crumple page

the last page

there she was
tattered and worn
like a pretty note book
that was discarded
with its spine damaged
and weathered
she wore all her strength
on its cover
and life’s mess written
on her crumpled pages
that for some
were simply not
worth reading
she longed desperately
to be understood
to be known completely
by someone who could see
the simple beauty
within her chaos
someone who could accept
the errors scribbled inside
to be loved just as she was
the time came
when someone could
not just walk by
compelled to pick her up
and discover
he ran his fingers
across her pages
finding pure grace
even in her brokenness
he studied the mystery
that was her
he read each page
and devoured every word
falling in love
with all of her mistakes
then gently wrote his name
on the very last page


In his bed alone, Cullen will replay this moment a million times, like a favorite passage from a well-loved book; and like a page from a book that grows tattered and worn from endless re-reading, the memory will lose its cohesion until nothing but flashes remain, smudged phrases on a crumpled page. The stardust glitter of cascading beads. The soft clink of the robe hitting the paving stones. The sudden glow of moonlight on silver-pale skin. The shape of her, an impression of graceful limbs and supple parts that, in the shock of that first moment, never coalesce into a whole. Even in memory it is too much to take in all at once; she’s like a goddess from the old stories, who cannot be fully gazed upon by mortal eyes.

Blank Page

She was a blank page,
Not untouched and ready for new adventures,
But tattered and ripped,
She gave all that she could,
And then a little bit more,
She gave and gave,
Until there was nothing left for herself,
No more stories,
No more words,
Just a blank crumpled page,
And it broke my heart that there wasn’t anything left to fix.

Anders stared at the crumpled pages of his manifesto, worked and reworked to perfection, and yet never enough. He would never change enough minds like this. He could never save enough mages from a lifetime of confinement and terror.

(it is time for action) Justice whispered to him. (it has been time. you have delayed us almost too long.)

“I know,” Anders murmured, carefully smoothing out the message he’d gotten just an hour before, delivered at great personal risk by a servant with callused, shaking hands. “I know. Just… give me a few days to get it ready.”

He wouldn’t tell Hawke. He couldn’t. This burden was his to bear, alone with Justice, his oldest friend now. If he brought his lover down with him, he wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“I know,” Anders said again, barely a wisp of breath, as he lit the message on fire and watched it burn to ashes, its message seared into his shared brain.


Krieg keeps a secret notebook (that he hides under a floorboard) he’s been writing a letter to Maya in during those all too brief-feeling moments in which he’s lucid and can get control of his hands long enough to scribble down a few more words. His handwriting is big and blocky because it’s hard to write small when he’s more focused on not crushing the pen/pencil in his giant strong fingers and he’s ripped out and crumpled a lot of pages in his frustration at finally writing something coherent down only to have it ruined by rambling off into the word “meat” scrawled everywhere or something but he doesn’t care if it takes a thousand years, he will thank her for her endless kindness and patience and tell her what she means to him

the signs as books
  • The leather-bound book, with yellowing pages and fading words: Aries, Sagittarius, Capricorn // they are unforgettable, deep and meaningful, their story being told for eons to come
  • The book of a million words, each leaving an imprint on your mind like footprints on your soul: Gemini, Leo, Virgo // impacting and never uninteresting, memories of them never fade, like a stubborn stain on fabric
  • The book with crumpled and occasionally ripped pages that you continue to love even so: Taurus, Scorpio // though worn and damaged, they are beautiful and valued even in age
  • The book of doodles and words no-one will ever hear, a whisper in the crowd: Aquarius, Pisces // the unseen hero, behind-the-scenes in their true creativity, power and glory
  • The new book, with pages freshly fragrant and smooth: cancer, Libra // nostalgic and innocent, their future is bright and is capable of so many outcomes
Day 212: Cherished Trash

A little fluff inspired by a headcanon from @tf-tickles.

Medic started collecting the papers about six months ago when he found them in the wastebasket of his room. They were unexceptional things, just crumpled up pages from the notepad that he kept in the drawer of his desk. He’d only noticed them because he hadn’t been the one to leave them there. When he’d pulled the first one out he’d known the author immediately. There was no one else on base who wrote in Cyrillic. It made sense, Heavy was the only other person who spent time in the doctor’s bedroom.

Medic had carefully smoothed out the creased paper as much as he could. The written lines did not look like letters home to family, reminders for later, or even a list. They looked like poetry. When he asked Heavy about them, a noticeable blush crept up into the man’s face. “They are nothing, Doktor. Just scribbles.”

Medic had dropped the subject after that. But he had picked up a dictionary.

Progress had been slow. The Russian language played a little too loose with structure for his German sensibilities. But as Medic spent time with the papers scattered across his bed, eventually he started to see patterns, words repeated time and time again.

Мой врач. моя любовь. я люблю тебя.

My doctor. My love. I love you.

Declarations of love that were never shared. There was no doubt in Medic’s mind of Heavy’s affection. Indeed, the man was quick to show him, both in words and in bed. And of the two of them, Heavy had been the first to suggest that their relationship was slipping beyond that of friends. The first to broach the topic of what THEY would do once their time in the Gravel Wars was over. No, there was no question that he was loved by his Misha.

The only question was why Heavy had thrown them away.

He picked up one of the papers and looked at the neat letters written across it. Lines had been scratched out, some to the point where the writing underneath was impossible to read. Notes were scratched in the margins, and entire sections were circled, then marked with arrows that indicated the author’s intention to rearrange his thoughts entirely. Grabbing another page, he held them side by side and, for the first time, recognized the similarity between the two.

They weren’t scribbles. They were drafts.

Medic knew Heavy was a man of letters. Any appearance of stupidity could be solidly attributed to the language barrier between Russian and English. While Medic and Spy had both learned English as a matter of course in their own home countries, Heavy had to fight tooth and nail to simply remain in school. His father’s counter-revolutionary activities had led to the family frequently moving, and the fact that Heavy had been able to attend university at all, much less attain a PhD, was a testimony to the man’s determination and intelligence.

And then a light went on in Medic’s mind.

“Ach, Misha.” A sad smile crossed his face as he imagined Heavy sitting at his desk. First one sheet of paper, then the next, all in search of literary perfection. Finding those perfect words to satisfy the demands of a mind that expected so much of himself and never quite succeeding. Medic could only imagine the frustration of falling short of such exacting standards, and made a mental note of his own to kiss the man the next time he saw him.

Medic ran a finger over the wrinkled papers before carefully collecting them up one by one. Tying them into a bundle, he returned them to the nightstand drawer that had become their new home since their rescue from the waste basket. Even if he might never fully understand them, he would cherish them. Every single piece of trash.

Imagine Neville Longbottom having a journal that he writes in every night before bed. Imagine one day before potions class, Neville having a severe panic attack about the thought of facing Snape. Imagine him grabbing his journal and his quill and writing down a stream of his emotions onto the page until it becomes an incomprehensible scrawl. Imagine Neville realizing he is late and sprinting to potions class, only to realize he has forgotten his assignment in the common room. Imagine him struggling to hold back tears as Snape glares at him. Later, in the common room, he reads over what he wrote in his notebook. The sentence “I don’t deserve to be a Gryffindor” stands out on the page.  The tears finally come as he rips out the page, crumples it up, and hides it behind the bed. Just imagine it.


‘Sharp and Strong. Lightening up and down. Pain. Suffering. Unbearable. Make it stop. Glowing green. Killing me.’

‘Pain rushes over. Head trapped in a vice. Vile. Glowing blue. Shining. Shaking. I should take it. Stop.’

‘Iron strong. Cast in fire. They see the form but not inside. No name just a number.’

‘They see the place, not the person. The cloak, the staff. Fine wine and crumpled pages. Look at me.’

‘Strings being plucked. Memories of an age past. Sister. Bard. Now bird. Feathers flying. Where are you?’

‘Want to know. But knowing means to know. Don’t know what isn’t known. Tits. Shoot an arrow.’

‘Dreaming. Dreams of Fur. Feral. Fury. Fade away to become Ancient. Old. Forgotten. Sorry, old friend.’

‘Ink stained fingers and paper cuts. Names. Titles. Places. Parties. Silver tongue working for what is right. It is right, right?’

‘Lies upon lies. A name behind a name. Running. Coward. Pass the blame and run away. Found a purpose. Will take the blame.’

‘Molten warmth behind walls of ice. Caring for lost lambs. Lap of luxury. Caring for my Darling. Don’t go.’

‘Hard. Strong. Unwavering. Has to believe. Must believe. Raw emotion. Finding hope in the darkness. Seeking more.’

‘Embers burn hiding old pain. Tall tales tell tragedy to take it away. Her name holds power. Turn away then turn back. Cannot Stop.’

“I want to help them. My Friends.”

October Fic Fest Day 1


Originally posted by castiels-brokenwings

“I don’t understand this damn map. It’s like some kid made it up and drew it with crayons,” groused Sam, turning the crumpled page around in his hands again.

The three of them stood at the mouth of a path snaking off through the north Georgia wilderness. Sam, a few yards ahead of his brother, had brought them to a much-needed “regular” job busting up a werewolf den to give their brains a rest from fighting The Darkness. Neither Dean nor Castiel gave his grousing much mind. He didn’t know they were working through problems of their own. All right, it wasn’t a problem to Dean. Not at all. He was … entranced….

With the Mark of Cain gone and The Darkness devouring the planet, Dean had somehow awoken from it all with the veil lifted from his eyes. He saw ghosts. He knew exactly where pods of mermaids swam in the ocean. Aliens, well, yes they were out there but they weren’t interested in the colossal fuck up of Earth. Vampires, werewolves, and every other creature known to hunters (and many unknown)–yes, he could sniff them out easily if he tried. The putrid odor so intrinsic to demons? It was horrifyingly strong if they got within a few blocks. He didn’t know why it happened or how, but it really was like having a veil lifted from his limited human sight.

But all the things Dean saw since it happened never held a candle to the creature walking beside him, blue eyes fixed straight ahead. He stared. He couldn’t help it. Shit, he’d never seen light so bright but so gentle, shimmering off the enormous black wings arching over his shoulders. Patches of liquid black light feathers were missing and left painfully scarred and burned flesh behind. The signs of periodic torture were everywhere but so were beautiful signs of a creature too powerful to be killed that easy.

Keep reading

Stained Parchment

Marlis stopped the quill, hovering it over the parchment. Drip…drip. The purple ink left two blotches upon the heavy writing material from which the woman immediately crumpled up and tossed aside. 

  Her desk was a mess, and she was surrounded in crumpled up pages parchment. She wanted to write a letter to someone…but it had to be perfect. Even though she had finally achieved her new persona, she still felt dull and empty inside and her mind was allowed to wander so far all over the place. 

  She thought of her daughter, her sister, Paradise Bay, mom, dad, and even the crows. Atleast when she was with them she had some sort of purpose…but now, the only purpose she had was revenge and trying not to lose everything she had been given by Rariv’sha… 

  It was hard, to say the least. Marlis couldn’t keep up with the costs of running the large estate and so chose to move the few girls she had adopted into Dreamscape to Surwich. But now, she was going to have to move again. 

  Marlis pulled another sheet toward it. It was the last sheet. She dipped the quill into the violet ink once more, this one was going to be perfect. It had to be.

Dear Rariv’sha.

I hope you’re doing well, wherever you may be. My daughter is well and so are the others. I’m sorry I had to move them out of Dreamscape Estate but I needed to find employment elsewhere and it was hard moving back and forth between such distances.

  I’m only writing as a good omen. You’re one of the few people I respect and hope that your future endeavors are even vaster then before. I can see what you can do, and you can take it all.

-Lissandra Corvi

@rarivsha​ // I know you’re on hiatus, I thought I’d just throw some one-sided literature at you because I’m incredibly bored and on a full-blown writing spark. You’re great!

Apparently technology is making us lazy, but I don’t know any different.

There’s nothing quite the like the smell or the feeling of turning the crisp pages of a brand new book, or reminiscing over the crumpled, tired pages of your favourite novel that you’ve read again and again. This feeling is something like no other, so why are we doing everything we can to destroy it?

In 1440 the printing press was created, changing the world forever. The printing press allowed us to quickly share massive amounts of information, something we would have never been able to do before. Imagine never having a newspaper or a magazine. It’s unheard of to our generation.

With the vast advancements in technology, we are slowly destroying some of our most precious possessions. In 2007, Gregg Zehr invested the first e-reader, the kindle. Kindle allowed you to store all your books in one place, allowing you to read whatever took your fancy at the touch of a button, lightweight and limitless, Kindle slowly took the world by storm. Why carry around 9 books in your hand luggage on holiday when you could take your handy little lightweight kindle? It just made sense.

Take a moment and think about it…

How often do we pick up a newspaper to find out about current affairs? Why would we when we can just download the BBC News app and read it on our iPhones without even having to move from what we’re doing? Why would we go to a bookshop or a library to browse when we can just log in to our amazon account and download it to a kindle? It saves u the time and the effort. Its simply beneficial.

Being a student and a teenager, I am always getting moaned at by older generations that technology is making us lazy. But I’ve grown up with it, so how am I to know any different? I have always lived in a world where if I urgently need to speak to someone, I can just pick up the phone and call them. But why do we allow technology to stop us from making a real effort? As I’ve said in nearly all my blogs, I am one of the worst culprits for how often I rely on social media, and as sad as it is to say, I can’t really remember what I used to do before I had a smartphone. I just wish I hadn’t let it get this far, but at the same time, is there ever really a way to avoid the advances in technology? They benefit us, so why would we choose not to use them? People say today’s technology makes us lazy, but when we know no different, it’s just routine. A way of life that is socially accepted.


I haven’t had the energy, or more so the motivation to pick up a pen and write all these thoughts down. I dabble endlessly for hours with nothing but scratch marks and crumpled pages scattered all over the floor, and sometimes I feel like ripping my insides dry because the words just don’t come anymore. It doesn’t help that I recycle old verses and lines and hope they could ignite the same spark that flickered my seventeen-year-old heart. 

It’s those momentary lack of faith that makes you lose yourself, entirely.

“How are you?” they would ask.

“How’s your work coming along?” harboring no sense of doubt as the words roll off the tip of their tongue. I feel myself betraying them. I feel my inconsistencies eat away at the person I used to be- always so full of life and so easily encouraged to be someone great, to be this “person” everyone can squeeze comfort from, because she would always have a handful ready to be passed around to anyone who needed it. Someone who preferred kindness over anything else. Someone who knew exactly what it is she wanted in life. 

How did I end up here?

I don’t know who that person is anymore. I look in the mirror and the scary thing is, the person staring back is someone I no longer recognize. I can’t help but let the tears fall. I can’t help but wonder if this is exactly the person I was destined to become. So scattered, and lost. So full of doubts. I am overwhelmed with so much more, so much potential to be more, to fight for the desire to accept myself for who I am (despite how undeniably flawed that person is) and be able to love myself without a hint of hatred.

But when I look at myself, really look at myself, 

All I see are my failures. The words repeatedly said out loud by the people I’ve once loved, tattooed on my skin. 

Not. Good. Enough.

The base of this art journal page is crumpled purple tissue paper. I brayered over the tissue paper first with a dark violet, then with a much lighter purple, before writing the quote with a silver-purple Gelly Roll.

Blank pages never intimidate me. It’s a sketchbook. I can beat the shit out of it. - Stefan Sagmeister

I’ll never understand why you couldn’t say “I love you”,
And I’ll never understand why you prefer to drink alone.
It’s not your fault that my life is a little fucked up, and it’s not your fault that you couldn’t help me.
I know you’ve got problems of your own.
I never expected your kisses to fix years of damage, but they helped me stay sane for a little while longer.
I’m not mad at you for leaving.
When you told me that you were in this forever I knew it wouldn’t be the forever kind of forever that people dream about,
Because dreams are only real when you’re dreaming, and reality sets in as soon as the pills wear off.
I can’t blame you for wanting something more,
And I’m sorry I left you out in the cold but my room is filled with crumpled up pages of things I’ll never say out loud and a lot of bandages just in case things go wrong again.
Things always seem to go wrong eventually.
I could always see something in your eyes that told me you weren’t okay.
It was the kind of pain that love can’t even fix, and I knew that I was only making it worse.
From what I’ve experienced, love makes everything worse.
It’s too intense and even when it’s right it hurts,
But I know one day you’ll make it big and maybe falling in love with four girls in one night can make you happy like I never could.
Before you leave for good I hope you’re able to look at me again.
I’m glad you’re leaving before I completely lose myself.
Two teens with alcohol problems that wouldn’t mind dying isn’t the most romantic story to tell my mother anyways.
I loved you no matter what though, even when you were too depressed to get out of bed for six days in a row, and too impatient to let me help you be a better you.
I know one day I’ll be happy, so it’s okay if you break my heart tonight.
Maybe I wont be alright tomorrow or even two years from now but I wont let this lethal love hold me back.
I wont let love curse me forever like it did to my parents.
I wont make the same mistake of wasting a lifetime on someone that’s never going to let love in.
God, I loved you.
I hope you’re doing better.
—  I spent ten months waiting for something that would never happen and even longer wishing that I hadn’t.
ginny: view five

“What do you mean you’ve never been skating?”

Harry shrugged. He was still rumpled from sleep, pillow creases on his cheek and his hair even more of a mess than usual. “I didn’t do a lot of outside recreation as a kid.”

“We should go.” Ginny idly stirred her coffee with her wand. Hermione thought it was disgusting and poor wand maintenance to boot, but it was a habit she couldn’t seem to break. Not that she’d tried especially hard. “There was a pond, not far from the Burrow? We all used to go out there when it froze. Come home half-frozen, Mum would have a fit.” There had been a ragged collection of ice skates, and Ginny had to wear two pairs of thick woolen socks and stuff crumpled Prophet pages into the toes to make the oversized skates fit her little feet. But it had been so worth it.

“Yeah, sure.” Harry yawned and stabbed at a sausage with his fork. “Why not?”

When they did get out there on the ice, Harry as wobbly as a newborn fawn, it reminded her of all those winter days she spent red-cheeked and giggling with her brothers. She watched Harry inch his way across the ice. He chanced a glance back at her and his grin was blindingly wide…for the instant before his feet went out from under him and he fell hard on the ice. She skated over, trying not to giggle as he groaned, and realized for the first time that Harry was her family now.

Love that Won’t Fit

Dear Cas, where will you keep your love? It’s a love that won’t fit.

No matter what you do or what he says, it’s a love that won’t fit. So where will you put it?

Not inside the mirror in your bedroom, no. Love wheezes like a steam train behind your rounded back. You watch yourself push it up high, like a case up on the luggage rack. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, who knows if the train will ever come back? No.

Not under the bed, no. It’s too big and it keeps you awake; there’s a thirst you want to slake with more than water when the night wears thin. You ought to not. It’s not right to give in. No.

Not standing to one side of the room he’s sitting in, no. Your lips are pressed like crumpled pages, you haven’t said a word in ages. Your hush mouth’s slick with ink. You do not speak. You think, and think, and think. No.

Not in your conversations, no. Every glass word breaks with the weight, spills nine implications, so. It would be better to die for him, without complications, like you used to. No.

“Dean,” you say. Clear your throat, dry. He’s watching you with eyes as hard as liquor, and you wonder if it would help your heart to kick and hiss and bicker with him, again. You wonder if his love’s like yours - if it’s smaller. If it’s bigger.

You wonder if he can see yours, now; your lips part with the pressure and he watches, and he leans. You lose your breath; he catches it, and now it’s Dean’s. You angle strange and hope askew; and suddenly, he looks like he sees everything in you. So what will you do?

Dear Cas, where will you keep your love? It’s a love that won’t fit. It has no place in your mouth, in your hands, in your heart, in your fists.

Oh, but Cas, it might just fit in a kiss.

Okay, so I saw one of dealingdreams‘ prompt request posts and got excited… I may or may not have written about 1000 words, but details… I’m afraid I changed its concept a little bit, but… It’s the intention that counts…?

They’re in a conference the first time it happens.

It’s about three in the afternoon and they’re in the main conference room along with the park’s sponsors. They’re in the middle of a meeting set to discuss the costs of the upcoming attractions when she feels it. Owen’s leg gently brushing her own. It’s subtle and barely lasts three seconds, but it’s enough to make the hair on the back of her neck stand. And she’s momentarily taken aback, but upon scanning his face with the corner of her eyes, she sees nothing but pure concentration as he scribbles something that looks very much like a Velociraptor in a particularly crumpled, yellowish notebook page.

And then she hears the word ‘profit’ come out of someone’s mouth and the occurrence is all but forgotten.

The next time, they’re in Masrani’s office.

Both had been asked to hand in their report on the containment facilities, and Claire is about to close the door behind her when Owen places his hand on top of hers from outside the room, forcing the glass door open before she could cut off his wrist. It’s not the first time he touches her, but it feels electrifying all the same. She immediately snaps her head in his direction, and this time he looks at her equally astonished.

She wonders if he may have felt the same wobbly feeling on his legs, or the same urge to retract his hand as fast as possible, but chooses to put the matter aside as she dreadfully realizes she’s actually still holding his hand.

There’s the distinguished sound of someone clearing their throat in the background, and both of them turn towards Mr. Masrani. There’s a seriousness in the air around him, and embarrassed as they are, neither of them notices the ever so subtle smirk stretching on the corner of their boss’ lips.

Then, it’s at the elevator.

It’s been a rather busy day at Jurassic World. A few children had tried to feed the Triceratops, there was a fight between two assets on the eastern side of the park, and some other minor disturbances that Claire needed to tend to.

She’s about to give up on the elevator and take the stairs when its doors suddenly burst open, and amongst the people inside it is Owen Grady - of course. Claire doesn’t even have time to dwell weather or not to go in when a horde of people pushes her inside, and suddenly she finds herself squeezed between Owen himself and an old man with a moustache.

Which is worse she can’t possibly tell.

There’s an awkward silence as they descend the ten-story building, and all she can think during those five endless minutes the damned elevator takes to reach the first-floor is the way Owen’s broad chest presses against her back, and how his warm hands are painfully close to her waist.

It’s just when the doors finally open again that she realizes she’s been holding her breath all along. What she doesn’t take notice, however, is that there was plenty of space for both of them.

Finally, they’re in the cafeteria.

The previous night’d been a rather rough one for Claire. She’d spent the majority of her sleeping hours reading countless contracts, and the remaining time drinking as much Red Bull as possible. Now that the effect of the sugar’s starting to fade away, all she’s capable of doing is get coffee to survive the rest of the day.

It’s five past six in the bloody morning and Claire’s somewhere between two and five cups of coffee when she spots him coming her way - wearing particularly tight, black denim pants and the usual shirt with its sleeves rolled up. Owen’s engaged in a conversation with Barry, gesticulating excitedly as he talks, and she can’t help but notice how that smile suited his face much better than the frown he usually had on around her. He’s getting closer and she’s getting restless as she stands right beside the table where the coffee is, but it’s just when he’s finally standing right in front of her that he notices her presence. He stops mid-sentence, hands still in the air, and offers her a crooked smile she refuses to reciprocate.

Barry taps Owen’s shoulder and leaves for the breakfast table, and she takes that moment to turn around and pour some more coffee to her already full cup. She expects him to get on with his breakfast or whatever it is he’s doing there, but she can still feel his presence behind her.

It comes as a surprise when she turns around and he’s leaning forward.

Dangerously so.

But she stays frozen in place until their faces are mere inches apart.

“Mr. Grady, may I ask what on earth are you doing?” she tries to sound firm, but her voice comes out shaky, and Claire forces herself to believe it’s only because of their unnecessary proximity.

“Why Mrs. Dearing,” he says teasingly, flashing her an annoying little smirk - a very attractive one too, though she’d never admit it - and she thinks he can’t get any closer, but he proves her wrong by pressing his chest against hers yet again, one hand brushing her waist as he reaches behind her for a mug, never breaking eye contact, “Can’t a man get some coffee around here…?”