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#original writing
villainousauthor · 2 days
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Hero stares down at the paper in front of them with mounting dread. Their stomach is all tied in knots, and they feel a cold sweat at the back of their neck.
"You know, you don't have to do this if you truly don't want, I'm not forcing you." Villain purrs behind Hero, voice against their ear. The threat is unspoken. If Hero doesn't sign, they'll continue with their rampage. Continue killing, destroying, maiming.
The pen shakes in Hero's hand as they continue staring down at the paper. It's just a piece of paper, made of thick cardstock, cream white. Yet Hero has been staring at it for fifteen minutes, as if it'll bite them.
Certificate of Marriage
The font is too pretty, all stately and official looking. Hero feels as if they may throw up any minute.
"I don't understand why.." Hero finally finds their voice, asking the question that's been bouncing around in their mind since Villain first pulled the paper out as they suggested a truce.
"You already know my terms. In exchange for leaving your hero friends unharmed, for leaving the civilians of the city unharmed, I want you." Villain's voice is something possessive, filled with fire and heat. "This just makes it more official. More binding."
Hero shudders, and they feel as Villain steps closer behind them, a dark shadow looming over them. They know this goes beyond simply wanting to make their agreement more binding and they both know it.
"You know it's not legitimate- it's not legally binding without an officator." Hero stumbles over their words, not even sure if that's true.
Villain snorts, not usually one to be worried about legality of course. They put a hand to Hero's shoulder, warm and rough.
"I can find a priest to threaten. No one needs to know how and when we signed. Unless you'd rather make a big ceremony of this." Villain's tone is now teasing, amused by the idea of a wedding. "That could certainly be done if you prefer."
Flushing hot, Hero shakes their head quickly. No, they would not prefer that. This is already nerve-wracking and humiliating as is. A part of them wants to outright refuse, to tear the paper the shreds, and throw it in their face, but Hero knows this is the chance to get Villain to back down.
"I wouldn't be unkind to you." Villain says, voice suddenly softer and more serious. They lean forward, face resting against Hero's neck. The most terrible part is that Hero knows they mean it. They wouldn't be unkind or cruel, and that makes this all the more difficult. "You'd belong to me, but I'd take care of you."
Hero already knows there's no choice. They knew from the beginning that there was no other option. They have to do what is best for everyone else. Shakily, they finally nod.
"So selfless, so sacrificial to others." Villain says as they place a feather light kiss against the shell of their ear. "We'll have to work on that once you're with me."
They take Hero's hand currently holding the pen in their own, their grasp strong, as they lift it to the paper.
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radley-writes · 10 hours
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UNPOPULAR WRITEBLR OPINIONS go go go
I'll start: editing the first draft is fine, actually
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un-fazable · 2 days
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ALWAYS.
May you find a love who heals you,
Not hurts you.
May you find a love you cherishes you,
Not uses you.
May you find a love that unlocks all the beautiful moments and memories.
Because you deseve it,
Even when you might not think you do.
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serhatdoganpoetry · 3 days
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"Unrequited love, when it entwines with friendship, is like gazing upon a masterpiece through a glass pane – close enough to admire its beauty, yet painfully distant from touching its depths. Loving a friend is traversing a delicate tightrope between the warmth of companionship and the abyss of unspoken desires, where every step taken risks shattering the precious bond we hold dear."
-- Kit Wilde
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Day 84 of Writing Something Everyday
(365 Day Challenge)
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I want to sleep forever,
Will you slip into oblivion with me?
~Jenni
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coffeexxcigarettes · 2 days
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Indiscretion
-
I don't believe I was created
To be a bad person.
My soul was forced into this reality,
Burnt by what they called love,
Ripped apart by what you referred to
As family.
To manage the blaze,
I found a flower within the smoke.
A brief reprieve from a world on fire.
You'll have to excuse my sickness;
The way I cough up blood beside you.
To destroy another in the name of
Your own happiness?
I curl beside the flower,
My breathing labored.
It shivers in the destruction.
I don't believe I was created to be
A bad person.
But I don't know if a good person
Would long for the flower,
Rather than fall to the flames.
x
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kalavathiraj · 2 days
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Back then, when we swam together, we were like the azure blue angelfish. You danced and I danced along. You sang and I sang along. You'd glide and I glided with you. - it's true when they say romance is shortlived
Kalavathi Raj, QUTOUS
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bonniewame · 2 days
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I don't feel loved, but not because I am not loved. But because I don't know whether it's right.
You smile at me? Why smile. Is there some malice you hold between the togetherness of your teeth as you grin at me with crinkles under your beautiful, pretty eyes - I'm so lucky and undeserving - that hide depths of irritation for my presence?
You talk to me? Why converse, when my voice only proves to move you towards annoyance that sets your lips into thin lines, and drags your eyes around in arches? I cannot understand where your sarcasm and seriousness have started and ended, and this distresses me. Would you like me to talk more about it? No, no, I shan't; I talk far too much.
You love me? Why save me. Don't lie, I'll understand. I'm not anyone here's favourite, I sit quietly until called upon - why call? - I ache for love, and yet I'm not sure I'm even liked.
I'm too cheery. Too loud. Too quiet. Too Much. Too obsessive. Too clingy.
I'm sorry I touched your arm, I've been so desperate for you to reach out for me that I've overindulged myself and I apologise for it. I'm sorry I won't leave your side, I'm quite scared of people and you're warm and I have named you Comfort. I'm sorry, I really am, for loving to talk to you, because conversations with you are soothing to the chest, and I like you and your passions, and I hope to talk to you forever if only to make you laugh.
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saturnville · 19 hours
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safe and sound, major john egan
pairing: major john egan x amelia mae egan content: john manages to sneak away for london for a weekend and amelia meets him there. what he isn't expecting is a front-rowto seat to destruction. warning: descriptions of war. song: safe and sound by taylor swift (2012 version) tag list: @neeville @turn-thy-paige @ihe4rtisa @ineedafictionalman @lovebyceleste @alliewassobonum
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At home, people-watching was an activity they both enjoyed. It was a Sunday morning activity before the local church service. His warm hands around her thighs would pull her out of her slumber where she’d be awakened by a bowl of oatmeal and a steaming mug of coffee. 
They’d migrate to the living room and she’d perch herself on his lap, running her hands through his hair as they watched the leaves sway by the wind. 
This wasn’t that. What was usually a blue sky, lit up red and white like the Fourth of July; thunderous booms and bangs that shook the building. Boom. Boom. Boom. A raging affair. No people to wave at as they walked down the sidewalk, but bodies collapsing against pavements, lifeless and still. What was usually enjoyable, was torment.
He fidgeted under her, the urge to glance out the window stronger than he preferred.
“Relax, honey,” she whispered against the shell of his ear. Her lips wrapped around the tip of his ear, nipping along the soft flesh. She smiled at the soft whimpers he failed to conceal. “Don’t look at that, look at me,” she instructed softly, using her hand to cup his jaw. Her nails pressed against his face lightly, small crescents imprinting against his skin. “Look at me, it’s okay.” 
It wasn’t okay; she knew that. It was far from okay. There was a war waging outside their door and the culpability was eating him alive. She could tell by the way his body stiffened, his eyes faltered, and his hands gripped the edge of the couch. It was a complex situation; a soldier witnessing the brutality he initiated on others. Buildings fell, ashes rose, and screams echoed against the trees. They echoed in his ears like echoes of a snare drum. How could he stomach it without feeling the guilt crawl up his throat like bile? 
“Amelia…” She swallowed his sounds like her favorite dessert, sweet and airy in her mouth. He was hesitant as his hands slipped off the edge of the couch and came around her waist. His palms were cold from sitting near the window, stinging her warm skin. 
His voice was hardly audible over the sounds of destruction outside. His eyes pleaded with hers for reassurance, for a promise that everything would soon pass, and Sundays would be their portion. 
Amelia’s thumb traced the scar on his cheek, her touch calming the raging seas within him. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m right here with you.” She brushed her lips against his forehead, offering him a tender kiss filled with reassurance. 
John's grip on her waist tightened, seeking solace in her embrace. His heart ached with the weight of what he had witnessed, the echoes of destruction reverberating through his mind. 
Amelia combed through his hair lovingly, guarding his view from the window with her arm. Who would have known it would have come to this, she thought. Where it all came crashing down. But, she’d always be there to catch him when he fell. And nothing would change that.
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hersurvival · 3 days
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Before us,
I believe there had to have been nothing
Nothing but a void, screaming into itself,
Crushing into a larger nothingness,
Turning inside out, inside out, inside out...
Since the beginning
But alas, the darkness grew lonely,
Could take no more,
And where there once was only vast emptiness,
All shadow and vacuum,
The universe turned its cries outward
And exploded,
Casuing the cosmos to shatter in to dust,
Settling into what we now call ourselves
You and I were created as one, as us
@nosebleedclub March 26th - Before Us
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otherperson12 · 3 days
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Masters of the Air: The Angels of Death
Chapter 1: Part One
Disclaimer: Bucky being Bucky and a simp. Buck being tired of Bucky.
Thank you @infernal-hues
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Bucky was satisfied with the newcomers. The beautiful ginger caught his eye. She had all his attention. By the words of the other girls, she seemed like a good pilot. That was a plus to her beauty. He had never been with a ginger before.
Buck had heard a little between the COs’ and everything looked fine.
Until supper.
“I can’t believe you both kept it from me!” Curt recriminated to the duo.
The news spread like fire. The only information going around was (and the only one that seemed to matter) about some beautiful singles —that was a regalement— skirts were in the base to stay.
When Curt heard, he knew Bucky (and obviously Buck) knew before anyone, so he went to them demanding some information.
Bucky laughed, “You can’t be mad at me. You love me too much.” He said with dove eyes at Curt and blowing kisses.
Buck laughed at them. “You were going to know sooner or later, Curt.”
That was supposed to be some kind of apology. But he did not want that.
“Why are they here?”, Curt asked.
Good question.
They both looked at Bucky who just winked at them.
══════════════════
The interrogation was the perfect excuse to get better coffee than the regular G.I Joe one.
Colonel Elizabeth Nixon was the CO of the 1st Female Fighter Pilot Group: The Angels of Death. She was one of the first female pilots in the Air Force and she won her rank from the bottom even when her family could have paid for it. The girls respected her as a their leader.
“Girls, listen up!”, she called from the center of the room, once the interrogation was done. Everyone looked at her. “As you may know, we will get into combat soon,” some cheers, “We are going to be stationed here at East Anglia with the 100th Bomber Group.” she informed. “Our mission is to protect this side of Great Britain island and not let the nazis get into London.” Then she had to drop the bomb. Ironic. “At the same time, we have orders to escort the bombers in every mission as needed.”
WHAT?!
That was the first thing it came out of the boys’ mouth when they got the news.
After lunch, they all reunited in the conference room. Huglin had told them. Bucky was trying to hide his smile. And not look at Buck and Curt or he would really laugh.
“Those orders come from the upper command. It will help us to complete our missions and reduce the number of casualties.” He explained. “You just do what you’ve been training for so we can win the war. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!”
══════════════════
Brianna did not want to be a babysitter.
“Just imagine their faces.” Priya suggested with a malicious smile.
Captain Priya Pilanka was from New Delhi, a squad leader like Brianna. She was as respected as hated just for her culture. The both of them bonded over their resentment for the british so they joined the yanks instead of having the UK flag in their uniform.
“This is not how I imagined it.” Brianna commented.
Priya knew what she meant. First, they did not want to wait more to go and fight, she felt anxious. And second…
“Giving you, women, a plane and a weapon don’t make you a soldier. You are just that. A woman who came to help, not to serve your country.” Brianna quoted under her breath.
Priya heard. She remembers those words very well. Their first day in training, almost two years ago.
Priya stiffed a little, “We just have to focus on flying and get the job done.”
They started walking to their new barracks when a voice called.
“Pilanka, Ross.”
Both girls turned and found Lieutenant Colonel Margarita Flores, (‘Mama’ for the girls) from Chile. She was a sweet woman, always taking care of everyone like a mother. She was a little worried about the news.
They salute her.
“How are you both?”, she asked sweetly.
“Anxious to get in the sky, ma’am.” Priya responded for them both.
Lt. Flores looked at Brianna, “I know is not what you expected. But don’t worry about it. You are better than any man. You are Angels, the best of the best.” She reassured them with a sweet smile. “I’m sure we’ll get a mission soon, so I want you both to get settled and go to eat. You are dismissed.” She ordered.
At the barracks, 1st Lt. Louisa ‘Lou’ Breaux had saved them both a bed next to hers. The three of them were a particular trio: the quiet scottish, the spicy indian, and the cute witch.
Lou was another squad leader, from Lafayette, Louisiana. And probably a witch. When she said it was going to rain, the sky seemed to melt. When she asked for a sunny day in the middle of the winter, the sun would appear as if spring had come earlier.
“I got your sheets and your foot lockers.” Lou informed.
“Thank you, Lou.” Brianna gratefully, appreciated. Lou smiled at her.
══════════════════
Brianna was very excited about the idea of having a weekend pass so she could go to Edinburgh. After eating, she wrote a letter to her uncle, telling him she was back in Europe.
She walked around the camp looking for the post office. She did not want to ask for directions. The walk which supposedly was going to be calm, turned out to be the complete opposite.
“Hey, sweetheart!”
“Carrot! Do the drapes match the carpet?”
That one made her blush in embarrassment , but mostly boil herblood in pure rage. The cat calling continued until…
“Hey!”
The calls stopped. So did she.
“That’s enough!” Some man ordered in pure anger.
It wasn’t a deep voice, but so firm it made her almost stand at attention.
Brianna was able to hear the scold.
She took her chance to run away from the situation. The ginger walked as fast and calm as she could. The last thing she wanted to do was draw more attention to herself.
She heard someone walking right at her 6 o’clock, following her. At her left she found the post office and quickly entered.
══════════════════
Bucky was walking around looking for troubles (Buck was sleeping and he did not want to third wheel Curt and some nurse), when he found them.
Well, he actually found her.
For Bucky it was the perfect chance to introduce himself to the newcomer. Until he heard the other soldiers.
He stepped in, did his thing and when he turned to her, she was walking away. Odd. So he followed the red head to the post office. And there she was, completely curved in some papers.
“Good afternoon, Major Egan.” The sergeant behind the counter greeted him.
“How are you, Tommy.”
Bucky saw her stand back little by little and face him slowly. She looked at him and his collar and stood more straight than before. She saluted him.
That had an interesting effect on John.
“That’s not necessary ma’am.” Bucky informed quickly.
Brianna put her arm down. She felt trapped. She delivered the letter and she wanted to go, but he was in the way.
Those small blue eyes were watching her intensely. It made her uncomfortable so she looked down to her feet.
John took his sweet time observing her. Her red hair was in a classic updo with her green cap, her straight pointy nose and small mouth. She had changed her flying uniform for her dress uniform.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay. For what happened.” Bucky explained himself, pointing to the door.
Brianna opened her mouth and closed it, then she talked. “I am sir, thank you.”
Silence.
“Let me walk you to your quarters. So there’s no more incidents.” He offered.
‘I’ve spent too much time with Buck. I’m losing my charm.’ He thought.
“That’s not necessary, sir.”
“I insist.” He added quickly.
Silence again.
“If you let me, sir, It would not be appropriate.” Brianna explained trying to get him to let her go on her own.
“If someone asks I’ll explain the situation.” He reassured her.
‘How insisting!’, she thought.
John felt over the moon hearing her voice for the first time, small and cautious. He knew that his insistence on accompanying her was part of his desire to be with her. Normally, he would drink, pick a girl and take her to bed and that's it (and with that, he had gotten his own haters club) but she didn't even want to look at him.
“Let me walk you.” He said again.
Brianna knew he was not going to let her go.
“Alright.” She finally said.
In his mind, Bucky was doing a little victory dance. He tried to look normal, but a smile slipped to his face.
He moved from the door and opened it so she could go in first.
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Brianna and John walked the first twenty steps in complete silence. Until he opened his mouth.
“I’m John. John Egan. But everyone calls me ‘Bucky’”, he introduced himself looking at her.
Brianna took her eyes off the road to look at him briefly. She noticed his small blue eyes, which had a little mischief in them.
“Lieutenant Ross, Brianna Ross.”
Five steps more in silence.
“So you are a pilot.” Bucky said.
‘Doesn’t he have an off button?’, she thought a little desperately. She didn’t like being talked to, she didn’t like to talk.
“Yes, sir. I’m a squad leader .” She informed.
“Squad leader! That sounds important.” Bucky said impressed.
Brianna was irritated with the situation because obviously she had to answer to a ranking officer.
“I just do my job, sir.”
Bucky being Bucky, could not tell if she was just quiet and shy or she was getting pissed with him.
“You aren’t American.” He punctuated.
Brianna had spent years of her life trying to sound less Scottish, it looks like it did not work.
“Aye…” She said slowly, looking him in the corner of her eye.
Brianna found him already looking at her, a cocky smile and eyes full of mischief. She blushed as red as her hair, again, for being caught.
Embarrassed and now pissed, she walked faster trying to lose him.
He was having the time of his life, completely enamored by her cute reaction. She was shy, was his conclusion and maybe a little short tempered. John just followed her trying to be at her side again.
“Hey! Wait!”, he called. “I’m sorry!” He apologized. But she kept walking with her head down.
John saw her turn left, and then he saw a bunch of women hanging out of the quarters.
Everyone turned their heads as Brianna nearly ran into the quarters and slammed the door closed.
Then the eyes turned to him.
“Hi.”
He stood there just looking at the door, hands in his hips and a smile on his face. He chuckled.
Bucky started to walk away with intentions to go tell Buck when the door slammed open, a full round of laughter and calling. Brianna ran out hiding her face in her hands, the tips of her ears boiling red.
She was followed by Priya, who was mocking her and Lou, happy as ever, jumping with every step.
“Don’ worry, major. You’ll see her’ again’!”, Lou informed.
He snorted, “I’ll really like that.”
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“I swear to god, John, if you interrupt me one more time I’ll drop you in Berlin myself.” Buck warned him, eyes still in his book.
“That book will mean nothing when I tell you what just happened.”
Gale looks up to his best friend. A few hours prior when Bucky had said something similar, life at East Anglian had changed.
“Bucky”, Gale called at John.
“Yeah?”
“Leave those ladies alone”
Bucky laughed.
“Not any time soon”.
He walked away, but he stopped at the door.
“Brianna.” Bucky said.
Gale looked at him, not understanding.
“The name of my future wife, Brianna.”
‘Maybe Curt or Crank would like to hear about her’.
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Final notes
First of all, I’m not Indian (my heritage is from all over the world) but I wanted to add a little of cultural variety. I once meet an Indian girl and she was like Priya. Strong and spicy.
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imaginatorcreates · 2 days
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Commission for Toast aka @sketchy-tour!
Toast here asked me to make a tune for their Welcome Home OC, Dandy Leon, and the lovable Wally Darling. A sort of love song, if you will. Add on top of that an idea for a written scene between the two and you have this!
(Also I'm eating up your comments in Discord, please know that /pos)
This is my 29th creation. This is for Dandy Leon and Wally Darling. A song of spring, being in bloom, and many references to Dandy's Delights (for this is a tune with Dandy in it!). The goobers are waltzing in the garden and having fun little stumbles, but they're enjoying themselves because the world is in bloom.
Painted Flowers
25 March 2024 — 26 March 2024
Summary: Wally wants to paint someone to day. But who should he paint? Barnaby suggests to him, "Why not Dandy?"
Word Count: ~2.8k words
TW: None
Author’s Note: Enjoy! Also on AO3 as a gift.
One day, Wally Darling woke up and decided that he was going to paint today.
If someone were to ask him why, like his best friend did when the large blue pooch stopped by the painter’s sentient house, he couldn’t explain it. “I just want to paint today, Barnaby,” Wally said in his signature monotonous voice. He pocketed some of his paintbrushes and tubes of acrylic paint in the pockets of his blue cardigan as he added, “I have a problem, though.”
“Eh? What’s botherin’ my lil’ apple today?” Barnaby B. Beagle asked as he leaned against Home’s outer walls. The dark blue ear closest to the front door perked up as he joked, “Ain’t it too early to feel gray? I thought that was Frank’s job!” The dog howled in laughter, then in mock pain as Home lightly smacked him with his door. “Alright, alright! I get it Home!”
Wally laughed a quiet little “Ha ha ha,” even though he didn’t quite get what was funny about the joke. The few times he had asked Barnaby to explain a joke to him, his best friend had groaned and placed a paw over his snout.
“A joke ain’t funny if I hafta explain it,” he had said, “but for you, lil’ buddy, fine. I will.” Barnaby had patted his shoulder to show that he meant no ill will with his tone, but that night and for the next few ones, Wally had tried and failed to squash the thought that he might’ve ruined his best friend’s jokes forever.
“Home, I get it. No makin’ fun of the sourpuss– Home!” Barnaby let out a few more laughs, then thumped at his chest twice as he cleared his throat. “Lil’ buddy, ya said ya had a problem?”
“Oh, yes. I have a problem.” Wally wordlessly gave Barnaby a blank canvas, then his folded wooden easel. The former was off white and lightly textured, while the latter was light brown with splatters of miscellaneous colors. The hinges were squeaky with use and no longer smelled of wood but instead, it smelled faintly of chemicals from the paints he used.
It was bad for him, according to Frank and Poppy, but he found it comforting. Could something that was bad also be comforting? He would have to ask someone about it.
But, that was for later. Another problem for later.
“I don’t know what to paint,” Wally said as he grabbed his palette, stepped outside, and closed the door. He craned his neck up, took a few steps away from his taller friend, then craned his neck a little less. “I don’t feel like painting red apples. But I like painting red apples. I don’t feel like painting you, but I like painting you too.” He fiddled with one of his paintbrushes, running the clean bristles over his fingers as he asked, “What should I do, Barnaby?”
“Well, gee Walls.” Barnaby furrowed his brow as he exhaled through his nose. “How’s about ya paint one of your neighbors?”
“Oh. That’s a good idea.” Wally paused stroking his fingertips with the paintbrush bristles, then resumed as another problem made itself apparent. “But who? Who should I paint today Barnaby?”
“Well, you can’t paint me! You said you didn’t wanna.”
“I still love you Barnaby.”
“Yeah, love ya too.” Barnaby started to thump his foot on the ground, quietly letting out a low growl as he thought. “Who have ya painted?”
“I’ve painted you, Barnaby. I’ve painted Julie, and I’ve painted Frank. I’ve painted Sally, and I’ve painted Poppy. I’ve painted Eddie, and I’ve painted Howdy.” Wally counted off each neighbor on each of his fingers, and he was left with one finger left standing. “I’ve tried to paint Home, but Home is very large and requires a lot of time. I will finish Home’s portrait soon.”
Home creaked an apology.
“It’s okay Home.”
“Huh. How about ya paint one of our other neighbors?” Barnaby asked. “How’s about that one with the sunflowers in their yard? Dandy?”
“Dandy?” Wally stopped brushing his fingertips as the name bounced around his head, trying to attach itself to a face. Sunflowers in their yard…green…brown hat…flowers. But not Julie’s type of flowers. Julie’s flowers were loud and vibrant, brave and running towards what she loved. Flowers attached to Dandy’s name were bright, yes, but they were gentle. They curled away from harsh words and they bloomed in the quiet moments.
The painter gasped. “Oh! Yes! I should paint Dandy!” Almost at once, the floodgates in his brain opened. Ideas flooded his mind, breaking through darkness with shades of green and yellow and red. He almost wished that he was as big as Barnaby so he could walk further with each step. His plans of painting couldn’t wait!
Barnaby let out a howl of laughter and gestured to the main road with a jerk of his head. “C’mon lil’ apple. Let go get your sunflower’s portrait painted.”
“My sunflower?” Wally asked as the pair started on the journey to the gardener’s house. “Barnaby, the sunflowers belong to Dandy. And I will be painting Dandy, not their sunflowers.”
The blue dog snickered. “Alright lil’ buddy.”
Wally didn’t understand that joke either.
The sun shone down on the pair of best friends as they approached the earthy-colored house. Even from a distance, the yellow flowers stood tall towards the sun, almost greeting them with how they were turned towards them. Some were lightly tied to wooden stakes, but they still looked healthy.
Standing next to the sunflowers was a puppet with green felt, short and fluffy brown hair, and squarish glasses on their face. The sleeves of their brown cardigan were partially rolled up as they inspected some of the leaves of the sunflowers, their face deep in concentration as their mouth moved slightly with words that were too quiet to hear.
“Heya Dandy!” Barnaby barked out as the distance between the puppets started to close.
Dandy jumped and looked up from their work. Their eyes widened and they scrambled to dust off their clothes, roll down their sleeves, and step out of the thick of their sunflowers. “Wally! Barnaby!” they called back. “What can I do for y’all?”
“Funny, they called your name first Walls,” Barnaby murmured.
“That was supposed to be funny?” Wally asked.
“Eh.” Barnaby shrugged and turned his attention back to Dandy. “Wally here wants to paint ya.”
Wally watched as Dandy’s gaze rapidly turned to him, hovered for a moment too long, then turned back to his best friend. “Me?” the gardener asked as they pointed to themself. Their gaze turned back to Wally as they repeated, “You want to paint me?”
“Yes,” Wally breathed. “I want to paint you, Dandy.”
“I — ” The gardener's hands started to wave dismissively as their eyes dropped to the ground. “I don’t think I’m good enough to be painted! I’m a mess, and I have dirt on my hands. My hair is messy, and I have to send some flowers to Howdy’s — ”
With one swift motion, Barnaby unfolded Wally’s easel and placed it down nearby. He then patted Dandy’s head and chuckled at the yelp of surprise the gardener let out. “Re-lax Dandy. Walls here ain’t gonna eat cha alive!”
Wally’s fingers tightened around his cardigan for a brief moment. His eyes itched.
Not today. Not today.
Barnaby placed the blank canvas down on the empty easel and patted Wally on the shoulder before he bid the two shorter puppets farewell and walked away. “Peace out ‘n have fun! I’ll be at Howdy’s if ya need me!”
Wally waved goodbye to the blue dog, then turned his attention back to Dandy. “I will be painting you soon, neighbor.”
“Wally,” Dandy murmured. They kept looking at the ground, their voice even quieter than when Barnaby was there. Their brows were furrowed slightly and their mouth was pressed together in a thin line. “You don’t have to paint me. I think there are better neighbors to paint than lil’ ol’ me,” they chuckled. At the last half of their sentence, they sounded a bit like Eddie.
“I want to,” Wally countered. “I really do want to paint you.” He started to take out some of the acrylic tubes and laid them on the excess wood of the easel. He untwisted some of the caps to loosen them up, then carefully squeezed a bit of paint onto his palette one at a time. A bit of black and white in the corner for mixing, then green here and yellow there. Blue as well, and brown was very important.
“I woke up today and wanted to paint,” he confessed. “But I didn’t want to paint red apples or Barnaby, even though I love both red apples and Barnaby very much. Oh, thank you Dandy.”
The gardener blushed as they helped screw the caps of the paints back on. “I can getcha a cup of water for your paints. And a stool, if you want one.”
“A stool for the paint water would be nice, thank you.”
As Dandy hurriedly walked inside their house, Wally made it his mission to stare at the blank canvas with a paintbrush in one hand and his palette in the other. He had the subject, and he had the colors. He had the idea, no matter how faint it was. But now that he was here, with his subject nearby and with his colors laid out, the idea was rapidly vanishing.
His grip on the paintbrush tightened. The pose. How should Dandy pose? And any objects? Should they be holding anything in their hands? How much of Dandy should he paint?
He wanted to paint today, that he knew. But why was it so hard to paint?
“ —lly? Wally?”
The pompadoured puppet let in a sharp inhale of air and turned towards the voice.
Dandy gasped in return, backing away slightly. They bumped against the stool where an old cup filled with water sat, and they cried out to catch it as it wobbled precariously. “Golly! I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Wally said. He found his voice again — again; he was losing it…what year was it? — and forced himself to take a slow, calm breath. “I still want to paint you, Dandy. But, I’m having trouble imagining how I want to paint you.”
“Paint me however you want Wally, and I’m sure it’ll look nice.” Dandy’s gaze alternated between him and the ground, and their felt still showed hints of a blush. Pinkish, maybe red.
Like apples.
Wally slowly raised his paintbrush and started to circle it in midair, pretending that the ends of the brush were covered in red paint. He brushed an imaginary stroke upwards to make a stem, then two smooth lines to make a leaf. He liked apples. Those were the first things he painted.
What did Dandy like?
“Oh!” he gasped. “Dandy, can I paint you with sunflowers?”
“Sunflowers?” Dandy repeated. “The tall ones or the ones I picked earlier for Howdy’s?”
Wally paused. He looked at the sunflowers that towered above their heads nearby. Instead of looking friendly, they now looked intimidating. “I want to paint you with the sunflowers closer to your face.”
“My face? Oh, you’re going to paint my face?” Dandy’s hands waved, though not as erratically as Julie. “Can’t I hide behind my sunflowers? I’m a mess like I said and the sunflowers are more beautiful than I am and — ”
“Dandy.”
Dandy stopped.
“I think my neighbors look beautiful on my canvas because I paint what I see.” Wally’s smile widened as he added, “And I think the painting I want to do with you and your sunflowers will be beautiful too.”
If Dandy’s face could turn into a pretty red apple, it would. The gardener sputtered something before they stumbled away and stumbled back with a large bouquet of sunflowers in their hands. Dozens of yellow petals shone outwards, almost giving Sally a challenger for the brightest one in the neighborhood. In their centers, hundreds of seeds created a dark contrast.
In the middle of it all, Dandy’s face was buried in it.
Wally didn’t mind so much. He needed to paint the sunflowers first.
So began the long and slow process of mixing colors to create the right shade, then applying them onto the canvas in gentle strokes. The petals were abstract shapes at first, radiating from a circle of darkness in the center. As Wally switched brushes and added details, the sunflowers gained personality. Individual petals started to differentiate, and someone could pluck out the seeds if they wished to.
He dipped the brush in the murky paint water and started on the puppet. He looked around the canvas and saw Dandy’s face still buried in the sunflowers.
That was no good.
He placed the paintbrush on the stool and slowly approached them. “Dandy. Could you lift your face up please? I need to paint it.”
Dandy hesitantly complied, but most of their face was still covered by yellow petals. “The sunflowers are more beautiful,” they faintly insisted. “They’re in bloom.”
“You are in bloom too,” Wally said. Despite his brush hand smelling slightly of paint, he reached out and cupped his hand against Dandy’s cheek. He gently lifted their warm face up and out of the sunflowers and said, “You are in bloom, Dandy. Like the sunflowers, and the apple blossoms.
“I woke up and wanted to paint today. I wanted to paint, and you are in bloom. Why should I not paint a beautiful bouquet of sunflowers and the neighbor that grew them?”
A long, palpable pause stretched out between the two. Wally wondered if he made a mistake with this. He knew that Frank didn’t like to be touched very often, so what if Dandy was the same?
Then, Dandy slowly smiled. Their smile radiated through the sunflowers, and for a second, Wally thought that the gardener was the most pretty flower he’d seen.
His own smile widened and he withdrew his hand. “This…this is the most! I will paint this now!” He swiftly came back to his canvas and started mixing the right shade of green. The portrait slowly came together. First the general shape, then the details. The highlights came last. A few broad strokes for a blue sky, and…!
“Dandy, it’s done.” Wally placed each used paintbrush into the murky paint water, one by one as he waited for the subject of his painting to shuffle around the easel to look at his work.
On the canvas, were dozens of sunflowers arranged in a strong bouquet intermixed with delicate petals. The sunflowers themselves were made of strokes of yellow and circles of black, highlighted by elegant lines that made each detail pop. In the middle of it all, was a puppet whose smile was the centerpiece of the painting. Eyes slightly squinted shut from how wide they were smiling, a hint of red on their cheeks, and hands that held the entire bouquet together by their stems.
A gasp followed by a squeal of joy. Hand waving and heel bouncing briskly followed, alongside quiet bursts of “It’s so beautiful!” and “The detail on the sunflowers!”
Wally watched Dandy go through several levels of joy and awe, and the semi-permanent smile on his face softened. His partially-lidded eyes took in the small details: brown eyes that sparkled at the work of art on the canvas; the little yellow flower on their hat that never wilted; gentle flowers that reached towards the sun, fingers curling around the drops of light and holding it close.
Quiet.
“Do you want to keep it?”
“I…I shouldn’t.” The light was escaping from their fingertips.
Did he do that?
“I insist. I would be honored if you took it.” Wally gingerly took the still-drying painting and held it out towards Dandy. “I want you to have it.”
Dandy’s mouth pressed into a thin line as they looked down at the ground for a moment, then thrust the sunflowers in front of them. “Take these. I’d feel bad if you didn't have something in return. I can always get more for Howdy, it’s not a big deal.”
The next minutes were spent juggling an exchange; between trying not to touch any paint on the canvas and not dropping any sunflowers on the ground, the two spent an excessive amount of time trying to give each other the items. In the end, Dandy was left holding their portrait and Wally had a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand.
Dandy lightly bounced inside their house, and Wally was left outside with a sunny-smelling bundle of flowers counteracting against the chemical scent of his acrylics. He buried his face within the flowers and deeply inhaled. Between strong whiffs of paint, he breathed in drops of sunlight.
“The most,” he exhaled. “These are the most.”
For the next several days, anyone who peeked in the window of Home could catch a glimpse of a vase filled with cut sunflowers. They were perky and alive, and it certainly complimented a fresh red apple that always sat next to the vase for as long as the sunflowers lived.
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un-fazable · 1 day
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FLEETING
On the days when I feel unlovable, and unwanted.
On the days where my brain feels to messy and the storm feels like it won’t pass.
I sit and remind myself, that I am safe.
Allowing myself to sit with how I feel.
I gently remind myself that how I feel in this moment,
Will pass.
As surely as I know winter turns into spring.
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a-dreamersjournal · 3 days
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The Inevitable Downfall.
The tug of war between my constant need to have someone witness me in my misery and the hatred I have for being an object of someone's gaze, has begin to twist my bones and muscles from within.
If no one saw me drowning in pool of my own blood, did I really suffer?
And if I gave my hideously hurt self away to be seen and analysed, what's left for me? What's left of me?
Is dying from exposure of excess poison better than suffocating in absence of air? Or is it the other way around?
And is my downfall, inevitable nonetheless?
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