I’VE MOVED BLOGS : @fisthrust
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h
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

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@fisthrusta
I’VE MOVED BLOGS : @fisthrust

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I’VE MOVED BLOGS : @fisthrust
i’m moving btw
i’m sorry but the losers just absolutely punching the shit out of the giant eye is so funny to me
— ask meme : MABEL, a podcast by becca de la rosa and mabel martin. episodes 23 (bull in the maze) & 24 (coalescence).
i’ve been cultivating unkindness. i’ve been cultivating a lot of things — i’m a fertile field, it turns out — but unkindness is the most interesting.
it is unkind of me to try and play a trick on you.
i can hear everything, warped and distorted but broadcast somehow.
i can’t dig you out; i can’t reach my fingers deep enough inside my own brain, inside my own ribcage.
without you, divorced from even the idea of you, i have no substance, no form.
you are the antithesis that gives me definition.
another tragic love story, who needs that?
tragedy is the point.
do you think you have a monopoly on anger?
i’m not really anything like a person.
i love you and love you and love you, just as i am gone and gone and gone.
i can’t imagine a version of myself that would not love you.
i dream of you. sometimes in my dreams you are singing. sometimes you’re raging at me.
don’t leave me.
i killed someone. i killed someone.
i’ll set myself on fire to give you light.
i don’t want you to be lost. i don’t want you to be stuck. i just want you to be free, and joyous, and buoyant.
i woke up needing you, you artery ripped loose from me, all bloody and twining.
time rattles on its hinges.
i’ve come to barter.
do you think i’m as fickle as a human?
are those matches? what do you think you’re doing?
i do not have time for this. you can be angry at me later, you can scream and rage at me when you’re not in danger anymore.
am i the martyr or are you?
there are other ways to get me to shut up, you know.
i believe you. i always believe you.
you’re always so right. it must be such a burden.
i must hate you, is that it? that’s why i did all this, because i want you gone.
i am with you because i want to be. that’s all.
i will love you like a fire loves a forest.
time has made liars and cheats of us all.
i will make a bullet of my mouth. i will make a knife of my heart.
you think you are the monster at the end of this book?

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BOOK STARTERS VOL.57 THE SHINING STEPHEN KING
❛ Sometimes human places create inhuman monsters. ❜
❛ I’m not gonna hurt ya. I’m just going to bash your brains in. ❜
❛ Monsters are real. Ghosts are too. They live inside of us, and sometimes, they win. ❜
❛ The world’s a hard place. It doesn’t care. It doesn’t hate you and me, but it doesn’t love us, either. ❜
❛ The tears that heal are also the tears that scald and scourge. ❜
❛ Pull your act together and just go on. ❜
❛ I had never dreamed there could be so much pain in a life when there is nothing physically wrong. I hurt all the time. ❜
❛ Tough old world, baby. If you’re not bolted together tightly, you’re gonna shake, rattle, and roll before you turn thirty. ❜
❛ Are you sure self-pity is a luxury you can afford? ❜
❛ Truth comes out. In the end it always comes out. ❜
❛ Living by your wits is always knowing where the wasps are. ❜
❛ No matter where you go, the same asshole gets off the plane. ❜
❛ We sometimes need to create unreal monsters and bogies to stand in for all the things we fear in our real lives. ❜
❛ That’s your job in this hard world, to keep your love alive and see that you get on, no matter what. ❜
❛ Human nature, baby. Grab it and growl. ❜
❛ God wiped snot out of his nose and that was you. ❜
❛ Run away. Quick. And remember how much I love you. ❜
❛ How many times, over how many years, have I—a grown adult—asked for the mercy of another chance? ❜
❛ I was suddenly so sick of myself, so revolted. ❜
❛ You listen to me. I’m going to talk to you about it this once and never again this same way. ❜
❛ But those pieces, they’ll never fit just the same way again. Never in this world. ❜
❛ Dying is a part of living. You have to keep tuning in to that if you expect to be a whole person. ❜
❛ Officious little prick. ❜
❛ I’ve been sleepwalking again, my dear. — The plants are moving under the rug. ❜
❛ How I wish you were fear. ❜
❛ But it was a dreadful kind of curiosity, the kind that makes you peek through your fingers during the scariest parts of a scary movie. ❜
❛ All we have is time, you know. An eternity of time. Or shall we end it? Might as well. After all, we’re missing the party. ❜
❛ We all remember our pleasant dreams more clearly than the scary ones. ❜
❛ The way things should be and the way things are hardly ever get together. ❜
❛ Got to be regular if you want to be happy. ❜
bill’s pinterest
children’s books tucked neatly onto shelves, toys hidden away in their box . . . not the room of a living child, but of a ghost. and yet haunted by another spirit tonight, one that sits curled on the edge of the bed, heart a hammer in his chest as he flips through page after page of photos. searching for something – searching for what? something to reconcile the ghost brother with the living. that horror movie georgie, the one that lurked in every corner, still in his bloodied rain slicker, one sleeve horribly empty. ( brother turned horror, the final betrayal. bad enough to have his blood on your hands, worse to turn him into a monster. ) so different from the george who had put together this album – so much care put into every page, care that other george could never contain.
and there he was : the living george, grinning up at him from his final school picture. ( a boy who would be dead in less than ten days. ) but there’s something wrong with the picture, something that takes his already fearful mind too long to register. greasepaint. a clown’s false smile painted over his brother’s own. the world seems to freeze, blood turning to ice in his veins, the album suddenly ten pounds heavier. and he wants to run, wants to drop the book and race back to his room. safe and sound, horror avoided - but he’s already leaning in, as though the change is simply a trick of the light, an illusion that could be explained away with closer inspection - though part of him knows it can’t be anything but real. horribly, horribly real. ❝ gg - georgie – ? ❞ / @bobgray
bill is easy to get along with, but hard to get close to
starter call .

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stohnefox:
♡ ❛❛ HEY, ❜❜ lisbon girl calls toward him, seated in the checkered shade, arms folded atop grass - stained knees. ❛❛ can you do a wheelie on that ? ❜❜
@fisthrust ♡
boy turns . . . hands resting lightly on the beast of a bike, all rust and bent edges. not a bike for tricks –– barely even a bike for riding. ( but a bike that could beat the devil all the same. ) he pauses, a moment of thought, before shrugging. ❛❛ i cc - could t - try . ❜❜
i have something to say about bill and the power of belief but i don’t know how to phrase it
@bleuebird said : ❛ The world’s a hard place. It doesn’t care. It doesn’t hate you and me, but it doesn’t love us, either. ❜
hard. uncaring. indifferent . . . a world that didn’t try to beat you down, but sure as hell didn’t try to help you either. a cynics view. an adults view. and yet that wasn’t exactly true, was it? not when he’d barreled straight into mr. dunning’s fence on silver and made it out with only a scrape up the side of one arm. no broken bones, no concussion, just that scrape. or all those times that he’d blown through the intersection of witcham and jackson st at a hundred miles an hour, beating traffic by one miraculous second every time. or a billion other things that could have turned out wrong but time and time again ended up just fine. things working out right so much more than they ever turned out wrong. and why? he’s not entirely sure, maybe just because he believes they will. maybe because sometimes the world actually listens. and maybe it wasn’t much more than coincidence, a stroke of good luck, but he wouldn’t stake his life on that theory. and maybe it wasn’t love exactly, but it sure as hell didn’t seam like indifference to him. not that any of those words will leave his mouth. ( not even to veronica, who he trust almost as much as he does any of the losers. ) because he knows that it will all sound childish out loud. childish enough that he doubts that even he would believe it if he set it out in the open, ready for every sort of scrutiny the world could throw at it. truth in his mind, but outside of it the ramblings of a five year old. his shoulders tip up in a shrug, eyes flicking sideways to meet veronica’s. ❝ yy - you th - think so ? ❞
the underside of derry –– sewers that stretch for miles, sodden and stinking. a place for rotting . . . a place for monsters. and yet waterlogged sneakers draw the boy forwards through murky water, through this place he had been before and had hoped never to see again. but alone this time : the one critical difference . . . ( all magic fled, his mask torn away. no great leader, no big bill – just a child playing at king arthur. thrust into a story where the monsters were no longer make believe. ) and yet he carries on, not because he wants to but because he has to, following a path predetermined for him from the moment he had made that paper boat and sent his brother on his way. marching onwards to either slay the beast or have the beast slay him. ( will the monster be bested, or will it feed ? ) at least until a movement catches his eye, captured in the dull beam of his flashlight and then gone, but enough to draw him up short, every muscle freezing. a boy battling fight or flight. ❝ wh - wh - who . . . ? ❞ / @clearvoir
“ what richie had just said had made him feel better about george’s death for the first time in months, but there was a part of him which insisted with quiet firmness that he was not supposed to feel better. of course it was your fault, that part of him insisted ; not entirely, maybe, but at least partly.
if not, how come there’s that cold place on the couch between your mother and father? if not, how come no one ever says anything at the supper table anymore? now it’s just knives and forks rattling until you can’t take it anymore and ask if you can be eh-eh-eh-excused, please. it was as if he were the ghost, a presence that spoke and moved but was not quite heard or seen, a thing vaguely sensed but still not accepted as real.
he did not like the thought that he was to blame, but the only alternative he could think of to explain their behavior was much worse : that all the love and attention his parents had given him before had somehow been the result of george’s presence , and with george gone there was nothing for him … and all of that had happened at random, for no reason at all. and if you put your ear to that door, you could hear the winds of madness blowing outside. ”

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open ,
among the pits and welts of the muddied pathway, there’s a heavy stench. an unsteady wayward - slope towards abandoned lakefront, one could easily lose their way if they didn’t follow the trail. she stands with lone flashlight, weathered leaves entangled to onyx - mane, a tremble works from her very depths and her fingers tighten ‘round beacon. [ you shouldn’t be here, you should turn back now — ] ghoul - whispers croon in ears, her sneakers befoul ‘pon sullied graves that have been long forgotten with time.
each step weighs like a stone, faint but loaded all the same, as she grows closer to desired point. abra’s eyelashes are a moth wing’s flutter unto cheeks, desperate blinking to keep tearducts at bay as the smell grows, of blighted decay and — she can almost see the scene before her as clear as day : another gifted soul who shined brighter than others taken before their time. even in death their presence is still there in the soil, in the deadened grass, an invisible array of clues that haven’t been touched upon just yet.
[ there’s no body. find the body. keep looking. ]
footfalls across from her, that’s what causes fright in her throat. quivering hold of the flashlight veers to the left, it gleams unceremoniously on familiar features, and she blinks again, bewildered, a swift tuck ‘hind her back of the crumbled sheet of paper in opposite hand — MISSING PERSONS : JOSHUA BANKS, ANY INFORMATION CALL 855 - 0924. ❝ what - what’re you doing here? ❞
mud like quicksand pulls at his sneakers , little hands urging him to stop, to go back. ( the ground itself urging him to stop this fool’s errand. to go back to derry, where the devils were at least known. ) and yet something stronger draws him forth . . . intuition. or what could easily be mistaken for that –––– something strong enough for him to scrounge up enough pocket change for a ride south, a lone child on the greyhound, his heart a hammer in his chest .
because she was in danger. it was the only answer, the only thing that made sense. she was in danger and she had shut him out, the connection between them severed . ( but not completely –––– oh no, why else would he be trekking through these woods? nose full of the scent of decay . . . the scent of rot . ) she’s ahead, somewhere down this trail. somewhere ahead. it’s that thought above anything else that keeps him going.
and there she is, flashlight in hand, and that scent from before is almost overwhelming, clawing at his throat. something bad happened here . something –––
all of the sudden the flashlight is turned on him, almost blinding, and he is a boy turned deer in the headlights. a child caught somewhere he is not meant to be. but only for a moment. muscles tense, chin raising. not a deer in the headlights, but a boy preparing to fight without any fight to be had. stubbornness in every line of his stance. big bill prevailing . . . ❝ yy - you sh - shut me o - out. ❞
“Wait–isn’t that the homeschooled kid’s bike?”