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therealemotion · 2 years

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Twilight Suzuka by Antigone aka shelina chapman

Wednesday, March 3, 2021

8:21 AM

Chapter One: The fairytale character

My thoughts are to bleed like a mad soul in twine, I say to myself . The voices in my sczhorphrenic head are waging war with. God had told me, long before he gave me sczhorprenia, that I was the Holy Grail.

I could control my fears…but could I control Him? I try to. He only laughed. He would say my Holy Grail was of two naked women in a cup, meaning superficially, I was a Lesbian.--which I, at least to my virgin Knowledge was not.

I listen to Supermassive Black Hole by Muse from the Stephanie Meyer's inspired "Twilight" films. I never watch them, I only read. Reading is ALL I ever do…Either that, or sit around and do nothing but sleep in.

I but on a show in my room as I begin to drift in the world of Real Emotion. My thoughts are luminous. My feeling sore and defiled. I have no EMOTION, I tell myself. My emotions are just that bare a popsicle stick.

I do not watch television, however I do play games on the PlayStation 2 every now and then. My room was a mess, so I reluctantly decide to start cleaning it. My head then fills with the after effects of the amorphic gassy and fizzy feeling of medicinal lightheadedness from not taking my prescription for fears that I may be poison myself with the image of bilateral fusion with Piper and Picus. Piper an Picus are a sedative for making ends met. That is what the gods of Mt. Olympus keeping murmuring, not to me, but about me and me being able to hear the voices of the dead.

No one outside the animal world knows of me and the power vested within. And even that has its shortcomings. That is because the presence of good and evil are everywhere, not just within Man but within Nature. Take that as my experience with my imagination, calling itself Abolisk the Tormentor, or my menial term Imagination, and you get bitter sweet Choas.

I lead with my mind not with my heart.

I can speak to the animal, that is one of the abilities I have. I can shape change, however, I can only complete translation only under certain circumstances. Such things include the Heart judging, as if I would ever allow myself to lead up to that. The heart can fool me, and with a mind like mine, why base everything on love and beauty of your typical Ares woman? I lead with my mind not with my heart. I think a strong mind wields a stronger body and a mind is a terrible ting to waste.

I practice playing games to support myself in battling those mysterious shadows that prey on the weak-minded or the passive. It is the art of war using residual thinking, positive reinforcement, and learning and probability. I practice reviewing school interludes that I used to know before I had graduated before being affected with the mental illness sczhorprenia.

With my eyes wide shut, I would imagine whole new worlds of adventure I read about in books to the point my father thinks it does not do me any good. My imagination is so vivid, its self-aware and able to come to reality. That is when I find out not only I could stop time, but also move back and forth through it in sleep mode.

I call my intuitions "Memory", "Memory", "Melody", "Mnesesyne" or in assimilated order. I had built a time machine, in which Pegasus interrupted and took that away. I have invented time travel back to the Cretaceous Period where my dinosaur dream avatars would be only to discover that all my dreams are real by the message of Allah.

My dreams are amphitoads, now. They spiral out of control. I have dreams of the god of the Underworld as Edward Cullens, his own reincarnation

Edward was an underworld, fairy dream that I ran into in my soon-to-be nightmares while Hades, was my day-to-day reality. He rarely ever bothered Cerberus, the demon-dog of Hell as they walked side-by-side on the Earth saying that they ruled the Netherworld. Cerberus would be in the disguise of a normal animated, Labrador or a human musician.

He kept close to the ghost of Aaliyah and the figurine of Missy Elliot. His association with the canine world was unprecedented. He would really blow them away, especially Charlie Barkin and Elizabeth Taylor, two other angelic dogs caught up in the Netherworld.

I pause. Cerberus thinks to himself again. He understands everything I have been saying. He smiles in his dog-gone smirk that "…the chimney between us goes far as it is wide. Don't it??"

I listen to myself think again for a while. Maybe I can make a new platform hit of Death for Sailor Pluto's planet.

Cerberus thinks to himself again.

My eyes feel watery. I wipe them clean. I begin to think of a more innovative "death". I summon up the courage to challenge my of "life".

I hear Pluto say to himself, "the Garment Grid ain't what it used to be," and then mumble on.

As apparent as the legendary Darla Dimple would have said, "I'm not worthwhile." And that's only because Mary Magdalene poised a threat to her foundering youth.

I want to know about You, I tell myself. Then, I see her: my other self, my other Isabella Swan. Her name was Nadene, alias Christine Howard or Christine steward or whatever, and she looked exactly like myself even thought she was a complete stranger. I got along with her, yeah, uh-huh, but because I was Black and she was Pilipino, my dear Hades sided that white was right and began flirting with her.

He gives me a pat on the thigh and smiles, "I know what you're thinking….?"

"What?"

"You're hunting rabbits," he laughed.

I pretend to be Sailor Pluto from Sailor Moon and guard the invisible gate of Time found in my virgina. Amused, as always, my infrivoulous and infractilous admiration of Pluto goes ten-to-one, even if Isabella is there.

Morning rises, suns set.

The dead walk the earth.

Morning, noon, and night I

Pray, thou befoul my

Epidiifs Earth

Naked, cold, and wandering

A virgin lights a candle.

So black that she utters slurs that.

Transpire as the evening shadows.

Hearts are one, and seasons baring.

And she continues to count backwards.

Time moves on without her.

A high and mighty virgin

Sacrifice….

The cold is baring. The seasons are neigh.

I have no home but the Virgin Mary inside.

I make love to by virgin lover, whose eyes see

Nothing—hear nothing—knows all.

My pilgrimage is one and I am baring the fruits of

Heaven just as my forefathers have done.

Who am I? I am “Padme”.

Miracles are a thing that I have only known.

When I once loved Hades, I felt the world tremble.

---We both love Hades—that is what she said. The female

Goddess of Memory that would be my shadow….and me

Reincarnation. In about 3000 years, Hades and I shall meet again.

I shall be Isabella Swan and he shall be my Edward Cullens from the book

And the movie Twilight by Stephanie Meyers. I was a force bearer, a bearer of

Words and symbols, phrases, and metaphors.

Her name was Isabella Swan the exact Swan of the Final Fantasy.

This world is my world—a world of endless books and writing, a world of letters and dementia. I am author and narrator of the Story—the story being the Story and or stories of my own life or the lives of others. I am free and independent. I am an Ares woman. My real name is Shelina Denise Chapman, and I am an honorary 34-year-old virgin, African-American woman with sczhorprehenia. I can be driven to bouts of paranoia and hernia. My lips are red, and my fingers are forever busy typing new stories that my disease keep calling a Greek-Norse myth. I love to read and to write stories. I have been doing these habits and hobbies since I was in the first grade.

When I once loved Hades, I felt the world tremble.

Back when I was a teenager, it was much easier to write and read, otherwise go ahead a write by hand everything I needed Sometimes I would write in my diary and make it into a fantasy story; other times, when I was busy masturbating, I would write about the whole sexual impulse on screen. I have never had a companion; I have feeling morally applicable that I would not need one.

I keep hearing the supernatural, and have a hard time pinpointing my thoughts with my mind. I can hear them as I think, I can see them as I was—the walking dead. I like and I love to dream and imagine new possibilities and new ideas as well as some newly fabricated technologies and nurturing old ones. Like the telephone! I am the reason why the supernatural have telecommunications, let alone their own souls.

Deep into the passageways of fallen Roman warriors, stood the mighty Disney’s Hercules. His physical statue was otherworldly, with both nimble and grace along a pleasant night sheath. I am Disney’s Esmerelda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame animated film, and I am flabbergasted as to the virtue and maiden aura of this animated godly marvel. Why, oh, why, must I be the splendor one?

“Cupid’s arrows reach you Hades?” a voice familiar to me said from behind. It was Hermes, dressed in fine Latin-American clothing fit for the 21st century this is.

I shake my head to arouse suspicion, “Naw.” The curly -waxed figurine of the black-haired, middle-aged man comes to focus.

So, he is fat too, the Prophet said in her mind thinking from the safety of her own mind. Her name was simply Minerva Backster’s.

“Cupid couldn’t find me at 100% maximum,” he said as he nodded. He shook his head at the tall Roman figure, “Like to tower them nuts for the pack’s their worth.”

They laugh.

I find their flakiness disturbing and harmonic, a pertinence for the admiration yet conservativism of their homosexuality.

I am alone again. My head begins to hurt. I envision myself taking medicine for my needless-to-say sczhorprenia, as well as for the psychic anomaly I pose by strengthening it up. For an instance, I thought I saw Death; a shy smug figure of a Titan named Baby—Baby New Year.

Upon Me Again

Morning rises, suns set.

There are thoughts.

Which crossed my mind?

That fathom not suggestion

But the absence of Time==

Thoughts that are pending, thoughts

That are uplifting— ME.

I take a whisper of sand in my Holy Grail,

And call it Edith Blasphemy.

Such radiance designed by air.

Such vigor

I know not why nor where.

Am I the downfall?

Am I the anticipation?

No one knows why nor

Cares.

But here—But where?

But downfall. Down, down

The river bends a mermaid summoner.

Summoning up Elysian fields.

The mermaid listens—I pray.

Her fin turns to legs, and I ravish her.

She swears at me up and down.

I laugh.

I laugh…

“‘He and his shoulder blades were curving; a mixture of piper and Picus, They were.

Up against the dreariest place, I would imagine.

A ceinture of a void, seldom looked at and pronounced dead.’

Less time is available here, I begin to think to myself. And surely, if actions speak louder than words,

Then so do I-- The intelligence of the human Bible.

A short while later, my arms are wrapped in plenti. I have no mercy for the Lord whatsoever.

That is because my brain is made of Styrofoam, and my prayers are made of ice- cream bars.

I am Pluto—god Hades Pluto, ruler of the netherworld.

My sign is all I have to my name ever since Persephone reincarnated two- hundred, five years ago—and that was Plutonian time.

‘Mark my words, Galileo,’ I told Jesus one summer afternoon, ‘I’ll find the dame for me’

His pale-green eyes hit me like a love light. We made love that day. Passionate, huh? I take a moment to think back: Rome, Ancient. Babylonica. These things reap my mind. From dusk ‘til dawn, I pant like a lion’s head over this Minerva fluid. Jesus’s white ass touched me like that Falcon Furor Phoenix Flame exhibit Hesus likes to talk about so much. I remember myself moaning when suddenly an ebidimic spider came crashing down onto me. My sharp, demon eyes durn pale black and white as the scaled white dragon of Ra.

I give off an instant hiss, ot my lover’s dismay. It was that vision again. My eyes click. I maintain Biblical statues as my discography continues to merge one with me. The Scorpio within me tells me that Isabella Swan from Twilight, just struck down her creator. I give a hushed mouth to my dog Cerberus, faithful and true as always.

What could I say but to allow my own prejudices perceive me? I was in love with the goddess of Destiny herself and her would-be reincarnations….especially Isabella.

I grab my rod and satyr; ‘What a day I’ll be having.’

Isabella would look live and low at herself. My image was decimated…and on the floor? It was a bloody body wrapped in sheets; a mirror image of herself! Gasping, I awaken from the dream feeling a little bit flushed. Why would Isabella murder me? The image of the pickaxe’s admittivities to my forehead is staggering. I am Juno, the legendary Shelina Denise Chapman, personal narrator of the story herself.

I could feel her in my feet and bones—that warm September afternoon, as I envisioned the two of us inside a black spotted jeep, leaning back conquering the world of symbolisms. With my head held high, I begin to recall the primum opus of the magna carta. Every moment was dedicated to my esteem college Micheal Alexander Dimitrius Alleluia, my personification of myself living in the world of Dreams. My Uncle Randy, a middle-age elder man about the age of 47, was dark sinned brown and Spanish-speaking highlights as the African-American man always appealed to me as a strong sense of moral character and duty. That was not just beginning with his Scorpio sign, but his association with the Chronicles of Riddle Freddy Kreuger assigned to me. The antsy thoughts race across my mind about the Scorpio sign of my Uncle.

“Go, Pluto

Do it, Pluto

Go Pluto, shake it, Pluto!”

Little did he know I was an Evangelion…or so it seemed….

I walk up to him one morning late last spring and begin thinking and digging deep into my thought about various obscure aborigines—mostly about feelings that my sczhorprenia missed placed or about thoughts and experiences I had in my early childhood. Here I am, a 35-year-old African American girl thinking about the past. Odd, isn’t it? Especially since my recently deceased, in that time, Uncle Martin—a different Uncle mind you, perished after taking a single needle into his arm. Suicide. My other Uncle Avery was a retired military man, however. Although kind-hearted, he was a little more than trifling when it comes to cooking. I would laugh whole-heartedly with not meaning and concurringly at him until the day I received the apparition of me embracing Squall Lionheart as Rinoa Heartilly when I feel headlong backwards in an African-American, wooden designed chair.

Back in those days, my mother, two brothers and myself were homeless, and, we surely would have need somewhere to go. Uncle Avery was the first to pick up the dresser and pull us off the streets.

I pick myself up off the ground and begin debating with myself. My lips between my legs are tight as a drum as always, I think to myself No one has ever been there but myself, my parents, and a few doctors. I wonder when I will begin to have my own first love? I will be wondering about this for some time now. That was when it occurred to me: I have not practiced my battle format yet. I could imagine my virgina’s transforming into an erectile penis. I begin to moan at the thought of masterbating with Tifa Lockheart and several other Final Fantasy characters throughout the ages. My breeeches were appearing wet and dry at the same time. My thoughts were aflutter. I begin to moan at the thought off the emptiness and begin to cry out infuror seduction. I was a boy again playing with his andromedin, just as easily as I have squared it.

Diablos, my kitten, began to follow it pursuit as the imaginary feline companion. His black fur and grey-white temples began to appeal to my sight of imagination a strange sort of fondness. I could hear him talk to me under his skin. His purrs began to echo in my ears. I began to see images of my feline companion very vividly over the radio speakers in my ears.

Tooth

Tooth, I feel you flowing in my ears

I hear the softness, streaming

Tooth…I feel you flowing through my ears--

A quickness I have only but persevered.

It is going down…Down…down…

The pelvic gland against my ears,

The inert-arachnid—the male womb—

Against my craven belly.

Its tooth of nails—the virgin woman—is but a man,

Yet a woman.

It is my bra strap, that transits reality—

A broadband horizon, a futile

Reality.

From <https://d.docs.live.net/025cb40a2a1fb452/Documents/poems.docx>

Excaliber.docx

Destiny fulfilled

“Looks like there’s no one home,” he said as he led me up the stair of the hotel called Lavenders’ Grave. His name was Boundary, Boundary Loins. He was a smoothed talking nigga-loving, pursuit of religion that had shown through his grey hair and cloudless, white, and green=spotted teeth.

I, Magnificent, guides him firmly in between my tusks, red blouse of sparkling red, grey, and white. “…These arms are yours,” I whispered as I was doomed to repeat it.

His fangs appear as his messages my neck with the tip of his tongue. He echoes slowly purrs of exultation. His black hair, and pale skin collide with my uterus as his suspends me in animation, roaring softly against paved stone.

He clicked his tongue and then fills my mouth with red, silken blood—my own. He was drinking me and fiercely ripping into my thighs with zero tolerance of cruelty.

My auburn hair began to sway as the nightmare began to creep in. I was bitten by a vampire-zombie, and I was licking my lips as he was doing it.

The school bells would begin to ring again, on one Sunday afternoon. Bible study would begin. My seat of raging hormones was filled with sweat as I continue reading a chapter of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. I had long since put away my cross when the study of the Egyptian mosque began to ring into my ears. My arms where testy, as the sultry bosom it provided for this 25-year-old body began to vibrate with Excalibur.

“Somewhere beyond the night….” I would say as I would look up at the sky and dream. “I will find you,” I say to the distant wonderland I would know as Event Horizon.

As busy as the day went by, my soul went spiraling; I have promises. My neck bracer of black and grey began to itch and pound my suggestions with Final Fantasy VII popularity. As soon as my arms where full, I gain momentum trusting back and forth inside my chair just narrowly escaping a fall.

“Lucifer, what are you doing?” my history teacher commanded. Her hair was somewhat grey pale. She had no eyes but could sense things, terrible things happing all around her. She wore a pale white and black peddler’s cloak and expected me to do the same. Her back was hunched over with swollen scared ruffles of ginger skin and white velvet culprit defray.

My eyes roll to the bottom of the classroom, “MY name is Lucifer only in name Mon Diez.”

She strikes me down with her clubbed hands.

My world is full of gray stars and vomit. “My head hurts,” I complain. In the blink of an eye, I see Hades’ scythe roll passed my eyes. I shudder and recover automatically shrieking, “What was that?”Wednesday, March 3, 20218:21 AMChapter One: The fairytale characterMy thoughts are to bleed like a mad soul in twine, I say to myself . The voices in my sczhorphrenic head are waging war with. God had told me, long before he gave me sczhorprenia, that I was the Holy Grail.I could control my fears…but could I control Him? I try to. He only laughed. He would say my Holy Grail was of two naked women in a cup, meaning superficially, I was a Lesbian.--which I, at least to my virgin Knowledge was not.I listen to Supermassive Black Hole by Muse from the Stephanie Meyer's inspired "Twilight" films. I never watch them, I only read. Reading is ALL I ever do…Either that, or sit around and do nothing but sleep in.I but on a show in my room as I begin to drift in the world of Real Emotion. My thoughts are luminous. My feeling sore and defiled. I have no EMOTION, I tell myself. My emotions are just that bare a popsicle stick.I do not watch television, however I do play games on the PlayStation 2 every now and then. My room was a mess, so I reluctantly decide to start cleaning it. My head then fills with the after effects of the amorphic gassy and fizzy feeling of medicinal lightheadedness from not taking my prescription for fears that I may be poison myself with the image of bilateral fusion with Piper and Picus. Piper an Picus are a sedative for making ends met. That is what the gods of Mt. Olympus keeping murmuring, not to me, but about me and me being able to hear the voices of the dead.No one outside the animal world knows of me and the power vested within. And even that has its shortcomings. That is because the presence of good and evil are everywhere, not just within Man but within Nature. Take that as my experience with my imagination, calling itself Abolisk the Tormentor, or my menial term Imagination, and you get bitter sweet Choas.I lead with my mind not with my heart.I can speak to the animal, that is one of the abilities I have. I can shape change, however, I can only complete translation only under certain circumstances. Such things include the Heart judging, as if I would ever allow myself to lead up to that. The heart can fool me, and with a mind like mine, why base everything on love and beauty of your typical Ares woman? I lead with my mind not with my heart. I think a strong mind wields a stronger body and a mind is a terrible ting to waste.I practice playing games to support myself in battling those mysterious shadows that prey on the weak-minded or the passive. It is the art of war using residual thinking, positive reinforcement, and learning and probability. I practice reviewing school interludes that I used to know before I had graduated before being affected with the mental illness sczhorprenia.With my eyes wide shut, I would imagine whole new worlds of adventure I read about in books to the point my father thinks it does not do me any good. My imagination is so vivid, its self-aware and able to come to reality. That is when I find out not only I could stop time, but also move back and forth through it in sleep mode.I call my intuitions "Memory", "Memory", "Melody", "Mnesesyne" or in assimilated order. I had built a time machine, in which Pegasus interrupted and took that away. I have invented time travel back to the Cretaceous Period where my dinosaur dream avatars would be only to discover that all my dreams are real by the message of Allah.My dreams are amphitoads, now. They spiral out of control. I have dreams of the god of the Underworld as Edward Cullens, his own reincarnationEdward was an underworld, fairy dream that I ran into in my soon-to-be nightmares while Hades, was my day-to-day reality. He rarely ever bothered Cerberus, the demon-dog of Hell as they walked side-by-side on the Earth saying that they ruled the Netherworld. Cerberus would be in the disguise of a normal animated, Labrador or a human musician.He kept close to the ghost of Aaliyah and the figurine of Missy Elliot. His association with the canine world was unprecedented. He would really blow them away, especially Charlie Barkin and Elizabeth Taylor, two other angelic dogs caught up in the Netherworld.I pause. Cerberus thinks to himself again. He understands everything I have been saying. He smiles in his dog-gone smirk that "…the chimney between us goes far as it is wide. Don't it??"I listen to myself think again for a while. Maybe I can make a new platform hit of Death for Sailor Pluto's planet.Cerberus thinks to himself again.My eyes feel watery. I wipe them clean. I begin to think of a more innovative "death". I summon up the courage to challenge my of "life".I hear Pluto say to himself, "the Garment Grid ain't what it used to be," and then mumble on.As apparent as the legendary Darla Dimple would have said, "I'm not worthwhile." And that's only because Mary Magdalene poised a threat to her foundering youth.I want to know about You, I tell myself. Then, I see her: my other self, my other Isabella Swan. Her name was Nadene, alias Christine Howard or Christine steward or whatever, and she looked exactly like myself even thought she was a complete stranger. I got along with her, yeah, uh-huh, but because I was Black and she was Pilipino, my dear Hades sided that white was right and began flirting with her.He gives me a pat on the thigh and smiles, "I know what you're thinking….?""What?""You're hunting rabbits," he laughed.I pretend to be Sailor Pluto from Sailor Moon and guard the invisible gate of Time found in my virgina. Amused, as always, my infrivoulous and infractilous admiration of Pluto goes ten-to-one, even if Isabella is there.Morning rises, suns set.The dead walk the earth.Morning, noon, and night IPray, thou befoul myEpidiifs EarthNaked, cold, and wanderingA virgin lights a candle.So black that she utters slurs that.Transpire as the evening shadows.Hearts are one, and seasons baring.And she continues to count backwards.Time moves on without her.A high and mighty virginSacrifice….The cold is baring. The seasons are neigh.I have no home but the Virgin Mary inside.I make love to by virgin lover, whose eyes seeNothing—hear nothing—knows all.My pilgrimage is one and I am baring the fruits ofHeaven just as my forefathers have done.Who am I? I am “Padme”.Miracles are a thing that I have only known.When I once loved Hades, I felt the world tremble.---We both love Hades—that is what she said. The femaleGoddess of Memory that would be my shadow….and meReincarnation. In about 3000 years, Hades and I shall meet again.I shall be Isabella Swan and he shall be my Edward Cullens from the bookAnd the movie Twilight by Stephanie Meyers. I was a force bearer, a bearer ofWords and symbols, phrases, and metaphors.Her name was Isabella Swan the exact Swan of the Final Fantasy.This world is my world—a world of endless books and writing, a world of letters and dementia. I am author and narrator of the Story—the story being the Story and or stories of my own life or the lives of others. I am free and independent. I am an Ares woman. My real name is Shelina Denise Chapman, and I am an honorary 34-year-old virgin, African-American woman with sczhorprehenia. I can be driven to bouts of paranoia and hernia. My lips are red, and my fingers are forever busy typing new stories that my disease keep calling a Greek-Norse myth. I love to read and to write stories. I have been doing these habits and hobbies since I was in the first grade.When I once loved Hades, I felt the world tremble.Back when I was a teenager, it was much easier to write and read, otherwise go ahead a write by hand everything I needed Sometimes I would write in my diary and make it into a fantasy story; other times, when I was busy masturbating, I would write about the whole sexual impulse on screen. I have never had a companion; I have feeling morally applicable that I would not need one.I keep hearing the supernatural, and have a hard time pinpointing my thoughts with my mind. I can hear them as I think, I can see them as I was—the walking dead. I like and I love to dream and imagine new possibilities and new ideas as well as some newly fabricated technologies and nurturing old ones. Like the telephone! I am the reason why the supernatural have telecommunications, let alone their own souls.Deep into the passageways of fallen Roman warriors, stood the mighty Disney’s Hercules. His physical statue was otherworldly, with both nimble and grace along a pleasant night sheath. I am Disney’s Esmerelda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame animated film, and I am flabbergasted as to the virtue and maiden aura of this animated godly marvel. Why, oh, why, must I be the splendor one?“Cupid’s arrows reach you Hades?” a voice familiar to me said from behind. It was Hermes, dressed in fine Latin-American clothing fit for the 21st century this is.I shake my head to arouse suspicion, “Naw.” The curly -waxed figurine of the black-haired, middle-aged man comes to focus.So, he is fat too, the Prophet said in her mind thinking from the safety of her own mind. Her name was simply Minerva Backster’s.“Cupid couldn’t find me at 100% maximum,” he said as he nodded. He shook his head at the tall Roman figure, “Like to tower them nuts for the pack’s their worth.”They laugh.I find their flakiness disturbing and harmonic, a pertinence for the admiration yet conservativism of their homosexuality.I am alone again. My head begins to hurt. I envision myself taking medicine for my needless-to-say sczhorprenia, as well as for the psychic anomaly I pose by strengthening it up. For an instance, I thought I saw Death; a shy smug figure of a Titan named Baby—Baby New Year.Upon Me AgainMorning rises, suns set.There are thoughts.Which crossed my mind?That fathom not suggestionBut the absence of Time==Thoughts that are pending, thoughtsThat are uplifting— ME.I take a whisper of sand in my Holy Grail,And call it Edith Blasphemy.Such radiance designed by air.Such vigorI know not why nor where.Am I the downfall?Am I the anticipation?No one knows why norCares.But here—But where?But downfall. Down, downThe river bends a mermaid summoner.Summoning up Elysian fields.The mermaid listens—I pray.Her fin turns to legs, and I ravish her.She swears at me up and down.I laugh.I laugh…“‘He and his shoulder blades were curving; a mixture of piper and Picus, They were.Up against the dreariest place, I would imagine.A ceinture of a void, seldom looked at and pronounced dead.’Less time is available here, I begin to think to myself. And surely, if actions speak louder than words,Then so do I-- The intelligence of the human Bible.A short while later, my arms are wrapped in plenti. I have no mercy for the Lord whatsoever.That is because my brain is made of Styrofoam, and my prayers are made of ice- cream bars.I am Pluto—god Hades Pluto, ruler of the netherworld.My sign is all I have to my name ever since Persephone reincarnated two- hundred, five years ago—and that was Plutonian time.‘Mark my words, Galileo,’ I told Jesus one summer afternoon, ‘I’ll find the dame for me’His pale-green eyes hit me like a love light. We made love that day. Passionate, huh? I take a moment to think back: Rome, Ancient. Babylonica. These things reap my mind. From dusk ‘til dawn, I pant like a lion’s head over this Minerva fluid. Jesus’s white ass touched me like that Falcon Furor Phoenix Flame exhibit Hesus likes to talk about so much. I remember myself moaning when suddenly an ebidimic spider came crashing down onto me. My sharp, demon eyes durn pale black and white as the scaled white dragon of Ra.I give off an instant hiss, ot my lover’s dismay. It was that vision again. My eyes click. I maintain Biblical statues as my discography continues to merge one with me. The Scorpio within me tells me that Isabella Swan from Twilight, just struck down her creator. I give a hushed mouth to my dog Cerberus, faithful and true as always.What could I say but to allow my own prejudices perceive me? I was in love with the goddess of Destiny herself and her would-be reincarnations….especially Isabella.I grab my rod and satyr; ‘What a day I’ll be having.’Isabella would look live and low at herself. My image was decimated…and on the floor? It was a bloody body wrapped in sheets; a mirror image of herself! Gasping, I awaken from the dream feeling a little bit flushed. Why would Isabella murder me? The image of the pickaxe’s admittivities to my forehead is staggering. I am Juno, the legendary Shelina Denise Chapman, personal narrator of the story herself.I could feel her in my feet and bones—that warm September afternoon, as I envisioned the two of us inside a black spotted jeep, leaning back conquering the world of symbolisms. With my head held high, I begin to recall the primum opus of the magna carta. Every moment was dedicated to my esteem college Micheal Alexander Dimitrius Alleluia, my personification of myself living in the world of Dreams. My Uncle Randy, a middle-age elder man about the age of 47, was dark sinned brown and Spanish-speaking highlights as the African-American man always appealed to me as a strong sense of moral character and duty. That was not just beginning with his Scorpio sign, but his association with the Chronicles of Riddle Freddy Kreuger assigned to me. The antsy thoughts race across my mind about the Scorpio sign of my Uncle.“Go, PlutoDo it, PlutoGo Pluto, shake it, Pluto!”Little did he know I was an Evangelion…or so it seemed….I walk up to him one morning late last spring and begin thinking and digging deep into my thought about various obscure aborigines—mostly about feelings that my sczhorprenia missed placed or about thoughts and experiences I had in my early childhood. Here I am, a 35-year-old African American girl thinking about the past. Odd, isn’t it? Especially since my recently deceased, in that time, Uncle Martin—a different Uncle mind you, perished after taking a single needle into his arm. Suicide. My other Uncle Avery was a retired military man, however. Although kind-hearted, he was a little more than trifling when it comes to cooking. I would laugh whole-heartedly with not meaning and concurringly at him until the day I received the apparition of me embracing Squall Lionheart as Rinoa Heartilly when I feel headlong backwards in an African-American, wooden designed chair.Back in those days, my mother, two brothers and myself were homeless, and, we surely would have need somewhere to go. Uncle Avery was the first to pick up the dresser and pull us off the streets.I pick myself up off the ground and begin debating with myself. My lips between my legs are tight as a drum as always, I think to myself No one has ever been there but myself, my parents, and a few doctors. I wonder when I will begin to have my own first love? I will be wondering about this for some time now. That was when it occurred to me: I have not practiced my battle format yet. I could imagine my virgina’s transforming into an erectile penis. I begin to moan at the thought of masterbating with Tifa Lockheart and several other Final Fantasy characters throughout the ages. My breeeches were appearing wet and dry at the same time. My thoughts were aflutter. I begin to moan at the thought off the emptiness and begin to cry out infuror seduction. I was a boy again playing with his andromedin, just as easily as I have squared it.Diablos, my kitten, began to follow it pursuit as the imaginary feline companion. His black fur and grey-white temples began to appeal to my sight of imagination a strange sort of fondness. I could hear him talk to me under his skin. His purrs began to echo in my ears. I began to see images of my feline companion very vividly over the radio speakers in my ears.ToothTooth, I feel you flowing in my earsI hear the softness, streamingTooth…I feel you flowing through my ears--A quickness I have only but persevered.It is going down…Down…down…The pelvic gland against my ears,The inert-arachnid—the male womb—Against my craven belly.Its tooth of nails—the virgin woman—is but a man,Yet a woman.It is my bra strap, that transits reality—A broadband horizon, a futileReality.From <https://d.docs.live.net/025cb40a2a1fb452/Documents/poems.docx>Excaliber.docxDestiny fulfilled“Looks like there’s no one home,” he said as he led me up the stair of the hotel called Lavenders’ Grave. His name was Boundary, Boundary Loins. He was a smoothed talking nigga-loving, pursuit of religion that had shown through his grey hair and cloudless, white, and green=spotted teeth.I, Magnificent, guides him firmly in between my tusks, red blouse of sparkling red, grey, and white. “…These arms are yours,” I whispered as I was doomed to repeat it.His fangs appear as his messages my neck with the tip of his tongue. He echoes slowly purrs of exultation. His black hair, and pale skin collide with my uterus as his suspends me in animation, roaring softly against paved stone.He clicked his tongue and then fills my mouth with red, silken blood—my own. He was drinking me and fiercely ripping into my thighs with zero tolerance of cruelty.My auburn hair began to sway as the nightmare began to creep in. I was bitten by a vampire-zombie, and I was licking my lips as he was doing it.The school bells would begin to ring again, on one Sunday afternoon. Bible study would begin. My seat of raging hormones was filled with sweat as I continue reading a chapter of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. I had long since put away my cross when the study of the Egyptian mosque began to ring into my ears. My arms where testy, as the sultry bosom it provided for this 25-year-old body began to vibrate with Excalibur.“Somewhere beyond the night….” I would say as I would look up at the sky and dream. “I will find you,” I say to the distant wonderland I would know as Event Horizon.As busy as the day went by, my soul went spiraling; I have promises. My neck bracer of black and grey began to itch and pound my suggestions with Final Fantasy VII popularity. As soon as my arms where full, I gain momentum trusting back and forth inside my chair just narrowly escaping a fall.“Lucifer, what are you doing?” my history teacher commanded. Her hair was somewhat grey pale. She had no eyes but could sense things, terrible things happing all around her. She wore a pale white and black peddler’s cloak and expected me to do the same. Her back was hunched over with swollen scared ruffles of ginger skin and white velvet culprit defray.My eyes roll to the bottom of the classroom, “MY name is Lucifer only in name Mon Diez.”She strikes me down with her clubbed hands. My world is full of gray stars and vomit. “My head hurts,” I complain. In the blink of an eye, I see Hades’ scythe roll passed my eyes. I shudder and recover automatically shrieking, “What was that?”

The religious, through and through never amused me. I would picture them on the Himalayas stripping bare naked like a Jay bird’s egg. I wonder what else awaits me today as I topple over mountains of pre-owned novels and other valuables amonst the middle of the Ares Ram zodiac sign.

#Twilight Suzuka by Antigone aka Shelina Denise Chapman

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dreadysficrecs · 3 years

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Stucky Fic Rec List #8

Friday, April 30

🌅 This Sunlit Land by eyres, art by odetteandodile - [Mature; 38,4k words]

[Canon Divergence; Post CA:TWS; Established Relationship; Retired Stucky; Captain America Sam Wilson; Life on A Farm; Domestic Fluff; Soft Bucky; Hurt/Comfort; Minor Character Death; Marriage; Found Family; Angst; Accords; Violence; Implied Torture; Brainwashing; Mind Control; Major Character Injury; Recovery; Hopeful/Happy Ending]

In a different timeline, Bucky and Steve have the opportunity to take a quieter path, with some bumps along the way. Featuring: an idyllic farm, dogs named after Disney characters, the Soul Stone, a smattering of plot, and a fairytale ending.

____

“Here’s how I see it,” the psychiatrist says. “In 2014, you discovered your employer was the old Nazi organization you died to stop. You found out your best friend, who had died in front of you, was actually a POW who had been brainwashed and tortured. Said best friend vanishes after trying to kill you. Two weeks later, you disappear as well. That sounds like someone vulnerable to radicalization.”

Steve closes his eyes, tries to visualize Bucky sitting among the flowers, outside their home. The dogs are playing around him. “I want a lawyer.”

🏵️ beside all my whiskey and your daffodils by steveandbucky - [Teen; 4,1k words]

[Canon Divergence; Established Relationship; Domestic Fluff; Recovery; Soft Bucky; Cats]

“Maria’s pregnant,” Bucky says over breakfast one morning.

Steve pauses, his mug inches away from his mouth, and sets it down slowly. “I thought she was a lesbian.”

⛓️ A Tale of Fences and Fornication by @mystrana - [Explicit; 4,8k words]

[Modern AU; PWP; Established Relationship; Abandoned Buildings; Dom!Steve x Sub!Bucky; Public Sex; S/M Undertones; Mild CBT; Praise Kink; Dacryphilia; Spanking; Coming Untouched; Mild Subspace; Aftercare; Handfeeding]

Car engines and the hum of electricity had given way to cicadas and bird song in the cooling June evening as two figures cut through the overgrown spread of tall grasses that might once have been a path. From a distance, one might have mistaken them to be on a simple nature stroll, but a closer glance revealed a certain Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes and the understanding that with them around, nothing was simple.

AKA

That fic where Steve gets Bucky up against a chain link fence and goes to town on him.

💕I [Heart] You by writeonclara - [Gen; 1,1k words]

[Canon Divergence; Established Relationship(?); Curses; Magic Elements; Fluff and Humour]

“Steve’s been hit with a curse,” Natasha said. She said it calmly, so Bucky didn’t immediately go flying out of the apartment to tear apart the Tower in search of Steve. Then again, Natasha would probably be calm if New York City spontaneously burst into flames. He lowered the coffee pot and squinted at her.

“Of course he has,” he said. He felt, abruptly, exhausted. “What is it?”

“The witch kept ranting about sexual repression and archaic moral principles,” she continued blithely.

“It’s not like you to prevaricate, Romanov.”

Natasha pressed her lips together. For a moment, Bucky thought she might start laughing. “It might be easier just to show you.”

OR: Steve’s been hit with a rather telling curse.

💣Come Out and Haunt Me by Bittersweet_in_Boston - [Explicit; 5k words]

[Modern AU; Boarding School; Hooking Up in Secret; Rough Sex; Bottom!Bucky; Masochist!Bucky; Dom/Sub Undertones; Blow Jobs; Anal Sex; Bruising; Mild Blood]

Before talking, Pierce looks around the huge dining room, frowning, his gaze befitting his name as he picks out certain individuals for extra scrutiny. Bucky feels his beady eyes rest on him for a few seconds, but it soon transfers to the tall blond on the other side of the Winthrop table to Bucky’s left.

Bucky won’t look at that particular housemate. He will not.

**In which entitled rich boy Bucky Barnes and scholarship student Steve Rogers go to the same all-boys prep school and hate each other. They hate each other so much. And every night.

#stucky fic rec #stucky fanfic #fic rec #rec list #dready's fic recs

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do-not-call-me-meathead · 4 years

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I’ve seen a lot of shows in my time, but never have I felt more represented than with the show Orphan Black. There are spoilers in this so, beware :)

On the surface, I guess, the simplest way to go first would be Cosima. A nerdy lesbian who falls for a french beauty who is suspicious as hell but Cos doesn’t care because damn she fell hard. That’s relatable. Cosima, and her ambition and her need to do good and to learn. Cosima. Her whole character doesn’t surround her lesbianism. As she tells Rachel, it’s not nearly the most interesting thing about her. She’s not in this show to queer bait or sexualize the content. She’s brilliant and complicated and sassy and unique and a fighter.

The same is the case with Felix. His #1 character trait isn’t “gay” he’s so much more than that. He’s badass and thoughtful and selfless. He’s an artist. And a caregiver. And the sense to Sarah’s senselessness. He’s forgiving and soulful. He’s just like all of us. He wants to understand his place in the world.

Alcoholism runs deep in my family, Alison shows how someone seemingly ‘fine’ or ‘normal’ has inner turmoil. She’s a soccer mom, but that’s not all she is. She’s an alcoholic, but that’s not all she is. She’s a manslaughterer, but that’s not all she is. She’s a drug dealer, and boy, that’s not it. She goes to rehab, she gets better, she relapses, she finds herself. Alison is the product of overbearing families and trying to find normalcy to be happy when she’s forced into a situation to not be normal. She’s buried in stress. She’s a mom and a wife, but god, she’s so much more.

Beth protected her sestras. Beth had problems with her mental health. Beth was an addict. Beth was with a man who didn’t love her. Beth committed suicide. Beth made Sarah choose to find strength. Beth made a sacrifice.

Art loved a woman who was stuck in her own mind. Art was divorced and has a child he loves. The woman Art loved commits suicide and her clone takes over her identity. He sees the good in the clone and helps her. He’s loyal to Sarah and her family.

Helena. Beaten, caged, bruised, abused, traumatized. Taught to kill, taught to seek salvation in murder, taught to harm herself and others. Order sent her to kill the clones. But Helena’s abuser lost. Helena won. Helena chooses good. Maybe it’s because of Sarah. Maybe it’s because of her good heart. The villain wasn’t a villain after all and now the hungry woman has become a mom.

Sarah, the love of my life. The troubled lone wolf forced to work with others. A mother afraid to be a mother. A mother afraid she sucks at being a mother. A mother who wants to run because she thinks everyone would be better off. Angry, sad, mournful. She was given a shit life until S. But that didn’t take away the pain. She thought she had to deal with it alone.

And when the fight was over, it wasn’t a fairytale ending. Sarah wasn’t happy. I’ve never related to a character more when she confessed she didn’t know how to be happy. But she had support. Support who allowed her break and helped her mend. She stayed.

Sarah stays with me. And Cosima. And Felix. And all of them. I think they bring me strength. And when I want to jump off a bridge, maybe Beth can stand with me too and remind me I’m stronger than this.

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prydon · 5 years

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Prydon’s Paul McGann Filmography Master Post

In honor of it being Paul McGann’s birthday, I thought I’d post something special for you guys! This is my masterlist of every role Paul has played that I’ve been able to find an upload of/been able to upload online myself, which I’ve been cultivating over the past year.

I know there is another master post of his filmography floating around, but it hasn’t been updated in years and many of the links are broken, and I was able to find/upload many roles that aren’t on there so I thought I might as well make my own post. All kudos and respect to the lovely people who made the previous masterpost, however, and I did use it to find several of the links on here!

Note: Many of these are hosted on the website vk.com! You do have to make an account to watch videos on this site, but I promise it is completely safe.

A Little Place Off the Edgware Road

A Mother's Son (Episode 1, Episode 2)

Absence

Afraid of the Dark

Agatha Christie's Marple

Agatha Christie's Poirot

Alien³ (McGann cut)

Always Crashing in the Same Car

Anne (Paul’s scenes)

Annika (Episodes three, four, five, six)

Art Is... (part one, part two in low quality) (High quality full movie but with German subtitles for some reason)

B&B

Blood Strangers

Brakes

Catherine the Great

Collision (McGann cut)

Dealers

Doctor Who (TV Movie)

Downtime

Empire of the Sun (Paul’s scene)

Fables of Forgotten Things

Fish (Episode one, two, three, four, five, six)

FairyTale: A True Story

Forgotten (Episode one, two, three)

Give us a Break

Gypo

Holby City (McGann cut)

Horatio Hornblower (Alt, higher quality)

Hotel!

If I Had You

Innocent Victim

Jackanory (clip)

Jonathan Creek

Kidnapped (McGann cut)

Lesbian Vampire Killers

Lie with Me (Alt)

Listening

Luther (Paul’s episodes)

Mother Me Daughter (Part 1) (Part 2)

Moving On

My Kingdom (McGann cut)

McDonald & Dodds

Nature Boy

New Tricks (Thanks, @susiedent!)

Nice Town

Night of the Doctor

Notes from the Underground

Our Mutual Friend (Alt: episode one, two, three, four)

Paper Mask

Play For Today

Perplexed Music

Poppies

Queen of the Damned

Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Ripper Street

Screen Two

Save Our Souls: The Titanic Inquiry

Sea of Souls: Rebound

Streets of Yesterday (Thanks, @infineight!)

Swallow Your Dreams (BTS)

Sweet Revenge (Episode 1) (Episode 2)

The Biographer (Thanks @savageinkspillage!)

The Bletchley Circle (Thanks @susiedent!)

The Dance of Shiva

The Five(ish) Doctors Reboot

The Hanging Gale (Ep 1 / Ep 2 / Ep 3 / Ep 4)

The Importance of Being Earnest

The Merchant of Venice

The Minister of Chance

The Monk (Part one, part two)

The Monocled Mutineer

The Musketeers (Thanks @susiedent!) (the video doesn’t stream correctly but the download should work)

The One That Got Away

The Petrol Age

The Rainbow

The Three Musketeers

The Windmill

Tripping Over (Episode one, two, three, four, five, six)

True Dare Kiss (Thanks, @virginia-perdue!)

Voice from Afar

Waking the Dead (Episode one, episode two)

Withnail & I

BONUS (interviews/documentaries etc):

Myth Makers interview

Victorian Sensations

Cavern Club

Hidden Paintings of the North West

Living the Life interview (part one, part two)

Doctor Who Movie Workprint

If you have better quality links to any of these/links to any roles that are missing, please let me know, I’d love to add them! Also let me know if any of these links ever break!

Enjoy!

#paul mcgann #long post #paul mcgann filmography #lotta time and effort on my part and the part of some friends went into finding and/or uploading all these #so i hope some good use is made out of it!!#this is only pt1 of my present for paul fandom on his bday btw #pt2 is coming soon #(unless you follow me on twitter in which case you've already seen pt2)

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ahotpeaceofshit · 6 years

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Lesbian fairytale (based on a story my baba used to tell me)

In a time like now, in a place far away, there lived a young girl. This girl loved to paint, to create worlds that she imagined and worlds she wished to be in. She created colourful things, things that glowed in the sunshine and made people smile when they saw it. She also created dark things, things that would make people wonder and other people afraid. Her talent was known far and wide, people from corners of the globe saw her art and liked it.

But a shadow hung over her life, making her tear flow and her head hang low. It's dark hands gripping her very soul and crushing it day after day. She no longer showed people her art, the things she had created were meaningless to her. People became worried and then slowly, they forgot. The world became a dark place without joy for the young artist.

Humans had failed her and before long, the shadow had her wishing she was dead because it had killed every part of her that felt joy.

As a last resort, the artist headed out to see the witch who was said to live in these woods. It sounds fake and pathetic but she was very desperate and broken. Emptiness held her heart hostage as the sun went down and the girl wandered aimlessly through the creepy woods. She felt no fear, in fact she almost hoped that something would come along and kill her. She would also be glad to find the witch, it was a win win situation.

Then, when she was laughing at herself and this stupid idea, a lamp shown through the pitch blackness. She held up her hands, blinded by the light before the world went dark again and she fell fast asleep.

When she awoke, the dark forest was gone. A simple nightmare, replaced with a soft bed and the smell of cookies. She opened her eyes to see herself in a room that was only lit with dim candle light. A soft song surfed through the air, like a colours for her ears and light for her heart.

A girl entered the room, warm colours playing off her lips and the sweet words made the artist smile. The young witch wasn't beautiful in the traditional sense but her deep thoughts and joyous laugh made the artists blush harder and smile happier then she had ever done her whole life.

And with the witch in mind, the girl began to draw again. Her art glowing with the magic of her love for her magic sweetheart and making the witch blush in return. The pictures were not for the masses or for money but as an offering to the love of her life, the woman who had saved her life all that time ago.

Time passed and their love grew like a tree, spreading it's branches, growing leaves and losing them again. Flowers blooming and the seeds growing. The artist was never rid of her shadow that had haunted her life but it was small and hidden in the darkness. Her wife and her grew old together, watching their beautiful son and handsome daughter grow and learn witchcraft from their mother and art from their other.

One day their children will be old enough to leave the nest and grow on their own but for now they loved to watch their mother draw flowers and their mother sing her lovely songs.

They were happy but all good thing come to an end, the artist whispered on her death bed. Unlike her wife and children, she was mortal. Doomed to die and leave the people she loved. She had lived a long life and a very happy one and was tired and wanted to sleep. That still didn't stop her wife and children from crying as she took her last breath.

Her children moved on but her wife never could. The witch, doomed to live forever without the woman she loved, turned them both into stone so they could be together, even in death.

So if you see a statue of two women holding each other, please do leave flower. It is said that their children live near by and will bless you if you do so. But if you harm their mothers, they are known to hunt you to the ends of the earth and eat your flesh until only your heart is left, untouched.

#writing #writeblr #write #fairy tales #writer #gay #lesbian #green witch #witch #witchcraft #magic #love #true love

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the-peachtrees-system · 5 years

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The Peachtrees System Index

(Hux came up with the title)

Rory

He/him pronouns

Kidlet, age-slider: 5 - 10 years old

Has a subsystem: Charlie and Danny

Really likes Hello Kitty, cleancore, rabbits, cute things, teddies, pink, Disney, Ghibli, and Nintendo games (particularly Animal Crossing, Mario, and Pokemon but anything kid friendly really.)

Mains Shyguy on Mario Kart and Mario Party

Shows signs of disabilities the body doesn’t have (learning difficulties of some kind but we’re not sure what.)

His room in the headspace is a treehouse (he wanted to share that)

Hux

They/them or he/him pronouns (is ambivalent and genderless)

34 years old

A Star Wars fictive

Protector / Gatekeeper

He quite likes cats (domestic, big, or otherwise) but thinks most of the depictions of them on the internet are foolish and do not capture how majestic they are.

He likes unique architecture, REM, complex machinary, computer games, Disney films, and body horror.

He’s fictionkin with Akechi from Persona 5

He mains Mewtwo on Smash Bros

Shows signs of NPD which the body does not have.

Deaglan

Age hard to discern since not human, equivalent to early 20s I think

He/him

A fox person

Not sure on his role yet. He’s there when I need to not be human.

Enjoys Johannes Bahms, hot baths, cooking, and warm, cosy nights with hot chocolate and the television. Likes forests, quiet, night sky, constellations, log cabins, treehouses, and such like.

Recently realised he’s an actual alter not a ... I don’t know so, more will be added when I know it.

Axe

She/her pronouns

Demiwoman and lesbian

32 years old

Protector

Likes beaches, women who scare her, dogs, getting high/drunk and is annoyed the body does neither often enough, happy inspirational things, Harry Potter, dragons, fantasy in general.

Fictionkin with Sera from Dragon Age

Her crystal is amethyst

Mains Inkling Girl on Mario Kart and Sonic on Smash

Shows signs of schizophrenia and discalcula which the body doesn’t have

Ghost

He/him or it/its pronouns (nonbinary)

Not-Kid Mostly Teen (age slider: 12 - 15)

A literal ghost

Likes robots a lot, also furbies, bad science fiction movies, Cephlapods, video games, Splatoon, blue things, fairytales, old houses, cardigans, and anything you can put on toast.

Is kin with octopodes

Fictionkin with Cole from Dragon Age

Mains Drybones on Mario Party and Mario Kart, and Pokemon Trainer on Smash

Has very different stims to host, and shows signs of some learning difficulties that the body doesn’t have

They/them pronouns (Maverique)

17 years old

Gay arospec acespec (isn’t sure how)

Replicant (our system only term)

Likes computer games, horror films and guro, hitomie, Avatar: The Last Airbender, birds, Mystery Science Theater 3000, memes, talking about how gay they are, general floofs especially if their dumbass floofs, weird make-up art, weird art in general.

Mains Shy guy on Mario Party, Inkling girl on Mario Kart, and Inkling girl on Smash

Has some disabilities / neurodivergencies the body doesn’t have but not sure what

Elliot.zip

It/its or he/him pronouns

18 years old

Demiromantic asexual

Brain Virus

Likes 90s web aesthetic, bad horror films, Back to the Future, computers, video games, coding, guro stuff.

Kin with Elliot Alderson and glitchkin

Nonverbal mostly

Shriek / Dreamer

It/its

Ageless demon / “not” demon

Persecutor / Happy Persecutor

A demon who’s soul is split in to two

Used to be just a persecutor but is now... trying not to be? Their still a persecutor but their healing, but that caused them to split in two. Now their demon Shriek and “angel” Dreamer. One is a trauma holder who holds all the trauma secret and doesn’t force the host to remember stuff any more... One tries to force happiness.

Shriek is kin with Chara from Undertale, Dreamer is kin with Asriel from Undertale

It’s really hard to know anything about these guys tbh

Callum

42 years old

He/him

Persecutor

Traumatic introject of my stepdad

We don’t like to talk about him tbh so I’m gonna end it here. He’s never on here anyway. He’s really angry.

Icarus

Archivist

32 years old

He/him

Usually sad and drunk

Likes classic literature, old buildings, mythology, dadaism, surreal art, horror, and cosy warm things

Kin with John Watson (Sherlock Holmes)

Hamlet

15 years old

Hamlet fictive

He/him/his

He’s a bit distant, will update when he’s fronting

Lolita

15 years old

Sexual protector

She/her

Again, not much known about her because when she takes over she’s very much a Lot and it’s hard to focus. She doesn’t share much. She’s very hypersexual. Think she might be a trauma holder.

Ellis

18 years old

He/him

Idealised version of host

Will update as more info becomes available

+ Fragments that come and go.

#the peachtrees system index #long post

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lu-cameron · 6 years

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Final Essay: Bjork's All is Full of Love meets a Cyborg Manifesto

Is all full of love, even humanoid robots? Directed by Chris Cunningham, 1997, Bjork’s All is Full of Love music video is a visual and technical sensation. Extremely cutting-edge, the video uses engineering, CGI, computer graphics, and industrial robotics to create a mechanical and erotic world.

By watching Bjork’s music video and by reading Donna Hanaway’s A Cyborg Manifesto, we can dismantle preconceived ideas of AI and imagine a more dynamic future of robotics as it becomes increasingly more tangible. Guided by Chris Cunningham’s visuals and Hanaway’s words, we can inject elements of post-humanism into our daily lives; the works push us to question our realities and what is means to be “human” and to feel love.

When I think of the title of bjorks song: All is full of love.... it puts immense power on the word "All." She means every thing, living and non living creatures. I think she is talking about a life force, an energy that runs through everything, that "all" is exploding with love. 13 years before Bjork’s video, A Cyborg Manifesto was written by Donna Haraway in 1984. It is an exploration of socialist feminism and the ways cyborgs are more common in our lives than we think. “A cyborg is a cybernetic organism, a hybrid of machine and organism, a creature of social reality as well as a creature of fiction” (291). “The cyborg is a condensed image of both imagination and material reality . . . the relation between organism and machine has been a border war” (293). I am interested in the relation between organism and machine, between mechanical and “human.” The very human and guttural, choral, soft yet chaotic melodies of Bjork’s voice contrasts with the sharp mechanical simplicity and clinical sterility of the video.

The viewer is presented with a set and two characters. The colors are white and black, with quiet blue and purples hues and stark lighting. Unlike many music videos today, where dramatic costume and scene changes take place, whipping you from one storyboard to another, as though the director crammed his eight ideas into 2 minutes, Chris Cunningham keeps us in one environment. I did some research on the making of this video, and the director had been obsessed with robotics as a teenager. He worked with technicians to build the female android, and then they used computer graphics in post production to generate the machines that look like something you see at the dentists, or at NASA's JPL. In A Cyborg Manifesto, Hanaway writes about the power of electronics in modern world: “Microelectronics mediate the translations of labour into robotics, sex into genetic engineering and reproductive technologies, and mind into artificial intelligence” (303).

The video reminds me of our class discussions of virtual reality, artificial intelligence, post humanism, technoparanoia, and the ever developing cosmos of digital technology. It combines two things I'm interested in: science and art. Clearly, magic happens when these two domains collide. The video can also be tied to Westworld, a show we watched about a futuristic, capitalist world where robots seem so “real” because they express human emotion and deep comprehension of feeling.

In the video, an erotic connection happens. In the primary shots of the video, we see an android alone. Yet soon, a second android appears and extends her hand in a friendly way. She smiles. In A Cyborg Manifesto, Hanaway explores cyborg sexuality: “the cyborg does not expect its father to save it through the fabrication of a heterosexual mate. Cyborgs are needy for connection . . . the main trouble with cyborgs, of course, is that they are illegitimate offspring of militarism and patriarchal capitalism.” The two female androids, either Bjork’s mirrored self or a separate being, embrace, underscoring Hanaway’s argument that they are needy for connection. It’s as if the bots move from frozen to melting... from a still, solid body lying on its side to a fluid, kinetic interaction. “A coupling between organism and machine, each conceived as coded devices, in an intimacy and with a power that was not generated in the history of sexuality. Cyborg ‘sex’ restores some of the lovely replicative baroque of ferns and invertebrates (such nice organic prophylactics against heterosexism)” (292). Since it is two females kissing, this coupling moves against heterosexism.

I thought briefly about the sexualization of the female body here, especially since it's directed by a man. I thought about why there was a choice to accentuate the robots hips and breasts.In the video, aside from touching each other’s derrieres, we see the female android on the right reach her hand slowly and tenderly into the crotch area of her partner, a subtle and tender movement occurs to suggest vaginal stimulation. I thought briefly about the kinky obsession with sex dolls and mechanical sex toys and robotic sexual partners. I thought about people's sexual digital interactions through avatars on games like Second Life and the Sims. I thought about how many modern electronic sex toys turn us into cyborgs when we use them. The definition of a cyborg is “a person whose physical abilities are extended beyond normal human limitations by mechanical elements built into the body.” When devices are inserted into or applied to the body for sexual pleasure, we take on a mechanical element that allows us to achieve orgasm beyond the normal human limitation.

Fluid is an important image in the video. When the two androids connect, a milky water streams through the machines and pours into the previously dry, sterile environment. The uncontrollable liquid opposes the tight grid of the set. “People are nowhere near so fluid, being both material and opaque. Cyborgs are there, quintessence” (297). Hanaways argues that cyborgs are fluid beings, and as material and opaque as the milky liquid in the video. The first time we see the fluid, it is flowing in reverse up from the white floor and around the android’s navel. This milky water gives a sense of cleansing, of motion, of the one element crucial to human survival. When we think of electronics and water, the two don’t mix well usually. We are taught to keep plugged-in appliances far away from the bath, and we learn about electrocution at a young age. We also know that if we spill water on our computers or drop our phones in the pool, they are ruined. Yet the liquid in this video does not interfere with the electronics. It flows beautifully, like the multiple mechanical hands of the two black robots. The constantly moving machines caress the android’s bodies. They tinker, drill, screw, and tickle. Are they building her? Repairing her? They touch her without ceasing. “The new technologies affect the social relations of both sexuality and of reproduction. The close ties of sexuality and instrumentality, of views of the body as a kind of private satisfaction and utility-maximizing machine depend on a high-tech view of the body as a biotic component or cybernetic communications system” (308).

Furthermore, since Bjork’s partner bot is a mirror image of her, I thought about self love; is it Bjork’s way of telling us to love ourselves? Or is it a lesbian robot? A bisexual robot? A queer robot? The conscious choice to make it two females, and not the age-old binary fairytale of a male and female, is wonderfully boundary-pushing. “Many women’s lives have been structured around employment in electronics, and their intimate realities include serial heterosexual monogamy” (304). This video moves away from serial heterosexual monogamy, yet we can’t assume that the android is necessarily homosexual. The video goes beyond labels and sexual classification. I don't want to get strangled by terminology. A nude body isn't always sexual or shocking. Futuristic technology isn't evil or frightening. It is joyful, sex should be. The video transcends our culture’s obsession with theoretical terminology, and sometimes all-consuming/confusing/distracting/navel-gazing talks of gender and feminism (especially in college.) The video also goes beyond our society's obsession with sex. If we can watch this video without constant definition, we can see much more. We can simply feel and let the visuals arise without getting wrapped up and ultimately lost in defining or questioning. It is a immaculately made video about love and the first time I saw it, I felt immense warmth.

Is it a visual prophecy? As the modern news talks more and more about AI, we feel as though there is a lost sense of human connection and tactile warmth with the growth of technology. Yet Bjork’s video dispels this myth and shows a world of flaming tender connection between two androids. It doesn’t matter who we are, or what we are made out of. We are all made of love. We are titillated and enthralled by the kissing robots as Bjork’s voice escalates into full expression. It's is other worldly. We do not see the creator of the robot, the people behind the machines. The video makes us think of robots differently. AI doesn't have to be distant and cold. It doesn't have to be frightening and mechanical. It doesn't have to be emotionless and monotonous. As Hanaway puts it, “Why should our bodies end at the skin? Machines can be animated –– given ghostly souls to make them speak or move. Machines can be prosthetic devices, intimate components, friendly selves” (314). All sort of looks like AI.... AI is full of love?

Sterility / Coldness / Blue light / Eerie / Computers / Clinical / Operation / Robot / Sharp / Angular / Calculated / Machines

Female body / Sensuality / Emotion / Passion / Desire / Post human / Unpredictable / Shocking / Shadow / Light / Woman / Embrace

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AjI2J2SQ528

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sapphicdalliances · 4 years

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Dear Chocolatier,

thank you so much for being here!! my sincere apologies for the lateness and messiness of this letter! sorry about my incredibly inconsistent capitalisation! it has been updated on the 9th of january.

I’m a simple bitch with simple tastes; here is a general summary of my preferences, and fandom-specific notes and prompts can be found further down!

I very much enjoy:

Fics that are short, but imply a longer, deeper verse; since this exchange is for short fics, but some of my prompts seem expansive, I just want to give you carte blanche permission to dip into an AU, splash around in it, and simply not provide additional details.

Comedic tones, slice-of-life, lighthearted fun, any amount of improbable romcom tropes

Am also on board with misunderstandings and drama as long as there is a happy ending!

I’m deeply okay with AUs, and most likely would be down for any modern, romcom, fantasy/fairytale, gender swap, or remix/crossover AUs you feel inspired to explore! My favourite settings include mundane/urban fantasy (witches! werewolves!), anachronism-stew-with-magic western fantasy jumbles, and disney’s Tangled.

Writing tropes I love:

Proposal fic

Wedding fic where the couple getting married is not the main couple

Outsider/third character POV of the main couple

Exes who are still in love/getting back together

Friends-with-benefits-with-feelings/did a bad job keeping it casual

Shipfic where two or more couples are contrasted

Oblique declarations of love/saying i love you without saying i love you

Provision and caretaking (acts of service!)

Aggressive matchmaking/wingmanning by an enthused friend

Hanahaki, or any other improbably dramatic instances of Cannot Spit It Out

Arranged marriage/fake marriage/fake dating

Epistolary fic

Regrettably I also love a/b/o, especially the kind that emphasises on scent safety and contains little to no actual sex

Art tropes I love, if you offered art:

Art where the characters look kind and fond

Fashion remixes – street fashion, cultural/traditional clothes, festival clothes, renfaire-esque clothes, beach photoshoot, get wild with it

Putting animal characteristics on one or both of them

Botanical motifs + celestial motifs

When plants grow directly out of people

The thing where character A is focused on something they’re doing or seeing, and the character B is focused only, wholly, desperately on A. please… the Gaze

Depictions of intimacy where faces are partially or fully hidden, but the body language is gentle

Characters SLEEPING next to each other, or comfortably doing separate activities in each other’s presence

If you wish to get frisky with your fills:

Yes!

Go for it!

I don’t have strong top/bottom preferences (and enjoy it when they switch or are otherwise generally equitable) so whatever you’re in the mood for is fine!

Kink tropes I very much enjoy include oral, restraints, praise kink, when proud characters cry during sex because they love their partners so much, and xeno tropes.

I love non-horny sex scenes; comedic, silly, charged, fraught, or simply affectionate exchanges that happen to include sex are my favourite. Feelings are the real kissing disease.

But like, if you wanna get horny about it.

Chase your bliss.

They simply must be in love.

I’m not as into:

Kidfic

First person narration

Soulmate AUs specifically

Kink wise, my only major squicks are incest, teacher/student, and public sex/getting caught, but i’m also not super keen on daddy kink, blood/piss/etc, or anything with blades or needles.

In general, please avoid:

Character death or serious/permanent injury

Animal abuse or death

Infidelity

Hopeless or downer endings

Fandom specific info:

Wotakoi

I love that this series has three couples in different stages of a relationship: one who’ve been together for years and love each other like well-worn grooves; one who have history but have only just recently begun a relationship and are discovering each other anew; and one who probably will not bring themselves to share a kiss for another 27 calendar years.

Narumi/Hirotaka: Honestly, the main couple of a series usually goes over my head a bit, but the more i thought about these two the more wretchedly fond of them I became. The thing I think of the most is how Narumi taught him how to smile as a child; how she did things that meant nothing to her, so easily does kindness come, but that meant so much to him; and how now that they are grown, he does things for her that take no effort, but shake her foundations. I think theirs is a love that grows quietly; something that cannot change the world, but can change them.

Koyanagi/Kabakura: My thoughts on these two are not complex, but they are deeply positive. I love how huge their personalities are, and how they fit around and against each other; I love the implication that despite their endless bickering, they are not an on-again-off-again kind of relationship, and have instead chosen each other over and over again for ten straight years. I love that despite everything, they are kind to each other, first and foremost; they find ways to apologise and to take care of each other, and treat each other gently in private.

Kou/Naoya: I love every ship in this manga equally but perhaps I love Kou/Naoya more equally than the other two? They are just so kind and so silly, and so sweet to each other in exactly the way both of them didn’t realise they were missing. I think about Naoya being told that Kou is “okay with being alone”, and realising that “okay with it” and “have accepted it” are different, and taking his little baby steps to fix it. I think about Kou giving Naoya every last drop of patience he’s trained himself not to accept, and doing so because it simply makes her happy. My only concern is that they are both bottoms. I don’t have a solution for this.

suggested prompts, fic:

- accidentally dating ft. Kou and Naoya, or, “and you’ve made out how many times now? Hmm. Yeah, that’s not technically a bromance.” - 5 times Hirotaka and Narumi almost, almost kissed, and 1 time they did; the unresolved romantic tension may kill me and it would be worth it - what Hirotaka and Narumi taught each other (apart from the more mundane gaming and life skills, i believe that she taught him how to smile and be loved by others, and he taught her how to be loved by herself!) - smutty domesticity ft. Koyanagi and Kabakura — a lazy Sunday, laundry in the sun, fucking on the couch, everything easy with familiarity - (addendum to above: pegging)

suggested prompts, art: - festival clothes - someone's getting married - naoya: *hands kou a tangerine* *hands kou a tangerine* *hands kou a tangerine* *hands kou a tangerine* *hands kou a t - red string of fate motifs

Or please do remix it with any of my general tropes listed above!

Nezha (2019)

So, wow, Nezha and Aobing are in love maybe? It drives me nuts to think about these two extremely powerful and extremely lonely boys finding each other by happenstance and instantly giving to each other something they’ve never had before. Sometimes you live most of your life without the presence of the other half of your literal soul and when you find him it’s like discovering true happiness for the first time, and that’s valid? Some people brazenly sacrifice themselves for the chance to spend a last moment with their soulmate to cope??

suggested prompts: - modern AU: delinquent Nezha and prim, proper exchange student Aobing - modern AU addendum: nobody believes Nezha when he says he’s got a hot boyfriend in Taiwan and thinks that he has made Aobing up - pwp with xeno tropes? yeah

suggested prompts, art: - lesbians AU. lesbians AU. AU where they are lesbians now. - mer aobing. mer aobing. AU where aobing is a mer-dragon now - KISSING - pwp with xeno tropes, again

Or please do remix it with any of my general tropes listed above!

Otoyomegatari

im skipping this section for now because i checked and im literally the only one who offered it. you’re not here to feed me otoyomegatari, and that’s fine.

Fire Emblem: Three Houses

i haven’t, uh, played this game? and i have not, in fact, watched anyone else play this game. but really, i don’t know that fire emblem is a thing you understand with your mind so much as it is a thing you feel with your soul. and i feel that ferdinand and hubert are in love.

fandom specific DNW: i am not a huge fan of how the game handled its fantasy racism, so if you could sort of avoid that whole situation, that’d be great. literally would love an AU where ingrid and hilda aren’t racist.

Ferdinand/Hubert: THEY LIKE EACH OTHER SO MUCH AND IT’S SO VERY EMBARRASSING FOR BOTH OF THEM, just terrible, i can barely bring myself to look upon it. An important part of their rls to me is that they both have other things they value far more than each other, on an intrinsic, instinctive level; it does not make them love each other less, just differently. They are both so very dramatic in different, equally stupid, ways. ferdinand has one dimple in his right cheek, emits UV rays when he smiles, and loves horses and singing. hubert is sexy but in a way mostly reminiscent of the empty shed skin of a venomous spider. together, they fight classism

Dimitri/Dedue: like this

Dimitri: I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you Dedue: I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for YOU [5 years of soulful gazes and dimitri making increasingly drastic and ineffectual attempts at seduction]

Hilda/Claude + Hilda/Claude/Lorenz: the sex is good. the statecraft? even better. i love trios where all 3 characters love each other equally.

suggested prompts: - ferdinand and hubert making bare skin-on-hair contact and immediately bursting into flame - dedue: your highness, let me teach you how to garden. dimitri, internally: oh, to be a speck of wet soil clinging to the warm, calloused skin of dedue's hands! - gee claude, how come your mum lets you have TWO tops? - hilda, strapping it on: urgh you're making me WORK

suggested prompts, art-specific: - outfit swaps ALWAYS fun - modern AUs also always fun - horse

Or please do remix it with any of my general tropes listed above!

Haikyuu!!

changed my life, cured my depression, what can be said about it? fwiw i am completely caught up with the manga and indeed to remain caught up for the duration of this exchange so nws about spoilers; of course i am also happy if you want to play around earlier in the timeline!

suggested prompts: - kagehina or iwaoi dealing with LDR - kyouhaba are forced to cooperate on an innocuous, preferably wholesome task, such as gardening, or finding the owner of a lost dog, and it goes, As One Would Expect - bokukuroo + overheard phone conversation: and you've slept together how many times now? hmm. yeah, that's not technically a bromance (not in a no-homo way, just in a we-are-both-so-stupid-and-like-each-other-so-much-way) - actually that overheard phone conversation would work for any of these ships

suggested prompts, art-specific: - put some wings on some of them. now it's bird romance, which is for birds - (i lied, this isn't art-specific at all, wingfic is always welcome in any of its forms) - just pick up your whole boyfriend and carry him like that. give the smooch.

Or please do remix it with any of my general tropes listed above!

Ace Attorney

i laughed for 2 straight minutes about there being no klapollo in the noms but this is fine, narumitsu is good. a thing I think about a lot re: narumitsu is that they are one of those love stories where, like, yes they’re in love. that’s not the problem. no matter what conflicts arise, or for what reasons they cannot be together, the fact that they are in love, and choose to remain in love, is never even doubted. i just really want to assert that i do not personally believe that miles nor phoenix have ever done anything on purpose in their lives except continue to be in love with each other.

suggested prompts:

- proposal fic - wedding fic - attending-a-wedding fic (gumshoe & maggey, before they're married? apollo and klavier, after they're married? franziska and adrian? not terribly picky on the background couple here!) - wedding night fic and they're both 35 so just, honestly, the back pain - honeymoon fic - also anything from when they were little, standalone or in conjunction with/comparison to their adult lives!

suggested prompts, art-specific: - so what if phoenix is a liddol hedgehog and miles is a cat in a cravat. just a thought.

Or please do remix it with any of my general tropes listed above!

Gekkan Shoujo Nozaki-Kun

seowaka: they are idiots, and they like each other very much, but they do not know. i love a tall crying boy and his short but much more powerful girlfriend.

chiyo/nozaki + chiyo/nozaki/mikorin: im rooting for her in the face of such overwhelming stupidity. one himbo is difficult enough to seduce but two. chiyo is a hero and a woman of rare courage. i like the pair and the trio equally; again, if you go with trio, it’s important that they all love each other please!

suggested prompts: - 5 times any of these ships went on a date without realising, and the time they realised - urban fantasy AU where Waka is a hapless monster hunter and Seo is an annoying but deeply harmless werewolf who’s been terrorizing his town?? - fairytale AU where Seo believes she must rescue the prince from the tower and deliver him back to the kingdom capital, and the prince, who had not realised he’d been kidnapped, thinks Seo is a usurper from a rival kingdom who must be supervised all the way back to the kingdom capital to be served her justice

suggested prompts, art-specific: - festival clothes… - nozaki carrying chiyo, who's carrying mikorin - (seo carrying waka) - waka sleeping peacefully in seo's presence… :'(

Or please do remix it with any of my general tropes listed above!

we made it through all the fandoms.

Thank you for making it to the end of this whole disaster; I hope at least one of the prompts sparked joy! The most important thing to me is that whatever you end up doing, you are able to enjoy the process at least somewhat, and deliver a creation that you like! I can also be found on twitter at @hawberries_ (for art) and @popplioikawa (for general ramblings). If you need some more inspo, I recommend going through my art tags for the selected ships because I put a lot of Opinions into my fanart.

#shit fuck im SO sorry i had to finish a DEADLINE #shut up phee #chocbox

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howtotrainyouragents · 6 years

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Agent H’s Book Reactions

The Language of Thorns by Leigh Bardugo

A series of folktales to inspire and scare set in the Grishaverse.

-Leigh Bardugo can do no wrong

-My favorite stories were Ayama and the Thorn Wood and Little Knife. Little Knife because it’s a classic fairytale setting AND THAT’S MY JAM but then that lesbian twist was the best thing I’ve ever read. Ayama and the Thorn Wood because I love the bond between two lonely souls and finding the strength of your own voice.

-Solider Prince’s bisexual ass owns me.

-When Water Sang Fire scarred me.

-So I finished Solider Prince at midnight yesterday, and I was like “That was so good. Let’s finish the book on a happy note!” And no. Nope. nada.

-The art’s gorgeous, Leigh’s writing is gorgeous, the clever twists were gorgeous, the messages were gorgeous

-Highly recommend

#WOW I NEVER TAGGED THIS #hahahah #language of thorns #Leigh bardugo #grishaverse #folktales #fairytales #fairy-tales #ya #ya lit #short stories #agent book reaction #book review #books #agent h

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behindthescenesgraphicnovel · 6 years

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One Year To Go...

Tales From When I Had A Face is an existential fairy tale, told for those of us that may have grown up, but still remember the uncertainty of a world steeped in the occult logic of dreams.

This book is still in production, we hope to be finished by the end of next year. Here are some thoughts about the project, how it was made, why it was made, what I’ve observed along the way.

Right now we’re many years in, at that point where I’m dug in the trenches and I know this world better than the day to day real world, but I don’t know how I’m going to get out the other side yet. I know it’s the most challenging book I’ve taken on, but it varies day by day how I think it’s actually going. Writing is always a bit of a bipolar ride.

This book accumulated in criptime. It’s like fingernails or snail shells, grown a bit at a time, one layer atop the next.

Here’s one layer:

The day there are no more humans on this earth, and no one left to remember and thereby recreate us, every painting or statue or book will be entirely identical with every other object in the world. It’s all just configurations of stuff, without our minds to breathe a different sort of life into a book or an album. Though there have been gaps, omissions, deletions, and the constant rewrites of the present, there’s been an ongoing narrative accumulated that we all can contribute some small part to. History. And of course those curated artifacts are a small part, too. Most of it is forgotten from explicit knowledge but is retained in more invisible ways.

That’s the sense of cosmic loss I wanted to drill into, and a Gnostic concept of history that should be made clear, at least implicitly, as the book unfolds. I spent about 5 years falling asleep to audiobooks and podcasts about being in the trenches at Verdun, or the killing fields, reading a lot of fiction and nonfiction — to Blood Meridianand The Sailor Who Fell From Grace From The Sea. Of course, a lot more, but they are the books that keep coming up. Ronald Hutton’s Shamans was particularly instructive, as was Bowie’s Blackstar.

I don’t try to emulate, ever, but I don’t understand authors who don’t want the “taint” of influence getting on their work. We are nothing at all except a reaction to a collection of influences. We curate and edit and restate and embellish, sure. This is how communal storytelling works, and I wanted to bring a little bit of that back to this story. The fairytale elements are told, grandmother to granddaughter.

I was never looking for one mythic story to reinterpret, and it’s not about the historic beliefs of Sakha or Yakut shamans. I was searching more for a Campbell style “essence” of human experience.

I don’t think that’s actually the way to go for nonfiction analysis of myth, there are issues with that approach, but for a dark fantasy like Tales, I felt I had enough license the get a general survey and then mythologize on that. Writing is part creative visualization, part language, part sense of meter, and stamina.

I chased that trail as far as I could, at a very dark period in my own life. When I was diagnosed with a variety of chronic health conditions, this project became what I could keep returning to, to try to create the sense that I was constructing some sort of meaning. For a time, I couldn’t feel it anywhere else. But I didn’t at all want this book to be about “my journey”, and it isn’t. It’s about the broader existential issues and dilemmas that experience brought out of my subconscious. A writer can’t really tell you what that all means though. Though damnit we’ll try anyway.

Tales From When I Had A Face is about this sense of perpetual loss of self and community, and the repression and dissociation of trauma, and how that catalyzes the nightmares we’ve recorded in history books.

About people who have lost their home and their people. It’s about erasure and finding meaning when we recognize that there’s no escape without a memory that invents a story of our life, and so who tends that story, and what must we think of a society that does not value it?

On the one hand I explored this idea analytically, in an anthology been working on simultaneously, Masks: Bowie and Artists of Artifice. On the other was Tales From When I Had A Face, where the process was purely creative, even shamanic. I’m sure it’ll sound pretentious, but it’s still true: this book is very much a ritual. The process of creating it has been, and hopefully the process of reading it will be as well.

I realize the absurdity of “but think about the death of meaning and the empty museums!” is a weird thing to get worked up about if we’re talking our death, or the collapse of a civilization. And even more so if constructing a myth about it could serve as medicine for me, or that I could muster the production skill from past decades of work to make such a project interesting to read. Even enjoyable, for the right reader.

I think here of Deleuze writing his final Immanence A Life, or Bowie’s swan song. Since none of us are around for long, not really, then who are we writing for? Who is “posterity”? Maybe this one is written for death. It will make of it what it may. If the book cover could be composed of bone entirely, it would be.

Deleuze was dying when it was written, and that’s what seemed to motivate that piece, its secret engine. About life, compelled to honesty by imminent death — on immanence, the totality of being.

So we see life always bleeds into fiction.

I wrote most of the first draft of Tales on a phone when I was homeless, couch surfing, dependent on the pain meds that kept chronic pain at bay. Among a long list of things, I had just lost my best friend, who I had written the previous Fallen Cycle books with. At least, he was someone I could always get to help me talk out the problems. And I did the same for him.

But I wasn’t at all trying to write about myself or my life. It’s only looking back on it now, especially the Alterran stuff, that I see, it’s all about people who have lost their home and their people. It’s about searching for meaning when we recognize that there’s no escape without a memory that invents a story of our life. And ultimately realizing that meaning is not sought but instead constructed.

We always give ourselves away, but it’s best to not try.

In terms of how the characters germinated, I’ll give an example:

At some early point in the planning process, I wondered, what if there was an entity who collected and maintained the knowledge of the dead? And around that built what became the Feyn, spirits who have learned to walk in the world of the living, and yet speak to the dead. They are the race who teach the first witch-doctors or Oyun. Eluane the “Raven-wanderer” especially, who becomes the last of his Chatillian kind, takes on this responsibility of retaining forgotten memory, before it is wiped clean by the souls passage before reincarnation.

Another option is presented: spirits that serve as the story itself, the Fallen, after whom the Fallen Cycle is named.

The Second World, and the underlying cosmology that creates the symbolic structure of the book, was developed over twenty years of iterative RPGs. For this story I was very selective about what got used, I try to be minimal in terms of the range of world building philosophy in fantasy, in execution. But in the development I may be a bit excessive in the other direction, though not truly Tolkien levels.

The entire book is composed of what I hope are somewhat unique takes on symbols that will feel unexpected, and yet still evoke that deja vu that is innate to the fairy tale. Those symbols are developed as if they compose a part of an unfamiliar tarot deck. Piles of notebooks hold discarded iterations of symbols systems and cosmologies. I wanted to bring many years of research on those subjects to bear in a way that wasn’t academic or entirely abstract. More surreal and poetic less Immanuel Kant. (Maybe I can never fully escape the ironics of Kierkegaard, however).

The visual art — 72 full color pages, 24 black and white — lends more to that effect, except that tarot imagery often feels so static. I wanted much of this to retain a sense of motion, life, and narrative.

It will likely be observed that this book is mostly about women, especially what Jung might have called the feminine shadow. They are all lunar. One of the five primary characters, the younger Ayta, is a lesbian. Two others are bisexual.

Again, I didn’t plan this in advance, and it isn’t a story about them being gay or female, but though male bodied, I was raised by lesbians. I can’t claim that experience as my own but it’s far from unfamiliar. In fact, queer culture has always felt more like home to me. So, in creating psychological mytheopia, I’m not surprised this was the end result. Still, people will argue about what stories we have a right to tell. I feel confident telling the story I had to tell here, but I don’t see that as being intended to speak for anyone else, or their own experience.

Anyhow, that’s my first brain dump on production. Hopefully it’s been interesting to some of you. And I’m back to editing the MS.

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