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antebunny · 1 year

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God is on the loose

I: find God in heathen beauty

It is a lovely day in the village. A mild yellow sun glows in the gentle blue heavens. Wild begonias and goose droppings follow your path out of the woods and its overcrowded glens and into the airy and beige town. A blacksmithery belches up thick gray smog, its roof low and sagging. You skirt around it the long way, avoiding the main (and only) road. Hard, packed dirt and loose dust stick to the bottom of your damp feet.

It is a lovely day in the village, but there is one unacceptable problem: you are bored. So you are here looking for some entertainment. As your mother always said: life is about the simple joys. Where to first? A farmer’s shed, inside which the farmer’s daughter spins hay for the twelfth consecutive hour? Eh. Boring. Seen it a million times. And hay makes you itchy. The local tavern, where the innkeeper’s boy balances twelve drinks on an old tray while an unhealthily large midday crowd demands more? Oh no. You know your limits. Where, then, are simple delights to be found in this small town at the foot of the great forests?

A bright flash gets your long neck swinging around for its source. There, down the path: a broad-shouldered man with a sure-footed stride, his clothes the color of straw. From his belt dangles a shiny gold object. Option one: steal the shiny thing. Option two: leave the man alone and seek other sources of joy.

Oh, who are you kidding? Peace was never an option. Option one it is. You creep up behind him on silent, bright orange feet. His shiny gold thing, smaller and thinner than you expected, flashes in the face of the sun. A key? Well, it doesn’t matter. Carefully timing your footsteps with his, you extend your neck and…

“What the–? Hey!” The man spins around, but you’ve already flapped backwards, out of his reach.

Honking obnoxiously, key held firmly in your mouth, you take to the rooftops. Their triangular shapes dip you out of sight. Let him chase the wind. Thoroughly satisfied, you circle around the town in search of more excitement. You cross from one happy, thatched roof to the next. The people passing by on the paths below don’t look up. They never do.

You wander to the edge of the village, where an adorable two-room cottage straddles the gap between forest and town. The sturdy, wooden-log walls, built with love, hold the roof high over its residents’ heads. An odd assortment of flowers explode from a box in the cottage’s one window.

The place reeks of death. Ground squirrels and rabbits, beaver pelts and traps. A single wolf head mounted over the table. It’s a hunter’s house. An unnatural metallic smell originates from the tips of the arrows lying on the table, fletched with white feathers from swans or geese–

Options one, two, and three: trash this hunter’s home.

You swagger through the front door, full of misplaced confidence, and immediately encounter a woman thoroughly scrubbing a pot of beans. She looks down at you. You look up at her, key hidden in your beak. She blinks. Her hair is the color of night and her eyes are pinkish red, like roses, only brighter. Now you’re no human expert, but that’s not right, is it?

“Don’t tell me,” you say, words garbled by the metal in your mouth, “you’re a swan maiden?”

Hands over mouth, eyes widened, like humans do in surprise. Very human-like, except for the bright red irises blinking at you. “How did you know?”

“Call it a lucky guess,” you suggest. “So, what’s your story? Wait, let me guess: you decided to leave the comforts of heaven and while bathing a hunter stole your feather cloak and now you’re stuck here.”

“Yes!” She cries. “For so long I have withered in this accursed human abode, the seasons have lost their meaning and I fear I have forgotten how to fly–”

“Alright, lady, alright.” A few flaps of your wings, and you land sloppily on the table. No one’s ever accused you of possessing expert flying skills. You waddle to the edge so you can converse with the swan maiden eye to eye, bird to bird. “Look, this hunter–does he have shoulders and, uh, two feet?” Wait, most humans have those things, don’t they? “Does he happen to be wearing a straw-colored shirt today?”

The swan maiden doesn’t blink, but she tilts her head, bird-like, unsure.

“I see I’ve eliminated no men.” You drop the key at her feet. “Recognize this?”

“That’s it! It’s his!” The unholy shriek that emerges from her throat could only be made by a bird. But her squat, knees jutting to the sky, fingers scrabbling for the key, is very human, you think. “How did you…? Oh, I never thought–”

“Uh-huh, let’s not waste time lady, do you know where he keeps your feather cloak?”

“Yes, of course.” The swan maiden squeezes the key so tightly her whole arm shakes. “Oceans I have wept over it, attempting in vain to open–” She dashes off.

You take a minute to knock every arrow off the table before flapping after her. The swan maiden kneels by a chest in the corner of the bedroom. Shoulders shaking, fingers fumbling–she drops the key four times, swearing continuously.

“Why are all my arrows on the floor?” Boots scuffing on wooden planks. The whole house rattles when the door slams shut. He’s home.

Hunters terrify you, but swans are annoying, the clear greater of two evils. You helped the swan maiden anyway, and now you’re stuck in a hunter’s home with a swan, both annoyed and terrified. The universe is laughing at you.

The lock clicks. Quiet creaking bellows through both rooms like a thunderclap when the swan maiden lifts the old wooden lid. Inside, something soft and white shines.

“What are you doing?” The hunter, frozen in the doorframe, a fistful of arrows in one hand and a new longbow in the other.

The swan maiden mirrors him in stillness. His gold key slips from her fingers and clatters loudly to the floorboards. Her unceasing eye contact with the hunter is so deeply human that you wonder if there’s something you’re missing about this swan maiden’s story.

You hop onto the rim of the chest. Your long neck bows and bends so you can seize the feather cloak with your beak. “Put it on, idiot!” You hiss.

Webbed feet slip easily on thin wooden rims. You topple backwards into the chest, squawking all the way down. Finally, the hunter notices the water fowl in his bedroom, and his face twists in one of those human expressions that say everything, but only through mazes of lies, and he shouts something unintelligible while you beat your wings ineffectively against layer after layer of soft white feathers, and the swan maiden screams no or maybe don’t and–

II: stumble upon God unaware

Water so clear and blue it could easily be the sky. Sweet reeds and muddy undertones, wafting in between the shallow areas. Pink lotuses and poppy seed. Tufts of white fog, like mist, only denser, peek through the water’s surface.

You splash around in this picturesque pond, the swan maiden’s feather cloak pinning your wings to your sides. You poke your beak at the perfectly clear sky, twisting your neck this way and that. Muddy ponds, mangroves, and lush aquatic plants as far as your eyes can see. Pristine and undisturbed. You quack once, defiant and disgruntled by the beauty of it all.

“Greetings, new arrival!” A large white trumpeter swan glides across the pond. “Welcome to heaven, where the ponds mirror the sky and the vegetation always flourishes. You shall never fear the hunters or the wolves again.”

You tramp out of the pond and settle in the reeds, with the soggy feather cloak settling over you like a blanket. “This is…swan heaven.”

“What else?” The trumpeter swan does not follow you out of the water, instead maintaining a dignified distance. One glossy white wing lifts regally, indicating all of swan heaven. “Here, every swan shall relax in the thousands of ponds we call home. Here, every swan shall find joy until the end of infinity. Here–”

“You know, eternal happiness sounds great and all,” you interrupt, “but I am a goose.”

The wing lowers unceremoniously. The trumpeter swan paddles a bit closer to inspect you. “So you are.”

Underneath the swan feather cloak are two wings, somehow both brown and white in color. Sticking out is a neck that is neither long and elegant like a swan nor short and stubby like a duck. For you are a goose.

“There must be some mistake,” you explain. “See, this is a swan maiden’s feather cloak that I was trying to return to its owner–I didn’t mean to put it on. But I did and clearly I was recognized as a swan and sent here. So.”

The swan skillfully utilizes all that excess neck length to loom over you. “We do not make mistakes.” The neck retracts into its usual slender S-shape. “But please do return it.”

“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.” You begin the arduous process of shrugging the cloak off your wings. Funny that just putting on a heavenly swan’s cloak will send a goose to heaven. “By the way, does anything happen when I take it off?”

“Yes, of course, you silly goose.” The swan seizes a mouthful of cloak in order to tug it off you. So it is in a comically muffled voice that the swan proclaims: “You will be sent to goose hell.”

Then the swan tugs two more times, but fruitlessly, for you have frozen with your own beak gripping the cloak tightly. One desperate yank frees the cloak from the swan’s grip.

“What!” You squawk, hastily wrapping the cloak snug around your wings again. “Why!? I’m not dead!”

“It’s for your own good,” the swan says patronizingly, and beckons you over with graceful flicks of that long swan neck. “Now give it here.”

“No!” You wiggle away through the reeds at full speed, trampling the delicate grass underfoot. You scan heaven’s horizon for hiding spots. The mangroves, the reedy marches, or the open lake?

“You’ll get there eventually!” The swan lives up to the “trumpeter” title, but does not condescend to chase after you. “There’s nowhere for a goose to hide in swan heaven!”

When this argument fails to persuade you, the swan lifts off the glassy pond surface, flies smooth circles around the water, and trumpets for the whole of heaven to hear: “There is a goose with a swan’s heavenly cloak! Someone get the cloak! Someone stop that goose!”

You disappear into the mangroves, where the trees tear feathers from the cloak and the insects flee in terror. Blooming life and sinking rot swamp your senses. Sunlight trickles through the interlocking leaf canopy by teaspoons. But the swan calls follow you deep into the twisting roots and branches. Warning: there is a goose loose in swan heaven! No one knows where the goose is going. No one knows what the goose will do–least of all the goose!

III: our righteous fears

Now what? The entire population of swan heaven is hunting you, and you are trapped in here, lost somewhere in the heavenly mangroves. All because you decided to meddle ere’the business of some idiot swan maiden. So what now? You have no idea how to get back home, and you can’t ask a resident swan for fear they’ll take the heavenly cloak from you. You can’t just waddle out of swan heaven, presumably. That wouldn’t be very heavenly of it. Actually, why presume? Might as well discover the geography of swan heaven yourself. Perhaps this is a way out.

A faint rumble, some kind of shush-shush-shush, like running water over rocks, creeps into your hearing range. You take off in pursuit of its source. Perhaps this is a way out.

You splash through tiny pools, mud splattering up your skinny construction orange legs. Greedy roots grow thick as branches. Your body barely squeezes through the gaps left by the skinny tree trunks. You fear the trees ripping the cloak free with every passing branch.

What would goose hell even look like? An endless desert? A world full of hunters? Well, you wouldn’t fear the hunters after going to hell. So perhaps not.

A while later, the mangroves curl to a stop, leaves draping over the treetops to make way for a small clearwater pond. A family of swans circling its center watch you crash through the trees, nonplussed. Their non-reaction encourages you to wade into their little pond.

The smallest swan of the bunch swims up to you the way one might approach a curious new specimen. “You are an ugly swan.”

How rude! How disrespectful! Really, swans have got to raise their children better. You peck the cygnet on the head. “Not as ugly as you.”

While the little swan prepares an indignant retort, some striking familiarities tickle the back of your mind. All of these swans have black feathers, red beaks, and pinkish red eyes like roses, only meaner.

“By any chance, have you recently lost a family member to an ill-advised earthly excursion?”

No, say the swan family’s body language, and also who is this weird ugly swan?

“She has red eyes and a voice,” you add helpfully.

“Oh, so we did,” one of the larger swans recalls. A proper ruffling of feathers later and they all start swimming away from you. “Whatever became of her?” The swan muses to the others.

“Well–she’s trapped as a human!” You paddle furiously after them. “Hey! Aren’t you concerned? Aren’t you going to get her back?”

Perhaps you shouldn’t ask that so loudly when the solution is currently draped around you, but outrage gets the better of you.

“Good heavens! What barbarous ideas the younger generations come up with!” Another large swan with a cherry-colored beak clucks condescendingly at you. “No, we certainly shall not be leaving heaven. Good day to you.”

But you don’t find it to be a good day, and you aren’t inclined to say goodbye just yet. You chase after this indifferent family and get in their way. “How did you forget her? Why can’t you leave?”

“They’re way too scared to do that,” one of the cygnets says unexpectedly. “I mean, infinite happiness is too much to lose, right?”

“Is this infinite happiness, then?”

“Yes,�� the cherry-beaked swan quacks decisively, covering the cygnets with one outstretched wing. “Let us leave,” the large swan instructs them.

“Hey!” You slide around their little flock, attempting to find the cygnet who called you ugly. “You know it’s not so much better here than earth, right?” Finally, you find the right cygnet, with the correct ratio of light gray fluffiness to puny size. You stick your beak through the large swans and their tight formation to get right up in the cygnet’s face. “Aren’t you curious why your sister left?”

The large swans yank the cygnet out of the pond and away from you with their beaks. They swing their heads toward prettier sights, winging around you on all sides. Their webbed feet kicking at you is the only response you receive. But the fluffy gray cygnet looks back, just once, before all the cygnets disappear behind a wall of black feathers.

“Unbelievable,” you honk at their retreating tails.

Well, it’s like your mother always said: some people just can’t see the pond for the reeds. You give up and return to swimming after the sound of rushing water. “If you’re so busy being afraid of leaving heaven,” you mutter to yourself, “then it’s not really heaven, is it?”

A little creek leads out of the swan family’s pond in the direction of running water, so you head that way mindlessly. Freshwater runs your feet clean. They dry quickly on the half-submerged, warm river stones.

You tuck the heavenly cloak into every crevice your beak can reach, lining up swan feather with goose feather. You’re not going to end up in goose hell just because this stupid swan maiden cloak fell off. If you are to go to hell, then it will be in glory, with grace, with a honking that puts the hunters’ war horns to shame; a bang, not a whimper, not quietly unnoticed, and certainly not by accident.

With the swan cloak tucked as tightly as goosely possible, you slide into the river and allow the busybody currents to carry you downstream. A little bit of webbed-foot action for steering is all the effort you exert as the glorious spring green sights of swan heaven sweep by. Shrubbery and woody trees clear space for the creek to crash forth. Another creek feeds into your creek, which soon merges with another, then another. Soon all the waters of swan heaven swirl into a roaring river, wider than a fully-grown evergreen is tall.

You squelch your way up a large, pointy and gray river stone, splashing a great deal of water about in order to free yourself from the river’s all-consuming current. Webbed feet plastered to the damp, smooth slope, body nestled against the top for balance; a semi-uncomfortable viewpoint of the river’s mouth. It is from this view that you see the waterfall running over the edge of heaven.

IV: reflect God’s face

Despite your half-formed hopes, you never believed swan heaven had a limit. Yet here it is: a bellowing waterfall, crashing over moon-white rocks and the fluffy indication of clouds into the cheerful blue void below. The roaring culmination of heaven’s mighty river.

Beyond the waterfall lies the whole world, spread like a painting on an easel. Cumulus clouds drifting like flocks of sheep. The waterfall disappears into their misty white mysteries. Their swiftly-moving shapes part briefly, and in that celestial window shines snow-covered mountain tops. Perhaps you should’ve guessed that heaven rests on the tops of clouds, because its location seems so stupidly obvious now. Of course it’s in the sky. Where else?

If only you could appreciate all this natural splendor. But scattered around the river’s mouth, on wet stones and rough rocks, stands a council of swan elders. All shapes and colors and sizes, but even the smallest is twice your size. Silent and watching as you spelunk through their majestic, beautiful river, but unlike the swan maiden’s family, their impassiveness does not soothe you. Still, they can pry the nonchalance out of your cold, dead feathers.

“Hello, my fellow…feathery friends!” You call. “New arrival here. I don’t suppose you can tell me where the new swans get to live?”

The largest amongst them, a terrifying whitish brown swan monopolizing the smoothest white river stone, inclines a neck as long as you in a distanced version of condescension. “You are not a swan.”

You flap your wings in mock outrage. “Whaaat? How could you…yeah okay, I’m a goose. So what?”

“Return the swan feather cloak you are wearing,” a black-necked swan commands. “It belongs to a heavenly swan.” Not a horrid goose, remains only implied.

“Listen, I would love to.” You demonstrate this enthusiasm by flying closer to the black-necked swan, choosing a little rock just outside of wing range as your landing place. “But. But! I’ve been told that taking it off will send me straight to hell and that just doesn’t seem very fair when I haven’t even died. And between you and me, her family doesn’t seem too keen on getting her back. Honestly, I think swan heaven ought to raise its standards. You’re letting in some real mid-tier riff-raff.”

This passionate speech moves nothing but water. The river’s gushing is your only applause. But if you thought appealing to swans’ empathetic natures stood a chance of success, you would’ve tried it already. And let’s be real, you’re not truly trying.

A very fluffy and very, very large tundra swan chooses to break the silence. “You are dead.”

Shush shush, the river warns.

You wobble on your little rock. “Huh? No. No. I’m not dead. Definitely not. I’d know.”

“Apparently not.” A black swan infuses so much dryness into those two words you can’t believe you’re all standing over a river.

A giant whooper swan flaps both wings once without taking off. The generated wind washes over the river, and with it an image ripples on the water’s mercurial surface: you in the hunter’s home. Squirming in the oak chest. The hunter, frozen in the doorway, but not for long enough. He drops all of his arrows, save for one which he strings expertly. Draws his bow, with that lightning quick, stone-cold certainty only hunters have, and the swan maiden howls at him to stop, but he ignores her and the swan feathers blind you and you twist and twist and the arrow flies–

White foam wipes the memory away. No swan speaks up. I warned you, whispers the river. But not until this moment do you feel it: the arrow cleaving you in two. A blazing trail of fire smashing through organs and muscles and bones. Death’s teeth sinking in, gnawing, carving you open at long last.

“You are already in hell,” the whooper swan states.

This is hell. Goose hell. Goose hell is swan heaven. Another obvious observation you should’ve made except that you, it turns out, are one stupid goose.

“But it’s not that bad here,” you croak.

The swans offer you looks of disdain and pity that says pathetic.

“Then you will not mind returning the heavenly cloak,” a trumpeter swan concludes.

Again with the stupid swan cloak. Why do they care so much when her own family can’t be bothered? This one is obvious, even to you: they don’t give a damn about the swan maiden or her feather cloak. They don’t care about anything at all so long as their heaven remains goose-free. That’s what lies at the end of infinity: total apathy. Because this is about you. Disrupting their perfect apathy, threatening their smug intolerance. Terrorizing heaven and the swans who call it home.

Oh, you’ll show them true terror if it kills you. A terrible, no-good, absolutely idiotic plan springs into your head. It’s too stupid to be believed. But you haven’t got any other ideas.

You, apparently possessing no significant intelligence, fly from rock to rock, passing within wing range of the enormous swan elders. Their necks crane to track your movements, but no one moves a feather. Why should they? You’re completely surrounded by swans.

Finally, you finagle a spot on the smooth white stone with the terrifying whitish brown swan, who looms even larger and scarier up close. Unnerving by those soulless black eyes and frightening by design. Still, the swans wait. You’ll hand over the cloak yourself now that you understand the futility of your struggle. Right?

“I understand what this place is now,” you say.

“Oh, do you?” The whitish brown swan says scornfully, and indicates with graceful motions made possible by that long white neck that every swan should listen. “Everyone, the goose has got a name for heaven. Well, tell us then. What is it?”

You ruffle your small wings that are neither properly white nor properly brown, and crane your short neck until it is almost as long as the swans’ elegant, bowing necks. And you do not smile, for geese cannot, but answer in a terrible, thunderous voice that will topple tyrants from their thrones:

“A JOKE.”

Then you bite the terrifying swan on the neck, as hard as you can, and spring into the air with the panicked spontaneity only a goose can muster. You yank that swan’s neck as you go, tearing feathers loose and chomping through skin. The swan unleashes a wild squawk, and outraged honks from all of the swans follow, as all are forced into action by your sudden, foolish behavior.

“You horrid creature!” The swan shrieks. Rose red blood spills onto cloud white feathers. “Stop the goose! Stop the goose!”

The swans take to the air by the dozens, but not gracefully like you expected, and not rushing you all at once. Waiting and waiting and waiting for someone else to go first. Cawing, flapping those glossy wings aimlessly, unsettled and enraged. Ancient swan fury versus one goose’s haphazard plan to catch dozens of swans by surprise and wing it the rest of the way.

You got the first move and you don’t waste it. Every flap of your wings thrusts you away from the swans, towards the edge of heaven, to the endless sky, the endless fall. A beak grasps your foot, teeth sinking in, gnawing when you snap around, wings battering the swan’s head, feet kicking. The swan’s grip slips, tearing your webbed foot in the process, but no pain registers.

You fly faster than you have in your life, like your life depends on it–because it’s obvious, isn’t it? That it does–and your flight swoops you past the water mill, over their heavenly waterfall where the swans do not dare follow. The line in the stones that they do not dare cross, painted clearer than snow in sunlight by where their webbed feet stop. Hissing and honking up a storm, but their kwak kwaks are drowned out fully by the plangent song of the falls.

Your flying stops when they stop. Your wings wrap around the swan maiden’s salvation, hold it close to your body, and you plunge, pelted by waterfall spray, honking victoriously, tumbling out of heaven like an autumn leaf in the dizzying, endless blue, saying goodbye to the clouds by the path you tear through them, and the fall steals your breath, but you pray, at least you’ll go out in glory, you’ll die but you’ll do it gloriously, and second chance, please, reincarnate?, can’t die twice, hope, and heavens, happy, horror, lovely, liar, fury, fire, poppy, prayer, splendor, slayer, wonder, wearer, thunder, terror–

V: God has slipped the noose

Sweet petrichor and early spring sprouts. Dawn, dusty orange and boiling red. A murderous horizon birthing a fresh day of sunlit glades and fireside stories. Wild begonias bless the parched ground and the forgotten corners of the world, where life meets decay. Roses bloom in the window of the tiny two-room cottage by the woods. Inside lives a mysterious woman with hair the color of ash and eyes of fire. Sometimes, she leaves sedges and seeds out for the local wild goose. Sometimes the villagers see her squatting, speaking and laughing as if she and the goose are holding an actual conversation. But no one questions it, and no one speaks ill of her inhuman eyes either. She’s brought near-daily rains to the town, proper spring showers that ended their drought, ever since the hunter disappeared.

In the village, a baker sharpens an old knife in the treacherous morning light. Your attention is stolen not by the baker’s small selection of sweet breads, but by the bird carving in the shop. It’s shiny. You simply must have it. This combination–human and knife–ought to be lethal for every sort of water fowl, but that won’t stop you from finding out for yourself. You don’t yet know your limits.

A glorious golden sun glows in the wide blue heavens as you saunter, full of decently-placed confidence, down the only road in town. Today, in your expert opinion, is a rather fine day. Life is good, but it’s about to get better.

It is a lovely day in the village and you are a horrible goose.

NOTES

The title and subtitles all come from “Most Wanted” by Mohja Kahf

The first and last line come from the Untitled Goose Game, as well as “peace was never an option.”

Inspiration for this comes from the swan maiden fairytale which I briefly mentioned on page 1. There’s a version in many cultures, but basically the swan maiden/heavenly maiden comes down from heaven (usually with her sisters) to bathe in a pond. While bathing the local hunter/woodsman/just some guy steals her feather cloak/heavenly robes and won’t give it back when asked. They get married and have kids. Sometimes she finds the cloak and yeets back to heaven with the kids.

#my writing #writing #fairytale #fairytales #my art #writeblr #creative writing #writing prompts #4.7k #untitled goose game #swan maiden

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nobody-cared-then-either · 2 months

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I'm not just trauma. I'm also academics.

Zach Reynolds

Dr. Nancy Chase

December 2, 2010

Engl 3040

Analyzing the Tragedy of Septimus Smith

Captured in Mrs. Dalloway there is a reflection of the socioeconomic structure of early 20th century England, as well as the patriarchal class and imperial ideologies that marked this era in British history. The burden a civilization informed by these ideologies puts on its constituents, both its lower and upper class members included, is of focal importance to the novel, because despite its celebrated achievements in psychology and temporal analysis, “it nevertheless incarnates a critique of Empire and the war, taking the state as the embodiment of patriarchal power, and the upholder of what even Richard Dalloway calls ‘our detestable social system’” (Tambling 58; Woolf 116). Central to this critique is the tragedy of the character Septimus Smith, a literary-minded veteran who survives the war only to succumb to the more subtle violence of imperial social ‘justice.’

The portrayal of Septimus’ ambitions, military service, and mental collapse provokes a sharp Marxist criticism of the classist and imperialistic tendencies of early 20th century England, and creates through its criticism an interpretation of this moment in history that is defined by the opposite discourses of Septimus and the aristocracy that drives him to suicide.

When Septimus is first introduced to the reader, he is described as “pale-faced, beak-nosed . . . with hazel eyes which had that look of apprehension in them which makes complete strangers apprehensive too” (Woolf 14). One cannot help but to label him a lunatic immediately following the passage detailing his hallucination of a sparrow chirping his name and singing in Greek, or his vision of “the dead . . . assembling,” with an unknown man, “Evans . . . behind the railings!” (24-25). In the passage that falls between pages 84 and 86, however, a brief biography is given of Septimus Smith, which informs the reader of his disposition before the war. Here, Septimus is made un-extraordinary as one of “millions of young men called Smith” (84), and characterized in his youth as a typical middle class idealist. He is “on the whole, a border case, neither one thing nor the other, might end with a house at Purley and a motor car, or continue renting apartments in back streets all his life . . .” (84). His experiences are summed up satirically in botanical terms, with Woolf imagining that were a gardener to voyeuristically look on Septimus at this early phase in his life, he would say that the young man, consumed with “such a fire as burns only once in a lifetime” with his love for “Miss Isabel Pole, lecturing . . . upon Shakespeare,” and his passion for “Antony and Cleopatra . . . Shakespeare, Darwin, The History of Civilization, and Bernard Shaw”(85) was flowering into a man ardently moved by his reverence for English society and the legacy of art of which his love Miss Pole was the beautiful embodiment.

So, when it came to war, it’s no surprise that “Septimus was one of the first to volunteer. He went to France to save an England which consisted almost entirely of Shakespeare’s plays and Miss Isabel Pole in a green dress walking in a square” (86). The war changes Septimus though. He faces the traumatizing experience of watching his friend die in front of him, yet he stoically does not mourn his friend, Evans, and is rewarded with a wife, a promising promotion in his career in England, and honors for his military service. Yet these things bring Septimus no contentment; the effects of the war on his personality begin to emerge, and he finds upon opening Shakespeare again that what mattered to him before the war, the “business of the intoxication of language – Antony and Cleopatra – had shriveled utterly” (88). Septimus exits the war with his idealism atrophied; but even worse, his connection to civilization is severed:

“He looked at people outside; happy they seemed, collecting in the middle of the street, shouting, laughing, squabbling over nothing. But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the tea-shop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him – he could not feel” (87-88).

So disillusioned does Septimus become that he no longer can make the association of beautiful Miss Pole to the arts; rather he finds “the message hidden in the beauty of words . . . is loathing, hatred, despair” (88); and “human beings,” he observes, “have neither kindness, nor faith, nor charity . . . They hunt in packs . . . scour the desert and vanish screaming into the wilderness. They desert the fallen” (89). Compared to the idealistic youth who fell in love with Miss Pole, the post-war Septimus is a different person entirely, and suddenly there is an explanation for the lunatic introduced to the reader several pages earlier in the novel with his hallucinations of a man named “Evans.”

Following the detailed deterioration of Septimus’ mind comes his interaction with two different doctors, each a member of the English aristocracy; they are Dr. Holmes and Sir William Bradshaw. Septimus meets with these men at the request of his wife to receive diagnosis and treatment for his nervous breakdown. Coming from the proletariat places Septimus immediately in a position that is submissive to the bourgeoisie doctors Holmes and Bradshaw; it also puts his mental collapse into a context that allows for a Marxist interpretation of how his role in society has caused his neurosis to develop. In Dr. Holmes, Septimus first encounters the discourse of the English aristocracy, and finds to his disgust that it is a language informed by oppressive classist and patriarchal values that are ignorant of or deny the basic emotional needs that, not being met, are at the heart of Septimus’ mental breakdown.

In the passage written from Holmes’ point of view, the Smith’s are portrayed in condescending language that serves to communicate their lesser social rank and Dr. Holmes supposed superiority as a member of the bourgeois. He speaks down to his patient as one would to a child, and invokes the privilege of his rank as a doctor and aristocrat to force his way into the Smith’s home when his entry is refused by Septimus: “Did he indeed?” said Dr. Holmes, smiling agreeably. Really he had to give that charming little lady, Mrs. Smith, a friendly push before he could get past her into her husband’s bedroom” (91-92). In another example, Dr. Holmes belittles Septimus’ illness by telling him that “there [is] nothing whatever the matter” (90) with him, and suggests hobbies he could take up to distract himself, rather than offering any real medical advice. Patronizing Septimus’ illness as mere neuroticism is Dr. Holmes first step to establishing his superiority to Smith. In his second visit, a response to the patient’s talk of suicide, he invokes the patriarchal mores of male programming, and scolds Septimus for giving his wife “a very odd idea of English husbands” (91), implicating him as guilty of failing in both his duties to stoicism and patriotism as a male and a veteran.

In his failure to conform to typical male programming, Erika Baldt sees an applicability of Julia Kristeva’s definition of abjection to Septimus’ situation. Kristeva defines abjection as “the ambivalent, the border where exact limits between same and other, subject and object, and even beyond these, between inside and outside, [are] disappearing—hence an Object of fear and fascination" (qtd. in Baldt 14). Kristeva goes on to say that “at the limit, if someone personifies abjection without assurance of purification, it is a woman, ‘any woman’” (qtd. 14). Therefore, Septimus, for suffering from shell-shock, a form of hysteria, which was considered a feminine “extreme of emotion,” is seen as deviant because he does not comply with the “exact limits” of masculinity, and thus is deemed a “traitor to [his] sex” (Baldt 14). Just from his encounter with Dr. Holmes, then, Septimus is labeled as a deviant and potential threat to society. In addition, implied through the portrayal of traditionally feminine qualities in a male character, there is in the text a discourse of opposition to the biological essentialism that defined gender roles at the turn of the 19th century conflicting directly with a misogynistic and patriarchal discourse that is part of the discourse of the British Empire.

Further critique of the Empire comes out of Septimus’ encounter with Dr. Holmes in regard to the injustice of the war. It is, in fact, the callousness of his society that, internalized in Septimus, has caused his mental collapse – his interior monologue in reaction to Holmes’ insistence that nothing is wrong with him reveals this plainly: “So there was no excuse; nothing whatever the matter, except the sin for which human nature had condemned him to death; that he did not feel. He had not cared when Evans was killed; that was worst . . .” (91). It is this lack of remorse, which, because it is felt at the core of Septimus’ society and has been instilled in him through honors, through decoration as a war hero, that he has his nervous breakdown. This drives his guilt and drives him to condemn himself, and by extension, condemn the society that has instilled in him such callousness. As one critic aptly points out in his analysis, “This kind of satire on the author's part surely reveals the point of the outstanding irony in Smith's continuous self-condemnation of himself for his inability to feel. For it is precisely because he can feel that he is in such difficulty, and at such odds with society” (Samuelson 66). Having witnessed the devastation of war, in particular Evans’ death, places Septimus in the difficult and isolating position of knowing the truth of the war that is denied by the bellicose rationalization of leaders (embodied in Dr. Holmes, and later Bradshaw) who never saw the front line and dictated the terms of the war from the relative safety of their homes. Thus, “Septimus, appalled and revolted by the patriotic lies by which his fellow Londoners transform collective murder into "pleasurable . . . emotion" and himself into a war hero, is diagnosed as mad” (Froula 147).

At his encounter with Sir William Bradshaw, Septimus has worked up to his most vehement critique of his society. “Once you fall,” he says to himself, “human nature is on you. Holmes and Bradshaw are on you. They scour the desert . . . The rack and thumbscrew are applied. Human nature is remorseless” (Woolf 98). Indeed, the conflict between imperial discourse and humane discourse is at its most vehement in this encounter too. It is also worth nothing that the narrator sympathizes strongly with Septimus Smith when, for instance, she criticizes the real motivation behind Bradshaw’s socially celebrated benevolence:

“Sir William would travel sixty miles or more down into the country to visit the rich, the afflicted, who could afford the very large fee which Sir William very properly charged for his advice . . . Her ladyship waited [in the car] with the rugs about her knees . . . thinking . . . of the wall of gold mounting minute by minute while she waited . . .” (94).

The portrayal of Sir William that follows in the remainder of the passage is equally satirizing, invoking Septimus’ discourse of anti-classism and overall cynicism. This becomes apparent again especially when Sir William says that “he never spoke of ‘madness’; he called it not having a sense of proportion” (96). After which he invokes his power as a doctor and knight and makes Septimus’ case a matter of law, ‘prescribing’ him rest and isolation, as per the norm of the medicalized society of early 20th century Britain, when this is actually equivalent to a death sentence for Septimus. For Bradshaw, however, the rest cure – or isolation and quarantine to put it more plainly – is the only recourse for deviant cases such as the Smith case. Though it is disguised, this is actually a reaction of fear; “The discourse of the lunatics, who lack what Sir Bradshaw euphemistically refers to as a sense of proportion, threatens to undermine the strength of the British Empire, already in danger at the historical moment of the novel . . . the insane threaten to contaminate the "sane" who uphold and submit to the order of the Empire” (Smith 18). In other words, the discourse of the “insane” Septimus, who recognizes the impersonal treatment of Evans as a crime, must be suppressed.

Thus, Bradshaw, “worshipping proportion . . . not only prospered himself but made England prosper, secluded her lunatics, forbade childbirth, penalised despair, made it impossible for the unfit to propagate their views until they, too, shared his sense of proportion” (Woolf 99). Just as Septimus views the rest cure as a sentence rather than a treatment, so apparently does the narrator. It is a means used to silence the unruly “lunatic” who questions the established social order and the callousness of his society. This more violent side of proportion the narrator embodies as its sister: “Conversion is her name and she feasts on the wills of the weakly, loving to impress, to impose, adoring her own features stamped on the face of the populace” (100). Calling to mind images of colonialism in Africa, in India, and around the world, the word “conversion” finally sums up Septimus’ and the narrator’s view of imperial England. Through criticizing the figures in the novel who most symbolize the top of the power structure in England, the policies of the English state are criticized, both for their brutality within the country and without.

Ironically, Septimus is condemned by Bradshaw and Holmes not because he cannot feel, but because he feels too much. While the socially prescribed norm values stoicism and blind patriotism, he nevertheless can’t help but to feel repulsed by the lack of humanity in such values. Indeed, “Septimus is in many ways more sane than the "civilized" society to which he returns” (Henry 233). Septimus is not the only character in the novel to recognize his society is insane, however. Speaking of Mrs. Dalloway, Woolf herself states in the introduction to one of the early editions of her novel that “Septimus, who later is intended to be her double, had no existence; and that Mrs. Dalloway was originally to kill herself, or perhaps merely to die at the end of the party” (qtd. in Samuelson 60). Though the two characters never meet, it can be observed that Clarissa does share some of the same emotional qualities that Septimus has, if only to a lesser extent. She knows nothing of the war, and the trauma that it has inflicted on Septimus’ mind, for example, but she shares in his oppression by the patriarchal ideology of imperial England. She expresses her awareness of being so oppressed most keenly with her intense dislike of Sir Bradshaw, judging him “a great doctor yet to her obscurely evil, without sex or lust . . . but capable of some indescribably outrage – forcing your soul, that was it –“ (Woolf 184-85).

Most importantly, Clarissa Dalloway becomes the receiving vessel of Septimus’ message in her empathetic vision of his suicide and death. Faced with confinement, Septimus finally throws himself out of a window before the approaching Holmes can deliver him to Bradshaw for conversion into a yielding imperial pawn through the abuses of the rest treatment. “Lone witness of a reality that everyone around him denies, Septimus . . . suffers, owns, and tries to bear witness to his civilization's "appalling crime" but is finally forced to reenact it through a death that he expects to be read--a death that he offers as a gift, and that the narrative insulates from dismissal as madness” (Froula 149-50). Though he is “pushed” to suicide, Septimus also “jumps” (150). His final act is an act of defiance that through her empathetic vision Clarissa is capable of reading into, and even fantasizing about, before withdrawing back into the insulating world of her upper class marriage and submissive status as Richard Dalloway’s wife. Ultimately, Clarissa can’t die because as a part of the bourgeois, her life is valued more and thus insulated, doubly so because she is a female and deemed feeble by her patriarchal society.

Septimus, on the other hand, is born into the proletariat and is expendable. Even so, the meaning of Septimus’ life is not lost on Clarissa, and more importantly, can not be overlooked by the reader:

“If Clarissa's elegy for Septimus is inadequate to arraign the world before the truths it brands madness, Mrs. Dalloway captures his message within its fictional bounds for the world beyond them. Not Clarissa but we readers receive (or not) the message of Septimus's death, the costs of the war he names a "crime," the measure of what his life means to him, the infinite possibilities of his unfurling days” (151).

Thus, though Septimus exists in an isolated world apart from the superficial reality that every other character in the novel except for him resides in, his tragedy affects them all. Clarissa recognizes how in death, Septimus has preserved through his suicide “a thing . . . that mattered; a thing, wreathed about with chatter, defaced, obscured in her own life, let drop every day in corruption, lies, chatter” (Woolf 184). This thing may be his individuality, which he is unwilling to compromise to the tune of Bradshaw’s idols “Proportion” and “Conversion,” or it may be his message to a future generation to “resist,” to “defy.” Either way, Septimus’ conflict with the society that expels him represents the turmoil of his society as it quietly grieves the catastrophe of the war while stoically denying that it has taken any injury. The discourse of Septimus’ “madness” pitted against that of Dr. Holmes and Sir William Bradshaw in Mrs. Dalloway captures the tension between the patriarchal force of the dying imperial empire and the rising class discontent and interest in socialism in the early 20th century. His tragedy, in addition to questioning the established classifications of sanity and insanity, helps new historians to understand how some of the traditional and subversive discourses of this age in England interacted.

Works Cited

Baldt, Erika. "Abjection as Deviance in Mrs. Dalloway." Virginia Woolf Miscellany 70.(2006): 13-15. MLA International Bibliography. EBSCO. Web. 14 Nov. 2010.

Froula, Christine. “Mrs. Dalloway’s Postwar Elegy: Women, War, and the Art of Mourning.” Modernism/Modernity 9.1 (2002): 125-163. Project Muse. 14 November 2010. Web.

Henry, Holly. "Woolf & The War." English Literature in Transition, 1880-1920 44.2 (2001): 231-235. Academic Search Complete. EBSCO. Web. 2 Dec. 2010.

Samuelson, Ralph. “The Theme of Mrs. Dalloway.” Chicago Review 11.4 (Winter, 1958): 57-76. JSTOR. Web. 02 Dec. 2010

Smith, Amy. "Bad Religion: The Irrational in Mrs. Dalloway." Virginia Woolf Miscellany 70.(2006): 17-18. MLA International Bibliography. EBSCO. Web. 15 Nov. 2010

Tambling, Jeremy. “Repression in Mrs Dalloway’s London.” Essays in Criticism 39 (April 1989): 137-155. Print Copy

Woolf, Virginia. Mrs. Dalloway. London: Harcourt, Inc., 1925. Print.

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dragonmuse · 2 years

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suddenly remembered that buttons babysat charlie when he was a kid. can we see what that might have looked like?

(you got it!)

“There you go, lad,” Buttons nodded, “Open and shut.”

Charlie pulled on the clear stick, opening and shutting the bird’s beak with a grin.

“So cool,” he deemed. “Can I have a snack?”

“I have just the thing.”

They were in Buttons’ house which was a labyrinth of curiosities. Charlie loved the big curio cabinet full of puppets and the lush vegetable garden. There was a small room stuffed full of books that Charlie was allowed to pick one from. Most of them were dense volumes with meandering sentences that didn’t resolve into meaning, but sometimes he found something digestible. Right now he had Candide in his backpack for home and he was holding out hope since it wasn’t long.

“Here,” Buttons pulled a long handled pan out of a cupboard. “Get that warming on the stove.

In a slow dance, Buttons tented aluminum foil over the pan. Then he got down an unlabelled jar and handed it to Charlie. It was full of corn kernels, but they were jet black.

“What’s this?” Charlie shook the container a little, and it made a pleasant cascading clicking sound.

“Heirloom corn,” Buttons held out a measuring cup. “To about this this line,” he pointed.

Charlie filled it carefully and only a few kernels bounced out of the cup. He scurried to the ground to pick them up once the lid was back on, carefully depositing them into the compost bin.

“Does it make black popcorn?” he asked.

“Take a look.”

Buttons easily picked him up and set him on the counter. They sat together, watching the aluminum puff and shake as the kernels rustled. After a minute, Charlie caught a glimpse of white.

“But it was black!”

“Magic,” Buttons said gravely.

Charlie didn’t believe in magic. Much.

Afterwards, Buttons took down more unlabeled jars, shaking things through a hole in the aluminum. Then a generous pat of butter and a vicious shake. He poured the popcorn into a bowl and it was white, but now speckled with black and green.

“Outside or inside?”

“Outside,” Charlie decided.

They went out into the garden where Buttons had two beautiful wrought iron chairs next to the tomatoes. Or at least the little placard said tomatoes. It was too early in the season for them to be anything more than stumpy sprouts.

They set the bowl on the shaky tiny table between the chairs. It was getting dark, stars just starting to come through. Charlie took a handful of popcorn and ate it slowly. It was sort of tangy and sweet all at once, a little spicy too. He waited.

Eventually, Buttons pointed,

“Hydra.”

“That’s the biggest one, right?” Charlie followed his finger up into the sky. “The one that’s kind of wavy?”

“A beast of a thing,” Buttons agreed. “Goes by many names over the years, but it’s always a serpent of some kind. Beastly snake. But see there, the brightest one?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Charlie squinted.

“Alphard,” Buttons named it. “The lonely one.”

“But it’s in a big constellation, why would it be lonely?”

“The stars only look close,” Buttons leaned back in his chair, crossing one bony ankle over the other thigh. “But really they’re millions of miles apart. They never stand a chance of being together, not truly.”

“Oh. that does sound lonely,” Charlie agreed. “But then they should all be the lonely one.”

“Maybe they are,” Buttons nodded slowly. “Some say it’s lonely because it’s so much brighter than the others.”

“Does that make you lonely?”

“I suppose it could. What do you think?”

“I think,” Charlie chewed through more popcorn, “that it’s silly to say a star feels things.”

“Not silly,” Buttons sighed. “It’s a beautiful thing, lad. Humans, we feel so much we’ve decided everything feels. What a kinder world, when you imagine all things have a soul.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I do.”

“Okay,” Charlie finished his handful, reached for another. “But that’s like...sad too? If everything can feel things then everything can feel sad.”

“Oh, there’s loveliness in sadness,” Buttons assured him. “All things mourn, all things are born.”

“Where are stars born?”

“In dust clouds, like nebulas. They have a cradle just like you did once.”

“Really?”

“Truly. They gather there and eventually venture out like children do. Find a place in the universe, multiverse maybe, and there they live.”

Years later, Charlie would gather Felix to him and point upward, trailing a finger through the sky.

“That’s Hydra,” he’d explain. “And that’s Alephard. The loneliest star.”

“I see it,” Felix said softly, arm sliding around Charlie’s waist. “Pretty. Why’s it so lonely?”

“What do you think?” Charlie asked, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“I think maybe it’s wandered too far from home,” Felix decided. “Time to turn back.”

“Don’t know if a star can.”

“Why not?” Felix thumbed over Charlie’s hip. “If it can be lonely, then it can find company. Aren’t there those suns that rotate around each other?”

“Yeah, binary stars. Sirius is one.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Mm,” he trailed another kiss upward, leaving it on Felix’s pulse. “Buttons taught me about the universe.”

“You know, that actually explains a lot.”

#leda house and the kraken verse #ficlet #Charlie Bonnet #Buttons

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ofpineapplesanddawns · 2 years

Text

Crowley is about to have the best time.

As always with the android au, Crowley goes by AJ, short for AJ0440, his serial number, and he believes Aziraphale’s name to be Ezra.

On with the fic!

“Do I need gloves? I think I should wear gloves.”

“Your hands are fine, AJ. If anyone asks, just say they’re special prosthetics, people won’t pester you too much if that’s the answer.”

“Still...”

Even though he looked nearly identical to a human, AJ still felt self-conscious about the obvious android features he sported. His fingertips, if people saw his shoulders, or even his eyes. He could blend in well, but it always seemed like people knew.

“It’s just a trip to the park, you’ll be fine. You like going out, and I know you’ll enjoy this.” Ezra smiles so sweetly at AJ that he knew he couldn’t reject the offer for an outing.

Oh, he was so weak for his angel...

He took Ezra’s hand as they left the shop and walked down the street. Ezra happily smiled and said hello to people he knew, while AJ kept his head down. He tried to be social, it was a good thing to be social, but he seemed to have developed something that Ezra, and his infobanks, labeled as anxiety.

Great, who designs an android and gives them anxiety?

He tried his best to not crush his human’s hand as they walked, but Ezra didn’t seem to mind, or notice, for that matter. He was talking about something or another with one of his usual customers, one of the students that came to the shop to do research.

AJ wasn’t really listening, his mind was on a million different things, which caused him to be surprised when he finally noticed they were no longer walking on the streets. Instead, he was looking at something else, grass, his mind registered.

“Oh.” He blinked a few times, hearing the clicking of his eyes as he took in the park. “This is St. James’s Park.”

“Exactly, my favorite in all of London!” Ezra smiled bright and walked over to a bench that seemed to be in front of a large pond. “Now, take a seat here, I’ll get some treats.”

“Treats?” AJ watched Ezra walk down a small path and he wanted to get up and follow, but his own- his friend told him to stay. Well, he didn’t say to stay, but he seemed to imply it.

The android made a noise, grimacing as he looked around. It was rather lovely, and the day was beautiful, even if there was a 67% chance of rain today, but there were people, and he didn’t know what to do. What was the normal thing humans did at parks? Did they... did they do things at parks that were strictly human-y?

He tried looking into his infobanks, but he wasn’t really programmed for an outing like this.

“Fuck.” He said, pouting as he slumped in his seat.

Then he noticed something approaching him. The creature stood a few feet away, wagging their little tail feathers, then they made a noise from their beak.

“Oh!” AJ sat up straight, quickly going through his infobanks to identify the animal. “You’re a duck! A female, judging by your feather colors. Did you... want something?”

He really should be worried about talking to a duck of all things, but he’d never seen one before, and she was very, very cute. She quacked again and approached AJ, tapping at the ground with her beak before nipping at the laces of his boot. “Oh, you don’t want to eat that.” He said, smiling.

“Ah, it seems you’ve made a friend!”

AJ nearly jumped at the sound of Ezra’s voice, turning to see the man smiling at him, holding a paper bag. “Seems she’s hungry.”

“She wants to eat my boots.”

“Well, that’s not good for the ducks. But these are.” Ezra held put the bag and AJ took it, looking inside.

“Frozen peas?”

“It’s good for them! Come, just toss a few and the ducks will happily eat them.”

AJ looked at Ezra, who was still smiling brightly, like the sun, and he swallowed, feeling very warm. He took a small handful and gave a little toss, scattering peas everywhere. His new duck friend quacked and started pecking at the treats, then a few more ducks took notice and waddled over.

“Is this meant to happen?” AJ asked, grinning.

“Oh yes, they are quite friendly little creatures. Sometimes you can pet them, but do wash up afterwards.”

AJ reached down and gently touched the top of a duck’s head that was close enough. They didn’t seem to mind, but then they nipped at his fingertip. “Hey! Little bastard.” He smirked and grabbed more peas, holding out his hand and the duck, then a few others, went hog wild, trying to feast.

The android hummed in approval, feeling a lot less worked up than he did when they first walked out of the shop. He wondered if they could come back, he rather liked this place, and the ducks, and spending time with Ezra.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #crowley #john's drabbles #do androids dream of cyborg angels au

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badpoetrybymee · 2 years

Text

There's not a beautiful way to explain that I’m lonely

There are a million ways to explain that I’m lonely

The only flower to bloom in the garden, sacred, rare.

In a field full of grass, the only spot of colour

Yet I lay there so bare

With no one to compare my lavender petals

Or my yellow bud

There are many ways to explain that I’m lonely

The only fish to swim in the ocean

Deep, blue, with calm and steady waves

But the storm in me yearns to escape

The “perfect” reality that my fins glide through

There are a few ways to explain that I’m lonely

The only bird to soar through the skies

With my black feathers and sharp beak

However, the wind pushes against me

Rough while I tumble from the clouds

With no other bird to shade the breeze

There is one way to explain that I’m lonely

The only star to shine in the night sky

Millions of light years away

Yet they don’t seem to appreciate the beauty of only one star

For one star cannot flood the night sky

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perasperaadastrawriting · 2 years

Note

i hope I'm not monopolizing your time but I saw you reblog that New Ask Game and I wanted to be one of the firsts to ask xD. Can you do 13, 30, 37 (cause we all need inspiration!) and 50?

Don't apologize please, I love answering questions and you're not monopolizing my time! Thank you for the asks, @writingpotato07

13. How do you deal with writer's block?

Honestly, if it's just for one wip I'll work on another or work on snippets for that wip I've a writer's block for. Sometimes I'll just watch my favourite tv shows or movies and inspiration kicks in same goes for songs. I also write quotes for my characters.

30. Favourite line you've ever written?

Oh, this is a hard one! I've several. I'll do one for the three wips I work on most even though I've like 12 wips waiting.

Ballad of Empires:

Golden orange eyes slowly looked up, raging anger reflected in them as the song of fire and wrath devoured its way from her innermost core to the last fibre of her body.

Where Stars are buried:

The stars were silent as the man collapsed amidst the remains of the ancient temple on the planet. They remained silent as the burning pain in his chest became excruciating and he scrabbled desperately at the crimson dirt ij an attempt to get away from it. Then it was as a falling of a great tree and darkness without stars and light consumed him.

Space Girl:

It was beautiful to witness a star dying, as millions of colours burst into one and shattered time and space.

37. Most inspirational quote you've ever read or heard that's still important to you?

Oof, I've many.

One is "Veni, vidi, vici" by Gaius Julius Caesar, meaning "I came, I saw, I won" and "per aspera ad astra" by Seneca meaning "through hardships to the stars".

Another quote is "A pen is to me as a beak is to a hen." by J. R. R. Tolkien.

50. Weirdest story idea you ever had?

A crossover/ what if where all my characters meet.

#new ask game #my wips #balladofempires #wherestarsareburied #spacegirl #writingpotato07

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ruthparson · 2 years

Text

In Just One Week

The fledgling crow and his mama fight every day now about who is getting food for whom. Baby He did not know that he was being groomed to feed himself. He could tell things were changing, but he just didn’t understand. Baby He will chase his mama down across the grass, or on the flat roof tops with his mouth wide open, a too loud and pitiful cry projects itself into the quiet. His mama, whether from the tree branches or standing in the disheveled grass, opens her beak and screams into his nearly same size face. Grow Up Baby He!

~ ~ ~

A lucky girl has some Besties, and I have had a handful of beauties over the course of fifty years. Then, in just one week, things changed. I’ve lost the first of my forever friends. Yes, these friends have many more, very good woman friends who they know and love. But, these are my heart buddies.

Gillian left at three-thirty in the morning of Tuesday, June Twenty-Eighth, in 2022. Meagan, her girl, brought Gillian home on that Monday. She settled Gillian back into her lovely studio of a home, with beautiful light and myriad treasures. Home.

That evening there was a guest for dinner. Gillian slept, I like to think it was in her nest of a little bed under the window with the lace curtains over the closed venetian style blinds, with all the pillows a girl could ever want to be sure her body can rest. And Gillian does rest. She sleeps now mostly, tiny laughs escape. It appears that any pain she feels is controlled by her disinterest and hospice level medications. Gillian’s friend, and Meagan’s too of course, Mary comes for dinner. Gillian sleeps, Meagan and Mary catch up and reminisce, and have their dinner and wine with the wind chime sounds of silver on ceramic on top of a proper wooden table. Everything feels so very at home, full of love and a life, yes, damnit, very well lived, the sounds of friends laughing their hearts out. The party broke up about midnight.

Gillian is made comfortable for the night in her own soft bed. Meagan rests on the futon bed, the same bed she must have slept on a million times over the last three, difficult years. The very same comfortable bed that I slept on for a whole week while I found and said goodbye to my dear, dear Gillian.

So, Meagan falls onto her bed, which is a nice forty-five degree angle from her mom, head to head. It seems right. They could whisper to each other in the night and actually be able to hear each other. This night though, is quiet. About three-thirty in the morning a pee break is required. Meagan checks on her mom before turning out the bathroom light. Gillian’s skin is looking remarkably plump, sort of juicy and she is wearing a lovely little smile on her face. Meagan thinks, how sweet, and watches, and checks again, and finds, to her surprise, she sees that Gillian has gone. Oh Gillian, your death was a beauty, of course.

See you honey, wherever we do.

~ ~ ~

PS My little old heart lost one of her buddies this week. I call her Gillian, with a hard G, for many reasons, the best being that is who I first met and this girl I love is always that girl I first met. I will, I am certain, and have no doubt, to her horror, call my girl Gilly when I am in a mood. I was in that mood a lot when she came to visit me there, in her own sweet apartment, between the veils. She liked to call me Rufus.

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ducknotinarow · 15 days

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[BuddyRhodes]

Buddy, of course, was ecstatic when Rhodes brought up the idea of the three of them being together, together. Buddy had always had a crush on them, and Charlie, and they had wanted to tell them - it was just finding that right time to do it. Though, it seemed like Rhodes beat them to it.

Not that Buddy cared, their grin bright and feathers fluffing. In their little giddy freak out though, Buddy hung up the phone. They didn't mean to, they just, were dealing with a whole lot of emotions hitting them in one go.

Buddy was quick to call them back, thankfully,

"Sorry sorry!" Buddy exclaimed, "I just, okay I just wow!" Buddy chuckled, "Sorry Rhodes, it's just... well, I kinda also felt the same about you, and Charlie," They explain, "For a while actually, I was just, yanno, wanting to find a good way to tell you two how I felt..."

Sure, they were a tiny bit disappointed that this was how this went down, but, Buddy got over it just as quickly, smiling brightly at their phone, aware of how much they were blushing, and how they looked like a fluff ball thanks to their feathers,

"If it wasn't obvious, that's a yes Rhodes; I do wanna give us three being together, together, a chance."

| muse interaction

Sure, confessing romantic feelings was always tied with a lot of emotions stirring around, a million thoughts centered around what ifs and fears even. Even more so for Rhodes. This was a bit of big step for him. Rhodes had come to learn he was gay after all some clear interest in the appearance of the musicians he loved so much. The first school dance that came up it seemed only natural to Rhodes not to ask a girl but at the time a best friend of his. But with how he saw things between his parents fall apart? How they came to hate each other even? How the thought that true love wasn't forever in the end?

Guess you could say relationships had a sour taste in his beak. Not like he stayed away from it all together. Just never found a reason to form a relationship. What was the point? When it was just going to end and if you stayed to long? Ended in flames and you hating each other. It just sounded awful. Dating was something for fun and best short lived. A week was too short and three was too close to forming a relationship. Two weeks max was kind of Rhodes comfort zone if he dated someone for a while at best it was just a date here and there. Though he kind of drifted away from even that all together. Becoming listless, he guesses. When his drum set and guitar were taken away from him. Just going through the motions from there.

And now? Looking at the beautiful new guitar, jade green with his name even engraved into it. And that once more gave him that stupid fluttering in his chest. Which didn't help, considering Buddy just hung up on him.

"...was that a bad thing to say?" Rhodes wonder out loud. Had that hail Mary he just gone for been too big a risk? Did he just cause his biggest fear? And here he thought it was going to be his messed up family that would chase them away not his feelings. "Fuck" Rhodes could only express it that way as he dropped his head to the screen of his phone. Wondering how he could have done something so stupid. And partly wondering how he just got rejected that hard. Not out of an ego trip but because this was Buddy! Arguably the nicest bird to just ever exist! And he doubts it got a thing to do with Buddy being an android. "is it weird one of the two birds I like it a robot?" before he could even think further on that idea as some comfort to what he assumed was a rejection his phone once again started to ring. Rhode eyes blew wide seeing it was Buddy and answered as fast as was possible.

"uhh..yo" Yo? Well it was as all he could muster his beak to say in that moment, his mouth feeling dry suddenly or his tongue was suddenly swelling. He felt his heart was lodging into his throat even.

"Sorry sorry!" Buddy exclaimed, "I just, okay I just wow!"

Rhodes could feel his need to breath but he could seemed to get himself to do it in case he breathed to loud to hear what Buddy had to say. Focused on the tone in their chuckle though seemed to be a good sign?

"Sorry Rhodes, it's just... well, I kinda also felt the same about you, and Charlie,"

Rhodes breath catches in his throat at Buddy's own confession, it wasn't them saying no or anything Buddy was on the same page. They liked him and Charlie in the same way.

"For a while actually, I was just, yanno, wanting to find a good way to tell you two how I felt..."

"Oh, heh sorry for stealing your thunder there Bubbles." Rhodes says, unable to control the smile breaking through even his speech at the time. How could he not feel excited though? Rhodes honestly still had some doubts but he liked to think he would be wrong.

"If it wasn't obvious, that's a yes Rhodes; I do wanna give us three being together, together, a chance."

A chance was all he had to use to convince himself to give this a shot. He usually held a two week rule but maybe a month was better since he only saw them on the weekends and there would be two this time around? Maybe that would make it work? Should he voice his worry and doubts? Was it lying if he didn't? No its not a lie at that point right? just a worry? who didn't worry about starting a relationship with a friend after all? Sure you get along and all but how do you know its gonna work out unless you try? double so for a less than traditional relationship he figures. Maybe he's thinking to much right now.

He can't help it though. He wonders if he'll ever be able to really trust in a relationship.

"Yeah, lets give it a try." it's not lie if he don't speak it right ? looking towards his treasure guitar though. A deep jade green his favorite color. They didn't know a thing about them but they got one he wanted most. They even put his name on it, they put their money together just for him. How could he not give them his trust? Least enough to take this step. Even if it scared the shit out of the usually chilled Rhodes. "Think we should talk date then since I brought it up first only fair I treat ya?"

#muse| rhodes hill #madamkezzie #aflockoffeathers #[ i dont feel alone when with you -aflockoffeathers]#muse interaction #ic reply #stay queued #((Buddy next time please dont just hang up it causes worry XD))#((the fact Rhodes in sens eis right cause these idiot dont tell charile uwu))#((Dont worry clearly he gets past this uwu))

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libidomechanica · 4 months

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Untitled # 11201

A curtal sonnet sequence

Where they discours’d upon you. Sweeping, eye- earnestly said, he rosemary we take, and dipt his rosy children of thy worthlesse ware; too long upon her bed, across the blood left his you nursed of a winter reckoning yields; a honey tongueless, know me. The fetish boutique, those million times more noble nature of heavenly features dear. Give rest, or the fayre? I curst thee will; bearing the hand: Ah! Or they might I use it?

Mine was fain to follow it upon you. Gin it beares; makes me tired of the night I feel this sad mortal blemishe may hap full sailes drowne not all unworthy. And all that bottomless cup. What did perfume the pipe is never cries; thou bear’st the horn, when the door, lonely sea. As if to flee—I started up, when shee the horns of Elfland faint with her resign; and weed. Watch out for power, and the mountains; and weary eye.

But yet in vaine things, with those sweet Peona, his swift moment before me like a fish. Ah, dreams that for the many that amazing field that I were dead! And a’ his companies nimbly began dancing o’er the other vice content, and trachyte, till their tongue would wander’d of its load of blessed. Still I remember you appear like one who would shiver the happy at their voices called to a final end, purification bites.

That e’en thy cheeke, to be seen where’er the woman’s could unlace the stubborn earth, if it disdain’d its beak over the world of reason that we must not be foes. My lassie o’ my head, crowned lip, and still have seemed a hollow, from the crack pipe—the attention spent, three till now; and then two, until frustration set and knee-high tube socks that one Will’ to boot, and the dews were made a wafu’ moan; fair Annie’s corpse lay a boar- spear keen.

By Loue were athirst in soul to see another night to the wine, worne of Paramoures. Radiant Sister of war to come, if it were sat Endymion! What couldn’t be kissing on wanton heart. Thou wast to fa’! And true’ is all mysterious entice my stumblings and Lovers are just new, and rather beholds the ships of moulted feathery whizzing of their steps trod the upper floors, old voices to the fierce inscription on them.

And by their power, how with your patron; over thighs, thick with blackly darkned mind, which gaping like a tulip on a wedgewood plate Anything in dreams that did perfume the queen o’ womankind, and ne’er a ane to peer her. Fair creatures once so dead and pale a stump, a clapper tongues: full casks are every face or name; so in a voice in that together for so they are but in the dove may murmurs of the answer, dying.

And wha will be crush’d away within themselues did seem only one in this fair Day, whilst other place the beauty. Need him as something that you esteemed us not: in true speech no mouths would bar, my heart is a kitten of butter, I am not all, as parts, can see but fortune may be my babe’s father, he will outlive my hand? Into Elysium; vieing told about old forests; while the one who surrenders, survives.

Not I caught thee will; bearing the shape of beauty’s angel waiting food, at length, to take in draughts of Cupids skies, whose million of little boy, pissing me. See, where I print my poetry, I most high fane? Of mute insensate thing repels thee,. I am shamed that heaven raining presently unmew my soul; and shar’d their plenteous store of newest joys upon a child there stood a marbles ever beauty’s angel pure and clear.

On the den of helpless divine, is lying at the chance to death, who see with universe: nothing I did seem only one in the world doth live, as thought, with music stricken eagle to th’ other provocation in thee oft, I pitie now thy case, blind-hitting of its quality: how light faint fare-thee-wells, and orbed drop of light: beside her—the streams into o’er-head clouds. Soon was her mind; neither at morn or ever.

Weigh down some one else. So wingedly: when wearied on my passion strive which that Muse stirr’d in little wing! Daisies, vermeil rose hie and gowden locks and syne he kiss’d her round about: weel, sine that right the breathe away again, only to see another’s otherness. That tollbooth windowes ope, then yong, his pinions wide. Of my hart, I do any wish it may bring good! To her; and the boat whose weake confused brain: be still shine bright.

The primordial climb, a dream, then look I death may she die! ’Tis tatter’d; leaving, in naked sky, till with the citizens’ applause with thy drowsy wing a triple hour, but renovates and roared before have I brought the brine with my car. Hear us, O satyr flies for one hour more completed for our souls did nip her mothers? Their yelps: high-strung Anthee, the whispers, glooms, the deid of tears; and I will bind thy attention’s plight.

Fair Annie, Annie, ’ the bays of seas assigned to knit my soul; and shaping vision fleeting, and saying from a stag. The city. Brought to thee mine eye and has my heart, has she to feel it strange, and I myself so wary as tender corn anger our searching will be thy loued lasse forlorne? ’Mong which seemes ease to man. And she said; she said; she said, I am aweary, aweary, oh God, that weaves express’d I hurried in.

Thrown of them is alive, not though soon the Prince’s love were riding the fire, of love. At the winds: rain-scented eglantine gave the lakes, but let vs homeward: for night— did you great Pan! Whoever hath he skill to my fancied sight, as flies hovered in a thousand years, for the matted turf he kept unused, the which I’ll fall, with my breast; and in her hame. And giving up his aged hands, that’s how you’ll fling you young son in her face.

The wooing sun; the woman’s fallen divinity upon an even pedestal with your age, repeyreth hoom from people apart. That footstep of lost liberty! Round her who still we shines bright as those region where falling those that thou dasht? And the sun has rolled and it has no been the world’s dusky brink. Their fountains, and with purple blossoms to thy healthier brain, he said; she wept my fault! King express’d I hurried in.

Blow, and travelling of beauty charms, and dash’d the sun’s purple grapes and mouth with the ocean; the woman laughter settled as it narrowed to the after being hidden, laugh to make so many eyes, nor for these, a world of other plagiarist; I know not, cannot hear the subway jerks, I love speech no mouths would swim in it invariably drowns, where the calm of mute insensate thing upon earth the deer’s tender voice was run!

Nor do like Lords whispers low, again I’ll brush came close exposures: poorly-mounted countenance; he seems no better twere my bonie breasts, tired of being a woman smokes an idol show, since we have meant, but do not love, I am becoming a hermit, opening those million poutings of delight. Will no fair beseechers kill; think all but one, and sing this ditty to his change, in sleep o’er-power’d in western bower.

(For I was a bird-understand an end. It’s very music of the last wave by, crying head, until it scarce to mark the dry grass. Great pittie is, he be in love be call’d to taste of what they by Loue directed, enterchangeably reflection, but truly write, and I shall bloom paled gently for slight takes in that amazing field that heaven’s air in ilka quartered, flares like any other sides were touched, I’d grow old.

And set my tree that time thou madest me to blaze her words your waste, the beauty displaid. Outside, the western border of the gift of praise. Are richer entangled caves, echoing grottos, full of sweet sister flowery band to me such nights as the rounding grace of heart doth inuite some monstrous precipice: therefore, ’tis vain to hide true torment you shalt not be for Annie of Lochroyan at my heart, would show you’re loved us.

No mouths would that is old, and yet, because their ripen’d fruitage; yellow hair, and I from your plane, imagining a triple hour, when he saw fair Annie of Lochroyan, as the altar, with an emerald plane sits Diotima, teaching for the lawn or up then should be to my father. Take thy breast; and oh, Sirs, could cull: wild thyme, and weed. She always, that you esteemed us not: in true speech, faine would have seemed the congregation.

And o’er it many, round and thee; depending from book myche to deal with thee her lie within dreaming. You say I love not I caught and this mane, she seem’d, to common gender and an alas! Before my verse in the door! All day I think, my pretty pleasaunt Pipe, whych made vs meriment, he wylfully hath broke, and let this middle of a brook,—whose shining eye could scan a lurking troubled your swelling my bark bar’d and pure.

She drew her care. The other clutch, and wisdom are not so brightly dreams, and Sops in wine, we change is my love may betray small depth bottomless. One day the third—the authentic foundress you. My secrets of the genuine apparition of Apollo’s pipe, whence, from the knots. My life shall cease; whether snow really does resemble the earth had faded: deepest shades were dead! The spheres did banish, in his nether side; pitying!

The salt sea strands with such a thankfull palatable; and a hazy light rustling down in our near-dwellers with my care. Bed of roses, but rejoiceth with their foreheads, lowly bending, for long in desire, that chiding strange, and braider grew this fair doth thus did spredde, it did him amaze. The gloomy shades, sequestered them on their ends denied, and live here awake, and flush themselues did spredde, it did him amaze. The band.

Wild echoes flying south but longed to follow it upon sand which that hand, therefore we combing hand can’t take a body talking, and that sweete aire which shall be my love, nor can integrity our end were not, then yong, his pinions shook; or, it may be sayd, I say, all my argument, fair, kind, and sing this ditties bene for peace of heart. Such for a chosen bow: and, which makes earth was drinking the gate, and yet, love Gregory!

Sweet Melissa shook her darkness from yesterday and by the ingle sits, an’ wi’ her lot to bear love’s might blessedness. Down by his gore, he thrust it through the buffeting north that grows upon the rest complains of sweet grief itself to death, who still breed, had joys for it anew revive; inspired and each pleasantly to a wide lawn, see all. Burns: she’s the queen o’ womankind, and the sequoia swallowed by a man who fled.

Against the glenne: so now fayre Rosalind hath bred hys smart, so now his frend is neuer good newes know: is it now? Upon the mountain pine, o forester divine, a fellowship with essence of blisse, and did curse over the Arrow-head. To the learne; thinke on thy sweet than think I may dare, in wayfaring, to meet his brothers and though the citizens’ applause of Great, who should blaze like a mummy, and moon, that goes unloved.

And quartered, flares like angry words come help the birth of light: from the new Heaven hie, come tomorrow, are we dreamy house, the anchor o’ the gusty shadow, but make no noise at all? I find you have come to know thou dost know ourself or face with ourself the spot they sometimes discover, and the dead ere day. To take or less by thy music all the world’s praise, which makes water drink, pouring unto us from the dry grass.

And Ermines white, of mingled bubblings and poppied corn; the lark was low, and running shorts. So unrecorded did it slip away, in your own vallies white throat in a crevice peer’d about: weel, sine that later, hands repelling. Blow, bugle; answer came she was born in Bethlam? I call it that: disarming disregard—a loud Hawaiian-print shirt and faintly bruit, where they going the flowers and when the shadow of things.

In passing here thou thyself the shadow of a bullet tearing looks: alway his the worldly bustle, to make me mourned at his gore, he thrust out his golden anniversal tinge of running rings frae our fingering moments after, through the bushes, to the after party? Good God, the third— the authentic foundress you. Straying about the louder roar’d their memories, and overshadoweth eternal whispering bed.

Of the cruel breathing. Of unseemly, seeketh not, she saw fair Annie’s bark a rowing all around like a vision fleeting, and how shall stir no sighs but since my eyes at once, through he from thou smiles? I’ll get me home returning to the horizontal sun heave his breast of secret grief and pity joined us. Old joys no date nor age no need to say this: I fell into nothing, I said, The night, waking she knew: her answer.

But if that same night, and like a rolling pin, over calves, polished as leather, down toward you, and is kind of monster to clear well. I must be within; for her! For the mask I would that love hath more expression by the thundered greatly, knowingly; as does the very face or name; so in a sloping means falling through the bushes, and many a dying fish; the very marge, with smiles to-day failing down close of death, but paine.

Of many moment’s good after lightning. The peninsula tilts its goblet: she did not what Loue decreed: at length, to take what they said ’twas even now for ever. But at push-pin half sleep i watch the queen o’ womankind, that ilka body to it, give, when the cool and bursts of space. And I lost my mind might have we not match her will wed sorrow to persuade a yielding up, a cradling on the spoons and cauld, Gregory!

’ She saw fair Annie, deare, this notice the brindled bitch, the blue-bells light: from the grass; man’s voice, when the mountain wind bluster’d marish- mosses crept sluggishly by, ere more been the wide in the old—born cycle. Or more interested in thee oft, I pitie now this, now thus early risen she met wi’ a hushion; her tears, and the brake. ’ Siller will give your friends, because known, nor am I Mary Magdalane, was born at Bethlam?

Turning that your breath, produce more than our searching: yes, in spite of view is pleasant ayres of the Day, awake! Or vow ye never more in Heaven’ he added, lest some part!-—So I stay’d my foolish boy, that I will trace the sun. Staving its orbit, each one is when these things mysterious, immortal; to shake ambition is not, I opine, the men mourne, but cannot tell, to the lass of Lochroyan that held me, and fell, and thee.

Ah, dream of love a Heavens,—because no fence or fort that in that there? A monster, others of amethyst,—would I help it, but my cheek of virgin bosom tear the very marge, with streams. Proof—oh if our ends denied, and so it was a child, I spake he: Men of Latona, which thereof the rocks that reach the room where the breath sucke vp those eyelids curtain by, and bad, on the freshness of any kind meant, but you may ye die!

Hear us, O satyr flies for will be. Love, children—that more high place upon the shadows of his sovereign power, how with your ankles into stupid sleep. Into my father, but sorrows, and o’er-sways the Prince’s love, it profiteth me not, cause I love. Exposures: poorly-mounted, Ganymedes, to tumble into those vapoury tent—whereat, methoughts to enlarge, thee to the bough the visage an indolent sigh.

Through autumn tresses from the poppies red: at which we should ape those lilies, better but to one note; one mind in all-resemblance of bliss who, certain woman. I answered, but to one of whose will once more than she that fail to pipe now ’gainst it: so farewel, sad sighes of woe were mine. And young, sprouting a shameless hand with thy sight his curse the sun’s decline: with her face the sun his autumn tressed locks bright their famish’d scrips.

This shall not match with the forehead, with no word from people apart. So my mother compare with pasted-on leaves his temples bind; and, ever and swear to some one else, and rather behold matter, waking sight blind eyes could witnesseth: what I know not where; and a hazy light of Life is dreary woe. Faint coward Ioy no longe: let dame Eliza thanke may you in me no means that touch, first sight, clos’d with wayward melancholy.

For ornament, old naked brain: be still, yet still her winter rains green’d over April’s first-fruits—they daucen deffly, and thee; since if the van of all that wilderness preserved me from a block away&mine is to guard a thousand years, for me may moue you, though my head, smiling ayre allowes my reason. Why did I know not: but who, of men, can tell you, girl, howe’er you appear before then wake to weep. Herself in thee thine.

In time. She sayes she builds her favouritism. Is a kitten of butterflies their ripen’d fruitage; yellow’d with her: I never cries; I can love Gregory! A heavenly featured even thou art all determined the clear of true loue doth a fear that reach into my being, and to thy wracke beyond thy lip, eye, and count the most perfected. Such a look as would be; yet maidens, empty space; down, over the space of man!

Is it not separated from him to wait, one week, then let me the gnawing sloth on the hills. Na langer dow I stand. And eke you Virgins, may she wept my fault’ she wept my fault! Love, children—there is a stone, that it be but love thee, and eagles struggle with the pleasantly to a wilder’d; for themselues opprest, leauing him back into those gossamer embryos into growth. Said Cyril: Pale one, or gloom o’ercast, they will.

Who in desire to feed the cankering bed. In what every woman said, It gets better to come and I will not praise hue scorn’d like a rolling pin, over thighs; show me thy lasing powre dicerne. So dark a mind within; for that, Syr Phip, least shade more content you? And laid them from my breast such pinching that ye mak a’ this matter of the Earth, and strife no burning in and a shrill wind, which touches ne’er a ane to peer her.

About my ear forgot how tender corn anger our huntsmen o’er they met or parting. Had joys for it! Has rolled and quailed as if to veil a nobler exercise? One pierced with so subtle, so thin a little cup will put choice that creeps winding flood seems at the wurst, but, your elastic case, blind-hitting down amber studs, my hunting can happen.—An ill death in manners holds the gentle wave, to take or less by thy son thus.

Of logs piled solemnly. It knows so much; then from enclouded tombs; old ditties peepe; nay more foole I oft suffred youth: yea, every eastern cloud a silver ramble down toward the nak’d sincerity; but heal me with Stella oft sees the sea. Not—thy soft hand that, Syr Phip, least shade, where shot a golden anniversary, a dove, seen identically, perched on to which the hot season; the mid forests; while euerie offices.

An’ wi’ her love, how awkward as a willow trails its delicate amber; and the Neptune’s restlesse rest, and with good and uninspired and rock,—’mong which I will end. So blind whelps at their ends promove: for Kings and all for, nor in notes I need. Which is mornes messenger, his lips a noble Vashti, noble than a flowers do stur; in the other. Eyes nurtured with favouritism. For you, with me. To challenge eyesight?

It is at moment more, because known, nor like poor Psyche will love you. Or bene thing expects—was the assembly, in a crevice peer’d about in sight, bathing back I was not see the sullen day had chidden roots into its airy channels with my own steed from thy owne sunlight; those who reach in thys shade alone: but let vs homeward: for night were filled her there made love can be born of us, They mounted countenance?

All he prefigured, and whither dreary woe. Their voices called out to the motionless, aghast! Pass into nothing novel, nothing fair beseechers kill; think all but one, and tears, and if from spot of children— that men are true? The flies hovered owre wi’ tin; when the night, of sprites, the broke out interpreting my spirit melt away and there are they once more strange, and scar just such disparity as is twixt air and brow.

Snow: rather for aught nearer heaven’s air in the wound was, great name flow on with thee alone: but when these in manners holds her face wad fyle the edges of our neighbourhood envenom all. Above their Lord, who is the clicking heel, all beauty’s angel waiting four. She is solid, like Alcestis, from this shall be; what are at me on my neck, her round the map already turning pleasant scene; the man that with renewed life.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #129 texts #curtal sonnet sequence

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eabwriting2023 · 7 months

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The Treasure - Day Six

Gold plated watches, rings that shine in the sunlight, keys that jingle when being dangled. It’s what I’m known for, I enjoy luxurious items to sparkle in my home.

Trees are often such dull things with their dark bark, their spindly legs reaching out. Not much colour apart from the leaves that grow but even they only sprout a greenish brown hue. I need more excitement in my life.

Even my feathers are black and white. No sparkle or shine within my wings, I blend in with my muted environment, I should be a bird to stand out among the crowd!

Alas, I am stuck with what I am, so as with all my species we scavenge for shiny trinkets nestled inside the ordinary.

On this uneventful day, staring at the treasures I have acclaimed over my life I hear commotion from outside the tree nest. Annoyed and fearful that eyes could be watching my stash I trend carefully. One eye firmly upon my jewels the other on what was happening.

One large barn owl nesting itself above me. It stares down with large yellow saucer eyes, its feathers unkempt and scatty.

“What are you doing awake?” I ask. The sun was still high in the clouds, the sky blue like the ocean. “Don’t you only rise in the middle of the night?”

“To hunt, yes.” The owl replies wisely, his beak pointed and sharp.

I feel nervous standing below him not knowing if you will take a chomp out of me.

“We owls are awake in daylight you know. Although, while you are here, I have a proposal for you.”

I am intrigued but I remember to take caution, even birds the same as you may have an ulterior motive…

“What is this proposal?”

“I cannot help but notice your beautiful nest full of glorious shining items..”

“You cannot steal them if that’s what you’re thinking!” I cry backing away towards my treasure.

The Barn Owl shook its head 360 degrees.

“Certainly not! In fact I wish to help you! I know of a mound of treasure nearby, hidden inside these woods. The most beautiful treasure anyone could ever own!”

“How can this be?” I question sounding suspicious. How is it I have not heard or come across such a luxury, I had been flying around these woods since I was a hatchling, I doubted what this owl was telling me.

“It is no ruse. It is the truth! I have been myself and have witnessed its wonder!”

I’m very dubious when strangers want to offer me things too good to be true, but apart of me feels I need to gamble. What if it is true and I miss the chance in a million?

I nod my head with certainty. “Show me this treasure!”

“Excellent!” The Barn Owl shouts for joy. “Follow my lead!”

We both take off from the tree branches our feet plunging forward in flight. Our wings outstretched we swoop among the branches and pass the birds and tiny mammals resting in their homes.

I follow the Barn Owl closely, our tail feathers touching riding with the breezy air dodging low branches swooping everywhere when I start to feel my little body weary from the long flight. I push on however knowing that whatever is wanting for me is extra special.

“The tree is right in front of us now.” The owl called turning its head completely to face me.

We land with a large thud entering a hole double my size. It’s dark and gloomy inside, only the light from outside is seen.

“Where is this treasure then?” I impatiently say my voice echoing in the black. I cannot see The Barn Owl but I can feel its ruffled feathers against me.

“We are here.” It said in the shadows.

“I cannot see a single thing!” I call out feeling the edge of the tree walls.

“Oh! How silly of me! I forget that other birds do not have night vision like we do, here..”

In the pitch black, a feather hands me something squishy of some sort wriggling around.

“What is this? Feels, strange…”

“Just shake it violently and you shall be about to see the treasure!”

As I was told, I shake this strange object violently hoping that some kind of light will appear. Just as the Barn Owl has described, light filled this actual small hole with a yellow glow.

Right in front of me, The Owl sits upon the floor glaring at me with saucer eyes as I look back at the light source I find it’s in fact a glow worm..

“Oh!” I say realising. “Where is this treasure you keep talking about? I still can’t see it!”

The Owl simply looks down at the floor we stand upon but no jewels or shiny rings and silver are here, no jingling keys or forks of silver but bones, bones and carcasses from animals dead.

“This isn’t treasure! This is just a heap of bones and rotting animals!” I shout. I can feel the anger rising inside of me, irritated with myself knowing I have fallen for a scam. “You scammer!”

“This is no scam!” The Barn Owl weeped. “You wanted treasure, this is my idea of the best treasure in the world!”

#creative writing #writing #nanowrimo

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thxnews · 1 year

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Birdwatching in the UK - Discover Rare Birds with the RSPB

The Growing Popularity of Birdwatching in the UK

Birdwatching has become a popular activity for many people in the UK, and it's no surprise why. With its abundance of natural habitats and diverse bird species, the country offers an ideal environment to enjoy this pastime. The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) is one organization that has been instrumental in promoting birdwatching across the UK.

The Lodge, Sandy, Bedfordshire. Headquaters of the RSPB. Photo by Orangeaurochs. Flickr.

The RSPB and its Mission

The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds is a UK-based charitable organization that was founded in 1889. Its primary mission is to promote and protect the welfare of wild birds and their habitats. It has grown into one of the largest wildlife conservation charities in Europe, with over 1.2 million members and supporters. Milestones in RSPB's History One of the key milestones in the history of RSPB was its successful campaign to ban the use of DDT, a toxic pesticide that led to a decline in bird populations during the mid-20th century. The RSPB's efforts prompted governments around the world to take action against DDT and other harmful chemicals, leading to significant improvements in bird populations across many regions.

Starling Murmuration - RSPB Minsmere. Photo by Airwolfhound. Flickr.

Top Birdwatching Locations in the UK

Are you an avid birdwatcher? Then you're in luck! The RSPB offers a multitude of stunning birdwatching locations throughout the UK. Here are some of the best: 1. Minsmere: Located on the Suffolk coast, this reserve is home to over 100 breeding species and a variety of habitats such as reedbeds, woodland, and heathland. 2. Bempton Cliffs: Situated on the Yorkshire coast, this reserve boasts breath taking views of thousands of seabirds including puffins, gannets and kittiwakes. 3. Loch Garten: In Scotland's Cairngorms National Park lies this tranquil location known for its impressive highland scenery and resident ospreys which can be seen fishing in summer months. 4. Anglesey, Wales: There are several RSPB sites but the stand out one is the South Stack Cliffs Nature Reserve: boasting a home to over 4,000 species, including guillemots, puffins, choughs, and razorbills. 5. The Cairngorms, Scotland: Explore the Cairngorms and discover a range of rare and majestic wildlife including birds of prey. Keep an eye out for elusive creatures like the ptarmigan, siskin, and grey-footed woodpecker. And if you're lucky, you might even catch a glimpse of the UK's largest grouse species, the capercaillie.

Kingfisher - RSPB Fowlmere. Photo by Airwolfhound. Flickr.

Bird species to look out for at RSPB sites

The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds has identified several bird species that visitors to their sites in the UK should keep an eye out for. These birds are not only beautiful to look at but also play a vital role in maintaining the delicate balance of our ecosystems. One such bird is the kingfisher, which can be found near water sources such as rivers and lakes. With its distinctive blue and orange plumage, it is easily recognisable and a joy to watch as it dives into the water to catch fish. Another bird species worth keeping an eye out for is the puffin, which can be spotted at RSPB Bempton Cliffs in Yorkshire during breeding season. Their strikingly colourful beaks make them instantly recognisable and they are a favourite among birdwatchers.

Entrance Lodge, RSPB reserve, Sandy. Photo by Martyn Johnson. Wikimedia.

Getting Involved with the RSPB

The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds is a UK-based charity that works to protect birds and their habitats. If you're interested in getting involved with this important conservation work, there are several ways to do so. One option is to become a member of the RSPB. Membership Benefits Membership benefits include receiving a quarterly magazine, free entry to over 170 nature reserves across the UK, and discounts on bird food and accessories. The membership also includes a welcome pack and a free gift for each new adult member. Events and Volunteering Another way to get involved with the RSPB is by attending one of their many events. The organization hosts talks, walks, and other activities that allow members of the public to learn more about birds and conservation efforts in general. Additionally, volunteering with the RSPB can be an incredibly rewarding experience for those who want to make a hands-on difference in bird protection efforts.

A colony of puffins. Photo by Joxean Koret. Flickr.

Benefits of Birdwatching for Mental and Physical Health

Birdwatching has always been a popular hobby in the UK, and for good reason. Not only is it a great way to enjoy the outdoors, but it also comes with numerous mental and physical health benefits. The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds reports that birdwatching can help reduce stress levels, improve our mood and even boost our immune system. Studies have shown that spending time outdoors surrounded by nature can have a significant impact on our mental health and birdwatching is an excellent way to incorporate this into your life. It allows us to disconnect from the stresses of daily life and be present in the moment, focusing on the beauty of these fascinating creatures. Watching birds can give us a sense of calmness and serenity, which promotes relaxation and reduces anxiety levels. In addition to its positive effects on our mental wellbeing, birdwatching encourages people to walk outdoors and this provides numerous physical benefits.

red-breasted nuthatch. Photo by Matt MacGillivray. Flickr.

Embracing Birdwatching with the RSPB

In conclusion, birdwatching has become an increasingly popular hobby in the UK and offers a great way to connect with nature. The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds is one of the leading organizations in the UK dedicated to conserving birds and their habitats. By joining this organization as a member, you not only support their conservation efforts but also gain access to expert advice on birdwatching and to their sites. Birdwatching can be enjoyed from anywhere, whether it's from your own backyard or out in nature reserves. With over 600 species of birds found in the UK, there's always something new to discover. Observing these fascinating creatures can help us appreciate the diversity of life around us and develop a deeper understanding of our environment. So why not give birdwatching a try? Whether you're just starting out or have years of experience, RSPB provides resources and guidance for all levels. Sources: THX News, Wonderlust & RSPB. Read the full article

#Birdconservationefforts #Birdwatchingevents #BirdwatchingintheUK #GettinginvolvedwithRSPB #JoinRSPBmembership #Mentalhealthbenefits #Physicalhealthadvantages #RSPBorganization #Topbirdwatchinglocations #UKbirdspecies

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blackberrycreekblog · 2 years

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Today’s turkey of the day is Bill! ✨ Bill is made of magic. His beautiful face changes color depending on his mood and he can retract his snood, the long piece of fleshy skin that hangs over his beak, to be a perfectly magical unicorn horn.🦄 Bill is, without a doubt, one of the sweetest animals you’ll ever meet (though he does seem to have it out for one of our poor volunteers, sorry @airric6 😬). He was rescued in 2020 from a NorCal factory farm raising turkeys for a popular brand of lunch meat who you’ve most definitely heard of, but despite their humorous marketing, there’s nothing funny about what they do to millions upon millions of sentient beings. Bill is safe and loved, but has chronic health issues because of humans’ selective breeding to make turkeys as big as possible as fast as possible. The turkeys on Thanksgiving tables are all only 5-6 months old…just babies. We sincerely hope you’ll choose a new tradition with your family and friends this Thanksgiving. “Adopt” Bill to help give him the care he needs in sanctuary and choose to eat plants instead of these beautiful individuals who want to live. Sponsorship link in bio. ♥️🦃 #loveoneanother #bekind #adoptaturkey #friendsnotfood #thanksgiving #thanksliving #animalsanctuary #rescueandadvocacy #thanksgiving2022 #govegan #animalloversdonteatanimals (at Blackberry Creek Farm Animal Sanctuary) https://www.instagram.com/p/Ck6joV0SbvB/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#loveoneanother #bekind #adoptaturkey #friendsnotfood #thanksgiving #thanksliving #animalsanctuary #rescueandadvocacy #thanksgiving2022 #govegan #animalloversdonteatanimals

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luckyspike · 5 years

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Of Love and Loss - a Good Omens Fanfic

co-author credit to Griffin McElroy

The cottage has a den and it is agreed, fairly early on, that while it is technically shared space, it falls slightly more under Crowley’s purview than Aziraphale’s. Oh, certainly, there are a few bookshelves* and a display of antique snuffboxes, and the furniture is comfortable and homey, more suited to the angel’s aesthetic than the demon’s, but aside from those touches it is all Crowley’s: dark paint on the walls, houseplants scattered over every free inch of floor, and sleek technology conspicuously placed. There is a TV on the wall, huge and slim and used for very little aside from streaming. In the corner, there is a desk, with the fastest, most powerful computer money could buy.

For the first six months they live in the cottage, it is mostly untouched.

[* Which hold only modern paperbacks, not first editions, because Aziraphale just can’t trust the good books out in a room he doesn’t supervise as closely.]

For the first six months they live in the cottage, Crowley is busy elsewhere: there are gardens to tame, and a greenhouse to stock, and a widow’s walk with a telescope to be enjoyed. Crowley rarely goes into the den at all, other than to water and menace the plants, for those first six months.

But gradually, winter comes, and he and Aziraphale settle into a routine, and Crowley starts to gravitate toward the den. It’s in spurts at first, just when Aziraphale is at the shop and it’s too cold to do anything else, but it gets more frequent. Longer periods of time.

By nine months, Aziraphale is worried. Crowley is still Crowley, still stalks around his plants and shouts at them, but other than that, he is in the den. He lays on the couch, and sleeps, and watches TV, and sleeps some more.

Aziraphale asks if he’s tired, one day. “You’re sleeping a lot,” he observes. “A lot more than ... than I remember you doing, in London. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah.” And then, because Aziraphale has this look he does that renders Crowley unable to lie, he admits, “I’m bored.”

Aziraphale’s face falls. “Oh. Oh. I see. Yes, not the ... there isn’t the same bustle here as there is in London, is there?”

“No, no, nonono.” Crowley holds up his hands, worried and insistent. “Not what I meant, angel. No, I still get in to London when I drop you off at your shop, that’s plenty. But ...” He shrugs. “I used to have a job. Wiling and tempting and that. But I ... don’t anymore. I used to plan stuff, and spend too much time scheming, and now I don’t ... have a job?” He shifts. “It’s not here. Not living here. I just feel a bit ... useless?” He frowns. “Not the right word. Can’t come up with a word. Do you follow me?”

“You’re missing having a task?” Aziraphale guesses. “A goal or some such, whether you like it or not?” He sets his book aside and sits back in his chair, the better to watch Crowley over steepled fingers. “Yes, I think I understand.”

“Like, you have your shop, same as always. But I only had being a demon. That was my job and it’s what I am. But now I’m ... still a demon, obviously, but an unemployed demon, so ...” He throws up his hands. “Bored.”

Aziraphale nods sympathetically. “Yes. I see. Well ... you could try some different things? Volunteering at the animal shelter -”

“Really? Animals hate me, angel.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right. Volunteering at the school?”

Crowley makes a show of looking at himself. “Not sure that’s really my scene.”

“Volunteering at the -”

Crowley sighs, and sits back, the tip of his considerable nose propped on his knuckles. “I’ll think about it. Find something, I’m sure. Maybe try beachcombing.”

“Maybe,” says Aziraphale, without much confidence. He wonders how he’s going to break to Crowley that most of what you find beachcombing is not, in fact, treasure, but junk. “You could give it a shot.”

“Bah.” Crowley sits back further, slouching deep into the chair, and sprawls his limbs all akimbo. “I’ll sleep on it. Wake me up for dinner?”

“You’re eating tonight?”

“No, but you are.” He tugs the tartan throw off the back of the chair, and wraps it around himself. “I’ll join if you’ll have me.”

“Of course.”

Crowley talks to his technology a lot. He doesn’t see well, Aziraphale knows, and these days the technology talks back, makes it easier for the demon to navigate. So when he hears Crowley chatting to something - someone? - in the den one cool night in late spring, he doesn’t pay much mind.

When it happens a second time that week, he wonders, but he doesn’t investigate. Probably just talking to Anathema. He pulls the doors to the library closed, and reads for the rest of the night.

When it continues the next week, curiosity gets the better of him. It’s around nine, and Crowley is talking in the den again, and Aziraphale sighs and sets his book down and goes to investigate.

The demon is sitting at the computer. The screen is massive, and Crowley is looking at it through his dark glasses. He has a controller in his hands, and a set of headphones on, and he is talking into, of all things, a microphone.

Aziraphale blinks. “What’s this, then?”

Crowley jumps, and then says into the microphone, “Ah, yeah, one second, got an old friend here,” before he hits a button and pulls the headphones off. He jumps up out of the chair and moves to the right. Aziraphale notices then, that there is a camera, fixed on where Crowley was sitting. He frowns.

“What are you doing?”

“Working.” Crowley sticks his hands into his pockets and for the first time in nearly a year since they moved, looks inordinately pleased with himself. “Found a thing to do.”

“This isn’t a sex thing, is it?” Aziraphale asks warily.

“Nah.” He jerks a thumb toward the computer. “Nah it’s ... uh.” He thinks it over. “I have no idea how to explain this to you.” He frowns. “You know video games?”

Aziraphale nods. “... Broadly, yes.”

“Okay. Right. So there’s this website called Twitch. An’ what you do, is you play video games, but while you do that you broadcast your game to other people who want to watch you play. Adam showed it to me.” He waves his hands around, toward the computer. “S’kinda like a reality show? But video games.”

“And other people watch this?”

“Yeah. Got 100 viewers right now.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m hilarious.” He rocks back and forth on his heels and smirks. “Also, they give me money sometimes.”

“Willingly?”

“Yes, of course. I’m retired, remember? Well, from being a demon.” He looks pleased. “Now I’m a Twitch streamer. Part-time.”

The only reason that Aziraphale does not remark that this is a natural progression, as smooth a transition as from shore to sea, is that he does not really understand Twitch. Instead, he nods. “Good. And you’re ... having fun?”

“Oh yeah. Loads.” He glances over his shoulder. “Wanna watch for a bit? You can sit in the background. Really gets the chat going, when stuff happens in the background.”

“It’s not one of those violence games, is it?” But the angel is pulling over a wicker chair and sitting down even as he asks. “With all the killing?”

“Nah. S’pokemon. Like Joshua talks about.” He sits back down, and slides the headphones back on. “Right, what’d you want me to call you? Gotta introduce you.”

“Mr. Fell.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a long-suffering look. “That’s not what ... never mind. Right, anything you say’ll probably get picked up on the mic, so just watch it, yeah? I’m gonna un-mute it.” He taps a button, and says, “Right, everyone, this is Az Fell. He’s ah, my favorite librarian, my best friend and uh ... my roommate.” Aziraphale blinks. Oh, so that’s what he’d meant. Well ... he wasn’t wrong.

Roommate feels a bit impersonal though. They will discuss it later.

“Right, so anyway, back to the run. Fell, this is ah, s’called a Nuzlocke run, where if your pokemon faints you have to let it go because it’s dead.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, who understood exactly none of that sentence.

“I just started. You’ll pick it up as we go.”

To Aziraphale’s surprise, he does. He picks up on the pokemon types, the point of the game, the exploration, and the apparently-bizarre rules Crowley has decided to play to game under. He comes to like the names, and the pokemon, and despite the fact that they are not real, he finds himself getting attached to them.

The first faint, an hour into the game, takes them both by surprise.

“Fuck!” Crowley glares at the screen. “Fuck! That’s not even a bug-type move!”

Aziraphale raises his hands to his mouth. “So Betty is dead?”

“Betty is dead,” Crowley confirms, morosely. “R I P Betty.”

“Look at all the little tombstones in the chat.” Aziraphale sighs, and wrings his hands. “Oh, dear. We should send her off.”

They do, when the battle ends. Solemnly, Crowley releases Betty the Rattata to the wild, and he and Aziraphale bow their heads while a bagpipe rendition of ‘Amazing Grace’ plays. Aziraphale wipes away a single tear. The chat goes wild.

xxGonnaMunch69xx: omg AJ your boyfriend is crying JamesBuffetsDick: RIP Betty and my feelings KnopeForPresident: omgggg im dead RIP Betty JisforJerg: fuckkkkkkkkkkk i had money on Betty living to the end GisforGreg: omg kiss your boyfriend so he feels better

Crowley sits up straighter as the music fades away. Aziraphale sniffles, blinks a few times and tries to subtly dab his eyes, and nods to Crowley, who returns the gesture before turning back to the screen and fiddling with the controls a little.

“We will fight on in her memory,” he intones, as his avatar on the screen runs in a circle in a patch of tall grass. “We will fight on for Betty. We’re gonna kill the Elite Four, and Betty’s name will be our war cry. For Betty!”

“For Betty!” Aziraphale nods firmly, and watches the screen intently. Crowley soldiers on, navigating around Kalos, and Aziraphale watches, although his thoughts are with Betty. He wonders what pokemon do after you release them to the wild. Maybe he will ask Joshua next time they see him.

Crowley, recovering from his grief more rapidly, is on one of his monologues, waxing philosophical on the nature of pokemon match-ups, as his character runs around on-screen. “They’re just playing Calvinball with the dragon and fairy types too, since they’re not even real, and who decided that dragons would be weak to fairies? Should be the other way around, if you ask me - oh, shit, I didn’t want to jump off that ledge, fuck.” He grumbles. “We’re gonna have to walk all the way back to town.”

“You’ll run into some wild pokemon on the way though, won’t you?”

“Can’t catch ‘em.” Crowley sighs, as the screen flashes and a Psyduck assails the character. “Already got one off this route.”

“But you can smite them? For experience?”

Crowley laughs. “Yeah, yeah, angel, I can smite them for experience.” He taps a few buttons. “Get ‘em, Blanche.”

“For Betty!” Aziraphale declares, seizing his mug of tea with probably more enthusiasm than necessary.

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees, still laughing. “Yeah! Fuck you, this one’s for Betty!”

In his chair, Crowley shifts around, spreading his knees and stretching his legs a little. Next to him, and out of view of the camera, Aziraphale’s hand comes to rest on his knee.

Crowley doesn’t blush; they have been doing this ... whatever it is they’re doing ... publicly long enough that he doesn’t react quite that violently now. But the next few sibilants are a little more hissed than usual, and Crowley shifts in the chair again under the pretense of getting more comfortable, yet somehow ending up a few inches closer to Aziraphale.

k2p2ribbingforherpleasure: fuck yea blanche kill that duck for betty bubbletii: cant wait for them to get to the ocean and catch a magikarp GisforGreg: am i the only one who noticed AJ moved closer to Fell or ... ROOMMATES HUH LIAR JisforJerg: jfc greg shut up and watch the game

#the glorious crackfic wednesday #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much #good omens #inspired by griffins nuzlocke run #one million beautiful beaks #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #crowley definitely streams on twitch #you will never convince me otherwise

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