:theodore

Letters

He’s a thinker, a planner, and a philosopher, dissecting life and the world’s inhabitants. He likes to study the girl in his Potions period. She always wraps her hair into a tight bun, never quite catching each strand or curl. Her eyebrows never seem void of emotion, constantly expressing each thought or concern. He likes to watch her think. She does this thing, licking a stripe along her bottom lip, then quickly sucking the plump, pink flesh into her mouth. She doesn’t intend to give him a raging hard-on, but then again, she doesn’t even know he exists. He’s like a ghost to her. Constantly watching. Constantly waiting for attention, yet never being seen, never being realized, never being noted. He has a ‘shrine,’ as Zabini calls it. Its nothing much, just a box of things significant to them her himself. She dropped a quill in a hurry towards lunch; he meant to give it back, but never felt the urge to separate himself from a thing she touched, used, cared for. He wants her to touch him. He wants her to use him. If she only cared- then the world would be perfect.
Everyone has a way to deal with things. Theodore swims in the Black Lake when he’s stressed. On a cold day, when the wind shouts and the moon beams, he floats along the water’s edge, staring into black nothingness, the chill of the liquid plunging into his bones. No one gets why he does it, but Draco suspects he finds some sort of peace, knowing that the cold and dark feeling is his choice. Pansy’s a whore and everyone knows it. She’ll spread her legs for anyone that calls her pretty. She once said, drunk and insecure, that sex was an escape from feeling emotionally raped. He’s never judged her since. Blaise, perhaps, is the most sane of the three. He sings in the shower. Sure, to other houses, it might seem mundane, but to Zabini, its something else entirely. He’s quiet. That’s all he is, really. He’s the quiet, winter chill no one can touch. He only even responds to three other people in the castle, simply because they’re the only ones who won’t shriek in fear. Even with Malfoy, he barely laughs. The only time Draco ever saw him gasp for air from a joke is when Theo peed on himself at the beach. Yet, when everyone has left quidditch practice, and he thinks he’s alone, by himself, Blaise will casually hum a Sinatra tune, soon expanding into a full belt. He actually has a nice voice, from what Draco’s heard. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if Blaise pursued in the art, behind closed doors, of course. However, floating in the abyss, drowning in sex, and singing into an empty loo didn’t really scream Draco. He found an alternative.

Dearest Y/n,

You don’t know me. I don’t quite know you. 
You see, I don’t even know your middle name. I don’t know if you like the colour blue, or if you’ve ever been stung by a bee. Yet, I know that when you’re feeling sad, you pick at your fingernails and get an unbelievably adorable pout. I know that when you’re happy, you click your toes along the tile floor and crinkle your nose like a bunny rabbit. I know that you’re grossed out by frog legs, and that you hate being partnered with Anthony Goldstein. 
I realize this all must be a bit odd, and even creepy, so I’ll tell you some things about me. When I’m upset, I close my eyes, and imagine you and myself dancing in a field of violets. You’re dressed in a pretty, white sundress, your hair soaked wet from our day in the ocean. The sun is drying us, and for once in my day, I smile, imagining what life would be like if you were mine. When I’m happy, I write. I write to you, telling you about my day. I tell myself you’ll read this letter, and that you actually care about how my existence. I’m grossed out by messy eaters, and I positively hate cockroaches. 
I believe you have the right to know I’m in love with you. I understand how hard it must be to understand. But, please know that I believe you’re beautiful perfection everything. You’re my Aphrodite, my Cleopatra, my Victoria. I feel like I’m flying with angel wings when you bump into me while reaching for an ingredient and I can feel my heart leap into my throat whenever I hear your voice. I know this is what love feels like, and I just think you should know.

Best Regards,
Draco L. Malfoy

Four of these were made per day. He would vent about how stupidly Gryffindors acted, or if Trelawney assigned a project over the weekend. At night, he’d dream of Italian honeymoons and promiscuous rendezvous in the Prefect’s bathroom. However, on a particularly gloomy, Friday afternoon in February, he was interrupted abruptly from a smutty letter on the fourteenth.

Dearest Y/n,

It is finally the fourteenth of February. Saint Valentine has separated a day from the year where couples and singles and friends and enemies can come together, spreading the sheer joy of love. I absolutely despise it. I’ve never been anyone’s Valentine, but I think I could be a good candidate. I know that if you were mine, I’d lavish you in chocolates and diamonds. I’d enchant the Room of Requirement to become a lover’s paradise, complete with a lofty bed. I’d spread you onto the silky, pink sheets, kissing your neck and ravishing your skin. I’d watch your lips pucker with a choked moan, rutting into the mattress as you claw my back. Slowly, I’d lift your delicate dress, trailing my hand up your-

WHAT?!’ Blaise huffed, throwing a book towards Draco’s head. ‘We have a Charms exam Monday, and I am not allowing you to waste the weekend studying when we could finish it all right now.’ He took one look at the undignified paper before willing away his erection, and marching out the dormitory with a slam. He really hated it when Blaise was right.
Macbeth, the Malfoy family owl, was making a round trip to Draco for the holiday. His mother delivered a fresh box of sweets, to ‘get through the lonely times,’ while his father restocked his Gringotts account. However, the eagle-owl spotted a letter on the desk of Master Malfoy, along with a heady stack of signed and stamped messages. Hooting towards Theo, the boy smiled, lazily, slipping into his pajamas. ‘Hey, there, Oh Great Ruler, Macbeth.’ The owl nearly smiled, landing onto the shoulder of its companion. ‘How’ve you been, you elusive thing? Good, I hope.’ Snatching a rat’s tale from his satchel, he threw it into Macbeth’s mouth, smiling as the bird happily nibbled on its treat. Theo jerked his thumb towards the letters, almost smirking. ‘Can you believe he’s been writing telegrams to Y/n L/n for nearly two years and has yet to say hello? All he really needs is a nudge-WAIT!’ The bird swooped down to the desk, swiftly picking up a dozen letters, including the dirty passage he had yet to finish. Theo was already a dead man.

a/n- part II or nah

“To announce that there must be no criticism of the President, or that we are to stand by the President, right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but is morally treasonable to the American public.” 

- President Theodore Roosevelt

 “The nationalist not only does not disapprove of atrocities committed by his own side, he has a remarkable capacity for not even hearing about them.“ 

- George Orwell

“Patriotism is supporting your country all the time and the government when it deserves it." 

- Mark Twain

you are enough. and so much more than that. you are stars and moonlight, you are deserts and the sea, you are rivers and thunderstorms, you are flowers and mountains, you are the void and fulness, you are the earth and you are the night sky, you are everything and everything is within you. you are the whole universe. you are allowed to be small and you are allowed to be big, take up as much space as you need, you are allowed to feel something or everything at once, you are allowed to be loud and scream, you are allowed to hide and you are allowed to rise and shine. you are allowed to be. you are enough.

Image: Theodor Geisel in his home work room in La Jolla, Calif., in 1957. (Gene Lester/Getty Images)

Decades before he became a best-selling children’s book author, Dr. Seuss, a.k.a. Theodor Geisel, created a series of sculptures he called his “Unorthodox Taxidermy.” Using real horns, beaks and antlers, he fashioned whimsical creatures which look like they jumped right out of his books.

Now a traveling show of replicas, called “If I Ran the Zoo”, has landed at a gallery in Long Island. We bring you that story (how else?) in verse: Before His Name Was Known At All, Seuss Put Creatures On The Wall