a single seed

3

Asphodel and Nightshade

My interpretation of Hannibal and Will as Hades and Persephone, Alphonse Mucha style. Originally planned for the @hannibalcreative​ HannibalOdyssey event, but I’m way past deadline since this turned out to be a LOT more complicated/detailled than I’d originally planned.

If you’re interested in the symbolism of this piece, check it out under the cut!

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Forest Witch Tip: Poisonous doppelgangers🌿🌱

This is a list of some of the most confusing plants to identify, with dangerous evil twins (although they may be good for curses). Remember not to eat ANYTHING in the wild unless you’re 100% certain what it is. It’s especially important for us hedge witches who tend to forage vs grow and all kinds of nature witches to know what we’re picking. 




Sweet almonds vs. Bitter almonds

The sweet almonds that are bought, sold, and enjoyed in the U.S. and in most countries have only a negligible amount of cyanide in them, but bitter almonds—which are shorter and wider than their sweet cousins—can contain 42 times as much. This high cyanide content means that children can be fatally poisoned by eating just five to ten bitter almonds, and adults by eating around 50. Even a handful of bitter almonds can lead to dizziness or vertigo, weakness, difficulty breathing, and numerous other symptoms in adults 


Wild grapes VS. Moonseed

Menispermum canadense, or “Canadian moonseed,” produces fruit so similar in appearance to grapes and other pleasant edibles that it can blend in with the Vitis bunch if you’re not careful. The plant is toxic for humans from root to leaf-tip, and its moonseed berries—which have a single, crescent-shaped seed each, unlike grapes’ round ones—can easily prove fatal when eaten due to their toxic lode of dauricine.  Moonseeds also reportedly taste just awful (generally speaking, this is a good sign you should spit something out). 


Carrot, parsnips vs hemlock 

The above-ground plants of wild carrots (Daucus carota, widely known as Queen Anne’s Lace) and parsnips (Pastinaca sativa) can look a lot like hemlock’s, and the roots below can appear similar, too (especially when they’ve just been pulled out of the ground).


For the record, wild parsnip poses its own threat, too. Especially during flowering season, its sap can cause skin reactions which can range from a simple rash to something very much like a lasting, second-degree burn. So if you do go root-hunting (staying well clear of hemlock, of course), you’ll do well to use gloves and skin-covering clothing whenever possible.


Wild blueberry vs Tutsan

blueberries have a potentially deadly lookalike that’s spread from its native Eurasian zones to New Zealand, Australia, and North America. The black berries of Hypericum androsaemum, a.k.a. tutsan or “sweet amber” bushes, can do a decent blueberry impression but can cause gastrointestinal distress, weakness, raised heart-rate, and other symptoms in both people and animals, and especially in children. In general, eager berry-pickers should do some careful research before foraging in the wild, as a wide variety of berries are moderately to highly toxic, including strychnine tree berries, and holly berries

Seed lines. So many of you ask how I write, how the poems form, what my process is in this odd and overactive mushy swirly lump I call my brain. I say it every time, that all my poems come from a single line, a Seed Line, and the rest grows around it. So, tonight I am going to begin a series where I will randomly post Seed Lines from some of my Typewriter Series poems, the origin, so that you can see how the poem grew. Thought I would start with this one, Typewriter Series #1871’s seed line. Let me know if there are any poems you have wondered about, and I’ll add them to the list. I love ya.

Salt the Earth Curse

Salting the earth, or sowing with salt, is the ritual of spreading salt on conquered cities to symbolize a curse on their re-inhabitation.

This curse is inspired by this historical act in order to leave your target barren in any fields of new growth, be it personal, financial or emotional.

Supplies:

A broom (functioning)
Salt
A flat surface or floor
Dirt (handful from the garden will suffice)
Brambles or weeds (please only handle weeds you can identify)
Water
Smoke (either candle or incense)
A rock

The Curse:

Spread the dirt out on your surface.
In the dirt draw the target or spell out their name.

“By [name/face] my mark is true,
this fruitless harvest is bound to you.
So toil and endure these larbors lasting
as they’re woven in this curse I’m casting.”

With the weeds ball then into a small nest and place it in the center of the dirt.

“Barren lands and empty nests
wrought with only vermin and pests.
A single seed, my gift to you,
for everything you’ve put me through.”

Pass the rock or stone through the smoke and place it at the center of the nest.

“Now from this egg and from this seed
I gift to you pure want and need.
But nothing else will yield you life
just endless nights of sweat and strife.”

Pour the salt over everything.

“Soil tarnished,
gardens ash and bone
Tired aching
and alone.”

Drink the water yourself.

“And unto me, the knowledge sweet
Of water lush and warm sun’s heat
And knowledge of your bitter defeat.”

Sweep up and dispose. (DO NOT DUMP OUTSIDE.)

What Do You See?

In a cave high above the water, with a view overlooking the ocean, three men wearing robes sat in a circle. The light blooming through the cave’s entrance was bouncing off of their shaved heads. Incense burned between each of them, and in the center of their circle laid a circular piece of paper with a red spiral drawn across it. In the center of the spiral was a wooden bowl filled with a murky liquid.

“Brother Lance, please take the first sip.” said the eldest of them.

The man known as Lance picked up the bowl. He closed his eyes and took a sip. Immediately his eyes shot wide open, but his pupils became dark purple, with spirals going through them.

“Look at the spiral. What do you see?” asked the eldest.

“I see waves. But they’re not outside. They’re at my driveway, knocking on the my door. I don’t let them in, but I know in my heart I already invited them. My husband, he’s there. No!”

“Relax, brother.” the eldest calmed the man. “Tell us what you see…”

“My husband he’s, he’s… watering our plant. But it’s so weird, it’s overgrown and out of control, making cracks in the window. He’s gonna open the door, no… don’t! He…” suddenly Lance went quiet. “He opened the door.” his eyes returned to normal, and began watering. “He opened the door and the waves swept him away from me. He was laughing.”

The eldest stroked his beard in thought. “I think I know what it means.”

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D&D Homebrew Poisons

So, im working on a mini series for badassdanddpics and was wondering if you guys had any ideas. im calling the mini series “Bewildering Botany and Perilous Poisons” that will basically showcase magical plant homebrew that will aid adventures and villains alike. for the poison section of it, i put together some basic information from D&D about the rules as well as how they are applied and used against others as well as common symptoms from plants in the real world.

different poisons are applied to victims by

  • contact
  • ingested
  • inhaled
  • injury
  • smoke from being burned

common rules (for 5th edition D&D regarding poison)

  • A weapon coated with poison will dry out in one minute.
  • When you are poisoned, you will usually suffer from the poisoned condition.
  • Poison can be bought or crafted using the downtime rules and a poisoner’s kit.
  • Cures for poison include low level spells or anti-toxin.
  • Truth Serum is listed under poisons, and is something I think could be useful in your campaign in many different ways.
  • Poisoned: A poisoned creature has disadvantage on attack rolls and ability checks.
  • each round until you make a saving throw.

Common symptoms of poisoning include nausea, vomiting, convulsions, liver failure, disables nerves, lowers blood pressure, and can stop the heart, muscle twitches, and sometimes paralysis, irritation of skin throat and mouth, swelling, burning pain, breathing difficulties and stomach upset. dilated pupils, sensitivity to light, blurred vision, tachycardia, loss of balance, staggering, headache, rash, flushing, dry mouth and throat, slurred speech, urinary retention, constipation, confusion, hallucinations, delirium, convulsions and photo-toxicity

underneath the “keep reading” i have included some actual plants that could help with creating realistic homebrew.

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(With Heart)

Member: Kim Jongin
Word Count: 7157


           There was a city full of people all with the same face. That was the only thing you could remember from your dream. They moved like city people move and talked like city people talk, but no matter which direction they moved in, that face, multiplied by the hundreds, always followed you.

           A thin shudder worked its way up your back and you hunched your shoulders in. You would need to buy another sweater today.

           Although only a little over an hour from civilization proper, it felt as if nothing existed beyond this place. When you first arrived, the newspaper at the grocer’s was six days behind; now, two weeks later, it still laid there, the words made indistinct by a veil of dust.

           There was no local newspaper. Announcements were posted on the Town Hall bulletin board. The birth of a grandchild. A thirty-year anniversary. A party for the New Year. The announcements only went as far back as the beginning of the month. As if that was the origin of time. Another month would probably see those announcements vanished, a casualty to be remembered only with vague nostalgia for a time ill-recalled.

           But truthfully, even the bulletin board was redundant. As you pulled on your boots and tied up the laces, you thought, This is how the news travels around here. It sticks to the bottom of shoe soles and if you looked closely enough, you could follow its traces in the shadowy exchange of speculative glances. A tree of a thousand branches originates from a single seed.

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Every single person contains the seeds of goodness, kindness, and enlightenment. We all have the seed of buddhanature. To give the buddha in you a chance to manifest both in yourself and your loved ones, you have to water those seeds. When we act as if people have these seeds inside them, it gives us and them the strength and energy to help these seeds grow and flower. If we act as if we don’t believe in our inherent goodness, we blame others for our suffering and we lose our happiness.
—  Thich Nhat Hanh
it takes two to garden

based on this

‘I’ll fucking kill every flea beetle on this god forsaken earth. I swear, I’m going to kill them for you, every son of a bitch that dared get a mouthful. They’ll die screaming.’

‘Ohh!’ A voice above Laurent says, ripping him from his laser focus on the hole-filled leaf in his hand. ‘Okay. You’re talking to the plants, okay.’

Laurent looks up. On the other side of the fence is his neighbor, who, due to a glaring oversight on the landscaper’s part, has full view of both Laurent’s yard and his garden. The ‘fence’ separating them is, in actuality, four bricks stacked horizontally with metal bars sprouting up to cover the remaining height. For Laurent, it reaches his chest, for his neighbor, mid-abdomen.

His neighbor says, ‘You should try ladybugs. They’ll eat most bugs who hurt plants.’

The man is almost a foot taller than Laurent; a beast of mass and muscle. His hair reaches past his shoulders, loose, dark brown curls brandished with a rich gleam in the right light.

He has a garden of his own, positioned a few feet from Laurent’s.

It had come as a surprise the first time Laurent had seen it. He’d been under the impression that his neighbor worked exclusively with trees: His yard brimming with large, magnificent willows, cedars, white-oaks, and maples. He often tended to them shirtless, his bare skin resembling the warm, deeply brown trunks, shining like a bronze oil painting if he stayed under the beat of the sun for long enough.

His trees are immaculate; his garden… not so much.

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If the Shoe Fits  Jimin x Reader Ballet! Au

Originally posted by missbaptan

A/n: I decided to take a break from Shimmering Skies and Twinkling Lights. I’ve had this idea for a little bit, especially after reading @frejafc“s Jimin’s series Pas de Deux I recommend it. I tried not to copy it as much as I can. I only wanted the idea of ballerino! Jimin. Here is a bit of a disclaimer actually, I am not a ballerina or a shoe maker, so some stuff may not be the most accurate.

Part 1~

Etre Royale Academy was a ballet school that combined the four arts of French, Russian, Italian, and English ballet. Many hopefuls enter the tough auditions, and only the toughest can make it through. Even if you make it through, the uphill battle of bettering yourself, and making it into a company still exists. 

Park Jimin came from a long line of performers. The Park family always excelled in the art of ballet, every Park ballerina or ballerino always made a lasting impression in the ballet world. Of course, the young Jimin is definitely living up to his family name. He is Etre’s most prized ballerino, the boys wished for his strength and grace, while the girls wanted to be the Odette to his Siegfried.

But behind every dancer a maker supports that dancer. Your family, the (l/n) family is family of fine craftsmen/women. Everyone in your family have made thousands or pointe shoes and ballet slippers for the special ballerinas and ballerinos who fit the unique shoe each (l/n) member makes. Ever since you were little you’ve been surrounded by ballet. The shoes, the shows, the dancers. You were one of the youngest workers entering the force, the moment you sat down, and made your first pair of custom made shoes. Even though you were young, you still had years of experience of shoe making under your belt. 

You remember the first time when the ballerina who owned the first pair of pointe you ever made came to “meet her maker”. She was a young and beautiful, fit, with excellent posture even when she walked. She went from person to person asking to find her maker, not even noticing you, for you were just only twelve years old. You looked and saw that the ballerina was with one of the older makers, and he pointed a thimble covered finger at you in your work station. She walked over to you with the bottoms of her pointe shoes facing up. You saw your symbol imprinted in the soft leather of the shoe. It was a lone dandelion seed, very unusual for a maker, most would use letters or simplified symbols, yours was actually more complex than others. Usual marks were the outlines of the objects, yours was solid and filled in. When you designed your mark, you took great care and quality into making the dye that will be pushed into the leather. 

“Are you the dandelion maker?” She asked in a quiet voice. You looked up from the new pair of shoes you were making for her and nodded. You wanted to be just like her, graceful, beautiful, with neat hair, and pink shoes. 

Over the next couple of years you got more dancers ordering more shoes from you. Your young and precise vision always made sure the size the shoe was always dead on correct, and you never changed a thing in how you made your shoes. From a young age you knew that what makes a maker the great maker is that they do not change anything about the shoe they are ordered to make unless the dancer says so. If you were off my a little bit the dancer can automatically feel it the moment he or she steps into them. You kept profiles on each type of shoe you have to make, and every time there is a little change you take the paper of notes, throw it out and start over. 

You were standing outside of Entre academy, with other makers. A briefcase in of your hands. It was the beginning of the new year and it was when all the makers would sit in a big circle and have dancers that needed find the perfect maker or find a new maker try on shoes. Dancers could also go up to their maker and have them do a quick fix or do small modifications to their shoe.

You were now seventeen, it’s your fifth year at Delladova Ballet. This new year was also going to be interesting. The wave maker just retired, and he was the maker that supplied three Park dancers their shoes: Jimin, his mother, and his father. Jimin would have to find a new maker now. Your family has worked with the Parks before. Your grandparents made Jimin’s grandparents’ shoes. Your mother use to make Park Jueun’s, Jimin’s mother, shoes in her early career. Your mother stopped making shoes so she could raise you and your siblings. Your father also made the finest satin slippers for almost every Park ballerino except for Jimin and his father. 

 You set up your little station in the circle by the shoe room, taking out your sewing kit, different kinds of shoes, fabrics, measuring kits. You strategically sit by the shoe room so you can go inside it quickly if you need to find another pair of shoes you made.

You recognized one of the ballerinas who orders from you. Her name is Seo Yeona, she was eighteen, and she was getting ready to audition for companies. She came up to you with a pristine set of pointe shoes you made. “(Y/n) can you darn these pair for me? I have an audition for the royal ballet, and I want these shoes to be perfect, and you darn them just perfectly for me. I know I can dance my best if you darn them.“ 

You smiled at Yeona and took her shoes “Of course. I will make sure it will be my best, just like the rest.” You said, opening up your sewing kit, you took out your thimble and darning needle. You pulled a good amount of wool out from the bunch you had and cut it off with the rest. You looped the wool through the needle, tied the the wool on to the needle, and started the darning process. You made the first darn stitch, and continued to chain stitch all the way around the platform of the shoe, pulling tightly each time. You consecutively made the same chain stitch making them look almost perfectly the same. Once you reached the end of the platform back at your darn stitch, you the excess wool off and ties the loose ends. You repeated the thing to her second shoe. Both shoes took you less than ten minutes to darn, and the stitches were consistent and not sloppy. Yeona looked happily at her new darned shoes and hugged them to her chest. 

“Thank you so much, I don’t know what to say.” You smiled and looked her in the eye. “You don’t have to say anything, just dance your best in these, and then once you get into the royal ballet, send my a ticket so I can watch one your shows.” You laughed, and with that Yeona was gone. 

 Next was a second year boy. His name was Im Taejoon, he was sixteen. He said he was having difficulties finding a maker. You offered him the stool you were sit on, so he can sit down it and you can quickly measure his foot. You found that his size was really close to another boy, who ordered from you. You pulled out a shoe that was his and slipped it onto Taejoon’s foot, you examined how the shoe conformed to the foot and shook your head. You thought a double sole shoe with tighter elastic would be better. So you pulled out a double sole shoe, snipped off the elastic, and measured new elastic the fit Taejoon’s ankle and over the bridge of his foot. You cut off that piece of elastic, and sewed it onto the shoe with a smaller needle and black thread. 

 "Now, give me a quick pirouette.“ You said, after he put on the new shoes. The boy obeyed and you closely observed the boys feet. Something was off, and you tapped your pencil against your lip to figure it out. 

“How did it feel?” You asked him. “I think it felt fine actually.” He replied. “Go on your toes.” You said, and Taejoon did just that. And you finally saw it. “I got it!” You exclaimed. 

“Hold still do not move.” You pinched together some parts of the canvas together, shrinking the fabric to conform to the boy’s foot some more, and you sewed the shoe shrinking the amount of fabric. “Pirouette one more time.” The boy performed the elegant move perfectly. When he landed he had a wide smile on his face. 

 "These felt amazing. I can tell these are the perfect fit. I want you be my maker.“ You smiled and took the shoe off of the boy, measured it quickly and wrote down his measurements, and what he preferred. 

 "If you need anything, just tell me or put in a order, I am happy to deliver for you. I am the dandelion maker, and at the bottom of every shoe I make you will see the imprint of a single dandelion seed pressed into the sole. That’s how you know I made. When it appears in your pigeon hole that means it is especially made for you.” The boy nodded listening to all of instructions, then ran off with his new shoes to dance with. Every dancer gets excited when they try on the perfect shoe from the perfect maker.

 Out of nowhere, your best friend Son Chaerin tackle hugged you. “I missed you (y/n).” Shrieked as she squeezed the the life out of you. “You saw me the day before yesterday…” You choked out, gasping for air.

 "But that’s a day too long (y/n)ah.“ Chaerin whined leaning onto your back. "Can you let go?” You asked. “I kind of can’t breathe.” Chaerin instantly let you go, making you fall to the ground.

 "Oops sorry (y/n)ah, I forgot you need to breathe sometimes.“ Regaining your composure, you looked and her and asked, 

"What do you need this time.” “Oh yeah, I need to change my shoes again. These don’t work for me anymore. My feet got stronger again.” You rolled your eyes at Chaerin. If this was any other dancer you wouldn’t do this to them, but you have know Chaerin since you were three. Your grandmother made Chaerin’s mother’s shoes, and your mother made Chaerin’s first pointe shoes. They custom made and your mother made sure to make them with the prettiest pink satin that was in the workshop that day. Now you make Chaerin’s shoes, like others she hopes to get into a company and works hard every day. When you work with Chaerin you feel like you can be a bit more relaxed, and more yourself. You noted the new changes in Chaerin’s shoes. 

“I’ll send a new pair over, and we’ll keep tweaking it until we get it right, then I’ll re-do your shoe profile.” You said, handing her back her shoes. “Got it!” She said cheerfully. “Hey (y/n) why don’t we got for barbecue or pizza later?” Chaerin asked. 

 "Aren’t you on a diet?“ You mentioned. Chaerin rolled her eyes. "Does it even matter anymore? Everyone has the same diet, so that means I am the same with everyone else. I’ll be fine.” Chaerin shrugged, she was actually the perfect size for a ballerina, slim, and muscular but not too muscular.

 "Besides if we go out, I’ll just run it off. Especially if I run with you.“ She snickered. "Hey! It’s not my fault I run fast besides, you’re the better athlete. It’s not my fault you can’t keep up with.” You said. Even though you and Charin bicker like an old married couple you still loved her. You always went to her performances and cheered her on. She was there for you when you needed it, and you were there for her when she was in slumps. 

 "Anyways, I gotta go and head off to practice.“ She said. "Oh wait did you hear that Park Jimin is looking for a new maker?! That could be you (y/n)!” Chaerin squealed. “He’s so hot, I wish I could be his partner. Oh what would I give to just have one pas de deux dance with him, it doesn’t have to be a performance, just a dance and I’ll be satisfied.” She swooned. 

 "Yah, don’t you think you’re cheating on Hoseok a little bit?“ Hoseok and Chaerin weren’t actually dating. They’ve been partners for the last seven years and they complimented each other well. They were so energetic, they could pull off the most tiring choreographies , and Hoseok was strong enough to life Chaerin. They were just two dorks together though. They would call each other "wifey” or “hubby” just for shits and giggles. Chaerin lifted a finger to her lips.

“Don’t tell Hoseok, he doesn’t need to know.” And Chaerin ran off finally to get to practice. You sat on your stool and took measures of different students feet, some didn’t like your shoes, and that’s okay. A maker is not supposed to make everyone’s shoes. Every dancer has a different foot, and a certain maker, can make that specific shoe.  

You waved off another first year girl who tried on her first pointe shoes with you. She was a young girl of fourteen, Choi Hanbyul. “Look forward to working with you as your maker, if you need me I will be at factory, and on Friday’s I help mister Chanu in the shoe room.” The girl nodded and left. The next person who came after the girl, was the last person you ever expected to see….Park Jimin. He was the usual apparel of boy dancer. Black tights that was a stream line fit to his muscular legs, and a white t-shirt, tucked into the tights, creating an overall clean look.

“So you’re the dandelion maker…”  You just nodded. The boy tilted his head a bit, most makers were older, they had to study the art of shoe making for a long time in school, and then be a apprentice. You did all that too, from the moment when you were born to when you were twelve, you watched your mom and dad make shoes, and other relatives make shoes. 

“Aen’t you too young to be a shoe maker?” You slightly frowned at the question, you were always shot that question whenever people first meet you. 

“Well I must be at some degrees okay, I’ve been coming here and helping dancers fit into their dream shoes for five years now. Inn’t that longer than your years here?” You knew Jimin entered this school as fourteen years old, and he is now your age. Jimin’s faced darkened, and he leaned down into a squat to meet your face. 

“For an artist in this mature and respective field you sure do have a fresh mouth.” He said harshly. If anything, you really wanted to deck him in his perfect face, but you cannot do that, or the other ballerinas will jump you for that. Also the school would be livid if their main dancer had a humongous bruise on his face, and not to mention what your parents would say. You kept your temptation at bay, while you continued to talk to dancer. 

“So did you want to try on the shoes I make?” You asked. “Or do you want to keep wasting my time?” You mentally cursed yourself the moment your last sentence left your mouth, why couldn’t just keep your mouth shut. You never did this any other dancer, but other dancers didn’t give you a hard time like this. 

“Maybe you’re just too immature for this work.” Jimin said. You decided to not fight back anymore, and pulled out your measuring tape to measure his feet. overall his sole was two hundred and sixty-five millimeters, and continued to measure other parts of his foot. You took a shoe that was the same measure as his sole, cut the elastic off, and measured it over the the bridge of his foot, and crossed it over into the nice, classical ‘X’ the crossed over each dancer’s foot in a slipper. You cut the elastic off, and sewed it to the slipper, and had Jimin try it on. He walked a couple of steps in them, did a pirouette and a tour en l’air. 

“What do you think?” You asked the moment he landed. 

“They’re pretty good, might take a little getting use to though. I guess Master Daejung was right. Your shoes are pretty close to wave maker’s. Which maker are you?” He asked looking at you. 

“I’m the dandelion maker. You know the shoe is mine, if there is a lone dandelion seed on the shoe.” Jimin nodded. 

“I’ll have my measurements sent to you.” You gave him a disapproving look when he mentioned that he was going to send his previous measurements for you. 

“Why would you do that? If I am your new maker I rather take your measurements myself. I trust the wave maker was excellent in making your shoes, but I never trust anyone’s measurements unless I take it.” You explained. If a dance were to have a new maker, the new maker always creates a new profile for a dancer, to ensure nothing goes wrong and everything stays consistent. 

Jimin sighed, the breath from his sigh lifted his bangs up from his skin a bit. “Fine when do you want me to come in?”

“Tomorrow at Delladova after lunch. I’ll be there, and I will take your measurements, and take notes on specific designs you need and want.” You said.

“So it’s official you’re my new maker now.” You nodded in response. You and Jimin were no locked in this metaphorical dance that exists between dancers and makers.  

Mark Gatiss in Horror Europa (2010) about Suspiria (1977), directed by Dario Argento.

Gatiss Narrating: It’s not a giallo, but a hyper-violent fairytale, and watching Suspiria is like watching a cinematic fever dream.


Gatiss: “Did you feel that making…uh…a fantasy film, was a liberating experience as a director?”

Argento: “Yes. The main sources of inspiration for my films are dreams and nightmares. The logic of my films, is the logic of dreams.”


Gatiss Narrating: It’s best not to worry whether the plot’s coherent, just let yourself be overwhelmed by the dazzling colors, startling images, and pounding soundtrack.

Suspiria was actually the first film in the Three Mothers trilogy, along with Inferno (1980) and The Mother of Tears (2007). Images from the other two films are below.

The trilogy was based on an uncredited work called Suspiria de Profundis, by Thomas de Quincy. Included in the list of essays he wanted in the finished work (not all made into the published version), we find:

* Dreaming — the introduction to the whole.
* The Palimpsest of the Human Brain — a meditation upon the deeper layers of human consciousness and memory.
* Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow — beginning with a discussion of Levana, the ancient Roman goddess of childbirth, De Quincey imagines three companions for her: Mater Lachrymarum, Our Lady of Tears; Mater Suspiriorum, Our Lady of Sighs; and Mater Tenebrarum, Our Lady of Darkness.
* The Apparition of the Brocken — on an optical illusion associated with a German mountaintop.
* Savannah-la-Mar — a threnody on a sunken city, inspired by the 1692 earthquake that sank Port Royal in Jamaica; beginning, “God smote Savannah-la-Mar….”
* Vision of Life — “The horror of life mixed…with the heavenly sweetness of life….”
* Memorial Suspiria — looking forwards and backwards on life’s miseries; foreshadowing and anticipation.
When the collection was reprinted in the collected works in the 1850s, another short essay was added: The Daughter of Lebanon, a parable of grief and transcendence.
The four pieces that first appeared posthumously in 1891 are:
* Solitude of Childhood — “Fever and delirium,” “sick desire,” and the Erl-King’s daughter.
* The Dark Interpreter — he was a looming shadow in the author’s opium reveries.
* The Princess that lost a Single Seed of a Pomegranate — echoes upon echoes from an Arabian Nights tale.
* Who is this Woman that beckoneth and warneth me from the Place where she is, and in whose Eyes is Woeful remembrance? I guess who she is — “memorials of a love that has departed, has been — the record of a sorrow that is….”
* The Dreadful Infant (There was the glory of innocence made perfect; there was the dreadful beauty of infancy that had seen God)
* Foundering Ships
* The Archbishop and the Controller of Fire
* God that didst Promise
* Count the Leaves in Vallombrosa
* But if I submitted with Resignation, not the less I searched for the Unsearchable — sometimes in Arab Deserts, sometimes in the Sea
* That ran before us in malice
* Morning of Execution
* Kyrie Eleison
* The Nursery in Arabian Deserts
* The Halcyon Calm and the Coffin
* Faces! Angels’ Faces!
* At that Word
* Oh, Apothanate! that hatest death, and cleansest from the Pollution of Sorrow
* Who is this Woman that for some Months has followed me up and down? Her face I cannot see, for she keeps for ever behind me
* Cagot and Cressida
* Lethe and Anapaula
* Oh, sweep away, Angel, with Angelic Scorn, the Dogs that come with Curious Eyes to gaze.

No surprise then, that some of the titles closely resemble those from John’s blog about their cases, and certain characters or themes are recurring in the BBC series, especially S3/TAB/S4. 


For those wondering why the skull in 221B began glowing before TFP…

It’s because they started using this concept before the last episode aired, adding saturation here and there, but mainly in areas outside the safety zone of 221B.

Instances actually date back to the first episode, but the tendency escalated through the seasons, and TFP was the height of it in S4. Interestingly, prior to TFP, it was the stag night that had the most frequent displays.

Yes, those are elephants in the room up on the chest…because…reasons.

For more on Sherlock and Argento films, see metas on The Bird with the Crystal Plumage and Demons both by @isitandwonder

A Critique of a Poisoning in Literature: A Song of Ice and Fire’s Purple Wedding.

An analysis of Joffrey Baratheon’s poisoning in George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire: the chemical compound used, its effects, method of application and onset in comparison to a hypothetical real-life counterpart: strychnine, and the author’s justifications for suggesting this equivalent. Posting for those who said they were interested, a piece of coursework I wrote for a pharmacology poisons module / the university’s English literature department. I wrote this in the first year of my degree  ( 2+ years ago now! )  so don’t expect a lot from my writing/analytical skills !!!

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let me be your coffee pot

“There’s only one plug in this entire coffee shop and you’re sitting right in front of it and you’re not even using it, and my laptop is about to die in the middle of this online exam I’m taking, so whatever I don’t care how intimidatingly attractive you are I’m sitting down at your table to plug my shit in.” AU

Title from ‘I Wanna Be Yours’ by Arctic Monkeys.

ff.net. - ao3.

Day one: AU/AH of KlarolineInfinity Week!

Caroline was beyond frustrated.

Sleep-deprived, coffee did nothing to calm her, full bent on getting a good grade. Apparently, Mr. Salvatore, her annoying and inappropriate Communication teacher, had taken a sudden like to technology —that wasn’t related at all to the fact that he showed up hungover at the last classes of the year, refusing to teach them anything, sending power points of the contents to them instead— and decided to take the exam through an online platform.

A message appeared on her laptop screen when she was reading a question about engaging people in the media, startling her.

You’re now running low on reserve battery power. You need to plug the power adapter into your computer and into a power outlet. If you don’t, your computer will go to sleep in a few minutes to preserve its memory contents.

Groaning, she looked around, noticing not even one plug in sight. It didn’t surprise her, considering the old vibe of the store, it was a miracle that it had wireless connection to begin with. Hell, she had actually contemplated turning around upon first looking inside “Original Coffee”. Ancient shelves containing jar of coffee grains instead of a machine, and a counter guy dressed in a Viking costume? Weird.

The shining screen reminded her that she had fifteen minutes and forty seconds left to finish the exam.

She cursed her bad luck. Had she walked under a ladder that day? She really hoped not.

Although it wasn’t completely her fault, on second thought, it was Katherine’s.

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Ονα

There are many things I don’t understand. For the most of which I do claim blissful ignorance. There are shadowy sides to mankind and existence that are better left unknown. The why of gruesome acts can only be answered by traveling to the deepest layers of a diseased psyche to find the husk of that single evil seed that sprouted and grew rampant. Presuming there ever was such an evil seed. The truth might be that mankind’s nature is plainly horrid. That we are beings of destruction. Demonic cores purposely contained in decaying flesh for the sake of perpetual creation. For truths like these I do claim ignorance is blissful.

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Six Seeds

Hades had left her alone for just a minute, seated at a table with a simple bowl of fruit.  Gods didn’t need mortal food, but he seemed to like their colors.

With her head high and fingers steady, Persephone plucked the pomegranate out of the bowl and cracked it open.

She took six seeds, counting them carefully in her palm.

She eats the first for the girl she was.  It tastes bitter, like the taste in her mouth every time the mortals thank her and her mother for a harvest.  She loves the plants, but there is no power for her under her mother.

The second seed tastes a bit sweeter.  She eats it for the woman she will become, with this choice.  She will have the power she has always wanted, and be revered instead of simply respected.

When Hermes enters the room to take her away, she eats the third seed for him.  She bites into it slowly, deliberately.  To tell him he cannot remove her from her chair, let alone the Underworld.

“Zeus-” Hermes begins.

She eats the fourth seed for him, her father.  She will no longer be his property. She is her own person.  He may be the ruler of all, but he is not the ruler of her will.

Hermes tries again. “Demeter has been beside herself looking for you.”

She forces herself not to hesitate when she eats the fifth seed.  She loves her mother, and the memories of her sweet face as they tended crops is nearly enough to bring her to tears.  But she needs more than her mother can offer.

Her eyes follow Hades as he runs into the room.  His already pale complexion drains when he sees Hermes waiting near her seat.  She can see the heartbreak from across the room, and it kills her.

He sees the single pomegranate seed in her hand, and he snaps his wide-eyed, desperate gaze to her face.

She keeps the eye contact as she eats the six seed.  She eats it for him, for them, for love.

A Rose in a Field of Dead Flowers

Hades! Joshua| 13 Days of SevenWeen

Word Count: 1,459

Genre: Fluff


Joshua was often lonely. Being the ruler of the underworld wasn’t always all fun and games. However he did have one friend he often talked to. Jun, Medusa’s son. 

To say that the two males liked each other was a stretch, they tolerated each other but only because they had no one else to talk to. In all honesty, Joshua was rather lonely. 

He’d tell Jun tales of how much he’d want a significant other, and Jun would try to tune him out.

Whether it be fate or coincidence, upon Jun’s journeys he had stumbled upon someone within Joshua’s standards on his travels to Sicily. When Jun returned to Greece, he informed Joshua of this person to which Joshua has already fallen deeply in love with the thought of them.

Yet one thought had continuously badgered at him. Who would love the God of the Underworld?

Being a god has its’ perks, with a blink of an eye Joshua was engulfed flames. He was teleported to the flower fields of Sicily where he saw you.

The contrast between the two of you was vast. You were alive, glowing underneath the sunlight, the sweat beads on your forehead glistened, your cheeks were a slight pink as your eyes held life. Joshua’s face was flawless, too perfect and sculpted. His complexion didn’t show a hint of an imperfection or color, it was truly as if he was carved out of stone.

You haven’t noticed Joshua standing across the field from you. The task of plucking flowers from the ground was keeping you occupied and unaware.

In a blue fiery mist, you watched as the flowers around you start to wilt except for the rose you were holding in your hand. The sky appeared as if it was lit on fire, it was painted red with black smoke for clouds.

Your eyes scanned the once vibrant field, now it appeared to be a graveyard of the flowers that once blossomed. Even the basket of flowers that accompanied of you were now filled with dead daisies and roses. You were the only breathing, living entity here. It took your optimum level of calmness to keep your heart at bay. Fear was the only thing you were feeling, and Joshua sensed that.

“Show yourself!” You shouted. Granted you were from Italy, the tales and myths of Greek gods and goddesses has spread through trade and merchants. It wasn’t uncommon for someone to speak of sightings of those gods or stories of the miracles they’ve performed.

As if a veil was pulled back, an all black chariot completed with four massive black horse stood clear among the dead flowers. You slightly gasped in fear, stumbling back. The rose you held was dropped beside you.

Joshua, dressed in a black suit, made casual strides towards you with his hands in his pockets and a look of wonder on his face. He knelt down once he was in front of you, he reached for the fallen rose which caused your state of anxiety and terror to be more obviously presented.

His hand paused as you let out a yelp and scooted back. Joshua’s eyes stared at yours for a good few seconds before proceeding to pick up the rose. As his fingers grasped the stem, the entirety of the rose had faded to a dark brown to which he smirked in satisfaction.

Joshua flickered his eyes to yours. He presented the lifeless object to you but not before he placed a gentle kiss on the bud.

“Now the rose is beautiful but not as beautiful as you.” His voice was like velvet, dripping with seduction.

Out of panic you accepted his gift , your eyes never leaving his.

“Where am I?” Your voice was barely a whisper as the tears started to well up in your eyes, the air became heavy to inhale.

Joshua’s lips turned upwards into a mischievous yet charming smile. “My dear, you are in the Underworld.”

-

Joshua kept you in the Underworld for who knows how long, you weren’t keeping track. A part of you yearned for the sunlight on Earth, the other part have grown fond of his darkness.

You were front and center when Joshua did unbearable things. Yet, when it was just the two of you together in his grand bedroom he was all charms and smiles.

Here in the Underworld there was no night or day, so you slept and woke up when you pleased. You were in bed when you heard the door click open.

“My love,” Joshua called out. You felt your heart flip with the name, yet you were ever so conflicted with being in love with the ruler of the Underworld. You played it coy, you were expressionless for the most part.

Even when Joshua had confessed his need for a partner, and him finally finding you made him feel something again, you tried your best to appear unaffected. It worked. Joshua has never once felt like he had made you feel anything for him asides from fear and reluctance, this speculation crushes him every single time he thinks about it.

His cat-like eyes were the only twinkling thing in this damned place, in all honesty you loved staring into them.

“I have some news.” Joshua sat down at the edge of the bed, you felt his weight dip down. You turned around to face him, still laying on your side.

“You’re so beautiful.” An awestruck look graced his face as his eyebrows slightly scrunched together, and the edges of his lips were curved upwards. You swallowed the lump in your throat, your face managed to stay stone-like.

Joshua sheepishly coughed to clear his throat, his smile disappearing. “That wasn’t the news.” Joshua took a deep breath. “The news at hand is… someone has appeared from the mainland to claim you as their spouse. They go by the name of Peirithous, do you know that person?”

You sat up from your comfortable position, you frowned at the name.

Joshua nodded. “So you do. What would you like me to do to this Peirithous?”

The malicious gleam you’ve become familiar with flashed in his eyes. Without another word to Joshua, you walked over to your dresser that was stock full of clothes. You got dressed right there and then, unbothered by Joshua’s presence.

Together you both walked out to the palace’s Throne Room. There a familiar face greeted you.

“Y/N, it’s been a year since your disappearance. I’m here to rescue you from this dreadful place.” Peirithous declared. In short, Peirithous was your entitled ex. Peirithous was crazy, and felt like they were obligated to marry you.

“I don’t need saving.” You spoke out in a clear and loud voice to which Joshua chuckled at your confidence.

Peirithous scoffed. “You’d rather stay here with him?”

Silence.

Peirithous once again scoffed. “Then come with me.”

“No.” You firmly stated. Joshua approached your side, he whispered in your ear.

I’ll get rid of this problem, I’ll make it all better. Joshua’s voice brought tingles down your spine.

With a reluctant sigh, you hissed. “Do it.”

Maybe it was this place, the overwhelming dark aura that hung over your head all day. Maybe it was accompanying the Lord of Death. Whatever it was, you allowed Joshua to pierce Peirithous’s heart with a blade. And you liked it.

After all of that was done and the body was gotten rid of, Joshua led you back to his bedroom where the both of you were allowed some privacy. Joshua gently pushed you down onto the bed so that you were sitting. He got down on one knee.

“Do you really want to stay with me?” Joshua inquired, looking up at you with fluttering eyelashes. Maybe it was time to stop your act. You nodded a solemn yes. You did, you really did.

With the flick of a wrist, a single pomegranate seed appeared in Joshua’s hand. He held it out to you.

“In all of my years of existence, of seeing magnificent wonders of the world, of witnessing endless fields of flowers, to laying eyes on you. Y/N, you’re still the most beautiful being I’ve ever had the honor of even catching a glimpse of.” Joshua drew out every word as if he had all the time in the world, well he did. He just wanted to make sure you understood how deeply he felt for you.

“If you eat this pomegranate seed, you’ll be able to stay with me forever.” His voice came out airy and delightful. As cliche as it sounds, Joshua’s breath was hitched when the word “forever” left his mouth.

Needless to say, you accepted the red seed and tossed it in your mouth. Finally, Joshua won’t have to face forever alone anymore.

Written by Admin V.K

anonymous asked:

Imagine a boy who is impregnated with a tiny egg cluster, the size of single poppy seed. He's made to swallow it in pill form while strapped to a table, completely immobile, the belts that hold him down also framing his tum. The scientists watch coldly all around him as the cluster takes effect. It passes into his womb and expands dramatically. His belly grows like a popcorn bag, quickly, bit by bit, then all at once a cacophony of pops and crackles as he screams in pain

Ashes on the Tongue

By Roshani Chokshi

Winter doesn’t know the taste of a lot of things. But there is one thing she has memorized, one flavor that never escapes her no matter how hard she tries. It is ash. Even when she sleeps, that charred ghost flavor slinks around her mouth, sticking at the back of her throat. When she sleeps, she can feel the velvet of fine-milled ash pressing into her cheeks. And when she wakes, the first smell on the wind is always wood smoke.

She supposes that this is because it is the taste of warmth. It is the taste of things fighting back against the might of her, but that doesn’t make it any better.

There are only so many things a season may taste.

Winter knows the delicate sweetness of ice riming a windowpane. There is no kinder cold than the sleeve of frost adorning a bare tree limb. Winter knows the taste of fire. Cold coaxes out the sugar, for when death is close, life turns to its sweetest. It does it like an animal cornered, a survival mechanism, and Winter can always taste the bittersweet taste of panic. There are other flavors, things that other seasons would long for—the tangy glitter-crackle of ornaments spinning behind a window, sticky sweet candy-coated apples that are a shade so viciously red they ward away demons. And that was nothing to say of the emotions that perfumed the air: waiting and wonder, snow in the eyes and snow on the tongue, winter prayers rising into the sky and tangling in the not-fallen snow.

But the ash…

The ash always remained.

It was always the taste that lingered, for it was the taste of death. The taste of things burned and turned into something else. That was what everyone thought of Winter. She was the season of sleep and frost, of death made beautiful when draped in white.

She was those things. She walked in a silver dress, wore a crown of velvet-nap antlers and around her throat was a collar of ice so bright that diamonds wept. When she walked, she showed you her bones. Like you were the only one who got to see her this way: the shadowy twigs of her limbs, the frail stone heart fluttering beneath a ribcage of dried moss. Even her blood, just sheaves of parchment-thin ice growing across a river.

But people always seemed to forget that she could grow things too. A new year, when no one was looking. A spindle that groaned fat on dreams that she draped through the slumber of so many children. Despair, when the mood struck, for she could yank Night into the sky and even Day would cower. For this was the time of her reign.  

And yet there were things she longed for too. Sometimes her reign was long and sometimes her reign was short. But always it was lonely.

There was no one else to sit at her table of snow. No one else with whom she might wax thoughtfully about the ever-present taste of ash.

When she reigned, everything else was asleep. Everyone else was already sharing their shadow.

She had taken mortal lovers, yes. Too many boys who she had loved for the way the snow clung to their lashes. Too many girls who she had worshipped for the way the ice laced through their hair. But there had been too many times when she kissed them too hard and they turned to ice beneath her. There had been too many times when she had lain her cheek against their shoulder in the night and woke to find them frozen.

It was a day that should have been mundane.

She should have known, then, how monumental it would be.

Things of great change like to wear the face of normalcy, as if they might stalk and sneak upon you better. Things of great change are rather childish, in that way.

Winter was wearing her finest furs of ruffled snow and ermine. She was walking in her thinnest slip, a gauzy thing that left her shoulders bare. She radiated cold, and the world warped around her the way a saint always bends his neck beneath the weight of a heavenly corona.

She saw her through a parting of trees. The branches were white, and through it, the girl looked like a fractal of a girl. Something already broken.

Winter loves instantly.

She could take the time to fall, of course, but winter is a gust of ice against an unprotected neck, and a noose of cold around the throat. Though the world yearns to be rid of her, she is usually gone quite fast.

Which is all to say: there was no time to be gentle.

For nothing about her was ever gentle.

The girl behind the branches stood out like a poppy in the snow. Like a flame poised to devour.

Winter could only watch as the girl picked her way through the fallen branches and icy ground to stand before her. This close, the girl burned. Her hair was smoke and embers, blue as the heart of a flame. And yet her lips were a candy-lush red, bright as a Christmas apple.

“I hear you don’t like what fruit I grow,” said the girl.

And Winter knew, suddenly, who she was. Fire.

Winter found her voice.

“The taste of ash is everywhere,” she said imperiously. “It gets everywhere. It’s the cursed taste at the end of every meal. It hides in my hair. Coats my tongue. So yes, one could say that I’m not particularly fond of your fruit.”

For she was nothing if not imperious.

Fire tilted her head. A ribbon of flame coiled around her neck. Winter wanted to press her lips to it. Then she wanted to remove it with her teeth.

“It was supposed to make you curious. Not furious.”

“Curious to do what?” asked Winter.

Fire stretched out her hand. A charred pomegranate sat in her palm. When Winter touched it, it seamed down the middle. A puff of smoke stamped the air. Seven charred seeds glistened like wet garnets.

“To know me. To let me stay by your side. Perhaps not all things that are bitter and lingering are things to be rejected. Perhaps you just have not explored them enough.”

Winter reached out, sucking the marrow from a single jewel seed. This was not a taste of ash that she knew. This was something lustrous. Something that tasted like a wildfire swallowing a forest. It stung the back of her throat. Made her eyes water.

Fire smiled. “Well?”

Winter poured the jewel-seeds into her mouth.