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expanding-infinity · 2 years ago

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"Is this a new piece?"

The titan was more than enamoured with the work of the chaos god on the regular. While they may be at odds in terms of the moral spectrum, he respected her. In her thinking and her choices, and the dedication and will she took in acting on those choices. Even as her 'handler', he still wished this relationship to be a pleasant one. Deity to deity. Man to woman. Simple as it may be to say, of course...

Relationships between gods are always complicated.

His glowing gaze fixated on the canvas momentarily before the realization crossed him. A familiar sea, a familiar beach. The illuminated web that filled the otherwise black sky. "That's..."

"The Veil." Khaos then stated, clearing her throat. "...I don't know how I painted it." That thought alone seemed to bring a tone of unease to the goddess, and she wasn't one to be so easily unnerved, for obvious reasons. However this, the not knowing of seeing something so beyond herself, truly, it brought a tremble to her voice and a shake to her hands as she tried to pour herself a stiff drink.

"How do you not know? You painted it. You must've seen it somehow, though I can't see how that's possible-"

Khaos dropped that glass as she let out an annoyed huff, reaching up to rub the bridge of her nose. "I know, i know. I just don't fucking know." Tense. Too much noise. "I can't make any sense of it. I can't exist outside of what's been created, so I don't know how I can see that. That's...not me. That's not my concept! That's a still space, outside of this bullshit!" She was making a fuss about what could easily be equated to nothing. "I just...I just..." Her shoulders sunk, practically slumping into her chair as Artic turned to face her.

"Things have been set for a long, long time...the Veil has been a constant. Outside of my sight, outside of everyone but you, and yet here I am. With it on a canvas. Is it something from the Matriarch? The Empress? I don't dream, I don't have visions, I just see. Does this mean I'm...healing? Can I even call it that?" Babbling nonsense. That's all she hears from herself. Was this even Khaos speaking? So much worry and unease, which was almost comical coming from someone like her. Unstable, confident, slamming back and forth from manic depression to a god complex every other day..."If I'm healing, why don't I feel any different?"

Artic took in a slow breath, reaching up to remove his mask so he could be seated across from her. With a wave of his hand, burning a bit of his energy, he used that telekinetic power of his to cover the painting with a nearby cloth. As he watched that canvas vanish from tight, he sat himself down across from her.

"You're thinking too hard on nothing. Making noise out of a whisper." He murmured. "This could be nothing, or it could be everything. But you can't make a fuss over it now, when all you have is a glimpse of what could possibly be something." Artic wasn't all knowing, nor could he see the future. Not clearly. All he could do is wade through the haze and make sound predictions, but that's all they were. Predictions. He didn't know where this would lead, and the two Majesties knew better than to disclose that information to anyone. Even omnipotence had consequences.

Khaos had to give pause, once again reaching to pour a glass. This time, she was successful. "You sound like him..." She murmured in reply before taking a slow, shaky sip. "Always telling me to level out. Relax. Take things as they come."

"Something you took to heart." Came his hummed reply.

"Of course. It's one thing I wanted to keep from him..." She chuckled. "...maybe that's why I'm paranoid about this. I fractured with his death. If I'm healing, and this is a sign of that...I don't know how to feel."

"And that's fine." He murmured. "Not everything needs to be defined immediately. Let it sit with you and mull it over. How it feels in your head and heart. You're allowed to name your feelings later. I would think you of all people would know that."

Khaos let out a soft chuckle. "Fuck you." She sighed, a small, rare smile creeping to her features. "I'm not sure what to do with that painting though."

"Hang it. Somewhere you always look, so that way you'll remember it. If it's a good step, then keep it. If it's something terrible, you can always burn it later. After all, this is the first time in a long while I've heard you sound like your old self." He chuckled before rising to his feet to circle around the table to her. He hesitated for a brief instance, before reaching out to gently grab and rub her shoulder. "Keep your head on straight. Eternity's a long time and there's no point in losing it so soon."

'Keep your head on straight, Dahlia.'

A soft, pleased hum left the goddess, reaching up to rest her hand on his. A welcome touch and a fond memory. She had to catch herself, clearing her throat. "I'll think about it...I'm not planning to rampage from this, so you're welcome to leave." The voices stilled, her energy settled. No killing for her. No madness to lock in a cosmic box.

Of course he could take her at her word, however he didn't want to leave that up to chance. More than that however, this did sound like progress in a way. For her. Closer perhaps. Maybe even the day where she wouldn't need those cosmic chains. "I think I'll stay a while longer. How does dinner sound?" He stepped away, Khaos glancing up in mild surprise. "Don't give me that look. Good food is always the easiest way to cut tension. Finish your drink and come help me after."

Khaos took in a slow breath, looking to the covered easel before nodding. "Alright..."

#smoke and black mirrors [khaos]#eternity's guardian [artic]#fates [drabble]

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expanding-infinity · 2 years ago

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That predatory energy and gaze of hers was something to marvel at. It was obvious she was more than a mere woman, and whatever she was, was concealed. Hidden just outside of senses. It was looming, and far more infinite than even them.

However at the remark her tone lightened, trembling hand reaching into her waistcoat to retrieve a tin from a pocket inside. "Oh good. Saves me paperwork." She then stated, using a pointed claw to open the tin and retrieve what appears to be a black cigarette. Bringing digits to its end, she rubbed them together, using the subsequent sparks to light the black roll of...something.

Once she took a slow breath, her energy seemed to settle, moving to stretch out and move closer, heels clacking against the blood soaked floor.

@expanding-infinity

[x]

Sometimes they see things that are .. interesting, clearly not meant to be seen. And it seems like they have caught yet another one of those moments. The blood, the gore of a sight should unsettle many - but if anything, they just figured - maybe it's a feeding thing. Maybe it's just a thing she does just because. Wouldn't be the first time that they encountered those types.

They can't exactly judge. That doesn't seem to be the best response to these kinds of situations.

Especially not with the words that they just heard from her. It's almost enough to make them more tired than anything else. They don't even react to the 'mutt's paw' comment. It's all too obvious what had happened here.

Atieno narrows their eyes at the warning that gets directed their way. What is with so many that make these kinds of assumptions? They suppose with as many so-called do-gooders, they understood the impulse to defend oneself but still. Another layer of exhaustion as they remain purposefully silent for a few moments.

"Listen, I never said I was going to do anything. You do whatever you have to do in your own time. It's clear that my timing was .. a bit unfortunate for you taking care of what you wanted to do there."

#smoke and black mirrors [khaos]

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the-silver-chronicles · 5 months ago

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Fantasy Aesthetics for my OC/s

Tagged by @raresvtm

Tagging @inafieldofdaisies @voidika @icecutioner @socially-awkward-skeleton @derelictheretic @shallow-gravy @direwombat @strangefable @rhettsabbott @josephseedismyfather @josephslittledeputy @imogenkol @cloudofbutterflies92 @skoll-sun-eater @cassietrn @carlosoliveiraa @adelaidedrubman @g0dspeeed @wrathfulrook @afarcryfrommymain @strafethesesinners @aceghosts @turbo-virgins @shellibisshe @softtidesworld @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @florbelles @titiagls @minilev @yokobai @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @justasmolbard @alypink @thesingularityseries @nightwingshero and @noodlecupcakes + anyone else who'd like to join.

Chose Silva Omar, Nadi Sinclair & Alexander Khaos for this tag game. Find out what aesthetics apply to them below:

Rules: Bold what applies

SILVA OMAR (FAR CRY 5, FAR CRY NEW DAWN)

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐘. chipped nail polish. glitter highlight. tall trees with smooth bark. tangled hair. the taste of cinnamon sugar. talking too loud and too fast. overgrown flowers in your hair. crumbling buildings reclaimed by nature. flirting. walking home at 3am with no coat. platonic hand-holding. blowing smoke out of your nose. dragonfly wings. chaotic good. freckles. fairy rings. secret meetings. gender nonconformity. leather. smudged eyeliner. forbidden fruit.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑. computer errors. a shiver down your spine. haunting beauty. hard liquor. crowns of thorns. shadowed alleyways. decaying plant matter. shattered mirrors and broken glass. corrupted memories. stopped clocks. the scent of stale cigarettes. tattered black hoodies. walking your friends home. the crescent moon. the sea. a graveyard on a foggy day. cold rings on cold fingers. absolution. looking out the window of an airplane. soft kisses.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇. graffiti. pretending to know what you’re doing. worn paperback books. growing up too fast. parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. lace and combat boots. moth wings. candles on every surface. a weathered deck of cards. turning the music up. fireflies in jars. calloused fingers. drawing on your skin. sunlight filtering through clouds. petrichor. a dying rose in a jar. wearing a crystal pendant. illusions and spells. black cats. mint gum. chapped lips. dirt under your fingernails. the cycle of life and death.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅. murders of crows. frost-bitten leaves. wolves howling at midnight. knocking on your door. leaving food out for stray animals. the twang of an acoustic guitar. honey. tiny red buds on trees. claw marks on the walls. golden eyes. slightly too long stubble. sharp canines. soft, thick fur. hunger. a small cottage in the middle of the woods. knitted fingerless gloves. sleeping on the forest floor. always finding your way back home.

NADI SINCLAIR (CALL OF DUTY: MODERN WARFARE, FAR CRY 5, FAR CRY NEW DAWN)

ALEXANDER KHAOS (WE HAPPY FEW, FAR CRY 5, FAR CRY NEW DAWN)

#series: the silver chronicles #far cry 5 #far cry new dawn #oc: silva omar #call of duty modern warfare #oc: nadi sinclair #we happy few #oc: alexander khaos

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southeastasianists · 5 years ago

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The memory of Thanaruek Laoraowirodge’s favorite Thai dish is intertwined with the memory of his grandmother, Somsri Chantra. Originally from the eastern town of Trad, Laoraowirodge vividly remembers the chicken stew that she would cook after he returned home from school.

The dish, as simple as it is, is included in his family’s upcoming cookbook, a volume that will detail the recipes created by his khun yai, or grandmother. Not surprisingly, Yai Somsri’s recipes also make up much of the menu for his family’s popular Bangkok eateries, Supanniga Eating Room and Krua Supanniga by Khunyai.

Laoraowirodge considers the upcoming tome to be the family’s first funeral cookbook. “It will include all stories of memories from our family members with khun yai, related to her life and her cooking,” he says.

Most Thais consider funeral books a way to safeguard good memories of a loved one. Distributed by family members as mourners file into the temple to say their farewells, funeral books are typically put together by grieving children or partners. Often, they document the life of the deceased, share family anecdotes and photos, and reprint important Buddhist sermons.

However, many books cannot help but include matters dear to the departed’s heart. A jewelry aficionado’s funeral book could contain a primer on spotting gem quality. For an avid foodie, it might include their favorite places for street eats, replete with histories of the vendors. Yet whether a slim pamphlet or a thick, hardcover volume, favorite family recipes have become standard funeral book content.

But legend has it that the origins of the Thai funeral book are rooted in tragedy. The first queen of King Rama V, Sunandha Kumariratana, and her daughter, Princess Karnabhorn Bejraratana, drowned in 1880 when their boat capsized on the way to the palace. Courtiers and servants who would have been able to help were rooted to the spot, for fear of breaking a law that forbade commoners from touching royals. At their funeral, King Rama V gave out 10,000 books to commemorate the lives of the queen and his daughter, but these did not include any recipes. Instead, they featured Buddhist teachings and philosophy. The nangsue anusorn ngan sop (funeral book) was born, and the custom was swiftly copied by the king’s subjects.

The motives behind this tradition, however, may not entirely stem from a desire to keep good memories of the deceased alive. “Grand families were very competitive in showing face—and still are,” says Phil Cornwel-Smith, author of Very Thai and the new book Very Bangkok. “Funeral books would have shown all the titles, awards, and ranks that the deceased had been bestowed, which would be of vital interest for the surviving relatives to publicize and justify their social position.”

While funeral books were initially considered the purview of the aristocratic elite, the bourgeois—the military, high-ranking civil servants, and wealthy merchants—were only a few steps behind. Initially, Buddhist philosophy was a popular feature, until King Rama V in 1904 proclaimed the volumes to be “not very enjoyable” and advised future books to include more interesting subject matter, such as popular Thai fables. It was only later, in the mid-20th century, when food-related matters became the norm in funeral publications.

“For grand ladies of the past, there would be far less in terms of rank to document,” says Cornwel-Smith, “so their household accomplishments would be lauded, such as recipes,” adding that one of his first jobs in Thailand was to edit a funeral booklet for a female Sino-Thai banker.

It might seem odd that Thailand would be able to nurture the unique culinary tradition of the “funeral cookbook” when cookbooks themselves were a relatively recent phenomenon. Inspired by Isabella Beeton’s The Book of Household Management, the first Thai food cookbook, Mae Khrua Hua Pa (or “Talented Women Chefs”), was published by Lady Plian Phasakorawong in 1908. Before Lady Plian’s masterwork, recipes were transmitted verbally, ideally to family or household members only. These recipes were guarded fiercely. For a family to reveal one’s culinary secrets was tantamount to ceding social cachet to another rival house. “Grand families competed in culture as much as in titles, such as quality of food and rival troupes of traditional musicians,” says Cornwel-Smith.

The publication of the first Thai cookbook finally allowed for the sharing of private culinary knowledge in the public sphere. It also reflected a general rise of literacy in the pursuit of siwalai, the Thai attempt to appear more “civilized” in the face of encroaching colonization, academics say.

The debut of Mae Khrua Hua Pa was said to have been a commercial failure because of its relatively high price. However, it has since managed to take hold of and eventually shape Thai culinary discourse—primarily through its reprinting as a souvenir for Thai funerals. In essence, it has enjoyed a second (and third, and fourth) life as a funeral cookbook for families wary of sharing their own recipes.

Other funeral cookbooks have added to the cultural conversation by keeping specific family traditions alive. The many funeral cookbooks of one of the grand houses of old Siam, the Bunnag family, detail a plethora of dishes from the homeland of Sheikh Ahmad, who arrived in the kingdom as a Persian merchant in 1600. After entering the service of King Songtham, Sheikh Ahmad eventually rose to the rank of samuha nayok (First Prime Minister), a position that many of his descendants would also hold.

Scholars such as Thai food chef David Thompson—the proud collector of at least 600 funeral cookbooks—credit the Bunnag family for bringing gang massaman (loosely translated to “Muslim curry”) to Thailand. Although hailed today as one of the most popular Thai dishes in the world, massaman curry is still classified by some Thais as “foreign” since it incorporates a mix of dried spices, while traditional Thai curries are based on fresh herbs.

Today, the family recipe for massaman curry lives on in Bunnag funeral cookbooks, and includes raisins, small potatoes, nutmeg, cumin, star anise, cardamom, mace, and the decidedly un-Thai flourish of bay leaves. In the funeral cookbook of Sheikh Ahmad’s descendent Longlaliew Bunnag, one can find Persian-inspired gems such as the aforementioned massaman, khao buree (translated loosely as “smoked rice,” the family’s own take on chicken biryani) and sai gai, a saffron-scented, syrup-soaked dessert known as jalebi in Indian cuisine.

A wealthy family into the 20th century, the Bunnag family recipes also mirror the many foreign influences that shaped the Thai upper classes. One recipe calls simply for Chinese-style egg noodles mixed with olive oil and sprinkled with “the grated cheese of your choice,” a fusion that probably would have horrified Lady Plian.

In an essay on Thailand’s culinary identity, journalist Panu Wongcha-um argues that funeral cookbooks are still shaping Thai culinary discourse. This can be amply illustrated by the menus of Michelin-starred Thai restaurants such as Nahm, Paste, and Bo.lan, whose menus are rooted in the funeral cookbooks of noble families and whose chefs are celebrities in their own right.

Chef Bo Songvisava, like her former boss David Thompson, has a sizable funeral cookbook collection of her own. Besides inspiring her cooking, the funeral cookbooks in Songvisava’s collection represent the achievements of Thai women in the only sphere once permitted to them: the home.

“Funeral books with recipes in them in the early years mostly belonged to ladies from noble families,” says Songvisava, who is in the midst of writing her own cookbook. “Printing merely a cookbook must have seemed ridiculous back then, so they used funerals as an occasion to respect the deceased and pass on her skills, knowledge, and legacy.”

Chef Jason Bailey of Paste estimates that he and his wife, fellow chef Bee Satongun, have collected several hundred funeral cookbooks. The books, while providing a snapshot of a certain time, were also helpful in showing how Thai cuisine has evolved. “We were interested in seeing how they riffed and adapted Thai recipes,” he says of past cooks.

Ultimately, the Thai funeral cookbook was born in a hothouse environment of its own, fed by royal encouragement, the threat of colonization, a dearth of spaces for female expression, and the gradual literacy of the masses. However, unlike many conventions of the past, the funeral cookbook thrives today, even popping up abroad. British food writer Alan Davidson was so charmed by the idea that he compiled a 47-page booklet of his own, to be distributed at his 2003 service. The volume included recipes for personal favorites, such as meatloaf and toad-in-the-hole.

Songvisava thinks her funeral cookbook would highlight her work at her restaurant. “The recipes that I will include in my funeral book will be the ones that are served in Bo.lan and Bo.lan only,” she says, singling out green curry with local green figs, a salad of fresh northern Thai greens adorned with grilled fish, and household essentials such as Sriracha sauce.

Her husband, co-chef Dylan Jones, says he would present a mix of Thai influences and his Australian heritage in his funeral cookbook. For him, that means two particular recipes: one for nam prik prik Thai oorn, or black pepper chili relish, and another for Vegemite on toast.

#southeast asia #thailand #Culture #Traditions

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expanding-infinity · 2 years ago

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"I had a dream..."

The shifting god started, Khaos fixated on the canvas in front of her. Her motions were lazy. Sloppy even. And yet the paint found it's intended mark with an odd amount of precision and practice. She was only in a robe, only having just woken up from this...oddity. She didn't dream. Dreams were for the living. For the rested and quiet minds. Unlike hers, constantly buzzing with chatter of her other versions. Bickering, debating, screaming...and even they were hushed, hardly whispering to each other as they collectively discussed what they had all equally seen.

"I sat on a beach. Sand made of dust, and the sea made of pearlescent starlight." As she spoke, that mess of paint on that canvas began to look more like her description. "The sky was filled with the web of creation, and the depths of the sea showed its mirrored reality. Hardly deep or meaningful..." She paused. "...but I'm not permitted that perspective. It's outside my concept. I am change. Outside of 'what is', I don't exist. Outside the bounds of creation, there's nothing but stillness. Not a single instance of change. Only 'what isn't'."

"How can I dream of something I've never seen?"

#smoke and black mirrors [khaos]

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ladycapuletwrites · 6 years ago

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Swing

“Excuse me?”.

I turn to see a small blonde English girl wandering up the street towards me. Her backpack looks like it’s about to topple her.

“Uh.. this might sound strange, but I’m just wondering if you know of any good hostels around here? It’s just, I.. I’ve never traveled by myself before and I’ve just been working in this little village where I’ve been teaching and I haven’t really been alone and I just got off the bus and I don’t know what I’m doing”. She says all this in rapid fire quick succession, and I can see that she’s terribly embarrassed.

“I’m Sarah, you’ve come to the right place” I smile broadly, and hold my hand out to her. Her name is Izzy.

I take her back to the hostel I’m staying at and buy a glass of red wine. We check her into a room and I tell her about all the impending mates that are traveling here to meet me.

She’s worried about making friends, so I invite her out to Shays birthday celebrations and our white water rafting the next day.

Shay arrives with her best friend Maya and a guy called Jude, who makes fast friends with Izzy. He wants to shave for tonight so I lend him my lady clipper. He accepts graciously after I clean it extensively.

James arrives in the afternoon, and I go to meet him at his hotel room. I’m a little drunk at this point and let him film a slo-mo of me in a very compromising position. It feels good to have his hands on me again. We fuck a couple of times and then decide to head back to the Great, where I do Shays make up and Angel appears right as I finish her lipstick.

He stares at her. “What have you done to your face?” Later, he tells me he thinks she looks like a hooker. He doesn’t like make up on women. I ask him what he thinks when I wear it. He says the same thing: “you look stupid, it’s weird. Why you are putting all these colours on your face. It’s weird man, so weird” and then he laughs that same stoned laugh I missed so much. I give him a hug.

“How was Galapagos?”

“Oh man, it was so cool. I went diving every day and I saw sharks and turtles and all sorts of epic shit! I spent like a grand getting there but it was worth it man! Yeah!” He goes on to show me photos and videos of murky wildlife.

We head to a karaoke bar and get absolutely shit faced and sing songs. Drinking weird blue overpriced cocktails, sitting around smoking cigarettes. We yell at each other over the music until somehow James and I end up on the street arguing. Angel is looking over at me, I head back to the alley of bars we switched to. I suddenly realise I don’t have my phone. I’m so drunk i have no idea where we’ve been, and James goes on a mission with me to find it, although by this point I’m being a total drunk bitch to him.

I wake up in bed next to him and immediately start apologising, starting with my mouth moving slowly down to his cock.

After he finishes and I offer to run down and grab coffee, he stops me and asks, “are you a little bit bipolar or something?”. The question smacks me in the face.

“No, I’m not, I just realise that I was a total cunt to you last night and I’m trying to apologise for it”

“Oh, so you remember insulting me and storming off into a dangerous street where I followed you because I couldn’t leave you to possibly get hurt and then you said that I wouldn’t understand anything because I wasn’t as smart as you?”

My insides clench.

“Something like that”, I say, shame rising up to meet me as I swing my feet over the bed.

“Nah, I’m good. But thanks”, he says, and we lie in silence for a while until I get up to leave.

“I’m going to go back to my room for a bit, have a shower and maybe a nap. Then I’m going to look for my phone.”, I say, and kiss him quickly before I slink out. At this point I’m enveloped in a cold sweat and feeling completely shit about myself.

I head back to The Great, and have a huge argument with the girl at the front counter. I forget immediately what it was about, and go to have a nap.

On the way, Angel sees me. “Hey man, you were such a fucking bitch to James last night man, wow. I’ve never seen you like that. I can’t believe he followed you to make sure you were okay. I would have left you to get fucked over” he says.

“You totally wouldn’t.”

“No, of course I wouldn’t. But you should say sorry. He was a good dude last night.”

I think about James in a different light on the way up the stairs. I think the arrogance I saw in him when we first met was merely a mirror of my own shortcomings.

When I wake up later, I feel terrible about what I said to the girl at the counter, and go down to apologise to her. She isn’t working, but I write a note and the guy at the counter cheekily tells me that she thought I was a massive bitch and he’d pass the message on.

I deserved that, to be fair. I look out the window and James is wandering down the lane. “Let’s get your phone then?”

As we walk out, he hops into a little 4x4 roadster that he’s hired.

“Surprise”, he says. I am Jacks roiling unworthiness.

We get in and scale all the bars from the night before, and then James realises that we stopped at a chicken shop when we were fuck eyed, and were too drunk to eat properly.

In a strange twist of fate, the owner has hidden the phone so that no one else on the staff can steal it, and I gladly give him all the money in my wallet upon its return. The fact that I found my phone after losing in Ecuador is astronomically rare. So rare in fact, that I’ve never heard a story like it since.

I kiss James and thank him, apologising profusely about my shitty behaviour, and we hop in the car to drive into the Jurassic mountains.

The car has no top, other than some black bars, so I feel a rush when he puts his hand down the front of my pants. I have again worn tights, so he works his way down with one hand on the wheel, and the scenery of the mountains rushing by us. The sun is just in the right spot in the sky; behind us, illuminating the ashphalt. I’m just about to cum when we swerve left to miss a truck. I busy myself with the cords and Velcro on the shorts he’s wearing, but I’m in the wrong position to do anything once I get them undone except limply jerk him off.

We head into the mist, higher and higher, until we reach the place where The Swing at the Edge of the World is. The inspiration, I realise, for the entire trip. I pull my hand out of james’ pants as another car drives by. Look up towards the sign saying to turn left for La Casa Del Arbor.

Oisin.

As the clouds start to make the car cold and we head farther into foggy territory, I think back on what lead me to this place, to this continent.

I think of his hands and his insatiable mouth. I think of the way he would disappear, even when we were in the same room. The way he changed the colour of the lights in his room for a month to see what hue made him feel different things. He wouldn’t call me for three days and I’d worry, uber to his house and find him painting a sculpture he’d made, completely manic. “Look, I’m painting the monkey from Monkey Magic. I sculpted him first out of wood I found at a scrap yard”, he would say. Time didn’t really have a meaning to him. I was dangerously in love with him from about two weeks in.

Red wine soaked mouth, I was just back from a festival. He came to my house, an apartment in the city. Showed me a ted talk by Esther Perel, a Belgian psychotherapist exploring the relationship between desire and comfort.

I got pretty drunk and in the morning I took a photo of him through the vacant space in my bookshelf. It shot in black and white, and when I looked at it, I think that was when I started falling in love with him, but I had no idea until months later. I hadn’t listened when he said that another woman had been the love of his life, that he wasn’t ready for someone else, that he could never be in love with me. I didn’t listen to any of it. I just stared at him whilst he was sleeping and I was drunk on tequila and little bit stoned and wondered how I got so lucky to be next to him.

He was my first foray into polyamory. It didn’t go well. Not for the reasons you might think. He was a very bad communicator. He would forget to text for a week when he got caught up in an experimental project or disappeared on a road trip with some person he’d met at a bar. I never knew what security in that relationship was. Esther Perel says that desire happens from a distance, and I know exactly what she means. I projected all my love onto him and he wasn’t there to reject it so it stayed and deluded me until I opened my laptop, a couple of weeks after he’d called it off and I’d arrived at his house wasted while his friends were over. He sent me home in the morning and told me not to call him again. He’d left his email open on my computer, I couldn’t help myself. The first one was from a girl who had recorded them fucking, and sent it to him as a sound bite. I won’t go into the rest.

I think about how fascinated I was by him and how many pieces of writing I’d written about him so far. How many times I’d drank at him, about him, to him.

I’d stared at the painting he’d given me for my birthday. He strapped it to the back of his motorbike with me on it, and we’d ambled back to my house.

It had a piece of paper attached to the back, explaining that it was. “The Swing at the Edge of the World”, in Ecuador. I looked at the painting for a year and had many more relationships and fuck buddies and pretty girls and pretty boys in my bed. I still thought of him every time I looked at it before I got sick of myself. And one day, when I was stoned, Allan called me.

“I’m going to South America with Lucy”.

He explained further that he was leaving in a few months to join her there.

I had been reading The Celestine Prophecy, based in Peru. It had been given to me by a work mate named Darko. I’d bought it in Thailand after I had experienced such intense synchronicity that a new friend had told me to buy it, and I’d promptly walked into a second hand bookstore in Khao San and declared that I would find it within five minutes. I did, but I discovered that when I got home, it was the complimentary edition, to the original. Darko had given me the correct copy a year later, after I’d forgotten about it. Inscribed on the first page, was a simple note. “Follow the signs.” It said.

It was lying on my bed, and I opened the book, reading the words.

I looked up at the painting on the wall.

“Are you going to Ecuador by any chance? Or Peru?” I asked.

“Yeah, both.” Allan replied.

“What month?”

“August”

“Do you mind if I meet you there?”

And that’s how it had started, with a book and a painting and an exhaustion borne from the unhealed parts of my heart. I had dreamed about this moment and then forgotten about it in the last couple of months, my heart had mended and broken in many different ways by now, it was another piece in the puzzle. A finality of sorts.

It makes sense that it’s foggy on the way up, the chills up my spine seem like they have a place, regardless of the weather.

James puts his hand on my knee.

“Let’s get this fucking photo then, hey?” He says.

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expanding-infinity · 2 years ago

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“Is that…. somebody’s hand?” - Khaos. [oh hii]

Oh dear. The goddess has made a mess.

Blackened claws and torn open jaw dropped crimson, magenta eyes glowing harshly in the low light. In a daze, before an unfamiliar voice cut through the air. Caught red handed, not that she cared. Something about the stranger was ethereal. Not to her level, but even so. She took this moment to get her mind and memories together, taking in a slow breath as that jagged maw receded to something human.

Looking to hand that was missing its owner, she tossed it aside, eyes flicking to the viscera around her before fixating on the stranger. "No, it was just some mutts' paw." She stated simply, straightening out her blood spattered dress shirt, waistcoat, and tie before wiping the blood from her face. "Think long and hard about what you're gonna do next, hun. I'm not exactly in a mood for games." A warning. Simple, and obvious.

#smoke and black mirrors [khaos]

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expanding-infinity · 2 years ago

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Her skin was searing. Churning. But at least she had the decency to swipe a worn blanket from the warehouse she was born into. Well, born among corpses. Brought into this reality screaming like some hellish demon, peeling herself from the miasma between realities. Even now she was trying to give herself shape. To stabilize. Her skin was semitransparent, revealing false bone structures as she tried to copy what was around her to give herself form.

And yet she was completely clueless of who she was, how she was capable of this, or why her body felt like it was filled with magma. Head pounding, and yet not a beat in her empty chest. So certain she was meant to at least mimic a human, but she couldn't get her pale false skin to stop churning like smoke born of a black fire. All she could do was stumble along, the blanket being the only thing to cover her decency through the dark night streets.

@teleportingprogrammer

#smoke and black mirrors [khaos]

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expanding-infinity · 3 years ago

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"Oh I understand that. A nasty habit under normal circumstances." Said with completely awareness she was doing that exact thing. "I'm more here to enjoy the atmosphere. It gets dreary being stuck at home, or in the same place day in and day out. But this..." Khaos took in a slow breath, once again exhaling a black cloud of electrified smoke. It was quick to disperse, of course. She didn't want to be a nuisance.

"Exactly what I needed to get out of my...funk, I think the word is." While her energy was erratic, without a pattern or shape, it seemed to exist with purpose. After all, chaos is just order outside of our perceptions. The fact such a buzzing being of energy was maintaining sane conversation was a testament of that. "...but that's a rather boring topic, now isn't it?"

expanding-infinity:

The chaos gods grin softened a bit to an amused smile, that sort of wild energy that she exuded seeming to become subdued as she took another slow drag from that lit roll of something. She leaned back, crossing her legs, as the looked to the other. “Oh really now? Haven’t noticed.” She joked with a soft laugh.

She reached into her vest, pulling a small tin container from an inside pocket. It was old. Time worn and dented from eons of use. When she popped it open, the interior was pristine and lined with those black cigarettes. “Care for one, hun?” She hummed, offering the tin since it seems like they might be in for a bit of a conversation.

“You must have been too focused on other things then” she retorted with her own joke before chuckling. Being quite sensitive to the energy other people gave off, the succubus had of course noticed how strange the others seemed to be, she couldn’t make out a pattern everything just screaming chaos. Not that it mattered, right now she knew how to be careful around others and this was no exception.

Watching the other reach into her vest, by now Dia was a master at watching people very closely while not making it obvious. The confident smile never dropping from her face, the succubus lightly shook her head “No, thank you sugar, I rarely smoke”

#smoke and black mirrors [khaos]

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expanding-infinity · 2 years ago

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She was going to forego any duties she might have had. Especially with the club. She couldn't even find it within herself to look into a mirror, let alone hear her acquired name. All of this, a delusion fueled by madness and abuse. Even that snake seemed to agree. She needed time. Time for renewal. To find herself. And out of the club she went with a new appearance.

Dressed simply, hair a shimmering silver and eyes a smokey shade of gray. Impure in their colors. Free of her chains and many voices, she simply wandered. Aimlessly. This version, lost in her acquired enlightenment.

@missninetails

#smoke and black mirrors [khaos]#event [sobriety]

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expanding-infinity · 3 years ago

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@herflowersbloom

“Probably because Vaggie asked if she can have a bird girlfriend.” hers too is also complicated but not as bad as Khaos.

"Bird girlfriends are nice." She nonchalantly hummed. Infinite minds, infinite bodies, she's been with at least one...maybe. "I'd want one too."

#smoke and black mirrors [khaos]

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expanding-infinity · 3 years ago

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"Ignore that." Khaos instructed rather coldly, a trembling hand coming up to tug down her sleeve. All to hide an almost bioluminescent red gash on her wrist. "Just let me drink." She then said as she grabbed her glass.

#Smoke and Black Mirrors [Khaos]#Worldly Interactions [Open]

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expanding-infinity · 2 years ago

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What was wrong with her?

Was it the Matriarch?

Was it the mirror?

Immeasurable pain replaced with equally unbearable grief, with crimson tears painting her pale cheeks and staining her clothing like a horrid, bloody display. Her screaming voices were silenced, her agony all but gone. And for once...she could hear herself think.

This...burst of inspiration. Of awareness granted to her, and yet none of her counterparts shared such bliss. Such a beautiful epiphany tied to her next piece. Mind, body, and soul tied to a singular idea, and it was an experience she has had only once before, with the meeting of her lovely moondust. Excitement was the first feeling. A spark within her numbed haze of liquor and static. Oh how rare was it when she had such feelings! The dullness of her existence wore on her like water on stone. Such a reprieve in the golden sun of euphoria warmed her unstable soul to no end, but without determination, she would have no satisfaction. She must work. She must put this to a canvas before this light was lost by more clouds of smoke. Her infinite will, depthless ambition, and her strength to isolate herself from her counterparts lead her to this.

Brush strokes coming to her as easily as breathing, she had no need to make preparations. It was a maddening frenzy of motion, finding her tools, her paints, body moving mindlessly, only driven by her need to create what seemed to only just be forming in her mind. And yet the deeper she went, the heavier the brush became, her want to finish began to diminish. Bile rose to the back of her throat, with the first appearance of shapes, fatigue set in with the first colors, and the only thing she was left with at the final brush stroke, was mourning.

A masterpiece. An experience on a canvas. Like a window into a fractured abyss, shattered into an asymmetrical kaleidoscope. Breathtakingly still, and yet it seemed to beat like a broken heart, shimmering its pearlescence among the spider webbing cracks as if light was bleeding from them like blood. No single fragment was the same, with edges so sharp you could likely cut yourself just touching the canvas. In the center, the only object of solidity. A sphere, caressed with white, silken gloved hands that were so easily swallowed by the infinite black. So simple, and yet peering into it was like a window to a soul. Her madness bleeding off the canvas, eons of untapped grief that was never faced.

She could only cover it. Looking at it made her sick, and she could only see how vile it was. There was no beauty; no majesty. To her it was disgusting tragedy. Abomination. Even seeing herself, she could only focus on her false, festering flesh. Impermanent and shifting to suit her façades and lies. Her falsified realities. Not even sleep gave her true solace.

She could see him. Feel him. His honey coated words, his forgiveness and irritation at her perpetual playfulness. Apologies and affections so familiar in spite of the immeasurable time that had passed her. Oh her better half, her mirror.

Dreams are only that.

Awakening only brought her woe.

There was silence.

There was grief.

For the first time since her bondage, there was only sobriety.

#smoke and black mirrors [khaos]#trash [drabbles]

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