#when i have plucked the rose i cannot give it vital growth again...... it needs must wither.........

[steakout-05]

i have crafted an ancient relic

(based off this TF2 misunderstandings meme)

[filmjunky-99]

s t a r t r e k t h e n e x t g e n e r a t i o n created by gene roddenberry [ménage à troi, s3ep24]

'Mister Worf, arm phaser banks and photon torpedoes. If Lwaxana Troi is not in my arms in ten seconds, throw everything you've got at the Krayton.

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again. It needs must wither.

Nine, eight.

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.' - picard

[thekingofavon]

Othello

 Othello 

" It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul.

 Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars.

 It is the cause. Yet I’ll not shed her blood,

 Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,

 And smooth as monumental alabaster.

 Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.

 Put out the light, and then put out the light.

 If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,

 I can again thy former light restore

 Should I repent me. But once put out thy light,

 Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature,

 I know not where is that Promethean heat

 That can thy light relume. When I have plucked ⟨the⟩

 rose,

 I cannot give it vital growth again.

 It needs must wither. I’ll smell ⟨it⟩ on the tree.

 O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade

 Justice to break her sword! ⌜He kisses her.⌝ One

 more, one more.

 Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee

 And love thee after. One more, and ⟨this⟩ the last.

⟨He kisses her.⟩

 So sweet was ne’er so fatal. I must weep,

 But they are cruel tears. This sorrow’s heavenly:

 It strikes where it doth love. She wakes." (Act 5, Scene 2, Lines 1-24)

The language in Iago's speech struck me when I read it, and even more when we watched it in class. The way in which he describes Desdamona holds admiration and love, but he is also harboring hate and hurt. It makes a horrible scene seem oddly angelic with the way that he speaks about and to her. 

[theladyaupair]

Fanfic #1: MOPI

(Feel free to add onto this, or take it as a basis for your own MOPI fanfic, or original story! :) )

This isn’t the time for regrets. 

His first wave of reality came in the form of a pungent odor; immediately upon stepping into the building, the presence of others was made obvious through their various scents. Ranging from the burning stench of nicotine, to the fetor of a few skipped showers, he assessed the depth behind his current situation through a few inhales. Instinctively, his nose wrinkled at the rather overwhelming stimulus—people didn’t possibly fall this hard from the social ladder, right? They couldn’t have been much older than himself. Judging by what he’d observed during his period of contemplation, these were kids. Like him, they were pulsating with hormones and impulsivity. Runaways, addicts, or apples that didn’t fall too far from the tree.

Get it together, Scott. You’re fine. Too late to back out, now..

Just as he managed to regroup himself, his personal tour guide turned to face him. A wide grin of white teeth accentuated by large, blue eyes. “You lookin’ a little shaken there, Favor. We haven’t even scratched the surface yet, don’t get scared now!” 

Scott relaxed his facial muscles and forced a smile to counter the other male’s. “I’m fine. Please, continue on.” 

Having been raised in the care of a rising politician, he’d subconsciously adopted the necessary charming facade to derail his audience from the truth. The other boy, who Scott now remembered was named Gary, seemed convinced; accepting the reassurance without so much as a light shrug, he resumed his leading them further inside. They first stepped into what appeared to have once been a front room. The chipping of the walls signified the years of use, as well as desertion. Scott idly noticed blotches of mold in certain areas—risk of asthma. 

As if they don’t practically have a bowl of cigarettes for breakfast every morning.. 

That derisive thought came to a halt when a soft noise was suddenly within earshot. Chatter. Scott’s eyes moved from the walls of the front room, and to the direction of what sounded like a batch of kids. Their voices varied in pitch, indicating a proportionate number of girls and boys, and came together as a hushed symphony of unfeigned interest in each other. For a brief moment, he was reminded of the corridors of the many suburban private schools he’d attended in his life. Except, he thought bitterly, these kids were genuine. And while that observation elicited some sort of excitement within him, he couldn’t ignore the way his heart faltered in the rhythm of its increased beating. 

Now at his side, Gary paused to bring a cigarette to his lips. The click of the lighter grasped Scott’s attention, and he carefully watched the way Gary crouched over the cigarette as it sparked to life. The position almost appeared defensive, as if he were protecting the last of something precious: As if the cigarette symbolized what remained of a past security. 

“I’ll give you one last chance to turn away, my friend,” Gary breathed after a long, swift drag. The smoke swirled around him like snakes to a piper. It took a bit of effort not to cough. “This isn’t exactly a, uh...favorable profession.” 

Scott couldn’t resist the grin that grew over his face. He lowered his head to snicker, then pocketed his hands in the expensive material of his dark slacks. On the outside, the shift in his pose emanated a rather nonchalant air. In truth, he was fighting to both conceal and contain any involuntary shaking. His hands gradually balled up into fists within his pockets, nails dragging over the skin of his thighs through the fabric. “I’m a big boy. Much bigger than you might think.” 

“Size doesn’t matter in the streets.”

“Trust me, Gary, I’ve thought this over enough to know what I’m getting myself into. Your concern is flattering, but unnecessary.” 

Added width to his grin seemed to sit as the cherry on top, for Gary gave him one last surveying glance before shrugging in compliance. “A’right,” he muttered, balancing the cigarette as he spoke. Suddenly, a mischievous glint filled his gaze. “Bob’ll be happy to meetchya!” 

The newfound energy that came over Gary was expended through a cheerful skip from the front room into a much larger one. Scott followed quickly behind him after a hesitant pause—a final farewell to a life he would not miss. 

But once put out thy light, thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat that can thy light relume. When I have plucked thy rose, I cannot give it vital growth again. It must needs wither. 

Very quickly, very suddenly, the large space grew tight. 

Following through with what he’d expected, the room was decorated in the crumbling aftermath of what was once a lobby. Although it now lay abandoned and exhausted, it remained bustling with life at every corner. Each of the many hustlers shared a disheveled appearance with their surroundings; their outfits were a mix and match of holes and poor sizing. Just like them, their clothes had been worn out much too soon, and then treated accordingly—forever expendable. And yet, regardless of this fact, the group all carried a sense of pride in their attire. Scott could see where some girls attempted to straighten out any wrinkles in their baggy dresses, or where some boys tried to accessorize a dusty windbreaker with a cheap chain or hat. 

The sparse furnishing didn’t look like much of a problem, either, for most of them sat in comfortable huddles on the ground. One of the few chairs in the room was occupied by an elderly woman. Judging by the neatness of her garments, careful milkmaid braids on her head, and the way the youngest of the group swarmed at her feet, she was the caretaker. Mother.

Scott’s brow furrowed lightly as he scrutinized those around the old woman. Most of them were young girls, probably his juniors by three or four years. One of them nursed a cigarette from her rosy, pouty lips, while another toyed with the delicate, yet dirtied curls of the girl beside her. The chilly weather added a pink hue to their button noses and pretty little hands, which only served to amplify the aura of innocence. Their faces were also round and cherubic, though calloused at the surface, and when they felt his stare from experience with counting the lecherous goggles of potential customers, they returned his impoliteness with the hardened glances of tired women. 

Briefly, Scott bowed his head to avoid the sharpness. Just enough time went by for the girls to return to their ministrations, leaving him the freedom to succumb to his urge to resume observing. For fear of worse consequences at being caught for a second time, his eyes darted; it wouldn’t do him any good to mar his reputation amongst them so soon. 

The rush came to a standstill, however, when he made eye contact with a pair of watery blues. 

Easily blending in amongst the girls, a young boy sat closest to the elderly woman. From what Scott could see, he, too, had the same childlike fullness to his face’s shape. Ragged, dark blond hair shielded his forehead and ears, while the oversized jacket adorning his body effectively covered his nose and mouth. His body was nearly swallowed by this jacket, but his skinny frame couldn’t be hidden well enough to go undetected; he wasn’t eating enough around here. 

Most worthy of Scott’s notice was the boy’s position: Arms crossed over the bosom, hands balled from sight beneath the arms, legs curled up to his chest. His back rested against the chair occupied by the old woman, and his weight was supported by her as he leaned against her legs. In hindsight, he looked like he was sleeping. Upon closer inspection, though, Scott caught the drift of the same tone as when Gary had crouched over his cigarette—security. The stark difference between the two lied in the fact that where Gary was defensive, this boy was protective. Self-preservation was apparent, but there stood no promise of an attack upon being provoked. 

This boy belonged, but he didn’t belong. 

Scott stared at him. 

The boy closed his eyes, squeezed for a second, then reopened them with renewed focus. 

“Hey, everybody! I gotta gift from our beloved mayor! Boy, does he care about us!”

[tdwafl]

It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul. Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars, It is the cause. Yet I’ll not shed her blood, Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow Should I repent me. But once put out thy light, Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume. When I have plucked thy rose I cannot give it vital growth again, It must needs wither.

Shakespeare, Othello Act 5, Scene 2