#waltz of the dead dragonflies

[pechenlaf]

First attempt to drav refs of frev guys for my ghost setting "Waltz of the dead dragonflies".

There was also Marat buuuut I really don't like how he looked :(

[t-ycho]

Boxstep

The hum of dragonflies flitting above the river could even be heard above the cracks and rattles of far off gunfire from time to time; a nice little respite from the cacophony of rattling ether pipes.

Crow is revelling in the sounds of the river, feeling its calming effects wash over him as he sits on the riverbank, the late summer sun warming his skin. It was his one request for the end of this reconnaissance trip - to just stop and let his mind go quiet for a while.

But the best laid plans…

A few jarring notes float across the clearing, causing him to frown gently. He opens one eye to look to the small camp, trying to catch where the sound is coming from. He spots his companion, shaking out her cloak and humming along to her music.

Crow turns his head. "What are you listening to?"

"Just some classics."

He purses his lips and watches her as Andi begins to mouth the words. "It's a little…"

Her head snaps up to look directly at him. "A little what?"

"Repetitive."

Andi scoffs in mock disdain, moving to lay out both their freshly washed armour on the riverbank to dry. "You wouldn't know good music if it hit you upside the head."

Crow settles back, closing his eyes again, voice dripping with flat sarcasm. "I wouldn't, would I?"

"If you can't appreciate Blondie, we have nothing more to speak about." She shakes out one of Crow's gauntlets, purposely splashing him as best she can. His face screws up and slowly opens his eyes to squint at her.

"Blondie?"

"A band from before the Golden Age."

"How have they lasted?"

"I'm sure they're dead-"

"I meant the music's longevity."

"Oh." Andi slumps forward, pushing the strap of her vest back onto her shoulder. "I think they were rediscovered with the finding of the Arts cache about half a century ago on Venus."

Crow sits up. "They found this on Venus."

"As part of a late 20th century data cache." She grins at him. "Someone in the Golden Age clearly wanted to save these for posterity."

The reluctance in Crow's response to that makes Andi tip her head. "Do you not like my tunes?"

Crow distracts himself by rolling up his shirtsleeves, avoiding eye contact. "It's not what I'd pick myself…"

"Oh. Oh ok." She stands up, grin threatening to split her face. "Any requests?"

"I don't know any artists!"

"Well then." She begins to walk back over to the fire. "Do some research."

Crow grumbles and rolls to his feet, stretching.

"Good nap?"

Crow looks to his shoulder, spotting Glint having floated over to perch there. "I wasn't asleep."

"Weren't you?"

He shakes his head. The Ghost's shell contracts a little in thought. "Are you sure? You were like that for a very long time."

"I can assure you I wasn't asleep."

Andi calls over from her spot by the fire, tone playful. "So you could have helped me clean the Taken gunk off your armour."

Crow spins around. "You said you were fine when I offered to help."

She laughs. "Crow. I'm joking. I'm just glad you got to relax."

He sighs and wanders over to sit on an old crate. "Do you enjoy winding me up?"

"Only a little." Andi pauses, face falling. "Do you not like it? I'll stop if you want me to-"

"No no, I can take a little ribbing, don't worry."

Andi looks rather relieved and goes back to checking her cloak. The song changes on her little speaker pod and she frowns. "Oh no, not a dirge…" she looks around. "Tink?"

"Hmm?" Her little Ghost barely moves from his spot in a clump of grass.

Andi peers over. "Could you move the song on?"

"I could… I may not."

"Tink…"

The voice sounds annoyed from its comfy grassy nest. "Do I have to move?"

Andi frowns at him and is about to say something when Glint heads over to the speakers. "I can change it for you, Andi."

"Thank you, Glint. The one useful person here."

Crow looks up at her like a kicked puppy, while Tink just laughs and rolls over lazily. Andi blinks at Crow and smiles. "I'm kidding, hun."

At the utterance of the pet-name, Crow can feel his chest tighten warmly, corners of his mouth quirking. "I would help if you let me, you know."

"I know."

Glint has managed to move the song on, jolting back as the starting chords blare out from the little speakers. "Oh my goodness- that's- I'm turning that down a little…"

Crow peers around Andi. "Surprise you, Glint?"

"It was just- it was a little loud."

Andi goes over and pats Glint affectionately. "I'm sorry. But Cyndi Lauper is like that."

There's a little call from the grass tuft. "She shouts to have fun. Like all the girls she sings about."

Andi turns around and frowns. "I feel rather attacked."

Crow puts a hand to his mouth, coughing to hide a laugh. Andi puts her hands on her hips. "Look, you can't dance to things that don't bop! This is prime dancing music!"

"Why dance at all?"

Andi stares at him, looking horrified. "Blasphemer!"

Crow throws his hands out. "No matter how you try, you won't get me dancing."

The 80s synthpop beeps as Andi makes several noises of disdain, hands waving about before she rushes over to him."Bu- you- it's- it's tradition!" Crow hurriedly leans back but doesn't manage to avoid Andi grabbing his face. "It's in your heritage!"

Crow speaks through squished cheeks, eyes wide. "Heritage?"

"Yes. You have to dance! To celebrate and rub it in their faces." She starts laughing as she speaks, causing Crow to giggle.

"You may dance all you like, Andi. I'll just watch."

Andi pats his cheek lightly. "Oh no you won't." She gets up quickly and rushes over to her speakers, bringing up the small menu and flicks through it.

Crow's brow draws down and looks to Glint who flies over, mirroring the look as best he can.

Then a cry of success as Andi waves away the holographic menu and a much less energetic song begins to play. She turns on her heels slowly and grins at Crow before sashaying over.

Crow's confused expression drops as the realisation hits him. He shakes his head and waves a hand. "Oh, no. No-"

"This is starting simple! Slow dancing." She stops in front of him and holds a hand out. "Can't expect you to start with Riverdance."

Crow glances at her hand then back to her. "What's Riverdance-"

"Don't change the subject." She wiggles her fingers. Crow sighs, looking at the floor for a few moments before peering back at her.

"You won't leave me alone until I do, will you."

"Nope. Got a whole playlist of this."

Crow stands, rolling his shoulders and reluctantly takes her hand. Andi makes an excited noise, beaming. "Ok! Ok, it's simple. Very simple."

She pulls him to a slightly clearer spot and stands in front of him. "You hold my right hand with your left and your right hand-"

"- goes on your waist. I know." He gently holds her hand to the side with the movement of someone for which this wasn't novel.

Andi blinks. "How?"

"How do I know how to fly a ship?" Crow tips his head. "And how do I know that I'm supposed to bow before this?"

She just stares at him, not answering as she clears her throat and rests her left hand on his shoulder, noticing the small hesitance in Crow placing his hand on her waist.

And she suddenly feels her stomach drop. "We don't have to, it's not-"

"We're here now." Crow looks at her, almost reassuringly. "And there's no one around to embarrass myself in front of."

"Really, we don't. I was just joking-"

"Andi." He practically glares at her. "Teach me how to dance."

Andi's breath catches in her throat. "I only know a very basic version."

"Then tell me the basic version."

Andi nods minutely and looks at their feet. "So, uh… your left foot comes towards me as I go back-" she steps back with her right, Crow following precisely. "- and then you step to the right with your… right foot."

He does so, and preemptively brings his heels together. Andi looks down and laughs. "Sure you've not done this before?"

"I wouldn't know. I could have." He steps back with his right, waiting for Andi to follow. Andi returns her gaze to meet his.

He's smiling. "Left foot forward."

Andi steps forward.

He closes his heels. "And together."

She brings her heels together.

"And go again." Crow continues, Andi mirroring him, each step placed exactly as they end up dancing a rudimentary waltz.

Glint floats by the speakers, finding the slower music a little more pleasing to listen to. But as he watches the two lightbearers, he can't help but feel a little uneasy.

"How complicated will this be?"

Glint turns to look at Tink who has groggily floated up from his resting spot. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean…"

Glint drops a little, shell drooping. "It's… yes. Yes I do."

Forward, side, together. Step, step, stop. Perfect synchronisation and placement as they retread their footsteps, barely apart.

It began to feel completely natural and familiar, as if they'd always danced together this way.

Andi laughs quietly. "I was supposed to be teaching you."

"It seems I already know the box-step."

"Is that what this is?"

"Mhmm." Crow adjusts where his hand is resting on her waist, sliding around to rest on the small of her back bringing them closer together. "But I have some bad news…"

She regrets suggesting this as Andi is very sure Crow can now feel her heart pound against his own ribcage through hers. "Why?"

"This music." He looks over her shoulder towards the speaker, mouth mere millimetres from her ear. "It's not the right time signature."

Andi blinks and stops, turning to look directly at him. "What?"

"A waltz, which this is, is in 3/4 time. The song is 4/4."

Andi feels her cheeks go bright red. "... Fuck."

"Hmm."

She looks down at them both, chests pressed together and finding that she wished he hadn't noticed the goddamn time signature. "... Well, that was a waltz, apparently."

He isn't stepping away. "Which I already knew," he pauses. "Apparently."

They stand in silence, not noticing how they have begun to sway to the rest of the song. Their joined hands slowly fall to rest between them as their eyes rove over each other's faces trying to find an explanation. An answer. A hint. Anything.

Eventually, it's Crow that speaks very softly. "I don't mind this one."

Slowly moving her hand into the well of his neck, Andi tears her gaze away from the patterns of light gently rippling over Crow's skin to their hands. "The dance or the song."

Crow runs his thumb carefully over her knuckles, keeping his eyes down. "Both."

He focuses on the motion, thumb moving back and forth across her pale skin, catching the smallest of callouses and scars.

Crow hates how much he feels he has to withhold, speaking with thinly veiled intent to mask such soul wrenching fear of doing or saying anything that could push her away. And all this... without knowing anything about the person she saw when he stepped forward at the shrine.

He never wants to see that look on Andi's face again.

Risking a glance, his golden eyes flick up as if to make sure she's still there despite feeling her against his skin.

Andi is just watching him, almost as if she's been stunned. He'd believe it if he couldn't feel her breathing, kept steady as if she's forcing calm on a tumultuous sea.

However long they stand in silence, it is nothing compared with the cacophony of apprehension that now hovered around them, both hoping the other would give them the answer to that 'something' they weren't aware they had asked.

Their foreheads meet, the hold on each other's hand tightening to pull closer, allowing their lips the lightest of touches.

It was enough.

Andi slides her hand to cup the back of his neck, gently brushing his lips with hers, still tentative as she waits for him to respond. As soon as he does, she feels the flutter in her chest explode, relief and tension in equal measure.

Letting go of her hand, Crow caresses her cheek in an act of controlled restraint, wishing he could immediately scoop her up and hold her as close as it was possible to be. But as if she could hear his thoughts, Andi wraps her arms around his neck, sighing into the kiss as she blocks the blaring thoughts that attempt to sabotage this moment.

The music had stopped a while ago, the sound returning to far off gunfire echoing around the valley, offset with the gentle hum of dragonflies.

[matchstickforyourmuse]

A fantasy prompt for 'green' plz?

Certainly! What a delightful request!(Only now, going back up to add this little response, do I realize that you asked for ‘a prompt’, and not a million. Oops.)I hope you like these. They’re a bit wordy- I got carried away. But they’re prompts nonetheless! If you would like some shorter, more to-the-point prompts without as much context-content, or whatever you want to call the lengthy bits of writing, pray tell! Or, if you just want more/less of one kind of prompt (more dialogue, less setting, etc.), or if you just want more prompts in general, I’d be happy to write you up a dozen more.

________

- - -‘Blood of Tree’, they called it. A swirling mass in a jar that bowed and dipped and swayed to some silent waltz, luminescent with some brilliant, strange force. It gushed about in oozy rivulets one moment, and then kept aloft the next in a foggy murmur of a cloud, and then it would sit on the bottom of the glass in shattered fractals, jagged and wickedly sharp. I always thought the name was silly. It deserved its own name. It didn’t need to be compared to anything. Heck, it couldn’t be compared to anything.

- - -“They aren’t pixies,” the troll whispered. Fear fluttered over his eyes like some maddened moth. “Just keep your trap shut, and we’ll get out of this alive.” And it was then that I saw one of the shrieking creatures. Wee claws curling around the stone corner, a hissing warble, followed by another mind-stabbing scream. Verdant scales and the coiled muscles of an adder, lanced through with voidish black, the intensity matched only by their eyes. Oh, the eyes….

- - -The dull thrum that came from the marsh was deafening for some, but a lullaby to others. I used to tell my kids that it was the tupelo trees singing. That, if they listened closely enough, they could hear the crickets and the frogs harmonizing to try to brighten their sepulchral melody, but to no avail. They mourned for the slow world, the one full of moss and jewelish dragonflies and sweet dreams. The one that had been replaced with smoke and spilled business and the bustle of aching feet. I told them that they just didn’t understand the change. And I told them that that was okay. Because none of us did, really. We just didn’t talk about it quite as often nor quite as loudly as they did.

- - -The elf’s sigh was explanation enough. But he clarified anyways. “Here, they can’t get us.” I looked around at the mismatched tables and chairs. The threadbare rugs mixed with the plush carpets and the faux-fur bathmats that had been shoved under stools so they wouldn’t scratch up the floors. The walls, covered in paintings and claw scores and hand-drawn pictures and toddler scribbles and one or two scorch marks from when they still had stoves. And then I looked at the people. Despite the circumstances, they were smiling. Despite what was out there, they looked…. They looked happy. Even the kids weren’t crying, despite the bandages being wrapped around their wounds, despite the acrid smell of the old candles. These…. These people. They were far from home. And, heck, they were with other species that, on any other given day, they probably would’ve been trying to rip the heads off of. But no. It was calm. And it was…. It was good. “Here,” he continued, with a trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “we can heal.”

- - - “The creature will be the death of me,” the Lady sighed, delicately placing her elbow unto the table so she could properly lean her chin upon it. “He’s a genie, m'Lady,” a servant reminded, her voice choked with giggles. “He can’t kill.”They both turned their heads to the gaudy spirit, festooned in a garb of eye-straining greens and polished emeralds and parrot-feathers, his cape whirling as he turned on his heel to accept yet another noble’s quail-eating challenge. (They both had to duck to avoid being clobbered with his stein of ale.)“I know. I just wish I could kill him.” She cocked an eyebrow as she watched the grease and ginger-sauce in his beard simply whuhff away the moment it drizzled down. “He knows perfectly well what I wished for. But he’s just finding one loophole after another. I have half a mind to dismiss him.”“You wouldn’t…! I mean…. With all due respect, m'Lady! The genie is… an animal, surely. Riddled with crudity and a vile tongue. But what he’s brought to the courts surely outweighs the burden, m'Lady?”

- - -“You’re telling me you’ve never heard of Dragon’s Grog?” The vampire grinned, leaning against the wall as plumes of smoke lazed upwards to meet the haze of the city air. The neon sign above us flicked colorful shadows over his face. “Man, that’s not right. It’s perfect for everything. A night on the town. Weddings. Funerals. Parties. Any day that ends in a Y.” Somewhere in the distance, a Quik-O-Rail buzzed on its tracks. A single vwooiiiiif, and it was gone. He flashed his fangs once more before he slipped his headphones from around his neck up and over his ears. It seemed as though I could hear the blare of his electric, upbeat jam before he even hit ‘play’.

- - -“I’ll always remember the story of when the sea switched places with the moorlands,” my grandmother hummed, wiping her knife on the edge of the tablecloth. “Back when the pheasants and the rabbits slipped through the heather like fingers through hair. The breeze would tussle the grasses, and the flowers would dance reels with the mighty winds.” As she said this, she flipped the fish over and began cleaning the other side. I winced at the stench. “But sometimes, it was still. Absolutely, perfectly still. No rippling, no swaying, no nothing. Just… solace. Butterflies playing their strange little games, and sunbeams embracing the Earth. Birdsong was the only thing that broke the silence.”I smiled, and looked out the window. A chuckle escaped. The fields were roiling again, moving up and down as they swelled with the force of the Earth-tide. Even within the safety of the house, I could hear rocks grinding and turf ripping and mending itself back together, mounds of soil cascading and ebbing away until they were replaced with the dusky emerald of the surface-moor. Rabbits and pheasants running on that? And silence? It was a surreal notion. Now she was probably going to say that fish, somehow, swam on the ocean. I laughed again.

- - - It was more of a slime, now. Probably. She didn’t dare turn on the light, for the fear that it would bear some semblance to the moon… What a silly thought. Was she going mad? It didn’t work like that, it didn’t-…. No. No, there was no risking anything. She dipped the glass stirring-rod in the sludge again. Fizzing. Popping. But no shattering. Good, good. She picked up the flask, and squinted hard- had she used too much silver? It was more metallic than anything. It was supposed to be green. Venom-green. That’s what… That’s what it was supposed to be. Darn it all, she didn’t have the time for this! How late was it? She couldn’t just remake the whole bloody thing! A cure was a cure. It wasn’t art. It wasn’t supposed to be pretty. It was just supposed to work. This was it. This was what she had been waiting for. The consequences of impurity be cursed! Oh, Lycaon almighty! THIS WAS IT! Slamming her fist on the cold table, she threw her head back, and began to drink.

- - - The butterfly was made of pale, thin pieces of interlocked jade. Stiff wings clinked against one another as it fluttered clumsily about the office. But then freaking Steven just had to see it. Without missing a beat, he grabbed his miniature stapler, and lobbed it over his cubicle’s wall, hitting his target dead-on. Upon impact, the insect shattered, and a fine, glittering dust arose, only to be sucked up by the ceiling vents. “You’re a jerk,” someone cried from halfway across the room.

- - -The dinghy lurched upwards again. We could hear the cringe-worthy scrapes of her spines on the bottom of our boat, each moment annunciated by a sharp whump as one ended and the other started. Unbroken scales began rising to one side, and then the other… a terrible, sickening shade of seafoam that reminded me a little bit too much of home. “It’s been too long.” My old voice took a chance to appear before I could catch it.“You heard our call. You heard it thrice. And only now, seven years adrift, do you come to our aid.” Whatever the meaning behind the distorted shrieks that issued from the spray there was, I did not listen. I was far too gone to have cared. “Leave. Your excuses harbor nothing.”

- - - “What part of ‘He’s sleeping’ don’t you understand?” The little dryad looked up at her with a tearful snort. “You can’t… For goodness’ sakes. You can’t wake up a non-magical tree. It’s nothing to cry about. He’s not dead, he’s not ignoring you. He’s just sleeping.” Apparently, the explanation didn’t do much in terms of making things better. The creature rubbed vigorously at her eyes with a downturned wrist before leaping forward to wrap her short arms (the best she could) around the slender trunk of the birch tree. The racking sobs came a moment later. The woman sighed. “For the love of…. Just stop, okay? You’re being ridiculous.”

- - -The air was close here. Stitches of silence had been sewn into his tongue, and he dared not disturb the resting realm. The pines, as vigilant as ever, kissed the clouds with their crowns- or, rather, the other way around. He could not see their end. He could, however, see the clouds. The height of their trunks seemed to rival the length of a giant’s sprint. (The only that kept him from believing that he had fallen to the stature of a dormouse was the trace amount of ferns that crouched about the heaps of root. And even then….) After another mile had passed, the man sat down, swept his cloak about his legs, and slumped against his satchel. The daylight had taken a rather unexpected leave. With a twitch of his lips, he felt agog as he turned his eyes above. The man’s breath came slow and swift all at once. This was what he came for. To see this.The slate clouds had gone, replaced by a great, coarse mass of charcoal brown. It fell and rose in time, before it began away, the Earth trembling as it made for the horizon. Ever-so-slowly, day returned, slipping around the belly of the beast like water over a bowl. Less than ten feet away, the bone-shaking step of an ebony hoof fell. (It had to be twice as large as any inn he’d ever seen.) Of all of his years, this marked only the second time that he had seen one of the elk of the Foraoise Mhór.

~

[gems-of-lirema]

🙈 -insert heart here cos I have no idea how to use emojis on pc C': Guzma, and any of my 2 selves, you pick :B -

🖤 How the fuck did this happen?

Actually, a better question would be…how are they not dead? On one hand, he clenched Dragonfly’s wrist as tight as he could. On the other, he clutched the edge of a 50 foot cliff. He was lucky enough to catch her before she blindly waltzed off, but now…

His hand was slipping.

“Dragon! Send out your dragons! Ya boi could really use their help-“

He gasped.

[clitorisesandpoetry]

DEJA VU RITUAL

YEAR ONE

thrown into a communal theatrical performance.

former sleepy-town lovers sucking amphetamines off each other’s lips, simplifying new york as the place, man. the place where, like, i found freedom. interactive show, my beachtown tan shuffled on the edge. distracted by onyx pigeons, dalmatian-speckled falcons. five mom! i saw five rats huddled together like dormmates.

parade a cacophonous blur, i squinted. a lifetime of buildup -- is it odd to feel inadequate?

sorry, everyone. my voice’s a mosquito stuck in hometown tree sap.

i grew up cozied. birch fences, white as snowdays. brunette snow moats, dirty springs. last summer's memories, dragonflies skimming. silent pining, crickets.

oh. i thought this was it! this was my debut -- my exclusion from suburbia. my first out. truth!

eventually after many bruisey months, more nebula than roommate, i learn to say my name.

oh ya. i get it. why everyone here wants an audience.

for a bit, all of me was all of me. mantra-ing, is this even real? is this existence? (now how am i here again?)

* * *

YEAR TWO

he rode me around a new suburban town pixels no more

please please take me

holy debauchery! i don’t want me

* * *

YEAR THREE

white button-down with a slim effeminate tie, pleated skirt confessing to tawny thighs, falling knee socks and worn pleather black boots. i’m a humble student, slowly learning how to exist. how to not be alone.

i kneeled crescent moons in piss coated sidewalks. begged out, “i’m capable of more than this illness (maybe)” soft, but declarative, whispers, “i love all of you.” less than 7 months later, ambulance croons & blistering ears.

man. to know i can never have a year like that again.

i can never have so much hope & optimism after so much grief. i can never be so ready to trust. so interested in touch. the year i tried to be social. the year i confused being acknowledged with care. a kind of sourhead candy spat from mouth to mouth, til one back-of-the-bus badass choked on that 2:47PM speed bump. bleached white and covered in someone else’s vulnerabilities, fell out of that warm cozy cheek to roll off the bus. i lost my poor meatball when somebody sneezed.

it’s okay. it was, for me, all for the better. & it is still there. a wonderland ready for me to trip into, where i can feel 20 again. (my exes dull suburbia, my exciting 19 narnia)

* * *

YEAR FOUR

slow waltz, but without any grace or precision. we seeped into each other.

lovely blue eyes, brillo cheeks, smug twilight epiphanies. i’ve never been loved before.

he -- a man. an actual man. my enemy -- someone to believe in.

failed orgy logistics, i’m still laughing. a relationship on the backs of our inadequacies.

we talk shop. this city. the altar it never asked to be. fails to be. like all gods, easy to blame and dismantle.

even when i was quite literally - poetry metaphor to its side for a sec! - bleeding, welted, bruised from pink to green, violet to black, no one, none of them, or anyone from the woods, or anyone from the code, ever called me strong & powerful.

daunting ink stains; initial spill bled out & our midnight hands clutch.

* * *

YEAR FIVE

big bad storm pelted.

“the neighbor! their basement was flooded, but ours didn't get one drop.

uncle joey just renovated that basement.”

loss and secondhand smoke. dust and flies and grief. her surgery, her fucking surgery.

somehow, this morose and helpless year is enviable.

god, i had not clue. after the storm, the apocalypse.

* * *

YEAR SIX

my walk-in closet. my mouse-hole. a sanctuary like a womb, blindingly tight, nearly within myself. but with 2 windows, spectating bluejays! cardinals! fellow taco-hungry new england chirps.

walls plastered, as if a bullet went through my head and my subconsciousness, consciousness ricocheted 360 degrees around the space with the hello kitty pink that makes my brain’s slime. vibrator on my sheets, sad journals open on the floor, “mom, dad, i’m not asking permission but give me permission.”

queer refugee finally in asylum!

they say millennials are entitled, but all i wanted was a space of my own. a place without that claustrophobic pretense that we love you,

as long as you behave. be straight and cis and god be normal and please, listen to us, you are vulnerable. remember you are vulnerable.

* * *

YEAR SEVEN

front-teeth stained ashy-black. bitch list, ferocious. is this a bad year or the start of my new life? wheezing self-esteem, breathing machine neither friend nor foe.

eh. we’ve all listened to nirvana, read the glass jar. we’re HUGE fans of despair.

wednesday, toes in sand. thursday, i am not my thoughts. i am not my thoughts.

i am not my unemployment. i am not my thoughts. i am not my insecurities. i am not my failures. i am not my limitations. i am not my problems. i am not my feelings. i am not my net worth. i am not my pinings. i am not my frustrations. i am not my illness. i am not my mother. i am not my family history. i am not my oppressions. i am not my losses. i am not wigge those strings, unlatch those loops, let the material droop. put everything away, at a distance, so they won’t tangle again.

* * *

YEAR EIGHT

a harrowing horror.

a galactic agony.

year eight should be a love poem, like year four. it should be prose that would make her shake. de-mystifying confessions spelt with affection and romances. prose so honest she would be forced to face her importance.

a starling song present-day me croons to her, over and over. and she would rub my nose with her nose, brush my lips with her lips, and feel safe.

it isn't fair, none of it, but year eight isn't about her.

cause, like, my mom.

my mom. my mom. my mom.

first, her wellness. then her mobility and voice. & then all of her.

“i wouldn’t want to live if something happened to one of you kids.”

“there is a hell -- this planet is our personal hell.”

“i’m so happy for you.”

she was a tension in years 1 - 6 and even parts of 7. in years a -q.

but, but, give me those 25 years again. i don’t need to grow. i don’t need to see what’s next. or i don’t care what i need.

the worst of my former days, the hardest most brutal and painful evenings, i was still able to wake up, roll over to my phone, and hear her talk, laugh, even yell. hear her teach me who she is. who i am.

imagine, if i got my wish & relived my life, even if was only a montage of my worst days. that's delightful to me.

i crave, like how the weight of the sun and the moon and the earth keeps us from floating off,

to hear her say my name again.

i’m still waiting for her recovery to progress to the point where she can look at me in the eye and say my name.

* * *

YEAR NINE

i miss when she was as close as eyelashes.

new york, where she was born and raised and married and had me and had her first house. new york, a mausoleum.

* * *

YEAR TEN

WORK IN PROGRESS. empty, slightly crumpled, piece of parchment. if dead moms didn't scorn all other luck, i would be rabbit’s foot.

just don’t die, and fuck, never move! and year ten will be probably be worthy. as will all the rest.

[margsld]

Outlander Epi 3.01 Recap

The Battle That We knew was coming and boy, did it hurt.

Ron D Moore wrote this Premiere episode to fill the juicy gaps that the book didn't cover but the fans have needed to experience.  With a new opening sequence but familiar Skye Boat Song theme, he delivers us the Battle of Culloden.  We first come in oddly at the end when the red coats are searching for the half dead rebels to finish them off and pilfer anything of worth.  Jamie lies amongst bodies unnoticed, with a dead red coat atop like a cosy sleep over.  However, it's Black Jack Randall and he is stone cold dead at last. Woohooo! *ding dong the witch is dead.....

We snap in and out of consciousness with Jamie as he struggles to stay alive. He's struggling to breathe under the weight of a dead BJR but can look around. He rembembers the start, back before the order of "Charge" was given. Prince Chucky was still rabbiting on about his confidence & blindly declaring something stupid.

Jamie is still on the field half dead, thirsty af and it's night time. Cruelly, it snows on his face.  One tiny flake lands on his bottom lip and a world of women join him in his desire to lick it off.  He does and like a weird acid trip, he dreams that Claire approaches him to ask if he is still alive.

Another battle flashback brings us to Jamie.  It's funny the people you run into when you are just going about your daily red coat hunt. Murtagh drops in for a quick bit of stabby banter before dashing back into the mele. Maaaate!

 Next Jamie was spotting a familiar red coat on top a horse, slashing away at the rebels with his sword.  Time stands still for a moment for both sides as they lock eyes and decide is their final battle going to be right now?  Hell yes, says Jamie as he rockets towards BJR who leaps at the chance to get up and close with Ginger fur thighs again.

They thrust and slash and eventually BJR slices a nice souvenir in said Ginger thigh fur.  Jamie reaches down in horror and sees that it's going to leave a jolly big scar for sure.  He really thinks it's going to kill him but details, details.

They rumble again and this time Jamie carves Randall a new digestive track and it's obvious, the deed is finally done. They collapse together in a heap and Jamie drops the Dragonfly in Amber that Claire left him.  We focus on the amber and then it cuts to Frank and Claire in Boston 1948, house hunting. Frank is super friendly and positive (like a teenager on his first date) about their new beginning but Claire is still very reserved like an injured sparrow but plays along as all good wives should.

Snapping back to Culloden, Rupert has rescued Jamie from underneath BJR's corpse and taken him to a hut where several severely wounded rebels are recovering and ultimately waiting for the red coats to show up.  They know escape is fruitless.

In the meantime, Claire now obviously pregnant is struggling with her boredom at home and decided her day could really do with some fireplace baking.  As you do.  When she arrives home with the firewood, she meets a do-gooder neighbour, who tries to sell her on the positives of having such a modern husband.  Sadly Claire is an ignorant person, hell-bent on keeping her Scottish fantasies alive.  The neighbour has never seen a Ginger-kilted, ancient warrior get naked at close range though, in fairness.

Claire now more pregnant, gets to go meet Frank's Harvard Boss at a social event.  She's not keen on the idea but again plays along.  His boss is a patronising arsehole and tells Frank he shouldn't let his wife read stuff.  Then he tells Claire that female physicians never succeed.  With one foul swoop of pompous foolery and Claire visibly ready to take off his head, she decides then and there to prove the bastard wrong. Just with her eyes. Ouch for Frank's hand too.  Frank's face through the whole conversation is priceless.

Back at the battlefield of nightmares, the hut is invaded by Lord Melton and his dragoons.  They have itchy trigger fingers and one by one drag the rebels outside and despatches them for "his Grace Lord Cumberland". 

Claire finallly works out how to cook a meal.  Bacon and eggs. We see her trying to light the gas stove but if you look closely, the egg is already cooked! Magic stove!  Frank whinges about teabags in a jovial "First World Problems" way before he decides to grope Claire's enormous belly.  She shuns away from him and he's had enough.  The conversation launches into a full blown argument and Frank tears our guts out with his pleading for Claire to come back to him.  She tells him to go see Mrs Palmer and her sisters and he comes back with that classic line "Your a Ho" to which she replies with an Ashtray to his head.  If it wasn't for his ninja cat-moves, he'd be icing that lump for a week.

Our hearts shatter back in the hut as the intermittent role-calling and merciless blasting outside, gives backdrop to the final blokey farewells taking place inside.  Gordon gives Jamie a kiss on the hand before meeting his maker and then Rupert tells Jamie they'll both be judged in heaven for their sins but no hard feelings ay?. They laugh over Angus's snoring and farting habits and then Rupert volunteers to face the firing squad.  Nooooooo! *ugly crying.  He leaves the hut with a very Rupert " I mean to set a quick pace, so keep up" warning to the guard and we are left with Jamie's puppy dog eyes as the inevitable sound comes. *more ugly crying

Focusing on Jamie's face of misery we cross back to Frank in his own modern misery.  Trying to sleep on the couch aka doghouse after their fight and not be able to sleep.  As it's futile, he gets up and starts to write a letter to the Reverend Wakefield in Scotland.  He requests his help in researching what happened to that Jamie Fraser aka Jacobite Heart throb.  Just as he gets focused, up pops Claire with the baby on the way.

It's Jamie's turn to face the firing squad and as the officer gets him to state his name, Lord Melton realises he recognises it. *&%$#! Of all the huts in all of Culloden, Big Red Jamie had to be half-dead in his.  JHRC! Actually Lord Melton is a very sweary boy and it was obvious he didn't like having to NOT shoot Jamie.  I think he was jelly of his super cute knees but that's just me.  He explained to Jamie that his wee brother Lord John William Grey was the lad who tried to kill Jamie in S2.  Jamie used Claire (fake hostage) to fool him out of info about the nearby English troops, broke his arm and let him go. At the time, young Lord Grey said he owed Jamie his life and now big bro Lord Melton was paying that debt of honour.  So he couldn't shoot Jamie, even when his colleague suggested using a pseudonym...  Those were the days....

So Lord Melton arranges for a wagon to sneak Fraser back to Lallybroch and the gentle *cough rehabilitation of his placid *cough sister.

Claire is well and truly giving birth now and Dr Thorne waltzes into her room with the sublety of a sledgehammer and tells her to just do as she's told.  He asks about previous pregnancies and their is an awkward yes/no between Claire & Frank. She confesses about the miscarriage and the Doctor says it's high risk so Mr Randall can kiss her goodbye, as he'll be in charge from here. *insert eye-rolling.  Frank says he'll bring a bouquet of ashtrays for Claire to throw at the doctor. *he's so adorable

 In the operating room Claire's choices are ignored and they just knock her out.  When she wakes, their is an echo to the S2 Faith episode and she's asking for her baby. Before she gets too frantic that she's lost another and grabs an ashtray, in breezes Father of the Year- Frank, with his new true love in his arms.  It's a girl!  Baby Bree is as adorable as her new Daddy and wins them all over instantly.  There is happys tears and they are deciding this is the answer to their prayers and they'll be happy ever after. Right?

Wrong.  In walks nurse Numpty and wants to know why the baby is a ginger? AWKWARD much.

Can't wait for next episode! PS. Where is Murtagh?

[withlovehaven]

Growth

2021′s first writing challenge for me was to rewrite an older piece of writing based on what I’ve learned since then. After one year of consistent writing and deliberate practice, I rewrote two excerpts from two different FE3H fics written in Dec 2019. I included additional notes if anyone wants to try and apply what I learned from rewriting to their own work!

Disclaimer that my attempts and improving my work doesn’t mean it actually worked out for the better hahaha *cri*

Below the cut are the original and rewritten texts: 

Excerpt 1: what do you do with a broken heart 12/2019 Tonight, Dorothea shares that moonlit jealousy as she wallows alone, beneath the whispering willows that line the abandoned courtyard outside the classrooms. She believes this to be an enormous waste of an entire month spent in excitement for the only event that mattered in the entire school year. Earlier that day, she had spent countless hours combing through Edelgard’s snow hair and choosing which shade of crimson could frame her eyes so that only the most confident of men would dare to ask for a dance. Edelgard could hardly imagine why Dorothea would place such excruciatingly meticulous detail into something as trivial as a ball. 

12/2020 A moonlit haze sighs over the aching spires of Garreg Mach. Willows line a widowed courtyard below the bow windows of empty second-story classrooms. The monastery is still: students do not stroll through the halls with whispered rumors of the disgraced heir to Minerva’s court. Teachers do not peer over homeroom door frames to check for familiar stragglers when the church bell chimes five minutes before the hour, its echo reverberating through the iron bones of the belfry. Remnants of weathered bronze statues, eroded green through acidic years are reduced to dead company for the dead hour of the night. 

But if the monastery is dead, the main hall bursts to life with festivities of the school’s annual ball. Students evolve into nobles under Garland Moon’s midnight spell. They have traded their pressed uniforms for crisp suits and glittering gowns, emeralds and pearls and silver crests lilting in time with the waltz. Ruched curtains waterfall from the high ceiling into a spray of gold spun into lace. 

Dorothea had spent the entirety of the Red Wolf Moon combing through fabrics in the local seamshop at the center of town. Velvet is for the elderly. Sequins are for children. Would a red number send the wrong message? At her dorm room, makeup gifted over the years by a multitude of naïve suitors splays across the floor, the desk, the bed. 

The vibrations of the live orchestra swell inside, a crescendo brimming through aired walkways as couples arm-in-arm flutter in and out of the hall from the steps leading under the main arch where she sits alone. She should be inside, dancing until her heels bleed and she’s forced to abandon all decorum for the sake of entertainment. Now, she can hardly remember why.

Additional Notes:

Some context: the original paragraph was supposed to function as the opener, so expanding it was warranted imo

The original was basically telling where the revised version is showing. If this paragraph wasn’t supposed to function as the opener, the original would have sufficed

I attempted to juxtapose the “dead” monastery with the “liveliness” of the ball

The “acidic years” descriptor was my attempt at improving my prose by having descriptors hold a double meaning ie. instead of saying “years weathered by acid rain”

I noticed that lists were a strong point in my newer writing so I incorporated that in the part where Dorothea searches for dress fabrics.

Excerpt 2: where my faith is without borders 12/2019 The cobblestone lined streets of Garreg Mach are broken and divided. In the distance, The day sets over the church’s steeple and is, split down by its spire into a spiral that fractures the sunlit rays. Fleeting memories of high school days strolling down these very same halls with books in hand are far-flung now, bBut even within this familiar ghost of a place, there are some things left to unearth.

12/12/2020 The cobblestoned streets that once contained Garreg Mach are broken and divided. The high point of the church’s steeple splits the last drops of day with its spire. Beside it, the belfry’s silhouette halos against the light, fracturing it into rays. High strung silence currents through the livewire air and could shatter at the perch of a dragonfly. Rigor mortis paralyzes the bones of the monastery. Garreg Mach is dead. 

But Dimitri keeps its memory alive. He remembers more than he would prefer of the juvenile memories that steep within these broken walls: midnight dining hall duties, tea-tinted secrets shared under the gazebo, unlikely friendships forged under the fire of field mock battles. A far-flung time with long-lost innocence.

Spring wind breathes beneath his cape. Even within this familiar ghost of a town, there are troves of forgotten moments that remain to be unearthed.

Additional Notes:

“tea-tinted” is also another attempt to have double meaning in the prose. For context, they drink alot of tea in FE3H under that gazebo

Also tried to juxtapose the “dead” monastery with Dimitri’s attempts to keep it “alive”

After reading both of these back to back, I realize I have a thing for bones

[pechenlaf]

When your fuckass alive human walks into a room and you need to pretend that you were not trying to send each other to superhell five seconds ago

I remember mentioning my "girls can see ghosts of historical figures" setting here awhile ago, so why not post something related to it again— (if someone is interested, i can drop some kind of lore here 👀👀 )

[pechenlaf]

Bunch of OC art :P I love my ghost guys and gals so much, i wish dead people were real