based on a scene from my fic, Turn Back the Clock, and wow. Wow, four straight days of work, wow. Wow. Wwwwow. I am beside myself, I am just. Wow. It’s done. w ow.
<3 to all the trans people I know, none of you are “doing it wrong”. :)
We drink to our youth, to days come and gone.
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"all stories are about wolves" — folksy wolfsongs for fairytale inspiration.
forest serenade the joy formidable ; milestone moon zee avi ; lone wolf esperi ; the woods brighter later ; furr blitzen trapper ; from afar vance joy ; so fast goldspot ; my heart & window nika smith ; nearly morning luke sital-singh
the only love triangle i’m interested in is steve roger’s torso
ok I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned this but I keep thinking about the story of Jack and the Beanstalk and how the best character in the whole story is only briefly mentioned. We’re given such limited amount of information about the guy that sells Jack the beans. essentially:
- This guy has access to MAGIC BEANS
- He either has NO USE for MAGIC BEANS or so many of them that he can just dispose of them
- He really badly wants a cow
Why is the whole story not about this guy
And Jack and his Mother lived happily ever after, and the Devil went back down to Hell with a great big bruise on his back and a seething temper.
Quiet, quiet, no paper cowboys today no shiny guns and shaped hats.
Put them down.
Put them to sleep under rough wool blankets and promise
you will wake early to boil coffee but please
leave them under the stars tonight in the golden crunch of cold desert where stars fall
instead of rain.
They can sleep there untouched for cool midnight hours and when we’re ready
we can call out
a whistle, one yelp or a clack-clack of your tongue some sound designed to catch and lure.
Save it aside.
Save it aside, we are quiet. Now.
We need a night free of thieves—
There are no heroes with shoulders wide enough, no war songs bold enough
not a whisper, no howl that will change our elemental composite histories.
They form us from dirt and infection, stolen breath and stolen skylines
but none of us know how to give back the things we take.
Whisper, I’m sorry. Whisper, I don’t love myself. Whisper, can you hear me. Whisper, me neither.
Line up the figurines, perfect shaped bright plastic, tiny army of animals
as though they comprehend war.
One for each mistake. It’s more than anyone
is willing to provide hands to count on.
We read a book once about a little boy and a dog and the little boy almost drowned
cracked ice over a sleeping river.
The dog is his secret, hidden by the river in a gutted car and of course,
of course the dog saves the boy, of course it does
because that is what dogs do.
That is what I do.
It’s what I do and I’ll do it until you put me down.
I’ll be the dog you never wanted
because you were hellbent on being your own
but the trick of it the sad twist of it is you are the little boy and you are drowning
and I’m the one who loves you, loves you half frozen, even submerged.
I am the one who loves you and you are the one
still convinced you cannot be loved.