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triple-pupil
Triple Pupil
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Talking like a Lion
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Untitled
jevils-tale
UEE HEE HEE
thingsthatmakemewanttobealive
Things To Live For
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(i’m on a one piece kick again)
“How are you finding my ship, Zoro-ya?”
Zoro paused with the mead halfway to his mouth, and grinned up at the captain.
“A little dark and cramped,” he replied, “but nothing to complain about.” When Law didn’t reply, just kept staring down at Zoro’s seat from the doorway he leaned against, Zoro thoughtfully gulped down a mouthful of drink, adding, “your crew is disciplined.”
“As a crew should be,” Law said, quickly like he had been waiting to speak those words for a while. A day spent underwater in the Heart Pirates’ submarine with no maintenance task to fulfill—plus the sweet of the drink—has put Zoro in a languid mood, and he just chuckled as Law finally moved, joining him on the bench. They sat in one side wing of the galley, the submarine’s interior architecture designed (no doubt to Law’s specifications) for maximum efficiency. Eating and recreational spaces were stacked, with benches and tables folding in and out of walls, the partitions all maneuverable to bare or cover people from one another.
“Trying to shit on my crew while the captain’s not here?” Zoro asked.
“Nothing I haven’t already said to his face, though that was admittedly a useless endeavor.”
“A guy like Luffy doesn’t need a disciplined crew.” Shrugging, Zoro offered the bottle to Law, who declined with a single hand gesture. “He needs people to clean up after him.”
Law quirked an eyebrow.
“And is that what you do, Zoro-ya? Clean up after the captain?”
“...Amongst other things.” Catching the sparks of gunpowder in the air, Zoro sat up, facing Law more squarely. Law’s eyes were shadowy under the brim of his hat, but glinted sharp like black blades once they fixed on Zoro. Zoro hasn’t stopped grinning. “You seek me out for some particular reason, Law?”
“Yes,” was Law’s simple answer. His gaze cut down Zoro’s chest, just like Mihawk’s sword had, ages ago. Zoro finished his drink, set the bottle and glass aside.
Then he braced a knee against the bench and shoved Law back against the wall by a shoulder. He gripped the surgeon’s still-bandaged arm carefully, but firmly. Law allowed the intrusion into his space with all the lounging, languid grace of spoiled royalty, his expression suggesting not only that everything was going his way, but also that Zoro had finally caught up to the party.
“You captains are all the same,” Zoro complained half-heartedly. Law’s overcoat had fallen open, and he was already licking his lips at the sprawl of inked torso before him. His free fingers curled into the waistband of Law’s pants. “Demanding as fuck, but do you ever return the favor?”
With an impatient cant of his hips, Law answered the rhetorical question with one of his own. “Well, if all you can manage is some sloppy pawing, can you really expect more than a mediocre handjob in return?”
Expecting perhaps some indignant protestations or even the threat of leaving, Law was surprised when Zoro’s single eye met his with an almost teasing light. Zoro popped open the button on Law’s pants at the same time.
“I’ll show you sloppy.”
What followed was, Law had to concede, a damn fine blowjob. Speaking around his sword all the time had apparently served as training for tongue dexterity, and Zoro now put that to very good use. And the way he swallowed—well, Zoro’s proven repeatedly, on many different lands, ships, and occasions, that he was an adept drinker. He drank down Law now, with all the cheery enthusiasm he had tackled his mead with.
Law finished with a startled shout, his orgasm having snuck up on him. He supposed he should have expected that, what with Zoro’s quick tempo from the get-go. Surprisingly, the man had managed to avoid a sense of unappealing urgency, like he was eager to get this over with. The rhythmic tongue flicks and cheeky slurping instead made it all quite... fun. Catching his breath, Law vowed in his mind that should this be a repeat performance, he would be far more ready to last longer next time.
“Good, huh?” Law matched the other swordsman’s smirk as they both resettled on the bench. “Time for your mediocre handjob, then.”
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It’s got to be the American West Coast, but perhaps it’s intercontinental. The streets of San Francisco don’t sleep either, but instead of stumbling drunks it’s moaning and bickering homeless. Chinatown area, where the geography is cramped urbane, with crowded lamp posts and sweaty alleys. We know these apartments, the tile floors and sliding doors, the noisy TV and the scent of Chinese vegetables neither fresh nor rotting, gogi berries and jujubes.
How hungry ghosts roam: their world is bigger than the human’s, because cosmology is an hourglass. Human-size applies to both time and space. Hungry ghosts walk the same topography but it’s stretched and distorted, “like a circle, but not a normal circle, a freaky circle.” Time and space have a tendency to stick to you, if you remain stationary for too long—that’s why hauntings so often get reputed to be locational. It’s difficult for ghosts to travel long distances. Their senses of time push and pull as well, where the more you give in to your sense of craving the faster you speed toward exhumation and requisite rebirth as a hungry ghost once more. Ghosts who have kept their minds can pace themselves as a human, but those who are losing it or forfeiting it get speedier and speedier. It’s like time is a cloth, and she can gather it into folds—where the human maintains steady time, ghosts can skip folds.
So can deities. Their time-space are expansive, and they don’t have to experience either firsthand. Time isn’t too visceral, in other words, so they can spectate time, rewinding and forwarding to fluctuating capacities. Stronger deities can even interact with humans and other beings through time. Space too, they hold like objects. Most famously, Buddha’s palm is the whole universe, and similarly, deities of lesser power can spin space like a roulette wheel, carrying humans from one side to another, just like that.
Day 2: What’s the Geography of your world?
This day is for many a day of map making, where builders throw macaroni onto paper to trace out landmasses or have arcane websites forge shore. Having a sense of place in your world can be a great help depending on the story you’re telling but even if you’re not into maps all that much, a sense of place in your work is sometimes good enough!
If you’re struggling with maps, look at existing maps for examples, and maybe even consider your own locale’s map to get a sense for scale and place.
If you want to toss the map out entirely, you can focus on important locations more than the minutia of the land, talking about interesting cliffs, and grand cities that stand out as landmarks for those who live in your world!
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urban fantasy: Buddhist cosmology in Asian America
you’ve got the realms of reincarnation and being a human is a rare and coveted spot, because your limited lifespan and lack of predetermined morality means you have the highest chances of escaping samsara. to convey this as a sort of numbers system, you qualify to be reincarnated as a human with ±50 karma “points.” People with negative karma points will suffer more in life, but can break even if they do not accrue more. People with positive karma points get a boost in luck and general happiness, but that isn’t always conducive to achieving nirvana.
the thing about nirvana is that many people don’t want it anymore. which is fine! people who focus on happiness and build up positive karma join the realm of deities when they die, and they live longer and have powers and are generally more stress-free. they may live a life without suffering.
but from another perspective, there is no life without suffering because always, all around you, there is suffering. negative karma puts you down the cosmological ladder, and depending on the type of negativity you accrue, you either become an animal (if ignorance is your “sin,” for lack of a better word), a demon (if you’ve been consumed by anger), or a hungry ghost (if greed governed your life). yes, karma is about balance, but that doesn’t change the fact that the state of these creatures is suffering. humans too, must suffer—whatever karma they have, they do not escape natural calamities and the injuries dealt by others, intentionally or unintentionally. because we are all living creatures, there is no life without suffering. because we are all reincarnations at any point in time, any suffering creature is your kin, is your loved one, and when they suffer you suffer.
the only escape is nirvana: extinguishment from existence. it’s the ultimate achievement, but the methods are almost entirely lost to our generation of Asian America.
so in the meantime, we just hold out for building good karma. one of our two protagonists is a hungry ghost, and the life of a hungry ghost is no fun. all food turns into dust in the mouth and all liquid turns to pus. the mouth shrinks down to a needle point and all hungry ghosts are doomed to starve. existing builds up their power, but the suffering from hunger often push hungry ghosts to anger, and they strike out against others, accruing bad karma. hungry ghosts are sentient, and possess the power to not hurt others—if they manage to die without hurting others in one lifetime, their good karma gets bumped up. but the more bad karma one accrues, the more one gets reincarnated as a hungry ghost, and if anger truly takes over, they get pushed down one more level into a devil, or a hell-being. they just burn eternal in the fire of their anger.
in this world, everything is very discrete to each “soul.” yes, others affect you, but in the end your karma is your own. buddhas and bodhisattvas, however, have the power to deliver one soul through reincarnations, like the ladders in the board game snakes and ladders. our hungry ghost protagonist is so tired of life as a hungry ghost that she seeks to make a buddha out of a human, revive the tradition of buddha-hood, bodhisattvas, and proper extinguishment, because she is so well-acquainted with suffering that she would rather it all end.
to make a bodhisattva out of a person though, you got to put them through a series of tests, and they have to desire the undertaking themselves. the methods of vajrayana buddhism are highly extreme, but it’s the only branch of teachings that make it possible for her to be delivered within this lifetime. greed still governs her.
Day 1: Tell us about your world
This day is about laying down the basic ideas about your world. This can help you create an elevator pitch to get people interested in your world, or can help lay down the basic principles that keep your world consistent while you build.
You might lay down genres such as action/fantasy/sci fi/mystery, and you may have a big idea that really defines your world such as its magic system, or a certain event or element that creates a backdrop to everything going on in the world.
I’ve even seen folks create short stories to lead into their world, which really sets the tone of what they want to do without outright saying their intentions.
Whichever way works for you!
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the crow landed at 2AM, when i still had my makeup on, and three layers of sweat formed and cooled and formed and cooled. there’s also a puffy little sparrow by my booted feet.
it’s been thirteen miles, and i’ve not yet forgotten how to cry, only forgotten how to forget. some have memory palaces i have a memory universe, every crystalized exhale shot to the stars. i’m running so fast i’m speeding the turns of the earth.
that constellation—born at 5:15AM. The Horror. twin scary movies conceived it and your wall was cool comfort. you hogged the sheets and my feet were chopped off by the mad men in masks. but what a venture, all skydiving organs and cinematic history. i’m grateful to her.
that constellation—6:25PM. Women Laughing at Salads, with butch lesbians next to us, and my bowl had the creamiest sauce. when we could hold hands on the streets but there was shitty racism. when there were bedsheets and orgasms.
that constellation—8PM. Just Crying. I had to walk away then too, hours of commute home by myself but at least that metro spoke my language. Words that changed me: i shouldn’t have to feel guilty for—— the last smiles leaving meant, it’s not okay now but it will be.
this constellation—9PM. Hey, Jude and Camilla. There were no smiles leaving. A last desperate touch, get home safe, please don’t die.
that constellation—11AM. That Text. The only time I’ll ever call you a fucking asshole.
that constellation—12AM. One Large Mattress. With two boxes split underneath holding it up but you wouldn’t be able to tell. Also known as, The Metaphor. When I didn’t want the words that changed me to have changed me and then I—— was this the moment? Is it me?
this constellation—3AM. Running. Running. Walking. Sweating. Running. I want my lungs to be doing more than crying.
which constellation—which of them—? Like the globe you spin and spin, slapping it until your hands turn red and your knuckles puff and your metacarpals split. Glaring into this ever-expanding documentation of everything that was ever beautiful and painful and creation hurts i guess but that doesn’t make staying created worth it, that doesn’t make the pain of de-creation a stranger.
i’ll disappear into the sun. the crow has a scratchy voice, like island pebbles crushed underfoot (that constellation—72 hours. Jeju). the sparrow is a dare—crush it underfoot—but don’t. hold the sparrow like you hold the sun—carefully. we’re not afraid of pain, we’re afraid of more pain. so just let the tendons shake and pray they hold you back, the sun the sparrow and i, we’ll all hold it together until 3AM, then 4, then 5.
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this is the anti-drama, the stuck curtains
and between us, a battle of missing cues
vague stage directions
lines stuck in the throat
i wondered today, with blood on my shins
what i could’ve done differently
the ending dictates the reading, see
and back when there was no ending
i could be having a rough patch
she’s allowed to have doubts, and even
it’s healthy to be critical
instead i’ve got blood between my toes and you asking
do you even care
how dare you ask me that how dare you ask that
the line and broken cues all pile down and
stink of burning plastic under the stage lights
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what is the truth in this moment?
i feel—
the step beyond hurt
the garroting wire around my windpipe when
i’m too drunk to even breathe on my own
i am beyond
sadness
the seep of tar like
i’m entirely washing away like
why would you—?
i never want to talk again
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summer is smearing through the trees. branches charred. leaves the color of deep fry.
to me, summer is the season of names, and winter is the season of mirrors
here in Seoul. i saw a police bus today. face with dark eyebrows crammed into a single square window slot. my usa sensibilities came into play and thought it a prison bus or
a school bus.
cement seems so much less harsh in this city. at least in this neighborhood.
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the guilt is
coal and fire both
i was the most giving of trees
before my roots were trampled and sapling branches charred
so i became a scientist, to hypothesize my own dying
for my dissertation, i might identify the brand new genus sexualus desirodata
kingdom plantae, order rosales
it’s got quite lovely flowers with a pungent smell
roots best in histosols with its damp organic matter
the sort of soil you simply sink two fingers into
family moraceae with the milky sap and fleshy fruits
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loving you is
forty apple seeds
where the forty-first means a nutty death
which got me sniffing around
what business does “love” have
sticking its fingers in my pie all the time?
a radio station shout-out to
the restaurants we don’t eat at anymore
shout-out to the evolutionary poisons
that sicken you— not deaden you— to teach a lesson
there’s no forty-first for me, not now
not ever
only warm crumble crusts or latticework
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days 136, 137, 138
i understood something at the end of the world, when you’ve become just bones and a pulse
and i have, strewn behind me, three kilometers of hair
the rot of this world handles itself, blooms out of the clay and eats until the air is free of dander
my whole body is a phantom limb sometimes— i can’t be rid of it— there’s aluminum and vanadium under my nails, ivy woven through my joints
i imagine invisibility for you, something the sunrise can suffuse with colors and syrups
it’s a grand old ending, with champagne and dye dust staining the clouds and we’re entirely ready to go away with it
bones in hand, an apple splitting after baking in the desert sun, and our tongues dissolve sweet
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day 135
when the air gets soft enough to breathe
and smells like lilies
that’s the settling song, by the prevailing winds
and the rustle is gentle through the fronds
tides on the horizon heaving like lungs
the biggest voice is the gull and she’s
a streak of waxy white, paint-black eyes, and she’s
that charismatic friend
here to carry you through the night
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day 134
i’ve become
a shrunken beast
three hoods done up
each on top of the other
i’m knife points on knife edges
i think i pull off the symmetry
but the drum pounds
and the alcohol soaks
and soft cloths wrapping sharp things
don’t tend to hold
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chrysanthemums are
contagious when they’re white
secrets blooming like
fingers falling apart and
bones falling into the earth
sleep has
crawled and burrowed
underneath my sternum and
i dream of letting her grow
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days 126-133
as far as standards go
platinum seems quite cold
“treat others the way they want to be treated” well
we can only ever hold ourselves accountable
see the ocean’s smarter than me
she gives and gives and gives but
she always pulls her saltwater back
i’ve become a water system under stress
a reservoir mostly empty, concrete overhead
like a jackknifing migraine, while rain sluices off
there are pockets— little gardens
nursing intravenous injections of groundwater
familiar hands, sweet and soft as loam
but i still taste the drought sometimes
can touch it with my fingertips and
i wonder if it’s when i hold your hand
if the twine’s too tight around the ivy
so here i go, round and round with the wire wrap
so i can stand firm, unyielding bones
(but the ligaments are creaking and browning)
the platinum is good for this, but
is she a lasting thing?
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tally-marked wrists, you’re a gentle one
i remember you the most in pink and blue
neon shades and a hip-rolling beat
who turns the very air into an aria
i think i know, you know? i think i know you
the aching depths of you, the dull eyes of you
i also know the you on fire, the you in chains
the you with the clutching grip
i don’t know you, but i know people like you
the familiarity so aching like my nails are tearing off
with how badly i want to keep you around
it’s enough to make you quit
a whole damn religion
don’t you know how hard it is to breathe, like you said
when you—?
prayer is the closest thing to closure
give him a happy ending instead of
give him back
give him back
i don’t think i need comfort, i need comeuppance
the whole damn ocean can’t wash that out of me
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it’s not defeat, it
makes sense
on the bluest nights when
heaps of yarn pile atop the horizon
we hear your song,
you know, we hear you
i don’t think the ocean will ever stop
hearing you, playing back the song of you
it’s the loveliest verse of all time but
who needs it, the wind the song and dance
if we can just get back the
brains, the lungs
the fingers the smiles
the teeth the eyes the
incredible, impossible life
i have no religion but pray, anyways
for your warmth and comfort now
the song is made
and sang, and gone
we’re reaching with trembling hands
for the wave that’s somehow never coming back
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