#undried-ink

[amethysttribble]

Makalaure entered the quiet, oft-abandoned green drawing room on the far side of their palace in Tirion intending to quickly exit through the opposite door.

Halfway into the room, though, his feet drew to a stop as he saw a familiar, light head bent over the desk. Was this where Tyelkormo had been hiding all day? His brother had startled when he paused and turned around to glare at him. He looked ever so slightly guilty.

“What are you doing?” Macalaure said with a grin, shifting his intentions and striding over. He bent over the desk to try to get a look but Tyelkormo was fast.

He immediately dropped his quill with a ‘clack’, causing ink to splatter everywhere, and snatched up the papers, pulling them to his chest.

“Ah, your shirt,” Makalaure said, standing back up. With ink that fresh, he could stain the front of the whole damn thing!

Tyelkormo was unmoved, though, perhaps because- now that Makalaure studied him- he was in an undershirt, one so roughspun it could only be one of the ones he made for himself while with the Hunt of Orome. He continued to petulantly glare, clutching his papers close, as the undried ink no doubt ran. Makalaure raised an incredulous eyebrow.

His little brother looked away as he answered.

“The Scriptures of Orome are not meant to be written,” he said, shame and guilt radiating from him, but Makalaure just smiled again, delighted.

“And yet you write them,” he breathed out, smirking.

Tyelkormo had been so staid in the rules of his Vala recently! And mind you, the laws of one such as the Lord of the Hunt were more strange and permissive and at odds with Elven society than, say, Varda���s, but still… To see his wild little brother so throughly reined in- a feat that not even their father and mother had ever been able to accomplish- after just one year in the Vala’s train was galling.

Downright concerning, in some ways, though Nelyo cautioned him to just leave Tyelkormo be. He’s figuring things out for himself, Maitimo had said.

Which Makalaure might have been more sympathetic to, had be not spent the two years prior to this one getting non-stop accounts from every family member about how Tyelkormo had all but set fire to Tirion in his bad behavior while trapped at the University. He’d promised father he’d complete a course of study before abandoning all that Elven hands had learned and made for a Vala’s hearth. He didn’t make it past the third semester.

Now, his little brother looked positively quelled as he cringed away from him and from his own illicit papers.

“Not for anyone to see,” he muttered, “just for my purposes.”

“And what are those purposes?”

He intentionally made his voice slightly suggestive just to make Turko turn crimson.

“Study,” he spat, “and reference, and, yes, appreciation, but not like that, you fucking asshole.”

Makalaure snickered and waved his anger away, saying, “Yes, yes, I believe you. By Eru do I believe you. But, Turko! What a wonderful discovery! You are a Noldo yet, you are Father’s son yet. Committing blasphemy to eek out just a bit more knowledge.”

That made Tyelkormo’s face pull uncomfortably, and Makalaure watched. He truly looked chastised, and almost fearful. As of being Father’s son was bad thing. What were these acolytes telling him?

Makalaure reached out and thumbed at his little brother’s nose, trying to wipe that serious look off his face. It worked long enough that he was able to turn away and start to say, “Well, what can you expect? We spent so much time writing out poems and philosophical tracts and translations for our recitation lessons, I think it’s quite ingrained in us to want to transliterate into Tengwar whatever we are trying to understand.”

Makalaure collapsed upon the couch, hand cradled in his palm as he leaned on the arm.

“You know, I had a similar issue? My classmates at Alqualonde would mock me for attempting to notate every piece of music we made, even the free and spontaneous ones. I couldn’t help it! I see everything in terms of ink and parchment.”

And he watched as Tyelkormo let out a long but quiet breath of relief.

“Exactly,” he said. “I do understand the point and the importance of maintaining our traditions orally, but I can’t help but think that records are necessary. Communal debate over the scriptures is one thing, and I think I am quite eloquent there-“ Of that, Macalaure had no doubt, Tyelkormo was uniquely skilled at open argument and debate.

He was suddenly hit with the desire to see his brother debate the other Acolytes of Orome on their scripture, and despaired that the Vala of the Hunt kept his practices more secretive than most.

“-but I was trained in annotation. I often wish I could sit and work through my thoughts myself with a copy of the text. But, ah, but Tilion would laugh at me to even here me speak. Everything comes back to ‘text’ in the House of Feanaro.”

“There’s nothing wrong with text,” Makalaure argued. He’d spent quite a lot of his career dedicated to text! When he was studying in Valmar, he set himself to transcribing songs and stories no one else could seem bothered to want to save and preserve and disseminate to a wider populace. Ingwe’s court laughed at him good-naturedly as well, poking fun at the oddities of Feanaro and his sons.

Another oddity, how the teasing could be meant so gently and infuriate Makalaure so.

Most did not understand why the House of Feanaro cared so for preservation, and the ones who did understand? They were dismissive and cruel.

Tyelkormo was still obviously fighting with himself over this, while Makalaure had made peace with it long ago. Naturally. He had only just recently left their father’s house, and seen that the world and it’s peoples were bigger than their father. A hard thing to remember, to be sure, so large was the presence Feanaro occupied without even trying.

Makalaure knew how overwhelming that could be. He was many years graduated from the Alqualonde Music Academy, but he still remembered how frightening and intimidating that was. Tyelkormo was still in the thick of it.

He hadn’t yet reconciled that while the world was large and Feanaro was- wonder upon wonders- not the master of everything, he also wasn’t wrong about everything, either. While there need not be infinite pride in being his son, there was no shame either.

“Turko,” Makalaure said with a whistle in his voice, and his brother looked up from the still-hidden pages he was frowning at. “The Hunt of Orome, you come from a different… academic tradition than most of them. That’s a good thing, and I believe Your Lord would agree. He encourages debate of his scriptures in his hall, does He? Well, perhaps spend this holiday transcribing your scriptures, and making your annotations, and maybe make the manuscript illuminated. I know you have the skills, Mother ensured that. Present your papers to him. Make your argument. If his rebuttal is good, well, you have an answer to the quandary that torments you. If your argument is better, He will acknowledge that. Be bold, Turkafinwe!”

And that made Tyelkormo laugh. Makalaure considered that a success.

“I’m told I’m bold enough already,” he snorted, rolling his eyes. “Do you know how many fights I have had to have in Father’s honor? They all think because they know his tale, name, and a bastardized version of his beliefs, they can say whatever they want!”

“They are fools, and they deserve to be hit,” Makalaure sniffed. He’d never gotten into a physical confrontation- his touch was gentler than Tyelkormo’s- but there had been many a biting song or poem written because of this exact thing.

No one insulted their loving, vexing, genius, foolish father correctly.

“Be bold, be bolder,” Makalaure told his little brother, rising from his seat. “You are the son of Curufinwe Feanaro, nothing can or should quell you. I will not ask to look at your scriptures, so, by Eru, write them. Study them. This is the path you have chosen, do walk it as Turkafinwe Tyelkormo. Hasty and brash and stupid and self-assured, and very brave.”

He made sure to flick Turko’s forehead on his way out.

At his back, he was happy to hear the quill be picked back up and also, “ah, shit, my shirt.”

[valraev]

Growing Pains and Learning Lessons

I failed my first set of dice.

I've heard of people dusting the inside of the mould with gold flakes or mica powder, and I've done a reverse petri effect by dropping a single drop of alcohol into the mould before pouring, so I thought I could paint the inside with acrylic paint and get a cool effect too. My acrylic paint is the Arteza pouring paint, so it's very liquid and made a cool effect inside the mould too, which seemed exciting.

When I pulled the set this morning, they looked like Swiss cheese, with the bottom numbers half eaten away by the undried acrylic paint. I don't know if having let it dry a little first would have helped, but I doubt it; it might just have stuck to the inside of the mould.

So here's my lesson of the day: don't coat the inside of your moulds with acrylic.

Oh, and another thing I think I've finally learned is: the Jacquard Piñata alcohol inks are extremely saturated, and more than you think. If you're looking for more desaturated colours, that's something to take into consideration.

[ventrue-in-control]

Fy uchelder,

The time is 11:54AM. In a few minutes, I'll be on my way to Cardiff. I tidied up the kitchen and gave Daisy a treat for not climbing a me while I was making a sandwich. Checked that there are no windows cracked open, there shouldn't be any sunlight waking you up. I think all is in order.

Thank you for letting me stay these days. I only wish I could stay longer.

Bore da a chysga’n dda.

Caru ti.

H.L.M.

[On the back of the note, stamped on by the undried ink of a note that's no longer there are the remains of the phrase "Byddaf yn gweld eich eisiau tan y tro nesaf y bydd y lleuad yn tywynnu arnom ni'n dau.", just barely legible.]

[By the time jack wakes up the appartment is quiet as ever and the bed just as empty. Normally hed get up take a shower brush his teeth a couple of times but now.. he just lingered in bed a little longer. Taking in the clear absence and trying to place how he felt about it. Shitty just didn't quite do it.]

[Eventually he got up. Petting daisy as she came by to great him on his way to the kitchen. Maybe she could tell he wasn't feeling great. Maybe she just wanted another treat. Jackie didn't think too long about it as the note caught his eye. He grabbed it, read it of course. But then he read it again. And again. Tracing the letters with his fingers with every word. He only put it back down because he didn't want to get bloody tears on it.]

[Of course thats when his phone rang. Work always had a tendency to need him at the worst moments. He picked up the phone while he went back to the bedroom to fetch his journal to put the note in.]

"Aye Mczyne speaking? .... mhm.. what do you mean you cant have lilac as the lighting? ...... NO PERIWINKLE IS NOT LILAC ARE YA DAFT!??! .... oh so you're just lazy then. ........ .. remind me what I pay you to do? Thats right! I pay you to do the lighting exactly how I want it so i do not careee if you have to custom make it. You know we have the budget for it! .... god for fucks sake. What else should I be aware of? .... mhm... "

[agirlnamednix]

I feel like I haven't stumbled across this place in my travels but somehow respawned here instead of my last bonfire after my most recent defeat.

The panic of suddenly finding myself in a place I don't recognize doesn't even register outwardly; I know what this is, and I know that I'm safe here. It might look different than I'm used to, but all the hallmarks of sanctuary are here: the coiled blade stuck into a pile of ashen bones, blazing brightly in the gloom. I drop my weapon, still clutched in aching fingers, stiff from yet another death. I drop to my knees gently, nestling my rear into the natural seat formed by my feet folding over each other. I take a deep breath filled with embers of souls. The light of the fire is warm and gentle. I close my eyes and let its heat wash over me.

After a while, I slowly stand, my bones creaking and protesting at the effort. My eyes are still closed. They flutter open hesitantly, adjusting to the surrounds. Several things catch my eye around the edges of the small enclosure which I'd not noticed before my deep reverie.

A flower sways gently in the breeze in the corner. Its petals are bright blue, the stem thick with the vitality needed to force its way through the stonework beneath it. As I look at it, I hear garbled laughter from a distance, remember colorful plains and forests, the shock at the twist ending, and the undeniable urge to bury my face into a soft blanket at the end of the day. I feel my heart blossom into its own joyous bloom, filled with the nectar of love, understanding, and validation.

A staff leans against the low wall nearby. The tip is gnarled and splintered, scorched and scarred. But as my eyes trace along the length of the shaft, I can see the stories written into the grain. Stories of pain and loss, but also incredibly strength and tenacity. The struggle to survive. The death of a loved one. The undying spark to survive. The passion for tales of worlds beyond our own... I feel my heart surge with purpose: I will survive, I will become stronger, I will stand tall at journey's end with my head held high.

Across the fire from me sits the shadow of a large dog that seems to puncture through reality itself. It is still. It is silent. The edges of its form shift and flow, though always seem to never move. I gaze on its form and know deep love, powerful desire, and the smell of ink as yet undried. I can see starlight speckled across this splatter of night in the glow of the bonfire and know suddenly with irreducible confidence that...my story is not over. In fact...

It hasn't even begun.

All that came before was backstory. All that weight I carry from a life viewed as misspent, I left behind when I last fell. That battle to which I've lost time and time and time and time again...it's not necessary. Side content. Optional DLC.

I effortlessly slip back from my imaginings to the current version of now-me, typing what is truly in my heart for an audience of those I will never meet and who will forget my words once the next post slides into view on their screens.

I feel that my back hurts--I'm slumped over my desk tray; it should be closer to me so I'm more comfortable. I adjust to give my back the rest it deserves.

I can feel the skin of my legs taking on the texture of the cloth covering on my couch. I sit up straighter, push my tray away from myself, and fold my legs underneath me for support. Sitting cross-legged provides me with a boost of euphoria; I've come a long way to be able to do this again.

I pull my tray back toward myself to keep typing and notice my cup of coffee sat undrunk on my desk ahead of me. I lean forward, using my tray for support, and clasp the handle of my mug in my fingers. I bring it back to me, take a long draught, and set it down next to my keyboard.

Next to my keyboard is my phone. It's dark in here right now--I'm straining at the glow of my screen in the gloomy half-light of a dawn that hasn't filtered through my windows yet. I flip open my phone, open my smart home app, and turn on my worktable lamp; just enough light to keep me from straining, but not enough to wrack up my energy bills. My eyes twinge at the new source of light, but relief I hadn't even known I'd needed flows into them soon after. My face relaxes...

And a smile starts at the corners of my mouth.

I have written these things into existence. I have such control over my story as to write every single event as I move forward. Other people may act in ways I cannot control. The world may move a direction I don't expect. Events may occur which I had not predicted. But what would life be without the challenge? What would life be without trials in which to test myself?

I can't do it alone.

And so I won't.

Instantly I'm back at the bonfire in that dark place so new to me. New tests lie ahead. New enemies and pitfalls. But as I gather my gear back up and step around the undying flames, I know that I'm not alone.

The flower blinks from view only to appear behind my ear, whispering tell of a life enriched by my inclusion in it.

The staff finds itself in my hand, steadying each step I take, the tip that strikes the earth marking the path I've taken.

The dog rises and its fur suddenly blazes a resplendent white...lighting my way into a new, dark, scary, wondrous tale.

I smile again.

Now fully equipped, I step out from the safety of the bonfire into a bleak world that doesn't have a place for me...but that's only because my place is wherever I choose to be.

And I have no words for how happy that makes me.

This is a neutral post

Feel free to stop here and rest before journeying to the posts below.

[lilianduleroux]

Lilian Duleroux - A Gothic Portrait

Lilian softly plays with the pen between his fingers, thoughts escape from him, taking refuge in caves of his mind that he does not dare to enter. A whole day's work has left him exhausted, his fingers trembling after so much writing, his eyelids drooping under the weight of the sleepless hours, his legs numb from a long day of barely moving from his seat.

Beneath his hand, the gleam of undried ink glistens on the scroll he has just completed. It will be a few more minutes before he can seal it, wrap it and put it away with the others. It is during these moments of solitude that he is seized by a melancholic feeling of longing, which speaks to him of distant reminiscences. When a tender current from an unknown whisper shakes the candle's glow, it begins to draw strange shadows on his desk, and on the skull that holds it. That change in the luminescence of its hollow features made it seem to Lilian that the skull was smiling, and the absurdity of this foul thought made him smile too.

[abyssfate]

❝ If all these things that you say are true, you should be someone I always knew. ❞ from Zephyr

❛[ SILENT HILL SENTENCE SENTENCE STARTERS ≻ accepting

`STONES ETCHING GROANED AND CRACKLED LIKE ANCIENT MUSCLES MOVING. Carved orbs once STILLED // MERELY A WHISPER OF GRANDER APPEARANCE pulsated and wet with the Princes usage of the idol crafted in honor to him (CENTURIES OLD // BUT MERE SECOND COMPARED TO THE ENTITY IT ENCAPTURED LIKENESS OF). Darkness a spilling miasma thick like the morning fog off the sea-- - scented of undried ink-spills and something unfamiliar YET EVER-PRESENT.   “&– -Do you doubt my word true, mortal? You suspect truth is whatever you may be aware of, but I, the Prince of Knowledge, am aware of a great many truth beyond your perception. And the architect of a great many more.” A voice that hummed and devoured all other presence of SOUND radiated no malice towards what another might consider DOUBT IN HIGHER POWERS (INSTEAD, A ROLLING CHUCKLE ENCIRCLED AROUND THE AIR).   “&– -Our time is not comparable either. We have met- in that which has not come to pass for you yet, in that which will never, and that which may be. It just happens in this.... selection of events, you stand before me for the first time. At least in the parts of your mind tethered to your.... ease of access, but more is locked.”

`STRINGS WEAVING, SNARES BEGINNING TO SET. Crumbs leading to potential feast should it be followed, and Hermaeus Mora dangling the keys to MORE (TO GIVE A MIND SOMETHING TO QUESTION LEAD THEM ON THE PATH TO FIND ANSWERS). And all paths to knowledge lead right on back to HIM.  “&– -But much as any who seek to know, our meeting was nothing but inevitable. Your desire for knowledge has not gone unnoticed before the Great Eye-- - you've spent centuries past your... once written, but amended demise enthralled by the workings of the past. The Dwemer.... their amalgamations of machinery and magic. There is that which I can offer to satiated you more, answers to that which you question.” // @starvingtongue

[guanshentai]

Automatic screen printing machine for centrifuge tube - matters needing attention when coloring ink

　　The screen printing process of GST centrifugal tube automatic screen printing machine equipment is that the ink passes through part of the mesh of the screen and then leaks on the substrate, and the rest of the mesh of the screen is blocked, and the ink cannot penetrate. The ink is poured on the screen during printing, and the ink will not leak through the mesh to the substrate without external force, but when the scraper scrapes the ink with a certain pressure and inclination angle, it will be transferred through the screen To the following substrates to achieve image replication.

　　Precautions when coloring screen printing ink:

　　1. Adopt the principle of "from light to dark", regardless of the preparation of light-colored or bright colored inks, when the hue is close to the sample, be careful. It is best not to mix inks produced by different manufacturers, try to use inks of different colors from the same manufacturer for color mixing, otherwise uneven color tone will occur, and in severe cases, cohesion will occur and the ink will be scrapped.

　　2. When mixing inks, try to add as few inks of different colors as possible. Generally speaking, the less types of colored inks are used, the better the mixing effect will be.

　　3. Some screen printing inks are dried by drying. Light colors are lighter than undried ones, and dark colors are darker after drying. In addition, whether the color tone of the ink is different before and after drying during printing is a problem that is easily overlooked. Generally speaking, through natural drying (solvent volatile ink), the substrate is plastic, metal, paper, glass, etc., and the color will not change; but if it is a color material for ceramics, the color will not appear until after burning and oxidation. , can only be adjusted by experience. However, for the screen printing inks that are dried by heat-setting and light-setting, the color changes in shades. When the amount of ink adjustment is large, the ink adjustment machine can be used to complete the color adjustment in a short time.

[undried-ink]

I saw this meme in a post I reblogged a while back and my hand slipped, whoops

[cowboyx2]

tubbos hands are covered.

there’s burns that wrap around the palms, they reach the wrist and a sleeve envelopes them. they were once red and angry, rubbed raw quickly after getting them. bandages slipped off and stayed off. they’re now a pink of sorts, the edges are a white full of forgiveness. tubbo swears he’ll glance at them and they’ll be red and angry once more

his knuckles are scattered with radiation burns. when the snow comes in and you can feel the cold in every move you make, they hurt. they stay locked in a single position and tubbo cannot move them. they crack and bleed into the snow and he pretends it doesn’t hurt. he did this to himself, he isn’t allowed to complain

tubbo’s fingers are covered in pen. from blueprints he’s run his hands over too many times, tapping his fingers on undried ink, doodling small messages in between, drawing with micheal. tubbo thinks it’s silly that even now he can’t keep markers off his hands. maybe he hasn’t changed that much

when it’s late and tubbo hasn’t slept he sees his hands covered in blood. he’s not sure why or how but it’s not his and he needs to get it off. but he cannot move, he stares at his blood covered palms, knuckles, fingers. the dirty crimson color is dripping onto the floor and tubbo can only stare. it’s his fault they’re bloody, it’s his fault, his fault, his fault, his fault

[mariamushroom]

Can we please just normalize messy hands and take pride in them?

Like I love walking past people and seeing their hands covered with ink smudges and paint splatters across their skin. I want to imagine their stories of filling up their fountain pen, resting their hand on undried paint, or smearing their left hand utterly in the charcoal when they were writing the an exquisite story. I want to read their little reminders written on their hand and arms, I want to visualize the tiny doodles covering their epidermis.

[asknarashikari]

Minific of Touma’s boyfriends carrying him to bed because he fell asleep on desk again (also Touma talks in his sleep about how cute his partners are)

Mei sighed when she saw the sight of her overworked boyfriend snoring over his manuscript, the undried ink from his writing already smudged on his cheek where he accidentally fell asleep on them. 

“Mou... this is why I told you to start working on your edits earlier...” Mei groaned, moving over to Touma’s desk. “Oi, Touma. Wake up, you can go sleep in your own bed...” She tried shaking the man awake, to no avail, huffing when he didn’t even stir.

“Mei, have you seen where Touma is, Ise is asking for- Oh...” He cut himself off when he saw Mei’s grumpy glare at their partner. “He blew himself out overworking on his edits again huh?”

“Yeah...” Mei sighed. “I’m half-tempted to just leave him there, to be honest... this is what he gets for not listening to me about doing them earlier.”

“Now, now, I’m sure Touma can finish on time, dear,” Rintaro soothed her. “Kento! Will you come down here please?” he hollered up towards the stairs.

“Alright, just a moment,” Kento called back. A minute or two later, he joined them downstairs, his hands slightly wet from his cleaning up the kitchen. “Oh, he’s out already?” he asked when he saw Touma snoozing on the desk. “I thought he’d be pulling an all-nighter tonight...”

“Well, obviously he’s not working anymore at this rate,” Mei complained. “Let’s just get him to bed so we can go to bed too...”

“Right, right...” 

Rintaro and Kento both moved over to Touma’s desk, with the former going to one side and the latter to the other, They took hold of Touma’s splayed arms and looped one around each of their shoulders, heaving him up to his feet- though, since he was asleep, he was dead weight on them both. Together, the pair maneuvered Touma’s long frame through the bookstore, and up the narrow staircase. Mei, who had gone up ahead to keep the front door to the apartment open for them, met them at the top of the stairs and took Touma’s shoes off before the duo of swordsmen set off for the bedroom.

Rintaro and Kento gently laid Touma in the bed, upon which he faintly stirred. “Hehe... Rintaro, you’ve got chocolate all over your mouth... so cute...” he mumbled in his sleep. 

“Is he... sleeptalking about how cute you are?” Kento asked, mystified, watching Rintaro’s cheeks turn pink. 

Rintaro stammered, but it was Kento’s turn to become embarrassed as Touma continued his sleeptalking. “Kento, don’t hide your face now, you’re adorable when you smile like that...”

Then, as Mei joined them in the bedroom, Touma giggled in his sleep as he murmured, “Yes, Mei, you look really pretty in that dress... should dress up more like that...”

“...What?” Mei asked, confused at his mutterings.

But Touma said no more, rolling over and snoring lightly, much to the amusement and bemusement of the trio. “I kinda wish I recorded that, in all honesty...” Kento said, stifling his laughter.

“All this talk about how cute we are...” Rintaro flustered, fussing with throwing the covers over Touma, “And he has no idea how charming he himself is...” 

“Aw, he got to you, didn’t he?” Mei tittered softly, much to Rintaro’s chagrin.

“M-Mei, please...” Rintaro’s cheeks turned a brighter shade of red.

“Mei, stop teasing him already, okay?” Kento yawned and stretched out. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to join our cute boyfriend in bed now...” He crawled in next to Touma, curling up next to him under the sheets.

Rintaro and Mei sighed in exasperation at Kento. “You go ahead of me, okay? I’ll get ready too.” Rintaro told Mei, moving to the dresser to get changed for bed. 

“Alright, Rintaro.” Mei managed to wriggle her way between Kento and Touma, the former pouting a little but making room and wrapping his arms around her. 

Soon after, the lights in the room switched off, and Rintaro shortly joined them in bed, lifting the blankets and sliding in next to Touma so he was the one at the outer edge. The novelist, despite being in a deep slumber, turned over to face him, his forehead resting on Rintaro’s chest. 

After a moment of silence, Rintaro lifted his head up to peek at the others over Touma’s body. “We’re not letting him live down the sleeptalking are we?” asked Rintaro sleepily.

“Nope.”

“No way.”

[nsu-mosaic]

"Slipping" by Angel Chaisson Mosaic 2021 David Middleton Poetry Award First Place Winner

At night I borrow a sculptor’s hands

and succumb to the artist’s mind.

My clay skin yields to expert fingers,

each inch pliable and primed.

The mind’s muse needs no template,

or so the mind should claim—

smoothing out my cracks and bumps

to prepare me for the flame.

But there’s such a thing as overworking—

the most fervent artist’s flaw.

Even tender hands can stroke too much

and strip their subjects raw.

Secure me to the spinning wheel

and squeeze my shoulders in,

throw until my form is lost and

stretch my legs too thin.

Beyond repair, cast aside in

a graveyard of attempts,

torn portraits and chipped statuettes

all held tightly in contempt.

I see my mangled countenance

there in the moon’s sick hue,

as sunken eyes slip down my face,

slick with undried glue.

But I am not alone illumined tonight.

No, the artist’s corpses sniff me out—

These women with patchwork flesh

and voids inside their mouths,

bodies stitched and scabbed with ink,

mottled skin soaked deep in bile,

teeth tattooed on each bony knuckle

to hide their face and help them smile.

I cannot run from the feral hands that

splinter my legs and knees.

The brittle clay cracks under pressure

but these paragons ignore my pleas.

They torch my damaged skin—

terracotta ashes set me free—

finishing the artist’s work,

inhaling asymmetry.

[writing-with-olive]

How I Write Tag game

Thanks for the tag @maryhdz05!

Im bolding my choices and italizing when I pick both:

present tense or past tense / first person or third person / double spaced or single spaced* / action or emotion / similes or metaphors / OCs or existing characters / fluff or angst / music or white noise / character or plot / make them cry or make them laugh / tea or coffee / happy ending or bittersweet / morning or night / comic sans or times new roman

*i actually do 1.5 lol

I'll tag @bebewrites @undried-ink @lizard-is-writing and anyone else who wants to do this, no pressure

[minjungfmd]

1111 / creative claims verifications

creative claims for @fmdjiah ‘s 11:11 — writing a song half finished and packaged away for the other producers to take reigns of when she’s left in a creative rut. warnings / none wc / 1699 (not including lyrics)

11:11 make a wish.

and that’s what she’s known from grade school on — lucky number eleven. (and she figures, it’s possible for luck to draw from the number when it’s one off from a multiple of three). but it leaves a pocketed memory, each time her eyes fall onto the clock picking up 11:11 throughout the years.

a 11:11 for the empty tears of desperate sobs, a heart pounding wayward against the breaths that don’t leave her lips. a 11:11 for the silent moments of solitude where the mind writes itself a blank canvas, and she only hears the glimpses of sounds that nestle its way past her apartment. a 11:11 for the string of text messages unsent, and the 11:11 in the afternoons signaling the start of the day.

today’s 11:11 falls at night, when she finds herself covered up against the end of a seoul summer. still left with the same pieces of no resolve left, mourning the break-up that fell straight past the void of her fingertips. it’s this restlessness in the night that pulls up her notebook, when she’s scanning past the stages of empty stories and outlines of words she composes when her mind’s filled with nothing more than mismatched ideas and lost memories.

when she finds herself on a page prior, she reads the piece slotted at 11:11. figures, the seo minjung in the past wouldn’t outsmart the seo minjung of the present — the nostalgia with the number still remains the same.

it starts off with a few words, connecting the empty pieces of a dead-end relationship. a wound fresh, bleeding red to the point where she can see where the tears smudged the drops of undried ink. sees where the words end with “will i forget you?”

she writes her response as no.

everything finds its place and leaves you took all of me and left but like the two hands of a clock i keep lingering in the same place

because back then or any time in the past in respect to now, she finds herself making a dwelling of the same old sob story of a girl broken hearted. fragmented as a victim of the old memories she draws back, over and over again. irony hits her when she realizes — nothing more than 11:11 flipped, or the hands of the clock. any juxtaposition leaves the same thing read over and over again. she lands herself in the same dwellings — by choice, when it houses the warmth she’s come to known. because even if the foundation lies creaky and everything becomes another scar against the skin of her bones, it’s familiar. warming, the kind of second sense intuition that draws her in closer each time.

but just maybe, she’s the only one settling in nostalgia.

when she looks back to each date set — future plans, written in stone only for it to be shattered from twenty feet over. the rubble enough to set as pebbles lining the floor as she walks her feet one by one, numb to any of the pain. she thinks he’s better off now, forgotten about it when she’s the only one clinging on, holding each step into place to feel something once more.

the remedy is simple: if she holds on long enough, stowing it away. then, maybe by then, it’ll become erased and thought of no more.

in the calendar the date we planned long ago if you forgot about it all i guess i have to erase it after a while

she writes her response one after one in honesty for a future reflection of herself to read. by then, if she’s lucky, it’ll settle in surprise with everything wiped from her mind. she’s no clementine, and he’s no joel — and given the choice, she’s not sure she’d rip away the stitches for a gaping heart, yearning to remember.

instead, she’ll hone it up to fate. hone it to 11:11 the next time her eyes draw towards it — because the only honesty she reveals tonight lies in the final two lines:

you took every part of me i’ll believe i’ll be over you

it’s hard to accept the last fact knowing closure doesn’t come so easily. but, she’s gone girl. always moving from one pillar to another, people to people. setting to setting. a sea of faces and a million and one bodies, she finds her home in nobody. it’s just theory — the fixture he’s become has settled in was too sturdy for a wreck like her.

she closes her journal up, checking the clock. no longer 11:11, it lands in 12:12 — unlucky and ironic.

-

she takes autumn in colors.

hues of ashy browns, tattered with the muted oranges of colder weather. the coldness enough to make her fingers frigid, knowing full-well the swing of seoul’s heat will rise up again with the sun.

but for now, it’s night time, and she makes her mark in calloused fingers, pressing into each string one by one. baby chords as her instructor would say. she likes the sounds of the minors, fitting for fall and slotting right into the melancholic haze. it’s strumming on the first chord, before the realization that the progression follows a smoother transition, like she’s falling from summer girl to fall woes.

it’s the steady pace, the progression like you’re easing down, only to fall a step upward. it’s at that point where it feels a little stronger, more stable — enough that her fingers press on the laptop recording, a bare mic. stripped from the studio, honing in on the acoustic echoes of her living room space. she starts strumming one chord to the next, finished with the final, only to loop it over and over again.

it’s strumming along, the lyrics right in front of her. as soon as the first progression finishes, it’s left right in mark with the statement: it’s 11:11. 

she sings it, more along the lines of stating the facts than providing any more than a soft lullaby. a statement that strikes the beginning, sets the tone — addresses the obvious: 11:11, make a wish or say a farewell to the past 11:11s down in the graveyard of broken promises.

so, when her first few words sing to the loop of chords — she takes it gently, reels it back from the statement in song. it sings itself, no frills nor fancy rifts that play to the voice. instead, she hones it to a series of a single octave, carrying the words slowly, gently. like a present packaged and labeled: fragile, handle with caution. the first verse flows, steadily carrying on each fragment of the story — it’s what she writes down: carry on the song throughout, second verse too.

the build-up of the chorus lies flat when judgement tells her to keep the minimalistic seams of the song in tact. the song lies in the acoustics, the rawness. the general vulnerability that carries afloat despite the transitions of chords. she carries those on when her voice sing-songs into a tug of war at the chorus. it pushes, leading into a higher tempo as her fingers tap along to the rhythm she has in her mind, feeling like there’s one last push, trigger to lead the words left under the pretense of guarded hearts. 

yet, by the time the push dies, it comes time for the pull back — the restrain of two feet treading backwards before the brunt of it topples over. still on guard, like reaching the pinnacle of the rollercoaster braced for the fall, only to slowly retreat. 

retreat comes in the na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na’s. no meaning, just floating in the ellipsis of things she bites her tongue for. a to be continued or read between the lines for what comes next, honing in back to the power of acoustics then to the next verse. 

the song comes in an evident pattern, a rollercoaster that finds itself more like a round about carousel than anything else.  

the night ends, and she finds herself trapped in the hours of reworking each chorus. finding the breathiness of the line endings, an airiness that carries itself full circle throughout the song. a mere demo takes her to sunrise, to where the remnants of the playback of a night spent leave her towards to stare at the sunrise, half-guessing the demo. it still feels bare bones, lacking a certain melancholic grit — still, she doesn’t touch it. leaves it at that.

-

by the time she reaches the song again, it’s been more than enough time and passage of too many schedules to render her mind without any recollection besides the light flitting touches in a sleep-deprived daze. she sits on her desk, replaying the demo over and over till the bare bones touches of the song clocks her once more. there’s a confusion, rendering a palm to her face, staring at her monitor — a clash of song layers, each bit taken from each take. 

(she still tries to add in something).

the traces of an orchestral echo in the back — scratch that, it classifies it too much, not meant to be a broken and bred song of heartbreak nor a remnant of chopin’s dark marches.

she takes the piano, adding in harmonies to the guitar chords in the build up of the chorus. it’s enough that it doesn’t fix itself to anything more than another shade of blues (she keeps it, muffles it out to hide behind the strings only until the ellipsis moment leaves her to play the trickle of keys louder in the higher octaves of the piano).

it’s not until the percussion takes place, she’s left at a standstill. confusion in how to drain out the song enough, but not to the point where the entirety of the strings loses its place. so, she reverts to gentle taps of the bass drum, steadily thumping the bpm like a metronome — an audible metronome, that still seems half-fleshed when she’s sits face-first in front of the screen. she plays it over, and over — still lost, still confused. frustration takes full force before she adds anything else, and she admits defeat with what’s present.

her fingers click away, packaging the sound into a file. a quick kakao sent — “i give up, and this is the most mastering i’ll do with this. it all sounds the same, help.” 

and somehow, she manages to relegate duties to another producer, a close friend. to pick up the pieces where she’s led astray.

[ladyjenli]

She is here

[esculentevil]

Inktober 2019 #22: Experiment

Prompt from @jacksinsanity’s Inktober List.

Characters obviously from @therealjacksepticeye​

((Decided to do an experiment for Experiment; what do you All think? I’m pretty proud of it! However, it took forever and ended up messy from undried ink; so, digital next time, maybe?))

((O, and JSYK: HR is Heart Rate, NIBP is Blood Pressure, and O is Blood Oxygen Percentage.))