fears in the water

Unravel it into simple strands unravel it into clear water. What to do with fear but invite it in for coffee then let it go. I love the earth and the bees and the butterflies love my garden. How to gather it in my arms say something comforting. Peace what a word and how do we hold it then hold it out. I want good things for you. This earth that can barely look us in the eye anymore.

why you should [risk] seeing ‘it:’
  • a bunch of little kids cussing each other out!!!
  • some truly classic one-liners, t r u l y,
  • doesn’t shy away from stephen king’s brutal subject matter for a second
  • pennywise is so well-acted and so are all the kiddos
  • really great score
  • it’s hard to make seven main child actors all feel important and relevant, and they pulled it off
  • main characters include: a kid with a realistic stutter, a kid with anxiety, a young girl standing up to sexualization (and abuse), an overweight kid with a heart of gold, etc.
  • nice sprinkling of awwww moments
  • a bunch of children throwing rocks at each other to rock music
  • some very very clever framing that makes me want to go back and study the film closer
  • the spooks are wise
  • it made me yell
  • good balance of cgi and physical effects—especially in terms of vfx make-up
  • it portrays child abuse on the same level as the rest of their fears and that is important
  • they don’t try to water down anything “because they’re kids,” if that makes sense; but mature themes are handled very well
  • lovely coming-of-age vibes amidst the shapeshifting clown monster
  • they really pulled out all the spooks with this one folks
  • look getting the bejesus scared out of yourself with a full audience is a great experience, this one has a decent plot and top-tier spooks, you should really give it a chance
The Signs as Weapons

Aries:The first spear thrown in the most important hunt for the tribe. The arrowhead sharpened to a point that cuts through wind, and more importantly, flesh.
Taurus:A shield used in the Colosseum. Perfectly round, its edges bare chips as scars from many close calls. A blade is only as strong as one who weilds it, a shield will always hold if built correctly.
Gemini:Two daggers, both forged by a self proclaimed God. One blessed by sunlight, the other cursed by moonlight. Where one is weak, the other is strong. Never to be separated, as you can not live solely in the day or the night.
Cancer:A war axe, crafted from diamond and metals passed down from the heavens. Incredibly heavy, when in the hands of the pure it swings with the speed and force of the northern winds.
Leo:A whip eight feet long, with thorns protruding from the aged leather. Legend says when cracked by one with a lion’s spirit, the animal kingdom is theirs to rule.
Virgo:The poison itself may not warrant the label weapon, but the needles dipped lightly in the vile before being perfectly placed in the nape of the victim’s neck might. Starting from there the poison slowly eats away the muscles and fat from the body, leaving its host a shriveled pile of skin and bone.
Libra:A shaman’s fan, made of large leaves bound in twine and blessed with drops of patchouli oil. Seemingly a flimsy decorative piece, when fanned as the ancestors did, the winds themselves bend to the control of the shaman.
Scorpio:A woodsman’s axe, two small chunks of opal tied tight to the handle. It’s intention is to forge through the darkest part of the woods, to clear any obstacles that the forest may present, but the blade is very familiar with the feeling of blood.
Sagittarius:The bow was carved from glass, engraved with the prayer of a lost civilization. The arrows, nine of them, found in the chest of a queen buried deep in an eleborate tomb. When used together, they say a man can become a God.
Capricorn:The old crone’s staff, an owl carved into the darkened wood. Decorated in stones, feathers, and totems of her people. She raises the tip to the setting sun, and transforms into her true form. Her night is spent soaring above the trees, moonlight illuminating her hunting grounds.
Aquarius:A gun can instill fear in anyone, but a water gun on the other hand brings people together with the power of nostalgia. Until, that is, they realize that’s not water they’re laughing off. It’s acid.
Pisces:A sword passed down from mother to daughter for generations. Once known as the sharpest blade in the world, it has been kept from bloodshed for a hundred years. Sheathed in an ornate sleeve it sleeps, and waits for the day its steel must save humanity again.

when i was seven the sea-witch cursed me.

she cursed my great-grandfather, actually, who had spat on the hands of the ocean and disrespected the beating heart of the earth - for what else are waves but a pulse - who was silly and violent and who tried to rip from the water what was hers by rights. we were wealthy, before that, a family of merchants. my mother says in her youth she recalls white horses, the gleam of candles, early mornings with bread baked fresh by a horde of servants.

he didn’t ask permission to cross her. that’s what my mother tells me while she spoons porridge with no flavor into the wood of my bowl. he had no faith in superstition, rode with boats that were more decoration than strength, the folly of a man who was cruel and vain and proud of his own gold teeth. the sky had been blue, so regardless of what the village witch said, he would sail that day. and when his boat sank; their lives turned blue like the sky that day.

my mother says she thinks the curse on the men of our family, even if they come in when they marry, is that they will forever be violent, too foolish to see the storm on the horizon. she whispers this to me on the eve of my seventh birthday, while father is his own storm, thundering around the house, looking for her. later, when i am cleaning the cut by her cheek, she tells me the curse is on the women to forever be unhappy, to wane until they are shadows, to walk into the deep like a sinking ship. 

we don’t burn candles often, they are too expensive. she tells me this in the silk of a dark room. the moon kisses her hair. 

in three days, my mother will walk into the ocean, and my father will be my own problem. the curse will pass onto me. 

my father does not believe in superstition, no curse to conquer him. when he is gone, and i am heartbroken, i go to the village witch. i ask her to teach me about magic, and other things, and about how the ocean can be coaxed, and how to save my father’s soul. 

and my hands rot too, keeping a house by myself with things i barely knew. i learn the art of a good scrubbing, keep my mind full of white horses while i endlessly clean, dream of candles in dark while i make the bread that he will not allow me to eat. he keeps me from the ocean, from visiting the place that took my mom, from following in her footsteps where the water makes women undone.

i am sixteen when i see her in the water of a bowl. she scares me so completely that i drop it, and my father comes in with his hands, and the curse, and i almost forget all about it. it isn’t until after that i realize she is beautiful, and young, which surprises me. 

i think about it every evening. her face becomes distorted to me. i can no longer remember the exact shape of it, only the impression of beauty. 

i turn seventeen and wait for the high moon. i pin safety to my vest in little witch herbs and runes. i put naked toes on the sand and slip closer, closer, to the avenue of my family’s doom. i find a little private beach, small and surrounded by rocks, hidden from my father in the event he ever thought to come looking. at high tide, it is barely the span of my body. at low, it feels empty.

the witch of the land has given me what i need to call in the witch of the sea, but i do not use it. it feels wrong, somehow, standing here in the wind and the quiet pulse of the world. i put down the incense and sage and i sit just close enough it feels wild, dangerous - but not close enough to get caught up in thrill. 

when nothing happens, i go home and i make bread that i will not eat.

for months i do this. i climb down to my beach. i learn to do it when the moon is half, and then when the moon is empty. i learn to do it so well that sometimes i go to sleep in my own bed and wake up by the water. i take to sleeping with warding runes to keep me from being pulled in the rip out to the waiting hands of a hungry sea-witch.

i don’t know when i start talking. more often i sing, because singing in my house is not allowed, and something about the way the rocks echo my voice feels comforting. the older i get, the more i can pretend i hear my mother’s voice, answering me, harmonizing gently. i sing songs about sadness and lullabies about curses. when i have exhausted every song i know, i write new ones about fathers who have never learned how to be kind, about the house i work in but do not love, about mothers who left, and about a sea witch.

i see her sometimes. in a puddle, in the drop of rain, in the strangest places. i never expect it, although i always hope. i am never able to see her for more than the length of a wave, breaking, and each time, it does something new to my heart.

at eighteen i am too much of my father’s burden. he tries to unload me onto other men. the land witch helps me with this. i rub hemlock, burn wolfsbane. we arrange so these men have other women to marry. the news of my curse is bad enough to scare most away. my father is not happy.

after a particularly savage night, i wonder how bad it could be. i could marry some boy from the village who didn’t quite bother me. i suppose they’re not ugly. timothy had always been gentle to me. i think about a life, and how i am cursed to be unhappy. my father would finally be proud of me.

i walk to the beach and i tell the waves about him and how i could convince myself it was love if i just never wanted from him. how i could be okay, if not content, how i could be free, how i already had learned life down on knees.

but i go home and i write a rune of warding. and the years pass and i find reasons each suitor is wanting. and the sea witch i see, sometimes, peeking out at me, staying long each time in the water, looking, watching. i see her in mirrors when my father storms against me. it is bad because he mistakes the cause of my smiling. it is better when she is there the next morning.

and i go to the ocean. when i am too sad to speak, it seems like the ocean is whispering for me. i picture my mother’s voice and tell myself i am happy. i am seven again and we are sewing. i am seven again and the curse has not been given to me. i am seven and she came home after she walked to the sea.

i grow silly, brave, unthinking. i leave behind the herbs and i wade deep. i teach myself the art of swimming. i am bad at it, at first, but something about it feels good to me. like the ocean wants to buoy me. in the day i think of it, guilty. what if there was a rip tide, and the water took me? who would care for my father if i stepped off the beach into a long drop? wasn’t i clever enough to know that the ocean is uncaring?

it is not this that does it. i go out after a rain and i slip on the rocks and suddenly i am in water above my head but without the moon i cannot see the up of it. i kick and i thrash and the water surrounds me. the tide pulls on my body and in the cold i feel my body grow weary. water spills into me. it punches through my body, up my nose and into my lungs and some part of me knows this is what mother felt before she was gone.

i kick ground by accident, reorient, drag myself heaving and spitting into the air. i lie there for a long time, half in and half out of death, enjoying the sensation of breathing and of life.

when i look up, i think i see her, watching me, her brows knit with something like worry. but we make eye contact and my heart leaps and then she is gone and i am left alone with nothing but the dawn breaking.

my father is furious when there is no bread. he finds my hair wet, and the salt of the ocean still smelling on me. and that is it. that day he goes out and pays someone to agree to marry me.

this feels right to me, i think. i’m twenty-one, three times seven, a perfect number for a curse to fully come down on me. i will be wed in three weeks.

the land witch comes to visit me. she looks like she’s sorry for me. she gives me a spell and tells me to put it under my pillow; i’ll dream of love and it will soothe me. instead i dream of the seawitch, and how wonderful she is, and the sight of her, out on the water, worried.

even though it is risky, i go down to the beach. i do not bother with protective spells, i have already seen that the water can kill me. fear alone keeps me from wandering. i sit on the beach and in the sand i draw runes for understanding and i make the small magicks i’ve spent years learning and i close my eyes and i ask the ocean “why do you do this to me.”

i fall asleep. i dream that the sea witch talks to me. i dream she is my age, that she is the great-granddaughter of the first to curse my family. i dream she has spent years watching, learning, finding the truth of me. that she just needs to get the courage to come and speak, that she has fallen in love with my singing, that she knows no curse but the one in her heart that brings her back to a human, to a creature of air and not water, to a mistake in the making.

in the dawn i know it is a dream and no more. i make bread. i pour water out before it can make mirrors. i do not look. i do not like the ache that has filled me, as if i’ve been looking for an answer and the answer only leads to longing.

the man i meet - my husband-to-be - is delighted by the house i keep. he believes a woman should keep in her place, and her place should be clean. he hears from neighbors that sometimes i sneak out to the land witch’s house. laughter barks out of him. not going to allow that behavior, not me. he does not believe in curses. he will pack me up and move me from the ocean to somewhere in the mountains, where i know nobody. and i will, he promises, learn to keep my place, and that place clean.

i tell myself i could love him. he is not ugly. he says i’m pretty enough after whiskey. my father mentions i used to sing. i refuse to perform for these men so instead i make them cookies. they laugh and talk about me, even when i am in the room, as if they cannot even see. they shake hands and talk about how useless a woman is for much else than breeding. it’s very funny. the man meets my eyes and promises he’ll put a baby in me. i look down and pretend the thrill i feel is excitement, not fear brewing in me.

the land witch comes by a week before my wedding. she is smaller these days, aging. her apprentice and i get along wonderfully. the two women stand before me, holding something. 

a small box, so tiny and lovely. “break the curse,” the witch whispers, “learn to be happy.”

i smuggle the box, take it everywhere with me. it is days before i have a moment to slip away, to open it by the sea. i take a candle with me, even though my father will notice and be angry.

by the light of fire i read the spell they have left me inside, and then i am so full of gratitude i cannot stop crying.

it must be a full moon, so i must wait. in the meantime, i walk home, and i bake. 

i do not see the seawitch, even though i look for her. maybe i have wounded her, getting married. my father asks why i keep smiling. i tell him it is because i am finally with a man. he grunts and says to stop looking so silly. 

the man kisses me. i let him. we are married on a night with a full moon, and i poison him and my father in the bread i did not eat. i think of how these men were cursed so they could not see a storm coming. i watch them as they lie there, dying, and then i put all of the things i own into a basket for the land witch. i leave it there with a song i wrote for her, a spell i know will make her happy, will stop the aging of her joints, will give her the kind of relief she gave me. 

i go down to the water. i find myself running, even though i am in no hurry. i know the way so well it is like i wake up there, panting. i ask permission first. i lay out the contents of the box, i organize and practice and when the needle and pain comes, i am ready for it. i am used to pain at night. i breathe into it and walk naked into waters that swallowed my mother.

i chew bitter herbs. i swallow fire. i feel myself drown as i change from land witch to sea witch. 

when it is done, i open my eyes in the deep of a moonlit ocean. and i see her. 

this time she does not flicker. this time when i reach for her, she is there, and she is pushing my hair out of my eyes, and we are kissing with the ocean rejoicing around us, and i am laughing, and i hear her voice as clear as bell inside me.

and we live like this, a whole world between us where white horses are the size of pinky fingers and swim with their thin snouts, where i need no candles because i was raised lightless, where we have no servants but the water takes care of us. i show her the magic of land and she unfolds the magic of water. together we are unstoppable. when i come up to the air to sing little girls a promise that they can survive the madness, she sings with me, and we make a beautiful harmony.

Important question of the day; Does Emma Carstairs like rain?

Lance Was Never Human Concept/AU

What if everything in Voltron was the same except for Lance. Like everything is the same, but Keith found Red first causing the others to find their Lions. Every thing is normal but…they don’t have a Blue Paladin. Of course they have Blue on the ship, but she doesn’t have a pilot. But she knows who she wants. She sends Allura and the team to a planet that seems abandoned. The planet appears to be a giant island of some sort. There is a small space of land and then the rest is all water. They wander around the planet thinking that Blue has lost her mind. They’re about to turn back when Keith notices a figure by the shore line. They are hunched over, drawing in the sand. They appear to look human. He has dark mocha skin, brown hair, and longs legs. Keith calls out to them, which ends up startling the figure. They look up and freeze in fear. They then jump in to the water with a splash. The team runs over to the water calling for them to return, that they’re friendly. With no success, the team tries to figure out another plan. Meanwhile, Blue (who followed them to the planet) slips into the water to find her desired Paladin. The team waits patiently. A while later Blue’s head breaks the waters surface, and the mysterious figure is lounging on the lion, chatting excitedly while lacing strange seashells on a string of seaweed. The team goes to greet the alien when they stop in their tracks. In place of the figure’s long legs…was a tail. The scales glistened and shined in the light. It was a deep blue color, speckles of gold scales scattered throughout. Allura was the first to recover and asked the strange alien their name. With a sharp toothed grin, he replied while finger gunned with webbed fingers, “They call me Lance…but you can call me tonight.” Long story short, Lance is the last of his kind because the Galra invaded his planet and destroyed his species while he was on a solo mission (that’s how he knows how to pilot). His situation is similar to Allura’s and Coran’s. **I may continue this AU? Short little One-shots/Headcannons/Prompts. Thought? Comments?***

anonymous asked:

*swimming in the lake* Person A: The water is so nice Person B: Yeah it really- SOMETHING'S TOUCHING MY FOOT! SOMETHING'S TOUCHING MY FOOOOOTTTAKSHAISKEBEB Person B: *clings to A for dear life*

Thanks for the prompt! We rewrote it below in an easier-to-read format.

Person A: *swimming in the lake* The water is so nice
Person B: Yeah it really— SOMETHING’S TOUCHING MY FOOT! SOMETHING’S TOUCHING MY FOOOOOTTTAKSHIASKEBEB
Person B: *clings to Person A for dear life*