writer-with-a-lighter

[writer-with-a-lighter]

urban gods pt 2

Hermes found this place too, and I see him rarely— bars on 6th street aren’t part of his usual haunts. He came in looking to gamble, so I pointed him over to the table of men and women who show up on weekends, tossing chips onto an old wooden table. He’s charming like Apollo, but doesn’t use that glamour to bed women or their husbands. Instead he tells jokes and stories, weaving a rich tapestry from thin air. When he talks, people listen, and I’ve spent a couple nights leaning against the bar, mesmerized by this skinny man in sandals. He wears shorts and a blue shirt, and it’s so easy to forget he’s a god, then, when he orders a round of beer, when he claps a man on the back as he laughs. But when he wins game after game, when I check the clock and realize it’s been two days since he started telling his stories— I remember what he is. He doesn’t often pay, but his stories are enough for me, and he’s friendly. Nicer than most of my patrons, which I appreciate. He once gave me a set of dice, made of human bone. “Don’t ask me where I got them,” he winked and ordered another margarita. Hermes is clever— the trickster god, always trying to sell me lotions and pills that will bring immortality or erase the dark circles under my eyes. “No pills could make you prettier,” he teases, “but this one might get you a guy.” That’s when I roll my eyes and shoo him away, telling him to go soliciting in some other woman’s bar. “As you wish,” he always tells me, then gathers up his winnings and takes off, his sandals scuffing my floor. 

My favorite nights are when the goddess of love strides in, her skin shimmering under the lights. She wears a different dress every time, but they always leave nothing to the imagination and I find myself cleaning an already-spotless glass, my cheeks burning. Aphrodite comes in when the bar is full and bustling, so she can watch men and women alike grow hazy under her magic. I see it happen— eyes glazing over, lips parting with lust. She drinks scotch, leaving lipstick marks on the glass. And she takes mortals home with her, sometimes several at a time, if they’re beautiful enough. Everyone she nears or touches seems to become a little prettier, and I think it’s happened to me too. My hands are no longer calloused, my hair smoother. But I don’t thank her. She’s more dangerous than I like to admit, seductive and glamorous as a movie star. I have not found refuge in her arms or her bed like so many others, but the pull is strong, and once she leaned so close I could feel her breath next to my ear. “Another scotch.” I couldn't breathe. She dances sometimes, rising from the bar stool to go sway near the jukebox. When she comes close, the music warps and changes, falling into a smooth rhythm. Jazz, most likely, but not any kind I’ve ever heard before. The smell of roses lingers long after she leaves, and the jukebox still plays that old tune. She pays well, leaving several shining pearls and sometimes a gold necklace on the counter. Her weakness is pretty things, and it just might be mine, too, because I wear the jewelry she gives me. Men tip me extra when I’m wearing it, and their gazes travel to my hips, over the slope of my cleavage— a little charm from the goddess of beauty. 

#greek gods #greek mythology #my writing

[writer-with-a-lighter]

people who listen to hozier are just better than everyone else

[writer-with-a-lighter]

urban gods pt 1

It was a coincidence that my bar opened the same day the gods got banished to Earth. It took less than a month for them to find my place, and some seem to like it. They come back every now and then, all flashing eyes and silver rings. They scare me, but they also bring in business, so I can’t complain. 

Apollo comes here, often. When the sun is low and the smell of cigarettes blurs the room, he stumbles in, glowing like the sun— and usually just as high. He sits at the bar counter and orders two gin and tonics, then drinks them both, eyes heavy-lidded. Wasted as he might be, he’s charming, winking at the few waitresses and flashing that smile at me when I ask him if he wants another drink. “Aw, honey,” he always croons, “there’s something sweeter I want a taste of.” And then I usually tell him to go on and get out of my bar if he’s gonna be using that kind of language. When the sun’s rising again, he stumbles out the door, leaving pieces of solid gold at the counter. I always take them, and I’ve gotten a nice pair of shoes that way, but lately I’ve grown wary of those gold pieces. They glimmer strangely in the sunlight and they’re always cold to the touch. But Apollo is a god and his lust for shining things destroyed him, so I guess I can’t be surprised. 

Sometimes it’s Athena who walks in, gray-eyed and serious. She wears men’s slacks and a button-down shirt, and when she raises her fingers to ask for a drink, tattoos line her wrists. She likes wine, and I take care to remember she doesn’t like it sweetened. When she speaks, her voice wraps icy fingers around my spine. Searching, I think. She wants more knowledge. Always more. She knows all there is to know, but her fatal flaw is that it’s never enough. I’ve seen her wandering the streets, eyes filled with an empty fury as she searches the cracks in the sidewalk for more. She reads at the bar, old books in ancient Greek that I can’t decipher no matter how long I stare. When the sun is finally burning off the fog that hangs over the city, she leaves me with silver dollars and a headache that doesn’t seem to leave until the sun goes down. Her aegis is no longer a shield but a golden pin, fastened onto her coat. I once asked her who the snake-haired woman on the pin was, but she shook her head. “No one you know.” Athena is not entirely kind, but she is quiet, and I like quiet customers. 

Unless it’s Hades. He’s too quiet, bottomless eyes watching even when he’s not looking at you. His nose is crooked, no doubt broken by one of his ruthless brothers, but he wears it like armor, jutting his face out sullenly at anyone who looks at him wrong. He knocks back shot after shot and paints his nails, the smell curling around the room like thick ink. I asked him not to do that inside, once, and he looked at me. I fell right through his eyes, toppling over into deep water where scaled creatures waited. My heart slowed, a warning from the god of the dead, and it beats irregularly ever since. He walks with purpose, clad in an old, embroidered leather jacket and black jeans. The embroidered words on his jacket are the names of every mortal who defied him, before his banishment. I let him have his drinks for free— better safe than sorry. He paid me once, though, a handful of beads, dark like the pupils of some monster. Harpy eyes, he told me, and to this day I’m not sure whether I believe him. They sit on my dresser in a glass jar, and sometimes I wake in the night to see them staring at me. Hades sits for hours, often alone, listening to the jukebox play the same song. He’s partial to opera. Who would’ve known? 

#greek gods #greek mythology #my writing

[writer-with-a-lighter]

a vaguely unsettling thing i wrote

The sun is shining. It has always been shining. You don’t remember when it last rained. 

Late at night, the train calls to you, long and wailing in the darkness. There is no train in your city and you wonder what lies under the sidewalks. 

The ocean watches. The waves crash against the shore and when they pull back, sunken bones are stuck in the sand, gray and grainy. “You’re next,” the child balancing on a tall driftwood log reminds you. She falls and you’re the only one who calls the ambulance. 

On your drive home, you pass an empty diner. The waitress inside waves at you, her fingers too long, her smile too wide. You don’t go in. 

The playground near your home seems to be shrinking, sinking into the ground little by little, and the children go with it.

The woods beckon, and when you stand at the tree line you see faces. “You see them too?” Your mother asks. She smiles. 

You see them standing in the cornfield sometimes. Odd, maybe, but rather easy to ignore. All the same, you never leave your father’s sight during the harvest. You don’t want them to find you.

“Are you thirsty?” The priest asks, but there’s already a cup in your hand. The water is stained a rusty color. You shake your head, but you drink anyway.

It rains, finally, and the crumbling pothole on your street is filled with dirty water. Your little brother swims, but something yanks him under and he never resurfaces. The funeral is held too late, after everyone but you forgets. 

The arcade is a tourist trap, full of bright colors. No one ever goes in, and no one ever comes out, but when you peer through the windows, it’s not empty. Don’t look too long. 

At the county fair, a scrawny man offers you caramel apples. You wake up in the corn maze with all of your teeth missing. 

#writing #unsettling #midwestern gothic

[writer-with-a-lighter]

some blood things for writing

blood seeping through powdery snow

spitting blood onto a marble floor

choking on it

bloody fingerprints left on a single piece of paper

splattered on someone's shirt, but it isn't their blood

blood dripping from someone's fingertips into a pond or bowl of water

little bottles of it neatly aligned on a shelf in a tea shop

#writing

[writer-with-a-lighter]

do you ever just. have the random urge to bite your friends because i do and its an issue

[writer-with-a-lighter]

IM TRYING 

[writer-with-a-lighter]

here’s another post for ya! i’m alive, i promise :) 

[writer-with-a-lighter]

colors as people

red: polaroid pictures, acrylic paint, getting the air knocked out of you, mood swings, 10 am, cinnamon, leather, bold sunglasses, rubbing your hands together for warmth, muted blush

green: the smell of pine needles, cute little spiders, peeling nail polish, chunky sweaters, messy braids, compostable notebooks, taylor swift, 7 pm, dawn, watching someone out of the corner of your eye

yellow: faded jeans, glitter everywhere, fairy lights, holding hands, 3 pm, new markers, pretty ribbons, the beatles, dancing with someone special, rolling hills, lullabies, chai lattes, big headphones

blue: the path of a plane across the sky, old sneakers, reading alone, whiteboard markers, piano chords, gingham, halsey, 1 pm, collared shirts, butterflies in your stomach, doves, skylines

black: listening to someone’s heartbeat, mascara, school uniforms, earbuds, invisible ink, torn magazine covers, vance joy, platform shoes, city lights, dahlias, 4 am, empty envelopes, sleepy whispers 

orange: learning a new language, blazers, fresh perfume, watching other people fall in love, coffee, traveling, demi lovato, fireflies, new york, being nervous before a performance, 12 pm, cats, simple jewelry 

 pink: sad smiles, freckles, lipstick marks on skin, strawberry body lotion, silk sheets, paris, collecting seashells, dodie, snow sparkling in the morning light, 5 pm, jean shorts & a big hoodie, overspending but it was worth it, delicate pastries, grapefruit 

white: candles burning low, growing up too fast, constellations, red lipstick, leaving home, sheet music, curled hair, stockings, staring out at the ocean, old movies, lana del ray, 11 am, opening the curtains, calligraphy, 

purple: flirtatious smiles, gin and tonic, artsy earrings, loud laughter, high heels, deja vu, olivia rodrigo, new year’s eve, baggy jeans, 9 pm, claw clips, USA Top 50 playing on the radio, being easily frightened, screaming into the wind, intense eye contact, fuzzy blankets 

brown: wire-frame glasses, fall leaves, checkered scarves, someone’s voice through a phone, spices, ABBA, having family far away, dead trees, marking your calendar, halloween, black tea, photography, soil between small fingers, chocolate chip cookies, 6 am

#colors #aesthetic #aesthetic writing #red aesthetic #green aesthetic #yellow aesthetic #blue aesthetic #black aesthetic #orange aesthetic #pink aesthetic #white aesthetic #purple aesthetic #brown aesthetic

[writer-with-a-lighter]

aaand that brings an end to the hogwarts houses aesthetics, at least for now! hope you enjoyed :) 

[writer-with-a-lighter]

hogwarts houses: ravenclaw

Give me real Ravenclaws. Not the stuck-up, snooty, boring house everyone thinks of when they hear our name. 

Give me real Ravenclaws. 

Give me staying up past midnight to peer through a telescope, give me velvet and white tulips. Give me the kids who comfort the victims, give me the ones who say, “Can’t. Gotta study.” And give me the ones who don’t.

 Give me a blue kind of tired, the kind where you forget where you are. Give me long-forgotten ruins and tea-drenched paper and vintage pearls. Give me rose-colored sunglasses and moonlight. Give me soft smiles and slipping your arms around someone’s waist and feeling like you’re home, because Ravenclaws create a sense of wonder. 

Give me performers and lullabies and crying until you can’t breathe, then having someone come and pick the pieces up. Give me friendship, so strong that it will never break. 

We are real. We are books and the smell of the sea and the stars in the sky, and don’t you ever forget it. 

#ravenclaw #hogwarts #hogwarts houses #harry potter #wizarding world #ravenclaw pride #hogwarts houses aesthetic #writing #aesthetic

[writer-with-a-lighter]

hogwarts houses: slytherin

Give me real Slytherins. Not the cynical, dark, unforgiving house everyone thinks of when they hear our name- give me teeth against metal and soft sighs. 

Give me real Slytherins. 

Give me green flannel and kissing someone just to see what it would feel like. Give me natural hair and long lashes and the look you shoot someone when they say something rude. Give me hands clenched together, afraid to let go, and storm clouds gathering in the sky. 

Give me the teens who cry over books, then go write their own. Give me powdery snow and shining eyes, give me frozen breath in the air. Give me a cry for help, and then give me an answer, because Slytherins are the ones who will be there. 

Give me silver coins and long dresses and gentle piano music. Give me mist over a field. Give me extreme happiness and the tired feeling that follows, give me sleeping under the stars. Give me emotions, the kind that make your heart burst because of how much you’re feeling. 

We are real. We are mischief and raw silk and a gentle caress, and don’t you ever forget it. 

#hogwarts #harry potter #slytherin #slytherin pride #wizarding world #hogwarts houses #writing #aesthetic

[writer-with-a-lighter]

different kinds of love: new love

New love feels magical. 

New love is electricity and banter and wanting to pull someone close. It’s memorizing the exact color of someone’s eyes, it’s the ice-cold water of an outdoor pool. It’s cliffs and beaches and the smell of hot apple cider, it’s your breath catching as you see your someone. It’s running as fast as you can, as far away as you can, just so you can feel your heart race and your chest heave with exertion. 

It’s spinning until you fall and stargazing on a roof and lingering touches. It’s flashy magazines and neon lights and the smiling so hard you feel like your teeth might break. It’s paper stars and watercolors staining your skin and the color of new snow, sparkling, blinding you. 

New love feels magical. 

#new love #different kinds of love #writing #aesthetic

[writer-with-a-lighter]

hogwarts houses: gryffindoor

Give me real Gryffindoors. Not the brash, impulsive, loud house that everyone thinks of when they hear our name- give me the clatter of gold coins and the smell of smoke. 

Give me real Gryffindoors. 

Give me sudden smiles and stumbles and eating candy until your heart beats too fast for you to keep up. Give me the kids who stand up for you when you can’t, and the ones who get out of bed when all they want to do is cry. Give me chipped nail polish and and braided hair.

Give me fast cars and candles and heart-shaped lollipops. Give me retro T-shirts and loud singing and slamming the door so hard you chip the paint. Give me joyous screams and wild gestures and roses with dew on them.

Give me the strumming of a guitar and the voice that comes after, because Gryffindoors are the foundation of everything powerful and free. Give me running, give me sneaking out after dark. Give me all the wild they possess. 

We are real. We are electric and witty and the feeling of belonging, and don’t you ever forget it. 

#gryffinpride #griffindor #hogwarts #hogwarts house aesthetics #hogwarts houses #writing #harry potter #wizarding world #aesthetic

[writer-with-a-lighter]

hogwarts houses!!!!!

being a huge harry potter fan, i decided to write some hogwarts houses aesthetics things...that sentence was really packed...anyway! be on the lookout for gryffindoor, ravenclaw and slytherin next!

#hogwarts house aesthetics #hogwarts houses

[writer-with-a-lighter]

hogwarts houses: hufflepuff

Give me real Hufflepuffs. Not the innocent, quiet, weak house everyone thinks of when they hear our name- give me the very essence of harsh sunlight and the smell of earth.

Give me real Hufflepuffs.

Give me glares and middle fingers and screaming your voice hoarse to remind people that you are here, that you do deserve to be heard. Give me teenagers in bright colors who smile as sweetly as honey but will kick you in the shins for an inappropriate comment. 

Give me eyeliner and glitter and laughing as loud as you can. Give me dyed hair and flirtatious winks and staying up all night to talk to that special someone. Give me hands splattered in paint and charcoal, because Hufflepuffs have art in their soul. 

Give me soft clothes and sparkly highlighter and the squint of someone’s eyes when they smile genuinely. Give me dancing under neon lights, give me adrenaline. Give me fairy lights and sleepy smiles and everything green and yellow and good, because Hufflepuffs are not your leftovers. 

We are real. We are sunlight and sleep and the bite of knives, and don’t you ever forget it. 

#hufflefluff #hufflepuff pride #hogwarts #hogwarts house aesthetics #hogwarts house #hogwarts house traits #writing #harry potter #aesthetic #aesthetics

[writer-with-a-lighter]

different kinds of love: long term love

Long term love feels steady. 

Long term love is a heart beating constantly, infinite comfort under someone’s skin. It’s the smell of coffee and waking up slowly, quietly, next to someone special. It’s arguing and leaving and coming back in tears, because how could you even think of being apart? 

It’s familiar smiles and wearing someone else’s clothes. It’s stray glitter on eyelids and sharpies and the crisp tang in the air as you open an orange. It’s jumping in the pool with all your clothes on, certain that when you resurface, someone will be smiling down at you. 

Long term love feels steady. 

#aesthetic #aesthetic writing #long term #long term love #different types of love