#short story Tumblr posts

  • This is the first kind of introductory paragraph to a story idea that I got from a dream I had the other night. It’s not a long story, but I really liked the concept so I’ve been flushing out so small details.


    Three core cities make up the foundation of the country of Jaderth. Named only by their order, they all play important roles in keeping the country in it’s high position of power. First is a religious city, but they could never protect themselves alone. That’s what Second is for. As a military city they house the force of the nation. Along with most of the factories and working districts. Third was a strange decision to some. Third started out as a prison, but it has grown into a cesspool of crime and debauchery. It’s full of rough bars, risque hotels, and casinos, all of which are run by the mafia that has developed in the area. Some smaller gangs wander the streets, in hopes of taking over, but none are seen as much of a threat. Reports on the activities started getting a lot of attention from smaller towns and eventually everyone in Second was interested in the activity in Third. It truly got its name as a core city when the television stations moved in, seeking to make entertainment out of the city’s events. This eventually led to a deal with the mafia. Together they constructed the Flavian Building. The inside consists of strange arrangements of rooms, all for the purpose of setting a stage for anything to happen. There are casinos, bars, clubs, stores and anything else they could need. It’s even got a prison. That’s where the games start. A show put on for the chaos to entertain the masses. A show called Gang Games.

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  • I just straight up pulled a J.K. Rowling and dreamt up an entire novel.

    Maybe I’ll fuck around and write an original work for once.

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  • To the Drawing Room

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    My heart beats almost put of my chest as I lay eyes on my love again after so much time. I want to run to his arm’s, shout from the roof tops why did you leave me when all I did was love you, yet he’s not alone. Along side other guesses that have invaded our peace and quiet existence was her… 

    The one that in every way made me inferior. Her sweet pink smile, dazzling eye’s, flowing curls that framed her face as she sat ever so close to you. I could never be that. 

    My plain completion, my brown wavy hair, my now cold eye’s where joy once shined from gaze on in silent pain as I sit my face cold and molded to stone. I listen to her entitled words as she is above my station in life. She calls all who are like me lower than the dirt, dumber than the bulb and more. 

    I stand tall as I quickly but quietly leave the room. Almost to my rooms stairs I’m called by name by your voice. You look upon me with eyes full of concern to ask why I have left the room. 

    I date not answer, I dare not say how dare you place me among those who think lesser of me than a human being then ask why do I leave. All I can muster is in Tired my Lord and start to walk away. 

    If I stand there any longer there will be streams falling from my eye’s. I hear him as his voice grows ever more faint, it’s the only sound I longed to hear but now I long to run from…


    Image: google.com/ hearts on the same beat pics

    Let me know what you think and pass the thought along.

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  • It began in my dreams. My teeth would fall out every night, spilling into my hands like small stones. Fearful fingers would take to my bare gums. My naked mouth would be sticky. Spit pooled in the toothless caverns, dread drumming in my chest when I would rouse damp. I would look into my mouth every morning, feel the solid ridges of hard tooth to calm myself. My teeth were always there until the day they were no more. I awoke breathless. My tongue snaked to where the grinding tooth should have been. In its place was a gaping hole, a pit traced with the taste of metal.

    A shriek rose to my throat. I pinched myself. I clawed at my skin, leaving long marks lining my arms. I ravaged my body as I desperately tried to wake up. I screamed until my throat felt shed, until my bellowed bawls bounced between my bedroom walls, deafening my own ears. That day, I did not go to work. I did not leave my tiny home. I sat on my couch with mugs of coffee. I sat silent with tongue and tears working, red bubbling behind my pressed lips. I sat until the moon took centre stage, grinning a leer through my blinds.

    Sleep came easy, though I wished it would not. I woke up with stripped gums.

    I dared not speak. I dared not part my lips. I dared not look in the mirror at the monstrosity of my vacant mouth. All I could do was run my tongue along pink gums and swallow blood. My mind had numbed, and the minutes passed. I dare not believe my reality. The tang of iron on my tongue tasted hideous.

    The soft light of the full moon streamed through my blinds. It was early, far too early. Through the door, the ditty of the delighted cicadas greeted me. A gentle wind brushed my untidy hair. No words left my lips as I made my way to the train station. Only my tongue moved, inspecting the swollen pink padding of my mouth. The machine worked at this hour. I bought my ticket. I boarded the train. Hours later, with the sun soaring in the sky, beating heat on my back, I was knocking on her door. The cry of the farm rooster rung out, a lonesome call in the scant country.

    My mother was enraged.

    “You wake me up early for this?” she hissed, a hand draped over her forehead. Through her gall I saw the signs. The sores on her skin, red and throbbing. Lips burned with crystal, trembling fingers like a moving machine. Pupils large, black depths writhing with hurt. And teeth yellowed. Teeth blackened. Teeth missing.

    I still had not spoken, and by now I was too afraid to. I did not know if I could speak without a lisp, without red flooding down my front. For a long moment, we simply stared at each other, her owl eyes boring into me.

    “Well, if the cat’s got your tongue, you might as well come inside. I’m going back to sleep. Make yourself at home, pest.”

    The house had not changed. Boxes upon boxes stacked on one another, some empty, some laden with old tomes and dusted books. Clothes were strewn on the carpet. The walls seemed to move. The reek made me queasy. Useless thing after thing was stocked in every room, all but one. The master bedroom was empty save for a mattress on the floor and a cupboard of pills, herbs, powder and crystal. My hoarding, snorting mother slammed the door, barring me from her haven. I was left to wander the home I had never called home.

    I do not know what drew me to that room. It was filled with rats and bats and other vermin coated in fur and filth. Still, I pulled down the ladder, and ventured into the unkind attic. The air was damp and musty. The boxes were stacked high, mounds of rubbish heaped in all nooks, but I knew where to look.

    I remember keeping a box for my fallen teeth. It was crudely made of wood, its hinges chirping, parched for oil. On its lid I had pasted stickers. When I dug around, shooing the rats and booing the bats, I found it rather quickly. My fingers toyed with it. I sat for a long while, simply playing with the box, trying to grasp why I was so fearful of an old trinket filled with bits of my childhood pearls. Perhaps I was scared of the unknown. Perhaps I knew what I would find. Shivering in the queer cold of the attic, I gave in. I opened the box and it swung open with a terrific squeal.

    My permanent teeth spilled into my hands like small stones. My molars, my incisors, every single tooth torn from its rightful place fell onto my lap. My teeth rattled on the floorboards as I took my fearful fingers to bare gums. My naked mouth was sticky. Spit pooled in the toothless caverns. And this time, I did not wake up.

    #writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr#prose#creative writing#fantasy writing#fantasy#dark art#surreal art#surrealism #artists on tumblr #sketch#short fiction#flash fiction#short story #i am in love with the book i am currently reading #to the point where sadness drags down my heart when i see i am already halfway through
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  • when i sit in bed and stare

    at the window, or at the wall,

    or at the phone—maybe for a call,

    my mind plays a montage

    of our memories, of our words.

    sometimes they’re of pleasure,

    sometimes they’re of hurt.

    back then, i would’ve thought to hold you tighter,

    but in retrospect, i should’ve loved myself better.

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  • prompt: invisible heroes

    Usually his day consists of driving from chute to chute clearing the rubbish, and seeing the residents take a wide path to avoid him. 

    Today was different. he rubbish made a noise that rubbish doesn’t make. It sniffed. And coughed.

    He pulled away a pizza box. There was a baby tucked in a ratty blanket. Oh dear, it’s about to gab a broken glass bottle -

    He snatched the glass away and gingerly extracted the baby. Poor thing looked so pale. He cradled it and checked its breathing. Not good. Time to pause his route and call for help.

    The police arrived quickly and took custody of the baby. He asked a friendly officer to keep him in the loop about the baby.

    It turned out to be a baby girl who was abandoned by an unprepared mother.

    Luckily, social services was able to find adoptive parents for the baby and they were happy to let him continue contact with her.

    Over the years, he became an uncle to the baby - he taught her about the stars that he learned from his astrophysics degree, and showed her how to throw a cricket ball so hard it wedged in a tree.

    But as she grew, she learned shame from having a garbage man for an uncle. She withdrew and he let her go, choosing to respect her decision.

    Eventually his contract was up and he left. By the time she came around and realised her folly, she had lost him.

    It took several months, impromptu charades, dusty dead-ends in remote villages (the goats were cute though), but she finally found him. 

    He opened the door to find her, heart in hand, nervously picking through her apology.

    He smiled, and patted her on the shoulder as he used to. She wept at his gentle forgiveness.

    He was truly her hero. 

    [word count: 325 words]

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  • …In that Empire, the Art of Cartography attained such Perfection that the map of a single Province occupied the entirety of a City, and the map of the Empire, the entirety of a Province. In time, those Unconscionable Maps no longer satisfied, and the Cartographers Guilds struck a Map of the Empire whose size was that of the Empire, and which coincided point for point with it. The following Generations, who were not so fond of the Study of Cartography as their Forebears had been, saw that that vast Map was Useless, and not without some Pitilessness was it, that they delivered it up to the Inclemencies of Sun and Winters. In the Deserts of the West, still today, there are Tattered Ruins of that Map, inhabited by Animals and Beggars; in all the Land there is no other Relic of the Disciplines of Geography. 

    —Suarez Miranda, Viajes devarones prudentes, Libro IV,Cap. XLV, Lerida, 1658

    (Jorge Luis Borges, Collected Fictions, translated by Andrew Hurley)

    #Jorge Luis Borges #short story#Borges#quote#cartography#map#maps #On Exactitude in Science #science
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  • This is a reading of the shortest story in my “Mindscapes: Ten Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction Short Stories” and Book of Dreams 2/e short story collections

    #short story #short story reading
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  • This is not a love story. This is a story about love

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  • Ocado sent me a 20% discount voucher in the same month that David died. It felt like fate was telling me never to go out again, so I didn’t. It’s not the grief, I joked, it’s the means. He left me the flat and some very successful investments – and honestly when you can have a boneless organic chicken thigh delivered straight to your door, why risk getting your hair wet?

    He loved this flat. He used to say he loved me, Barbra Streisand and the flat, mostly in that order, but Barbra and I were interchangeable if I’d forgotten to put the rubbish out or if she really hit that high D5 at the end of A Piece of Sky. It’s a recording, I’d say, she hits the same note every time. Yes, he’d say, but sometimes I just feel it more.

    The flat is on the top floor of Ben Jonson House on the northern edge of the Barbican estate in London. It has two rooms, side by side, each with a barrel ceiling. From the inside the rounded white roofs make you think you have more space than you really do. From the outside I like to imagine it looks like two sleeping giants cuddled up under a duvet.

    David started renting the flat when he was studying at the Guildhall School of Music, or Downstairs as he always called it. When the owner sold up in the early nineties David had to buy the place because he’d filled it with too many records to move. 1423 records line an entire wall of the living room in orange crate shelves. They are mostly original cast recordings of musicals in all the languages of the countries he visited. Only sixty-seven of them are by Barbra, but she does have her own crate. I got my own crate in 2006. Well, it was a drawer. David was twenty years older than me and everyone assumed I was more in love with his south-facing balcony in Zone 1 than with him, but I would have moved into one of his orange crates under the Hammersmith flyover if he’d asked. Me, David and 1423 records living happily ever after. Or, in the end, about twelve years.

    The Barbican estate was built over the wreckage World War II left of this part of London. David loved that it was someone’s vision of optimal living realised on such a large scale, that from a bombsite they thought they could rescue the future. His balcony overlooks the entire complex, the terraces and tower blocks, the mewses and the museum, the Arts Centre and its plazas. From that angle all the odd shaped buildings and covered walkways form an insane Escher print. When I’d go out there to water the plants he would wrap his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder, and let his hand trace a path for some new adventure across the cityscape. With all there is, he’d sing in my ear, why settle for just a piece of sky?

    Even then I used to think it all depended on the piece of sky you were looking at.

    I haven’t been out on the balcony since he died. I’ve barely opened the curtains. Half of the plants dropped their leaves over the side like desperate passengers jumping from a sinking ship. The half that couldn’t reach the edge just curled up on the floor. David left me the flat and the money and the records and the plants, but do you need me to tell you he took away more than he left? Because I can’t be bothered to go into it – actually, that sums it up: David died and I couldn’t be bothered anymore.

    ***

    When anyone remarked on the twenty years between us, and anyone often did, David would rush his hand to his cheek as though he’d been slapped. I was born on the 26th June, he was born on the 27th. There were nineteen years and 364 days between us. It never mattered to me, but since other people seemed so keen on numbers he liked to make sure they got it right.

    On my birthday, the first thing he’d do was fling the covers off and crow about how young he felt. On his, the morning after, he’d play the ancient crone. Of all the time we had together, those twenty-four hours in between were often our happiest.

    Sometimes we never left the flat. Sometimes we never left the bed. Once, on the day I turned thirty and he’d failed to cook the chicken for long enough, we spent most of it in the bathroom. He claimed it was because he’d heated it on the dying embers of his forties. If you can find a man who makes you laugh after giving you food poisoning, he’s the one.

    David’s warmth evaporated time. Today, those same twenty-four hours yawn with their lack of promise. I am now thirty-eight and I’ve woken up alone in our bed for nearly a year. The same bed that it felt so decadent to stay in as the turning of the world notched up another number for me then him. There’s nothing decadent about staying in bed all day when you have nowhere else to be. Or nobody to share it with.

    I get up at 7am and shower. I realised quite early on that it was easier to get rid of time at the start of the day. Also, for all of the talk about optimal living, the walls between the Barbican’s flats are thin enough that I know when my bedroom-side neighbour Bianca has had an overnight guest – because I hear her shower going twice, not because she’s a screamer (though the guests sometimes are). With the noise of her, possibly plus one, and Pete and Soph on the living-room side all getting ready for work in the morning there’s really no point in trying to lay in.

    I eat breakfast and get on with my Big Job of the day. There’s only ever one. If you don’t work or even leave the two rooms you live in, your To Do list is minimal. The art is to spread it out over the course of the week: one day for cleaning, one day for washing, changing the bed gets a whole day of its own because it usually takes everything I have. One day I throw things in a casserole dish. Everything tastes the same anyway and one bucket of stew will last me all week. That’s unless Soph is away and Pete comes over. But if it runs out I usually eat cereal for dinner. Or nothing.

    By 9am everyone in bothering radius will have left the building. If I put on one of David’s records I’m either feeling brave or the exact opposite. Usually I stick to some quiet, measurable task: today I will knit fifty rows of this scarf or today I will read two-hundred pages of Persuasion or today I will open at least three of the letters that continue to get forwarded for David and try to forgive the writer for existing in a world where he is still alive.

    At 6pm I heat up my dinner. If any of my neighbours are going to knock to check that I haven’t made their lives awkward by killing myself, it’s usually now. If they don’t, I put on David’s ancient headphones that are attached by a spiralling wire to a radiogram thing on a shelf above the bed. I lay down and listen to a crackling Asian radio station that could be broadcasting cricket scores or prayers, but that completely drowns out the sounds of Pete and Soph making their evening meal together or Bianca laughing into her phone on the balcony as she lights another cigarette. I’d take the sounds of endless morning ablutions over their easy early evening chatter and hopefulness.

    It’s meditative, listening to a language you don’t understand. After long enough you can hear the music in it. Music that doesn’t remind you of anyone.

    He would’ve been fifty-eight tomorrow.

    ***

    My dad and I get on fine, thanks for asking, though we joke that he threw me out at eighteen. He just wanted me to want more than the generic comfort of middle class Bristol. He stays because it makes mum happy and he loves her. He’s a doctor who wishes he’d been a sculptor or a fashion designer or a maker of anthropomorphic miniature ceramics – it all depends on what documentary he’s watching at the time. I was quite happy pulling up weeds and laying turf for the housewives of Clifton Village, though I was well aware that I didn’t want to lay anything else for them. I applied to art college for him really. And, fair enough, to sleep with someone other than the barman at the Queenshilling.  

    My mum was more comfortable with my lack of ambition. She called it being an old soul. When they dropped me off at Ravensbourne she gave me a backgammon set and enough tinned soft fruit for a lifetime of untroubled dentures. Following a succession of diabolical paintings and haircuts, a Duke of Edinburgh Award in navigating my way home from a different part of London every other morning -  before the advent of Google Maps - and absolutely no backgammon, I graduated and got a job as an estate agent.

    The most creative thing I was doing was arranging the pictures of other people’s homes in the window. I told my parents I was having a fabulous time and they believed me. I told myself that too, but it was less convincing.  

    ***

    Pete is on my balcony sweeping up rotting leaves and quite a few of Bianca’s discarded cigarette butts. He does this whenever he comes over for dinner since I never go out there now. He has a broom in one hand and his phone in the other, into which I hear him shouting to his wife Soph that he’s about to eat one of Dolly’s famous one-pot wonders. I am Dolly. I am microwaving a five bean chilli I made using only two kinds of beans and the entire last jar of fucks I had to give. I’ve barely moved from the sofa in five hours, but have only been trying to ignore Pete’s questions for the last fifteen minutes.

    Pete was already David’s neighbour when I moved into the flat. At the time I had a quiff that my friends used to say was maintained by all the comments that flew over my head. I was twenty-five, I’d been passed around London’s vibrant gay Soho like a tray of unwanted cakes and I was finally getting bored of butching it up and dumbing it down. Maybe it’s different now that kids have to build a personal brand online before they’re old enough to drink, but back when I was fresh meat it wasn’t what came out of your mouth that guys were interested in. I met David in the toilets at the Green Carnation – don’t worry, it wasn’t as seedy as it sounds. We were standing side by side looking in the mirror wearing matching Joe 90 glasses; me tall and dark, him short and bald. He said we looked like Dolce and Gabbana. I looked down at my designer-imposter daps and his wide-fit loafers and said we were more like Dolcis and Garden Centre. When he laughed it felt like someone had heard my real voice for the first time. I came back to the flat with him that night and four months later I lived here.

    Dolce having instantly become Dolcis then became Dolly. That’s how he introduced me to Pete. Say hello to Dolly. Pete had been a DJ on the rave scene in the early nineties and still shouted everything inches from your ear like he was trying to be heard over Josh Wink’s Higher State of Consciousness. He smelled so straight and alien, like weed and the hot plastic of a Gameboy. It was the forbidden smell of someone’s older brother’s bedroom and on reflex I stayed silent in case I got kicked out. He looked into the tops of my boxes and asked me if I played backgammon then, with no response from me, reached in and pulled out a Prodigy CD. He waved it triumphantly in David’s face, delighted to finally have a neighbour who might play something other than Color Me Barbra through the wall. David was unfazed. Neither then nor at any time since has there been a CD player in the flat.

    Now of course we can instantly play whatever we want to hear on our phones, but Pete and I are both at an age where eating two bean chilli at Prodigy speed could cause intestinal woe for days. He comes in from the balcony and selects a record to put on. It’s Je m’appelle Barbra, the original 1966 Colombia LP. Side two, track six: I’ve Been Here.

    We were going to knock on your birthday but the lights were out, says Pete. And on his too. Then, after a deep breath, he tells me that Bianca has told Soph who has told him that she’s been doing some PR for the promoters who put on summer concerts in Hyde Park and that she’s heard that this year Barbra Streisand will be doing one of them and she could get us all tickets and we should go. VIP entry, away from the crowds. It will be the first time she’s performed in the UK for years and might be the last. David wouldn’t have missed it. David would’ve been there in a Fanny Brice sailor suit.

    Over on the record player Barbra is assuring us that she is not a frightened dove.

    I say I’m not ready.

    The record finishes and there’s only static to fill the silence. Pete takes our half-empty bowls and puts them in the sink, where he stands as the whispering record turns and turns and turns and turns.

    I need to go Dolly, he says. And I don’t know if I can go without you.

    David and Pete had both done a lot of drugs, though it was never part of David’s work like it was for Pete. David travelled – he’d been a singer and then an internationally renowned vocal coach – but when he was home, he was home. Ask Pete if he ended up with a drug problem because it’s hard for a DJ to draw a line between his professional and private life, he’ll tell you that he doesn’t know because he never even tried. He was having a brilliant time and getting paid a lot of money. He got a mortgage for the flat next to David’s in 1999 with the advances from a series of Millennium gigs that he wouldn’t end up playing. Instead he went on what he now calls the Bender Of Destiny. His bookings disappeared. He went from sucking MDMA off a model’s nipple to sucking fag ash from the footwells of Mondeos at a car valeting service. He could barely afford enough speed to get him through the weekend. When he finally got so desperate that he sold his speakers, David knocked on his door. This was years before I’d met David, years before Pete met Soph. At the time they may not have had much in common except a very thin wall, but David was probably the only neighbour in the world who had a problem if you weren’t playing music. Pete’s existence had descended to skirting board level and the flat was basically empty. The highest vantage point was a stack of unopened post. Recently Pete must have fallen off or into or in front of something or someone and there was a dried trail of blood weaving back and forth between the two filthy airless rooms. David sat down on the floor next to Pete anyway and put his arms around him whilst he cried.

    David took Pete next door and ran him a bath. He washed his clothes and his bedding. He cleaned Pete’s flat, he cooked for him. He sat with him every night, made him tea whilst he opened all the terrifying post, sorted out his payment plans. He helped him find some furniture, a job at a friend’s recording studio, a reason to go on. He played him the 1964 Original Cast Recording of Funny Girl and the 1970 soundtrack to On A Clear Day You Can See Forever and every single studio album Barbra had ever released. When you can afford your own speakers again we can listen to what you want, David would say, until then let’s have something ageless and evergreen.

    Pete gave the eulogy at David’s funeral. I couldn’t speak. He said that David had saved his life. He chose all the music too. People kept thanking me afterwards and telling me how perfect the songs were. I tried to say that Pete had chosen everything but he said it didn’t matter. He took me home and said I didn’t need to explain anything to anyone. I didn’t need to see anyone or speak to anyone if I didn’t want to.

    Pete takes Je m’appelle Barbra off of the record player, returns it to its sleeve and its place on the orange crate shelves.

    There’s seven months until the gig, he tells me, we’ll start small. He opens the balcony door and steps outside, then he turns back and holds out his hand for me to join him.

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  • The bumps of the flannelette sheet beneath Kira’s ass were the same pattern as the goose skin on the tops of her thighs. Her fingers walked over the tiny hills and she started the slow decent down the green slope. Winter was coming and she was coming home to a hot water bottle and ox tail soup her father cooked. Her limbs shifted and she rolled into the kitchen to shovel in the food. She couldn’t be late. She turned again and found a cool spot between the sheets and wondered what the time was. The clock in the kitchen was hidden behind the blurred back of her mother’s head at the stove. 

    Elijah’s skin held the day as he begun slipping through the sheets and hopeful dreams. His naked flesh insulated the bed and the wave he has riding. The weather was set to be perfect in the morning, as long as the wet suit on the line dried by then. He would be awake then but for now, he would ride that wave until he met the confluence of river and sea. He still had time though. Elijah watched the light of the water dance in diamonds on the sand below before smiling up at the sun. His foot flinched and he fell in. 

    Kira was swimming in the vein of a barista spinning milk. She had stopped in for her usual coffee before her meeting on the moon and fell under the skin. It was warm and wet and her backstroke was adding to the twirl. Day had long disappeared and her eyelids no longer existed as the curtain to this narrative. She would have to swim through the sea of her past lover’s front doors that kept clogging up her exit. Kira was nothing if not punctual and no clogged pores would stop her rendezvous. There was to be a throne, the view of Earth and stepping into the dark side of the moon but not before slipping into the belly of blind beast that hid in the corner of the room with one eye open. 

    The barking outside Elijah’s window echoed though the cave pools he surfaced in. On the edge lay a still body. It didn’t move and he couldn’t recognise it in the shadows. He swan towards it until the twinkling of the dripping stalactites became an endless sky of liquorice and icing sugar. He was early and he could still see the dark shape just beyond the line of the horizon. It was also colder than he expected and he pulled the sun over his shoulders. For someone perpetually late, he had managed to arrive first. He walked backwards and snaked his feet watching the dust settle in the air like a snow globe. 

    Small windows of opportunity came as the beast continued to feast. Kira could have climbed up if she wasn’t being pummelled by the chunks of the microwave ding next door. She stopped clawing at the cotton walls and breathed. Under her skin, a galactic wind picked up. She was puked into a continual fall through humidity. She was three planets too far and rolled over Orions belt to the moon. She could see the throne and a plasticine earth but no Elijah. 

    If time existed, would it still in the eye of a storm? Elijah was standing between fictional winds and reality. He was watching the whirring sky melt into light and his feet danced around with it on the backs on his eyelids. Through the carousel, a glimmer of gold caught his eye and he turned to it. The storm settled with each step and the glimmer grew into the throne he had initially set out for. From behind it, he could see two legs dangling over the right arm of the chair. 

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    Hey darling. I want to be honest with you, I kind of put this one off. I went trough the same, and a friend of mine is still going trough it. So knowing how difficult this is, I was afraid of writing a story around it. Because I don’t want to trigger anything, or somehow give people ideas. But hoping it might help someone I finally put myself to writing it anyway. I didn’t go very much into detail though. I hope you enjoy still.

    Love, hugs and always here
    ~ Hyejin

    image

    Originally posted by yourrmobsessed

    Pairing: RM x Reader (gender neutral)

    Genre: Angst/Fluff

    Word count: 

    Warnings: mention of selfharm and eating disorder

    *Remember, everything is an AU* 

    He had noticed, of course he had. He had seen the way you looked at food, as if it were poison. He noticed your growling stomach and your silent winces as you made a wrong movement. He noticed how weak you had been lately.

    And he hated that he was too busy to take care of you properly. Now he was coming back from tour an had a month long break, and he decided he would spend it with you. He had asked if you were okay with him staying over during the break. Naturally you agreed.

    “Honey, you barely have any food in the house. He called from the kitchen.
    "Oh, right. I still needed to go to the store.” you answered from your spot in the Livingroom.
    “Let’s go together.” He stood in the doorframe and you gave him a puzzled look. “Are you sure that’s alright?” You asked worried.
    “It will be fine, come on, let’s go.” He threw your coat towards you and the both of you were off to the small store near your house.

    The two of you walked comfortably along the isles, your cart filled with colour.
    “Wow, you really eat healthy, don’t you.” You chuckled as you had barely put anything in the cart yourself.
    “Yeah I need to stay in shape and healthy.” He nodded “And on top of that, it’s just really tasty. I’ll cook for you tonight, you’ll see.” He smile was radiating a sense of comfort and you nodded back at him.

    He was right. You hadn’t eaten that much in a long time but it was so tasty and you didn’t even feel bad. While he cooked, he explained what he had learned about food. It wasn’t much and he wasn’t super gifted at cooking either. But it warmed your heart to see him try so hard.

    A week passed and Namjoon was visually trying hard to take care of you. You’re so important to him and he made sure you knew that.

    -

    “I see you’re not dieting anymore.” You smiled as he stuffed his face with ramyun. The two of you were watching movies, seated on the floor with a heap of pillows and blankets.
    “No, I am still trying to stay in shape.” He nodded, “but one cup of ramyun isn’t going to set me back. The only thing that can set me back is not eating it or giving up afterwards. Because then I’ll just go too far and gain twice as much when I quit eating healthy.” He stated matter of fact, still staring at the television.
    You frowned at his words. You had never seen progress using a steady diet, or just eating healthy, but he made it seem so simple while still having the things he loves. You hadn’t been obsessing as much about your food while he was here, but you were visually loosing weight. And just by eating healthy at that, just in smaller portions than his. At first you thought it was your imagination playing sick tricks, but his words echoed trough your head.

    -

    One evening he and the boys had planned to go out.
    “You sure you’ll be alright?” He asked as he was getting ready.
    “Of course Joon, I survived you being on tour, I’ll survive this.” You giggled, pecking his cheek. He pulled you back in just as soon as you pulled away. Meeting your lips with his in a lingering kiss. “There’s some leftovers in the fridge, so you don’t need to worry about making dinner. Just relax, enjoy yourself. I’ll be back tonight.” He kissed your forehead before he disappeared trough the front door.

    You sat yourself down in front of your laptop. Your bowl of reheated leftovers in hand as you scrolled trough social media. You hadn’t done that much since Namjoon was with you, so you wondered what was new. But your face turned to a self-conscious frown the more you scrolled. All the idols on your screen looked so perfect, there had been a lot of talk of the crash diets many of them had been following lately. Even Hwasa from mamamoo (the thicc goddess) had been loosing weight. You looked at your barely touched food and back at your laptop. You let out a defeated sigh, setting your bowl in the kitchen and going back to the Livingroom. You turned on the television to watch a movie, fighting the urge to do anything else. But to no avail.

    There you were, on the bathroom floor. Proof of your bad habit clear before his eyes as Namjoon had just arrived.
    His face didn’t seem judging, angry not even shocked. He let out a sad sigh as he came to sit next to you. You hugged your knees, not daring to glance in his direction. “I wish I could have stopped this.” He stated “I wish you could see what I see. The beauty you are, how amazing you are, how precious you are to me.” He took you in his arms, taking care of you like he always would, like he always does. “I want to help you Y/N, I want you to be healthy. I just wish I knew how.” His voice sounded strained as he was on the verge of crying himself.
    The both of you sobbed on the bathroom floor. A decision had to be made, he was sure of that.

    You needed help. And there was no shame in it. And you were not alone. He would be there every step of the way. So would your family, so would your friends.
    Because you’re so amazing, and he would do anything to let you see that.

    ♥ Thanks for reading!  ♥

    masterlist

    Just a small afternote. The KPOP-community is often not a good one to be in when you suffer from self esteem issues and eating disorders. Because it surrounds you with practically impossible body-goals and crash diets. I wish anything I could say or do could help you.
    I just see how beautiful everyone is and yet they are so insecure. I hope you’re healthy and are able to see how beautiful you are. 

    Healthy is the most sexy ;) - Ohmyvenus

    image

    Originally posted by taebae-btsv

    ~ Hyejin

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  •      My whole life I’d been having images appear on my skin. It was every time my soulmate started to like something new. Everyone gets that, but it shouldn’t have taken me so long to figure out who it was.

         My first one came when I was two. It was a whale. I always thought it was hilarious as a young child. Then there were more animals and books and song lyrics. Sometimes things would fade off my skin, but I never really minded, knowing that their interests would change. After all, I’m sure things changed on my soulmate’s skin as well.

         I was five when I met my best friend. She only had a small dog on her wrist. I loved dogs, but that never seemed odd, as most people do. My best friend and I grew closer every year. We did everything together. We talked about everything. But, she would never say what else was on her skin and she usually refrained from talking about anything that was on my arms.

         It wasn’t until many years later that I understood why she was so secretive about such things. We were all forced to wear our swimsuits and go out swimming. Her back was a tapestry of all the things I loved in the world. I was in awe at such a sight. All those years she had worried that it was a lie, that I couldn’t be her soulmate. After all, who would have guessed us two girls could be anything more than friends.

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  • Greyleaf


    Emily had the voice of an angel. The kind that lures the ear but strikes chills and slight terror through the body; a paradox of confounding musings all elevated to a normalcy one can’t place, save to say, “That’s beautiful.”

    She never minded the faces that would twinge or the experts that would sigh for the flaws in technique, she only ever sang for one person. Eternity is a collective and deafeningly loud sigh at the edge of absolute perfection, and there’s nothing more efficiently descriptive of her than that.

    The sky is wide in the thick of warm Texas morning, when the air is settled enough to draw a lone bead of sweat. Life buzzes around her at the lakeside where tearflow is ever discrete. A great oak stands apart the thicket, near the water’s edge and hums softly across the bench she slowly soaks.

    “If you can paint heaven, why won’t you paint me…” whether a question or a demand, a thought then unleashed - a leaf grazes by before she takes notice and gently places itself on her head. She can’t help but smile at the delightful coincidence, rises, and leaves the question on that bench for 9 years.


    It’s October. She’s not a child, but that bench isn’t here anymore. There’s a scar under her forearm she stopped hiding, but won’t ever speak on; there’s a light twitch at the corner of her mouth she once observed from someone she cared for maybe a bit too deeply - but whomever it was that sat on that bench would never know the woman standing near the great oak, today. The sky is overcast and this property now belongs to her, but whatever it was that urged her to return here, does not. It’s been 7 years since she tried to sing, and even here - it won’t come out. A knot coils the emotion that would leak but never lets it through…


    “…where are you?”

    The last leaf twists free and glances her face. Startled, she notices it dance and float towards the lake.

    “Go.”

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  • Just a brief update: My sister’s dog bit my hand a few days ago. Typing has been difficult and the first short story will go up next week instead of this week. 

    Thank you for understanding, everyone :) 

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  • “there was kaley, hannah, ellie, and… who’s this new girl?” my dad chuckled. his cheeks were red and puffy from all the beer he drank.

    “her name is jenny.” i smile. “but i don’t know if it’s gonna last.”

    “oh, you are such a lady killer, mister!” my mom giggled. my dad reached his hand over and tussled my hair.

    well, mom is finally starting to catch on. a “lady killer” is something i’d describe myself as too.

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  • i’ve noticed i find beauty in everything; a torn up page, a crack in the wall, a spot on his face i notice only when he’s so close to me, a smashed phone, (loved dearly but not cared for enough), dirt within fingernails, a guitar with a broken string or two, a cracked mirror, a lightbulb that’s stopped working at night time so now you have to decide if you really need to be in this room or light a candle to see better- fuck. where did i put that lighter??

    and yet, despite all this; when i look in the mirror all i see is a face i don’t feel connected to; a body i’ve never felt i truly own. why isn’t she beautiful? my triangular nose upturned in a way i used to compare to that of a pigs, my asymmetrical face, the small scar i have on my cupid’s bow a doctor once told me i could cover up with lipstick when i was only 5.

    but i adore pigs, & without asymmetry and scars, how do we prove we’re human?

    and what will i think of my daughter if she looks like me?

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