im fixin' to watch the mummy, who's trying to get in

"You keep that bull-headed attitude of your's goin', Mr. Morgan," Exasperation pinches the tail-end of an exhale, puckers his brows as he watches the man look like some half-built house collapsing. His hand squeezes into Arthur's arm. It's meant as encouragement, but the pressure locks in deep, holds tight as though its very strength can keep this man anchored away from the gates of the afterlife, "Might be the only thing keepin' you alive."

As the blond saddles up, Cole hammers the arch of his boot into Maria's stirrup and slices his free leg over her saddle, settles quick into his seat. A bruised rib twinges a flash of heat and his jaw locks to a noisy exhale, eyes cinched tight by a passing grimace. He grouses, head knocked forward, "Y'don't have t'tell me twice." His thighs press a crushing hug into Maria's ribs and she bolts after Arthur's galloping percussion.

The bridge careens to view, their pursuers an angry dust cloud thrown up behind the slope of a hill side. Dirt road turns to wood boards, cloven beat clacking. Beneath them: A gaping maw of a chasm, some river that snakes down its rocky folds looking like a thread-bare worm. Cole strikes a match, teeths its paper book between his lips with gnarled brows as he yanks the dynamite free from its holster. The wick lights with a hiss, sparking, and Cole drops it free as their horses shear back onto solid ground. Gunfire cracks the air and a hazarding look back reveals a stubborn lawman far ahead of his comrades coming to the threshold of the bridge.

Cole grunts, face pinched to a disgruntled grimace, and tosses his voice to the blurring air, "How we doin', Morgan? You still with me?"

ignoring  any  pain  is  easier  said  than  done  .      he’s  taken  so  many  bullets  in  his  time  alive  that  his  mind  ,      at  least  ,      can  shunt  away  some  of  the  persistence  torment  and  wither  it  away  to  a  feeling  more  akin  to  steady  aching  and  intermittent  spasms  .      it’s  his  body  that  isn’t  so  easily  able  to  forgive  the  difficulty  with  which  it  lies  forced  to  move  .      now  ,      it  rivals  his  own  movement  ,      brawling  to  lock  against  his  every  demand  .

❝        you  oughta  be  more  concerned  about  makin’  sure  the  both  of  us  make  it  across  that  bridge  ahead’a  the  rest’v  ‘em  ,        ❞        he  grouses  ,      in  the  sort  of  paper-thin  tease  forcibly  eclipsed  by  the  laments  of  his  own  body  .      it  seems  ,      ironically  ,      that  his  body  would  rather  fight  against  his  pain  by  fighting  against  any  small  demand  he  wants  to  give  it  .      even  more  humourous  to  the  outlaw  is  the  fact  that  he’s  not  at  all  unfamiliar  with  these  wounds  .      he  wouldn’t  be  surprised  if  he  were  once  shot  in  the  exact  same  places  at  any  other  point  in  his  life  .        ❝        i’ll  survive  .      i  always  have  ,      you  fool  .        ❞

there’s  no  more  time  to  waste  .      cole  is  a  reliable  crutch  ,      but  two  men  (  one  and  a  half  men  ,      at  this  rate  )   on  foot  are  just  begging  to  be  pursued  .      sheer  willpower  tugs  both  cole  and  himself  to  his  horse  ,      where  he  finally  lets  the  man  go  in  order  to  climb  into  the  saddle  ,      albeit  with  great  difficulty  on  the  step  up  .      when  he  at  last  catches  his  breath  ,      he  waves  for  all  company  to  follow  ,      stance  wrangled  into  a  crumpled  hunch  straightforward  enough  for  his  current  laboured  existence  .        ❝        get  a  move  on  ,      cassidy  .      i  still  got  steam  left  in  me  .        ❞        thrice  dig  of  the  spurs  into  his  horse’s  belly  ,      and  he’s  off  ,      shot  toward  the  aforementioned  bridge  .      in  truth  ,      he’s  eager  to  get  away  and  out  of  sight  and  search  as  quickly  as  possible  ,      before  too  much  blood  stains  his  cotton  and  his  mind  becomes  too  hazy  .

may be considering a short term 1-1.5 mo th-ish semi-haitus, not sure yet 🤔

The q is nearly empty of replies and ive got a backlog of drafts to get back to, but i will be travelling sometime in May on top of everything with chances of 0 internet for an entire week, so we will see

“You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.”

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

There is some dull itching beginning a crawl beneath his skin; buzzing with the sort of obnoxious audacity of one too many house flies circling a home, circling rot. There are tales of medicine women swathed by the desert sand and red rock. Folktales. He'd like to say he's not sure why he thinks of them, now, but, as his eyes tilt back over to her swallowing orange flowers between her scar-blemished lips, he thinks that the cause is easy to discern.

"Just passin' through." Is the neutral response, circling a coyote's path of non-answers. "Been followin' a man's path that broke through here some days back. You ain't seen him, have you?"

"You might be surprised how many problems are solved by the judicious application of violence." Her focus shifts from the flowers to the man who has been watching her, and the corner of her mouth ticks up in slight, wry amusement. "Although, perhaps not." He looks as though he knows just how these things work; has the air of a man whose hands are intimately familiar with the geometry of harm. He stands as though he is one moment from drawing on her, even as his gaze is hidden. If the idea bothers her, it doesn't show.

With her free hand she reaches up, plucking one of the small, orange flowers from the stem, and promptly popping it into her mouth. It is bitter, but not otherwise unpleasant. "I suppose there is little else of interest to regard just here," she says at length. Something like forgiveness. Something like ego. "Are you enjoying the show?"

Dawn and dusk at Church Rock in Monument Valley, Arizona, 1972

Matthew 10:29 - 31. He sees the scripture in times new roman black, printed on dusty, thin paper. He thinks of a boy rising from a collapsed town, caked and swallowed by its ashes, eyes spearing the Heavens as a new dawn breaks crimson over the horizon. Cole chuffs. There's a beat before he drawls breezily, trundling, "The eye is on the sparrow," and his eyes flit from the birds to the sky where the clouds are sparse and lit white against deep blues, "And I know he watches over me."

He keeps a complacent, contented silence as she begins to point and list flowers. Dandelions. Lupines. Yarrow. Butterflies and bumblebees labor humble work between the pastel, spring colors: Yellow-Blacks and painted lady oranges fluttering undulating flights from nectar well to nectar well. It's idyllic. Some short termed repreive between disasters.

He smiles, roughs a palm against her head, "Suppose we'll find one next time."

Dark red eyes seem to shine at his words, a smile on her face. "No, I didn't know that." She looks at him, then to the sparrows. "I do know that they're one of the birds mentioned in the bible. Not quite sure why that was important but- ice breaker, I suppose."

Dio's quiet as she looks at all the blooming flowers. In her youth she would happily pick a bouque of them. Now, though, she prefers to point at each one. With every new flower comes a name with it. Eventually she stops. Quiet, peaceful nature was what she needed after all those years.

"All you need is a willow tree to sleep under."

Canyons by Raja Nandepu

Thinking abt cole's way of watchfulness,,, its progression and origins,,, the way it is embedded so deep into his behavior that it's subconscious,

"Tough, but y'can always ask the right folk for help."

He clicks the door closed behind them, trundles over and washes his hands the same. The water runs fast, suds up soap that foam between callused creases. Hands dried on the same towel, he folds a grip over a black handle protruding from a knife block, unsheathes it and extends it to the boy. "Trout's a soft, slimey fish. Ain't need for de-scalin', but it'll need a wash if you catch it fresh."

Water splotches darken the cutting board around two fish, tells a dead man's tale that it's already been soaked clean. Cole lifts a tail, sprawls the skin at its prosterior fins for August to see, "You start from the hole here and slide up the belly. Up to the gills where the throat is." He pulls a second knife from the block, punctures the skin and rides the stomach up slow, "Can't go in too deep. You'll knick an organ if y'do."

airy abundance of leniency contents august. (they are but twin souls – himself, a dwarf seedling. cole, a hardy tree.) years apart and still similar in this regard. mullish survival. cratering hunger. plain, true grit. “ it’s a tough life. ” he mumbles.

his eyes land upon the herbage, the fruit. flavors to give a meal zing. fish was among his favorite dishes. “ i can learn. ” the boy notes, ambling to sink. he scrubs his hands. pats them with a towel.

"You don't exactly exude trustworthiness." (From one brazen young Genji, if you're so inclined)

Jesse's shoulders hike up, chin jutting into a collar bone as he turns his head to squint down at Mr. Green-and-Short. Some sour sentiment that hasn't yet been buried proper ferments a tight-lipped scowl. He grunts, closing his fingers over a dying cigarette and takes in an abrasive, last drag. An exhale crushes out of him and he takes care to direct it elsewhere from his present company. The smoke churns, curling in on itself in ouroboros fashion; a wave folding in, soundlessly turbulent. A haze falls over the humid, Japanese sunset and there is some odd, capsizing emotion that feels vaugely like homesickness at the sight of it.

"So I've been told." He drops the cigarette to the concrete tiling and cripples it beneath a heel, shoves a gloved hand to a pocket. He flicks a nail against the shorter man's head protector and his expression melds to churlish. A mild, feline smile peels back his lips, "Wouldn't say you exactly exude normal, either, compadre."

devastating that you can live somewhere and then move away and someone else moves in and they live there and you don’t live there anymore but you lived there once

“had i known what you were up to, i never would have agreed to this.” // hello hello! (´◡`) it's been an absolute delight having you on the dash!

They are wedged on ladders atop a skeletal catwalk. Cole's body is folded against the supports, heel jammed against one prong, elbow slung lazy around another. A matchstick hangs loosely between his teeth, phosphorous head bobbing unceremoniously as he thumbs putty onto wax-papered compounds.

"You still would've come," is the easy, matchstick-muddled response he offers, amber gaze still latched to the thermite cradled between his palms as he presses it flush to metal door hinges. With a crooked finger, he fishes out the fuse, unfurls it by the knuckle, and leads it to his present company with crow-feet crinkled eyes.

"We get this outta here, we split this 50-50."

hey hey hey

Assigning you a song that makes white people go nuts (from experience)

He breathes out a small humored noise as his eyes dip down. They idle to where Genji's fingers curl leisurely against the sun-warmed sill. Cole's head sidles to a tilt. He muses, wryly: "Sounds an awful lot like what Overwatch stood for."

He idles in the silence, snagged on a distant rumination. The sparrows continue their song and dance, twigs clipped between beaks, cobbling together some notion of the future as they weave their newfound home. There is the softest intrusion of Genji and Cole's own reflections projected over them, window glass catching cybernetic reds and wistful amber-browns. He breathes audibly, shoulders rising and falling with the burden of it. A weary smile creases his lips.

"Reckon if we're goin' to help 'em stay, it's just up t'us t'make sure the world gets settled down right."

𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑒.

cooperation and synergy, as feathered guests worked effortlessly on creating a place of their own. somewhere safe and restful, to continue lineage. dark and focused hues peered beyond newly polished glass, fingers brushing windowsill whilst un-armored body stilled as though he would disturb the song. cole's comment lifted his chin, fluttered his eyelids as visuals formerly repressed resurfaced. he could still hear the calling in his father's voice, from time to time. though, this was a peaceful and kinder moment, he knew better now to focus on his company's sentiment instead.

❝ i do. ❞ promised with purposeful air of knowing, lashes pried and his gaze did not move from tangled foliage and twigs. ❝ good luck, among other things. ❞ noted gently as eyes flickered with flight, briefly landing on the man beside him, but not for too long. ❝ they also symbolize hope, community and strength. ❞ much more, perhaps he could go on about it another time. ❝ something we could use, during such troubling times. ❞ a pause, leaning in a bit. ❝ i am hopefull they stay. ❞

I TALK TO GOD, BUT THE SKY IS EMPTY; ABOUT GOD

Keaton St. James (@boykeats) Salvation // pinterest // Lisa Marie Basile Andalucia // Sean Glatch (via @sicknessinmotion) // "Shiizakana," Hannibal (2013-2015) dir. Michael Rymer // Antonio Canova Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss (via @moonstoast) // Ethel Cain Sun Bleached Flies // José Saramago (tr. Margaret Jull Costa) Cain (via @morepeachyogurt) // Leila Chatti Portrait of the Illness as Nightmare