The chapel was already overflowing with people when they arrived.
Winnie's parents were sitting in the front row, surrounded by family, friends, and acquaintances, all offering their condolences. They had decided against visitation the night before, a choice that had been intended to gently discourage other townsfolk from overwhelming the family with their chatter. Instead, it had merely held them at bay.
Leslie was quick to disappear into the crowd, which Winnie appreciated silently. With a deep breath to steady herself, she stormed forwards, unrepentant as she nudged and pushed people aside. The mass was resistant, at first, but began to part when they realized who was coming through.
Mrs. Pewitt shifted to offer Winnie a place to sit and wrapped an arm around her daughter. As Winnie settled her head against her mother's shoulder, Mrs. Pewitt whispered, "Thank you."
The gratefulness extended not only from Winnie's punctuality, but also due to the effect her presence had on the crowds. They immediately began to disperse following her arrival, though whether this was due to their refusal to cross the young woman on such a delicate morning, or because Pastor Glynn made for the pulpit wasn't clear.
The minister cleared his throat when he reached the front of the chapel, though there was no need. His chapel had never been so packed, or so eerily silent. Every pew was filled, and still dozens of others stood in the back, tightly pressed to take up any vacant space along the wall. Winnie had taken them in at the entrance. Every resident of Bildenbey must've been present for Bran's funeral, even those she knew by face but not by name.
It should have been an honor, but their eager preying on the social gathering turned the solemnity into more of a spectacle. As though Bran was some tragic figure and not a missing child.
I want to say that I have trouble loving and trusting because of Franco, because of the way he would grab the space, between my ass and hip, and tell me he would leave if I didn’t lose that small amount of fat. But they say its really my fault because I continue to meander back to those harrowing memories. I continue to let him in. They tell me that if I want to get over it I’d just stop thinking about the hot tub and the bikini and him telling me to stop sucking in my stomach. Yet, as I stare into the mirror, I grab that space, between my ass and my hip, and though it is of my own hand I can still feel his fingertips. They still have a hold on me, not romantically, but in the kind of way that a noose takes hold of a too-fragile neck.
It's 5:54 pm, the Sun is currently setting. It's the majestic time of sundown, the Sun is downing, and it's as if it's getting back to the water. As if it's resting there for the remainder of the day until it rebirthes the next day again. A rebirth as beautiful as the birth of Aphrodite from the sea foams. And as I'm sitting by the shore, the water and sand tickling my feet; the sound of the waves a calming music to my ears. It's splendid in a way, it's as if the waves are piano keys, and the wind moving them is a talented pianist. The sounds of the kids screaming with enthusiasm and joy as they play with their families. All those sounds working like a gland that secretes serotonin, filling the heart with happiness and calm, lightning up the mood. It's peace, it's human heaven. That's the beauty of sunsets by the beach.
My love is now cold and freezed into a snowflake ❄for anyone who comes next, will have to make me feel enough warmth so that my love melts into a rain droplet , or else I'll lay there among all heartbroken people and gaze at fictional lovers and never be the reason of happiness to someone else .
If you want your fics to be enjoyed please remember why people are here to read your content. If you don’t care then you do you but please don’t complain about how no one reads your fics when you write them that way.
Please tag your fics with appropriate tags (if you do this correctly it will get shown to more people who want to read and interact - look at what popular fics are tagging if you need help.)
Also if you need to rely on asks and requests then maybe you shouldn’t be writing. It’s okay to want to get interaction (believe me I understand) but if you are only writing for other people and not yourself, you are gonna burn out quick. If you do not love writing for writing’s sake, that’s okay - you don’t have to be a writer. Not everyone needs to be a writer. Just do you and have fun.
TODAY i woke up choked with words. it wasnt until they were flowing, much faster than i could ever hope to control, that i realized how absent they had been. the last week has been barren. i've been chilled to the bone as asphalt turns back to char-melted tar. this is the twenty second humid tennessee summer of my life and it has been inhospitable. maybe i didnt notice because of how much better i have been. maybe i didnt notice because i am worse than i realize. but when everything falls apart, truly, neatly, perfectly cascading, i dont think to mention it. i guess i think everyone else already knows, or that language is reserved for something that i do not reek of. for thank yous at the grocery store or song requests. but a whisper can be stumbled into. a breeze begs to be tripped on. friends are hurt that i did not tell them sooner. i am hurt that they think i could have. what is there to tell? i simply step from 2:04pm into 2:05pm and suddenly there is nothing. i talk about my sandwich, about holidays, about the fact that lobsters pee through their foreheads. but when there is nothing but the metal taste and the crystalline steps that will be taken over and over, what would i say? how do i describe the act of suffocating in open air? that there is all at once far too much and far too nothing at all in my chest? that my skin is too tight, wrapped around a body that violently refuses to admit its own presence in the world, all the while knowing that it has no skin at all? naked, vulnerable, an exposed nerve, i walk through the produce section of a Publix in a city that is closer than i realized and i weep with strangers in my peripheral but how could i be weeping? there is nothing. nothing to see, nothing to mourn, no tears. once, a man is in front of me. i weep, now so far out of his periphery that the sight of me burns at him. he does not look away. but he does not stop walking. it is only the nagging starvation that has mass to it. the unquenchable gaping of myself. i could be better if the abyss collapsed. if i could crash down, down, down self imploding, inward, inward, inward onto self, if i could equalize the hollowness with the brooding bulk of what it created to house it, i could make sense. but i do not collapse inward. i do not find words to feed the reaching, gasping threat. i do not look away. but i do not stop walking.
Hello, I’m starting a new podcast with my friend Max where we talk about our lives as artists and touch on topics that not many people our age discuss in normal conversation. It’s called Talking Is Hard. You can check out the highlight I posted on my Instagram below. Also, consider supporting our show on all of our social media links. Thanks!
i just wanted to come on here and say that other than updating my works, answering asks and dms, i won’t really be as active here. not bc i don’t like it here, but bc i just won’t have the time to.. i hope you all understand, especially my lovely mutuals here that i have been guilty of not reaching out to for a while..
i will be more active on my twitter acc (@/JAEHYUNMlRAE) so if you want to be mutuals on there, i usually interact more there !!!
i don’t want to close my writing blog bc it’s such a sweet pastime for me other than school or busy work, (therefore this is not a goodbye/hiatus post) but i realize that i won’t be able to devote as much time as i would like to so this is my compromise. <33
I used to write all the time. I used to sit down and pour and pour and pour until there wasn't even a little bit of a letter left in me. Now I sit in front of a computer screen and a notebook and both of them feel daunting.
I want to write. I want to write. I want to write.
I wish there was a way to puncture a hole in the part of my brain that holds all the words I have. I know that I was younger, a teenager, and everything is more intense.
But I should still have my words. It feels wrong to be stuck in my own head like this.
I want to make a zine. I think that they are so neat and I really wish I could think of an idea for one. It feels like my head is all empty. It makes me wonder if my head is empty because of how stressed I am all the time now, or if that's just the way that it's always been.
Maybe those years were a lie. Maybe I was just imaging all of the times I could write. I don't even recognize my own words now. Looking back I want to learn from myself.