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Favorite books: Deathess by Catherynne M. Valente
“I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone, you do not make them tell war stories. A war story is a black space. On the one side is before and on the other side is after, and what is inside belongs only to the dead.”
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“Darling, what are you to me? / but as the wind is to the sea / kissing waves and rushing tides / the tears of a thousand eyes / you the crest and I the chill / close, but not touching still. //”
s.g.
but what did i expect? //ast.
my city is easy to fall in love with: its color its grit even the scent of smoke which i hate makes me think of ice cream now. i go downtown in the heat of the day and i disappear into the drifting people- the city has held me in its open palms, its hands spread wide to face the sky. i am a piece of the landscape i am the surge of students i am 11:38 and another girl with colored hair, skinny jeans, and a snapback with milk tea balanced in one hand while i jot down melting copper into my phone with the other. today i have stolen time and i stop by the poems and read a few, let the words sink in, let them speak from the past from the dirt on the ground from 1945 and years more forgotten. it is exquisite, this watching, like they are a gallery full of life and i am drinking in their beautiful brushstrokes.
walking home//ast.
character series » the oa | renata
i'm just a poor girl trying to escape poor circumstances.
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blaise zabini did not sign up for this. in fact, had he known, he would specifically taken steps to avoid this scenario altogether. but then, that was the problem, was it not? he did know that somewhere, deep down, within the composition of his bones was the slightest tinge of seer blood.
and that? that was a problem. despite the perfect, sculpted features inherited from his mother, his mind was full of imperfections, kaleidoscopic crystals with reflections of futures and possibilities and uncertainties. an inheritance from his long-dead father.
(blaise had so many questions to ask his ghost once)
right now though, he wants this to go away. the recurring dream every morning since the end of the war. it is supposed to be over- the dark lord is gone, all is supposed to be well. but his breakfast refuses to stay down, the dark circles giving his reflection a skull-like appearance.
he sees harry potter's green eyes, malfoy's pale blond hair. the headache becoming more prominent with each repeated word:
/at the return of eternal darkness — at the return of eternal darkness — /
— [act ii] || Eliot C. || gift of @colubrina ||☕||
character series » the oa | scott brown
yeah, you were taken. but ya’ll were taken healthy.
when regulus black put the poison in his mouth he counted in-between swallows; the thirst was a horrible beast, worse than whatever lied beneath the glassy lake around him — the white faces that ought to be serene in their slumber spilt over with violence.
he didn't expect it to hurt so much — death, that is. it was supposed to be like falling asleep: a swirling vortex of black and purple shades; instead there are hollow corpses clutching at his robes, his limbs, cracking his jaw open to wear him as a second skin.
his farewell letter, a final act of defiance — perhaps small, and regulus came here to die but not without hope for the future.
even at the break of his bones, the teeth that ghosted over his jaw, he remained brave. terror only seized him as the corpse approached with one final whisper:
/at the return of eternal darkness — at the return of eternal darkness/ a promise, a warning of what comes after lord voldemort's fall at the hands of his match. regulus could see the outlines of the future carved in the concave belly of the inferi and this prophecy goes unheard. there was only silence.
— [act i] || Eliot C. || gift of @alasseablack ||☕||
