#d-eadeye

Another spared evening in the West, wild as it is warm. She hates the heat, it doesn't keep her alive like it used to – and nothing really does anymore. Sat in two corners of the same spot, no particular gravitational pull, just boredom and her want for an event, however dull it may be, and she doesn't think it will be. That is, of course, if the fog in her head doesn't fuck off.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Eyes dart through black sunglasses. The sun sets beneath a miserable spot in the desert, and the beautiful mystique herself cannot help but avert her gaze from one man to the next. Head throbs from the everlasting groans of inebriation seeping from every corner of the saloon — adjusting to the new environment has taken a slight toll on Rosalie, especially hearing each of the countless souls itch for another glass of liquid poison. The idea of drinking never really felt appealing, until of course, drinking meant something else, and so did thirst.

꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ... 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑈𝑇-𝑂𝑈𝑇𝑆 𝑜𝑓 𝐴𝑊𝐸-𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒.

💻 ― 𝑒𝑥𝑐𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔

@d-eadeye ... the writing is totally immersive. there isn't a piece of dialogue or single line that it's absolutely dripping in ˗ˋˏcowboy ˎˊ˗ ... it's truly something else. the way the narration in my head utterly changes in tone, accent and all, reading ... and dare i say even replying back. — Dirty cowpokes belonged far from the perfumed purlieus of sovereignty ... banger of a line.

📚 ― 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑

@vitalphenomena ... likely takes the cake for most threads i've read by someone else and i'm ( mostly ) not involved. i mean just the other day i read their entire storyline start to finish with a pairing of theirs. idk, i'm always nosy on what's going on over there.. because there is always something going on. this is my soaps.

🥇 ― 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙-𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑐

@defideis ... selah, selah, love her as if she were mine. i mean, i was here at your birth, so... godparent? listen, there's everything here ... sci-fi, fantasy, horror, religious themes ... these are amongst my favorite things. she isn't just a character, she's got extensive lore ... there's world building, religion building, planet building. you can see why i feel a sense of kinship here. selah and the sisters of lumen of real to me ... and they'll be real to you, too.

😍 ― 𝑎𝑑𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑎𝑓𝑎𝑟

𝒯𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚. 🪞｡˚ ↬   SENTENCE STARTERS. * 𓂃 ࣪ ˖ ➷ ❪  @d-eadeye ❫

❝ I want the moon. ❞  …Is it that easy to do?  Pluck,  though it’s stuck!,  from that midnight sky view?  Wrest,  from its crest,  colored lapis jewel blue?

Jesse certainly seems to think so.  But then,  men of his lot turn out such big,  dizzy dreamers, such snake-charming, charm weavers— don’t they? No doubt his reputation made brave that mouth of his. History's greatest gunslinger: as excellent a marksman in his words as he is on the draw.

blue barely glanced at the figure perched between pinched fingers before her attention whipped towards his features, narrowing on the dead-center of his face, " looks like your manners 've escaped you, sir. you call me by name or not at all, and my name ain't girl. " of course she's fixated on that, lower jaw jut out a bit in protestation, molars grinding, chewing down threats her own lack of ability couldn't dare execute— not seamlessly, at least, nor accurately, hardly enough to be mouthing off in a town whose terrain was still foreign with a stranger whose holster was visible for a reason, and yet...

“ could halve it, ” florence suggests. staring at the unmoving target is traded to stare at the other. “ i think we both played a part. ”

THE BAYOU IS A PLACE LIKE NO OTHER.   it's closer in resemblance to the mortal body than a parcel of land, limbed as it is with the great sprawling knees of bald cypress, many-eyed with sprouts, mushrooms baring limbal rings of mud and rot.  a bayou sees; a bayou sings.  it lives and dies like only a place with a heart can:   a thousand of them for every square mile, winking in and out like stars.

she can hear it as she flees ⸺ some time ago now having lost the sound of the men pursuing her, now there is only the players of the marsh music: the many vampires of these land, the hissing mosquitos and foxes and self-heralding owls, the ecstatic cries of the creatures they hunt. if the thump in her ears is the pulse of her heart or her feet below her, she cannot tell. all she knows is the flame in the distance ⸺ little more than moth, the way she follows that burning light. across the bog’s wet ribcage, blood-dark mud sinking under the prokofiev chorus of her footfall. the white of her dress   ⸺   the once-white, the discoloured silk and lace that had once heralded her untouchability   ⸺   now the flutter of downed wings.

hope, it should be said, looks brightest from afar. up close it dims, gains the capacity to burn. alone in her fright, dove had mistaken the presence of another to mean safety; now, at the crest of some encampment, she recognizes the burning fire for what it is: the eye of an unblinking predator in the brush. the provisions of another man who might do her harm.

HOW DO YOU KNOW WHEN YOU BECOME A WOMAN? she did not sit up any further at my question, elegant as her repose was, but i could see something change in her body all the same. like a flower uncurling at springlight; the same size and general weight, perhaps, but expanding imperceptibly outwards. the soft edges of her suddenly drawing the light. i can't tell you, she finally answered. it's nothing like you expect. you think it will come announced, slipping in between the ribs of some eve and the morn following, like a birthday, but it isn't like that. there's no preparing for it. one day you'll be barefoot in the tall grass collecting milkweed, and he'll come riding by with the sun over his shoulder like a tame bird. one day you'll be content, the next you won't. when it was clear i didn't understand, she looked up from the delicate circlet of her embroidery. i was, as ever, startled by the beauty of her features, but the sudden intensity arranged within them drew me more. that's what being a woman is. a sudden pang of hunger that never goes away.