flesh memory

the 10 times she heard about luck

fandom: star wars

pairing: rebelcaptain

words: 1.2k

rating: T

prompt: luck (@rebelcaptainprompts)

thanks to @accidental-rambler for her beta work! (thank you so much for tolerating me)

read on ao3

one.

“Good luck” is not something she likes to say, it’s not a word that cross her mind when she opens her eyes. They’ve survived Scarif and it’s enough. It wasn’t luck, it came with blood, burnt flesh and painful memories. It wasn’t luck.

Jyn often thinks about it, dreams about it even, and surviving seems harder than dying.

She had found her luck though - in her new family. In Baze’s laugh, in Chirrut’s wisdom, in Bodhi’s sweetness, and Cassian’s embrace. That’s where her luck is. It helps her getting up in the cold morning of Hoth, to keep fighting.

She squeezes the stone around her neck, thinking of all the people who were out of luck.

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4

“I don’t think there’s anything hidden in the icing,” said Scrimgeour, “but a Snitch would be a very good hiding place for a small object. You know why, I’m sure?”

Harry shrugged. Hermione, however, answered: Harry thought that answering questions correctly was such a deeply ingrained habit she could not suppress the urge.

“Because snitches have flesh memories,” she said. 

“I never had no whitefolks that was good to me. We all worked jest like dogs and had about half enough to eat and got whupped for everything. Our days was a constant misery to us…My old Master was Dave Giles, the meanest man that ever lived. He didn’t have many slaves, my mammy, and me, and my sister, Uncle Bill, and Truman. He had owned my grandma but he give her a bad whupping and she never did git over it and died. We all done as much work as a dozen niggers—we knowed we had to.

I seen old Master git mad at Truman and he buckled him down across a barrel and whupped him till he cut the blood out of him and then he rubbed salt and pepper in the raw places. It looked like Truman would die it hurt so bad. I know that don’t sound reasonable that a white man in a Christian community would do such a thing but you can’t realize how heartless he was. People didn’t know about it and we dassent tell for we knowed he’d kill us if we did. You must remember he owned us body and soul and they wasn’t anything we could do about it. Old Mistress and her three girls was mean to us too.

One time me and my sister was spinning and old Mistress went to the well-house and she found a chicken snake and killed it. She brought it back and she throwed it around my sister’s neck. She jest laughed and laughed about it. She thought it was a big joke.

Old Master stayed drunk all the time. I reckon that is the reason he was so fetched mean. My, how we hated him! He finally killed hisself drinking and I remember Old Mistress called us in to look at him in his coffin. We all marched by him slow like and I jest happened to look up and caught my sister’s eye and we both jest natchelly laughed—Why shouldn’t we? We was glad he was dead. It’s a good thing we had our laugh fer old Mistress took us out and whupped us with a broomstick. She didn’t make us sorry though.”

Annie Hawkins, formerly enslaved Afrikan who was sold from Georgia to Texas. This interview was done in Colbert, Oklahoma where her and her family moved after emancipation. Interview, conducted Spring, 1937 with a date stamp of August 16, 1937. Ms. Hawkins was 90 years old at the time of the interview and what she relates occurred in Texas.

Source: Library of Congress

Because if memory exists outside of the flesh it wont be memory because it wont know what it remembers so when she became not then half of memory became not and if I become not then all of remembering will cease to be. –Yes […] Between grief and nothing I will take grief.
—  William Faulkner from Wild Palms [If I Forget Thee Jerusalem] (Random House, 1939)
Sharing Grief/Sharing Joy

Humans are fickle and strange and easily offended. It’s just how it is. It’s just how we are.

We are broken bones and scarred flesh and daunting memories.
We are constantly hurt by others… we are constantly hurting others.
It is the human condition to rise and rise again from the waves that try so desperately to drag us below the surface.
But sometimes we have to ask for help. Sometimes the storm is too mighty to brave all alone.

Life is hard. The world is cruel. And sometimes we face insurmountable battles.
Whenever we face the odds we like to face the battle alone. With our swords drawn and our fists raised, we swear we are strong enough to fight on our own. We press on, exhausted, wearied from years of thrashing through our own thorns. 

Until one day, we have to ask for help. When we’re too bloodied and tired to fight alone, we have to wave our white flags… because we’re not meant to do this alone. 

We don’t do it because it is easy - we do it because it is necessary. Cracking open our hearts and showing others our oozing, living, sinning self is never easy… but it makes our burdens lighter. 
It makes us lighter.

God allows other people to speak truths in our lives He so desperately wants us to see… He wants our companions to speak love into us during all of the times we can’t seem to find anything good about ourselves.
But we must allow them to see us first. 

There is cleansing in tears. There is comfort in sharing the grief that tries so desperately to drag you below the waves. 
And in those same moments you will share joy, too - because you have found someone that has made you a little less alone. Someone who understands… or at least listens. 
Someone who also allows you to see their own breathing monsters that lurk just below the chest. 

We are made to live in a community. We are designed to trust and to love and to fight alongside others. 
We are made for more than loneliness. We are made to share our stories. We are made to share grief.. and we are made to share joy.

Friendship is the same sword you fight with on your own… but this time it’s double sided.

-31Women (Ansley) 

Eazy E Memory #9

Bone said that Eazy liked sleeping over at their place some occasions. He would randomly show up and sleep on the floor even though Bone members would constantly offer their beds. On mornings after he slept over, he would always eat their cereal then leave. Krayzie would always trip out over him doing that because most of the time Eazy would eat all of the cereal.

ice cracks,
glass shatters,
bones break,
leaves scatter.

                       —i’m still here.

rain falls,
skies clear,
water dries,
clouds disappear.

                      —and i’m still here.

eyes close,
flesh decays,
flowers wilt,
memory fades.

                       —but i’m still here.
—  right where you left me | m.a.w
Eazy E Memory #4

According to Wish and Krayzie Bone, the first time Bone Thugs ever went out with Eazy E was to a video shoot. The rap group Brownside was shooting for one of their songs, and the whole time Eazy and Bone were off to the side smoking weed. They didn’t know how it started but eventually Brownside members started arguing amongst themselves. It got to the point to where they started shooting, so Eazy and Bone Thugs started running away. Apparently Krayzie and Bizzy ran towards the car they came in, but the driver of the car locked the doors and wouldn’t let them in then drove off. Eazy, Wish, Layzie, and Flesh ended up running the other way towards a parking garage. They ran up LaCienega that night.

Blurryface pt.i

Luke Hemmings ➳ Twenty One Pilots inspired au

Originally posted by fightlashton

“It’s just screaming.

Screaming into the depths of confusion and desperation, craving for a touch too frozen to feel. Yearning for a sob, a cry of helplessness too loud to be noticed.

It’s shouting into the void waiting for answers, fighting an intangible dispute while clinging onto hope like a ledge at the end of a hundred kilometer drop.

It’s singing loudly enough to songs written by an entity, praying that someone will recognize it as a beacon of caution and not just another song good enough to hum along to and shrug off.

Scribbling, ripping apart, and crumpling paper like it was your own soul, getting addicted to a tube of ink in a plastic encasement as if it was an hourglass and it was only a matter of time before you, too, run out of things to say.

Touching others with calloused fingers and sore fingers as if the skin was your own and you’re just itching to escape the vessel flowing with blood, and flesh, and memories.

Holding a microphone close enough to your own vocal cords as if it would help send a message because quiet is violent and sometimes there’s no sound to hide behind so getting up on that platform has become a last resort because where else would you stand, Luke, but silently within the crowd like trees?”

-

Luke fights against the pounding migraine in his head and of course, there’s a thunderstorm outside.

His hands are gripping tightly against the bathroom counter and he justs wants to suffocate. There are voices in his head but he can’t drown them out and he’s already trying to go over the lyrics in his head as another attempt to make them stop.

The rain continues to patter against the tour-bus roof and he’s locking his eyes on his reflection.

He can’t seem to look away and darkness is seeping through the cracks in his vision, and suddenly he’s scared of his own image, scared that he doesn’t know what’s inside of him because he’s shaking hands with the dark parts of his thoughts, a separate entity.

It’s standing behind him, face blurred hands dipped in black ink, and he’s frozen as he watches it disappear and appear again like static, wrapping its hands around its throat.

Luke is paralyzed and starting to fall under its hypnosis but then someone is banging loudly on the other side of the door.

“Luke! Are you okay?”

A large inhale of breath bubbles in his throat and it seems like he hasn’t been breathing, feeling like he was drowning under agony, but he comes back to reality.

“Hey, Luke, are you alright?” the soft voice outside the door says, and Luke opens the door to his best friend looking worriedly up at him. He smiles at her but she knows it doesn’t reach his eyes and she rests a hand against his cheek, and he leans into her touch automatically.

y/n takes note of the dark circles under his eyes and his cheekbones are more prominent and she knows Luke’s been completely drained of his energy and she feels her heart clench because she doesn’t know how to help him.

“Have you been sleeping lately?” she whispers to him, holding his face near hers. Luke hesitates before shaking his head.

y/n sighs before grabbing his large hand in her small one and leads him to the bunks, Calum and Ashton sending questioning eyebrows her way while Michael helps her get the six-foot-four into his own bunk without a word and she’s grateful.

Luke’s asleep the second his head hits the pillowcase and his neck lolls to the side, y/n pulling the curtain to engulf him in darkness.

She walks with Michael to the other two and Michael asks, “How is he?” because she’s not the only one who’s noticed the singer’s weird behaviors. She smiles sadly at him, resting her head on Calum’s shoulder while Ashton pats her sympathetically on the knee.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him so I don’t know how to help him, and he may be asleep right now but I know he’s going to wake up in an hour or so and go back to square one.”

“What about the concert tonight?” Ashton considers, leaning back against the couch.

“He’ll be normal for the concert and put a mask on but the second he gets off stage, he’s going to go back to being closed off and silent,” Calum mumbles in response, pulling y/n closer and mimicking Ashton. y/n buries herself deeper between Calum and Michael as the four of them lean back, and she chuckles humorlessly.

“It’s like he doesn’t wanna hand me his troubles and I have to watch him struggle but at the same time, he wants me to stay.”

-

“Haven’t you taken enough from me? Won’t you torture someone else’s sleep? Won’t you go to someone else’s dreams? Won’t you go to someone else’s head?”

He wails but he’s blindly spinning around in an endless darkness, his feet knee high in fog and he knows someone else is there with him and the tears and fears begin to multiply.

“Like I said, Luke,” a voice rings from somewhere but it’s echoing everywhere around him, “Tell me, do you know riddles?”

“Who are you?” he shouts in response, and his voice sounds like it’s caught underwater and he’s falling farther, farther into the unknown.

The voice chuckles and its rough and it sends chills down his spine, and he screams again but this time, his own voice echoes back to him as a response. He’s cold, and he’s stuck, feet planted firmly on whatever ground he’s on and he doesn’t recognize his own mind.

He keeps trying, keeps crying out but he’s facing and empty sky and he’s crying now, because it feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest and getting torn apart.

He closes his eyes and he feels it- one half of his heart his free, the other half of his heart feels a lot similar to his current state of sanity.

Asleep.

Jake drags his thumb so carelessly over Dirk’s neck when they’re making out he almost doesn’t notice the tenseness of a reaction Dirk gives at the action.

(He does, though,)

His hand trails from shoulder up to fully cup the back of Dirk’s neck and all of a sudden Dirk is a pile of spluttered breaths and shrugging shoulders and it almost, almost ruins the mood.

(It doesn’t, though,)

Jake gives an inquisitive look and leans down to look at a scar-that-isn’t-there. The other hand finds Dirk’s chin, which tilts upward at gentle prompting to reveal a sensitive plane of soft flesh and bitter memories. Jake resists the urge to press a kiss to the source of such anxiety, such trauma, such pain.

(He can’t help himself, though,)

Dirk grips at Jake’s hair when his too-curious face gets lost between jaw and collarbone. His chest tenses and relaxes with unpredictable rhythm as Jake mouths anywhere he can reach. Jake’s hands sink down to the hem of his T-shirt. Slip under the rest against his waist. He hates the shudder he gives in response.

(Does he really, though?)

Raw Notes: My Bunked “Overthinking It” Video

Last year in September, back when the Trespasser DLC was fresh in our minds, I was fueled with crazy theories. In the back of my mind, I could not sort my brain out what I thought about Dragon Age, but I basically typed down everything I could to possibly make sense of it. Well…to no avail. That’s why I’m posting all of it.

For fun, let’s embarrass myself a bit and show how much chaotic thought goes through my head when I think of Dragon Age. Or used to. Good times.

For the curious, after the jump are my absolutely jumbled, incoherent thoughts for an “Overthinking It” video that never came to life, that would have been called “The Soul’s Blank Slate”.

Main Points that I would have addressed in this video

  • Souls never die unless they are joined by blood. Then, they’re subject to flesh.
  • Souls are memory wiped every time they died, and restored into borrowed bodies.
  • Souls follow the Conservation of Energy, where energy cannot be neither created nor destroyed, and a soul will simply transition from one form to another. However, the Void is the only thing that can disrupt and…void…that.
  • The magic of the Fade and beyond is boundless. Blood magic is finite. Once you depend on blood, it’s literally “magical castration”. However, while you’re alive, the power of blood is limitless and malleable. (Think Black Holes)
  • Time compression? (I never really said yes or no to this idea, but Shaper Valta and her situation is a stubborn thing to wrap your head around.)

(Note: This is a VERY LONG POST underneath. Also don’t do raw lyrium, folks. Tis bad for you.)


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anonymous asked:

Hey! Im looking for one where Hermiones mom died of cancer (i think). Nobody knows but Draco cause he's headboy to her headgirl then he goes to the funeral to support Hermione. Thats the only part I remember sorry. Help please?

Hi! It’s this:

Flesh Memory By: SammyisGrace - T, 17 Chapters - Voldemort was defeated in 6th year, it’s 7th year and McGonagall institutes a pen-pal system with a member of a different house starting it the summer before 7th year begins. Hermione enjoys writing with her mystery ‘Damien’, but views him as a question to answer. What happens when she figures him out? What about Harry and Ron and their pen-pals? Where does Hermione sneak off to?

- Jamie

Closed rp with Indianas-blog

Reese was… not okay, to say the least. Their mind was filled with images and memories doing a play-by-play in their mind, hallucinating visions of war-torn landscapes cluttered with the bodies of the dead union and confederate soldiers, the wounded buried under heaps of dead flesh; memories of battles that seem so real that they could touch them, not that they would want to. Their defenses lowered, with each and every second of the flashbacks of moments in the civil war where they’d killed or wounded soldiers who were just doing their jobs—their vision filled with red, then faded to black…

“It’s good to be back!!” They cackle, stretching and standing from the small ball Reese had curled their body into. “It’s been /much/ too long…” They grin, ivy-green eyes glittering with a promise of pain and suffering.

(( indianas-blog indianas-backupblog

I always envision this snitch in the books and the movie as the link between the beginning and the end. It was Harry’s first snitch in his first quidditch game - such a joyful moment for him; such a huge part of his life at Hogwarts - and then such a huge part of the end. It brought him his support when he had to face Voldemort, it connected to the people he’d loved, and who’d died fighting for him. It’d always belonged to Harry, although not directly. It is Harry’s flesh memory in it’s fibres. It’s connected to him and, although he didn’t know it, always has been. I really like that.