#A Litany at Dusk | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wxnheart · 1 year

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𝐀𝐦ā𝐫𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝

It envelops you like waves, this fascination, leaving you ecstatically sundered and submerged in golden glory. A golden glory you can't escape from. A golden glory you don't want to escape from.

And you dream of it. Dream of Him and his allure, holding on to you tightly and never letting go. He whispers words of encouragement against the backdrop of a polluted sky; He murmurs appellations in the dismal dusk; He captivates you with the stories of lifetimes past as you feign sleep on your ragged pallet.

You will become one He says, and you believe it with your entire being. Why wouldn't you? It makes the seemingly endless days and painstaking labor worth it.

No one else understands your destiny. How can they? They don't know the things He tells you. They can't see what He shows you. And why would they? They can't know. They can't ever know. And so you dream in silence. You dream in peace.

You dream of darkness, the void of nothingness, tearing you away from His powerful arms. You dream of tendrils and claws, covered in the stench of evil, rending your mind, body, and spirit. You dream of darkness, the void of nothingness, and you weep in despair.

You dream of resplendence blanketing you in gilded affection. You dream of a man remarkable, unremarkable, and divine all at once, and His gaze, the lifetime of a million stars, pierces your heart like a flaming arrow. You cling to him in your desperation and He, with a yearning you've never felt before, tells you that you are loved and that none will harm you. His words ring true and you will become One.

And you believe it. You believe it with your entire being. Why wouldn't you?

No one understands. No one understands the words you speak, and no one understands the promises He's made. No one understands the things you've dreamt, the things He's shown you. And why would they? They've never felt the embrace of gilded affection, never seen the lifetime of stars in His eyes. And why would they? It's for you. And you alone.

He comforts you amidst the backdrop of a polluted sky; He reassures you with calm wisdom and gentle praises. You are loved once more and soon, you will become One.

And you can't wait for the day. You toil and rage, toil and survive, toil and dream, and the disconnect grows ever wider. They wouldn't understand. And why would they?

You can't wait for the day... until it comes. Heavenly figures, their very presence inflicting pain, pulls you roughshod from the fray and his words echo throughout your heart. Soon, you will become One.

You hold on to that, hold on to his words amidst the stench of death, decay, and a litany of terror. You remember the stars in his eyes and how they penetrated your heart. You remember his words and the yearning has grown ever fervent; 'This', you say, 'is true love...'

You hold on to his words as you walk among angels, brilliant and dazzling, and oh, my love—!

You hold on to his words as the pain, a litany of terror, envelops you. No one understands. Why would they? It is for you. And you alone.

You find yourself submerged in golden glory, one you can't escape from, one you don't want to escape from, and you're face-to-face with Him again, remarkable, unremarkable, and divine all at once, and you knew then as you do now that His words rang true.

That regal visage, a lifetime of a million stars in the contours of His face, smiles a beatific smile, and you fall into ecstasy.

He holds you tight, never letting go, and You become One.

#emperor of mankind #warhammer 40k #wh40crack.#yandere40k.#emperor of mankind x reader #I don't know what to think of this just yet but do know that I have a whole ass playlist dedicated to writing yandere40k stuff lmao.#hope y'all enjoy!#cutie 𝓠.

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mashpotatoequeen · 4 months

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WHO DUNNIT TMBS CHALLENGE: petrichor

Despite the early hour, the day is starting to grow dark. It’s close enough to winter that the dusks have started to chase the horizon, the light fleeing quickly in a never ending game of tag. Still, it is autumn enough that it’s raining instead of snowing, the earth swallowing up the rainwater in great greedy gulps. Fallen leaves cling to the pavement.

Sticky walks through it carefully, avoiding puddles on the slick sidewalks and shuddering down to his core whenever he edges his way around a worm that has been called to the surface by the vibrations.

(He used to read more books about entomology and the phylum Annelida and arachnids. He doesn’t anymore.)

Even though his sweater is slowly getting more and more drenched, his socks are dry and warm inside his wellies because of his caution. It’s something he appreciates, and holds in almost quiet smugness; Constance- who has sloshed through every tiny body of water she could find with great gusto- has been complaining of cold toes for almost half an hour now.

She keeps splashing through puddles anyway, water filling her new red rain boots, droplets arching through the air gravity defying moment by gravity defying moment.

“George Washington,” Constance says, her voice high and loud and just this side of grating in the ways that only the voices of small children can be. Sticky sighs, and looks at her, and makes sure his polishing cloth is in easy reach: there has been no end to her litany of complaints. She has grumbled about the long walk and she has whined about being hungry and she has positively moaned about the dipping temperatures as the sun gets lower and lower in the sky.

If she’s calling him George, she must be in an onry mood indeed.

(It might be the cold toes. She’s been trying to convince him to give her his socks these past few minutes, and his refusal to consider the prospect might necessitate revenge in her small, strange world.)

Sticky never does like when Constance is feeling ornery. She’s unpleasant and brash and loud, and makes a point of pushing all his buttons. It’s a battle with his patience that he always, always loses.

All around them, the rain comes trickling down.

“Yes, Constance?” he says, and tries to sound calm and curious and not full of pre-set frustration for whatever escapes the little girl’s mouth next. Reynie is good at it, but Reynie is good at most things. Sticky consoles himself that he must at least be better than Kate, who doesn’t even try to hide it. He nods to himself and trudges onwards. They must be getting close to home by now; there is only so long you can walk before you get somewhere.

“Why are you so boring?” Constance asks, and Sticky feels his lips purse. He deftly side steps when she splashes into another puddle.

“I’m not?” he says, and is a little bit annoyed at himself that his tone comes across as more questioning than firm. He walks slightly faster, taking advantage of his longer legs, but she makes no hurry to keep up. Instead, she stops entirely to crouch down and investigate a worm with a disgusted look on her face.

Forced to admit defeat, Sticky stops, too, a safe few feet away. He blinks a few times to clear water from his eyelashes.

Constance shoots him a side-eye. “You are, though,” she says, quite calmly, like it’s not something incredibly rude, like you can just say those things to people, and the storm cloud on Sticky’s face just grows bigger. He grasps desperately for his teetering patience.

“What makes you say that?”

She groans, a little, and pops to her feet. She stomps over, each step sending water skittering across the pavement, uncaring of puddles or cracks but careful enough to avoid stepping on any worms. “We’ve been walking for nearly half an hour and I’ve not seen you go puddle hopping even once.”

Sticky blinks.

Usually, when someone declares him boring, it’s because he doesn’t want to play sports, or hasn’t seen the latest television show. It’s because his words trip out of his mouth- faster and faster- eager to share something new and interesting that he’s read only to discover that everyone around him has long stopped listening. Sticky knows he’s boring, is the truth of it. Dull and dreary seem to be labelled neatly onto his skin for everyone to see.

But he has never been called boring for something as inconsequential and reasonable as not wanting to get wet.

Sticky takes off his glasses and swipes his polishing cloth over them, once then twice and then three times. The rain speckling the lenses gives him an easy excuse. The moment’s pause gives him time to balance himself on his tightrope of patience. He says, a little sharp, “Not everybody likes to get wet, Constance.”

Constance raises her tiny hand and smacks him on the side, producing a muffled, sodden sound; the wool has been slowly absorbing the rainwater over the last half hour, getting heavier and heavier. “You’re already wet!” she declares, with a victorious grin, and then smacks him again for apparently just the fun of it.

It doesn’t hurt. Sticky feels prickly over it anyways, drawn tight and sharp and a little angry. There is a worm, some feet away, slowly squirming its way closer. Constance’s eyes are very blue. It hasn’t stopped raining, and they’re out in the open, and he’s cold.

Sticky Washington is many things, but a tightrope walker is not one of them. He takes two jerky steps forward, moving out of her reach, and then just keeps walking. It’s better to walk than to snap and say something mean. He keeps his focus on avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk, one step after another. The earthworms are given wide berths.

The clouds above them are still grey and drooping, and the rain does not stop. People have their lights on, inside their houses, probably attempting to keep the gloomy weather at bay. Sticky wishes he was back at Mr. Benedict's house, dry and warm. He wishes that it wasn’t raining, or that he hadn’t forgotten the money for the bus fare, or that he’d never agreed to let Constance tag along with him to the library in the first place.

Sticky wishes, a lot. He wishes he wasn’t scared of bugs and things that crawl and squirm. He wishes that getting caught in the rain didn’t make him feel like this, all small and drawn and anxious. He wishes that he was clever, like Reynie, or brave like Kate. He wishes that he could go about his day just not caring about all the tiny inconsequential things that always seem so worrisome to his strange tangled mind, the way Constance does.

Constance, who has to jog to keep up with him. Constance, who reaches out and snatches the fabric of his sweater, tugging as hard as she can, her bright red rain boots skidding across the wet pavement. Her tiny brow is pinched. Her face is as red as her shoes, painted in a scowl.

“Sticky,” she says, and maybe it's the use of his name, or the tone of her voice, but he stops and looks at her. He would raise an eyebrow at her if he knew how, but he doesn’t, so he just quietly waits instead.

After several long moments, the rain still falling down all around them, Constance sighs. “I just want to understand,” she murmurs, and lets go of his clothes. Her hands fall small and limp by her sides. “I don’t get why you don’t do it when everyone else does. Even Number Two!”

“Jumping in puddles?” he asks, and she nods. Her wet hair frames her face like a sticky curtain, strands clinging to her cheeks. It makes her look young.

Well. Younger.

Sticky sighs. His hands fumble for his polishing cloth, and through the soothing repetitions of cleaning his spectacles he manages to murmur, “I really do like staying dry.”

She doesn’t whack his clothes again, but she does poke him a little, where the fabric is wet and soggy.

“And?” she prompts.

“And I suppose, when I was a child, I wasn’t typically allowed. So possibly I’m just not used to it.” The words are hard to get out, each one like a heavy stone that just wants to follow gravity’s course as far down as they can, to somewhere deep and dark and safe. He says them anyway, and remembers the press of neat little outfits against his back and sides, the way his parents would hurry him along down the streets to catch the next competition, the next gameshow, the next opportunity to show off their son and win their next prize

T.V. hosts don’t tend to appreciate contestants with wet socks, is the quiet truth of it. Homeless boys tend to appreciate it even less, when you only have one pair of socks to begin with. Sticky knows, intimately, what it is to be cold and wet and with nowhere to go. He wishes he were better at not thinking about it. About not being scared.

The rain falls, and falls, and falls.

Constance’s fingers are small and wet and warm, when she grabs his hand.

He blinks at her, a little surprised, because Constance so rarely instigates physical touch with anyone who isn’t Reynie or Mr. Benedict. She ignores this, and holds on tighter. She gives his hand a little shake, like she’s annoyed at him. “You’ve very silly, Sticky Washington,” she says, and sounds self assured and exasperated both. “You still are a kid. And your parents aren’t here.” She jiggles his fingers one more time, and grins just a little sharp. “And you’re already wet, and we’re almost home.”

Sticky breathes, and then he breathes again. It smells like rain, wet minerals and the decomposition of organic compounds deep in the soil. He read a book about that, once. He’s answered quiz questions about it, too. Petrichor, he recalls, the smell of rain on dry earth.

There is a puddle collecting on the road, just off the ledge. It’s deep enough that he can’t see the bottom. It’s big enough that if a car were to pass by, they would become more thoroughly soaked than they already are. Sticky turns to it, and considers.

Constance sees this, and her hand squeezes his own. She huffs, just a little, maybe in impatience, but she says nothing at all. The kindness of it echoes, just a little, upwards and outwards and out.

It is not far to jump. The curb of the sidewalk is a few inches, at most. Kate would be able to tell for sure, but the point is that the distance is practically insignificant.

It feels momentous, regardless.

Sticky considers.

It will still be cold, is the thing. There will still be worms and there will still be a lingering, quiet sense of unease. A leap of faith cannot take away from that, no more than wishes can bend reality. Sticky is under no illusions that hopping in puddles will make him right. He has lived too long, strange and scared, to think that.

But here he is. And it is something. It will always be something, to be brave through your fear. To try. Sticky is learning that, he thinks. It's a small and gentle reminder he is tucking away into the corners of his mind.

Constance is right; they’re close to home. He has more socks, and no one to stop him from doing this but him.

He breathes, and he squeezes Constance’s hand-

And they jump.

The leap lasts less than a second. The leap feels like it lasts a minute, an hour, an entire day. Then the water bursts upwards into the air, displaced by their weight one after another. Sticky could explain why easily, the physics behind it all, but it is nice, in this one moment, to see it as something close to magic.

A huff of a laugh comes bubbling up from somewhere in his chest, and maybe that’s its own sort of magic, too.

The grin on Constance’s face is bright and pleased. She kicks the puddle with all her might, sending a spray of water into his shin and thigh. It’s shockingly cold. Sticky hesitates, then smiles right back, his boot awkwardly skimming the top to create an unpracticed wave.

It reaches her neck quite easily. Afterall, she is rather small.

Sticky grins. Constance sputters. “No fair!” she shouts, but something like a laugh is hiding in her voice. His grin grows wider, tentatively, and he splashes her again.

Seconds slide past, one by one by one. They pass in a blur of movement and water and competition, in Constance growing more and more indignant at his unfair height and Sticky growing more and more practised at using it to his advantage. A car passes, and gives two quick honks of its horn.

They pay it no mind.

This is what it is, maybe, to find healing. To do silly ridiculous things that maybe have no importance to anyone who isn’t you. To do the silly ridiculous things just because you can, because a small part of you wants to reclaim something that was lost.

(To do it not alone. That’s something Sticky is learning, too.)

Dusk starts to descend properly, light slipping away past the horizon in spits and spurts and starts. They are making their way, slowly, back home, but they keep getting distracted by the temptation of large puddles and Constance keeps getting distracted trying to rescue the worms. Sticky lets her, mostly, standing a few feet away. (He thinks that this might be okay, too; this bravery in increments. He is trying to let it be okay.)

Overhead, the streetlamps flicker on one by one by one.

“There you are!” a voice cries, and both Sticky and Constance glance up. Kate comes peeling down the street, a huffing Reynie several paces behind her. “And look, Reynie,” she says, and something mischievous sparks in her eye. “There we were, doing all this worrying, and they’ve been out here having fun! Without us.”

Reynie wheezes.

“I agree, Reynie,” Kate says with false aplomb, and her smile seems to just keep growing, scrunching her eyes up. Sticky throws Constance a look, a bit wary of whatever Kate has planned. Together, they brace themselves.

“We must seek our revenge!” Kate calls, and practically throws herself into the puddle beside them. The force of her landing sends water flying high and skittering, and a few drops splash against his cheek.

Reynie releases a breathless chuckle, and then he comes sloshing in after her. Once enemies, Sticky suddenly finds himself turning to Constance as an ally. As one, they sweep their feet through the water and send a great huge wave of it in their friends’ direction. Reynie yelps at the cold. Kate laughs.

Constance’s hand slips into his own, tugging urgently towards higher ground, and they start to run.

His socks are thoroughly soaked.

Sticky, for once, finds that he doesn’t mind at all.

#tmbs #the mysterious benedict society #who dun it mbs challenge #guess who's back back again

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orageusealizarine · 8 months

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to fuck beyond love

to love with the flesh

yours to mine gently

moving quivering of your body dazed

nights stretching above our heads

opening to the worship of love my mouth

over you – an ablution – your naked body passing

under

skies that are collapsing through my shriek

to let you know how adorable you are the glimmering

of lust-love lost in unbearable sensations rising

like the tide of our desire your tongue

licking mine – heavenly – the eyes shut

covering the dusk where our bodies hide

to make a temple

secret sweat all over

I love – pornography of our adoration

your flesh your limbs your loins

I love – all – litany of fuck – I love

beyond emotion – your soul – perverted – coalesced

with mine – one (flesh to flesh)

embrace – I love – the way you slide

and slide – touching – my eyes filled with

tears exultations

secretions dripping

your saliva spilled and lost over my skin

is a consecration I understand all the prayers to the naked goddess

of love sexual potency I love

your confidence pulsating

through my hands body head

beyond love the slight touch pleasuring

far far away drunkenness paradise

the purest form of ecstasy

divine

#en essayant d'écrire comme Lenore Kandel

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plagasitize · 7 months

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@theoneladytypeonelady said: ❛ you know you can always talk to me. ❜

even now she is afraid to look at her own hands as if, between blinks, they will be black veins spiderwebbing across her pale skin ⸻ the urge, then and now, to dig, to scratch, to tear the pieces of it's carapace out of her chest, a replacement for the idle doodling on her notes, picking at the flaking varnish on her nails. in the low light of dusk she had seen luis's scar, an ugly thing she expected to share, a lifetime of planning outfits around the covering of it in her future but neither of them were opened up in that little laboratory ( thank god, how could she had preformed a surgery like that? a little know-how, luis had said, and she lacked it ) and it sits, festering, in the back of her mind that a piece of the puzzle was missing, a vital step in the process they had stumbled past.

he's not the type to have a heart-to-heart, she had thought ( still does, on occasion ) but he had been gentle with her. supportive. encouraging. she likes to think she knows him and worries, silently, that it's all just work to him. the gesture is appreciated ⸻ who else could she talk to about it? who else would understand? anyone else who could is dead.

"is my dad paying you extra to play therapist?" light-hearted, not accusatory. spoken with a smile that despite everything has not diminished, "thanks, leon. that...that means a lot. really. it's just - do you ever...worry about it? if it's really gone?" a litany of questions sit along her tongue: how does he cope with it; can he sleep at night; does he know she tried, oh god she tried, to resist but it had not been her strength ⸻ the gun had jammed. her gaze lifts to look at him, fingers unwoven so she can brush her hair behind her ear. "god, i miss worrying about getting my homework done."

#theoneladytype #verse tag tba.#ash being like: i think i'll get a better conversation talking about our shared trauma #than asking what was up with the teleporting man or you just eating vipers right in front of me like its nothing

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creativefrustrations · 11 months

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Litany Of Things I Shouldn't Miss

Three hand-rolled cigarettes

and a zippo lighter in the dusk.

Breath of a boy beneath

my dusty boot heel.

Salt licked from the back of

another man's hand.

Cold steel touch against hot skin,

feel the pulse in his neck.

My name, echoing like

thunder in your throat.

Cheap whiskey burning away

the yawn of loneliness.

Moonlight breaking across our

bodies in the back seat.

Caress of good leather, just

before it strikes.

The image of a boy bracing for

a hand that hovers over him like a war.

A well-made Daiquiri.

Leaving a trail of lust-marked boys

on a dancefloor -

the name of each one, half-remembered,

bodies half-forgotten

Breathing in the scent of

another man's smoke.

Existence - the sweet wreckage,

being the jagged little pill

that made you think yourself

invincible until the morning.

#poetry #writerscorner #creative writing #new poets society #writing #spilledink #poem #queer poetry #queer #rejectscorner #poetblr #writeblr

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jotunkhiicha · 14 days

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I got bored while playing Detroit: Become Human.

Fran, Why Are You So Afraid of Love?

She would attest that she, in fact, is not afraid of love, but when it looks like this, blood and tears, how could she not?

How could she not fear the beast she’d let into her heart that tore down everything she’d ever known, leaving her with the tattered remnants of lost memories? How could she not fear the sudden awakening of truth in her heart, the deafening knell of reality as it comes crashing down towards her? How could she not fear the totality of separation and the agony of moving on—alone?

The world won’t wait for her to recover, nor will it wait for her to realise what she has lost or left to regain.

So, as she stands on this rooftop, her beretta pointed ahead, aiming where her tears were born from and her toxic hatred, she finds there to be no peace as the question rises again.

“Fran, why are you so afraid of love?” He asks her once and again.

She had said before that she saw no point in it. She only saw the pain after, that gaping black hole that infests the mind and sucks away the light of the world. She was mortified of moving on, of being the one constant in the litany of failures of her life—she feared being forced to realise her pain.

But, now, she has an answer.

Raising her head and showing her bloodshot eyes, red with fresh tears. “Because it feels like this.” She whispers into the snowy night.

The pair of them, they stand in opposite ends of this roof and at opposite ends of the world. In some way, that comforts her; she recognises they are simply not the same people anymore. They have met their end at the end of the sunset, the very same one where she realised that the world has never been fair.

It dangles everything before her, and only when she reaches for it does it fade away into dusk—losing a piece of herself with it each time it deviates from its trajectory between her fingertips.

“Is that why you’re going to shoot me?” He asks flatly, clearly not fazed by her presence in the slightest, even as she steps forwards with her gun leading the waltz.

Fran smiles as her tears fall, smiling in the face of the reaper and the one thing that has destroyed her life in its rawest form. “I’ve given it some thought. You deserve it because I know I can’t make you live and regret what you’ve done to the people I love.” She seethes and it drips with self-loathing.

Her words hang upon the words the viper whispered to her. Her eyes twinkle with something akin to a desire for death—a longing for the plastic rendition of finality to come take her away. She wishes to be taken by the ravens and left in their murderous embrace, sheathed in their feathers and left to infest the world with her bitter melancholy.

Connor tilts his head. “What is it you really want to say, Detective? Why did you come here to die?”

Fran laughs bitterly and shrugs. “I don’t fucking know anymore, Connor. I don’t know what I want to say to you. I hate you. I wish you’d have fucking died instead of Hank—but you’re a fucking machine, you can’t die! You can’t fucking die for what you’ve done to me! I can’t bring him back! I can’t get my life back!” She screams into the night, and the snow feels like tiny little angels, each one that rests on her shoulders are like feathers that will come together to fly her away, “And the worst thing?” She chuckles darkly as she looks up to the polluted sky and bites her lower lip.

A flicker of red exists on the cusp of her vision like a long lost ember in the night—a tiny whisper that begs to be heard.

She turns her head to glance at him and the pieces of her life fall from her grasp. “I don’t know how we ended up here.” She mutters with a sorrowful look that dips her toes into regret, that molten magma.

And perhaps, as she goes to shoot him and he is simply faster, this is why she is so afraid of love.

“Fran, why are you so afraid of love?” He asks as he cradles her, allows her blood to intermix with his own.

She smiles as she closes her eyes. “…because it feels like this.”

#writing #detroit become human #short story #why am i like this #oc #Spotify

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music-despite-everything · 1 month

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Litany by Billy Collins

youtube

You are the bread and the knife, The crystal goblet and the wine... -Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and the wine. You are the dew on the morning grass and the burning wheel of the sun. You are the white apron of the baker, and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard, the plums on the counter, or the house of cards. And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge, maybe even the pigeon on the general's head, but you are not even close to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show that you are neither the boots in the corner nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know, speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world, that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing down an alley and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees and the blind woman's tea cup. But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife. You are still the bread and the knife. You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

#poetry #poemsociety #poemblr #poem #poems and poetry #billy collins #jacques crickillon #litany #Youtube

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blessmeultima00 · 3 months

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In the tender glow of the evening's embrace, there sat a maiden, cloaked in the warmth of candlelight that danced upon her cascading tresses like gilded serpents. Her eyes, a pair of smoldering embers, held within their depths the untold stories of a soul that yearned for the distant and the divine. Each glance bespoke a litany of silent musings and unwhispered dreams, fleeting like the delicate flutter of a moth's wing against the pallor of dusk.

She was alabaster and moonlight, her skin a canvas upon which the soft luminescence painted a portrait of quiet resolve and ethereal beauty. The delicate fabric of her gown clung to her form with an innocence and ease, whispering secrets of a latent strength that belied its diaphanous veil. Within her slender hands, she cradled the wisdom of ages, bound in leather and thread, each page a testament to the ceaseless thirst for that which lies beyond the grasp of mundane hearts.

This quiet sentinel of knowledge and grace, suspended in a sanctum of oak and shadow, found solace in the silent communion with the tomes that beckoned her into their fold. She was at once a whisper and a declaration, a reverie and a presence most tangible, woven into the very fabric of the space that cradled her gentle spirit.

#woman #reading #book #library #candlelight #elegance #serene #vintage #soft light #lace dress #contemplative #ambient #historical setting

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6peaches · 4 months

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Billy Collins - Litany

You are the bread and the knife, The crystal goblet and the wine… Jacques Crickillon

However, you are not the wind in the orchard, the plums on the counter, or the house of cards. And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge, maybe even the pigeon on the general's head, but you are not even close to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show that you are neither the boots in the corner nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know, speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world, that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing down an alley and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

#Billy Collins #Litany #poem #poet

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insilverrolled · 1 year

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Mood Indigo

By William Matthews [x]

From the porch; from the hayrick where her prickled brothers hid and chortled and slurped into their young pink lungs the ash-blond dusty air that lay above the bales

like low clouds; and from the squeak and suck of the well-pump and from the glove of rust it implied on her hand; from the dress parade of clothes

in her mothproofed closet; from her tiny Philco with its cracked speaker and Sunday litany (Nick Carter, The Shadow, The Green Hornet, Sky King);

from the loosening bud of her body; from hunger, as they say, and from reading; from the finger she used to dial her own number; from the dark

loam of the harrowed fields and from the very sky; it came from everywhere. Which is to say it was always there, and that it came from nowhere.

It evaporated with the dew, and at dusk when dark spread in the sky like water in a blotter, it spread, too, but it came back and curdled with milk and stung

with nettles. It was in the bleat of the lamb, the way a clapper is in a bell, and in the raucous, scratchy gossip of the crows. It walked with her to school and lay

with her to sleep and at least she was well pleased. If she were to sew, she would prick her finger with it. If she were to bake, it would linger in the kitchen

like an odor snarled in the deepest folds of childhood. It became her dead pet, her lost love, the baby sister blue and dead at birth, the chill headwaters of the river

that purled and meandered and ran and ran until it issued into her, as into a sea, and then she was its and it was wholly hers. She kept to her room, as we

learned to say, but now and then she’d come down and pass through the kitchen, and the screen door would close behind her with no more sound than

an envelope being sealed, and she’d walk for hours In the fields like a lithe blue rain, and end up In the barn, and one of us would go and bring her in.

#william matthews

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robsfan-tasy · 5 years

Text

Random Rita ~ Thursday Feature Fics!

♥

Evenin’ ladies!

Once again, no fluffy bunnies, butterflies or unicorns fartin’ rainbows!

This fic had the hairs on my arms standin’ straight up from the first chapter to the end, although for two very separate reasons: 1) heart attack inducin’ angst and 2) a sexy beast of an Edward who won’t stop until he’s claimed his mate! HOT HOT HOT!!!

Jacob lovers need not apply…just sayin’!

(banner by Sue…

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#A Litany at Dusk #duskwatcher2153 #FanFiction recs #Kayleigh Cullen1918 #Rita01tx #Run #Sue Gilreath

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spinchip · 3 years

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Prompt:

Zane has a nightmare about his time as the E.M. & lashes out, how do the other ninja deal with this?

Wordcount: 1300

The wail rends the night in two, agonized screaming slicing the dusk into a before and an after. Consciousness slams into Jay like a bullet to the head, his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest as fear and adrenaline flood his veins. His eyes open to the peacefulness of his room, the honey-yellow glow of his night light casting everything in warm tones as the scream ends abruptly. Jay's ears ring in afterimage and he scrambles out of bed- he’s barely conscious enough to form thoughts, but what little he can come up with is a litany of curses as he fights the grip of his bed sheets until he falls to the floor in a tangled heap. Wiggling free, he stumbles to his feet and has the presence of mind to tug on a pair of pajama pants. Shirtless and still half asleep, he throws open his door and goes careening out into the hall to find he’s late to the party.

Lloyd and Nya are at the end of the hallway next to Lloyd bedroom door, both looking pale and frightened. Hand in hand, they lean into each other, and while Lloyds eyes are dry Nya is fighting tears. Jay blinks, waking up fully and he swings around to look down the hall. Kai is standing in the doorway of Zanes room with his right hand white-knuckling the frame, utterly still. Now that Jay's blood isn’t roaring in his ears, he can make out Zane’s voice, his words are muffled and strung together.

The familiar rumble of Cole's voice cuts into the near franticness of Zanes, and Jay approaches the room with one hand on the wall for support. At Kais shoulder, he peeks into the room.

The light from the hallway bounces off Pixals hair, silver strands reflecting it over the room in tiny star-like pinpricks of light nearly too soft to be seen. She’s got her back to Kai and Jay, her arms bent to press her hands over her mouth, and she’s shaking. Past her, on the floor next to Zanes bed, are Zane and Cole.

Bent over on his knees, Cole presses his lips to Zanes temple and shushes him softly, rocking back and forth. In his arms, Zane sobs. He’s clinging to Cole in a way that looks nearly painful- hands wound around his shoulders to fist at his sleep-shirt and face pressed bruisingly hard into his collarbone as he shakes. He’s splayed across the floor in an imitation of Jay earlier, legs tangled in his blanket and drawn up to his chest as much as physically possible. There’s a slash of ice across the wall as if Zane had lashed out in his sleep, broken glass from his window glittering on the floor. Jay's mouth is painfully dry, his heart squeezing in his chest.

Now that he can see the full picture, now that he understands, he can piece together what Zane is saying, “I’m going to hurt you,” He repeats like a promise, but there’s no pride that lives there. It’s a gutted, agonized sort of confession when he says, “I’ll kill you, I’ll kill everyone-” He tries to breathe but it catches raw and painful in his chest and devolves into another set of painful sounding sobs.

“Shhh,” Cole soothes, powerful arms looped under Zane's armpits to support him. One hand scratches the base of his neck, catching on the short hair there, “It was just a dream. You were dreaming.”

This only seems to set him off more as he cries harder, “Go away,” He begs, “Leave me alone, I don’t want to hurt you. Go away.” But he still holds onto Cole like an anchor, seems to cling even tighter as if afraid Cole really will leave. Cole doesn’t even entertain the thought of letting go while Zane so obviously needs him.

Cole looks up, turns to face them- Jay heart pings painfully in his chest. Cole is crying. He meets Jay's eye for a moment before looking at Kai. They share a long moment before Cole jerks his head and Kai nods, spurring into action. He reaches out and takes Pixals upper arm and she immediately turns into it, spinning around at his coaxing and burying her face in his chest. He wraps his arms around her and walks backwards, rubbing her back as he leads her out of the room.

Close the door he mouths to Jay, and Jay takes one last look at the two huddled in the room before he clicks the door shut. Kai hugs Pixal tightly as she calms down, holding her until she stops shaking, until she moves away first.

“Thank you,” Pixal whispers. She turns and stares hard and Zanes door again, her fingers bunching up Kais pajama top. Her face screws up in unreadable emotion.

“They don’t need an audience.” Kai says softly, placing his hands on top of hers. She relaxes and nods. The silence is broken by muffled voices from the other side of the door, Cole and Zane talking quietly, desperation and fear and comfort leaden in their voices.

No one moves to go back to their room. With a sigh, Kai turns and walks down the hall. Pixal follows him, and Jay only looks away from Zanes door when Nyas hand lands on his elbow and tugs him along. He follows absently, allowing her to sit him down in a chair at the table in the kitchen. It’s early enough that breakfast is absurd but not out of the question, and Kai busys himself by pulling down the pancake batter. Nya offers to help. Lloyd brings Jay a glass of water and sits next to him, sliding his chair closer so he can rest his head on Jay's shoulder. At the head of the table, Pixal is sitting with her head in her hands.

Jay thinks about before this all happened, when he’d come into Zanes room and woken him from his nap. Zane had been scared then, too. He’d told Jay exactly what was going to happen, and Jay hadn’t listened, hadn’t even- when he blinks he sees Cole hugging Zane close, trying to reassure him, trying to ground him.

What did Jay do?

Nothing.

A plate of pancakes breaks his ruminating thoughts, the clink of the plate bringing him out of his head. He’s not hungry, but he eats anyway. This is the ninja way. He drowns it in syrup and uses a fork and a knife. Next to him, Lloyd tears his pancakes into pieces with his hands and dips them in the syrup. Breakfast is a silent, forlorn affair.

Dawn filters through the kitchen window and Jay's friend is broken. It’s a fact of the universe. Like the sun will rise, Zane will sacrifice himself and deal with unimaginable consequences. Like the sun will set, the ninja won’t be good enough, and Zane will pay the price. In Jay's failure, Zane will suffer.

He stands from the table. It's a screeching drag of his chair legs, the others stop to watch him, wondering what he’s about to do. He leaves, cutting through the kitchen into the courtyard, stalking out into the center while fighting tears. When he turns around, they’ve follow him, worried. He won’t fall apart.

He squats into a familiar stance, moving through the steps confidently, running his first training drill of the day.

“What are you doing?” Kai asks.

“It won’t happen again.” He says instead, “I’ll be stronger. I’ll protect him.” He jumps up and kicks, flipping backwards to land the move perfectly. He shifts into stance again.

He runs the move twice more before Kai steps onto the dirt and joins him. In the end, they all join him.

Cole and Zane skip breakfast.

#zane julien #ns11 #cole ninjago #jay walker #kai ninjago #ninjago #spinchip fic

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