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Kisses over roses.
STATUS: A word to the wise: you are valued, your writing is worth reading, you are all artists. 15 days ago
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A word to the wise: you are valued, your writing is worth reading, you are all artists.
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18 days ago
You haven't had vietnamese ice coffee until you've had an egg in it. :')
1 mo ago
PSA to your PSA: And when you do reply, try be nice, cheerful, or at least forthcoming/friendly. Trust me, a good attitude will get you far!
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2 mos ago
I don't wanna fall apart // I want to be alive with you.
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Most Recent Posts
Violence, and Violent Delights
How I wish to raise you from this trouble you're in
To venture into that castle upon thine hill,
And pull you from the depths of your despair.
I sense in the night-dream the moonlight has fringed you in some kind of stubborn light
That what you see makes sense to only you
That your whispers reach my mind, and teach me things I only wish I knew
Stripping the ego from me, piece by piece, you lay me bare
The wisdom of a girl in limbo
Tell me secrets, whisper me things, and I swear, I'll lie unbidden
In this chamber with you until my skin turns to rust and my bones rot through the seams
Tell me again, where in this castle are you hidden?
///
W.I.P.
Not all tales are created equally. Some are lopsided. Some tales have daring young men and naive young Princesses, both of whom are starcrossed in love and bound in each other's fates. Yet this is not one of those tales. This is a tale of a young woman named <?>, whom is due to be married to a bastard named Heathcliffe. A man who--it is rumoured--killed his own father in exchange for an inheritance.
You see, in the little town of Moorbrook, the times have moved slowly. It is still fact that upon the death of a male heir, the house will pass in its posession to the most eligible male candidate, whether he be a cousin of the family, or simply a rumoured uncle. The women--the daughters--the loyal ones who, every day, made their fathers feel at home, will be left destitute and out of pocket, forced to become seamstresses or waiting women; no longer nobility, a part of the local fair.
And so our story begins. A cross-window, pattered with rain, a damsel in a maiden's dress. She is having her make-up applied by her maid, Matilda, as tears roll down her fair cheeks. She is sniffling because outside, her father argues at length with that man, Heathcliffe, who has come two days early to force their marriage. She had every intention of running, of bolting across the moors and hiding in the old, ruined castle of Aphrodite's Hall. But as her maid pressed the soft, painful foundation brush to her small, ruddy cheeks, she knew that with each stroke her fate was sealed.
The man outside was tall and oppressive. Fair-haired, with dangerous grey eyes, a straight roman nose, and thick, heavy lips; he was carved as if from stone. In another life, perhaps she would've deigned him handsome. But not tonight. He had come into their house like a gravedigger, demanding his body for the yard. His horse scared her. A great beast named Castillion. A relic from the wars. She had tried to feed him an apple once, and he had almost taken off her hand. The red welt still bruised her fair skin, and so it was with utmost clarity that she breathed her last free breath. It came out shaky and wet as Matilda finished applying her mascara. And so, she rose from the little seat in her little room, almost stumbling out of her wedding shoes as she took the first step towards her new life.
It was, perhaps then, when her father appeared at the door, looking down at her with pain-ridden eyes, his expression torn, the bowler hat in his hands worried to the point where the black felt had torn at the lip, that she knew what she must do.
She descended the staircase obediently, holding her father's hand.
She looked up at the door, and the man standing in it. He was glaring at her mild-manneredly, with his chin raised. Heathcliffe. A devil in everything but name.
And as her foot reached the hallway floor, she bowed to him ceremoniously, and whispered the words: ''I am yours, Sir. For all time.'' The veil falling across her face, hopefully hiding her tears.
Some words were said, an agreement made, and Heathcliffe reached for her hand. Perhaps she had taken it, for a moment, she did not know. Because the next thing she knew, she was flinging herself through the hall. And her father was calling: '<!!!!>' Though such did not stop her. She ran.
She ran and ran and ran, out into the yard, over the neighbouring field and into the forest. She ran until the cold bit her skin, chewing through her clothes. She ran until her silly shoes fell away, replaced by mud and earth. She ran until thorns laced her cheeks, and blood dribbled into her wedding dress. It was then, finally, some hours later--she did not know how long--that she found herself faced with some great stone ruin.
Aphrodite's Hall, <!!!> thought to herself.
Thus, she approached the ancient, derelict castle, hoping that perhaps a groundskeeper would make her feel welcome; a squatter; or perhaps that her father might come looking and hear her plea, promising not to return her to the arms of that monster, Heathcliffe.
As she walked beneath the great stone arch and into the castle grounds, the rain pattered all around in silk-black pools; and the visage of Aphrodite herself stood out from a tremendous white fountain. The Goddess pitied her and exulted her both. Pride shone in her eyes, but judgment was her staff. And <!!!> felt a chill run down her arms as she trembled. She hid herself from the goddess, passing beneath her shadow, beneath the veil. Then as she ventured inside, she found the halls strangely warm and welcoming. The old tattered banners of a kingdom for which the years had long since past fluttered all around. Broken tapestries with no weight to their heraldry touched her shoulders, like men at arms, welcoming her to the castle, and at last she felt safe.
She went up the winding stairs to the tallest tower and found a door, and when she opened it, a cubby. It was in there that a small cosy room with a broken bed and some fluttering drapes made itself home to her, and though it was shaggy and nothing like her bedroom back in town, it had a certain romantic quality to it that she could not deny. There was a spinning wheel in one corner, and a hearth in the other. If she gathered some kindle from the forest once the rains had stopped, she would have herself a fire. Perhaps she could even cut some branches from the overgrown garden which was nestled in the castle's interior even sooner. She sat on the bed, and looked out on the window, and saw little torches making their way up and down the many trails that surrounded the town. Her father's men, no doubt. But Heathcliffe's, as well. It would do her no good to make herself known to them tonight, and so she rolled over in the bed and pressed her cheek to the musty mattress, intent on weathering the storm.
The rain lashed the window, the chill still bit through her clothes, but though she was very cold, she was warmed by her daring, her cunning, and the words she told herself.
She would not marry this Heathcliffe. Not if Eros descended and shot her with his own arrow. She would brave this storm.
The words came whispered to her: ''I will brave this storm...''
Again: ''I will brave this storm...''
And she fell asleep, in spite of herself, to the sounds of raindrops against the castle exterior. And as she lay there, the thornbeds of the castle dettered unwelcome visitors. Wolves were not welcome, nor men at all. In fact, the entrances seemed to cloak themselves in shrub and rosery, anything to keep her safe. Even the drapes by the window cast themselves across her sleeping form, shrouding her against the weather outside. When she dreamed, she dreamed a deep and furtive sleep, filled with wolves, of moonlight, and of the reckless ambition of one very tall man. She clenched at the drapes, and tried shouting him away, but she had no voice. Her lips had vanished. She was a doll, passed between suitors like a plaything, made of porcelain, and easily broken. The wolves chewed at her hands and feet. The moonlight cast shadows through her veil. And nothing she did could deter them. When at last she was all ripped up, broken and shredded:
She awoke to an awful sound.
Not all tales are created equally. Some are lopsided. Some tales have daring young men and naive young Princesses, both of whom are starcrossed in love and bound in each other's fates. Yet this is not one of those tales. This is a tale of a young woman named <?>, whom is due to be married to a bastard named Heathcliffe. A man who--it is rumoured--killed his own father in exchange for an inheritance.
You see, in the little town of Moorbrook, the times have moved slowly. It is still fact that upon the death of a male heir, the house will pass in its posession to the most eligible male candidate, whether he be a cousin of the family, or simply a rumoured uncle. The women--the daughters--the loyal ones who, every day, made their fathers feel at home, will be left destitute and out of pocket, forced to become seamstresses or waiting women; no longer nobility, a part of the local fair.
And so our story begins. A cross-window, pattered with rain, a damsel in a maiden's dress. She is having her make-up applied by her maid, Matilda, as tears roll down her fair cheeks. She is sniffling because outside, her father argues at length with that man, Heathcliffe, who has come two days early to force their marriage. She had every intention of running, of bolting across the moors and hiding in the old, ruined castle of Aphrodite's Hall. But as her maid pressed the soft, painful foundation brush to her small, ruddy cheeks, she knew that with each stroke her fate was sealed.
The man outside was tall and oppressive. Fair-haired, with dangerous grey eyes, a straight roman nose, and thick, heavy lips; he was carved as if from stone. In another life, perhaps she would've deigned him handsome. But not tonight. He had come into their house like a gravedigger, demanding his body for the yard. His horse scared her. A great beast named Castillion. A relic from the wars. She had tried to feed him an apple once, and he had almost taken off her hand. The red welt still bruised her fair skin, and so it was with utmost clarity that she breathed her last free breath. It came out shaky and wet as Matilda finished applying her mascara. And so, she rose from the little seat in her little room, almost stumbling out of her wedding shoes as she took the first step towards her new life.
It was, perhaps then, when her father appeared at the door, looking down at her with pain-ridden eyes, his expression torn, the bowler hat in his hands worried to the point where the black felt had torn at the lip, that she knew what she must do.
She descended the staircase obediently, holding her father's hand.
She looked up at the door, and the man standing in it. He was glaring at her mild-manneredly, with his chin raised. Heathcliffe. A devil in everything but name.
And as her foot reached the hallway floor, she bowed to him ceremoniously, and whispered the words: ''I am yours, Sir. For all time.'' The veil falling across her face, hopefully hiding her tears.
Some words were said, an agreement made, and Heathcliffe reached for her hand. Perhaps she had taken it, for a moment, she did not know. Because the next thing she knew, she was flinging herself through the hall. And her father was calling: '<!!!!>' Though such did not stop her. She ran.
She ran and ran and ran, out into the yard, over the neighbouring field and into the forest. She ran until the cold bit her skin, chewing through her clothes. She ran until her silly shoes fell away, replaced by mud and earth. She ran until thorns laced her cheeks, and blood dribbled into her wedding dress. It was then, finally, some hours later--she did not know how long--that she found herself faced with some great stone ruin.
Aphrodite's Hall, <!!!> thought to herself.
Thus, she approached the ancient, derelict castle, hoping that perhaps a groundskeeper would make her feel welcome; a squatter; or perhaps that her father might come looking and hear her plea, promising not to return her to the arms of that monster, Heathcliffe.
As she walked beneath the great stone arch and into the castle grounds, the rain pattered all around in silk-black pools; and the visage of Aphrodite herself stood out from a tremendous white fountain. The Goddess pitied her and exulted her both. Pride shone in her eyes, but judgment was her staff. And <!!!> felt a chill run down her arms as she trembled. She hid herself from the goddess, passing beneath her shadow, beneath the veil. Then as she ventured inside, she found the halls strangely warm and welcoming. The old tattered banners of a kingdom for which the years had long since past fluttered all around. Broken tapestries with no weight to their heraldry touched her shoulders, like men at arms, welcoming her to the castle, and at last she felt safe.
She went up the winding stairs to the tallest tower and found a door, and when she opened it, a cubby. It was in there that a small cosy room with a broken bed and some fluttering drapes made itself home to her, and though it was shaggy and nothing like her bedroom back in town, it had a certain romantic quality to it that she could not deny. There was a spinning wheel in one corner, and a hearth in the other. If she gathered some kindle from the forest once the rains had stopped, she would have herself a fire. Perhaps she could even cut some branches from the overgrown garden which was nestled in the castle's interior even sooner. She sat on the bed, and looked out on the window, and saw little torches making their way up and down the many trails that surrounded the town. Her father's men, no doubt. But Heathcliffe's, as well. It would do her no good to make herself known to them tonight, and so she rolled over in the bed and pressed her cheek to the musty mattress, intent on weathering the storm.
The rain lashed the window, the chill still bit through her clothes, but though she was very cold, she was warmed by her daring, her cunning, and the words she told herself.
She would not marry this Heathcliffe. Not if Eros descended and shot her with his own arrow. She would brave this storm.
The words came whispered to her: ''I will brave this storm...''
Again: ''I will brave this storm...''
And she fell asleep, in spite of herself, to the sounds of raindrops against the castle exterior. And as she lay there, the thornbeds of the castle dettered unwelcome visitors. Wolves were not welcome, nor men at all. In fact, the entrances seemed to cloak themselves in shrub and rosery, anything to keep her safe. Even the drapes by the window cast themselves across her sleeping form, shrouding her against the weather outside. When she dreamed, she dreamed a deep and furtive sleep, filled with wolves, of moonlight, and of the reckless ambition of one very tall man. She clenched at the drapes, and tried shouting him away, but she had no voice. Her lips had vanished. She was a doll, passed between suitors like a plaything, made of porcelain, and easily broken. The wolves chewed at her hands and feet. The moonlight cast shadows through her veil. And nothing she did could deter them. When at last she was all ripped up, broken and shredded:
She awoke to an awful sound.
Right back at'cha (from the UK).
https://youtu.be/c417rIku6Iw?si=bLazV-0ucxzcVgyQ
What a flirtatious, delicious dream this broad's got me in:
She's looking me up and down, a little sway to her hips
A little naughtiness in her tone--a leaning in my direction
Every now and then, this little kitty cat crawls...
And it ain't too easy on the senses
No, it's eating me up inside
She's got me hooked
With the way she mouths off to her friends
Posturing every word away from me,
Only, they're meant for my ears
Just like the glances she keeps giving me
All questions; and no answers.
Tell me, honey
What's your name?
What's your religion?
Can I take you some place that ain't here?
Maybe strap you to the bonnet of my car, take you for the ride of your life?
90 mph down the freeway, clinging to the struts, you and I could sure make the right decision.
I know. Let's make the night scream....
What a flirtatious, delicious dream this broad's got me in:
She's looking me up and down, a little sway to her hips
A little naughtiness in her tone--a leaning in my direction
Every now and then, this little kitty cat crawls...
And it ain't too easy on the senses
No, it's eating me up inside
She's got me hooked
With the way she mouths off to her friends
Posturing every word away from me,
Only, they're meant for my ears
Just like the glances she keeps giving me
All questions; and no answers.
Tell me, honey
What's your name?
What's your religion?
Can I take you some place that ain't here?
Maybe strap you to the bonnet of my car, take you for the ride of your life?
90 mph down the freeway, clinging to the struts, you and I could sure make the right decision.
I know. Let's make the night scream....
This thread is simple. If you want, listen to a piece of music, then write something to it. The writing should end when the music stops, otherwise, play the piece of music again.
https://youtu.be/Hu8CkHca2t8?si=N-muh6HOsCA16ytI
https://youtu.be/Hu8CkHca2t8?si=N-muh6HOsCA16ytI
Stepping back after my last post, I realise that I was too hard on myself, as I often am.
When I'm feeling low and contemplative, I tend to be my very own worst enemy. In actual fact, I think I am a good creator. I produce some really... fucking... beautiful pieces of text. I know that my words grab attention, and I'll be glad to extend that to my upcoming YouTube channel.
I'll write gorgeous little scripts about the written word--books I like, themes I enjoy, and Fables I adore.
I'll accompany them with clips and snippets gathered from around the internet, gorgeous old copyright-dead films with darling women and daring men. Sweet siphons of the energy they had back then, all of laid bare. I can't wait to hear my voice on moving portraits--I think it's going to be something else. The energy of a script combined with my own intonation, thick with nuance. I think that--even if the videos do get middling views--I'll be proud of them. And if they do get noticed, I can use it to promote my literature. Carolina. Grey. Beauty. The Beast. I'll be able to draw people into my worlds. I want to give a little hope to all the starcrossed lovers out there, to help them see that the world really isn't so--well, so Grey. But it can actually be full of colour, like Carolina's Dream.
When I'm feeling low and contemplative, I tend to be my very own worst enemy. In actual fact, I think I am a good creator. I produce some really... fucking... beautiful pieces of text. I know that my words grab attention, and I'll be glad to extend that to my upcoming YouTube channel.
I'll write gorgeous little scripts about the written word--books I like, themes I enjoy, and Fables I adore.
I'll accompany them with clips and snippets gathered from around the internet, gorgeous old copyright-dead films with darling women and daring men. Sweet siphons of the energy they had back then, all of laid bare. I can't wait to hear my voice on moving portraits--I think it's going to be something else. The energy of a script combined with my own intonation, thick with nuance. I think that--even if the videos do get middling views--I'll be proud of them. And if they do get noticed, I can use it to promote my literature. Carolina. Grey. Beauty. The Beast. I'll be able to draw people into my worlds. I want to give a little hope to all the starcrossed lovers out there, to help them see that the world really isn't so--well, so Grey. But it can actually be full of colour, like Carolina's Dream.
////
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