#secondism.

[retisent]

in which we rendez-vous at the pool 11 - 4 - 2016, friday evening

so   here   we   fucking   are.   back   at   the   scene   of   many   crimes,   the   highland   fucking   estate.   don’t   listen   to   what   they   tell   you,   the   difference   in   the   volume   of   stars   between   this   particular   corner   of   bumblefuck   and   the   city   is   negligible.   not   worth   it.   rarely,   has   it   ever   been   worth   it.   shea,  at   present,   is   being   held   up   at   gunpoint   by   a   parade   of   memories   he’s   reluctant   to   indulge.   the   one   leading   the   pack   is,   somehow   unsurprisingly,  his   grandfather.   he’s   got   a   .28   leveled  at   him:   his   outstretched   palm,   two   cigars   lying   flat   across   it.   one   for   shea,   one   for   art.   shea’s   sixteenth   summer.  the  sunlight  flies  outward   from   behind   pop’s   head,   forms   the   vision   of   a   halo   on   fire.   he’s   smiling   through   the   tailend  of   a   joke.   shea   can’t   remember.   “alright   boys,”   two   hands   dive   towards   his   open   palm,   plucking   the  cigars   with   the   fervency   of   seagulls  on   a   starved   beach.  “now   scram.   before   i   change   my   mind.  i’m…   gonna   go   see   if   missus   knightly   is   amicable   to   the   prospect   of   hustling   some    fools   at   cards.   this   crowd,   i   tell  ya…   ripe   with   opportunity.”

back   in   november,   obstensibly   the   present,   several   lifetimes   away,   shea   presses   his   eyes   shut,   opens   them   again,   presses   them   shut   again,   opens   them   again,   and   eventually   clenches   down   on  an   exasperated  fuck.   the   tie   he   took   off   hours   ago   is   choking   him   around   the   neck.   he   can   feel   the   tension   in   his   body  coiling   tighter   and   tighter.   shoulders   knotted.   chest   heavy.   a   dull   buzzing   behind   his   eyes.   there   is   this   bottom   of   the   seventh   adrenaline,  anticipation,   a   sort   of   running   out   of   room   feeling.   it’s   that   in   exactly  two  and  a   half   innings:   something   ends.   something   is   going   to   end.   that’s   the   feeling  sitting   behind   his   ribs.   but   god,   how   long   is  an  inning.   he   wipes   a   hand   over   his   face.   get   it   the   fuck   together,   shea   thomas.   and   he   does.   by   the   time   he   hones   in   on   a   familiar   pattern   of   footfall   (somehow   unsurprisingly)   coming   up   behind   him,   he’s   at   least   gotten   the   better   part   of   himself   together.   took   one   and   a   half   cigarettes.   one   inning   is   approximately   anywhere   from   five   to   five   hundred   cigarettes,   if   that   helps. “mr.   march,”   shea   greets   artemas   without   turning   around,   in   the   cadence   of   a   boarding   school   proctor   and   in   a   tone   that   balances   on   the   razorsedge   of   familiar   and   distant.   shea   is   in   the   rather   adolescent   process   of   ripping   matches   out   of   a   book,   lighting   them,  and   flicking   them   into   the   pool,   one   by   one.   he’s   sat   on   the   edge,   suit   legs   jacked   up   haphazardly,   calfdeep   in   the   water.   everything   echoes.   “you   are   late.”   he’s   talking   around   the   menthol   in   his   mouth,   or   he’d   suck   his   teeth   here:  “that’s   a  demerit.”   he   looks   over   at   art,   then,   and   tries   to   keep   an   even   keel.   equal   measure   is   applied   to   reading   art’s   expression   and   schooling   his   own.   the   buzzing   in   his   ears   has   stopped,   but   the   thing   in   his   heart   is   lifting   dangerously   close   to   his   throat.   “how   goes   the   night?”   there’s   a   note   of   something   acid   in   there,   for   a   close   ear   to   notice.  nothing   outright,   nothing   on   the   face   of   it,   but   under   everything:   anger.   just   not   the   kind   shea   wants   to   share.   he   tosses   aside   the   matches,    slides   the   pack   in   art’s   direction,   braces   all   the   way   back   on   his   elbows,   and   fixes   himself   on   the   reflections   of   light   on   the   surface   of   the   water.   here   we   fucking   are.

@secondism

[goldensunset]

can you reblog a two-part post in the correct order?

[word-count-bullet-count]

I've been seeing a lot of knight posts recently. pretty great

[valtsv]

stuck between "psychological horror statement" and "objectively the funniest thing you could say to your real flesh and blood dad" in the father's day card aisle

[cartoonsinthemorning]

Since you guys liked Marcille as Kermit that much, it seems fitting to thank you for my 12k milestone with MORE Kercille. And this time, Miss Falin is also here.

Thank you so much again everybody! MWAH 💗

[arynneva]

wait do people read first person stories and think they're the ones in the story???

Saw people talking about not liking first person, which is fair, but their reasoning was like "I would not do that" and I don't understand that mindset.

First person stories are still about a character. A character making their own decisions. First person isn't about you???? At least I thought it wasn't. What am I missing? I've always seen first person as just a more in-depth look into a character's mind and stricter POV. Not as a reader stand-in.

[hazelcallahan]

who else cheered

[goldrogerstits]

[whywoulditho]

for some reason middle aged comic fans coming on the internet to defend their decision as to why they thought a twelve year old should have died or lived is so funny 😭😭😭

[nando161mando]

Remember Luigi is currently innocent

Couldn't Be Any Conflict

[alefalf]

has someone done this yet

[matkatkitkat]

i started playing Disco Elysium and last night (the same day i started playing) i woke up to my stomach hurting so bad that in my delirium i thought it had to do with something from the game.

and looked it up…

i thought this was completely normal until waking up later after the pain was gone.

[orgyofthedamned]

me when a character who was completely powerless gains power and proceeds to lose themselves in the intoxication of it before coming to and being horrified by their own capacity for bloodlust

[gwydionae]

Behold, one of my best friend's Halloween costumes, recorded and uploaded by a complete stranger with over a million views on tiktok! (I'm so proud!!)

[stevenrogered]

Dame Maggie Smith as Muriel Donnelly The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (2015)