness to the words of Philip Berrigan, "The institutional  church is a major bureaucracy and major bureaucracies are disobedient to the Gospel."  Bearing witness of one who is "outside the gates", as the book of Hebrews tells us.

I bear witness in saying that "presence" and truly "listening" are the cornerstones of spirituality.

Simply living in the present moment,  being present, and "listening" to others deeply.

We live so far in the future worrying about "everything" and we spend all of our time on social media we lose sight of the pain of the person next to us.

Finally, bearing witness that we should  be present to the people on the street, and stop counting on the government, National Guard and police of "solving the problem."

Instead go out, see people as simply human beings and listen to them, simply listen. As Jesus tells us "Become like a little child," and listen deeply.

I close with a poem of unknown origins that sums up a way of life, a way of being present, of  finding the "ground of our being.":

"Dance as if no one were watching, sing as if no one were listening, and love everything as if were your last day."

--------------------

Fr. River Damien Sims, sfw, D.Min., D.S.T.

P.O. Box 642656

San Francisco, CA 94164

www.temenos.org

415-305-2124

[yhwhrulz]

Today's Daily Encounter 28th September 2022

Beloved Hymns: Trust and Obey

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and do not lean on your own understanding.

In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.”1

Daniel B. Towner, who wrote the melody to this song, began his career as a worship leader in New York. He had studied with some of the finest musicians and served in several different churches, before finally traveling with D.L. Moody. He once explained how this hymn came to be written:

“Mr. Moody was preaching at several meetings in Massachusetts, and I had the pleasure of singing for him there. One night a young man rose to give a testimony and said, “I'm not quite sure— but I'm going to trust, and I'm going to obey.” I jotted that sentence down, and sent it with the little story to Rev. J.H. Sammis, a presbyterian minister.”

Sammis wrote a poem based on the phrase “trust and obey'' and sent it back to Towner who went to work on the music. However, he soon grew discouraged and one evening in his home, he crumpled up the paper and threw the manuscript into the wastebasket. The next morning, as his wife was straightening his office, she retrieved the crumpled paper and sang over the words and melody to herself. She set it on the organ and encouraged her husband to work on it some more, telling him, “I feel the melody you have written is just what is needed to carry the message”. She was right.

In 1893, Dr. Towner became head of the Music Department of the Moody Bible Institute of Chicago where he trained hundreds of young people to lead worship and minister to the Lord in music. He wrote the melodies of some of our favorite hymns and also compiled 14 hymn books, and wrote several textbooks. He continued faithfully serving in worship until he died of a seizure at age 70, while leading singing in Revival meetings at Longwood, Missouri.

When we walk with the Lord in the light of his word, what a glory he sheds on our way!

While we do his good will, he abides with us still, and with all who will trust and obey.

Trust and Obey, for there's no other way to be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.2

Suggested Prayer: Dear God, it is easy to grow discouraged in these times when no one wants to hear of your love for them. But, today I choose to trust your promises and obey your word; I know you will always lead me. You will fill me with joy as I delight in your presence! In Jesus’ name, Amen. 1. Proverbs 3:5-6 (ESV). 2. “Trust and Obey” Hymn by, John H. Sammis; Music by, Daniel B. Towner (1887)

Today’s Encounter was written by: Veronica B.

NOTE: If you would like to accept God's forgiveness for all your sins and His invitation for a full pardon Click on: http://www.actsweb.org/invitation.php. Or if you would like to re-commit your life to Jesus Christ, please click on http://www.actsweb.org/decision.php to note this.

Daily Encounter is published at no charge by ACTS International, a non-profit organization, and made possible through the donations of interested friends. Donations can be sent at: http://www.actscom.com

ACTS International P.O. Box 73545 San Clemente, California 92673-0119 U.S.A.

Phone: 949-940-9050 http://www.actsweb.org

Copyright (c) 2016 by ACTS International.

When copying or forwarding include the following: "Daily Encounter by Richard (Dick) Innes (c) 2016 ACTS International.

[solargeist]

oogh now hang on.

there's a night where Rev finds himself back in Pogtopia. there's cracks all over the walls--of course there are--as he wanders. something's… leading him: he knows what he's looking for without even being aware of it. he'd almost say it was the loneliness that brought him back, maybe the grief... but he hears the old melody his heart sings, and he can't help but hum along.

there's a crack so wide it looks more akin to a hole, casting a faint light despite its placement; it's something impossible, which means it's exactly what he's looking for (he used to think someone loving him was impossible, look where that got him... where that got them... ). he had heard myths of passages to the "other side" hidden in plain sight, of people crawling into hell and right back out. call it stubbornness, call it devotion; he knows both all too well.

so he closes his eyes, reaching into the darkness before stepping forward. his eyes remain shut as his footsteps echo against tile eventually, as the hue of an old red sends a pit to his stomach. he knows this place like the back of his hand, like the quiet words of an old poem... so much so that he knows when he reaches out his hand, he will feel something reach back.

he feels them before they see him. there's a hesitance in his hold; gentle enough to register, soft enough to pull away from. he turns as soon as their hand takes his.

he doesn't look back, he doesn't speak; he heard the legends of a man with a song who looked too soon, who even when given forgiveness in an instant was haunted for the rest of his days. he was like that man once, he had already lost those final days once; he doesn't think he could ever forgive himself if he turned around again, if he left them again. his hold tightens at the thought, and he can fill their grip grow stronger.

the light fades with the echoes, the ground below him soft as he free hand guides along the wall. even still, he knows just the way out. even still, he knows each path... even still, he knows just where the sun will shine. even still, the golden embers of morning come as a shock to him.

their hand is still in his. his eyes are still shut.

"I understand if you can't forgive me. I understand if you hate me--"

Rev can't even begin his speech before he feels their hands grasp his shoulders and turn him to face them. his eyes open to meet their gaze and oh. oh, they're so radiant in the glow of morning, it's nothing compared to what his thoughts could convey.

"Tell me it's you. Tell me I'm with you."

their voice shakes, and he knows it all too well; uncertainty, doubt... yet hope.

"Junebug." his voice breaks from that alone. he can already feel the tears pricking the corners of his eyes, and then they smile... "My Junebug."

and then their arms are pulling him closer to them, clinging to him like he could fade in an instant... he isn't one to talk; he knows he's holding them like he's dreaming, hands shaking as he breaks the embrace enough to cup their face in his hands and kiss them.

the light of the sunrise feels dull in comparison to them.

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE VIBES…

[sunshineandcybertronians]

Enchanted - Smokescreen x reader (TFP)

Word Count: 2,272

Warnings: None

A/N: I wrote this about two year ago after seeing fireflies one night and it made me think of ‘Enchanted’ by Taylor Swift

~

"So these are humans?" Smokescreen asked when he walked into the base the first time and saw you and the other three humans.

"Hi," you smiled and waved. There was something about the rookie that made you smile, happy, and at ease.

"Hi," he waved back and returned the smile.

"Oh, tour!" Miko jumped up. You drooped knowing that she'd get to spend more time with the new Cybertronian. Then she looked over at Bulkhead and seemed to remember that she wanted to be there for him while he was healing, as well as his negative emotions to believing that he may be replaced. "Actually, (Y/n) offers a very informative tour

You perked up and felt flustered when he looked to you expectantly. "Of course! My name is (Y/n), as you just heard since Miko said it," managing to force words out in your nervous and excited state, you walked down the stairs towards the stairs.

"Nice name," he beamed, "I'm Smokescreen."

A happy laugh escaped you. "It's very nice to meet you, Smokescreen."

That was the first day, the start of something beautiful. You two had immediately clicked and became inseparable. It was a magical first meeting, one that made you quickly open up. Now, you sat in Smokescreen's alt mode, driving on the empty road in the desert at eighty miles per hour.

"So your saying you could go faster?" You responded to his previous statement. You believed him.

"Yep. Should we see just how fast I can go?" The engine revved after his question.

"I don't know. If you do, just make sure you don't get seen by a cop or wipe out."

"Smokescreen," Optimus Prime's voice came through the comm and flooded the air.

"Yes, Optimus?" Smokescreen eagerly responded.

"I would like you to return to base with (Y/n)," he politely, yet sternly commanded. "Since you do not know Earth's rules and human habit, nor what exactly is safe for a human or not, I believe it would be best to not remain out for long. I fear staying out for a such a period of time would put your cover in jeopardy as well as possible put her in danger."

"Yes, sir." He turned off the comm to talk to you. "Aww, I guess we have to go back." He changed direction.

"Maybe it's for the best. You could have lost control and we would have both gotten hurt. If that happened, Optimus wouldn't have been very happy." You shrunk in the seat at the thought of his disappointment.

Smokescreen seem to do the same and sink closer to the pavement. "Yeah... Oh well. Maybe next time I could drive as fast as I can and you could watch on the side of the road."

"Sounds nice, just be careful. I don't want you getting hurt." You placed a hand on the dashboard and the air vents rattled.

You promptly returned to base and spent the rest of the day talking or playing videogames with Smokescreen. Soon, when no one was in the main room besides you two,  you looked at the time and realized it would be dark soon.

"Oh, I didn't know it was this late. I guess I'll need to go home soon," you sighed, not wanted to leave Smokescreen's side.

"Yeah," he typed something into the large console, you were surprised that he knew how to do it since Ratchet typically did it. Although you assumed you shouldn't have been, since it was something common for Cybertronians.

He picked you up, then transformed with you in the seat. He drove through the swirling, glowing vortex, but what you found in front of you wasn't your home. It was a meadow somewhere in the middle of a forest. The door opened and you stepped out to take a better look.

The soft, green grass reached to your waist, with tops of white wildflowers sprinkled into the sea of green. The dark blue twilight light made the scene look deep and mysterious, adding a layer of nighttime beauty. Apparently wherever you were, it was already dark.

"This isn't my home," you said as your eyes scanned the area.

Clicks of rearranging metal cut through the air and next to you Smokescreen now stood on his pedes. "I know," Smokescreen admitted,  sounding slightly nervous like he was worried you'd be upset. "But I read about something that happens this time of year and I wanted to show it to you." You had looked up to him while he was speaking.

At that time, lights flashed in the corner of your eye and you finally noticed the fireflies. They twinkled in and out in the cover of darkness.

"This is beautiful," you breathed.

The trees surrounding you didn't seem scary, but a protection and shield from a harsh world, creating a small pocket world. A place you could enjoy without worrying about the outside world or anything monsters that would normally come for you.

Smokescreen sat down, with you sitting on his leg. In that position you and the white Cybertronian admired the sight in silence. He shifted every now and then, since the mech can't sit still for long. Although he made sure to keep his leg still. A few minutes passed in a comfortable silence.

"Why do they flash like that?" He asked, his optics training the fireflies.

Not wanting to get caught up in the details or ruin the moment, you decided to mystify and explain it like a poem.

"They use the lights to call for and find a friend, or love. They need to find that other firefly before they leave this world." You impressed yourself with your own words.

"Wow." He stared at them again, then his glowing optics met your eyes again. "I'm happy I found my friend."

Your mouth spread into an even bigger smile and your heart fluttered at the sweet words. "Thank you." You hugged him as best you could.

He picked you up gently and held your close to his chassis in attempt to return the hug. When you, to your displeasure, pulled away from his embrace, he set you on his shoulder.

Being there in the beautiful place beside him, with the fireflies twinkling. It felt so perfect, a kind of happiness that makes you fear that something terrible is about to happen. You prayed it that wouldn't happen. The moment reminded you of a song.

"This night is sparkling," you whispered, then laughed,  "and flawless." Smokescreen looked over to you with curiosity and you answered before he could ask, "It's a song."

"Can I hear it?"

"Sure." Within a minute, your phone was playing the song Enchanted by Taylor Swift on Smokescreen's speakers through Bluetooth. The sweet melody drifted through the air and gently settled onto your ears.

There I was again tonight forcing laughter, faking smiles

Same old tired, lonely place

Walls of insincerity

Shifting eyes and vacancy vanished when I saw your face

All I can say is it was enchanting to meet you

Once you heard her sing that it was enchanting to meet him, you immediately thought of when you met Smokescreen and how you felt.

Your eyes whispered "have we met?"

Across the room your silhouette starts to make its way to me

The playful conversation starts

Counter all your quick remarks, like passing notes in secrecy

And it was enchanting to meet you

All I can say is I was enchanted to meet you

That could describe your meeting very well and your conversations during the tour and after.

This night is sparkling, don't you let it go

I'm wonder struck, blushing all the way home

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

I was enchanted to meet you

The chorus felt perfect with the night and beauty around you, especially with Smokescreen there. You leaned against him.

The lingering question kept me up

Two a.m., who do you love?

I wonder till I'm wide awake

Now I'm pacing back and forth, wishing you were at my door

I'd open up and you would say, hey

It was enchanting to meet you

All I know is I was, enchanted to meet you

This night is sparkling, don't you let it go

I'm wonder struck, blushing all the way home

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

This night is flawless, don't you let it go

I'm wonder struck, dancing around all alone

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

I was enchanted to meet you

You caught a firefly that was hovering near you. Lifting your hand to examine it, be lifted its wings and began to fly away. Smokescreen's optics followed it with wonder.

This is me praying that this was the very first page

Not where the story line ends

My thoughts will echo your name, until I see you again

These are the words I held back, as I was leaving too soon

I was enchanted to meet you

Please don't be in love with someone else

Please don't have somebody waiting on you

Please don't be in love with someone else

Please don't have somebody waiting on you

You resisted the urge to hug Smokescreen that was welling up in you, knowing that it might make things weird.

This night is sparkling, don't you let it go

I'm wonder struck, blushing all the way home

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

This night is flawless, don't you let it go

I'm wonder struck, dancing around all alone

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

I was enchanted to meet you

Please don't be in love with someone else

Please don't have somebody waiting on you

"I should go home, but I don't want to leave," you gave a sad smile.

He sighed, "Me neither. But I probably should get you back. Don’t wanna get yelled at for keeping you out too long." After comming someone at the base to bridge you back, he picked you up in his hand and carried you through

Back at home, you paced around your room. Reminiscing about the night. Thinking about the song. The bedroom was dark, the only thing that kept you from tripping was your knowledge of the layout of the room. It was late, but you were restless, mentally and physically. Your mind spun as you thought about Smokescreen. He was so amazing, cool, and energetic. You could easily open up around him and he made you laugh like no one else could. It almost startled you, and yet came as no surprise since the beginning, that you were starting to think of him as more than just a friend.

Maybe it wasn't just now that you were developing this, you just hadn't realized it before. In a way, you knew it would happen and it started the second you saw each other, something about the special magic feeling that was present then. It was simply enchanting to meet him, and you hoped he felt the same way.

You found that you wished he was there, that he'd tell you he felt the same, and that he didn't have some sort of Cybertronian girlfriend before he went into stasis in that escape pod. It was just a daydream, you acknowledged, yet you wanted it to come true.

A sudden knock at the window nearly made you jump out of your skin. Your head jerked to see what made the noise. You made out two blue, comforting, glowing optics. The light from his optics helped to recognize Smokescreen. You rushed over to him.

"What are you doing here?" You asked while opening the window. "My parents might see you."

His optics flickered like it couldn't decide what to focus on as if he was nervous. "Um, I just wanted to ask... did you like the surprise had tonight? With the fireflies?"

"Of course," you nodded.

"Good. I just wanted to ask," he paused while rubbing the back of his neck. His optics flickered to the ground for a second. "Do you... like racing?"

"Um," you were confused by the question and disappointed it wasn't something else. "I guess. That's kind of a random question."

You couldn't have known it, but the rookie was mentally screaming at himself, "Seriously? C'mon! You know you're awesome! Just ask her!" His voice box didn't seem to listen to his processor.

"Do you like being with me?" He mentally facepalmed.

"Yeah!" you immediately  "You're one of my favorite people in the world, and the universe."

His faceplate and optics lit up, but still seemed anxious. His mouth opened, but nothing came out until he finally said quickly, "Doyoulikeme?"

It was dark enough that you hoped it covered the blush creeping onto your face. "Of course, I love being with you. you're my friend."

"No. Like, crush, love," he blurted out without thinking, attempting to clarify. "Do you love me?"

You hoped it was dark enough that he couldn't see the blush creeping onto your face. "What...?"

"Ugh, what was I thinking? She'd never like me back," his voice was filled with frustration.

"You like me, in that way?"

"Oops, I said that out loud?" His optics widened in terror.

"Yes, I like you too. Maybe ever since the beginning, it was enchanting to meet you," you smiled while quoting the song, wishing your arm was long enough to touch his cheek.

He met your gaze with so much happiness and love. The small amount of light reflected off of his armor. "Same here."

It was the second beginning of something beautiful and enchanting.

[thejadecount]

So like, y’all know pinescone (Wirt x dipper) and Reverse Falls, right?

Well just imagine Rev! Wirt

Instead of being a shy and serious guy he’d be the overdramatic theatre kid everyone either really loves or really hates.

He’d wear loose shirts that that aren’t completely buttoned up and constantly have the hot, messy I-just-woke-up look and he won’t clean his messes.

Instead of being the one getting Bill (or in this case Will) and Dipper out of violence/trouble and calming their arguments down he would be the devil on your shoulder encouraging it and maybe starting some fights and getting in trouble himself.

He would abuse the power of being Dipper’s (and Will if you’re a poly/multi shipper) boyfriend without hesitating and not be polite or respectful to anyone, including to Dipper.

Except Will. Will would be the exception.

He flirts with everyone, mostly Dipper though, and is in constant need for attention. He would be the incarnation of “IM GAY AND IN NEED OF ATTENTION!”

He would still write poems, but instead of them being romantic like canon Wirt, they would be the type to cause a one-night stand.

He is the town’s charmer and playboy, yet no matter how many people he flirts with, his eyes are only set for Dipper (and Will)

He is well-read like his canon counterpart, but enjoying the sophisticated or famous works of Sylvia Plath, Edgar Allen Poe, Earnest Hemingway, and Jane Austen would be a secret he takes to his grave (until he finds out Will and Dipper actually like those writers and decides to be somewhat more open about his romantic poet side)

He definitely a Hamilton nerd because canon Wirt definitely is and you cannot tell me otherwise, but for different reasons.

He loves Hamilton for its active, go-crazy songs like Lafayette’s rapping or the king’s possessive songs (while canon Wirt likes the more poetic, romantic or serious songs like Burn and Who Tells Your Story)

Rev! Wirt would defiantly be the type to keep up with fast-paces songs and knows the entire playlist to his favorite musicals and songs like the back of his hand.

He’s not afraid of challenges, especially drinking or singing contests, because how many lyrics he knows and how high his alcohol tolerance is.

He doesn’t get along with Rev! Pacifica that much because before he started dating Dipper, she would constantly streak his attention from Wirt when Dipper still had a crush on her.

Also yes I do ship Rev! Pacifica and Rev! Mabel whether you like it or not.

P.S. Rev! Wirt knows how to tango and will hold a rose between his teeth to flirt with Dipper.

[atthealtar]

someone title this poem i wrote for me:

time drips through the dogwoods in cool light like a shy child gently peeping at the edges of something new. i do not want to greet it. i Do want to turn away and sing with the robins: all feverish, all busy and all in love. i sing, what kind of moves do i need to be making? what kind of nest do i need to be building? the sun says Here, the birds say There, but sometimes no one says anything and it is usually only then that i know. it is only when the neighborhood porch lights go off and the cars rev to a stop that my limbs can extend and the small of my back can curve to embrace a new smell in the air. it smells like i know where i belong, like if anyone at all gets to decide, Here is where the story ends.

[lets-imagine-fanfics]

A Poem for Sam

As I drove away from the house that I have called home; my escape; the place that has welcomed so sweetly like a mermaid singing sweetly to the unsuspecting pirate before the deadly attack, the bright sun shone brightly directly through the window and into my already red and puffy eyes and it reminded me of all those times we spent watching the sun come up when we worked through the night, building our future together.

You had said it so softly, I had thought I hadn't heard you. As I hugged you seeing there was something wrong, it took a few minutes to coax the issue out of you until you finally told me - "I don't think this relationship is working".

It didn't seem right at first, it felt like you had said something else, something less heart-breaking and tear-inducing, something that did rip me apart inside. I had hoped anyway.

"When I'm coming home from work, I feel like I should just drive off somewhere else", my best friend told me she found that to be particularly cruel, what you had said, as I cried and cried on the phone to her so lost from the whiplash and the shock of the events moments before but I understood what you had meant. I always thought we communicated our feelings well, I guess not - since you told me "I love you, I'm just not IN love with you". When did that happen? When did you stop missing me like I still miss you? When did you stop smiling when you saw I sent you a text - like I did and still would do if I wasn't feeling so...

I want to use the word heartbroken because my heart feels broken but it also feels betrayed. I let you in, I called you my safe haven my friend, you kept the monsters away, you are so kind and loving and I just wish you still loved me like you used to like the way I still love you. I feel betrayed because I feel like you haven't fought for us, you've just waved the white flagged and called it quits. I asked if there was something we could do and you just shook your head as if you've already done the maths and saw no hope when just yesterday we were laughing, what happened? which bits were lies you told yourself and which bits were truly love?

I broke all my rules for you, every. single. one. and I feel robbed, thinking back to how excited you always made me feel, I feel sorry for the past me that fell for you because she would have to feel like this.

I was sad, I was heartbroken, but it didn't truly hit until you left without saying goodbye. We made it a ritual to say goodbye to each other, every time one of us left the house, even if it meant waking the other up. It would just be a kiss and a 'see you later, I love you' But, understandably, you didn't this time. I barely heard your bike rev as you rode away, you had already talked to your mum so you could give me space.

Our last words together, even heartbroken we laughed. And then you were gone, when I said I'll let you go, I meant from the hug you had given me I didn't from our your house, but the door shut and you drove off before I realised what had happened.

That is when I cried out, that is when I began to pace around every room as if to find a time machine or just a place untouched by the moment we had shared, a moment that while it was heartbreaking it was soft and peaceful as we cried and you said you were sorry.

I wanted to just hide in my bed, but it was no longer my bed, I wanted to just sleep it off like a bad dream but I no longer lived in the house I called home. In that one heartbreaking conversation, I had lost my love and my home, my life had become uprooted.

As I drove away, I saw my cat who looked so lost but maybe I just thought that because I felt that. I couldn't be in that house anymore, but before I left I tidied a bit despite my best friend telling me not to but I knew you better, I knew you just didn't have the energy after work and I wanted you to be ok.

Before I left I wanted to leave another post-it note like I left the first time after the first lockdown was lifted - we had stayed together for 3 months having only known each other 3 months beforehand but it was love and we were happy. You kept all my little notes, all the "I <3 Sam"s and "Sam and Amber for Ever" you kept them all. I decided not to leave you a note - I had no words just that I hoped we would be able to work through it but at the same time I didn't want to persuade someone to work through being with someone they weren't in love with.

So I left, I left my belongings, my cat (Luna) and my guinea pig (Beast) that I'll be back for another day. You had said you would look after them and I know you care for them dearly. You were Luna's Cat Dad and I was David's Cat Mum, we had cared for each other's cats' as if they were our own. And now I'm not only losing you, my love, but also a cat whom I loved, a fat friend we joked.

This is the only day one of heartbreak and It doesn't feel like it's going to get better, as I grieve the loss of a relationship, of a future, of the kids we would never have and the trips we would never take.

I wore my jumper instead, it still smelt like you, I don't think I will be able to get away from you so soon, I just know I will always love you, even when the day comes (if ever) when I'm no longer IN love with you.

You're my person and there is no one I want to talk to more about my heartbreak than you.

I just hope we will be able to get past this, I hope we can work through it. My mum said to give you space, and time and you'll come around I really hope she's right but I don't feel like she is.

And if we ended up fixing this, I don't think I would be able to forget, and I will be sure to show my appreciation and love for you just as much the loss of your love is killing me today.

[the-penny-dreadfuls]

May 26, 1934: The funeral of Bonnie Elizabeth Parker. Three days prior, Bonnie, alongside her boyfriend, Clyde Barrow, were gunned down police on a  solitary rural road in Bienville Parish, Louisiana. The infamous duo was wanted for a series of crimes, including several robberies and up to 13 murders. During Bonnie’s funeral service, Rev. Clifford Andrews said, “From what I have heard, I am sure that deep down in her heart, this young lady had a yearning for a better life.”

Tragedy was no stranger to the Parkers. Charles, the patriarch of the family, and Emma lost their firstborn child, a baby boy named Coley, in 1905 to crib death. Nine years later, Charles would suddenly pass away on New Year’s Eve, 1914, leaving Emma a widow and single mother of three children before she turned 30. She was forced to uproot her three small children from their Rowena, Texas home, and move to a poverty-stricken area outside of West Dallas. The young, struggling family settled in best they could. They may not have had the best life, but they still had each other. Always, Emma would remind her children they were worth more than their circumstances. They had the smarts and talent to better their lives; they just had to work hard for it.

Up through her early teen years, Bonnie stuck to her mother’s advice and paved her way for a better tomorrow. She did well in her classes and dabbled in the art of poetry. Like many girls her age, she also enjoyed singing, dancing, and going to see the latest movies. Bonnie found an escape from her bleak reality within the darkness of the theatre. She yearned for excitement and adventure, a life just like the ones she watched on the silver screen.

Bonnie appeared to have found this in Clyde Barrow, a young man with a fast-growing rap sheet. Their chemistry was magnetic, and they soon became inseparable. Emma made her feelings on her daughter’s relationship known. She did not like Clyde, and she certainly did not like what he was doing to her daughter. Something inside Bonnie changed. Emma described it as strange and terrifying; she scarcely recognized who her beloved daughter had become.

On May 6th, 1934 Bonnie and Clyde arranged a secret gathering with their families. This would be the last time Emma Parker would see her daughter alive. The turmoil caused by the outlaw couples’ escapades now swept over both branches of the families. A year prior Buck Barrow, Clyde’s brother, died from gunshot wounds he received during a shootout with police in Iowa. His wife, Blanche, too suffered grave injuries after being shot. Authorities zeroed in on the Borrow and Parker families, furiously digging for any information that could lead them to the elusive outlaw couple. The clock was ticking for Bonnie and Clyde, and everyone knew that it could and would only end in their deaths.

During their last visit, Bonnie gifted her mother a poem she’d written about her relationship with Clyde. The ending showed that the couple was well aware of their impending fate.

“They don’t think they’re tough or desperate

They know the law always wins 

They’ve been shot at before, but they do not ignore

 That death is the wages of sin. 

Some day they’ll go down together 

And they’ll bury them side by side 

To few it’ll be grief, to the law a relief 

But it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.”

Police shot and killed Connie and Clyde during a calculated ambush on May 23, 1934. Their deaths and subsequent funerals attracted massive crowds. Curious spectators gathered at the churches to see the infamous couple one last time. Emma Parker refused to let her daughter be buried next to Clyde, saying that he had Bonnie in life and he would not have in her death.

Pictures: 1. Bonnie’s casket being carried out of the church. 2. A crowd gathering outside of the church. 3. Bonnie Parker’s poem about her life with Clyde Barrow. 4. Loved ones escorting a weeping Emma Parker after Bonnie’s funeral service. 5. Bonnie and Emma Parker on May 6th, 1934.

[drethanramslay]

Epilogue: Bloom

Pairing: Aurora x MC (Iris Everette)

Word count: 3.2 K words

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Warning: smut in the first half and I'm not saying anything else

Taglist: @miyakokurono @vampiregirlsblog @agent-breakdance @trappedinfandoms @openheart12 @sekizincimektup @lilyofchoices (let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list)

Songs: Two of us by Louis Tomlinson and Lover by Taylor Swift

Please forgive me for any mistakes

One year later.

The Boston sky seemed like an abstract painting. The sun was setting, and the entire sky was a mix of different hues of pink, purple and blue. There was an occassional singing of an nightingale, otherwise it's pretty quiet.

Almost hauntingly quiet.

Iris stood, basking in the rays of the dying Sun. She slowly bent down and placed the bouquet of forget me nots and a single sunflower near the cold headstone.

"Hey..." She softly spoke, as she made herself comfortable in the ground. After a cold, hard winter, the trees were slowly growing back the green leaves. After months of suffering, they finally bloom in spring, showing that time heals things.

"I know it's been a long time since I spoke to you. It was just hard to come here...makes it so much more real that you are not here in this world.." iris sighed, as she hugged her knees.

"Everything is great. I am not being sarcastic or anything. Seriously everything is so perfect that sometimes it feels like a dream. Ethan has given me a promotion to co-lead the diagnostic team, which I always wanted. I have even started going back to therapy. Because I know that if I didn't fix my mental state, you would haunt me in my dreams." Iris chuckled.

Picking at the grass near her, she spoke quietly. "Everything is perfect but you are not here... I think you would he happy to hear that Grayson is dead now. A month ago he was hanged for murder, assault and battery. I held such a huge party in celebration of it. I know, I know...what a sadistic bitch, but hey I think you can cut me some slack."

Tears welled up her eyes.

God I was hoping I could make it through without crying...

"I miss you so much. Oh! how much I wish that I could hold you one last time... It hurts but I am slowly making my peace with it. It's tough and challenging getting over not having you around but, I know you are in a happier place, playing healer for all the souls entering heaven."

She sat there for a long time, lost in her thoughts, as the sun set. When it started to get dark, she knew she had to make a move.

"Alright, I am going to go... My roommate will kill me if I don't make it in time for dinner." She pressed her fingertips to her lips and pressed it on the cool headstone. A lone tear rolled down her cheek. "I love you...I will never stop loving you."

She stood up, dusted herself and walked towards the exit, where her bike was parked. Clicking her helmet in place she revved the beast and zipped through the streets, towards her apartment.

She climbed up the steps and took her keys out to unlock the door. The moment she unlocked the door, she heard excited footsteps running towards her. She had hardly walked through the threshold when the huge golden retriever jumped on her.

"Hey Milo!! How's my boy doing? Hmm?" She bent down and hugged the dog. He was just a year old. "Who has been a good boy, huh?" She booped his nose and scratched the behind of his ears.

The pup just barked and ran in crazy circles around Iris. Iris let out a short laugh before standing up. "Where is mama, Milo?" She asked as she took her shoes off and hung her coat on the coat rack. Her girlfriend was very particular about these things.

Milo scurried towards the closed bedroom door and pawed the door. "That a boy.” She gave a last scratch behind his ear before entering the room and closing it behind her. She could see the bathroom door ajar and steam wafted out of the thin crack.

Iris stripped to get underwear and headed towards the bathroom.

"Hey baby." The voice called out, from behind the

"Hi." Iris opened the glass door and stepped in. She placed her hands on her waist and turned her around.

"EEE! What the hell Adara?!"

"What? Just saving water by taking a shower with you." She gave a sly smile as her hand reached down and grabbed a handful of her ass.

"You are incorrigible Adara."

"No I am in love with you, Rory. Get your facts straight!!"

Aurora pressed her lips to Iris'. "How are you? How was meeting your mom?" She took the shower gel and put it on the washcloth.

"It was nice... And peaceful. Will you come with me next time? I want you to meet her."

"Anything for you, my love." She lathered the soap and turned her around. Before she put soap on her back, she kissed the deep scar on her back. Iris just smiled into her shoulder.

"So... What do your parents think of me? I really couldn't get a read on them when we met the in NYC last week."

"Well, they definitely love you. My mom talked my ear off of how well behaved you are and loved your fashion sense. My dad went on and on that you were 200 times any man he had met. He was in awe of how you are co-leading one of the most prestigious diagnostics team and that you were perfect for me."

"Wow I am so honoured." Iris spoke as she turned around.

*******************************

Aurora started lathering the soap on her chest. Iris took a sharp intake of air when she felt the texture of the washcloth on her breasts along with the circular motion of Rory's hands. Iris was getting wetter with every movement on her breasts and her clenching stomach. He slow hands finally reached the place where she wanted her the most.

She brushed the sensitive folds and Iris let out a low moan. Aurora continued her slow circular motions, enjoying the way Iris was losing control and was completely at her mercy.

Oh this was gonna be so fun. Aurora thought wickedly.

She continued the torture for a very long time. Iris desperately wanted to climax. "Now, that's clean enough." Aurora said innocently as she moved her hand away. Iris' forest green eyes snapped open.

"Rory..."

Aurora didn't respond as she just gave an innocent smile and reached for the detachable shower head. She switched it on and started washing the suds of her body. She roamed her hand all around, touching everywhere, teasing her.

"Kiss me dammit." Iris said as she surged forward and kissed her, hard. Aurora let out a yelp but kissed back with equal fervour. She pushed Iris against the wall of the huge shower place. She pinned her hand against the wall and slid her thigh between Iris' legs.

"I like you like this. Wet." Rory said cheekily as she moved Iris' hair, so that she could kiss her collarbone.

"Stop fucking around. Fuck me Rory."

"And your wish is granted." Aurora spun her around and pushed her chest against the wall. Holding her hands above her head with one one hand, Aurora let her other hand wander around.

Her lips attached to the side of her neck, sucking and lapping the stray water droplets while her hand pinched Iris' nipples. She let out a hum of appreciation.

Sliding her hand down Iris' toned stomach, after an eternity, she finally reached her heat. Her long fingers circled her clit, applying just the right amount of pressure which made Iris moan.

She slipped her fingers into her her pussy and started fingering her. The heel of her palm continued to massage the sensitive nub of nerves. Iris shuddered from the over stimulation and let out a cry when her fingers brushed her sweet spot.

"Just like that Adara. There is a reason we got an apartment for ourselves. Scream my name."

Aurora curled her fingers and Iris was climaxing. She soared and fell simultaneously and her entire body shook with pleasure. Her knees felt weak and she leaned against the wall, not able to hold herself up.

*********************

Aurora took out two towels. She wiped the water droplets accumulated on her porcelain skin. After she was done, she wrapped her with the towel and kissed her nose.

"There. All clean now.'

Iris smiled as she saw Rory wipe herself. She was just reaching for her pyjamas when Iris stopped her.

"What are you doing Rory?"

"Wearing clothes?"

"Babe... Did you forget about our 'no clothes in bed' policy?"

Rory raised an eyebrow.

Iris rolled her eyes and threw her over her shoulder and headed to bed. "I'm not done with you Rory!"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was 7 in the evening and Aurora's shift was over. She was exhausted. Being a senior resident was no joke. Managing her case load along with the residents and interns reporting to her was taxing. But she loved it. She enjoyed saving lives and shaping the future generations of doctors.

Aurora trudged to the locker room and changed into a pair of skinny jeans and a t-shirt with the 'Guns N' Roses' logo on it. She was wearing her shoes when an blue envelope fell out of her locker. Confused, she picked it up and opened it to see a short poem.

"Take me to the place we first met, Both partnered up, with eyes full of hate, But I would be lying to your face, If I didn't say that I wanted to be your babe." ~A

She realised it was Iris' handwriting. Place we first met...? AH! The foyer area.

Aurora picked up her satchel and headed towards the foyer area. She went to the softboard where they used to attach the intern list. Surely, there was another blue envelope pinned to the board. And next to it, Elijah was waiting.

"What's up Aurora?!" Elijah squeaked.

"I'm good but what's up with you?" She asked as she unpinned the envelope.

"Chilling. And waiting for Sothy..Needed to talk to him.. Y'know the usual drill." Elijah gave out a nervous laugh. Aurora narrowed her eyes but decided to not give it any mind. Opening the letter carefully, she found another poem-

"Take me to the place where we had each other's back, Complementing each other, which other people lack, You panicked and didn't know what to do with your hands, And then I came and told you to take a deep breath and relax."

This was definitely regarding the triage they had performed during the subway accident. That was the only time Aurora had frozen. Even then, Iris was such a sweetheart. She quickly walked down to the ER.

She reached the nurses' station and Sienna was standing there, in her casual clothes signing her charts. "Hey Sienna." Aurora said as she subtly looked around, trying to find a blue envelope.

"Hey Aurora! Looking for something?"

"Huh? Yeah kinda..."

"Well, I think this might help you." She slid a blue envelope towards her. Aurora took it. "Do you have any idea what's going on?"

"I don't know Aurora. Iris just gave this to me." Sienna shrugged.

Tearing open the envelope, she found a amethyst stone necklace. It was her birthstone. It gleamed under the white lights of the ER. Holding it in one hand, she proceeded to read another poem-

"Take me to the place we lay face to face, Where the pain in my head left me in a daze, You made an exception for my case, And secured in my heart, your own place."

The hospital room! "Gotta go. Bye Sienna." Sienna just waved back.

Pocketing the necklace, she rushed to the emergency staircase. She took two steps at a time and reached the second floor. She ran to room no. 203, where she had stitched up Iris and slept by her side. Surely, there was a blue envelope sitting on the bed.

"Take me to the place where we first kissed, You were hurting and pissed, In the dark, your soul you bared, And I knew, in my future, you would always be there."

Wait a second...this was regarding the ED Case she had.

She hauled ass to the on call room on the third floor. She opened the door and tiptoed in. Jackie was lying on one of the beds, solving a crossword. "You took your time I guess." Jackie yawned.

"And you are as bright as a ray of sunshine." Aurora responded sarcastically, as she started moving pillows to search for another letter.

"Aha! Victory." Aurora said as she blew the hair which had fallen on her face. She eagerly opened it-

"Take me to the place where you said you loved me, I shared my burden and felt free, My heart was bursting and fell the tears of ecstacy, It was always you and me, Adara and Rory."

She walked fast towards the elevator bank. She was getting frantic. This scavenger hunt was fun but it made her impatient. She just wanted to hold Adara.

Reaching the elevators, she saw Ethan standing there, typing on his phone.

"Hey Dr. Ramsey."

"Hello Dr. Emery."

"Are you...texting?"

"Apparently."

"Umm...but didn't you tell me that you hated it?"

Ethan rolled his eyes. "Emery, it's my wish if I want to use this godforsaken mobile. I can't even type without autocorrect making it into a different word. Lord, the end is near."

Aurora chuckled and one of the elevators near Ethan dinged. She was about to enter it when Ethan stepped in front of it, blocking the entrance.

"Oops. Looks like it's full. Go in the next one."

Aurora just gave him a weird look and stepped into the other elevator and what she saw, blew her damn mind. The elevator was illuminated by strings of blue fairy lights. She stepped in and marvelled at the sight. Sound of rain pattering on the pavement sounded through the speakers. She saw a Polaroid collage of their pictures, encased in a glass frame, on one of the walls of the elevator and laughed.

So typical. Iris and her Polaroid camera... The girl had an obsession.

To the glass frame, a blue note was attached.

"Take me to the place where it all started, The fairytale story which we tell children in bed, Long gazes, happy memories shared over cheap appetizers, The beginning to our happily ever after."

The lift dinged and she stepped out with the collage and the letter. She stumbled under the weight where Bryce stepped forward and balanced her.

"Woah! Watch out Big A. Don't want you falling for me now, do we?" Bryce smirked and Aurora rolled her eyes.

"God you are so annoying, Queen B."

Bryce just chuckled and held his hand forward. "C'mon give me that. I will hold it for you."

"If you drop it, I will kick you in your family jewels so hard, that your grandchildren will feel it." She threatened.

Bryce shuddered. "Hehehe. No need to bring my testicles into this situation. And don't worry, people say I have good hands."

She handed the frame to him. She then slipped the necklace around her neck. "C'mon Lahela. We are going to Donahue's."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment she stepped into the small pub, all the patrons stopped talking. Everybody's eyes were on her and she felt awkward.

What the fuck is going on here? Iris, what are you playing at?

"Hey Dr. Emery. These are for you." Reggie handed her a beautiful bouquet of sunflowers. Aurora smelled them and blushed. In midst of the flowers she found a small blue note.

"You are so close babe. Come to me. I am waiting for you, in the beer garden."

Aurora walked towards the back door opening into the beer garden. People just parted, like the Red sea, giving her place to go. When she opened the door, her jaw were on the floor.

Rose petals lined the path towards the stage where live bands usually performed. The gentle strumming of a guitar played in the background. She walked slowly, through the tables and what she saw made her halt in her tracks.

Iris stood there, with a soft smile on her face. She was wearing a midnight blue romper dress which ended in shorts. It was sleeveless and it was clinched at her waist. Her guitar was slung around her shoulder and she continued to strum the strings.

"This one's for you babe. Thank you for coming." She spoke into the mic and started singing in an angelic voice.

Salt on your skin and stars in your eyes

You close in the darkness and I'm all out of lies

Taking my heart, and made it your own

You are everything that I've ever known

I tried to, resist you

I tried to keep my distance

I tried to play it cool

I'm no match for your persistence

And oh, you lift me up

When the fog rolls in, you lift me

When the cold sets in, you give me

The strength to take on anything, oh anything

I see by the light you bring

You lift me up, you lift me up

I see by the light you bring, you lift me up, you lift me up

Aurora was hypnotised by her beautiful voice. Iris took of her guitar and handed it to a person, you continued to strum it. She slowly stepped down from the stage and headed towards Aurora.

She grasped her hands and squeezed. "Rory, you are the best thing that has ever happened in my life. When you walked into my life, love walked in. It was a magical moment that I will always cherish and treasure. They say that love is many a splendoured thing, constantly changing and evolving. My love for you will be ever changing like a chimera and ever growing like a verdant valley."

"You are my guide to love, my every wish, and the person I want to grow old with." Iris spoke with so much conviction that Aurora fell in love with her all over again.

She got down on one knee and tears streamed down Aurora's face as she held a hand to her mouth.

Iris pulled out a diamond ring, which glimmered under the fairy lights of the beer garden.

"Aurora Lucille Emery, will you do me the honour of being my partner in crime and my wife for the rest of our lives?"

"YES Iris Adara Everette. Hell fucking yeah!!" Iris got up and slipped the ring on her ring finger.

Iris was so giddy with joy that she picked up Aurora and twirled her. Aurora laughed and everyone was either clapping, hooting or crying. She set her down and grabbed her face and kissed her.

"I am not dreaming, am I??" Iris asked as she held Aurora tightly, forehead to forehead.

"No dum dum. We’re getting married. Guess you are stuck with me, huh?"

“And I wouldn't have it any other way.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That was one of the most joyous night of their lives. They danced, sang and partied till the early hours. The wedding took place the following summer near the docks. It was a small ceremony, but everybody enjoyed it.

Sienna and Jackie were made the maids of honor while Ethan, Bryce and Elijah were made the best men. Ethan walked iris down the aisle while Naveen officiated the ceremony. 

The reception was a blast which took place on a boat. Jackie and Sienna managed to make everyone drunk and forced them to dance. Even Harper Emery and the Chief. Bryce almost started strip dancing and Ethan was doing the running man. Elijah did wheelies on his wheelchair. It was unforgettable.

Everything was perfect at last. Rory and Adara finally got their happy ending which they always dreamed of. They were happy, content and proud moms of twin baby boys. They continued to push boundaries in the medical field and became the dynamic duo of diagnostics medicine.

They both lived happily ever after.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE END.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

And here is the end of Rory and Adara’s tale. Thank you for reading this mini series through its ups and downs, laughter and tears

It was so much fun writing this and I so, so grateful to all of the comments you guys left under each chapter. It motivated me to deliver. So thank you.

Once again, I am grateful to every single person who gave this fanfic a chance and believed in my writing.

like, comment and reblog :)

[watusichris]

Leon Russell Au Naturel

When Les Blank’s A Poem is a Naked Person, his long-suppressed feature about Leon Russell, was finally exhumed some years back, I wrote about the film for the Night Flight web site. The story has since been scoured from the web. The film is airing Monday on TCM at the ungodly hour of 7:15 a.m. PT, as part of its Labor Day music movie marathon, so I decided to dig up my old piece and re-post it to supply some back story. It’s quite a picture, but it is not for the impatient or the squeamish. ********** Virtually unseen for more than 40 years, A Poem is a Naked Person, Les Blank’s portrait of Leon Russell, receives a formal Los Angeles premiere on July 8 with a screening at the Theatre at the Ace Hotel; a week of showings at Cinefamily, under the auspices of Allison and Tiffany Anders’ Don’t Knock the Rock Festival, commences on July 10. The reason for the picture’s long suppression is simple: Russell and his Shelter Records partner Denny Cordell commissioned Blank to make a promotional movie, and he gave them an art film, and not a flattering one at that. Therein lies a very interesting rub.

Some slightly convoluted back story is necessary. By 1972, when Blank was hired to create his portrait of the musician, guitarist-keyboardist-songwriter Russell had risen to a position of commercial eminence after years as one of L.A.’s top studio guns. Graduating from work in the house band of the weekly TV rock showcase Shindig! and record dates with such diverse clients as Phil Spector, the Byrds, and Herb Alpert, the Tulsa-born musician moved into the spotlight as musical director for Delaney and Bonnie Bramlett’s stomping R&B- and gospel-infused group and Joe Cocker’s huge, circus-like Mad Dogs & Englishmen unit.

Dubbed “The Master of Time and Space,” Russell began a fruitful label partnership with British producer Cordell with the inauguration of Shelter in 1970, a year before a high-profile appearance in the house band at George Harrison’s Concert For Bangla Desh. He bumped into the U.S. top 20 with his second solo album in 1971, but the 1972 LP Carney soared to No. 2 and spawned the No. 11 single “Tight Rope,” which was animated by Russell’s rolling keyboard work and rough yet affecting singing. The three-LP concert collection Leon Live would reach the top 10 and cement his position as a solo star in 1973.

Russell and Cordell doubtlessly envisioned a conventional feature surveying the musician’s stage show and sessions for a forthcoming country album when, on the recommendation of the American Film Institute, they commissioned Blank. By then active in Northern California for a dozen years, the director had made his rep with earthy short features about a pair of Texas musicians, bluesman Lightnin’ Hopkins (The Blues According to Lightnin’ Hopkins, 1968) and songster Mance Lipscomb (A Well Spent Life, 1971).

For nearly two years, Blank and his collaborator Maureen Gosling set up shop at Russell’s home and studio complex on a lake outside Tulsa, where they filmed the performer at work and play, and also cut their footage of Louisiana zydeco musicians Clifton Chenier and Boisec Ardoin into the pungent short films Hot Pepper and Dry Wood. The filmmakers humped their gear to gigs in Anaheim, New Orleans, and Austin, and to studio rehearsals at Bradley’s Barn in Nashville for the album Hank Wilson’s Back, the sincere and soulful 1973 country project that bewildered his core fans, essentially marking the end of Russell’s tenure as a top-flight rock attraction.

After an abortive attempt to screen A Poem is a Naked Person at the 1974 Cannes Film Festival – the print wasn’t ready – Russell and Cordell basically put the feature on semi-permanent ice, allowing it to be screened only by permission, with Blank in attendance. It remained an elusive commodity until the director’s death in 2013. At the urging of Blank’s son Harrod, Russell reconsidered the matter of its availability; a screening at this year’s South By Southwest Film Festival prefaced a national theatrical release, and a DVD from the Criterion Collection, distributor Janus Films’ home video line, is anticipated.

Russell has long been mum about his reasons for keeping the picture out of circulation; queried in recent interviews, he has glibly replied, “I don’t know,” or “I don’t remember.” But it seems obvious that the producers’ intentions and the filmmakers’ execution were widely divergent. If Russell and Cordell thought they were going to get a puffy documentary that would push their product, they were sorely disappointed.

A Poem is a Naked Person bears a striking resemblance, in style if not entirely in content, to a pair of quite radical contemporaneous films. The most obvious analog is Cocksucker Blues, Swiss-born photographer and indie filmmaker Robert Frank’s notorious backstage look at the Rolling Stones’ 1972 U.S. tour; a jumpy saturnalia of sexual escapades, heroin abuse, and hotel-room boredom, with occasional concert footage, it scandalized the band, who have enforced restrictions similar to those imposed on Blank’s movie upon its exhibition. Photographer William Eggleston’s long-gestating Stranded in Canton, which features pianist Jim Dickinson and musician/bank robber Jerry McGill among its cast of Memphis and New Orleans weirdoes and eccentrics, was shot on portable video equipment ca. 1973 and finally cut into something resembling finished form by Bluff City writer-documentarian Robert Gordon in 2005. It’s an incandescent rebel depiction of life on the distant fringes of art and music.

Frank’s and Eggleston’s highly personalized, jaggedly edited, impressionistic features, brimming with often appalling extra-musical incident, don’t fit the description of what we’ve come to call “music documentaries,” and neither do Blank’s pictures. The best-known films the director made before his encounter with Russell, though they boast musicians (Hopkins and Lipscomb) as their central figures, likewise operate well beyond the parameters of conventional music docs. Though there is a good deal of music-making and ass-shaking in them, they are at heart about the communities in which the music was made, with their indigenous landscapes, customs, cuisines, and spiritual concerns. An observer of folklife at heart, Blank was an unlikely, even incongruous, candidate to make a movie about a rock star – essentially, an industrial film for music consumers.

Like the subjects of Blank’s earlier films, Russell is witnessed at home a good deal, and the director slathers his film with super-saturated images of local color shot in and around the musician’s Oklahoma base – a pow-wow of the Tulsa Indian Club, a tractor pull, a holiday parade, a literal wild-goose chase, the implosion demolition of Tulsa’s ancient (and perfectly named) Bliss Hotel. But Russell – prematurely gray, long-haired and bearded, always bearing a glazed, slightly stoned mien -- appears before us as a man without a country, almost an alien, dislocated from his roots, ferried to his far-flung gigs in long limousines as black as hearses.

As a protagonist, Russell most resembles the central figure in a later Blank production, 1982’s Burden of Dreams. That unsettling feature follows the chaotic production of German director Werner Herzog’s film Fitzcarraldo in the heart of the Peruvian Amazon. The reckless and megalomaniacal filmmaker is seen slowly coming apart as, cut off entirely from civilization, he single-mindedly pursues his quixotic and extremely hazardous project, which entails the climactic hauling of a 20-ton boat up a steep incline; by the film’s end, Herzog appears as mad as the lunatic hero of his saga, who longs to build an opera house for Enrico Caruso in the middle of the jungle. Though Russell is never depicted in extremis, as Herzog is, Blank implies that, unlike the Southern musicians the director depicts so affectionately and respectfully, the Oklahoman is like Herzog also a man who has drifted too far from his native shore.

Music plainly is what brings Russell alive; it is at the heart of A Poem is a Naked Person, and it is often splendid, a saving grace. There are lovely cameos by George Jones (playing “Take Me” solo in Russell’s home studio) and Willie Nelson (essaying “Good Hearted Woman” at a gig in Austin, and accompanying fiddler “Sweet” Mary Egan on “Orange Blossom Special”). Several truncated yet forceful performances by Russell’s road band – augmented by a gospel-styled quartet, Blackgrass, led by Rev. Patrick Henderson – are on view. In one simple yet eloquent sequence, Russell’s deeply felt cover of Hank Williams’ “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” plays under footage of clouds drifting across the face of the moon, as they do in Williams’ lyrics; it’s obvious, but nonetheless affecting.

One of the bleaker streaks in the film can be found in some of the sequences shot during the sessions for Hank Wilson’s Back in Nashville. These scenes are not totally bereft of a certain joy: Russell takes obvious delight in the expertise of his A-Team accompanists. One delicious scene finds him in an awed duet with Charlie McCoy, a secret hero of Bob Dylan’s Nashville-based albums from Blonde On Blonde to Self Portrait; the bespectacled McCoy looks like an accountant on his way to a tee time, and he plays and sings his ass off. But some of the other Music City studio gunslingers’ envy of and contempt for their contractor – like themselves a session guy, but one who has hit the jackpot – is scarcely concealed. Hotshot pianist David Briggs – whose obscene rendition of the Beatles’ “Lady Madonna” was expurgated in later prints of the film at Russell’s insistence – says at one juncture, in a blatant dig at his session boss, “I’m the guy they call when you can’t do your own fucking piano work.”

There is also an ugly confrontation in the Nashville studio with folk singer-songwriter Eric Andersen, who was apparently barred from entering the facility for his own session by Russell’s security staff. Russell belittles and insults Andersen with an arrogant rocker’s noblesse oblige, drily telling him, “You write some very beautiful goddamn songs,” which prompts the reply, “You’re jiving.” For his part, Andersen voices skepticism about the legitimacy of Russell’s onstage thunder: “I couldn’t tell if you’re a revivalist man, trying to put something over, where it was coming from.” You find yourself asking if Blank may not harbor the same doubt.

Blank ladles further darkness, grotesquerie, and bile over the proceedings throughout. Using non-linear, densely layering techniques pioneered in the ‘60s by French New Wave director Jean-Luc Godard – whose ironic quote, “The day of the director is dead,” is seen on the film’s concluding title card, below Blank’s credit – the filmmaker atomizes the action, or comments on it, using a vocabulary of startling jump cuts, head-spinning juxtapositions, and dialog rendered as on-screen legends (“GET THOSE GOD DAMN CAMERAS OFF US”).

Thus, in one extraordinary sequence, footage of a wasted concertgoer being ejected from one of Russell’s gigs is intercut with shocking shots of a boa constrictor killing and devouring a baby chick. (The snake is the “pet” of artist Jim Franklin, who is seen elsewhere adorning the bottom of Russell’s swimming pool, after coolly collecting scorpions off its walls.) In another scene, a snippet of fiddler Johnny Gimble improvising a lively solo in the studio is abruptly interrupted by the screaming freakout of a bare-chested young man on a very bad acid trip in an unidentified hotel room.

Blank seems to imply that for all the tambourine shaking and Chautauqua-tent fervor of his sound, Russell makes music that only mimes the spiritual core of its sources. Nowhere is this more apparent than in a ragged jump cut from minister-musician Henderson playing at a Pentecostal church service to his group Blackgrass rocking the praise at one of Russell’s shows. The first performance, Blank suggests, is about true religion of the most devout order – the real thing, as it were -- while the second is no more than entertainment.

In the end, Blank says without a flinch, this music is about the dollars. At one point he trains his camera on a teenage hitchhiker outside one of Russell’s shows; with a guitar slung on his back and a cardboard sign reading, “Oklahoma City” in his hand, the deluded kid says, “I wanna make it in Hollywood like Leon does – make a million dollars playin’ gee-tah.” The most damning exchange in the entire picture comes when an acquaintance poses a question to Russell after his performance at a friend’s wedding. Russell repeats the question – “If I didn’t get paid for singing, wouldn’t I sing?” – and leaves it hanging in the air, unanswered.

One can easily understand why Russell and Cordell were mortified, even horrified, by Blank’s film and sat on it for four decades. A Poem is a Naked Person used the language of cinema to subvert the film’s intended purpose as a self-glorifying sales tool. Instead, it ended up being a probing and dialectical work that used Russell’s music much as Godard himself employed the Rolling Stones’ music (far less effectively or coherently) in his Sympathy For the Devil. As it often has over the course of time, great art – and Blank’s movie definitely qualifies as such – operates at cross-purposes to a patron’s wishes.  

[amieyhko]

Escapril 2019

escaprilday 2019 // 1: a fresh start

two Costco bags full of

umma-certified clean clothes,

“unpacking cannot begin with wet clothes”

Taipei humidity is unkind.

coins clink,

white noise revs

drowning out the drizzle

as heart somersaults

to the rhythm of the cycles:

what — tum — am I — ble

doing — tumble — here?

the darks tumble its final spin

as the lights

click —

into a stop.

a whiff into a warm towel

warns me the comforts of home,

promising

of munchies, blankies, and speedy wifi

of cushy floor space where crafting

and writing past midnight can be done in secret

but —

fold — maybe — toss — I changed —

yellow blouse — or gave up too easily —

fold — or could it be —

toss — I’m listening to all the wrong voices? —

red turtleneck — no — flick —

wait, this is so soft now, I guess the washing machine in that guest house in Seoul was indeed really terrible —

fold — yes, this is how it should feel on my skin —

toss – my heart knows, though —

fuzzy sock — maybe home is where I need to be right now —

into basket — there’s nothing wrong with —

grab — starting over again.

escaprilday 2019 // 2: april showers

you said all memorable moments

include an unexpected deluge

I nod and laugh

as the metro ac pierces through

my drenched jacket

I shiver as I feel my clammy socks

cling onto my not-rainproof Docs

("they're not?" you ask in shock)

ears ringing still

from speakers booming

throat scratchy from scream-singing

at the top of our lungs.

still, you smile, shiver, and say,

with half-dazed eyes,

all good memories

end in rain.

escaprilday 2019 // 3: incorporate music

“Hope I’m not tired of rebuilding”

at this in-between

this time of heating up lukewarm lattes

and microwaving soggy french fries,

a surrendering of old and new

kindles a familiar tune:

“not what’s easy, what do you want?”

at this in-between,

the seconds between a squat and a jump

or the hours during an endless free fall,

a whisper sings an awakening:

“even a phoenix dies”

so at this in-between

muster up the strength to

inhale blue

and exhale gold.

escaprilday 2019 // 4: anxiety

lacuna

¡amiga!” he chimes like clockwork

with a sonrisa that has probably charmed plenty of hearts.

my fist bumps his and I walk toward the dark halls

where they tilt their heads forward and say

“안녕하세요” they grin,

some fake, others genuine,

mostly muscle memory.

“哈咯“ she greets as I turn the corner—

a sound of familiarity.

the velcros on my lips finally relax

till we part ways to our stations

“how are you?” their words flow dry

they probably don’t want to find out

my tongue lands on one syllable:

“good”.

escapril 2019 // 5: back to nature

I’ve a secret spot for seeing stars in Taipei City.

after a day downtown,

blasting my headphones at damaging decibels,

fixing makeup with samples at drugstores,

and chasing after buses,

I skip down the announced “platform two for Taipei Zoo”

and gaze down at the light show stage named Zhongxiao Fuxing.

as the red greens, a rush of headlights streams at me—my eyes

lose focus, my heart

leaps back into my chest just as

the home-bound metro approaches.

//

I’ll always remember the yard at Tiszavasvári

where we lay to see a starry night drawn by the Creator

after a day of listening to screaming children,

braiding their hairs,

and chasing after the impossible ones,

we stood in awe, jaws dropped, then soon learned

our necks weren’t strong enough

so we lay down, evening breeze

accompanied by the crickets sang a lullaby—

my eyes played a senseless game

of connect-the-dots, my heart skipped several beats

as I let go of the memories of beds and blankets.

escapril 2019 // 6: nostalgia

missing you is easy.

remembering you creeps

up in little mundanities

like a cup of fruit tea

a bottle of Clorox

or an inappropriately loud laughter--

to my consolation, yours is unmatchable.

although,

the sound of your laughter rings

quieter

till I can whisper:

escapril 2019 // 7: start with a time of day

3 a.m.

why wait

for dawn when

we can set yesterday

up

in flames

over this river?

escapril 2019 // 8: love poem

I cannot recall the exact words uttered

but something in my heart fluttered:

our eyes met for a millisecond

we cracked, till our breaths weakened.

our words, lost in the waves

transformed into safes

I open in my heart of hearts

to feel at home within the laughs of your loves.

escapril 2019 // 9: focus on the color

chorok hadn't found its form in

korean of old. fields of

grass and evergreens,

little plates of herbal banchan,

lush of summers,

and squirming caterpillars

all existed as paran-- that same

color ascribed to vast oceans,

and sunny skies

then one lively spring, chorok

creeped its way into our tongues,

demanding to be seen on

street signs,

the mountain tops, and

cross walk lights

though some still speak "the light

turned paran",

and the incorrigible children's tune

singing of spring

blossoming into paran,

chorok sprouts an entrance

undeniable to out naked eyes.

escapril 2019 // 10: femininity

the bus,

back slides down on the uncomfortable bus seat,

fingers stroke through my freshly buzzed head,

while many eyes fixate above my eyes,

asking:

"is she a boy or a girl?"

"is she a lesbian?"

"what happened to her… hair?"

eyes read their faces,

mouth struts a big yawn with no reflex system telling me to conceal it.

imagination floats to a stadium,

feet stands on the podium,

voice declares:

I'm still so-very-much a lady--

just not fair like Audrey,

nor dainty like a stereotype,

or as brave as Joan,

and definitely not as attractive than most

but maybe more like

the ones writing history

now.

escapril 2019 // 11: not from your perspective

most of the time I sit beside the maroon sofa

where you watch tv and transform into a potato

I wait and wait for that sweet moment

you grab my handle

travel me to a flat desk

wind me up with thread

hook me up to a pedal

switch my light on

smooth out a piece of fabric

pinned up in zig zag

then

zoom, crackle, buzz,

your hands sync to my rhythm

you pray I don’t jam

or break your thread

then you announce with pride

“et voila!”

escapril 2019 // 12: spring cleaning

it takes two countries

few cities

thirteen houses

fifteen boxes

thirty trash bags

and an infinite repetition of

"do we need this?"

for a soul to grasp the spider web line

between a desire and a necessity.

then a decade teaches the

same soul

sometimes,

spectrums soften

escapril 2019 // 13: celestial bodies

if only

seeing you was as easy as

some nightly glow at your half

reflecting off

a big blazing ball of light on my half

escapril 2019 // 14: make it rhyme

a sonnet-full of embellishments, fake

notions of how lovely you are like some

weather in summer or spring, homemade cake

that tastes like cheap flour and rotten eggs, numb

from clichés, the love songs that never shut

up, posed photos of arms around my waist,

a let-me-take-that gentleness, so what

are you doing? leaving sour aftetaste

in our hearts. no, this sonnet is not for

us. we don’t need guidelines to fall in love,

nor the recipes known to prevent war

(it cannot be all fair in war and love),

so stop. steep in this silence as your hand

finds mine in this complicated quicksand.

escapril 2019 // 15: describe a smell

a dash of prickliness:

prickly, like appa’s beard attacking my forehead as he plants a kiss.

then an overwhelming sense of saltiness:

salty, like that time I accidentally used the spoon side of the seasoning bottle

or tasting my own sweat or tears.

something rotting at slow decay.

fruit flies feast.

my nose shoots me back to

halmoni yelling something in dialect, umma replying.

I stand in the middle of the market square, I’m ten.

they promised me jjajangmyeon,

my nostrils can hold out just a minute more.

escapril 2019 // 16: any dreams?

five—

I was to be a Pokemon trainer by day

and Sailor Moon by night

but adults hung my creativity dry

seven—

a singer-songwriter

but music chose me not

ten—

fashion designer,

draw designs, sew coutures, walk the runway myself

but whispers yelled discouragements

fifteen—

couldn’t care: I was a realistic teen

now—

I tip-toe about my heart

trying my best not to pick on scabs,

unable to answer any questions

albeit an I-don’t-know

has never sounded more

comforting and clear.

hear the wounds heal

to the beat of the unicorn hooves.

escapril 2019 // 17: body as friend or foe

I was born in Guatemala,

but my father’s from Georgia

he’s a musician, he produces

K-pop albums and we travel the world

searching for the next big deal,

my mother paints apples, she’s from Zimbabwe

she also writes Chinese poems.

It’s all true—

my body deceives every bit of reality within me.

escapril 2019 // 18: a happy place

hear nose tickle

with the sound of lavender feathers

fluttering by

eyes will open up to inhale

the golden hours spent

under Your glorious dance

escapril 2019 // 19: without your name, who are you?

if an utterance of a name

can form a heart,

her name has been called by many

if each spoken word forms

a vibration into what we are,

she's a someone

whispered into a myriad of paradoxes:

she's an asteroid, crashing fast,

uncontrollable, unexpected.

she's a cup of tea, calm,

idle, ready for nothing.

escapril 2019 // 20: a liminal space

this amorphous ground feels comfortable,

excuses acceptable:

the excruciating humidity,

drowsy rain, busy friends,

false pride, miscalculating time.

they say:

Prufrock measures his life in coffee spoons,

but Zeno says nothing ever reaches its destinations.

the Knight holds his tongue

yet his heart flutters a violent beat.

I’m just another contra, letting my feet skip away

as each step echoes heart beating somewhere

back.

escapril 2019 // 21: it’s the end of the world

no zombie apocalypse,

the sun still functions,

stars are still, hearts

unbroken, no one

escaping to Mars,

no fatal goodbyes.

one silent pink noise

a purple glow,

“welcome back home”

it said.

escapril 2019 // 22: nourishment

last month, I met a little

potted plant.

I took it back to my little

suffocating room

and named it little

foggy star.

I loved it little

by little

I gave it little

droplets of water,

spoke little

words of compliment,

took it to my little

window sill

the sun peeped through

a little.

it grew a little,

I did too.

escapril 2019 // 23: when the party’s over

recollect spilled laughters —

this, for unworthy jokes,

that, for suave comments,

maybe one for someone dreamy —

bottle them up,

keep them fresh

for the next sea of

stragglers,

mutual someone,

you-look-quite-nice,

wow-so-interesting.

escapril 2019 // 24: liar, liar

how to be a compulsive liar

one: disregard empathy, embrace despondency, think selfish,

my life doesn’t have to tell truth tales, no one needs to know.

two: rehearse recollections, think practicality, use names they’d never check,

let myself believe in each detail, each sight, smell the scenario

three: speak the perfectly fabricated phrases into existence,

no need to bat an eye, stutter a detail, overthink a loophole.

for example: “yeah, the party was fun. we walked around the park afterwards.

who? oh no, he wasn’t there. he had an important family dinner.”

four: remember the lie, inform reliable partners in crime if necessary,

never bring it back, stick to your guns.

promise yourself: they can’t hurt, they’ll never know.

remember: truths hurt, they’re inconvenient, it’s none of their business.

dig: until your shovel breaks.

drown out: every kindness the world has to offer.

die: in the said dug hole, climb out just to

repeat: until trust is a pair of cracked glasses, refuse to see a redemption until

die again: learn that these walls must go —

invite: the uncomfortableness that is vulnerability

repeat: until system reboots.

escapril 2019 // 25: pick an animal

my giraffe friend

shades me when the sun’s high

and warms me when the wind’s rough,

meeting her eyes pains me with

an aching neck,

she will always stand tall in a room,

there’s no shelf too high for me,

when she’s close by.

escapril 2019 // 26: girlhood, boyhood, childhood

when I was older, I had a pair of

very pink sneakers

they'd glitter in the sun,

glamoured in gemstones for dignity

velcros loud enough to turn heads

when it was time to take them off

I glanced over my neighbors' shelves:

ugly. blue. brown. ugly. mine trampled over all.

then my eyes stood silent

as I zone in

on her pair of Gundam sneakers

secretly jealous, mostly confused,

extremely frustrated of rule-breaking

girls, defying pink, watching animation

for boys only

now, I wear boring black or white shoes

so do most humans with feet.

escapril 2019 // 27: the state of it all

“you're it!”

a harmless push from their arms

my chest thrusts back

limbs under a spell

all bones removed

“catch me if you can”

why don't you save me

'cause you can?

escapril 2019 // 28: reflection

memories retraces a blur

crooked smile

red dye fading

cigarette between your fingers

standing mostly on your right leg--

you let out a puff as i tell you “i’m imaginary.”

you say you couldn't have

so i tease you more with a kiss

“that wasn't real

that was you imagining it all

new school

a manic pixie

the loneliness got to your brains

that's all”

you flick away the cigarette

eyes reflecting my face

you kiss me back and say

“please don't do this to my brain

you're real

far too real for me i'm not smart like that”

i snicker

the buzzing bus terminal is real

you and i are real

but i'm not

you're no more

escapril 2019 // 29: may flowers

she died a few days ago—

flew off the rooftop

fallen against teeming

reborn lives

the most beautiful of flowers

only last a day or two

you said we are beautiful

because we’re ephemeral

but what happens when

fleeting moments like

a crash kilometers away

pain for someone I never knew?

escapril 2019 // 30: catharsis

yesterday, I cleaned out my room

bugs infested each and every corner

I tried to catch them but they

hid away between the nooks and crannies

whispering schemes to each other

learning the dustiest corners I’ve ignored

waiting for a perfect time to kill

so I dusted out the corners

rearranged the furnitures

repainted the scratches

thinking cover-ups should make anew

yesterday, I cleaned out my room

praying for the bug spray to kill,

I felt seventeen, rearranging photographs,

filling up a space with desired personalities,

she would have been proud

there’s nothing I’d tell her, but to say

yesterday, I cleaned my room, for another hundredth time

they say an odyssey is a cycle

ending with a catharsis

where you come clean

but yesterday, I cleaned my room

again

[oh-theatre]

Sycamore High: Mix and Match (Chapter 23)

A/N: I feel so bad for people who dont know something rotten they must feel so confused...im SORRY. Also yes I did write the entirety of lyrics from memory

summary: First rehearsal for Something Rotten!

words: 2,502

warnings: Swearing, funeral mention, lyrics, implied harassment (at the end, will find out more next chap)

Ao3 Link

“Welcome to the first official rehearsal for ‘Something Rotten’!” Chad announces to a loud cheer from the cast. Save except for a very quiet Ted sitting in the front row and a sad distant Tommy shoved in another row. Chad notices and feels a tug at his own heart, he shakes his head continuing. “I'd like to get started by doing a read through, so if everyone could gather on the stage” The crowd follows creating a circle on the stage, each student with a script in their hands. Chad counts before realizing something. “Ok, so we are going to have to sing acapella, because I may have forgotten to call in the pianist” He chuckles awkwardly, Bill ponders before raising his hand. Chad points at him prompting him to talk.

“I can play the piano,” He says, a tug pulls at Ted and Paul as they share a look. It's true, though not his main hobby, his mother did teach him. He stands and goes to the piano opening the sheet music and tickling the keys, something dances through him as it comes playing back to him. He nods at Chad, who smiles back.

“Alright! Let's begin!” Chad spins pointing to Caleb, another cast member who smiles excitedly “Take it away minstrel, Bill” Bill nods, turning to Caleb who studies his music quickly before giving a thumbs up. Chad starts swinging his fingers Bill begins playing the opening song.  

“War of the roses, Chaucer's tale. The brutal feudal system. Holy crusade, Bubonic plague. Can't say that we've really missed 'em. So dark and barbaric, So dull and mundane. That was so Middle Ages. That was so - Charlemagne” The group giggle excitedly as Caleb continues, Bill continues, hitting the note. The cast looks around excitedly as Caleb continues, everything washes away. “Welcome to the Renaissance. With poets, painters, and bon vivants and merry minstrels. Who stroll the streets of London a strummin' they lutes”

“In puffy pants and pointy leather boots!” The male ensemble continues, Chad smiles. It sounds great.

~~~

“Hit it, Bill!” Chad exclaims, and so Bill does hitting the keys ecstatically but carefully. Ted turns to Paul revving up.

“Ohhhhh God I hate Shakespeare!” The crowd cheers. Paul clutches his pearls offended. “That's right I said it”

“No!” The ensemble cries, Ted feels his heart flutter. Everything seems ok as the music plays and the bubbling energy bounces around the room. Everyones buzzing with excitement, happy to be here.

“I do, I hate Shakespeare”  He makes sure to sing that line at Sam who couldn't care less.

~~~

“I am stronger than you think, Don't be thinking I ain't tough I am where you oughta go. When the going's getting rough. So when things are going badly-” Charlotte belts happily, lovingly staring at Ted.

“But they're not” Ted insists, Charlotte bites down a giggle.

“They kinda are” Paul points out. Bill continues happily watching his friends.

“No, things are fine” Ted turns to Paul, who raises his eyebrows innocently.

“But if they weren't” Charlotte tries again, Ted and Paul smile widely.

“But it's ok”

“Love?”

“What?” Something catches Ted off guard at the name, he glances to Tommy feeling his face fall.

“Oh!”

“What?” He watches as Tommy bounces happily, watching the trio back and forth. His heart pounds in his ears he can't hear the music anymore.

“Quit trying to protect me” Charlotte's voice seeps through grounding Ted once more, he shakes his head delivering his line.

“Can we change the subject, please?” He didn't mean to beg so desperately, hopefully, they would just think he was getting into it.

“Not until I know that-”

~~~

“What the hell are musicals?” Ted asks feeling his voice get caught, Tommy can't meet his eyes and seems focused on his sheet music.

“It appears to be a play where the dialogue stops and the plot is conveyed through the song” Tommy says, his voice sweet with a hint of insane. Ted chuckles to himself, he's been practicing.

“Through song?”

“Yes” The group laughs and Ted does too, he's doing exceptionally well.

“Wait, wait, wait, so an actor is saying his lines and then out of nowhere he just starts singing?” Ted recites, he likes this monologue.

“Yes,” Tommy repeats, his grin his wider now. It feels like it's just the two, practicing as if no one was there. Ted looks to Bill nodding, he turns and prepares.

“Well that is the-” He starts singing “Stupidest thing that I have ever heard You're doing a play, got something to say so you sing it? It's absurd! Who on Earth is going to sit there while an actor breaks into song? What possible thought could the audience think other than "this is horribly wrong?" Bill hangs on the note as Tommy smiles wide.

“Remarkably?” He asks “They won't think that!” Ted can practically feel the room buzzing with excitement.

“Seriously, why not?” Ted asks back, Tommy can't hold it in, he flashes his most insane smile.

“Because…” He looks to Bill, they smile at each other “It's. A. Musical! A musical!” Everyone lets out small cheers as the song begins. “And nothings as amazing as a musical” Well, I can think of one or two things that are, Ted thinks as he watches Tommy enchant the entire class. Tommy continues with Ted and for a moment it's as if nothing is wrong.

~~~

“Paul and Emma, ready?” Chad asks, Bill flips to the song nodding at the group. Paul takes a deep breath as Emma just giggles smiling at him.

“Ready as I’ll ever be” She announces, Chad points at Bill who begins playing softly. “I love Sidney and Marlowe and often I borrow their words to express how I feel. I love poems of mystery, fantasy, history, Oh, what seductive appeal. At night, alone in my bedroom satisfying my needs. The candlelight fire ignites my desire...to read” Emma sings sending thrilling chills down Pauls back, he might miss his cue from listening to her enchanting voice. It's suddenly his turn after he misses three verses tuning out the actual words.

“It's the end-all, the be-all, oh, you oughta see all the books that I have on my shelf” He sings softly, a little nervous. Ted and Bill nod encouragingly.

“Me too!” She exclaims “I find pleasure perusing those writings and musings, so often I pleasure myself” She pauses giving off an awkward smile, the crowd laughs “Wait, that didn't sound right”

“No, I know what you mean” Paul goes again, a little more confident “When I'm deep in the throes of impassionate prose I could scream”

“You scream?”

“Yeah!”

“So do I!!” And so she did scream, much to everyone's delight

~~~

“Sam, boys, you ready,” Chad asks excitedly going through his notes. Sam practically bounces a childlike grin wide across his face. Charlotte giggles and Emma can't help but smile, he looks genuinely excited. “Go Bill!” And he does almost less excited. Sam stands, followed by his 4 boys already.

“My days are so busy, it's making me dizzy, there's so much I gotta do. There are lunches and meetings and poetry readings and endless interviews. Gotta pose for a portrait and how I deplore sittin' there for eternity. Then it's off to the inn where my innkeeper friend wants to name a drink after me! Then it's back to my room, where I resume my attempt to write a hit. Just me and my beer and the terrible fear that I might be losing it” He sings drunkenly, the groups nod along enjoying this. He's got the voice down. The boys jump around him singing their lines.  “And it's hard”

“It's hard” They point at Sam playing around, it's a whole routine.

“It's hard”

“It's hard” They go again, struggling to keep a straight face. The whole song is pure fun.

“It's really, really hard, so very, very hard” They sing in unison

~~~

“Welcome to America!”

“Land of opportunity!” Ted finishes strong smiling. The room erupts into cheers with everyone hugging everyone, at one point Ted feels himself wraps his arms around Tommy pulling away quickly. They stare awkwardly giving each other sweet longing smiles before each is pulled off into a respective group. Bill stands to join his friends congratulating them. They pull him into a hug. “Bill! You were amazing! Seriously, singing and piano wise!”

“Oh! Well, thank you” He nods blushing slightly. Chad comes over clapping him on the back. Bill lurches forward making an ‘umph’ sound.

“Bill that was wonderful!” He compliments “You are truly gifted” Now Bill is blushing harder than ever. Ted smiles, pride is not the words he's looking for. Bill leans in a little to Ted who laughs wrapping an arm around his small friend, understanding what he needs. He continues the conversation politely before leading Bill away from the crowd and setting up right outside the doors. “Thank you” Bill mumbles as they sit down on the cool floor, a change from the sauna that is the auditorium. They lean against the wall, Bill collapses onto Ted's shoulder, his eyes heavy.

“Of course,” Ted says nudging his friend, Bill yawns flexing his hands. They're cramping after such a massive play, he feels the ivories phantom and urges to keep playing. “You really did do amazing Bill” Ted compliments playing with his fingers, Bill chuckles nodding. A comfortable silence falls between them, Bill can't seem to relax his hands so Ted takes them applying soft pressure. It feels nice, Bill sighs relieved. He looks up a bit to Ted seeing him stare far off as if playing with Bills fingers is the only thing keeping him from drifting off, becoming particles of sand left in the wind for all of eternity.

“Would you like to discuss it?” Bill inquires softly, Ted's eyes merely gaze over to him. “You and Tommy, I mean” He clarifies, wanting to be there for his friend as he had so desperately failed in the past few months.

“Hmm?” Ted hums, he shakes his head a sad smirk appearing on his face “Not unless you want to talk about whatever's going on with you” Ted says, he's sure the subject will be dropped, that he has ‘won’, perse.

“Ok,” Bill says sitting up, Ted's face falls and so do his hands, losing contact with Bills. He giggles softly before continuing “I dont know whats going, or what was going on with me. I treated you unfairly and was somebody that I was not. I let my emotions get the best of me, the fight with Billy…” He eyes Ted, his tone becoming softer “And at the funeral” He barely whispers. Ted nods processing the words his small friend speaks.

“I miss my mom, and my dad...apparently kill-” He chokes suddenly, Bill squeezes his hand, no pressure...take your time. “And I made a mistake, I took it out on Tommy,” He sighs rubbing the bridge of his nose “But he doesn't deserve me! He deserves someone better, someone whos not…” He grunts pressing his lips together tightly, irritated “Me...someone whos not me” Ted finishes, Bill takes a deep breath.

“You're right,” Bill says, Ted's eyes go wide, oh? “He doesn't deserve you, in my opinion, nobody does Ted. Nobody is good enough for you” He says, Ted feels his heart pull “I've always thought that you're my best friend how could I not?” Ted chuckles lightly “But I have never seen you happier than when you're with Tommy, every word, every movement, every smile...I see how it affects you” Bill remarks, Ted struggles against tears. “You love him, and mind you, he loves you too” Ted nods, that he knows, I do love him. “I will always think that no one is good enough for you but Tommy? He comes pretty damn close” Bill finishes, Ted raises his brows lovingly.

“Bill Dorris, did you just swear?” Ted asks teasing his friend. Bill turns to him, dead serious.

“Yes I did, and no one will ever believe you” They erupt into tired laughter and sit until the night comes to a close. The professors come to collect Ted, and Bill gets a ride with Paul. But something changed that lively night, another part of the puzzle was found and it fits perfectly. However, another part of the puzzle was lost that night, a part no one thought could be lost, a fury of love and sunshine...finally dimmed out.

~~~

Something had died that night, and it had died alone. Tommy watches as Ted led Bill out of the theatre, smiling at the pair happy to see things falling back into place. He waved at Ted who only caught a glance but smiled at him. He sighs happily turning towards another group, he starts a polite conversation with them but feels something boiling in the back of his brain, an itching. He glances around seeing Billy leaning against one of the sides watching him intently. He shivers trying to shake off the pit now consuming him.

“Bye Tommy,” Charlotte says hugging her friend, he hugs back eyes wandering towards Billy, he holds on a little tighter wanting her to stay. But she does and soon so does everyone, until its just Tommy, Chad, Billy and his friends. Chad and Tommy carry on a conversation that leaves Tommy feeling pleasant, it comes to a slow however much to Tommy’s disappointment.

“Oh wow” Chad says looking at his watch he perks back up to Tommy “I gotta get home, um...have you by any chance seen Ted?” He asks, Tommy ponders for a moment recollecting the events that had transpired.

“He went out towards the foyer with Bill” Tommy smiles, as the professor nods. He thanks him quickly, giving him a rushed farewell until suddenly once more Tommy stands alone on the stage with Billy watching him. He moves to the piano feeling himself wince at every step. He reaches for his phone checking for an update from his mom or anything really...from Ted.

“Hey” A slimy voice whispers abruptly, a painful shiver runs down Tommy's spine as he recoils jumping. Billy smirks at him, play the part, Billy. Tommy feels his lip quiver, he feels his phone buzz and reaches for it once more. An instant wave of relief hits him seeing a familiar, not yet changed name pop up.

Dearest

Ted: Hey… I just wanted to make sure that you were really alright

As much as Tommy wishes to reassure him, to continue to another subject he can't. He wastes no time sending an urgent text, something he knows he’ll understand. How could he not? It was pretty clear.

Tommy: Still at school, alone with Billy, please help.

“Oh no need for that” Billy's voice intrudes his mind once more, he watches as the disgusting teen grabs the phone from Tommy's hands throwing it on the floor. Tommy winces instinctively as the shatter hits the ground...and the pieces all fall apart.