… and so soon as he had cut off the members with flint and cast them
from the land into the surging sea, they were swept away over the main a
long time: and a white foam spread around them from the immortal flesh,
and in it there grew a maiden. First she drew near holy Kythera, and
from there, afterwards, she came to sea-girt Kypros, and came forth an
awful and lovely goddess, and grass grew up about her beneath her
Uranus, who represented the sky, was one of the original deities of Greek mythology. He was the son of Gaia, the earth, who also became his wife. Together they had many children, including the Titans and the Cyclopes. Uranus, however, detested his children. As soon as they were born, he forced them into Tartarus, a dark place deep beneath the surface of the earth. Gaia asked her children to stop Uranus, but only her son Cronus came to her aid. Cronus cut off his father’s genitals and threw them into the sea. According to myth, Aphrodite was born from the foam where they landed.
Zaratan is the name given to a giant sea turtle with a shell that looks like sloped land. The creature submerges itself at nightfall, dragging down everything around it. The Zaratan is also sometimes depicted as a giant whale or octopus.
Most reports of the creature came from sailors who saw mysterious moving islands. Some were not so lucky as to only pass it by. Some ships would mistake it a land and drop anchor, only to be dragged beneath the waves at nightfall as the turtle submerged again.
When the Zaratan hunts, it opens it’s mouth to release a sweet odor. Fish are attracted to the smell and swim in, and the beast snaps it’s jaws shut behind them. Zaratan is basically a giant snapping turtle.
The main explanation put forth for these sightings is a prehistoric turtle. Several turtle species used to be absolutely massive and much bigger than humans. It’s possible that water distortion made them look even bigger. Still, the idea that it was the size of a small island doesn’t quite make sense, and can most likely being chalked up to simply being a sailor’s tale. If it is a whale rather than a turtle, perhaps a whale that lingered too long at the top of the ocean is to blame, and it had some algae or moss growing on its back. Sailors could have mistaken it for a small island, and then been dragged down when the whale left.
(…) As news of Lou’s death spread, a
rippling sensation mounted, then burst, filling the atmosphere with
hyperkinetic energy. Scores of messages found their way to me. A call
from Sam Shepard, driving a truck through Kentucky. A modest Japanese
photographer sending a text from Tokyo—“I am crying.”
I mourned by the sea, two images came to mind, watermarking the paper-
colored sky. The first was the face of his wife, Laurie. She was his
mirror; in her eyes you can see his kindness, sincerity, and empathy.
The second was the “great big clipper ship” that he longed to board,
from the lyrics of his masterpiece, “Heroin.” I envisioned it waiting
for him beneath the constellation formed by the souls of the poets he so
wished to join. Before I slept, I searched for the significance of the
date—October 27th—and found it to be the birthday of both Dylan Thomas
and Sylvia Plath. Lou had chosen the perfect day to set sail—the day of
poets, on Sunday morning, the world behind him
polaroid by Brigrid Berlin, text by Patti Smith published in The New York Times Nov 11 2013
Character: Irene (Red Velvet) Word count: 711 Summary: You can’t always believe in rumours … ft. Seulgi | #fluff #high school!au
The only thing that spreads faster in school than STD’s.
The rumour currently on everyone’s lips was a dating scandal. Apparently, two girls were dating. And if that wasn’t shocking enough, there was a betrayal too. The two had a friend, and that friend was in love with one of them.
Everything is still and dark, the only noise to be heard is the syncopated clack-clack as the train rattles over the tracks.
He swings down from the top bunk, feet landing softly on the slats beneath. He crouches, squints against the shadows.
The bed is neatly made. Hannibal is not there.
For a second, Will wonders if he ever was. The second bleeds out and onward into a minute as Will retraces every moment since their fall and subsequent drag from the sea. Did Hannibal survive at all? Or has he been listening to a ghost as he’s flitted from safe house to safe house, boarding boats and trains with invisible ease until he came to this one, hurtling through the night towards Vienna.
A ghost couldn’t have sewn his wounds shut.
But Abigail couldn’t have brought him flowers.
He slides open the cabin door with such force that it makes a loud crack and rebounds a little.
He sticks his head out, looking wildly from left to right down the empty corridor. He stops, closes his eyes, breathes, and with nothing to rely on save gut instinct he heads left.
He is not surprised that his gut leads him to Hannibal again.
Hannibal is at the far end of the train, scarved and bundled in greatcoat and gloves as the world falls away from them in reverse.
Will joins him, silent, watches the skeletal outlines of passing trees.
“Was the bottom bunk so bad?” he asks after a while.
Hannibal shakes his head.
“That was not the source of my discomfort.”
Will thinks back to their argument, strangely their first. Hannibal had certainly never raised his voice to him before, had certainly never forced up a wall of petulance when things hadn’t gone his way.
“We have been sharing a bed for months, Will, this is absurd!” “A wide bed,” Will had corrected, “with space. And no touching.”
That had been untrue. Many an evening he had woken with Hannibal partially blanketing him, had never complained. “This is all… childish,” Hannibal had sputtered, at a rare loss for eloquence. “Maybe it is. But I still get top bunk.”
And then he had flung Hannibal’s suitcase on his (separate) bed and Hannibal had refused to say another word.
“So what was the problem,” Will asks gently, not touching, but close enough to do so, “if not the bunks?”
“I have grown used to protecting you,” Hannibal admits.
Will’s brow creases in gentle puzzlement. “You haven’t had to protect me once since we-” leapt to our deaths? committed erotic murder? became unconsummated murder husbands? Will still can’t quite find the words for what they are now.
“I haven’t been in any danger,” he finishes, and Hannibal quirks his mouth just a touch.
“No,” he says ruefully, “but that has not stopped me from worrying every moment that you might be.”
Worrying. Hannibal Lecter doesn’t… worry. Will says so himself and Hannibal just shakes his head.
“I do now. Every time I look at you I see something so remarkably precious that my heart seizes at the thought of its loss. It is… uncomfortable.”
Will just stares, desperately trying to force away the matching need that rips at his insides.
“It is irrational,” Hannibal continues, “to think that sleeping beside you will somehow allow me to better protect you.”
He tightens his coat around him, blinks around the cold whipping over his face.
“But that is love,” he says, “he paid me a visit and refuses to leave, despite staying long past his welcome.”
It’s the first time Hannibal has openly admitted anything close to love, and it pulls a sound from Will that is half shock and half relief. He wants to respond with something, almost anything so long as it’s not his violent reciprocation. Neither of them are ready for that.
Instead, he says nothing. The train rattles on. Hannibal exhales shakily.
“You cracked something open in me, Will. On the edge of the bluff.” He turns and looks at him, face soft and unguarded. “I don’t know how to close it up.”
His eyes are lined with tears and Will is swallowed up by an awful urge to embrace him. He remains frozen, hand twitching over the guard rail.
“I thought,” Will begins softly, but he lets the words trail away. Too crass and unfiltered a notion to match such a confession.
“You thought what?” Hannibal replies, plucking the thoughts from Will’s mind as easily as ripe berries, “you thought I wished to fuck you?”
The expletive is more surprising than the implication, and Will chokes a little on the crisp air, watches as the wisps of his exhalation disrupt into staccato peels of grey.
“No, that’s not,” he coughs again, more to cover the fact that he has no worldly idea how to finish that thought without lying.
“Of course it is,” Hannibal says calmly, “and of course I do.”
One warm hand, softened by leather, rests over Will’s bare one.
“I do, however, possess a modicum of self-control when it comes to you.”
Will laughs. Honest-to-goodness belly laughs, loud and raucous into the night.
“No you fucking don’t!” He grins madly, chest heaving. He doesn’t think he’s ever laughed this much in his life.
Hannibal smiles with his teeth, which is as good as a laugh in return. His hand does not move.
“You are perhaps unaware of what I have restrained myself from in the past.”
“Was this before or after you tried to cut my head open?”
“If you recall I refrained from doing so.”
“Only because we were interrupted by Verger’s coterie of assclowns. That’s a get-out-of-jail-free card you won by chance. You didn’t earn it.”
He flips his hand underneath Hannibal’s so that their palms touch, laces their fingers together and rubs a thumb over his knuckles.
“Fucking me, you will earn.”
Hannibal’s eyes light with enough flame to warm them both. Will shivers.
The unasked question of how strings from Hannibal’s closed lips and Will tugs Hannibal closer, turning them so his back is pressed to Hannibal’s chest and he is fit snug between him and the rail. He pulls one of Hannibal’s arms over his shoulder, then the other, wrapping the man around him like a heavy scarf.
“By keeping me warm,” he answers, “you can start there.”
Hannibal’s mouth is pressed to his neck but he does not kiss. The warmth of his lips sears like a brand, but he stays still, does not ask.
“Yes,” Will replies again, “you can do that too.”
One soft and lingering kiss is stamped into his skin, threaded with passion but oddly chaste. When Will finishes sighing, Hannibal removes his mouth, tucks his chin over Will’s shoulder and breathes in the clean scent of his hair.
When my mother first told me
that the land
that her own mother
and her mother’s mother before her
was once far beneath the sea
I thought my ancestors
must have been mermaids
who loved the land
enough to stay
so when men pushed the tides back
when they fought the ocean
the first kings must have been surprised
to find people already living
in such a place
when my grandmother
(and her husband)
left the land beneath the sea
they shed tradition
like seal skin
taught my mother
(and her brother)
only the language of newer lands
said that in the new world
it’s better to learn to walk
as though a man
don’t dream of ocean breezes
and tales of nether lands
words from forgotten fairytales
fade like writing in the sand
but when I sleep
I see rippling seas
and know I lie beneath them
there’s no longer fear
of unsteady feet
or shuddering lungs
under a filtered sun
so the question to which
I don’t really want to answer
is which do you think
is wiser and braver
loving something so much
that for which
you’d stand up and fight
or loving something else much more
that for which
you’d grab them and run
because you see
my ancestors were mermaids
who were loved by
the most terrible