#although he doesn't seem to have his lung disease in this one so maybe not lol | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

girderednerve · 1 year

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finished listening to this audiobook about coal worker's pneumoconiosis, yay

the book is soul full of coal dust by chris hamby. a lot of it is very good! it provides a brief history of CWP primarily in appalachia, then gets into the modern regulatory history of coal dust, beginning with the 'black lung insurgency' of the late 60s & early 70s. he cites derickson, i love it so much when i am reading a new thing and it cites something i already know i am always like 'yeehaw that's my buddy, noted labor historian alan derickson, whom i have never met.' anyway it's concise & engaging on that front imo although i understand if you don't trust my judgment here

most of the book is interested in very specific procedural problems around black lung safety regulation & the black lung benefits program, which hamby mostly examines via a former miner named gary fox and his lawyer, john kline. the human details are reported with depth & care & i found them moving. the end of the book is sort of awkward, as hamby tries to find for us a victory—primarily the new medical disclosure rule in black lung benefits cases, although he also points to new dust limits in coal mines—even as the situation seems pretty fucking dire. if you look at any NIOSH reports about black lung & particularly progressive massive fibrosis (a condition caused by extensive exposure to both coal dust & silica; i have only read about it as PMF, but hamby calls it 'complex black lung,' so idk what the technical term is), you will see that they both trend sharply upwards over the last few decades. the reasons for this trend are complex & entrenched: aggressively mechanized mining, longer shifts, narrower coal seams, years of cursory enforcement for insufficiently rigorous dust exposure standards, plus other stuff i've forgotten. we might consider decreased unionization, too. anyway that part is bleak, but now at least when you have to go to court to get your former employer to pay you a monthly fucking pittance for exposing you to deadly coal dust for years, they have to give you all the medical evidence they collect as they try to discredit you! yay? it's one of those regulatory changes which is profoundly small & incremental but does have a meaningful effect on people's lives. it is just hard to get excited when you've gone into exhaustive detail about how every other part of the process is also bad & evil. maybe that is a me problem. it was very interesting

other things i noted: this book dodges a lot of large-scale politics, although hamby is obviously on the side of labor; he (very pointedly, imo) avoids talking about coal miners' personal politics. soul full of coal dust also doesn't really address the environmental aspects of coal mining at all; it's pretty focused on the risks & indignities of black lung from underground mining. there's a brief moment where the practice of coal mining is connected to air quality risks for the surrounding communities, and i wanted to read more about that. i think i have a reasonably high tolerance for reading about the law & i thought this book went a little long on the court stuff, so i would've preferred some more environmental connections. especially since rates of black lung in surface coal workers are also ticking up!

anyway good book good time i recommend it & i think we should all spend more time contemplating industrial dust inhalation disease

#booksbooksbooks #industrial dust inhalation disease

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recurring-polynya · 3 years

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Hey this is for our Redhead's bday. Its like a fluff and angst with a happy ending. Is it possible to make a Renruki based on Hanahaki disease? Do you know about this fanfic trope? Its like a person who doesn't know or think their love is requited, will cough up petals. They can only be saved with a confession or accept that they cannot be together with their love interest. I don't want it to sound too morbid. Let me know if its possible.

Wikipedia description for better understanding:

Hanahaki Disease is a fictional disease where the victim of unrequited or one-sided love begins to vomit or cough up the petals and flowers of a flowering plant growing in their lungs, which will eventually grow large enough to render breathing impossible if left untreated. There is no set time for how long this disease lasts but it may last from 2 weeks to 3 months, in rare cases up to 18 months, until the victim dies unless the feelings are returned or the plants are surgically removed. There is also no set flower that blossoms in the lungs but it may be the enamoured’s favourite flower or favourite colour. Hanahaki can be cured through surgical removal of the plants' roots, but this excision also has the effect of removing the patient's capacity for romantic love. It may also erase the patient’s feelings for and memories of the enamoured. It can also be cured by the reciprocation of the victim's feelings. These feelings cannot be feelings of friendship but must be feelings of genuine love. The victim may also develop Hanahaki Disease if they believe the love to be one-sided but once the enamoured returns the feelings, they will be cured. In some literature, other symptoms can be fever, uncontrollable shaking, loss of appetite, low body temperature, and hallucinations. Even after curing, with or without surgery, there can be irreversible damage to the lungs and, although very rare, in some cases the disease cannot be cured.

Ha ha ha, of course I have heard of Hanahaki disease, my brain is 100% rotted by fanfic.

I. hate. Hanahaki disease. It is probably my #1 most hated trope, up there with every single soulmate thing that treats love like some sort of inescapable destiny and strips the characters of any agency. To me, falling in love may be more or less involuntary, but the choice of whether or not to pursue it is the very crux of romance.

In any case, I was just going to... not do this one, except that I walked around mad for half a day and then wrote this up in, like, two hours. This sounds terrible, but this is actually an ideal day for a writer! I am really happy with how it came out! Thanks for the prompt!! I mean this with absolute sincerity!

Warning: Bad language, because Renruki aren’t any happier about any of this than I am.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

🌺 🌺 🌺

“How the fuck,” asked Rukia, “did you get that into my house?”

Sitting on Byakuya’s good tea table was a heavy green glass bottle of Rukongai’s worst rotgut. And two saucers.

Sitting cross legged and cross on the other side of the table was Abarai Renji.

“I told the captain it was necessary. Sit down.”

Usually, Rukia would take being ordered around like that as an invitation to call him names, but there was something angry and serious in Renji’s tone, so she sat instead, and let Renji pour each of them a saucer of something that smelled like lamp oil. Silently, they tossed back their drinks.

“You want to tell me what this is about?” Rukia asked as Renji refilled.

Without speaking, Renji pulled a carefully folded handkerchief out of his kosode and slid it across the table.

Rukia’s hands clenched into fists.

“Go ahead,” Renji said offhandedly, sipping his sake.

She didn’t want to. She knew what it would be. But she did it anyway, reached over and flipped open the handkerchief to reveal a handful of mangled, half-rotted flower petals. Hot rage ran through her veins. “Are you going through my trash now?” she demanded.

“No, I asked the captain to,” Renji replied coolly. “I assume he had someone do it for him, but he didn’t say.”

“Fuck you,” Rukia snapped.

Renji stared at her, his eyes cold and angry. “That night we camped in Hueco Mundo. Before we caught up with Ichigo and the others. You coughed up half a camellia and a good inch of stem in your sleep. I… figured we had more pressing concerns at the time, but I asked your brother to keep an eye on you after we got home.”

Rukia took a gulp of her drink. “Well, congratulations, Detective Abarai, you cracked the case. You’re so smart that I’m sure you know how these things end, so we don’t need to discuss it.”

Renji squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then opened them again. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t have to be a death sentence, you know?”

“It’s complicated,” Rukia grumbled. “I’m not explaining it to you, but it’s not… solvable, and I can’t… I won’t give up. Not this time.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Renji continued, his voice quieter. “There are ways to… manage it. Live with it.”

Rukia’s brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a disease of the soul, y’know, not the body, which is why humans don’t get it. With a strong enough will, you can keep it in check. The key, the thing that really lets it get ahold of your lungs, is when you start to lose hope.”

“You want me to live in denial, then?”

“No, not quite. But there’s some… techniques. We live a really long time, Rukia. Things may seem one way now, but… but who’s to say how they’ll be in sixty or seventy years, right? I mean, it’s not easy, but if you can imagine sort of… jarring up your feelings and packing them away for later.”

“Like pickles.”

“Yeah, like pickles.”

Rukia finished her saucer and reached for the bottle.

“Another thing that works sometimes is to try to…” Renji gestured helplessly. “Reframe it. I’m sure you’ve read poems about courtly love.”

Rukia made a face. “I fail to see how reading old-timey thirst poetry about wasting away from wanting to sleep with someone else’s wife is going to help anything.”

Renji’s face took on a pained cast. “Yeah, I guess some of them are like that. But being in love with someone who doesn’t love you back doesn’t mean your life is...meaningless. There can be something really beautiful and noble and sorta romantic in and of itself about loving with no hope of reciprocation. That you can still be of… of service to a person, even if they never notice you.”

“Renji, that’s fucking nonsense,” Rukia informed him, topping up his drink as well. “Where do you get these ideas?”

“Or you can just really absorb yourself in some goal. Be so busy you don’t have time to worry about love. Time passes quickly when--”

“Renji, just stop. I know you’re trying to help, but I’m… I’m sick and no amount of made-up wishful thinking is going to make me better.”

Renji’s face rapidly cycled through a number of emotions, like he kept coming up with things to say and then biting his tongue instead. “It’s not fucking made up, okay? People have lived with it for years, you know. Decades. Fuck, Rukia do you know selfish this is?”

“‘Selfish’?” Rukia echoed incredulously. The alcohol was starting to hit, and it made her feel unmoored, a raft floating in a sea of her own grief and anger. What did he know anyway? He was married to his job and his duty. The truest companion, the most generous soul, so free with his heart to everyone he called friend, but he didn’t know jack shit about being in love. Renji was the most transparent person in Soul Society. If he had ever fallen in love, it would have been public knowledge. Maybe his heart didn’t even work that way. What the Hell did he know?

“Yeah,” Renji spat back. “Selfish and cruel. How can you love someone-- even if they don’t love you back-- and-- and-- let yourself die from it? What kind of a monster would do that? You can hold on, Rukia. You’re so strong, I know you can. Just… just listen to me, for once. I can help you.”

Rukia felt her eyes burning, so she grabbed the bottle and took a long drink from it until her whole face burned. “Fuck. Off,” she replied, slamming it down on the table.

“I won’t,” Renji growled. “Ichigo cares a lot for you and it would kill him, Rukia, you hear me? You can’t do this to him, or-- or the rest of us, either.”

Rukia stared at Renji uncomprehendingly. The room was starting to swim. “What the fuck does any of this have to do with Ichigo?” She suddenly felt very tired, so she folded her arms and put her head down on them. “You fucking dumbass.”

#renji's birthday 2k21 #my writing #why isn't there a camellia emoji?? i used hibiscuses because they kinda look like camellias but imagine they are camellias #i think the primary driver behind me writing this was just an excuse to get back on my camellia bullshit

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moon-stars01 · 3 years

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Carnations

Woozi x Reader

Author-SBK

Summary:y/n knows it’s deadly from the way it burst inside her,But she doesn’t care not anymore.

Pairing:Woozi(Svt) x Reader

Gene:Baseball au,unrequited love,Angst,bad ending,hanahaki Disease

Rating:Teen Audience

Word Count:1536

-Carnations-

She can feel the tears, like their swelling just behind her eyes unwilling to spill over like a dam filled with way too much water. She doesn't want to admit that though, never in a hundred words - and well, if she ever tried to explain how she felt, it'd probably just fall short. No, maybe short is the wrong word, it would be more like her feelings skydiving, twisting through the air at over 800km/h, a mad descent into the earthy, rocky ground below.

Like falling without a parachute.

But maybe it would be made worth it, because for just a second, you got to imagine the whole world in your palm, got to feel the wind whisking through your hair, as if pushing you away from your very death - it would be worth it because just for a second, just for a second, the earth would seem so tiny, incomprehensibly small.

She imagines, perhaps, this is what dying without actually dying, feels like. It's the twisting in the pits of your stomach, tossing and turning in your bed sheets at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering - just wondering. What did I do wrong?

Maybe there really isn't a simple answer for that though, no - there could never be a simple answer. It's a bitter swelling within the confines of her chest, one that makes it feel like something is about to burst from him - like striped carnations from her ribs, stretching and poking, ripping and prodding -

Conceivably, this might just be what the harsh reactor of reality might feel like, the way it comes crashing down around you - and you can't stop it. You can't do anything, but witness from afar as it cascades around you like a leaf trapped at the bottom of a children's swimming pool, harmless in appearance, but deadly in occurrence.

L/n y/n feels like she's, by definition, drowning.

It's spring, the time for flowers and life to rear their ugly heads from muddy, green earthy grounds - begging for attention, demanding for rain - demanding and demanding and demanding - and y/n, she doesn't remember flowers hurting this badly. Doesn't remember feeling like her bones were cracking under immense weight, doesn't remember the way she feels like she's going blind - like she's losing sight of yellow mitts - but she is. She's losing sight, slowly but surely, as striped carnations in all their glory stretch from eye sockets, over taking her vision like cloudy reminders -

You were never enough.

They whisper menacingly in her ear at night, force their way into her dreams, picking and plucking and ripping - removing all resemblance of what was known as the harsh word: love. There was no room for that here, in a land of rowdy driven teenagers - she knows that, she tries to know that, she tries to remind himself when she can see, the baseball resting comfortably - familiarly in her palm.

But love? That doesn't grow here.

What does is the bitter taste of regrets that linger on your tongue like acidic candy to teeth, sticking, and melting away any defense you might've had. It's like worms digging their ways through ripe, rounded apples - consuming, eating it - but not all the way, just in a way that leaves a long, hollow tunnel - winding and twisting.

It's like trying to guide that tunnel without sight, it's like being unable to see any hope at the end - no, chasing things here, things that aren't related to hitting home runs and achieving number ones - well, it just doesn't happen.

It. Just. Doesn't. Happen.

So when Y/n rips stems from her eyes, bloodied petals that were once obscuring her vision now laid out in marble, white sinks, she knows. She knows.

Oh God, does she know.

Striped carnations, in their own, fluttery existence mean something y/n wishes they never meant.

Stripes mean a regret for love that cannot be shared.

The flowers are more like a gentle reminder, than anything. They are from Lee Jihoon, and the catcher has no idea he even sent them. It's like a soft whisper into the harsh night, as if he's replying without ever really hearing y/n.

They say, bitterly:

"I want to be with you, I'd love to be with you, but I can't."

She knows this as the sudden yellow, bold yellow, carnations grow from her ribs, pushing against her skin until they sprout through her flesh - dripping a violent red shade with them, when paired with a bold, solid color, striped carnations mean so much more.

It's a regret for saying no.

But regrets don't stop the spread of vegetation, and how do they even survive - these flowers. With no water, no sunlight, they protrude through the darkest veins and darkest caverns of the human body, fragile, unable to stop their spreading - like an infectious disease, it keeps going and going, running its course - and Y/n is at the mercy of flora, beautiful colors, sickeningly sweet smells.

Sickeningly sweet ideals.

Now bitter, against the remaining taste buds in the sunlight's harsh gaze.

If the catcher, the one y/n has chased so diligently, wondering when the next time she'd be able to pitch to the other would be, had just said no - just a flat out no, simple within its existence, she could've trudged on.

Could've understood, maybe.

But a no with regrets, was like sex with strings attached, it pulls at you like a puppet, forcing you to remember all those times - all those moments you got a little too close with someone, let lips linger a little too long, let eyes stare a little too much.

It's all those times you were a little too exceedingly in love, it's all those times you cared a little too abundantly.

It's all those times you cried into your pillow at night.

Maybe the flowers were capable of growing from salty, wet tears.

It's all those times you said to yourself, in the dark to no one else, no louder than the tiniest squeak of a mouse:

I just want him to look at me back.

Just for a little while.

It's all those times you admitted those feelings to yourself.

That's why, that's why with long stems, striped carnations stretch from her eyes like extra limbs, yellow carnations erupt from her chest like she's being impaled - and she is, really, in the heart. Over and over, and over again. Like once wasn't enough, maybe this is how Julius Caesar felt.

Julius was only stabbed twenty three times, though.

Y/n has been stabbed over a hundred, she's sure, and counting. Although this isn't something you'd brag about, isn't something you'd write home about, isn't something you'd enjoy enough to care about.

Y/n knows, silently in the back of her mind as she takes sharp shears, sawing away at overly thick stems that are inching from her eyes like dark omens, like the literal festation of regrets:

It would all go away if he'd just look at me, just want me back.

But if Lee Jihoon wanted her back, then l/n y/n wouldn't be growing a personal garden within the careful little innerworkings and cogs of her body.

If Lee Jihoon shared feelings, the flowers wouldn't be striped, wouldn't be mixed in with bold ones too.

See, Jihoon is saying, in his own way:

You're great, really, I want to love you, I do, but I only love baseball.

Jihoon has only one love, and that's for catching baseballs on a baseball field, behind a batter's box, in a catcher's zone, crouched in front of the umpire like a jester before an emperor.

Obsessions, how they blossom within you before you even realize it, and Seokmin is shaking at y/n shoulders - pleading with the flowers to stop growing, an entire dorm room - number 5 painted on the door - is overflowing with posy - another word for flowers.

There's a lot of words for a lot of things, really, but nothing quite feels like this.

Seokmin is sobbing now, tears dripping onto carnations, carnations that already looked to have been soaked in blood from the tips - just naturally, now with the added, dark red - near brown, that seeps into the pedals, turning them into a different shade altogether -

It's fitting, really, how y/n's blood changes them to a swirling, calamitous red hue.

A color that denotes deep love for someone, and y/n really did, have a deep love for someone.

She loved someone so much, with every fiber of her being, she died for it.

Jihoon coughs out pink and light red carnations the next day, they, in their silent yet deadly approach, spread from his lungs and out his mouth, they mean:

Admiration, and missing someone unforgettable.

You could give everything to someone,

And it still wouldn't be enough.

#seventeen #kpop #seventeen fanfic #stories #woozi x reader #woozi scenarios #woozi fanfic #woozi fluff #lee jihoon #woozi angst #woozi au #woozi svt #jihoon #jihoon drabbles #woozi drabbles #jihoon scenarios #woozi x you #jihoon x reader #Jihoon x you

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