#but instead all I find is stuff like “this is the greatest poetry ever written and I’m like but why

[platypusisnotonfire]

I want to be the kind of soft dude that gets poetry but I am just too stupid to understand it

#I am trying to read Walt Whitman #and I simply am too dense to comprehend it #I tried to look it up online to see if there was like a study guide #but instead all I find is stuff like “this is the greatest poetry ever written and I’m like but why #i want to understand #but it seems like everyone gets it but me #is there such a thing as a a guide to poetry for dumb people

[uchiha-slut-fiction]

Jiraiya SFW and NSFW Headcanons (because I want to write it)

SFW

Gives the most immaculate cuddles. You looking to get head pats and back scratches? ☺️Jiraiya is your man.

He will spend some days reading you poetry that makes him think of you. Really mushy stuff guys.

You’re the inspiration for his literature. He finds you absolutely fascinating.

Super duper protective. Typically isn’t a psycho about it but he very much can in the right circumstances. 💢Nobody is gonna touch his baby. 💢

Definitely not the jealous type. He knows he has you wrapped around his finger. But more than that, he’s wrapped around yours. He trusts tf out of you and that’s not wavering.

Loves the cute dates and quality time together.💗 He loves to take you out and show you off. He loves knowing others want you but you’re his. It makes him feel rather special.

He also loves to spoil you with material items. He picks out the most beautiful jewelry and clothes for you. Money is no object when it comes to you. You deserve everything you’ve ever wanted.

He secretly wants to write an entire novel about your relationship with him. Of course will use characters instead of you and him. Or maybe not.😏 But to him, your relationship is the greatest love story that has yet to be told. 🥹❤️

He wants paintings and portraits of you around his house. He needs his muse in all rooms. You’re his inspiration and motivation.

Other women don’t exist in his line of sight anymore. It’s just you. Always.

Will smoke with you without question. He’s a seasoned smoker and finds it impressive when you can keep up with him. Oh baby if you like the product just wait until you see his plants! 😶‍🌫️😮‍💨

NSFW

Man has a LOT OF KINKS. We all knew this though.🤤

Also very big. Not just his stature, ya know what I mean? You’re gonna need to sit on frozen bags of peas from your freezer for the day afterward. Totally worth it.

Aftercare god. Will make you snacks and run you a warm bath afterward. He’ll also carry you around everywhere. I mean, you can’t walk bitch.

Big into Kama Sutra. Especially with his S/O. It’s intimate and makes him feel all the more close to you. Like your souls are one in that moment. He lives for that shit. 10/10.❤️‍🔥

Big into worshiping you. As far as he is concerned, your the most perfect angel to grace this earth. So he’s going to make sure you know it too. You’re his motivation after all.

Secretly has a smut stash he’s written about you. I mean notebooks upon notebooks. One day he might share them with you.

He also has a secret collection of candid photos of you(yes some are noods.🥵) You have no idea. He keeps them for when he’s away from the village.

Is a soft daddy dom. You’re his only weakness at this point. He can’t be too mean when it comes to you. A little teasing maybe but he can’t be actually mean.😈

He absolutely loses it when you put on your cute little pouty face and call for daddy. It makes him want to wreck the lipstick you worked so diligently on. I mean, what else did he buy it for?😏

Mirror sex. MirROR SEX. MIRROR SEX. You’re gonna take a good look at yourself while he fucks you stupid. If you don’t tell him what a pretty girl you are while he fucks you in the mirror you’re in for a loooooong night.

He LOVES making you flustered in public. Whispering sweet nothings and making promises to make you cum until you cry is more than enough to get you going and he knows it.🫠 Even a brush of his fingertips on your thigh is enough to cloud your thoughts. So he takes every opportunity to do just that.

Y’all walk around naked in the house when you’re together. I mean, is there really a need for them? He can’t think of any.

Has a size kink. Being that he’s so big, He loves how small you feel in his hands. The fact that you like being thrown around like a rag doll is a plus.

Will fuck you on every surface of his house and place. And I mean every surface and place. The garden. The kitchen. The bathroom. The front porch. The back porch. Everywhere.

If I keep going this will go on for way too long so if y’all want a part two let me know.

#jiraiya #legendary sannin #naruto headcanons #jiraiya headcanons #jiraiya smut #sfw headcanons #spicy headcanons #toad sage

[acetarisborn]

Happy (delayed) international asexuality day!!!

I haven't written (and posted) in a while and one of my most popular posts is the one about me simping for Asmo from Obey Me while being ace so... what better day to post this than yesterday!! But I fell asleep so now...

The brothers falling in love with an asexual MC

This is my first time writing one of these so it may end up feeling more like fanfiction than headcacons lol.

Asmo

The second you saw this gorgeous charming man it was love at first sight, and he felt the same way

Although you might have felt a little intimidated when you found out he's the avatar of lust. You might even think you have no chance!

But oh boy are you wrong

This man adores every aspect of you. From your gorgeous body to your breath-taking personality and he knows you love him as well.

The surprise in his eyes when he finds out you don't like him only for his looks is priceless

He can't help but blush brightly every time you give him the slightest of compliments, which sometimes turn into ankward laughs if he adds a sexual advance at the end

You try everything to let him know without telling him. Wear the ring, make several ace jokes and even wear the damn flag pattern on your clothes, to a point that the entirety of RAD but Asmo knows you're ace

But to be fair he might not even know what asexual means

He lets you know his feelings in a BIG way, something very intricate and romantic like a huge banner with help of the bros or plans a situation where you two end up dating

When you tell him you're asexual he's shocked to say the least

Not all humans enjoy sex?! Truly the newest concept he's ever heard

He does get sad at first, realizing he won't be able to experience that pleasure he's been fantazising about, but once he thinks about how out of all the beings in the Devildom you fell in love with the demon of Lust himself he bursts in laughter

He stops abruptly once he realizes why you look scared or sad because of his laugh and explains himself immediatley

If you tell him you understand if he doesn't want you he turns serious and grabs your hand

"Mc, you are the most gorgeous, kind-hearted and amazing person I've ever met, I didn't fell in love with how you are in bed or anything about sex! I fell in love with everything that makes you, you. I would never leave you over something so... so ridiculous! No matter how much I enjoy it!"

Once you guys start dating he showers you with gifts and fancy stuff (mostly skincare products)

He starts being super cautious about what he does or says, but eventually loosens up after the thounsand time you told him to do so

He also loves kissing you all over your face (if it's okay with you). On the lips, nose, cheeks or your forehead

All because he wants to remind you every day how precious you are in his eyes and that he loves you no matter what

Beel

You can't tell me you guys didn't fell in love that time you shared a room, you knew at the spot but this certified himbo is very oblivious

"Im hung-" He never gets to finish this sentence again because you always have a snack or food to offer him

Of course this is what starts his liking to you.

He doesn't realizes at first but it's the little things like what draws him in

He always wants to seat next to you at lunch and just talk for hours, he blushes at the sight of your smile or his eyes light up every time he sees you walk by

He begs you to cook for him no matter how many times you already do or say you're terrible. If you make him a bento this will make his whole week

Once he realizes his feelings he plans to tell you, not knowing you were planning on telling him you're ace and doing the same

"That's cool but um...whats an ace?"

Once you explain it to him he's a little surprised but nothing too extreme, he understands and didn't paid mind to sex anyway, he's happy he got to know beforehand.

"Oh, that sounds like you, good to know, specially now, because..."

He stops hiding a big box of chocolates and opens it, the chocolates spelling "Will you be my partner?"

If you ask him if he's okay he nods almost agressively, which ends up in you tackling him in a hug

Once you start dating he's ready to provide bear hugs and cuddles, he's the cuddliest demon in the Devildom

"Hey, I found this food/thing with the ace flag colors, thought you might like it"

He asks you to help him cook whenever he's hungry. Doesn't matter if it's the greatest culinary piece ever or an absolute disaster, he's happy he gets to spend time with you.

Levi

Okay but that overflowing PASSION when he rambles on about TSL, that fire in his eyes, *chef kiss* you can't help but stare dreamily at him

"watcha looking at normie?" He asks while blushing madly at the way you kept looking at him

The first time he finally accepted he's in love is when you dragged him to your room to watch a new anime, he realized you were a total weeb just like him (And I know you are because why else would you be here?)

Since then you have anime nights at least once a month with all the snacks you can get in your bed or couch

He obviously loves playing any kind of videogame with you, he doesn't like some of the ones you do but plays them anyways just to see you celebrate once you've won

Dragging you to conventions is a given, he spends weeks making you the perfect couples cosplay, staying all night muttering about how yours needs to be perfect

Since most of his brothers don't care/like or are too busy for his ramblings about a new game or anime he goes to your room very often. He's happy you're always there for him.

But IS HE JEALOUS

If he sees anyone flirting with you in the slightest of ways he'll go into overprotective mode. In a bad day this means as much as asking you for a pencil in class

We all know he puts you in a bit too high of a pedestal compared to him, but it's because he loves you and tries his best to gain confidence once you tell him how wonderful he is.

"They're so cool Henry! They are so nice to me and so pretty. I don't deserve them but do I want to try!!"

Since he's too shy and introverted none of you have asked the other out yet, but you decide to trust him and come out to him first.

"Oh yeah, I know plenty of asexual characters, I know what it is. That's great! You have my whole support!" This one takes you off guard

He talks about how he kinda suspected it but never said a word in fear that it could offend you.

This was enough for you to jump in and tell him your feelings.

To say he's blushing is an understatement. His whole body is red

"I like you to...But a-are you sure? You're just so pretty an- and amazing and I-I'm just a yucky otaku... Not that all otakus are yucky! You're not! Oh crap, I'm so sorry."

You snap him out of his rambling with a hug or a kiss, telling him how much you love him no matter how he belittles himself, because he's already perfect.

He tackles you in a hug out of excitement and says he loves you too

He has no problem with sex at all once your relationship starts, he wasn't having any to begin with and never thought of the idea of you guys doing it, so it's pretty much the same.

He tries his best to make bentos for you or use any romantic tecnique he has ever seen in romance animes

Instead of overprotective mode he now brags about his amazing partner to everyone he can.

"Mc, we should cosplay these characters! This one's ace!"

He'll do anything for you to feel safe and welcome in his arms no matter your sexuality.

Satan

This lovable bookworm fell in love later than anyone (except Belphegor) did, in the train murder mystery.

At first he thought it was mere admiration, but then why was his heart beating so fast?

Don't get me wrong, he's outraged. He hates that he's not paying attention to class to write poems, being distracted from his books because his mind wonders off thinking of you, and he despises that every time you bring him a cup of tea or flash a smile his face turns bright red in front of his brothers.

Eventually he has no choice but to ask Asmo and he is overjoyed. He offers himself as a wingman many times and Satan declines every single one

He doesn't tell you about this willingly, Asmo creates some devious situation where he ends up needing to confess his feelings.

He has never felt so relieved that the time you said you liked him too

He finally shows you some of his poetry (at least the less cringey ones) all of them talking about your outer and inner beauty in a way that almost moves you to tears

Everyone is surprised by how frequently one of the scariest demons out there lets himself get hugged by you at any given time, even if he's busy he always has time for you.

Also cats. Plushies, bags, clothes, anything with a cat on it you gift it to eachother

You eventually gather courage, enter his room and talk to him, thinking that maybe him being so distracted reading would soften the news

But he just nods mindlessly

"Satan? Did you hear me? I'm asexual" You take his book annoyed but the answer leaves you in shock

"Yeah, I know! can I go back to my book now?"

Turns out you were being painfully obvious and Satan is too smart not to notice.

"So... you're okay with it?"

"What in the world made you think I wasn't?"

He closes his book and you two have a long talk about how he accepts you and loves you for who you are over some tea

Mammon

He has always been in love with you as you have with him, what else is there to say?

Mammon melts at the slightest of touches and compassion you show him

He's so happy every time he's with you because you actually treat him like his brothers should

He loves them but they aren't the kindest towards him, so there's nothing better than hearing from you how much he's worth

He repeatedly asks you for money or pulls out some pranks but suddenly stops. How weird? Could it be that he feels bad for making you feel any kind of sad?

You have to stop him from saying he's your first several times, thankfully it eventually works

He tells you how great you are in a way he isn't directly telling you? But you can just know

"Hey, hu-I mean Mc! You're...the less annoying person in this place...Thanks for that" Yes, that was him trying to compliment you

As your bond becomes stronger he starts to loosen up to you. Leaving you gifts or flowers at your door with a smile on his face.

"Lucifer took my dear goldie for a week because of this but ya know... it's worth it."

When you actually accepted to go to the biggest casino in the Devildom he considered it as your first date.

You spend the hole night seeing him win and loose money, even pulling you in to have fun as well

You two take a break exhausted at a fountain. Mammon sees his chance and goes in slowly for a kiss

"Wait, Mammon. If we're actually going to...date, there's something you have to know."

"You're the most outstanding human, what the hell, the most outstanding being in the three worlds I've ever met in my eternity, Mc! What makes you think I'd leave someone as breathtaking as you over wether or not you wanna have sex?!"

"For some people it's a big dealbreaker..."

"Well, not for the Great Mammon! Only an idiot would let you go because of your sexuality. And no matter what they all say, I'm no idiot"

You end the night holding hands and going back to the House of Lamentation, ready to start this beautiful romance.

Lucifer

Ok. First things first. Everyone can agree Lucifer is (or seems) even hornier than Asmo, so this is gonna get...complicated. But we'll get into that

He sure seems the least likely to actually show the vulnerability of being in love, but gosh did you made your way into his heart

It was a long and diffecult journey to get him to like you, but he eventually got a liking to you the more you guys spent time together

You were able to make him loosen up as well.

Dragging him to anywhere you loved instead of being sat down with mountains of paperwork

Always waking him up after he fell asleep in his desk with a blanket, a hot cocoa (Coffee if the work needs to be done by the next day) and even a kiss on the cheek if he's lucky

By the time the whole Belphie situation was defused he was finally able to show his true intentions

He's a fairly elegant person, so when he tries to make an advance, he does it with style

This means all kinds of fancy places once he's off from work with the most romantic of views. Every day you feel like being swept over by a true gentleman

I'm pretty sure he'd have you as his partner by now, maybe he never officially asked but you both imply you're a couple at this point.

But as I said it, he has his whole...punishing thing......

It's exactly because he starts crossing the line with one if these why you just had to stop him and tell the truth

He gets shocked and slowly start fitting the puzzle pieces in place

"Well, this is unexpected. Wait. Have I... made you feel uncomfortable around me all this time?"

Once you nod he falls in his bed ashamed

"My deepest apologies, my love. I truly hope you forgive my reckless words. I must know, are you not feeling safe in this relationship?"

You explain how wrong that asumption is, telling him how every day with him is incredible, but showed your discomfort at some of the things he says

He was relieved he hadn't crossed the line yet and was never going to let himself cross it.

"I am so glad you shared this information with me, I promise to make this relationship the most romantic experience of your life"

He stays up all night researching everything ablout being ace, he gives you gifts related to this, finds out your love language and does what it is every day, he does every romantic thing you can think of and he even asks you to go to a pride in the human world!

He's willing to do all he can in order for you to feel loved in any way you want

Belphegor

Well, he did tried to kill you, so I'm pretty sure his betrayal hurt if you helped him for love

He knows you're at least a little scared of him and he knows he needs to apologize, but never finds the time because you always seem wary of him

He tries by leaving a note in your desk that says "I'm so sorry for what I did. Thank you for bringing our family back together"

This is the first smile he gets out of you as you look at him

This escalates to him passing notes whenever he's not asleep. In class, the table at dinner, outside while hanging out with you and Beel, anywhere. This happens so often you end up always having a pen in hand to answer.

It goes until one of you decides to speak, you start talking and become best friends in no time

Although Belphie seems too possesive for his feelings to be just friendship

Honey, if you thought Levi was bad he's nothing compared to Belphie

He uses every excuse to get you away from anyone that possibly flirts with you. It's either that or his death glare burning them for several minutes until they run or apologize

He always wants to be with you, even if he's sleeping he feels the lack of your prescence

This is why he always tries to convince you to take naps with him, snuggling with you is the best part of his day

If you're more of a night owl he'll do his best to stay awake and look at the stars with you in the planetarium. Sometimes falling asleep in your shoulders "on accident" wink wink

He mumbled about you in his sleep and that's how you found out and ended up dating

The relationship is pretty much the same with more kisses and hand holding, along with him convincing you to skip class sometimes just to sleep

Also plushies, a lot of them, all of them

You decide to tell him one day while snuggling beneath the stars. Being sure enough that he'll understand, although the nerves are still there

"Okay... so?"

You express your worries and he stands up looking almost menacingly but his words killed the scary mood

"Are you dumb? How did you think someone like me would even worry about that?"

"I'm not Asmo, beds are for sleeping. Come on, lets steal that cake Lucifer saved in the fridge, I heard it's sort of an inside joke between us."

After this he keeps asking you about the whole asexual spectrum, thinking he might be part of it. He's shows true interest at every question you answer and tries to use this new information for future dates.

All and all it's very relaxing to date someone like him, who surprisingly has a very loving and understanding heart behind what people are used to see.

#asexual #obey me leviathan #obey me beelzebub #obey me satan #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me belphegor #asexual mc #obey me #international asexuality day #obey me shall we date #obey me asmodeus #ace pride #ace

[headlessartistblog-blog]

Post 1: On Poetics

Poetry, am I right? Who needs the stuff? Well, I do. I get paid to go to school for it. I’m not going to bore you with some longwinded introduction where I satisfy your checklist of things that constitute a reliable source because I know you don’t really care. Instead, I’ll direct you to a list of the top 5 most important things to keep in mind when reading and writing poetry (for all ages!). As you can see, they aren’t written on stone tablets, so feel free to disagree with anything I say here (if you do leave comments of dissent, please be kind enough to follow it up with a “because” for others who may be interested).  This is just my personal take from my experiences. Take what you will.

1. Your Poem Should Have Some Sort of Surprise or Insight (It Should Change You) 

What distinguishes a good poem from a great poem (or a good poem from a bad poem) is its transformative qualities. To put it simply, a great poem is a poem that truly changes you. You should leave the poem feeling that you’ve learned something about yourself or about the world. Not only will minding the transformative qualities of a poem help you assess others’ poetry, but it can also serve as a guide for your own endeavors.

When writing a poem, we sometimes find ourselves engaging with things (emotions, memories, ideas, art, etc.) that we don’t quite understand or can’t account for. Let us, for example, say we are writing a poem about something wholly original and not at all trite: love. Anyone who has ever been in love has felt the strange emotions that circumspect its comings and goings: euphoria, despair, infatuation, apathy, content, anxiety, reassurance, fear. Now, imagine trying to describe these emotions in a way that accurately conveys their essence; “I’m afraid” isn’t much of a poem (though the conciseness of T.S. Eliot’s “and in short, I was afraid” is quite striking).

The arrival of the surprise in poetry is the result of a successful engagement with the ambiguous and arduous. Put simply, you get the surprise by working through your thoughts and emotions on paper. Be aware that there is no way to foresee the arrival of the surprise. In fact, you might find that it’s in the first few lines you’ve written. Conversely, you might find that it takes weeks of writing or revision to arrive at some sort of insight. Regardless, you should leave the poem somehow changed.

Examples of Surprises:

The Archaic Torso of Achilles- Rilke

The Warning- Creeley

2. Let the Poem Be Its Own Guide (Don’t Force It)

A successful artist is an artistic who recognizes their art and works with it. Well, what the fuck does that mean? Much like every other art, intention often finds itself at odds with the poem. Intention essentially means the objective we bring to the table when we make art. A simple example: “I want to write a love poem.” Great! Everyone loves a good love poem. However, where most beginning poets -and experienced poets time and time again- stall is reconciling intention with output. By output, I simply mean what ends up on the page.

Imagine this: you’re writing your love poem and, suddenly, you find yourself writing about a box of photos you found in your grandmother’s attic. Well that just won’t work, will it? We’re trying to write a love poem! Not a poem about old pictures of your grandmother. What the sensible person would do is get back on track, cross out those inane lines and continue their trek of love. What the poet does is follow the trail of memory. The poem knows what it wants to be just as your intuition knows what the poem should be.

Perhaps one of the greatest struggles beginning poets tend to face is the seemingly sporadic nature of intuition. “This is what I want the poem to be! Why can’t I get it to do what I want?!” Well, uh, that’s because the poem is kind of like a person. I mean, it’s being written by a person based on that person’s experiences, and we all know human experience is anything but simple and linear. Trying to force a poem to do something is like trying to force a person to do something.

As artists, we often forget that our art is not always going to be in tandem with our goals and aspirations. That’s okay. In fact, it’s great! It keeps us from being indebted to our own egos. “Oh? You thought you were going to write the modern epic? No no no! You’re going to write about the hole in your shoe.” Additionally, who’s to say that love and the box of photographs are entirely unrelated? Love is a complex and multifaceted emotion. There are many kinds of love: romantic, sexual, familial, idealistic, etc. What the poem is trying to show you is the relationships between your love for a partner and your love for your grandmother. Let the art run its course.  

3. Avoid Clichés

This, in my opinion, can be a make it or break it for poetry (and all art). Nothing turns an audience off like being cliché (think dad-rock). Unfortunately, there’s no end to the barrage of hip, Instagram poetry that somehow passes as insightful and profound (@ Milk and Honey). I try not to sound like a pompous asshole as much as possible, but everybody has a line in the sand, and this is mine. Just don’t do it. Don’t be that person (poet).

For one, it’s contrived, and it’s obvious because you can’t tell the difference between any of the people writing the “poems.” Two, it takes little to no effort to write Instagram poetry:

Just because you’ve decided to

Stay inside doesn’t make you

Anything less.

Even the butterfly needs

Time alone to grow

 Truly inspired.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, there are other clichés that you’ll want to avoid. The most common ones usually occur in metaphor or simile:

My love, you are like a flower

Swaying in the summer breeze

Okay, so let’s break this down. One, there’s nothing really surprising about comparing your love to a flower. It’s been done many times; at this point, probably too many times. Two, there’s also nothing surprising about a flower in summer. It’s to be expected. Three, while the entire image itself is beautiful (flowers in the summer breeze), it doesn’t reveal anything unique about the speaker’s love. In fact, some would find the use of such a bland and predictable simile almost insulting.

*Now, here’s where an exception to clichés comes in. This would be a perfect simile if you were trying to be sarcastic or humorous about your relationship without being too on the nose*

So how do we spice this up? Well, we make the simile surprising:

My love, you are like the muddy river that runs under the bridge

Cool and murky as you drift through my fingers in the summer’s heat

Okay, not the greatest lines ever written, but more interesting than flowers in the summer breeze.

What often helps all writers think about interesting comparisons and images is being honest about the emotions behind them. We understand that you’re in love, so we want to hear about it, actually hear about it. When you think about the person you love, do you actually think about flowers in the summer breeze? Or do you think about the dumpster behind the cafeteria where you first kissed? Or how they snore in the middle of the night? Or how you’re always late because you both decide to lounge in bed until 2 in the afternoon?  I guarantee you that being honest about the mundaneness of love (or whatever else you decide to write about) will produce something with more candor and accessibility (meaning, resonant with others) than lofty misconceptions about what love is.

As a final note on the cliché, always remember to be true to your own voice. Emulating other people’s poetry can be a fun and useful exercise to develop your own skills, but it is not an end. I’m honestly surprised how many times I’ve encountered poetry from the 21st century written like this:

Hark! Mine fellow scholars! Doth thou hear the gentle wings of poesy?

No, sir, I don’t hear it. Chaucer is dead. Shakespeare is dead. And for good reason. Let’s keep it that way. While most of us don’t speak poetically often, we certainly don’t speak like that anymore. Stay true to the times.

Examples of subverting or flirting with the cliché:

Porphyria’s Lover- Browning

The Flea- Donne

4. Play With Formalities of Structure and Grammar

I’ll keep this point brief because it’s pretty straightforward. Poetry does not have to abide by the formal rules of structure and grammar. In fact, there are very few rules at all.

You can write your lines as whole sentences

Or you can break them up.

You can use commas, periods, exclamation points, etc.

Or you can completely forgo them?

CAPITALIZATION and italics can help

Emphasize certain words that you think are IMPORTANT

Words can be bro     ken up in any num-

Ber of ways do(n’t) be afraid 2

Experiment w/the formalities of language!

5. Stay Grounded in the Real

This may seem like an odd piece of advice but it’s something that has significant consequences for most art. A few, short years ago I was briefly enamored with the complexities and possibilities of language that poetry offered, which manifested in this poem:

For if she flees I should pursue, Through vision, Thereafter? Feather footed, criminal as we are.

 Samael, So once we were, Golden swans littered across the sky, Bathing/bourn/bearing

Light

 Time beyond candlelight, Wicks, unto you, Progenic burning, Great love, Fallen

 Meadows, Whisper sweetly and, Slither into my dreams, Carry with us, black as we rose So Mourned, Thus forgotten

 Disembodied, I will never be beautiful

 Windows, Searching fragments, Arrested above the surface, And if we look back, Snatched away

 Remnants, Objects of decay

 Simply, perpetually, Echo

 From you, Eternity, Effusive threshold, Forlorn foundation, Dripping through fingers, All the things you are

 Cuping flame, Gentle blow

 I was new enough to poetry to still be proud of my writing and gave it to my mentor for his thoughts. After reading it, he asked me “what part of this poem is grounded in the real?” At that moment, I realized that I had gotten so caught up in creating images that I had forgotten to give the poem any kind of “soul.”

Indeed, all this poem is is a bunch of nebulous images that say nothing of the world. There’s a reason we relate to Lucifer instead of God in Paradise Lost. It’s because Lucifer represents us, “the real.” Despite the fact that he is a celestial being, his actions and emotions are human and that’s why we like him. He’s grounded in the worldly.

Think about it like this: the reason you probably hated those books you read in high school and college is because they didn’t resonate with you (yet?). There’s nothing in those books that speaks to your reality. Take, for instance, The Crucible; it’s written well-enough, but I hate it because it doesn’t say anything about my experience. It doesn’t say anything that I can relate to or care about. You “don’t get” Shakespeare, or Chaucer, or Faulkner not because you’re dumb or you didn’t try hard enough, but because their stories might not speak to your experience as a human being.  

It’s also worth noting that age does play a factor in almost every kind of art. That’s why you grow out of certain literature, tv shows, genres of music and people, because they no longer speak for or reflect who you are. The art that remains is the art that continues to say something about the world in our eyes.

#poetry #poet #how to #how to write poetry #understanding poetry #art blog #writing blog #college #instagram poetry #headless artist blog #headlessartistblog #onpoetics #post 1

[madscientistjournal]

Fiction: The Prototype

An essay by Claire Lev, as provided by Judith Field Art by Luke Spooner

When they let me out of hospital, I decided to rent somewhere with space to write. Jo, the social worker, helped me find a terraced house in the old part of town, the only one in the row not converted into flats. Gentrification had leapfrogged the area. There were no skips outside the tumbledown houses, no four-by-fours blocking the narrow streets. The shades of my immigrant ancestors spoke to me in the place they’d once made a crowded, warm world of their own.

“Bit big for a youngster like you, on your own,” the landlord said, “Miss … er …”

“Claire Lev,” Jo said.

“Claire … Lev. Millwall … two!” I chanted, using the rising and falling cadence of a football commentator. Okay name for a house, Millwall. Bucolic. Strong.

Jo pursed her lips and shook her head at my display of what the shrink dubbed “knight’s move thinking.”

“Miss Lev.” The landlord leaned away from me, as though I was contagious. He told me a rabbi had lived in the house, which meant that he’d labeled me as Jewish. Once people slot you in like that, the label is like a flashing light in their heads, steering everything they say. I waited for him to ask “if I knew the Cohens.”

“It was about 80 years ago. There were a lot of you people ’round here then.” You people.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

~

No one since the rabbi had smartened the house up. The faded, peeling wallpaper looked as if it had been there since the thirties. It was patterned with overblown tea roses that I saw faces in. The bathroom looked even older, with its rust-streaked basin. The bathtub stood on little bunched feet, poised to run.

The attic became my writing room. I scattered rag rugs and beanbags over the floorboards. The light poured in through two huge skylights and blasted the frozen shadows off my brain. Sometimes I’d be writing a poem and in mid-sentence I’d have to stop, as though someone had plucked the thoughts right out of my head.

It didn’t help that the house was full of noise–pipes clanging, stairs squeaking, floors groaning. The cat flap in the back door banged, even on windless days. I rang the landlord and asked him to get rid of it. I heard soldiers marching in one of the bedrooms, but when I went in, there was nothing to see, even though I could still hear them. And always the smell of wet mud, the sound of water dripping.

Outside the kitchen was a tiny garden, grass with a couple of anonymous scrawny trees. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen. The tablets made me constantly hungry. I decided to go cold turkey, to stop the medication and to try to lose weight.

I never seemed to be able to keep the cracked, dull linoleum on the kitchen floor clean. I washed it every morning, but a few hours later, there would be another line of muddy blobs leading from the back door, like animal tracks.

In bed I squirmed, trying to sleep. A mob of problems whirled ’round my mind. When I had worried about each one, they all took another turn. I stood in the middle as they danced around me, pulling at me, demanding a piece of me in higher- and higher-pitched voices. Bills. Poetry. Weight. Leaky roof. Benefit. Noise in the house. Food.

One night, a hand stroked my hair.

“Claire, poor Claire,” the female voice said.

“That’s all you ever say,” I replied. Two old women’s voices discussed a cake recipe. It made my stomach rumble.

~

It didn’t help that the house was full of noise–pipes clanging, stairs squeaking, floors groaning. The cat flap in the back door banged, even on windless days.

I had to have a peanut butter and banana sandwich for lunch, cut diagonally, set on the plate with the red line ’round the edge, otherwise my nerves would jangle and a band would tighten around my ribs as I forced myself to breathe. The sandwich had to be sliced with one of the blue-handled knives that made me feel safe when I held them. I rummaged about in the drawer, but my fingers met one of the solid metal ones. It weighed my hand down, and the edges of the handle felt alien. My heart pounded faster as I poked and prodded in the drawer. My mouth dried. I felt sick and the room became fuzzy ’round the edges.

“Claire, poor Claire,” said the woman.

“She’s useless and you know it,” a new, male voice said. “Can’t even find the right knife.”

I smelled that muddy, earthy odour even though it wasn’t raining. The cat flap banged and movement flickered in the corner of my eye. I grabbed a carving knife and whipped around, jerking the blade forward.

“Get out!” My voice caught on the lump in my throat as tears rose behind my eyes.

A tiny, human-shaped pile of mud stood by the back door, in front of the cat flap. I dropped the knife, with a clatter that seemed to go on and on. I rubbed the back of my hand across my nose.

The man’s voice started again. “You clumsy, filthy whore. Give up. You’re worthless. Take that knife and slit your–”

“Shut it!” the mud man-thing shouted. “My voice is the only one she needs to hear!”

Silence. I reached down.

“No,” said the mud-thing, “I’ll deal with that.” It kicked the knife under the fridge.

I backed away, my fists clenched, until I was pressed against the wall. The thing walked toward me.

“Look at me,” it commanded. Its eyes glowed red. Warmth ran through my veins. I breathed out and my heartbeat slowed.

“Don’t be scared. Forget the others; they’re gone. I’m your helper. Better let you see my job description. Here are my personal specifications and objectives.”

The top of its head opened. It reached inside, pulled out a roll of parchment, and handed it to me.

“Careful. It’s written in a special ink made out of oak galls, copperas, and gum arabic. You won’t find them down in the shops.” The orange-tinted parchment was peppered with the hair follicles of the animal from which it came, as if hit by a tiny shotgun. The black, square letters were written with a sweeping hand: broad upstrokes and narrow downstrokes. Some were embellished with crown shapes at the top. Others stretched, giving a solid edge to each column of text.

My Hebrew was as rusty as the taps in the bathroom and my shaking hands made it hard to read, but I made out the letters: gimel, lamed, mem …

“You’re a golem?”

It nodded. “Call me Rishon. Don’t you know who lived here? Rabbi Yossi, one of the greatest twentieth-century mystics. He made me. I’m a servant made out of non-living stuff by magic.”

Okay. What would I have to say to get rid of it? I tried to dredge some Hebrew from my memory.

“Gleeda!” I shouted.

“Ice cream? You’ll have to get your own. But I’ll protect you, if you let me stay.” It spoke as if it was reading my mind.

“You? How? Jump up and bite attackers on the kneecap?”

“Now you’re being size-ist. I can’t help it if I’m only twelve inches high. I’m a mock-up, a prototype. Rabbi Yossi wanted to make the perfect golem. That’s why I can speak. The others couldn’t. He died before he could make the full-sized version. I’ll protect you from Cossacks, expulsion, blood libel, and the voices in your head. I can help ’round the house.” It ran its hand across a cupboard door and stared at the place where its fingertips would be. It tutted. “I do cleaning as well.”

“Those your footprints all over the kitchen floor?”

“Sorry about that, but I had to get in quickly. Couldn’t stop to wipe my feet.”

“Why were you in the garden?”

“Where else could I go? I was minding my own business in the attic, for eighty years I’ve been up there, but then you had to go and use it as a study. Couldn’t stay up there with you tapping at your keyboard all day. It’s like being inside a ticking clock.” It put its hands up to where its ears would have been. “I’ve been hiding in the garden, but it keeps raining. I’m made of clay. The rabbi never got ’round to firing me in the kiln, so I have to come in out of the wet. I’m a priceless ethnic artefact, you know. And I’m not an it, I’m a he.”

“If you stay, do I have to tie a bit of red string ’round my wrist? Kabbalah, and all that?”

“Kabbollocks. Made-up nonsense. Anyway, I’ve got work to do. Now that I’ve shut up that lot of voices in your head, I’ll go get rid of the barmy army in the bedroom.” He reached out an upturned hand and twitched the curled fingers toward himself. “Scroll. Give.”

I passed it to him, and he put it back inside his head. It clicked shut. The stairs creaked as he made his way upstairs.

~

I listened for Rishon, coming up and down, in and out through the cat flap, while I worked. And the poetry flowed. Now that there was silence in my head, instead of the crushing band around my ribs, I felt a painless silver belt around my brain, squeezing ideas out, yet at the same time holding them back so that they didn’t all erupt at once. Everything in sight glowed, sunshine dancing on glass.

Rishon reappeared one morning as I was looking out the kitchen window at the gnarled, pallid leaves sprouting on the stunted trees. The doorbell rang. He ran out through the cat flap.

I opened the front door a few inches. The community nurse put her hand through, showing her ID. I peered around.

“I’m Vikki,” said the woman by the nurse’s side. “I’m your befriender.”

I let them in. I didn’t look at the woman. If she spoke, I didn’t hear it.

“Let’s talk about your treatment plan.”

The nurse started some spiel about empowerment. About concordance between service user and care-giver. She gave me new tablets. I had to take one a day.

“You’re a bit isolated here. Pop into the Day Centre, it’ll do you good. They’ll send transport for you. Get to know people, learn new skills.”

~

When the bus came, I wouldn’t open the door. “You should go,” Rishon said. “Make friends. Maybe meet a nice young man.”

“I don’t want to meet someone like me. I’m fine here. I’ve got my poetry. And you. It’s perfectly okay.”

Rishon clambered onto the kitchen worktop and shuffled forward till his face was up against mine.

“Now look,” he shouted. I could see inside his mouth. “You have to do more with your life than skulk around here all day. When you do creep outside it’s only to scuttle to those pokey little shops. Get out! Look at nature! You might pick up some ideas for poems!”

“No, you look, Mister Perfect Golem. I do have a choice about all this, and I’m not going. I don’t want to write about how it feels to sit in one of those care-in-the-community buses with people gawping at me.”

“Why don’t you learn to drive, then?”

“I can drive. Used to have a car.”

“Stolen, was it? I’m not surprised, around here.”

“Sort of, but it happened where I used to live, before I went into hospital. One night the police took my car away. By the next morning, before I got up, they’d replaced it with one that looked exactly the same, only, they could control it. So I had to get rid of it.”

“That’s clever of them, considering they couldn’t catch a one-legged burglar with his arms tied behind his back.” Rishon picked up my tablet box and looked inside. “You’re meant to take these every day, you know. Get yourself a glass of water.” He pushed the box toward me.

~

A week later, the Vikki woman came back. I shouted at her to go away, but she said she couldn’t hear me. I opened the door. A shove at the back of my knees ejected me, staggering and stumbling, onto the path. The door slammed shut.

“Let me in!” I shouted through the letterbox. “Please! I haven’t got my key!”

“Go on, now! Get some fresh air,” Rishon called, from inside the house. “It’s a sunny day, I’m off into the garden. I’ll open the door–later.”

I stood up. Breathed in. Breathed out. Turned around.

Vikki looked to be in her mid-thirties, slim, with blonde hair tucked into a knitted teacosy hat. Her woolly tights were zigzagged with colour, like the patterns you see when you press on your eyelids.

“Hello, again. Walk with me?”

“Is your name short for Victoria?”

“Not short for anything. I’m just Vikki.”

“Just Vikki’s an okay name.”

She smiled. “Does this mean you’ll come for a walk?”

I nodded. “I’m on a drug called aripiprazole. Okay name for a man, that. Sounds Greek.”

“Nah, nobody’d be able to spell it.”

We walked up the street, the wind scudding cans and empty crisp packets across the pavement in front of us. Our path lit up, then dimmed, as clouds tore across the sun.

I’d never noticed the park entrance at the end of the street before. The park was deserted, except for old men sitting on benches and people with nowhere else to go. Vikki pointed to a seat outside.

“We won’t go in this time. Let’s sit here. Recovery is like climbing a flight of stairs. You have to take one step at a time.”

I turned my face upward and closed my eyes. The sun shone red through my eyelids. Vikki told me about her ceramics studio and the class she ran.

“I write poetry,” I said. “Here’s one about the shrink at the loony bin:

“Take head off, bin man,

A catamaran”

“They call that a clang association.”

“Don’t you start. That’s bin man talk. But Clang Association would make a good name for a band.”

We talked about music. The sunlight drained away. Coatless, I shivered in the wind.

It began to rain, and we ran back down the street.

I hammered on my door. No reply.

Vikki made up for saying that naff thing about climbing stairs by riffling in her bag, taking out some pottery tool, sliding it between the frame and the door, and opening it. If that was a skill they taught at the Day Centre, I might just go. I didn’t ask her in. I stepped into the house and slammed the door.

A note lay on the kitchen table. The landlord had nailed the cat flap in the back door shut.

I hurled the door open and rushed into the garden. A puddle of wet clay lay on the ground. A bit of yellowing paper, washed clear, lay to one side. I stood, water running down my face.

I scooped up the mud and the paper and stashed them in a plastic bag at the back of the cupboard under the eaves. Alone in the silent house for the first time.

~

Vikki’s guiding me back into the world. We’ve been out for coffee. We’ve been shopping at Tesco’s. I entered a poem about her in a competition; I’m still waiting to hear if I’ve won. She’s a shoulder to lean on, someone to trust. She believes in me as a whole person, with true abilities.

As I believed in Rishon the golem, who showed me the way.

I’ve started Hebrew lessons. I’ve been copying the bit of Genesis (Chapter 17, verse 1, actually) that says “walk before me and be perfect.” I’ve nearly got it right. Between that and Vikki’s pottery class, I’m hardly in the house these days. I’ve made friends at Hebrew class, but the potters won’t sit with me. “She’s weird,” they say. “All she makes is little clay men.”

I’m practising. Until I can make perfect.

Claire Lev also lives in London, UK. She’s a ceramicist, and she and Judith met at Claire’s art installation “Living Clay”, consisting entirely of golems of different sizes. Blink, and they seemed to have moved. But that can’t be so…can it?

Judith Field lives in London, UK. She writes because it’s in her DNA. She’s the daughter of writers and learned how to agonise over fiction submissions at her mother’s (and father’s) knee. She speaks 5 languages and can say “please publish this story” in all of them. Her short stories, mainly speculative, have appeared in a variety of publications in the USA, UK, Australia and New Zealand.

Luke Spooner, a.k.a. ‘Carrion House,’ currently lives and works in the South of England. Having recently graduated from the University of Portsmouth with a first class degree, he is now a full time illustrator for just about any project that piques his interest. Despite regular forays into children’s books and fairy tales, his true love lies in anything macabre, melancholy, or dark in nature and essence. He believes that the job of putting someone else’s words into a visual form, to accompany and support their text, is a massive responsibility, as well as being something he truly treasures. You can visit his web site at www.carrionhouse.com.

This story first appeared in Stupefying Stories, August 2012.

“The Prototype” is © 2012 Judith Field Art accompanying story is © 2019 Luke Spooner

Fiction: The Prototype was originally published on Mad Scientist Journal

#Claire Lev #Judith Field #Kabbalism #Luke Spooner #Metaphysics

[flvshlights]

courtney eaton. 24. genderfluid. they & them. the front bottoms. | i can’t believe i just saw LUCINDA “LUKE” ARCHULETTA walking out of cadence records. they’re the GUITAR & LEAD VOCAL from the INDIE ROCK group WE TRIED USING A BAND NAME GENERATOR who have been in the industry for SIX YEARS. the tabloids love to focus on their ALOOF nature , but they’re also pretty HONEST and they seem to give off a vibe that reminds people of TYING FLANNELS AROUND YOUR WAIST, NEVER BEING WARM ENOUGH, PLAYING AN ACOUSTIC GUITAR IN A SHARP TUXEDO, CLAIMING YOU DON’T SMOKE MARIJUANA WHEN YOU DO, THE COMFORT AT THE BOTTOM OF A SWIMMING POOL. 

                                     she started talking backwards , but nothing                                      good it brings her. so the next time that she                                      sees him, it’ll be peace sign + middle finger.                                      to listen as you read.

listen i always say i’ll stick with one muse and that never happens so i’ll just skip the part here where i berate myself for being weAK and instead introduce u to lukey-pookie here !! they’re a very new muse ( while also combining some essences of other muses of mine ) since normally i pick from a premade roster of my own ocs and normally use courtney for a... very different character but 1.) i’m gay and 2.) i love the front bottoms so HERE WE GO !

tws : depression, divorce, arrest, drug usage / overdose

HISTORY

So Luke was born to a regular working class family in Wilmington, Delaware - they have some relation with the famous DuPont family that built their name there, but don’t have anything to show for it since a few generations ago Luke’s great grandmother cut off the rest of her family and now they don’t speak. So Archuletta it is.

Their mom worked a typical 9-5 job and their dad was an aspiring painter - but he was always... sick. Not sick in the physical sense, no - sick in the fact he never was himself. Sick in way that Luke always thought he was so tired and sad and nothing could ever cheer him up, and they rarely spent much time with him due to his tendencies to keep to himself. So that led to an early divorce between him and Luke’s mother when they were about six years old.

So Luke’s life was relatively normal. Maybe even too normal for them. And they’d try and put themselves out there - even joining musical theatre in attempts to try and find “their group.” Musical theatre was where they’d meet Krista.

A beautiful girl who had a passion for Broadway, booze, and marijuana - she’d become Luke’s greatest friend, and even taking Luke to meet their friends she hung out with regularly after class. But they weren’t the kids you’d want to bring home to hang out with in your parents’ house. No, in fact - they were the opposite.

Bad things, those friends did - well - bad ( or rather, illegal ) things, and Luke followed along. Such as smoking pot and getting caught for it, spraypainting and defiling public areas, maybe getting into a fight or two. In an effort to fit in, Luke would do the same - but they faced the consequences they’d never thought - considering those kids seemed invincible. Untouchable. 

Setting off fireworks from the roof of an abandoned building it a bad idea. Getting arrested the cops is an even worse idea. Your friends running off before they can get caught, leaving you alone to wait for your mom to pick you up... The worst idea.

Nobody came to check on them after that.

Not even Krista.

But the next day, Luke hung out with them like nothing was wrong, following that crowd still - and it’d only reach a breaking point when they were sixteen and had to call the ambulance since Luke found Krista in the bathroom of a party unconscious due to overdose. And thank god she survived - 

And there they were again, without many friends since Krista was seemingly the only person who even came close to genuinely liking them and everyone else, they barely knew anything about. And Luke would grow, finishing high school and clinging to the only other friend they had since childhood - being convinced to write out their issues since by NOW, Luke maybe turned out a bit more cynical than they used to be.

Writings of prose and poetry turned to translating that to music - and that would be the beginning of their new life: We Tried Using A Band Name Generator.

ABOUT ‘WE TRIED’: 

‘We Tried Using A Band Name Generator’ - or more conveniently just referred to as ‘We Tried’ is probably Luke’s pride and joy. It was their friend’s idea for them to originally write out how they felt - and they mutually came up with the decision to try and write songs out of that.

A small band from Wilmington didn’t seem like it was going to get notice, and it took a little while, sure - it started with an EP titled Slow Dance to Soft Rock ( 2013 ) that made Cadence turn their way. Since the indie community definitely liked the acoustic sounds paired with raw, blunt, honest emotions pushed out in songs like The Beers and Swimming Pool. And that was when they got signed.

The first album they’d release would be six months later - self-tilted, We Tried Using A Band Name Generator. They didn’t have too much of a following at the time, but they were making good momentum enough to convince them to keep going.

Things were going so well, in fact, that during touring, Luke & their best friend / drummer actually attempted dating since - there had to be a reason they worked so well together. There had to be SOME feelings. But a million arguments later and stressful tours, overall mentally testing experiences, pushing out an EP called Rose which was as amazing as it was tacing to complete... they couldn’t do it. It was thought that when their best friend left the group in early 2016, it was thought that everyone’s new favorite indie rock group was done for.

And... Luke couldn’t let that happen. It was selfish, too, in the sense that We Tried was their biggest method of release and comfort. So instead of just giving up, they got off from tour and IMMEDIATELY hit the studio for recording and song-writing.

The product of a few months of straight work would result in their 2016 album , Talon of the Hawk - all songs pulling experiences from the split between them and their drummer to their experiences with Krista in high school. 

Au Revoir/Adios was 100% written the day after their ex-drummer left. 

Another year of touring and thankfully, four more members joined the group - producing the EP Needy When I’m Needy as a sneak peak of what was new to come. A few months later , a surprise album called Back on Top would come out. 

The next three years would work well - with the band releasing another EP titled Ann and the inklings sprinkled of the next album - Going Grey.  

SO IN CASE THAT WAS TOO COMPLEX BC I RAMBLE... again, general timeline:

February 2013: Release of Slow Dance to Soft Rock

March 2013: We Tried is signed to Cadence

August 2014: Release of Self-Titled.

September 2014: Both members of We Tried start dating.

July 2015: Release of Rose.

December 2015: Nearing the end of touring, We Tried’s drummer quits and the pair breaks up. Touring officially ends later that month.

January 2016: Luke Archuletta announces they’ll be taking time to focus on a brand new album.

August 2016: Release of the rushed but extremely well-received Talon of the Hawk.

July 2017: We Tried introduces four new members.

October 2017: Release of Needy When I’m Needy.

March 2018: Release of the surprise album Back on Top.

January 2019: Release of the EP Ann, paired with the announcement production of the next album will begin soon.

March: Two songs - Peace Sign & You Used to Say (Holy Fuck) are released to tease Going Grey.

July 2018: Release of Going Grey. 

SO YOU CAN SORT OF TELL THE TIMELINE IS SPEEDY - because that’s a big part of how Luke sort of... overworks themselves and hyperfocuses on their music. Especially since ever since their first drummer left, they haven’t let go of the idea they can only rely on themselves. 

BUT MORE ABOUT THE BAND - We Tried’s aesthetic is sort of The Front Bottoms mixed with the Young Veins - Luke’s especially fond of showing up in suits, vests, etc. despite the normally blunt & uncouth content of the songs. 

There is literally always something being made. Luke can’t sleep without having something in the works. 

And... yeah that’s it honestly it’s rly just TFB but with a TWIST! 

ABOUT LUKE 

5′10, genderfluid bisexual bby who honestly just wants a nap

SOOOO yes, Luke’s a very chill individual but chill in the sense that... they just. Don’t care. Except when it comes to their work - then they work the hardest they can on that shit and have to pay attention to every little detail.

They’re still not actually sure if they have any talent - musical theater never seemed to work out, so why is a band doing that??

But they do have one thing down pat - directing. All of We Tried’s videos have so far been directed by Luke, save for a few. 

This comes from Luke’s longtime adoration of film and cinema, from the perspective of an observer and a director.

They DO have a tendency to be a little... clingy and aloof at the same time. They’re always worried about being in the position of trying to keep a band of only one person alive again but also they don’t really notice they can other people to do things for them now.

They’re independent to a fault, in that case.

And also now finally getting a hang of not falling into peer pressure since it’s just made them cynical and aloof from people now.

They’re v grateful for their bandmates tho!! Don’t get me wrong, they love them!

Luke’s more of someone who communicates their appreciation through gestures and actions than words - setting a blanket on you while you sleep, getting new drumsticks if you broke yours, making coffee in the morning when you’ve forgotten. That kind of stuff.

They don’t get a lot of sleep for the sole reason they sort of have tendencies to keep themselves awake just... thinking. Luke thinks a lot. Luke’s actually wack-levels of intelligent, and it does show in their music save for when they’re making odd comments and obscure references.

Luke talks about tattoos a lot, but they’re actually barren since they’re afraid of needles. 

They also don’t drink, but they do smoke marijuana. But they’ll never admit to it - ...like TFB even though they have a MILLION songs that mention recreational use of the drug.

They sort of don’t really know where their purpose is, still - and that does lead them into a depression of their own, much like their father. They don’t talk to him and their mother that much nowadays - considering, the dream was always that Luke be a lawyer or a doctor and not the crass musician that they are.

They’re lowkey a fucking comedian but in the dry, deadpan humor sense. Most of their interviews consist of them making some joke that either takes a little while for the interviewer to get or one that makes the room silent for a quick minute. Or, even worse, they’re taken seriously.

Despite this aloofness, though, they actually thrive on being around other people. They’re sort of relearning how to accept that, though, since again, they’ve been shelling themselves up in their own work for quite some time. 

Also lowkey a bit of a flirt bt u didn’t hear that from me

Rides a motorcycle partially to look cool and also... bc they have the song ‘Motorcycle’ which was about them. Trying to learn how to ride a motorcycle so it just kind of stuck.

They’ve got another talent in dancing, since they took ballet classes throughout middle school to high school - but had to quit after they got arrested. Shame.

Their one dream was to be Ariel in the Broadway production of The Little Mermaid when they were younger since... they also love the sea and Disney Princesses so much secretly, but they’ve sort of given up on that.

Their love for the sea’s also because of where they’re from - Delaware beaches are beautiful and were Luke’s happy place back then. 

Most of their loves and interests are sprinkled in their songs, in that case - Delaware scenery, references of Disney films, etc.

They’re a very... complex individual. But god I lOVE them.

WCs

THE DRUMMER. PLS GIVE ME THE DRUMMER. I HAV IT ON THE MAIN... PLS GIVE ME THE OG DRUMMER THAT LEFT AND NOW HAS A SOLO CAREER OR IS IN ANOTHER BAND ELSEWHERE. PLS.

also the current bandmates. that would b. cool.

if ppl from luke’s old squad can show up now w/ their own careers... that would b. cool.

kids who they went to high school with that r surprised where they are now.

enemies in the music scene who don’t like luke or we tried for a multitude of reasons

maybe they think luke’s secretly a conceited dick underneath the ‘distant mysterious songwriter’ schtick

mayBBEEEE they think the nature of we tried’s songs are some sort of keep gimmick to try and cash in on being ‘casual’ and ‘relatable’

maybe they just don’t like the damn band i mean. yeah.

any reason. pls.

hook-ups bc i’ll b honest they are... a bit of a flirt. let luke serenade u w/ shit like “historic cemetery” cowards,

a rebound sort of?? probably very short-lived, but i can see luke wanting to get their mind off from their ex/drummer leaving and falling fast into another relationship - and that wouldn’t work out bc of it.

i’d also lov a plot where maybe sb discovers luke’s talent for dancing bc they do it for recreational purposes semi-often now?? 

maybe they can attend a class together or smth

or they just do it for fun at luke’s place

idk this cld go anywhere n it’s honestly adorable

ppl that they befriend who they can just. take back to delaware one day.

or even ppl they just hang out with to relive the ‘good ol days’

trips to the beach

buying store bought fireworks n setting them off

going on camping trips n shit

i’d lov a plot where there’s one person who just thinks luke is like... a MYSTERY and they just get closer and closer in attempts to try and figure that mystery out

also 100% open to brainstorming! i’ll actually get 2 interacting tmr bc it’s 2:30 AM nearly here n i want to sleep so yeah! chances are tho if u like this i’ll message u for plotting!! again if u want my discord - hmu @ rocky lynch lovebot / hylia.#0329. :^)

i love the front bottoms so much

#* &. abt / ☆ ❛ ɪᴛ's ɴᴏ ʙɪɢ sᴜʀᴘʀɪsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴜʀɴ��ᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪs ᴡᴀʏ ❜ #cadence.intro #this took forever i'm so sorry #and it's not even GOOD it's so MESSY #if u want a good feel 4 their character too pls just... listen to any of tfb's first three albums on spotify #self-titled - talon of the hawk - back on top. pls. #i'd also say going grey bt admittedly i haven't actually listened to that one that much so! gotta get a better feel 4 it #drug tw #overdose tw #divorce tw #depression tw #arrest tw

[frighthouseofalighthouse]

Fairy lights, daisies, matte, mood board, oil paints, grunge, painting, and love (((love is mostly cause I just love seeing all the happy posts you make about your gf sometimes, and side note I love when you reblog ask things cause you answer so honestly and I feel like I get to know you. Like you'll tell the good, bad, and ugly, and you're just super down to earth and real. Thanks so much for being you, I wish I had the confidence to message you. ): one day I hope, I'd like to have a friend.))

Fairy Lights: If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about anything, what would you want to know?

Honestly, I’d want to know if I’m with the right person/who the right person is. Because I love my gf, SO MUCH, and I do think she’s the one...but I thought that in all my previous relationships as well, and I’m always going to have irrational doubts in the back of my mind and I’d love to put those to rest.

Daisies: What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

Obvious answer for me is surviving and overcoming my urges to cut ever since I stopped, but also I’m super proud of having wrote 5 novels in my life! (one sucked because I was 11, one I wrote at 13 for NaNoWriMo sucked and was unfinished and abandoned but met the word count, and I’ve completed two novels in my current series and am in progress with the third, but it’s met the word count requirement as well!)

Matte: If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living?

For one thing, I’d stop stressing about completing high school and making it to college. Because a year of that wouldn’t make any difference. I’d also be more outgoing and reckless with my money and my courage in general, I’d do a lot more things I haven’t experienced because of anxieties.

Mood Board: Do you feel you had a happy childhood?

I went through some shit the last half of it, but all in all, yes!

Oil Paints: What would you title the autobiography of your life so far?

I Am Here. It’s the title of my favorite song by Pink, and it reminds me that no matter what I’m going through and no matter how hopeless I feel, I am still here and I am still strong. Another possibility would be the title of a multi-part poem I’ve written: Daughter of Athena. It illustrates my nature and that I care about justice, knowledge, and wisdom.

Grunge; Who in the world would you most like to receive a letter from and what would you want it to say?

After all this time, I’d like a full apology letter from my first ex, acknowledging and admitting how much wrong she did to me, and maybe even some money as compensation for all the harassment and trauma. I’d still have to deal with it, but if she acknowledged and apologized, the closure would help tremendously.

Painting: What is the best Halloween costume you have ever put together? If none, make one up.

In 2017, I made my own Alexander Hamilton costume out of entirely thrift store finds. Black combat boots, black dress slacks, off white undershirt with great colonial looking loose sleeves, off white frilly button up vest, and dark blue military style coat with gold buttons. Picture below.

Love: Have you ever fallen in love? If Yes, describe what it feels like to realize you’re in love.

I fall in love easily, so yes, I have, several times.

It feels like you’re floating, flying, like you’re looking down on the timeline of your life, and you realize THIS is what it was all for. And sometimes, it really is what it was all for...and sometimes it’s not. But hey, I’m a poet, so let me describe it for you in a few short poems I’ve written about it.

“Love as Poetry”

I have always known / That poetry comes from life, / But you are teaching me / That life is poetry. / The moments we spend / Swaying in my bedroom / With our foreheads touching / Are written in the form of sonnets / Inside my book of memory. / Our kiss is a psalm that / Will be sung forever, / If only for the two of us to hear / Then it is all the more beautiful.

“New Perspective” : Maybe I have always gone about love / The wrong way. / Instead of stupidly happy / I should be intelligently happy. / Instead of falling in love / I should rise in love. / Instead of falling head over heels / I should be swept off my feet. / You are showing me / That all these things / are better than cliches. / A fairy tale should not involve / Falling, / But instead flying. / Perspective is everything. / It looks beautiful from up here.

“Head Over Heels”: Being head over heels in love / is a stupid expression / until it’s you.

“Subject Matter”: Love manifests / In the ability / To turn any subject / into a romantic poem.

~

This has turned into the longest post ever, but if you read it all I appreciate it! I REALLY appreciate your compliment as to my honesty! That was so sweet and it means a lot! Also thank you for liking to hear about my girlfriend! ALSO, whoever sent this, PLEASE hit me up because I’d love to be a friend to you and talk about deep and honest stuff! Thanks again!!!

#a series of essays anonymously published

[dontalk2melulu]

UNDER THE PALE MOONLIGHT WITH CHERRY BLOSSOMS TO ROMANTICIZE MY EXISTENTIAL DREADING

Blog: Japan

At some points in my life, I fantasize my death under the pale moonlight with cherry blossoms to romanticize my sweet demise. I think that Japan would be a good spot. Therefore, without a crumb of hesitation my feet headed me here.

I’m holding my journal notebook, with a title “Stuff of a Nearly Proper Person”. I came across this page where I wrote down the things that scare me in my mid 20’s and I started to feel my chest burning and like something is squeezing it tightly, then my tears cosplayed like a waterfall.

Things that scare me in my mid-20’s

1. My eyes will lose all light and my soul will lose all hope as I endure my 20s.

2. Not living a fun, reckless youth to fondly remember.

3. Not being hundred percent financially independent ever.

4. Never making friends again who will truly understand and care.

5. Not being able to travel or live in NYC.

6. Not writing anymore.

7. Either losing my hair or it all turning white completely and never get the chance to try gooddyeyoung products.

8. Cancer diagnosis.

9. Becoming a legit potato.

10. Not coming across books again that will make me feel something.

11. Not enjoying sex.

12. Never being able to let go of the people from my past or becoming my old self again.

13. Entering any kind of romantic relationship and will realize that I don’t like being committed to a relationship and might hurt someone. Specially my parents who want grandchildren.

14. Not being able to get out of this place -my place.

15. Just talking but not doing anything to help the world.

16. Forgetting my dreams because it’s more convenient than chasing after them.

17. Slowly being apathetic.

18. Spending a major chuck of my life in traffic or in a line for girl’s restroom in public areas.

19. Always rushing.

20. Eating away all my hard-earned money.

21. No stable work and starve to death.

22. Finally deciding to find my escape route and feel guilty all my life for leaving my parents.

23. Pleasuring myself being alone and go mental and no one’s gonna be there to visit me in the asylum.

24. Forgetting the spelling of cat and apple.

25. Not being able to find purpose and gets tired trying and chasing.

In all honesty, I feel like floating all the time heading to neverending nowhere. I don’t think I could make it until 30. I don’t even know where the hell am I at this moment. I just slammed my body in this tiny bench with lined-up trees around.

Anyway, let’s just get into the very point of this blog, alright?

Japanese Literature

Facts about Japan:

Nippon – “Land of the Rising Sun”

Japan as a country has a past with its styles in its own tradition, in clothing, building, and foods. The name Japan came from the Chinese phrase meaning “the source of the sun.”The land of Japan is a low-based chain of islands over a thousand miles long. It has a total land area of 142, 247 sq. miles, with four main islands which are Hokkaido, Hanshu, Kyushu, and Shikoku. It is said that because of its shape, the people call their land “crystals dropped from the point of the creator’s spear.”

Japanese Literature is one of the major bodies of Oriental Literature. It is less voluminous than Chinese Literature but comparable to Arabic, Persian, and Indian Literature. It covers the period from the fifth century A.D to the present.

The written literature of Japan forms one of the richest of Oriental traditions.  It has received foreign influences since its beginning in the 8th century.  Before the middle of the 19th century, the source of influence was the culture of China. After the middle of the 19th century, the impact of modern Western culture became predominant.

Let us get to know the literary periods of Japanese literature including the authors and their works which contribute to the rich reservoir of Japan’s treasure.

Literary Periods

Japanese literature is divided into four periods: 1. Ancient Literature. Works were mostly dealt with legends and myths. 2. Classical Literature. The period where The Tale of Genji was written. 3. Medieval Literature. Literature was hugely influenced by civil wars and the emergence of the warrior class, resulting to the rise of war tales. 4. Modern Literature. It was marked by the emergence of new styles including romanticism.

Literary Works & Genres

Poetry is one of Japan’s oldest and well-known means of extension and communication. It includes the Manyoshu, Choka, Tanka, Renga, and Hokku.

Beside of poetry, novel, and drama that have long histories in Japan, but also some literary genres not so highly esteemed in other countries – like diaries, travel accounts, and books of random thoughts – are also prominent.

Works also include legends, myths, and war tales.

Notable Writers

Japan is a home to many prolific writers, including those who write fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and more. Few of the notable writers in Japan are Seami Motokiyo, The Haiku Poets (Basho, Buson, and Issa), Yasunari Kawabata, Tanizaki, Mishima, and a lot more.

Now, let me introduce you to one of Japanese Folktales. The folktale, “The Wise Old Woman” tells the story of a village where old people are taken to the mountains and left to die. One young farmer refuses to let his mother die, so instead he builds a secret basement in his home and hides his mother there for years.

After reading this myself, I came to point out the theme of the story: Our elders must receive love for they need it the most at such old age, respect for they are wise and have a lot of experiences and wisdom more than us who are only half their age, and appreciation because no matter how cruel we’ve been to them, they will still help us whole-heartedly in times of need.

Meet the famous poet of the Edo Period in Japan, Matsuo Basho.

During his lifetime, Basho was recognized for his works in the collaborative haikai no renga form. Today, after centuries of commentary, he is recognized as the greatest master of haiku.

A haiku is a three-line poem in which the first line has five syllables, the second line with seven syllables, and the final line with five syllables. In short, it has the 5-7-5 pattern. The lines in haiku may not necessarily rhyme but they usually create images.

The haiku is among the most ancient Japanese poetic forms. It usually contains somewhere a hint of one of the four seasons in Japan, love of nature and acceptance of life’s truths. It is short but full of meaning, often hidden from the reader.

Based on Basho’s three haikus, he didn’t have to lay on a summer grass to feel the unfulfilled dreams of the warriors; he just looks at it. He feels it by appreciating the nature. He wanted to share to us what his observations were about the natural world and would tell it and leave us spaces for self-questioning.

Want to have some more? Another literary piece written by one of the famous Japanese poet, Akutagawa Ryunusuke. Ryunusuke is prolific Japanese writer known especially for his stories based on events in the Japanese past and for his stylistic virtuosity. Akutagawa wrote almost all his central works in the ten years before his suicide. His early short pieces were carefully plotted historical tales, but toward the end of his short life, he focused more on his own emotional state and contemporary settings.

The publication in 1915 of his short story “Rashōmon” led to his introduction to Natsume Sōseki, the outstanding Japanese novelist of the day. With this influence in Japanese literature, he is regarded as the Father of Japanese Short Story. One of his stories is the famous, “The Spider Thread”.

The main character, Kandata, could relate to some people in the present time because there are certain circumstances that, like Kandata, we want things only for ourselves for instance money, love, attention, respect, blessings, material things, and etc. Because of this greed, we unconsciously and consciously violate our own rights and of the others. We tend to narrow our perspective, focusing it only for ourselves. However, some people are able to wake up from their long reverie and start thinking and doing the right thing, even if this would hurt their pride but at least they could enjoy the rest of their lives. And some are still bewitched by greed and money, thinking that the world revolves around them until everything they hoped for to not be lost will be gone forever.

There are some selections in the story of Akutagawa Ryunusuke that are worth it to go back to (just like what I do to people). Then, later on, I’ll explain the meaning of these selections and the reason why I picked them.

Literary Luminary #1

Sections/Lines/Quotations/Passages: “As you can imagine, those who had fallen this far had been so worn down by their tortures in the seven other hells that they could no longer had the strength to cry out.”

Meaning: When you’re exposed and experiencing great torture, it seems like your potential energy is fading out. When this happens, do you still even care what level of pain you’re getting and how much does it hurt you? No. there’s none to do but to numb yourself down, all exhausted that you’re not even trying to vent out the pain because it’s pointless.

Reason for the selection: I’m wondering why people are still pushing through in doing evil acts even though we were warned from the very start about the existence of hell. We do bad things in this life and as a sanction, we rot in hell. Do we like it that much that we suffer from great level of misery that we’re screwing our lives knowing that we are to screw ourselves even more after?

Literary Luminary #2

Sections/Lines/Quotations/Passages: Kandata screamed at them, “Listen to me, you sinners! This spider thread is mine! Who said you could climb it? Get off! Get off!”

Meaning: Kandata wanted the spider thread to be just for him. If the other sinners insist on climbing that thread, it will soon snap and all of them including Kandata will fall down. Being pressured and not knowing what to do, he started yelling at the other sinners to get off. He only wanted to be saved.

Reason for the selection: This selection had got me thinking that when we’re too desperate to survive a situation, it’s a natural response of our brain to only think of the ways how we can overcome it and get out of that situation, no matter what the cost is, even if it means abandoning some people and force them to let go.

Japanese literature expresses innumerous components of Japanese people. It expresses their gratitude towards traditions and their sympathy towards nature. Their early literature was greatly influenced by cultural contact with Chinese Literature. But, later on established their literature into a seperate style.

Trust me when I say that I tried my best to make this blog possible although my creativity had abandoned me a few days ago. I just wanted to lay in this bench forever. I’m not even sure what I want in life. What do I want? I want to leave and won’t be found no matter how hard they search for me. I will be wandering around towns and cities. I won’t settle in one place because I dread to be in new places that make my heart to pound hard that I’ll be catching for my breath.

I’ll find a job and resign after 3-4 months, and seek for another job. A waitress in a lowkey restaurant in the countryside or a journalist maybe? It won’t be that easy, I know. I will be meeting potential friends on the way to cure some of my loneliness. Spend quality time with them and when it’s time to go, I’ll walk away again with another ache (a bearable ache), but I have to proceed.

No, I’ll not be running away nor hiding from something. It’s just me being insatiable and fond in experimenting unexplainable things in life. I want to do things I’ve never done before; feel different emotions; even discover new kinds of emotions, if there are. The journey will be lonely, and it has to be that way.

But will I be truly happy if I do all these? Will I ever be contented if I stay here regretting but at least I get to be with my family and other important human beings? Can’t I just be both?

I had enough of this. Things are getting complicated on my mind, so I’m ending this blog with a deep sigh.

[ankhlesbian]

FE Femslash Week 2018: Day 7

Prompt: None

Fandom: Fire Emblem Fates

Ship: Mitama/Soleil

Title: Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue

AO3 Link: Here

Mitama agrees to go on a date with Soleil under one condition: She must first bring her an original poem that meets her standards.

“Mitama! I want to court you!” Soleil declares, pointing dramatically at said teen. Mitama looks up from her writing and stares blankly back at her.

“Pray tell, what would this entail?” Soleil flashes a grin, gesturing emphatically with her hands as she replies.

“I’d bring you flowers and gifts! Homemade pastries, fresh roses, stuffed animals, the whole five yards. I’ll stand wistfully outside your window, reciting heartfelt poetry to make you swoon.” Mitama taps her quill against her lips thoughtfully.

“Poetry, you say? I shall accept your offer, under one condition.” Soleil bursts out into happy cheering before she can finish speaking. Mitama clears her throat. Soleil snaps her mouth closed and mimes locking it shut, throwing the invisible key away behind her shoulder.

“To me you must bring / An original poem / To earn a first date.” She bounces on her toes, saluting eagerly.

“You won’t know what hit you!” She promises, dashing out of Mitama’s room so she can get started. She’s halfway back to her own room when she realizes a major problem with that request. The last time she tried to read a poem to a girl, she had been laughed away and had promptly burnt the cursed thing to ashes. She’s going to need assistance, or Mitama’s going to never want to see her ever again.

“Ophelia!” She wails, knocking on the mage’s door furiously. There’s no response, so she presses her ear against the door to listen for any sign of life. It’s possible Ophelia’s out, but she can always just wait here.

The door swings inwards and Soleil stumbles forward. Ophelia raises an unimpressed eyebrow at her.

“I take it you want something from me?”

It’s kind of embarrassing to be figured out so quickly. Soleil clutches at her chest, eyes filling with sorrow.

“You wound me, dear Ophelia! I can visit my bestest friend whenever I want with no ulterior motives whatsoever.” Ophelia crosses her arms.

“I am always willing to provide my assistance to the less gifted, but I cannot help if you do not tell me what it is you seek.” Soleil sighs.

“Mitama said she’ll date me-”

“Congratulations! You’re pining was becoming insufferable.” Ophelia interrupts, eyes sparkling with mirth. Soleil scowls and elbows her.

“But I need to impress her with a poem first. You like books and scrolls and stuff, yeah? So you can help me write one!” Ophelia purses her lips.

“It is true that my Chosen status blesses me with an unprecedented way with words….” Soleil clasps her hands together and gives Ophelia her best puppy dog-eyes.

“Oh, alright. Stop it with the pathetic look, and let’s get writing!” Soleil hugs her tightly.

Within a few hours, they manage to come up with a draft of a poem. Soleil knew that Mitama liked to write haikus, and Ophelia assured her that they could easily write something that fit that format.

It isn’t even dinner time when they finish. Soleil stares uneasily at the piece of parchment in her hand.

“Do you really think this will work?” Ophelia pats her on the shoulder reassuringly.

“If not, we can just write another one.” Soleil takes a deep breath.

“Alright. I’m off, then.” She leaves before Ophelia can attempt to cast a good luck charm on her. The past few times she did all turned out disastrous.

She finds Mitama lounging near a practice field, her staff resting idly in her lap.

“You completed a poem so quickly?”

“You come up with them on the spot all the time. I may not be as good at them as you, but I’ve got charm and determination to make up for it!”

Mitama gestures for her to begin. Soleil unwraps the scrap of paper that she’d nervously crumbled while searching for Mitama and smooths it out. She can’t bring herself to look Mitama in the eye while reading it, which is really for the better since she doesn’t have the thing memorized.

“It’s a haiku,” she explains before clearing her throat. “Maiden born under heaven’s stars / Healing innocents of ravaged lands from afar-” Mitama whacks her on the head with her staff. The paper flutters to the ground as Soleil clutches the lump on her head pathetically.

“That was not a haiku. And it wasn’t even written by you.” Soleil deflates.

“How’d you know?”

“Vocabulary / Unique to only a few / Among them not you.”

“I consulted Ophelia,” she admits. “I figured she’d be better at writing poems than me. I’m rubbish with artsy stuff like that.”

Mitama stands up, waving her staff as a second thought, healing the bruise she caused.

“Do not overthink this. However, it wasn’t the worst first try I’ve ever seen. Effort expended / A reward to encourage / Future endeavors.”

Soleil cocks her head in confusion. Mitama places her staff under Soleil’s chin and tilts it upwards, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.

“After one that meets my standards, we can get tea. I’m off to bed now. Slumber beckons me forth.” Soleil gapes at her as she leaves. Mitama really does like her back! That just means she needs to step things up in the poem department. She needs to pull out the big-boy tomes. Consult people close to Mitama, and then do something of her own.

This time, she’s going to hunt down Shigure.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

Shigure covers a laugh with his hand when she tells him about Mitama’s challenge.

“You’re her brother,” she continues, undaunted. “Surely you know what she’d like.” He takes a moment to think.

“You could try singing to her. She always tells me that singing is its own form of poetry, and it would show creativity.” Soleil considers it. She’s far from the world’s greatest singer, but maybe Mitama will appreciate her willingness to embarrass herself.

“Do you have a song I could use? I’ll pay you back somehow, I swear.” Shigure smiles softly.

“I know just the thing. And don’t worry.” His smile grows wider, scarily wider. “As long as you make her happy, you don’t need to do a thing.” The aura he’s giving off promises terrible things in her future if she doesn’t. She salutes, too frightened to speak. He turns away to rummage through his desk.

“Here. I sung this to her all the time before bed when we were children.” Soleil takes it and examines it closely. Theoretically, she knows how to read sheet music. She can make this work.

The next morning, Soleil heads to Mitama’s room bright and early. It’s easy to get up early when you didn’t sleep. She’d spent all night practicing, and needs to perform before she forgets it all. She rounds the final corner only to trip, her face smashing right into the stone ground. Her hands come away from her nose streaked with red, which she immediately tries to rub off on her pants.

“I am awakened / Fortuitous accident / Good morning to you.”

The thing she tripped over was Mitama, who mumbled out her haiku while still curled up on the ground. Soleil turns to face her. This is her chance.

“I hope you’re ready for this. Listen up!” She doesn’t have paper to stare at this time, so she focuses on the wall behind where Mitama’s sprawled. She’s sure her voice is out of tune, she knows she can’t keep up the rhythm of the song, but she gives it her best shot. When she finishes, her voice is dry and raspy from the effort.

“How was that one? Mitama?” She looks back at her and…. She’s asleep. “Mitama!” The only response is a snore. Soleil sweatdrops. Well, that was a bust. She wipes the remaining blood from her nose and pokes at it, glad it’s not broken, then sits in silence, just watching Mitama. It dawns on her that this is probably a little creepy.

She gets to her feet, ready to go crash herself, but something stops her. Mitama’s still in the clothes she saw her in yesterday, meaning she’s probably been here since before dinner. Even though Mitama can sleep anywhere, the floor can’t be comfortable.

Soleil crouches down and hooks one arm under Mitama’s knees, the other around her shoulders, and lifts. She staggers the last few steps to Mitama’s room, but the bridal-carry doesn’t leave her hands free for door-opening. Instead, she kicks the thankfully unlocked door open. There’s some clutter on the floor, including, bizarrely, a couple of swords.

She makers her way to Mitama’s bed and sets her down gently. She pulls up the sheets to Mitama’s chin and combs her hair out of her face before withdrawing. She’s already turned away when a hand grasps at her shirt. Mitama’s looking at her blearily through one eye.

“I give you my thanks / A lullaby so peaceful / Made sleep’s grip too strong.” Soleil feels her lips turn upwards. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about her singing. She takes Mitama’s hand in hers, and she knows exactly what move to make to charm the pants off Mitama right now. She kisses the back of Mitama’s hand before returning it to the bed, and then leans over her to kiss her forehead.

“Next time I’ll have one that keeps you wide awake,” she promises before taking her leave. She’s ready to crash too, but she’ll do that in her own bed.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

She spends the next few days trying to think of a poem that Mitama’ll like, that expresses how she feels about it. She doesn’t know if there’s any words out there that can capture that, but she has to try something.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. She loves her dad, she really does, but he’s not the best at wooing ladies. But, he did manage to win over her mom, so he must have some wisdom to impart.

He nods sagely as she explains.

“You need to do this yourself.” She goes to interrupt, and he holds up a hand to stop her. “You’re my darling daughter. I’d listen to you even if you were talking about the most boring topic on the earth. It’s the same principle. She just wants to hear something from your heart, even if it isn’t a top quality poem.” It makes perfect sense.

“You’re the best!” She latches onto him for a hug. He returns it fondly.

“Anytime, sweetheart. Now go make Daddy proud!” He flashes her a grin and a thumbs up.

She doesn’t bother with paper this time, and heads straight for Mitama’s room.

She knocks on the door boldly, standing at her full (unimpressive) height.

Mitama opens it and smiles. Her hair is sticking everywhere, like she was just napping. The sight makes Soleil’s heart weak.

“My hair is pink / Your hair is blue / I’m crap at poems / But I like you / Let’s go on a date / It’ll be great! / We can drink tea / Just you and me.” She goes silent. Mitama lights up, eyes sparkling, and claps.

“Absolutely delightful! A poem so heartfelt / I cannot help but agree / We should be girlfriends.” Soleil grabs her hands and squeezes them tightly.

“I can’t believe that worked,” she confesses. Mitama swings their hands between them.

“I will admit to mostly wanting to see you splutter.” Soleil fakes a scowl.

“Rude!”

“You’re awfully cute when you blush.” Soleil goes red.

“Ah, yes. Just like that. Now, what were you saying about tea?”

Soleil knows the perfect place, in a town not too far from their base’s current exit portal.

“They’ve got an open floor for poetry and fiction reading tonight.”

“Then let us make haste.”

Soleil turns to lead the way, tugging Mitama’s hands along with her. It’s going to be the best first date ever.

#fefemslashweek #mitama (fe) #mitama #soleil #soleil (fe) #soleil/mitama #mitama/soleil #it writes

[arinsaffron]

Eurydice

You all know the story of Eurydice and Orpheus, right? 

If you don’t, I’ll give you a summary. Basically, Orpheus was considered one of the best poets and musicians of Ancient Greece. He used to play the lyre, which made Eurydice fall in love with him. The day of their wedding, she got bit by a snake and died. Orpheus went to the Underworld to rescue her, and Hades let him take her soul back to the Living World, the only condition was not to look back. Orpheus, obviously, looked back at her and thus, Eurydice was taken back to the Underworld. That’s the story we know, that’s what mythology says.

But then feminism made its appeareance. 

Carol Ann Duffy published a book in 1999, called The World’s Wife, in which she tells the stories of women of history from their own point of view. It includes "Little Red Cap", "Thetis", "Queen Herod", "Mrs Midas", "Anne Hathaway" and many others; including Eurydice. 

Now, listen. This poem is a masterpiece, in my opinion, and here’s why. 

It starts by saying: 

Girls, I was dead and down in the Underworld, a shade, a shadow of my former self, nowhen. It was a place where language stopped, a black full stop, a black hole Where the words had to come to an end. And end they did there, last words, famous or not. It suited me down to the ground.

With that “girls” it’s clearly stated that this poem was made for women. It doesn’t matter if it’s the readers, or the other women included in the book. Eurydice says she’s already dead and lives where “the words had come to an end”, as a reference to Orpheus and his damn poetry.

So imagine me there, unavailable, out of this world, then picture my face in that place of Eternal Repose, in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe from the kind of a man who follows her round writing poems, hovers about while she reads them, calls her His Muse, and once sulked for a night and a day because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns. Just picture my face when I heard - Ye Gods - a familiar knock-knock at Death’s door.

Eurydice is “in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe”. So Eurydice is, literally, resting in peace, away from the dude who writes poetry and shows off about it. 

Orpheus called her “His Muse”, with capital letters. She doesn’t have a name of her own anymore other than His Muse. 

The dude who once threw a tantrum because Eurydice pointed out that his rhymes were weak has shown up at the Underwold.

Him. Big O. Larger than life. With his lyre and a poem to pitch, with me as the prize.

The funny thing here is that “Big O” is an eufemism for a female orgasm. Go figure. 

And of course, Orpheus is there to retrieve His Muse by doing the only thing he’s good at; singing and playing the lyre.

Things were different back then. For the men, verse-wise, Big O was the boy. Legendary. The blurb on the back of his books claimed that animals, aardvark to zebra, flocked to his side when he sang, fish leapt in their shoals at the sound of his voice, even the mute, sullen stones at his feet wept wee, silver tears.

Eurydice says that “things were different back then”, but in the next stanza we’ll find out they remain the same until today. The gods loved Orpheus, and his poetry was so moving, even the rocks would cry.

The line “aardvark to zebra” is so pleasant; the animals picked for this symbolize all of the animals, from A to Z. 

Bollocks. (I’d done all the typing myself, I should know.) And given my time all over again, rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess etc., etc.

“Bollocks.” What are you? British? (Scottish, mind you.)

“I’d done all the typing myself” implies that Eurydice had been dragged into this artistic world unwillingly, and she’s not having it. She’d rather speak for herself, have her own name and voice, instead of an epithet. 

(Dark Lady was the epithet used by Shakespeare. Although, Anne Hathaway differs from Eurydice.)

In fact girls, I’d rather be dead.

AND SHE IS. But Orpheus can’t leave her the fuck alone. 

But the Gods are like publishers, usually male, and what you doubtless know of my tale is the deal.

Here we have it, the connection to one of the previous stanzas, more especifically to the “things were different back then” line. Because “Gods are like publishers, usually male.” There’s so much to say about this, I don’t even know where to start. 

We’ve already stablished that Orpheus was a poet, possibly the greatest poet in Ancient Greece. And if we look back at mythology, it’s said that Eurydice fell in love with him because of this poetry. Therefore, we can deduce that his writings were mostly about love, passion; the Ἔρως, if you will.

But even if the subject of his writings shall remain a mystery, what we do know is that women often had to change their names and publish their books under a male/androgynous pen name because publishers think that a book written by a woman is not gonna be succesful. Even if men often write cheesier stuff than women, but that’s another story.

Orpheus strutted his stuff.

And oh, did they gods like it. 

The bloodless ghosts were in tears. Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years. Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers. The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears.

Sisyphus was punished by Zeus to push a stone uphill for all eternity, and Tantalus was punished by staying inside a lake, with fruits and food close to him, but he would never be able to eat any of them. And even they took a break from their punishments to listen to Orpheus’ poem. And they’re all so stunned by him, they don’t even bother asking Eurydice if she wants to go with him or not.

Like it or not, I must follow him back to our life - Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife - to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes, octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets, elegies, limericks, villanelles, histories, myths…

Yeah, Eurydice isn’t happy, but the gods decided for her, so  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

She’s nothing else than a literary figure for Orpheus, and after his writer’s block, he’s decided to go save her from the Underworld. 

He’d been told that he mustn’t look back or turn round, but walk steadily upwards, myself right behind him, out of the Underworld into the upper air that for me was the past. He’d been warned that one look would lose me for ever and ever. So we walked, we walked. Nobody talked.

And of course Orpheus, after his performance, now isn’t gonna even ask Eurydice how she’s doing. At all. 

Talk about keeping the appeareances. 

Girls, forget what you’ve read. It happened like this - I did everything in my power to make him look back. What did I have to do, I said, to make him see we were through? I was dead. Deceased. I was Resting in Peace. Passé. Late. Past my sell-by date… I stretched out my hand to touch him once on the back of the neck. Please let me stay. But already the light had saddened from purple to grey.

Again, the “girls” reminds us that Eurydice is talking to a group of girls, setting the record straight. 

She was dead, why couldn’t he leave her alone? And she’s willing to do anything to make him look back. 

It was an uphill schlep from death to life and with every step I willed him to turn. I was thinking of filching the poem out of his cloak, when inspiration finally struck. I stopped, thrilled. He was a yard in front. My voice shook when I spoke - “Orpheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again… “

The “when inspiration finally struck” makes reference to Orpheus’ quality as a writer. Women are also capable of getting inspired. And what she did was tease his ego to make him look back...

He was smiling modestly, when he turned, when he turned and he looked at me. What else? I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I waved once and was gone.

...and it worked! Eurydice went back to the Underworld, just like she wanted.

The dead are so talented. The living walk by the edge of a vast lake near, the wise, drowned silence of the dead.

The dead are talented, yes, even more than the living, who “walk by the edge of a vast lake”, meaning the living are always close to death. 

The “wise, drowned slience of the dead” implies that Orpheus’ poems are of no significance, since only death brings true peace and wisdom. 

#eurydice #carol ann duffy #feminism #poetry #feminist poetry #women #the world's wife #orpheus #mythology #literature #analysis #hades #greek #ancient greek #ancient greek mythology #ovidius #art #english #scottish #authors #books #reading

[rizuno]

Write me a ficlet about Stiles finding random love poems/notes written on little scraps of paper stuffed in weird places, like between the seats in the Jeep, in the pockets of hoodie he swore he just washed so how could there be intact paper in there, in his shoes, under his pillow. Who is writing all these notes and how do they keep randomly appearing on Stiles person!?!?!

This is unbeta-d, and I am subjecting you dear reader(s?) to poetry written by me masquerading as English!Major Derek Hale. BASICALLY I’m SORRY ABOUT THE CRAP POETRY OK. also im really fuckin pissed off about the spacing of the poems but tumblr is adamant about pretending to not know what the fuck im trying to do when i try and reformat it i need to stop before i just delete this whole post in a fit of RAGE

For RachelBBY

Scraps

The first time it happens, Stiles doesn’t think anything of it. He figures he just wrote it himself in English and then forgot. It’s just a neglected scrap of paper hiding amidst other papers under his desk, sacrificed on the altar of a weekly allowance with everything else he throws out as he cleans his room. He only really glanced at it anyway, he was preoccupied with being pissed off at Derek for being Derek, thinks it said something about heartbeats and irregular spaces. So that was the incident, he supposes.

The second time he’s got his hand stuffed in the crease of Roscoe’s passenger seat in a desperate search for just one fucking quarter, just one, and withdraws a crumpled piece of paper instead. “How long has that been there?” Stiles asks himself as he de-crumples it to read it. He snorts. Obviously quite a while, it’s a poem, and Stiles knows he didn’t write this one, which means it’s circa the Scott/Allison Era.

you laughed

it was Tuesday

you didn’t know I was there

“Not half bad Scotty,” Stiles murmurs, not bothering to finish the rest of it as he tosses it aside and resumes the quest for one measly quarter cause he just wants a burger. Out of life, all he wants is to eat a burger right now. It’s not so much to ask? Right?

He bitches and moans to Scott about his inability to find a quarter and thus eat a burger, but forgets to ask him about the poem thing. The next time he sees Derek, Derek flips him a quarter with a smirk. “Oh, fuck you,” Stiles says, but pockets the quarter and eats him that fucking burger later that night, after they have all managed, miraculously, to not die. “Victory comes in all forms,” Stiles informs Scott sagely in between mouthfuls. So that’s the coincidence, in all its glory.

The third time has Stiles paying the fuck attention, because he’s digging around his back pocket for the quarter Derek gave him, and just as he remembers he spent it already, his fingers close around what must be a receipt. Stiles heaves a grunt of disgust, no curly fries for him then, and glances at the scrap of paper uninterestedly, out of habit, as his arm moves to toss it into the trashcan across the hall. And then he freezes. It’s not some forgotten transaction, it’s a fucking poem. What the fuck. Stiles unfolds the paper and reads the words in their entirety this time, standing in the middle of the hallway as other students stream around him as they head to class. It’s not very long, but it feels like Stiles takes several hours to read it. He reads it like it was meant for him. It must be? Right?

I think

you don’t think of me

all that often

but I think of you

quite often

I’m thinking of you now

I think of you in the morning

I think of you in my bed

at night

I wonder

if you’re thinking of me now

Stiles swallows. His mouth has gone dry. He feels like he just walked in on someone watching some really hot porn. He feels…intimate. He feels…like he’s now late for science. Stiles whirls around in a flail of limbs and pelts to the science lab. But that scrap of paper he doesn’t toss aside. That scrap he keeps. So there’s the pattern.

Stiles was sorta expecting the next one but he wasn’t prepared to find it lying on his keyboard; not there when he went downstairs to grab a soda and now there when he returns.

He tells himself his fingers are shaking with caffeine intake as he reaches out to unfold it, where it lays so innocuously.

He licks his lips, then reads.

I know you’re thinking of me now

will you think of me tonight

in your bed

with your own hands upon yourself

gasping

flushed

and undone

“Ffffuck,” Stiles hisses out between his teeth. There is no way he’s gonna make it to tonight. He’s got a really great jerk off session going, standing there right in front of his desk at 3:30 in the afternoon, pants only pulled down the bare minimum. He’s like feeling it, he is totally ready for this, ‘makes his knees weak’ orgasm he’s coming up on. And then of course, Scotty has to burst in freaking out about supernatural crisis 3B or 6A or whatever number letter combo they’re on now.

“Come on, man!” They both yell at the same time, Scott throwing up his arms and facing the wall as Stiles fumbles to stuff himself back inside his pants. Scott feels the need to ask why. Stiles rants that it’s the privacy of his own fucking room. Scott mutters something about how Derek thinks they need info. “Since when do you listen to what Derek thinks,” Stiles says petulantly as he tosses Scott a bag of Doritos and moves to sit back at his desk. Scott eats the chips on Stiles’ bed as Stiles furiously looks up shit to the best of his ability. The moment is already forgotten. That sort of awkwardness has happened before, and will probably happen again. Which come on Scott, werewolf, use those supernatural senses for once.  After Scott is gone Stiles wonders what four times means. Also he mourns the loss of one of the greatest orgasms he never got to experience.

He finds the next one two nights later, under his pillow as he stretches out on his bed. He’s so relaxed and he’s in bed at a decent hour. Derek did not manage to piss him off when they came across each other briefly earlier in the evening and Stiles is ready for some nappy naps. When his fingers brush the edge of the crinkled bit of paper the first feeling he gets is surprise. It’s quickly followed by a quick dip of excitement in his gut. He doesn’t bother to switch any lights on. Too much effort. He reads it by the light of his phone.

I whisper your name to myself

after you’ve left

it’s fairly pathetic

but then last week

you trapped yourself inside your own hoodie

so at least I’m not alone

And Stiles knows. “Derek,” Stiles whispers furiously. He chucks the paper as hard as he can away from him. Which, it being paper, isn’t that far. It flutters down to rest on the bed beside him. That fucking asshole has been laughing at him this whole fucking time. So that’s what comes after a pattern. Epic fuckery.

Stiles sees Derek first thing the next morning; he’s having like, a pre-game huddle with the Erica-Isaac-Boyd triumvirate in the back parking lot behind the gym. “Stiles,” Derek greets him, the hint of a smile on his lips. “You are pathetic,” Stiles snarls at him. Derek’s jaw clenches and his expression turns cold and distant. Stiles whirls around and marches off in righteous fury. Stiles has enough fucking going on in his life without that kind of shit. Stiles thought, he’d thought…it doesn’t even matter what he thought. He was stupid and a dumbass for thinking it.

So naturally he finds the next poem sandwiched in between the pages of this month’s Great English Novel during 3rd period of that day. Stiles isn’t sure when or even how Derek got it in there, but it certainly wasn’t after this morning. He almost doesn’t read it, doesn’t want to give Derek the satisfaction, but he’s Stiles. He must fucking know. He can’t not.

I dreamed of you

it was warm

and bright

and we were safe

you took my hand

and my heart blazed brighter

when I woke

I pretended that it was the future

and if I am patient

that it will be

any day now

“What,” Stiles whispers. His own heart is sinking fast within his chest. His hand clenches down on the poem. “It was all real,” He realizes out loud.

“What?” Scott whispers from the seat behind him.

Stiles whips around in his seat to face him. “Cover for me,” Stiles begs.

Scott doesn’t know what’s going on, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Go,” he says.

Stiles slips from the room, so preoccupied he doesn’t notice that he doesn’t trip or smack into something once.

Derek won’t be at his apartment. Instinctively, Stiles knows this. He jumps in Roscoe and heads straight for the preserve.

The burned out husk of the Hale house looks as tragic and decimating as ever, but that feeling is especially poignant for Stiles at this moment. He gives Roscoe’s wheel one last squeeze, for luck or bravery or whatever, and steps out of the jeep. He tries to repress a shiver as he looks at the charred and broken edifice before him and fails. This had seemed so much simpler, less complicated back in 3rd period. No, Stiles can do this, he absolutely can. He leaps up what’s left of the front steps and barges through the door. “Derek,” he calls.

A few moments of silence, and then a resigned sigh. “What?” Derek asks, voice flat as he materializes out of wherever he was.

Stiles waves the hand that has not once unclenched on the poem in Derek’s general direction.

“You’re serious?” He accuses.

Derek’s stone face takes on a look of frustration. “Yes, Stiles, I’m serious.”

“I…I mean…why?”

Derek sighs like it’s obvious. “I wrote you poems Stiles.”

Stiles seizes upon a detail he has the mental facilities to deal with at this moment. “Why poems though?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m an English Major, Stiles.” Which rude because, like,

“How was I supposed to know that,” Stiles says defensively.

They stand in silence. Derek doesn’t seem inclined to word anymore today and Stiles is furiously thinking.

“You wanna,” and his left hand, the one not still grasping the poem, makes an abortive movement towards Derek, “hold hands?”

After a moment, Derek uncrosses his arms and says, “Okay.” He reaches out, and then they’re holding hands, bridging a gap between them. It’s kind of…awkward. But it’s only awkward in that Stiles suspects feelings are present kind of way, because Derek’s thumb strokes gently along the back of his hand and Stiles feels kinda like, heart blazing or whatever.

“I think of you pretty often,” Stiles admits. “Like, a lot.”

Derek swallows. “Okay.”

BONUS:

First Poem

your heartbeats are

irregular spaces

I dwell there

and refuse to meet your eyes

when you glance my way

Second Poem

you laughed

it was Tuesday

you didn’t know I was there

I have kept it

for myself; that laugh

longing

for your real

and intransigent

presence

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #ficlet #drabble #fanfic #FOR RACHELBBY

[literary-lion]

Cyndy Etler is an astounding writer, and I am honoured to have her guest post on my blog. You can read my reviews of her first book The Dead Inside here, and my review of her newest book We Can’t Be Friends here. I highly recommend reading Cyndy’s story, it’s raw, powerful and an important insight into the sorts of places that claim to fix “bad” kids. You can purchase her books at the following links  The Dead Inside: A True Story & We Can't Be Friends: A True Story.

Books That Shaped Me as a Human and an Author Cyndy Etler

I was a lucky kid. Instead of family and friends, I had books and good English teachers. That one-two punch got me where I am today: living my dream as a bestselling author, with two memoirs published and a third in the works. The books that shaped me are thick and thin, highbrow and low, common and un. I’m thrilled to introduce a few of them; to tell you their stories.

J.T. by Jane Wagner is about a young kid growing up in a crap neighborhood. He’s poor, but he’s dying for that shiny transistor radio, the one winking at him from the convertible parked at the curb. He wants it so bad, without thinking, he grabs it before the sketchy older boys can. And man, does that music feed his starving soul. But the one-eyed starving cat he finds in the corner junk lot feeds it more richly. J.T. leaves that precious radio with the cat, to keep it company. I can’t tell you more, ‘cause I’m crying.

This book speaks to me on some deeper-than-words level. Minus the kind-but-stern black mother and the open-arm grandma, J.T. is me as a child. And, kind of, as an adult. A little stupid-impulsive, but always with pure intentions. Swooning over music and animals, but not so much over humans. Appreciating stuff that others consider trash, and building miracles out of it. If you cut open my chest, you’ll find a copy of J.T. in the spot where a heart should be.

Nine Stories by J.D. Salinger is…well, it’s nine stories by J.D. Salinger. How can you go wrong? It’s also brilliant, timeless satire. Published 53 years ago, the writing, to this day, nails the snot and smug of the Connecticut blueblood. Which is maybe why I love it. You grow up as a free-lunch, beat-up, hand-me-down kid surrounded by wealthies, you get a little bitter. You grow up in Connecticut, surrounded by the Great Dry Wit, you get a little droll. This book feeds my many appetites.

But the book did more than entertain me, as I read and reread it in my teens. It also…wormed into me. Shaped me. Taught me to write without a mental scold.

There are elements of my writing, see, that give some folks pause. I cuss with abandon. I write words that aren’t words, they’re sounds. I write dialogue that’s too casual—no he said, she said tags; no adverbs. Before flipping through Nine Stories today, I couldn’t tell you why I thought all of that was okay. But a glance at a yellowed page gives me lines like, “What’s the usea talking?” and “For Chrissake! Listen, I’ll be shaving—listen to this—I’ll be shaving, and all of a sudden she’ll call me from way the hell the other end of the apartment.” Rude lines. Ballsy lines. Lines that sound like the people I’ve known and want to meet. And they’re perfect. They’re poetry. They gave me permission, decades back, to write, rather than rule-follow. For that, I am desperately grateful.

Rogets II: The New Thesaurus weighs about 20 pounds, hardcover. Yet I lugged it off to college, and have lugged it ever since. It’s my Wonka’s Golden Ticket. It’s my pulpy vote of confidence. It’s tangible proof that someone loved me as a kid, and more important, that someone believed I could be an author. My Aunt Jane is no longer alive. She died before I published my first book. But her fingerprints are all over that book, and every one I’ve written since.

When I went to college, at age 18, I didn’t have the stones to major in writing. The dream was too big. But Aunt Jane didn’t believe in “too big.” She sent me that thesaurus and a $20 dollar bill, and it felt like a nudge on a rowboat. It took me 20 years of rowing, but I got here. I got to the dream.

The thesaurus I actually use, now, has a www. in front of it. It brings up my perfect word, lickety-split. But Aunt Jane didn’t give me that thesaurus to help me find words. She gave it to me to help me find my voice. 

There are a zillion, trillion other books that have been my blood, my family. Rule of the Bone by Russell Banks. Muchacho by LouAnne Johnson. "The Rape of the Lock" by Alexander Pope. Zeitoun by Dave Eggers. The Panopticon by Jenni Fagan. The entire Sweet Valley High series by Francine Pascal. These books offered connection when I felt alone in the world. It is my greatest hope that my own books, The Dead Inside and We Can’t Be Friends, can be that same lifeline for isolated teens today. 

Cyndy Etler is the author of young adult memoirs The Dead Inside and We Can’t Be Friends (Sourcebooks Fire). Her books take readers into her sixteen months in Straight Inc., a teen treatment program the ACLU called “a concentration camp for throwaway teens,” and then back to her druggie high school, packed with dangerous jockos and cheerleaders.

[libraryoferana]

Name: Blaze Ward

What attracts you to the genre in which you write?

I mostly write SF these days, but I have been into role-playing-games since I got my first Blue Book (bonus points if you are old enough to know what that is. Double bonus if you still have yours, like I do.) When I turned to professional writing again, I mined a bunch of old campaigns for ideas.

For The Forestal, however, I went back to the really dark, heavy, angry poetry that saved my sanity. These pieces weren’t originally written to be published in this format, but when my Publisher asked about them, I spent some time culling the larger library to assemble these pieces. Even today, I’m amazed at how well the long arc comes together, after wandering. Mind you, I wrote all these over the course of several years, with a number of other pieces that were unrelated.

It is epic and apocalyptic. It fit my mood then, and I’m glad I did it.

What piece of writing advice do you wish you’d known when you started your writing adventures?

“Fuck ‘em. They don’t matter. Just write the damned thing and put it out there for everyone to find. Fans will find you.”

If you could have dinner with any famous person or character who would you choose?

E.E. “Doc” Smith. I have always been a huge fan of his, collecting (as near as I can figure) everything he ever published, going well beyond Lensman and Skylark and down into even some mysteries.

Who has been the greatest influence on your own work?

Doc Smith, David Drake, and Arial & Will Durant.

Do you think the e-book revolution will do away with print?

Nope. Just make it possible for me to connect with fans anywhere on the planet. I just sent a note to another writer asking when one of his ebook-only titles was coming out in print (and offering to do it for him) so I could put it on my shelf with all the rest of his titles.

Which 3 books would you take to a desert island and why?

Fagles’s translation of The Iliad; Dash Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon; David Reynold’s Reflections on the Tao Te Ching.

Author bio and book synopsis

Please introduce yourself (250 words or so):

I like grand SF in big universes, but centered on the characters doing things, rather than the technobabble device magical MacGuffin thingee that saves the day with some hand-waving. I write whatever the voices in my head tell me, but the result is a wide swath of cultures and ethnicities exploring the future in a realistic way, without Chosen Ones or epic prophesies (snore).

I like strong, intelligent women, both in my fiction and my real life, and so I tend to write them.

My biggest problem these days with SF is that I once spent three hours crawling the SF/Fantasy shelves at Powell’s Books in Beaverton, Oregon and could not find a single book that looked interesting enough for me to buy it. So I had to go write it instead.  I’m okay with doing that for the rest of my career.

Tell us about your book(s) – title, genre etc (short)

The Forestal (Fantary, Poetry)

A long poetry ring, best spoken aloud. (Think Homer’s Odyssey). A dark, epic tale about anger, betrayal, destruction, and the rebirth of the world. I have never encountered anything else like it, in the modern era, but I’m sure others are writing this stuff.

This was rage, distilled. A tale of a journey through deserts and wastelands, before we end up in the darkest forest, moments before the end of the world.

Links

Social media

www.blazeward.com

https://www.facebook.com/KRPBlaze

https://www.amazon.com/Blaze-Ward/e/B00K3X2VFQ/

Heroic Tales

  BundleRabbit https://bundlerabbit.com/b/heroic-tales

Kobo https://www.kobo.com/gb/en/ebook/heroic-tales

Barnes and Noble http://bit.ly/2u33Tfd

I books https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1257100962

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B073T45HYB/

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B073T45HYB/

              Swift Six – Blaze Ward – #Fantasy #Scifi #HeroicTales #Meetanauthor Name: Blaze Ward What attracts you to the genre in which you write? I mostly write SF these days, but I have been into role-playing-games since I got my first Blue Book (bonus points if you are old enough to know what that is.

#Author interviews #book bundles #Bundlerabbit #Fantasy #Heroic Tales Bundle #Meet an author #Science fiction #Swift Six

[tanmath3-blog]

I’m going to start this interview off a little differently by using an excerpt from his new book. Please welcome R. Patrick Gates to Roadie Notes…..

  One fine day in the middle of the night,

Two dead boys got up to fight.

Back to back they faced each other,

Drew their swords and shot each other.

A deaf policeman heard the noise,

And came and killed the two dead boys.…

The empty airwaves of the mind…

Welcome to TunnelVision – the premium channel streaming from the imagination of R. Patrick Gates to you!

What happens when you lose sight of the forest for the trees?

TunnelVision!

Wilbur Clayton has a personal connection with Jesus – Murder! Abused for most of his life, Wilbur and Jesus are out to make amends and take revenge. With Grandma in his head and Jesus on the TunnelVision, Wilbur knows what must be done and who must be made to pay for the sins of the father…

The only thing standing in his way are a cop with a gift for details and deduction, and a young genius whose reenactments of his favorite books are about to become all too real.

TunnelVision – streaming seven days a week, 24 hours a day!

On the air and in your nightmares!

      1. How old were you when you wrote your first story?

I was seven years old. Every Monday afternoon I had to go to catechism class after school. Leading up to Christmas that year, catechism had a story writing contest. The story had to be about Christmas and its true meaning. I wrote a story about a drug addict who’s addicted to LSD (shows how much I knew about drugs at seven years old) who takes acid and experiences the Nativity and sees God, basically. Afterwards, he finds out that the pusher who sold him the acid was really selling placebos – just sugar pills. I won first place, and the prize was, I think, my very own rosary.

2. How many books have you written?

At present count, I have written 10 adult horror novels (FEAR, GRIMM MEMORIALS, GRIMM REAPINGS, TUNNELVISION, DEATHWALKER,JUMPERS,THE PRISON, ‘VADERS, NOWHERETOHIDE, and SAVAGE), seven young adult horror/mystery novels, of which four (MYSTERY HILL, GUARDIANS, GHOSTLAND and CANDY STRIPES) have been published so far in the U.S.– all were originally published only in Germany and in the German language; the rest will be coming out this year and next in the U.S. In the works is a collection of my poetry and short stories (called DARK STREETS & FUNNY BONES) plus sequels to at least four of my novels. I’m also working on a very long fantasy novel, THE SECRET WAR, you know, the kind that appeals to children ages 8 to 80. I have also produced two children’s picture books. The first, ROLLERCOASTER WORLD, I wrote with my son when he was seven years old (he’s 27 now). We had gone to an amusement park and afterwards riding home he had mused aloud, “I wonder what it would be like if the whole world was made up of roller coasters.” It was just such a great idea I couldn’t forget it. We created the book and self-published it, and gave it as Christmas presents for several years to my son’s cousins. Then a couple of years ago, around Halloween, I was talking with my step-grandkids about how much they loved Halloween, and we came up with the idea of, HALLOWEEN WORLD, and created a book which we self-published and gave as gifts. We are now working on anotherWORLD book entitled, NINJA WORLD. All of my books, including the children’s picture books, are available as Kindle editions at Amazon. The original paperback editions of all my adult novels (except SAVAGE) are available from Amazon and most on-line bookstores, and everything else is exclusively on Amazon Kindle. Handmade editions of the children’s books are available, and can be ordered through my Facebook page by leaving me a post or a personal message at Facebook/R. Patrick Gates.

3. Is there anything you won’t write about?

No, I don’t think there is. I’ve written in just about every genre there is (I’ve been working on a romance novel for several years) and there is no subject that I would find taboo. Of course I would never glorify despicable behavior even while I try to make such a character sympathetic.

4.Tell me about you.

I have been a published author since 1989; and have been writing since I was a boy. Very early on I was labeled a ‘splatter-punk’ writer which is a style of horror generally credited to Clive Barker. I took great offense at that because I was writing what they called ‘splatter’ (graphic horror) long before Barker ever came along. If I’m not mistaken I was one the very first to push the limits of horror by injecting ultra-realistic gore, sex, and violence into my stories. Now, I am 62 years old. I was a middle school language arts teacher for 20 years, and a college Creative Writing Professor for 11 years. I presently work part-time as a Standardized Patient Examiner at UMASS Medical School, which entails teaching medical students how to communicate better with patients. I’m also a Bob Dylan tribute performer on guitar and harmonica. I’ve been in numerous musical groups since I was a teenager, and I’ve written close to one hundred songs that have never seen publication or recording, but hopefully that will change in the near future.

5. What’s your favorite book that you have written?

My favorite book is my most recent one, SAVAGE. It was the hardest book I ever wrote because it reflected a personal tragedy in my life, and was very cathartic for me. A very close second, however, are, GRIMM MEMORIALS, and its sequel, GRIMM REAPINGS, and my novel, THE PRISON.

6. Who or what inspired you to write?

So many people and books/writers. My mom, my sister, Mary; a teacher, Mrs. Risley, and just about every writer I’ve ever read, but most of all Edgar Allen Poe. My mom was probably my biggest inspiration, and the biggest reason I ended up writing horror. I grew up in a haunted house, my mother was psychic and discovered the place was haunted, like the second day after we moved in. She personally exorcised the house and got rid of the ghost, or at least got it to stop scaring her. I grew up hearing this story many, many times. I also had many experiences – ghostly experiences – in that house, as did my son. Also, when I was a boy I was an avid reader, and I was in the habit of acting out the books I read. When I was 12, I was very much into the books of Mark Twain, and after reading Tom Sawyer and then Huckleberry Finn, I convinced my little brother and his best friend to sneak out of the house at midnight to go dig for buried treasure in a cemetery. Then we were going to build a raft and sail it down the polluted Nashua River and have adventures. My mother caught us trying to sneak out (she thought I was the ghost come back) and when I told her what I was doing she suggested that instead of acting out my fantasies I write them down like the authors that I loved to read. I had been dabbling in writing before that (like with the short story for catechism class) but I’d never really considered writing something as substantial as a novel. That same year, the day after Christmas, I was in a terrible sledding accident and suffered a severe head injury/concussion. I had partial amnesia for three days, but the event changed me—made me more creative and, I think, smarter. It also gave me an extraordinary memory.Early on in my life my sister, Mary, inspired me by buying me my first book when I was, I believe, five years old. She was 10 years older than I was and when I was born she became like my second mother. She taught me to read when I was three years old. By the time I was starting school I was reading books at the fifth, sixth grade level. She bought me the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe, a large tome that I still have. I read that book voraciously. I remember now I hardly understood half of what I read, and had to have a dictionary nearby at all times, but it was the style and the tone and the mood that grabbed me. Then when I was in high school I had a teacher, Mrs. Risley, who inspired me further. Every Friday she would display a surrealistic or abstract painting at the front of the room, put on some weird electronic or Indian music, and tell us to write about what we saw in the painting. Man, I just ate that up! It was the greatest writing exercise I have ever had!

7. What do you like to do for fun?

My wife and I like to hike, play tennis, dance, ski, and hang out with our grandkids. I play the guitar and perform as a Dylan tribute artist, and also paint and sculpt. I love movies and going to the movies.

8. Any traditions you do when you finish a book?

No.

9. Where do you write?

I generally write in my home office, but I usually take a notebook with me, like to work, or if I’m going out and I think I might have free time on a long drive, say. I write in the notebook whenever I can. I’m a constant and prolific note writer, and I write all my stuff in longhand to start with, and then transcribe it into the computer. I like to have the tv on in the background—creates a white noise effect—and usually only listen to music when I’m painting.

10. Is there anything you would change about your writing?

Yes, I would make it more lucrative and popular! I’m rewriting nearly all of my novels as they are being republished – some more so than others. I find that with some of my earlier works, they need editing, so I’m glad that I have the chance to do that. Like with, TUNNELVISION, I did a lot of polishing and editing. Most of my novels were written before the advent of cell phones and smart phones and handheld devices so I’ve tried to update and work those things in to make them more current.

11. What is your dream? Famous writer?

I’ve never had a desire to be famous, though I have always wanted to be able to make enough money from my writing to support myself. My dream is to work with my son, who is a director trained at Cal Arts, to turn all of my novels into movies or TV miniseries. We are presently in the screenplay writing stage for a couple. All we need is financial backing.

12. Where do you live?

I live in Massachusetts.

13. Pets?

Two dogs, Polly and Sad-Eyed Sadie of the Low Lands.

14. What’s your favorite thing about writing?

My first love, and first choice for a career, was acting. Second was music, third was art, and fourth was writing. As I got older, in high school and college,I realized that if you really want to be successful as an actor, you have to live in either New York or Los Angeles – or at least a major city, not the sticks of north-central Massachusetts where I lived and still do. I didn’t have the confidence, or the courage I guess, to move and pursue acting. But then, I realized that a writer IS an actor because you have to become your characters in order to make them believable. I generally act out all of the scenes and dialogue in my books, even if only in my head. I think the best way to describe how I feel about writing is that I agree with what Dorothy Parker once said: “I hate writing, but I love having written.” I love the idea that someone I don’t know and have never met is reading a story that I created. I think that’s pretty cool.

15. What is coming next?

I presently have many irons in the fire. I’m rewriting the second book in the TUNNELVISION trilogy, DEATHWALKER, getting it ready for republication from Bloodshot Books, and writing the third, a new one,AND LITTLE LAMBS EAT IVY. I’m also working on the third book in my, GRIMM MEMROIALSsaga and working on readying all my other novels for reprint as I mentioned earlier. I’m working on a rewrite and sequel of my first novel,FEAR (to be renamed QUARRY), a sequel to my science fiction novel. ‘VADERS, and something new for me, a strictly fantasy novel entitled, THE SECRET WAR and a comedic romance called, HEY TEACH! I’ve also been working on a mainstream, slice of life novel entitled, GROWING OLD.

    You can connect with R. Patrick Gates here: 

website/pages, rpatrickgates.com,

Amazon/R. Patrick Gates,

Facebook/R. Patrick Gates.

    Some of R. Patrick Gates books: 

  Getting personal with R. Patrick Gates I'm going to start this interview off a little differently by using an excerpt from his new book.