circle of buzzards

not to be That Girl, but using Triggered Jokes and backpedaling by saying “it’s about FAKE ptsd victims” makes you sound less like someone who cares about people with PTSD and more like a buzzard circling overhead to find PTSD sufferers you deem to be illegitimate

but hey, it ain’t like you cared anyway; the joke’s just “i’m having a traumatic flashback over something you think is petty! isn’t that funny?”

it’s like the Vietnam Vet Stereotype for millenials, tbh

Strangetown Gothic

The air is heavy with sweat and dust as you step off the un-airconditioned bus. Instantly you think of buzzards, circling lazily overhead as they wait in line for death, and you nervously check the empty blue sky.

The Smiths’ lawn is a false oasis, a mirage, the only living green in the whole town. The only colors you can see for miles are the yellow-orange desert and the achingly blue sky - and a patch of green behind a blindingly white picket fence, filled with rows upon rows of stoic grass blades standing bravely under the pressure of the sun.

You’d heard there were some strange homes out in the desert, but the castle and the multi-story telescope platform take the cake. The only thing more obvious is the row of cooling towers, remnants of the old nuclear plant, looming ominously along the side of the highway. The low hum of the powerlines in the sweltering night wispers of ashes, of fear a half-century old, that soaked into the soil with the infrequent rains.

Another house has a graveyard next door, stones blank and ominous, with names worn soft by the sandblasting wind. In front of one stone sits a single cactus flower, thrown there like an offering. When you lean forward you can just make out Willow and Creon Nigmos, and you taste rank, brackish water in the back of your mouth. The old woman in black sees you staring and chases you away.

No one seems to know much about anyone else, which is quite odd for such a small town. Everyone is related to the green-skinned man who lives in the house with the white picket fence, but just like the black-clad old woman in the house next to the graveyard, he will tell you nothing. 

There is another shade of green in town: army green, a dull olive drab that is alarming in its unobtrusiveness. The fear in the water no longer lurks underground. 

Cracks

I feel like this started off strong, but the quality tapered off toward the end. Anyway, this is based on the comment @raphaelhatesbugs made last night about the fact that the “hug” from Krang would have done a lot more damage to Mikey than we saw. Also, all the fights the boys had with each other was excellent angst fodder. Tagging @ltcommkat @call-me-the-cooky-one @azurenika because they are my muses when it comes to headcanon and fic. 

Some wounds heal, while others grow, but time will heal all

Warnings: angst, mention of blood and injury, Mikey tears, TMNT 2 SPOILERS


“That guy was a jerk,” Mikey said as he got to his feet, reflexively placing a hand against his chest as a pain that adrenaline had previously masked surged through him. “His pun game was on point though, heh. Hug goodbye,” he continued, trying to ignore the way he wheezed with each syllable. His brothers weren’t convinced, and soon they were circling him like buzzards. Mikey tried to shove them away playfully, but was soon wiping away blood and mucus from his chin with an embarrassingly charming laugh meant to hide the utter terror that was spilling into his veins like ink into water.

That was strike one.

Strike two came when he neglected to apply the chlorhexidine that Donnie had given him to the crack on his shell twice daily, and the rot began to settle in. It was easy for him to forget Doctor Donnie’s “discharge instructions” when the purple banded turtle kept spouting medical terminology at him like pleural effusion and pulmonary contusion at a rate he was sure not even a computer could catch up with. Leonardo had been the first to notice it, pointing out the odd smell surrounding Mikey (yes, more odd than usual, Raph) and prompting Donnie to examine the sizable crevasse in Mikey’s carapace once more. According to the sounds his brothers made as the tape was peeled away, the infection had gotten pretty gnarly.

Apparently it was only two strikes you’re out in this game, and so Mikey found himself on bed rest with Nurse Raph hovering over him whenever he moved, threatening to tie him down and gag him if he got up one more damn time. His bed only stayed comfortable for so long, and the ridiculous mechanism Don had scrapped together to keep Mikey’s posture conducive to the healing of his broken ribs was giving him blisters.

He had learned to keep his mouth shut after the first week, because his complaining began to fall on deaf ears. By the second week, the sounds of his brothers laughing and shouting jovially as they trained in the dojo had begun to make him more nauseous than the pain medicine. By the third week, when his ribs were nearly healed and the infection was finally beginning to slow its progress, something else had begun to fester within him. It took root in the back of his mind, eventually spreading with long icy tendrils until the cold, dull ache of it was all he could feel. Leo’s hurtful words filled his head nightly, building up and congealing until every other thought was muffled by them.

Donnie had the brains, Raph had the power, Leo had the warrior’s mind, and Mikey had the heart.

Heart meant nothing in a fight; something the pain in his chest was all too eager to remind him of any chance it got.

One afternoon, when Splinter had dozed off while watching his soap operas and Leo and Raph were sparring, Mikey clambered out of his bed and found Donnie in the garage. Though logic usually prevailed with Donnie, every once in a while Mikey was able to appeal to his brother’s softer side. He hoped this would be one of those times.

Lifting his goggles when he noticed Mikey enter, Donnie furrowed his brows and set aside his tools.

“What are you doing, Mike? You shouldn’t be up just yet.” His gold eyes travelled to Mikey’s hips where his weapons were nestled and to his back where his skateboard was holstered. “Why are you geared up?”

“Thought we could do some training,” Mikey responded, trying to sound cheerful.

“No way, dude. You need to stay as immobile as possible.”

“I’m good!” Mikey pleaded, gesturing at himself as if to reassure his brother that he was indeed whole and unscathed. “At least let me back on my board. I’m dying!”

“You had a flail chest, Mikey. That would have killed a non-mutant. I know you don’t understand the technical aspect of—“

“Man, whatever,” Mikey interrupted, the rage that he had become so familiar with over the last few weeks slipping through his teeth. “I’m not a kid. You don’t have to dumb stuff down for me.”

Donnie turned to face him fully now, acutely aware of Mikey’s distress. “What’s wrong?”

“Ever since our fight with Krang, I’ve been getting the shaft, bro.”

“What do you mean? You’ve been recovering!”

“I’ve been recovered, man,” Mikey said, doing a flip and landing in stance as if to punctuate his statement. He gritted his teeth and prayed Donnie couldn’t see the agony in his eyes as pain ripped through his chest. “I’m ready,” he added, though regret filled him instantly as he heard the desperation oozing from his own voice.

“It isn’t up to me,” Donnie told him with trepidation in his voice.

“Right. It’s up to him.”

“I thought we were all over this.” Donatello chuckled nervously.

“Yeah well maybe I’m not!” Mikey yelled, his cracking voice echoing off the tunnel walls as if to mock him. Shrinking slightly, he lowered his voice. “In case you haven’t noticed, bro, while you three have been out team building, I’ve been stuck down here in your shitty excuse for a hospital bed, choking on Splinter’s gross ‘healing tea’ and thinking about all of the pats on the back I haven’t gotten yet.”

Donnie blinked once, twice, and again a third time for good measure. His cheek slipped between his teeth, the way it did when the cogs were turning in his head, and Mikey realized he hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t seen this coming, and that stung Mikey worse than the pinching ache in his ribs.

Little Mikey can’t take care of himself, Mikey isn’t smart enough to contribute to the team, Mikey’s all heart and no brain, well who says that’s a bad thing? What does Leo know anyway? I do just as much for this team as the rest of you, and I don’t get crap in return. He thinks he can toss me aside just ‘cause I slipped up and got hurt? What, like he’s never made a mistake?

All of the thoughts he had gathered in silence during his recovery poured out of his mouth in a waterfall of emotion. His eyes prickled with weeks of unshed tears but he would be damned if he would let them fall now. He threw his chucks to the ground with a clang and kicked his skateboard with as much force as he could muster. Donnie flinched slightly, but kept his composure.

“If you all think I’m so useless, why didn’t you just let Krang finish me off?” he screamed, gripping at his head with both hands and sliding down the stone wall until he was in a crumpled heap on the ground. The pain was impossible to ignore now, so he allowed the tears to spill down his cheeks and a wail escape his lips.

Donnie was at his side in an instant, gripping his arms and futilely trying to tug him into an upright position. Mikey had become dead weight, the feeling of abandonment heavier than anything he had ever felt in his life. Giving up, Donnie settled for cupping Mikey’s face and wiping away his tears with his thumbs. Mikey wrapped his own hands around Donnie’s wrists and sobbed freely.

There were words in the gentle strokes of Donnie’s thumbs beneath his eyes; words of comfort and love and reassurance that Mikey knew Donnie had trouble saying out loud. The genius was blabbering about stress resulting from traumatic near-death events, but the only words Mikey focused on were the ones spilling from his fingertips. They screamed in silence, not of doubt or pity, but of a deep and desperate desire for Mikey to know that he needed him. They all needed him.

Mikey briefly recognized the sounds of footsteps entering the garage and the clang of sword and sai against stone before two more sets of hands joined the silent conversation.

Mikey realized then that this was the only apology he would ever need.

10 days of Pratchett
Day 6. Tifanny and the Wee Free Men - Hamish

‘How can a man six inches high train a bird like that?’ she asked as the buzzard circled again for height.
‘Ach, all it takes is a wee drop o’ kindness, mistress,’ said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock.
‘Really?’
‘Aye, an’ a big dollop o’ cruelty…’

/Terry Pratchett, The Wee Free Men/

It’s Sunday morning
and my roommate goes to church.
My roommate goes to church and I go
to the bone yard.

Autumn is in full swing
and the wind whispers through my hair,
“This is no place
for the living.”

I bring a flower because I hate
to come empty-handed to the people
who have lost so much.
I bring a flower because I have so much
to be thankful for.
I bring a flower because the buzzards circling
never seem to want something alive.

And I am here.
I like to think they wouldn’t mind,
and I have my reasons.

I’m here because poets are meant
to love the dead.
I’m here because the living world
has forgotten how to be still.

I’m here because my roommate
isn’t the only one
who wants to be forgiven.

—  Sunday

I think you should all know that early this morning I saw a fucking buzzard circling over an insurance agency and I briefly wondered if I was actually awake yet

My name tag reads: Monday.
My shirt says: Haters gonna Hate.

Hello blogger,
activist,
hero,
rebel, 
writer,
and poet!

How’s your revolution
coming along?

I myself am getting dizzy from
this constant re-cycling,
circling, like buzzards,
like broken records,
like these vinyl
hipster fashion trends.

Everything old is new again,
like racism,
like opression,
like inequality,
like injustice,
like suffering.

Be the change you seek,
spare, sparse, pocket.

This endless trying,
trying.

Green blades of grass, we are,
undulled by drought, by time,
still useless
as weapons.

Morphine drip, this voice,
this scream, this fist in the air.
How sweetly it dulls the pain,
the reality, the impotent rage.

A poem, a false sense
of accomplishment.

It is Tuesday,
May 12, 2015.