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Yes this a quiz about characters from an unpublished book, what of it?
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At some point I'm getting a floral tattoo. Someday, when we're all allowed outside again... Why am I telling you this? This was supposed to be a writing post. . . Guess what I'm nor doing right now? https://www.instagram.com/p/B-0NZJwgX8Z/?igshid=1135gxvnmmlbj
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Siris. #EidolaNovel #moodboard https://www.instagram.com/p/B9pWqYFgw-j/?igshid=1w3bleyl4ndqi
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#EidolaNovel https://www.instagram.com/p/B9mUVG9gJ9M/?igshid=1flnbzg17q2ri
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When I publish the books, can moodboards I made with un-paid-for pinterest pictures still hang out on my account? https://www.instagram.com/p/B9kXqwfgSbk/?igshid=10ba3b3h93fk2
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. . . I imagined it was formaldehyde, that my blood and tissue and the fluid in my lungs smelled like death in jars; that I was soaking in it, waiting for someone to screw on the lid on me. Like a preserved corpse. A corpse having a panic attack.
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She wore red for her only photograph, perhaps it was her favorite. It’s the color he used to paint her a message that he hid in the gifts he made her. It was the color of his hair.
She wore a smile in her eyes beneath the drab photo-pose, subtle, secretive. Perhaps she was a wild woman once before growing up and playing tidy mother and wife. Perhaps their love affair in the hills and valleys of Italy ran hot and bright.
He left her for death, not red, but blue, and I know not what color dress she was buried in, but she wears still his name on her tombstone.
Amalia, A Love Story
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In that blurred-edged snapshot, a vignette halo of gray, they stand smiling. The war is over. It is before the war. Human history marches on in a series of candid moments between those grand events we will remember and mis-remember like troughs between waves: These girls on a street in Dublin will be lost to the tide along with their sisters and daughters and their sons and brothers, their gains and their losses, their births and their graves. After the war, before the war, girls lost in a lull, floating in bigger wakes. When the next wave comes, the smiles may be ripped from their faces, and we will not know. To our eyes they are two dimensional, gray framed-blurs of bright eyes and white teeth who we do not recognize, do not remember, and cannot know. They are shadows. They are figments. This was before the war.
And yet they smile
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The number of hours of my life I have been looking at shit like this
Oh god everybody buckle up here come the bird feet
Anisodactyly
The most common bird-feet formation, with three toes forward and one toe back. You see this with most perching birds, wading birds, swimming birds, and raptors.
Zygodactyly
A bird-feet formation occurring primarily in parrots. The middle two toes are forward, and the outer two toes are pointed back. Birds with these feet tend to spend a lot of time clambering oh-so-gracefully around trees instead of just perching.
Syndactyly
Three toes pointing forward, one back, but the outer and middle forward-pointing toes are fused, because kingfishers.
Heterodactyly
Like the zygodactyly found in parrots, but instead of having the outer toes pointing back, there are two toes pointing back and then two pointing forward. This only happens in a group known by the weirdly-metal and made-up sounding name of “trogons,” which is basically quetzals, which are weirdly-metal and made-up looking birds.
Pamprodactyly
All four toes pointing forward, because fuck everything. Found in swifts, because they’re not from this planet.
Okay, it’s not because they’re aliens, it’s because they do this.
A lot.
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