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It's now been 8 months that Amaru has been on hiatus from Kickflip.
So here's his playlist of songs that he made. Amaru is so cool and talented. I hope he's doing well and that we get to be together soon. I hope we get more songs from him someday.
What if the children go to schools unafraid of tear gas and bullets?
What if the birds come back, and the bees are healed, and every species moves from endangered, to threatened, to thriving?
What if the rainforest ADVANCES?
What if every parking lot had solar panels? What if every structure had solar panels? What if we built climbing gyms and terraced gardens in the skeletons of old coal power plants?
What if you baked your neighbor bread, and they shared their home-grown blackberries?
What if every person who needed a home, had one? What if every person who needed healing was healed?
What if every body was treasured for what it was, not what it should be?
What if every trans child's parents attended their graduation, their wedding, their new-name-day?
What if every warehouse became a closed-circle repair station? Goods flowing out, and back, and out again? What if landfills started to SHRINK?
What if the water and air were clean? What if there was enough public transit that the cars dwindled, leaving the streets safe for kids on bikes, evening deer, midnight cats and foxes?
The condors are back. The whales are saved. The sea turtles are no longer endangered. The cranes are back. The bees are recovering. The air in LA and Tokyo and London is clean again. The aquifers in the LA Basin are refilling.
Children are kinder than previous generations. Parents are stopping the abuse cycle. Being trans and queer is more acceptable than ever on a ground level.
It's hard to see if you're young, if you don't know how to step back from social media and the news. But remember--bad news sells, and the algorithm knows despair keeps you scrolling. It's a skewed lens.
We are fighting and we are winning against this adminstration's bullying. We are coming together against the bullies and they are running away scared because they don't understand that we will do that.
People are working hard every day to find ways to make sure fewer animals get hit by cars and planes and rockets.
Maker spaces are more common than ever. Solar and wind are more common than ever. Coal plants are shutting down every day.
Unprecedented numbers of acres are being bought back or given back to their rightful stewards, and the world heals because of it. People are working hard every day to learn how to help a forest recover faster.
We are not at zero. We are at decades of effort to heal the world. We've come SO far.
In 1982 there were only 22 California Condors left in the world. In 1992, when the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS), with its public and private partners, began reintroducing captive-bred condors to the wild. In 2001 the first wild nesting occurred in Grand Canyon National Park since re-introduction. In 2002 there were only 8 pairs of wild nesting birds population-wide. In 2008, for the first time since the program began, more California condors were flying free in the wild than in captivity. Today there are nearly 500 – more than half of them flying free in Arizona, Utah, California, and Baja Mexico.
When I was born, there were no condors in the wild. I'm 37 now, and there are over 250 condors flying free.
When my mom was born in 1955, there were days when she wasn't allowed to go outside to play, because of the air pollution. When I was born, that never happened anymore.
When I was born, humpback whales were critically endangered, and people thought they were going to go extinct. Today, they've recovered to exceed their recorded numbers. Other whales too!
We fixed it.
We CAN fix it and we ARE fixing it and we DID fix it.
Believing that things can get better is not blind hope or optimism--it is based on hard data that many things have consistently gotten better over the arc of history.
In addition to all that was mentioned above:
The likelihood of dying in infancy or childhood--or losing a child--has plummeted just in my lifetime. The likelihood of dying in a natural disaster is the lowest in recorded human history. Yes, even with the uptick in natural disaster intensity from climate change!
Humans alive right now are more likely to have access to healthcare, electricity, education, birth control, clean water, and nutritious food than at any other point in human history. There are so many diseases we can treat now that were a death sentence for 90% of human history.
This is not by accident. This is because generations of humans put in work to make life better for their communities.
Some of our solutions had the side effect of creating other problems--better access to electricity that ultimately made people's lives easier and safer led to pollution and climate change, for example--but we are tackling those knock on problems too. Our generation's solutions to our current problems will probably create their own less-bad side effects for the humans after us to deal with.
Is it silly and naive to believe we might actually be able to make things better? Not at all. We have many times before. We are doing it right now.
you don't need to write a dark deconstruction of Peter Pan where he's willing to kill people and his state of eternal childhood makes him morally ambiguous, JM Barrie already wrote one and it's called Peter Pan
To clarify, this post isn't about the misconception thrown around by clickbait online listicles that "Peter kills the Lost Boys when they get too old"*. Any real horror that comes from the story, IMO, is about Peter as a VICTIM. His very existence is a tragedy.
Peter, like a lot of mythological fairies and fae folk on which he's based, is stuck in a sort of eternal childhood not just of body, but of mind. While to another child this would obviously be a dream come true it becomes VERY clear over the course of the story that he's deeply suffering under the surface. Peter Pan was written partially as a critique on Victorian and Edwardian ideas about childhood innocence. JM Barrie, when describing some of the fundamental traits of children, calls them gay, innocent, and heartless. Peter being morally grey is text, not subtext.
I'm not saying a more adult-oriented retelling shouldn't exist, I'm a grown-ass man who still loves this very story. But shouldn't it touch on a topic less shallow?
You exist in a state of eternal play. No parents to tell you what to do - or take care of you. You have all the friends you want, until they start to grow up, and you stay the same, no matter what you do, and you don't know why. Finally one day you bring home a "mother" who isn't a grown up, and it's so much fun! It's amazing! But she starts getting scared because she's forgetting things, forgetting the way her own mother looked (her real, grown-up mother, the thing you never had, the thing you hate and want most of all), so she leaves you, and you let her go, because you have to. And maybe she comes back, but every year she's more and more different until suddenly, you don't know her anymore. But that doesn't matter, because she has another little girl, so you can have another mother, so why not start again?
And you do. And thus it will go on. As long as children are gay, and innocent, and heartless.
* That's basically a throwaway line that he tells Wendy as a sort of brag, and imo I think we're supposed to take it with a grain of salt, since Peter is established to be a habitual liar and mis-rememberer of events, especially when he thinks it might make him look cool. The Lost Boys we meet in the original 1911 novel go home with the Darling children and are adopted into the family, something which you might not know if you only saw the Disney movie, so we know they aren't "actually dead and Neverland is heaven" and Peter didn't kill them after the Darlings left. In the official sequel, Peter Pan in Scarlet (yes there is a canon sequel, it was written in 2006 by Geraldine McCaughrean after she won a contest put forward by Great Ormond Street Hospital, the owners of the Peter Pan IP, it's amazing and everyone should read it right now) we actually meet some of the OTHER Lost Boys who were banished by peter for "growing up" and are still stuck in Neverland, and they still know Wendy (she comes back every year for the spring cleaning until Peter just... forgets about her). So there's no real evidence that Peter really did kill any of the Lost Boys, and in fact more evidence to the contrary - the closest we see him come to that is when he believes Tootles has accidentally shot and killed Wendy. When it's revealed that Wendy is fine, Tootles is forgiven entirely.
These two stories work so well as mirrors to each other that I sometimes like to say that AIW is an imaginary world running on a child's version of "adult logic" whereas in Peter Pan the "real" world runs on child logic. Why do mothers seem to know everything? Well...
Mrs. Darling first heard of Peter when she was tidying up her children’s minds. It is the nightly custom of every good mother after her children are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things straight for next morning, repacking into their proper places the many articles that have wandered during the day. If you could keep awake (but of course you can’t) you would see your own mother doing this, and you would find it very interesting to watch her. It is quite like tidying up drawers.
Obviously your mom can literally rummage through your thoughts! This is the most out-there example but generally in the story children's ideas about the world are just objectively correct. Mr. Darling's work is very abstract except for the idea of sums and small talk, Mrs. Darling can watch her kids through night-lights, the stars talk to Peter; I often say that Peter Pan is so surreal that, were it to come out today, could only be marketed to very young children (who would accept the weirdness of a fairy tale) or adults/very advanced readers who are used to surrealism (who can understand when not everything is meant to be understood in a book). Alice In Wonderland definitely has a current day reputation of being surreal, but I think Peter Pan deserves that as well, it is BUCK-WILD in some parts.
@fagboysupreme could def explain this better than me because whatever brainworms i have for Peter Pan he has the wondrrland variety
so wonderland is in practice a reverse of neverland. neverland works on kid logic so everything makes sense to kids and only to kids, and this kind of nonsense leaches out into the real world and that's why mr. darling's job is just The Concept Of Business and why crawling into the doghouse is treated as a reasonable response to upsetting your children.
wonderland, by contrast, is as nonsensical as it is because it's about societal rules and the way children are treated by adults, none of which makes much sense to a kid. especially during the time it was written. certain sections of it parody old virtue poems that children had to read in school and that probably seemed super dumb and arbitrary but you had to do it anyway. despite having lots of personality, alice is rarely allowed to be an active participant in her own adventure because she keeps getting pushed and pulled and kicked out of places and asked to perform pointless tasks and play stupid games.
they both meet at a sort of central point of "children see things in a very specific way and adult things are basically just nonsense" to the point that mr. darling's Nebulous Business Job is more or less an equivalent to "painting the roses red", representing the vague childlike idea of Having A Job and Having A Boss You Hate
alice is also notably sort of weird? granted wonderland turns out to be a dream and in dreams you just sort of accept things as standard, but she doesn't really do that. her reactions to most things are "well hey now i don't care for your wacky talk" as opposed to "holy shit why are we playing croquet with birds??" like she recognizes the circumstances as weird but not the earth-shattering weirdness that it so clearly is.
an edgy alice in wonderland story can and should, in my opinion, be more like Pink Floyd's "The Wall" -- it should be about tangibly representing stuff like childhood trauma. or, to contrast, it could be about the fear of growing up, the fear of responsibility. but to me the best "edgy" takes on wonderland are just about taking the pre-existing twisted world of wonderland and twisting it further. Jan Svankmajer's "Alice" is a good example of this, it's a relatively faithful adaptation of the story but replaces wonderland's whimsy with a sort of beige, crusty vibe, using a lot of animal skulls and other creepy things. it relies on the uncanny valley, to an extent.
a peepan and alice crossover is something ive had in the back of my head for awhile now, because either way there's an interesting interaction. if alice goes to neverland, she'd probably have a really good time? like she certainly wouldn't question not having to attend school, at least up until what she wants out of neverland clashes with what peter wants. if peter goes to wonderland, it would further dive into the arbitrary nature of childhood, only from the perspective of a person who has never had to experience anything resembling a normal childhood. which i think is objectively cool as shit.
i also want to point out the third point of this triangle that came much much later, "Coraline", where the alternate world is instead what an adult would assume a child wants. idk that i need to brainstorm more on but theres something there about alternate worlds in service of a child's mindset.
Kickflip was in LA to film the music video for Eye Poppin.
This is such a cute video and i'm Glad they had a good time there.
Juwang going grocery shopping is so adorable.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Synopsis : A strange boy keeps saving you, finding you when all you want is to disappear.
TW : Mentions of death, suicide and self-harm, alcohol addiction, infidelity (not by the main characters), attempted rape!, smoking, gradual healing, slight injury, snake bite, sexual tension (hehe)
nsfw warnings : kissing, grinding, wandering hands (yk what i mean), that's it for this installment!
The first time you see him outside a club, a time past midnight when everything has gone dead silent and the sky refuses to be dark, reflecting the flickering lights and neon boards of the city. You cannot make out the stars in the vast expanse, it is all hidden behind the ugly omnipresent glow.
There are few people in the club, some other degenerates like you. Grieving and drinking, the pleasure turning bitter with every sip of vodka. They look at you, as if you are the sore thumb, even in the middle of utter outcasts. Or they are sick of hearing you order one 'last' drink, begging the bartender to keep pouring.
Your mother died a week ago and yet, you are still wearing the long black dress, mud on the fraying hem. You perform the miserable excuse of a shower and slip back the same thing on, again and again. She would have killed you if she had known the way you have destroyed this dress, the amount of times the zipper has been opened for drugged drunkards. It all waters down to a rough touch, something to take off your mind from the slow cracking of your heart to the heat of callous hands on your body.
She would've hated this person. Or the lack of person in you.
The alcohol burns your lips, even with the ice clinking against the glass. The old steel ring on your finger is sliced away on a corner (god knows when), giving way to a sharp point that digs into the skin. That is probably why the table is painted a thick red. You should apologize, ask for a rag to clean up, but the bartender simply shakes his head, swiping a cloth over the wood, as if he already knew. He slips back behind the counter muttering something, rearranging the glasses back on the rack.
Have you bled here before?
You feel the brush of fingers against your back, too practiced to be casual. Another man, another dingy alley, another pair of torn underwear. You're drooling, you realize, eyes blinking too slowly.
You should get home, wherever that is. Or you should run away to some distant hotel room, a change of scenery works wonders on one's mental state after all. True words by your mother.
You lift your arms to get up, but they fall back on the table, head barely holding up. You feel your black hair sticking to the corner of your wet mouth.
The hand gets slightly handsy. The man behind you, middle-aged with a standard khakhi jacket on, grabs your waist against himself. You fall on him, back resting against his arms. He doesn't really care that you're drunk or you can't move your lips enough to tell him an answer. You are simply another body, wasted and waiting to be fucked.
"Come with me, honey", the jagged voice settles against the shell of your ear. You hear the sound but the words don't really make it past your skull. You are stumbling, feet stepping on his leather shoes as he pulls you up from the chair, gradually moving towards the door. The bar is mostly empty, the people looking are definitely habituated to a man taking a wasted girl home.
As you had predicted, you are in the narrow alley behind the club, beside an abandoned dumptruck. You can feel the slimy ground below your knees, swaying form looking up to the man, trying to hold your mouth open.
Your knees are brushing against the pebbles of the road. Your bare knees.
"You-", you suck in a desperate breath, words too slurry, too jumbled on your tongue. "Tore my dress?"
He doesn't reply, tugging the belt buckle open and unbuttoning his grey trousers. He is too occupied to notice your flailing arms. The moment he does notice, he holds them above your head in a tight grip. The ring is pressing into your wound again, dripping blood on the wall behind you.
He tore your funeral dress. Now there is blood all over the sleeve. The last thing you clutched on to is destroyed in minutes. This life is truly beyond salvage.
Before you can feel the desperate flesh against your lips, a gust of wind blows over your face. It is odd, that is the only thing you notice, despite the loud smack of metal against bone close to your ears. You blink quickly, trying to sort the haze away and watch the fight.
"Fuck-!"
Another thud, skin slapping sound echoing between the old stained walls. It is a boy, perhaps the same age as you, wearing a white sleeveless tank top that slips down his shoulder every second. He is throwing punches double his weight, blonde hair flying with each motion.
It is a second later that you notice the cigarette sitting snug between his lips, half lit and smoke curling in the cold air. All his sharp jabs and the cigarette doesn't shake a bit. Not even a slight waver.
You've definitely passed out, vague images drifting in your mind. In a few hours, the bartender might throw you out the chiming door, cursing at 'sluts like you'.
A dull thud resounds somewhere near the dumptruck and the boy glances towards you, eyes moving quickly all over your clumsily folded limbs, hair against the wall. His gaze is so unnerving, you expect him to start screaming. But he plops back alongside you, grey sweatpants tainted by the sticky mud of the road.
"Smoking kills", you whisper, syllables barely escaping your mouth. In another reality where you are sober, you would've asked for the cigarette. One drug if not the other.
He looks at you incredulously, as if to mock you. Look who's talking, he would've said if he didn't sew his mouth shut.
A second later, he speaks gruffly, not meeting your blurred vision, "It cannot kill me".
Sirens are blaring, closer to you with every second. Always the right people at the wrong time.
He doesn't stir, no reaction to the uniformed men climbing out of their white vans and grabbing his arms. You should stop them, tell them that they are catching the wrong man. The person they should catch is unconscious with a concussion.
Your eyelids flutter close, the silver glint of his teeth the last thing you see.
Somehow, you find yourself in your home, face pressed against the soft white pillows of your bedroom. You try to lift your head, but a sharp stinging sensation sweeping within your skull knocks you down.
How did you reach home?
A few more blinks later, you remember the blonde with a cigarette stuck between his teeth who saved you. His wild eyes, sharp edges of his face. He must have tucked you in, you think. Which is obviously strange. How would he-
You sink in your pillow for a second, the warmth pulling you in when you notice a piece of paper flitting beneath a glass of water, neatly folded in half. The man who basically broke in your house has left a note.
Your whole body is groaning, the way your arm keeps falling every time you reach for the paper. When you read it, you feel weirdly guilty.
'Saw the address on your ID, don't drink for a while if you intend to live'.
A little scribbled signature, like he is giving you an autograph to remember him by.
'FELIX'.
Weird boy. Crazy night. Maybe you have lost your mind and these are all your deluded hallucinations, hoping someone would care enough to save you. Every one who used to are either dead or have stranded you in the middle of your messed up life long ago.
You can't blame them. Imagine taking care of a woman who has made alcohol and weeping her religion.
Hours pass yet, you can't stop thinking about him. Felix. He has an ethereal name, something off about him that you can't put a finger on. Is he still handcuffed? Slumped against the bars of jail for a crime he committed for you?
Your head hurts. You are so accustomed to this sting, it is a mere fact registering in your thoughts.
You drink water, since all the beer bottles littered in your living room are empty. You are too tired to cook for yourself, so you remain in the bed for hours, either zoned out or sleeping. Your editor has told you to take some time off, so your laptop is basically forgotten, dumped in some cabinet in your room.
When the clock strikes twelve in the afternoon, you are possessed again by the thought of Felix. You grab your phone, searching for the regional police phone number you had saved a while back. Believe it or not, you used to be a law-abiding citizen once upon a time.
"Gimcheon City Police", an automated voice begins your conversation. You press the enquiry buttons quickly, praying that the officer responsible for yesterday's patrolling gets online as soon as possible.
"What is the issue, miss?", a human voice finally responds, blunt and strict in tone. You have to be polite to get this man to talk.
"Sir, is Felix there?", you switch the phone to press against your left side, clammy palms slipping.
"Felix?"
"Yes, the boy you arrested yesterday near the night club-"
A flick of papers ruffling in the background, permeating through the undercurrent of static. How many people did they arrest last night that he cannot recall one person?
Your heart is in your mouth, the way he makes you anticipate for each word.
You hear him asking someone else about Felix, perhaps the patrol officer. After a few minutes of wait time, he speaks, "He was released today morning, miss".
"Oh- Alright, thank you sir", you end the call quickly before he asks you the reason for your call. Felix is home somewhere then. It's wishful thinking that maybe he has a place that he can call home, unlike you.
-
You don't see Felix for days after the night-club incident. Even though his name remains imprinted in your mind, a memory you are trying to retain from all the days of dreadful spiraling. You'd rather remember him than the khakhi jacket man trying to push your head down.
You don't visit the club anymore. You bring all the bottles of cheap whisky home instead. Your cabin has been indefinitely shifted to the small workspace in your home itself. Your colleagues probably hated seeing your bloodshot eyes and sluggish fingers trying to keep punching the letters of your document. So naturally, the new cabin is where all the alcohol is hoarded, always lying on the wooden boards of the floor, staring at the grey ceiling.
This is not a author's haven anymore. Just another decaying human being spending her last days trying to live within these four walls.
It is still better than the week at the night club, you think.
Sometimes you imagine Felix, that disagreeing gaze of his while he assesses your situation. Him adjusting the sleeve of the white tank top, a cigarette sitting on his lips that never seems to burn out. Watching you and noting the bruises of your arms and limbs.
He is more of an aesthetic than a real being. A sliver of hope that exists to trick you for a bit longer.
Other times, when you are all want and need morphed within flesh, you imagine more of him. Atleast you try to, before you pass out in your bed, sweaty skin sticking to the blankets.
If he knew, what would he tell you? What would he feel?
After a month of the monotony, the walls of your cozy home start closing in on you, gradually suffocating you hour by hour. That is when you know that you have to get some air, get outside for a fresher breath.
So, you go for a walk to the nearest supermarket, silently praying that the staff doesn't recognize you. For the first time, you don't have a scrawled list of items to buy, simply relying on your gut. You push the trolly, taking in the vivid hue of colors, plastic bags and vibrant packaging stacked everywhere. You pick up a bit of everything- snacks, milk, a brown bag of tangerines.
You avoid the alcohol refrigerator with a dedication that doesn't last long. Before you know it, you are dropping the last two bottles of beer in your trolley.
The cashier casts one long look at you and packs your bags. He doesn't even ask for your ID. When you thank him, he simply flashes a pitiful smile, waving away your words. He probably does recognize you, even though you have lost quarter of your weight in a month.
It is evident by the way the young girls come close to you, but avoid speaking as if you might burst into an embarrassing fit of tears any moment.
You are already regretting the choice of stepping foot towards the supermarket. Towards a pretentious normal life. You were perfectly fine disintegrating on the floor of your empty kitchen.
You slip away, towards the pavement continuing your walk balk home, hands filled with your useless haul to stuff your fridge with. This life must be worth all this hassle, you vaguely try to reason with yourself, trying to push the humiliating experience to the farthest corner of your mind.
You are about to turn into your neighbourhood block when the flimsy bag tears open, sending all your tangerines and sour candies scattering on to the road. Any other day, you would have waited for the signal to turn red, to pack up all your things.
Not today. You are convinced that the universe is bullying your mind into making a really bad decision. So you'll do what is meant to happen anyway.
You rush to the centre of the road, tiny flurries caused by speeding bikes raise the dust in the air, making you cough. One of the reasons you don't notice the happenings around you.
Another reason is that you could not care enough. The worst is already over, what more can the world send your way?
You wrap the torn fabric around your fingers, a temporary clasp on it, dumping your things back within. When it is finally to stand back up on your feet, you hear an urgent horn sound too close to your ears.
A blue truck inching too close. Too close.
A scream somewhere nearby.
Why is he not stopping?
Within seconds, you are pulled by your shirt collar harshly into the ground, back smashing against another body behind you.
"Fuck-", you gasp for air, after being a disaster away from losing it forever. You only move when the body beneath you squirms, scratchy denim shifting off you.
"Are you fucking with me?", it's him, Felix. In your face and absolutely raging.
The people gathered around you slowly disperse away since Felix is here. They assume you are saved and therefore, considering the boy all over you, you don't really require an outsider's assistance.
How are they to know that Felix is just as much of a stranger as them?
You try to defend yourself, but the syllables are lost in your mouth. The familiar feeling of guilt returns in stubborn waves in your stomach, as if you owe him the obligation of staying healthy.
You are swept into his arms, body slumped against his as he carries you back to the pavement. You hear his gravelly voice, reverberating in your ears. You have repeated his old words so many times in your head. It is familiar now, everything about him familiar.
He should be dropping you back on your feet and be on his merry way, but he doesn't. Instead, he keeps walking, trying to search for something in your neighbourhood.
"I can walk, you know?", you distance yourself from his torso, despite being essentially wrapped in him. A sharp vanilla smell emanates off him, cloying and invading your nose. You will probably still smell of him after changing your clothes.
He doesn't listen to you, kicking the half-closed iron gate and breaking into your lawn. He sets you down carefully on the steps to your porch, crouching down to meet your sitting height.
He seems so exasperated, tense shoulders catching your eye immediately.
"Shit, I should not have written my name, all of this is my fault-", he's rambling to himself, self-derogatory to a surprising extent. Especially when you know nothing that has happened is related to him at all.
"Huh?", you tilt your head, baffled. You are waiting for an explanation that is mostly lost in him.
That is when he notices you leaning against the mossy white pillar. His attention is finally on you.
"Why do you keep doing this? Didn't I tell you to be careful?", his words morph from an apology into a hurt accusation. His course voice rises to an octave that bubbles up your own anxious energy.
To say, you're thrown off is an understatement. A guy purposely sabotaging your self-sabotage attempts is mad at you for not taking care of yourself? What in the name of-
"Felix-"
There is a split-second pause after you say his name because he freezes completely, dazed. His eyes are transfixed on you, lingering on your lips, your cheeks. You hope he ignores the flush on your face. It's because of the heat, if someone asks.
"Are you stalking me?", you blurt out senselessly. Although you know there is literally no way he could be interested in stalking a girl who rots away in her apartment all day long. It is quite a boring line of work, to put nicely.
"What? No-", he shakes his head before grabbing your jaw with both his hands and pulling it towards him. "Can you please forget my name? If they know that I have told you my name, they'll-"
From the closer distance, you can count the dark specks littered across his cheeks, his greyish eyes, large and imploring. The cigarette smell from his mouth infuses with his rich vanilla scent, a shocking contrast to each other. With a little more time, you could tell him that the repeatedly dyed strands of his blonde hair will break if he doesn't tend to them properly. He wouldn't be interested in them, you think-
"Are you listening to me?", a tug on your jaw, a bit more closer to his lips. You have the sudden urge to lean closer, a suppressed craving that you had never satisfied before.
"Mm-hmm", you blink, focusing on the boy speaking. "Why should I forget your name?"
"Because I was not supposed to tell you that in the first place", he looks down, at the overgrown grass crumbling beneath his black boots. "I was not supposed to interfere".
You are surely hallucinating. Did you drink too much again?
You open and close your mouth like a fish, not knowing what to say. You simply nod, staring at the smudged stains on your shirt.
"Spit it out, what is it?", one dainty ring-clad finger comes up to lift your chin. Looks like he doesn't like secrets despite being intent on keeping his own.
"Why did you save me then? Twice?", you snap, annoyed at his hot-and-cold expressions. "I never asked you to, did I?"
You regret the question instantly, when he turns away, hurt and indignant.
"I wanted to", he says, soft against the usual rough texture of his voice.
He gets up, suddenly as if struck on his head. He hurries towards the gate, a lonely cold making its way back into your ribs. "I'll come by sometime", he mutters, mostly to himself.
You don't agree to it, you don't disagree either.
"And one more thing-", he's outside the gate, fluffy mop of hair being swept to a side by the breeze.
"Hmm?"
"Stop thinking so much about me at night".
With the odd parting words, he walks away, disappearing behind the corner. The red flush crawls up your neck tenfold brighter.
-
Felix doesn't come back for a long time.
Men and their fickle promises. You were not waiting for him anyways, you convince yourself even as you search for a blonde with a smoking problem outside your window every day. You avert your eyes when you catch yourself staring at someone with the vaguest likeness to him.
Sometimes, you wish he had not told you his name. Now, he has made a home for himself in your mind, his intruding presence everywhere. What would he say if your hand slipped with the meat knife? What would he do if you fell down your balcony?
How would Felix react? Dread? Resignation?
You never stop thinking.
Terrible thoughts, all sparked by him.
It has been two months since your mother's funeral. Three months since your boyfriend moved out of your home and your life. More than three months since you found him sprawled across your bed in the arms of another woman. You never threw his things out, the old polaroid photos of your vacation, the watch he gifted you on your birthday. The band-aids he bought for your bruised arm after a particularly harsh argument.
You have to get them all out of your sight. By the time you're done, the only albums remaining in your drawer are your childhood memories with your parents. You don't disturb them, cleaning the dust off the hardcover but not daring to open them.
It takes quite a long time for you to clean your house, hands itching to do something. The beer you bought home from the supermarket is suspiciously missing, replaced by a batch full of beef, eggs and greens, the healthy section of the mart you had purposefully ignored. You are compelled to cook and finish the batch, finally consuming proper meals in what felt like years.
Since your highly treasured alcohol stash has depleted, you are left with the last bottle of red wine hidden away in your kitchen cabinets. You clearly remember where it is from and why it is hidden. Your boyfriend had promised you a dinner date on your birthday, this cheap red wine being one of the surprises. The other one was, of course, the lingerie clad girl wrapped in your bedsheets.
The same old disgust climbs your throat, bitter on your tongue. You have to get rid of this.
The last bottle of alcohol you are going to drown yourself in.
You wear something other than old torn jeans and black tee for the first time in days, heading for the narrow creek near your home. You sit on the driver's seat and the bottle rests in the passenger seat, the target of your occasional glares. You can't help yourself, even throwing tissues on the cork to hide it from your sight in the rear-view mirror.
You reach the place in minutes. The oak trees tower over the narrowing stream, a faint shadow suspended over the shore. It used to be a part of a garden before, for children and dogs to play and families to relax at. Before a builder acquired half of the green wilderness, turning it into an ugly grey mall.
Ever since then, the creek has always been deserted. People prefer the chlorinated pools more anyways, this change is daunting to no one except you. In your short-circuit of fury at the cheating bastard, you curse a little at the shiny billboards of the fast food outlets in the mall as well. Every thing is so unfair, after all.
Everything keeps changing before you have the time to experience it. You don't even get to say good-bye, the world has already moved forward.
Even Felix has left you behind. You are forgotten before you have the chance to ask him if he likes the rain. Whether he tolerates it or basks in it.
You know nothing about him, his physical presence a mere speckle compared to the overwhelming fantasies you paint about him.
You take off the shirt and skirt, tossing it somewhere near the shore while the bottle is clutched tight in your palm. Your toes skim the surface of the water, soft ripples across the creek. It has been months since your last swimming session, back when the garden was still intact, lesser families frequenting the place. You used to come at night, so you could save the cost of paying for a pool membership.
Your calves are submerged now, cold water splashing over your skin. You should have bought your swimsuit.
You open the bottle with your teeth, the cork sinking amongst the pebbles. That is when you hear a disapproving grunt.
"Didn't I tell you to stop drinking?"
Felix in a black leather jacket. Leaning against the trunk of an oak tree, watching you.
So, he shows up now. You don't know where the fury comes from but it bubbles up fast, your chest heaving for breath.
"You don't get to tell me any goddamn thing", you raise the glass mouth to your lips, large impatient gulps finishing half of the alcohol, as if he'll steal it away from you. "Not after you keep disappearing every time".
He scoffs lightly, finding your annoyance childish, "Is that what this is about? You're taking revenge?"
"Yes, what about it?"
The bottle is almost empty, you're swinging the thing over your head for the last droplets like a madman. His silence is more unsettling than his gravelly words, as he watches you get wasted.
"I was covering my tracks, I have to disappear time to time", he stares at the little waves hurtling against your knees, intent on keeping his gaze off your own. "If I could help it, I would be sitting outside your window everyday".
Your jerk your head up. For a moment, you are grasped with an irrational thought. He knows about the window, the way you searched for a glimpse of his face for days. The way his eyes don't waver, a glint in them as he looks up at you, he probably does.
Men have spent days trying to read your introverted self but he seems to know all about you. Your mind is stripped bare to him, his to decode. His to delve into.
"I'm a hundred percent sure you are a criminal on the run", you take a few steps into the creek, waterlevel rising to your stomach. "A stalker maybe?"
He stretches his hands over his head, rippling abdominals beneath the sleeveless white shirt met with the moist air. And your undivided attention.
"You might be right about the latter", a lazy smile grows on his face. You should be alerting the police now, but you can't suppress the stupid flush crawling up your neck. You are deprived and he is tempting, you tell yourself.
You don't want him. You absolutely don't want Felix.
There must be something detestable in him, something you can bring yourself to hate.
He might be lying about his identity. He may be a serial killer, baiting you into his trap.
"I can't lie to you, love", his voice dips, like he's offended at your mute insinuation. He runs his hand through his hair, exasperated. The blonde strands frame his face again, back to the way they originally sat.
Your internal monologue is screaming, panicking. Did you say your doubts out loud?
His eyes narrow, lingering on your form.
Divert. Divert him from noticing your stiff stance.
"Why are you here, Felix?", your fingers skim over the floating leaves, shifting them away from your wet chest. You are practically naked, white bra soaked from the ripples. Did he watch you undress?
You sink a few inches more, covering your cleavage in the creekwater.
"I am early this time", he takes off the leather jacket, sauntering towards you. Unlike you, he doesn't take off his clothes, submerging step by step within the creek. He's close, warmth emanating off him in strong bouts.
"You keep making bad decisions", he states, a mere observation. He is right in front of you, dainty fingers wrapping your wrist, gripping you in case you float away. "Coming to places like these alone and drowning your liver in red wine".
"Why? Will you kidnap me? Trap me in your tricks?", you test him, letting the water caress your neck. He looks around, waiting for something to happen. Like he can see past the creek, past this moment with you.
"Me? I'm here to save you, love".
One more step back and your footing slips over clayey mud, head falling back with a gasp. His arm circles over your waist, grabbing you closer to him.
Too close. Your heart is thumping wildly in your ribs. One more touch and you might lose yourself, do something you might regret.
His breath returns to him in soft exhales, brushing your cheek. The same cigarette smoke and whiffs of vanilla pandering your nose. You will never get used to him, this proximity.
"You can hold on to me, if you're afraid", Felix takes your hand and carefully sets it on his shoulder, before you can ponder about his offer. Another wave of water and your hands tighten around him, blunt gasps in your mouth.
You realize, it's the first time you have touched him. When the surface stills, your nails rake against his clavicle, wet shirt sticking to his skin leaving no space for modesty. He sucks in a breath but doesn't object, his own fingers slipping down your hip.
You hope to God you're not imagining this. The flashing heat in your stomach, shaking thighs. The sparks lighting your body on fire even within the cold splashes.
His tongue pokes inside the confines of his jaw, twitching hands trying to restrain himself and you have your answer.
"I love the rain, by the way", he chuckles nervously, the rumble of it vibrating beneath you. He gives you a light squeeze, comforting you. "Even when it drowns me".
A charged beat of silence. Felix will be the death of you.
You pounce on him, lips colliding. He freezes for a second before clutching onto you, wandering fingers over your back slipping beneath the clasp. All your reservations evaporate in the warm air and you are flooded with sweet sugary ecstasy, as he pushes past your lips, sliding and moaning into your mouth.
He doesn't give you a moment to breathe groaning as he pulls away to lave over your neck, pulsating blood under his teeth. You can't think straight, palm cradling his nape, tangling with the blonde wet strands.
"You will ruin me, love", he whispers shakily, forehead falling on your shoulder. You shudder, fist clenching into his hair when he leaves warm wet kisses burning into your skin. That is when you begin to float, dazed as he lifts your thighs to wrap around his waist.
"You will send me to hell, I swear-", his voice breaks at the edge of his words, when you shift against him, embarrassing whines on the tip of your tongue when your thigh presses against him, insistent and firm indication of his desire.
Before you think, you are already grinding down on him, hard and wet outline of denim rubbing against your core. He pulls you down, flushed bodies glued together in the water and you turn your head away bashfully. You can't look at him and see the overwhelming reflection of your own lust.
He doesn't like that. He grabs your jaw to face him square in the eye.
You are making out in a creek, yet you blush while looking at him.
"Don't turn away from me, love, do you-", he grunts, voice hitting rock bottom octave with a particularly rough push, "Do you know how long I've wanted you, how long I've begged the gods for you-"
Something sharp, razor-like, nips below your knees. This is not Felix. Something is moving along the length of your legs.
Dread storms in you when you feel slimy skin slithering against your calves. Felix stills alongside you.
You had forgotten about the snakes.
"FELIX-", you yell, grabbing onto his shoulder. Felix snaps back to reality immediately, eyes quickly darting all over your body, following your own panicked gaze.
"Love, focus, what is it?", he is already pulling you out of stream, laying you on the sticky mud.
You're blinking too fast, you can't breathe-
You feel the sharp sting of a slap on your cheek.
"I said focus-", he's running his hands over your legs, trying to locate the wound.
"Snake-"
A cloak of blurred white is veiling your vision. Another prick on the bite wound, when you see him dipping down, mouth wrapping around the red spot.
"Felix, don't-", your words are slurred. Sucking out the venom is reckless, he may get poisoned too-
He's not listening to you, pain shooting behind the bite while he holds on to your knees and sucks down hard.
Your eyelids are drooping, you should not have come here-
This is not meant for you, you should've known-
"I'm here, you're fine, you're going to be okay-"
Felix, stiff with worry while towering over you, desperately holding on to your limp neck, is the last thing you see before closing your eyes.
-
To be continued...
A/N: First time trying slightly suggestive writing so my pure soul will never recover (jk)
DIVINE (one of my wips) is on the way, this is something i wrote after seeing an instagram edit of Felix (hehe)
Part 2 is coming very soon guys! As always, any thoughts about this piece is highly appreciated! P.S - I love rambling about my work! Thanks for reading and hope you have a great day/night!!
this is going to be a silly reblog but i have kind of a fixation on animal qualia and the idea of an animal's umwelt, so i ended up wondering whether pudding was actually "enjoying" this.
which meant i went and read about snail brains.
here's the bad news, at least by human standards:
snails do not have anything like a centralized brain. their nervous system is made up of small clusters of neurons (ganglia) that mostly handle very local tasks. they don't have a cortex, they don't build big integrated models of the world, and they almost certainly don't experience things like appreciation, anticipation, or savoring.
pudding is not looking at the sky and thinking it's beautiful.
snail eyes are basically light sensors - they can tell bright from dark, but not form images. snail "taste" is done through chemoreceptors on their tentacles and around their mouth. those receptors don't produce flavor the way ours do; they just detect chemical compounds and sort them into "approach," "ignore," or "avoid."
so there's no evidence that snails enjoy food, or wind, or views, the way mammals do.
and that does sound kind of sad. but then i thought that maybe we are asking the wrong question.
snails do have valence. they detect aversive things (like salt or dryness) and withdraw from them. they detect non-aversive or beneficial conditions (like moisture) and stay extended. when pudding is stretched out like this, it means his nervous system is basically saying "this is safe; nothing is wrong."
if we define pleasure not as our human experience of dopamine and reward chemicals but instead as "the absence of aversion" - a state where the organism is open to its environment instead of defending itself - then this does count as something positive, even if it's extremely nothing like human enjoyment.
pudding isn't appreciating the wind. but his body is registering humidity, safety, and the ability to keep functioning, and that matters to him in the only way his nervous system can make things matter. he does not think "this is great, this is awesome, i love the weather", because he doesn't think in the way we do at all, but the neurological action in his ganglion tell his body that he is safe, that the moisture is an acceptable level, that it's not too dry or windy, and that there's nothing imminently threatening.
i think a lot of the sadness comes from assuming that a good life has to look like ours: full of enjoyment, meaning, and aesthetic experience. but a snail isn't missing those things. its world just isn't built to include them.
snails don't have a sense of flavor. they don't even have tastebuds. this seems like a gimme, right? but again that might be asking the wrong question about what "taste" is. biologically speaking, it's chemoreception. we taste sweet because it indicates high value, high calorie sugar molecules. we taste salty for salt, umami for proteins. so in what way does pudding's chemoreceptors differ from ours instrumentally? we can say "by our human perspective, pudding can't experience "preference" or "savoring" or "anticipation of delicious food"", but from pudding's perspective we have radically overengineered ourselves for the task at hand. pudding can tell what's salty, what's high value, what has the chemicals he needs. the functional outcome is that he can discriminate food souces based on their composition. is that not taste?
so maybe the point isn't "this is sad because he can't enjoy it," but "this is a reminder that minds come in radically different shapes, and value doesn't have to be rich to be real."
[ID: a post in r/snails, it's titled “Showing Pudding the world” and shows a picture of a snail held up in someone's hand in front of a big body of water. End ID]
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I think a lot of the time people get overwhelmed by everything that's going on right now, and sometimes I do too. I was thinking about that the other day, and reached a place where I was trying to fold my mind around accepting all the things I can't possibly do, because I'm only human, and only one human.
In thinking this over, I remembered reading the fable of the Crow and the Pitcher as a kid. If you've never read it, a crow finds a pitcher full of water, but can't reach the bottom, so, after failing to knock it over, he piles pebbles into it until he can drink from the pitcher.
I've heard various morals for this, from "thoughtfulness works better than brute strength," to "necessity is the mother of invention," and "little acts add up." But like... I started thinking about being a pebble, rather than being the crow.
I don't have to be the whole solution. I don't even necessarily have to be the one person who finds the solution. I just have to be willing to help as much as I can and raise the water level, and help the solution happen.
I'm sure some people will say that sounds weak and defeatist or whatever, which, you know, first of all, fuck you. But this is - in all seriousness - one of the ways in which lasting change is made. Not by big singular dramatic gestures, not by one person burning themself out by somehow doing everything all of the time, but by the dogged and continual persistence of people being present and doing what they can do, over and over, raising the water line.
It's okay to be a pebble. It's okay to raise the water level a little, in concert with all the other pebbles, and get your comrade a little drink of water. Do what you can, when you can, the best that you can, and find your peace with that.
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