it came from beneath the sea!

aesthetics → aphrodite

“ … and so soon as he had cut off the members with flint and cast them from the land into the surging sea, they were swept away over the main a long time: and a white foam spread around them from the immortal flesh, and in it there grew a maiden. First she drew near holy Kythera, and from there, afterwards, she came to sea-girt Kypros, and came forth an awful and lovely goddess, and grass grew up about her beneath her shapely feet.”

― Hesiod, Theogony 176

1. first, there was hope
mad, deep, deafening
the kind that keeps you awake
thinking, thinking, long past dawn
dreaming, dreaming, past the sunset.

2. then, the kiss
your tender lips met mine
in a fire that would burn
the seven continents and set the seas ablaze
did the ground still lay beneath our feet?

3. and next was the adventure
mingled breath and hidden words
that could never be uttered past the dark of night
or the safety of our bedsheets
where no promise was too daring and no confession came too soon.

4. then there was love
the red visioned passion
that would skin lions and kill gods
you made me believe that two
was the holiest number of all.

5. after our love came the contentment of two from a youth long past
but perhaps it is better to say that we grew staid:
the static weight of our bodies in bed
where your hands never ventured farther than the bedside table
and a kiss was as rare as the desert rain.

6. when stagnancy past all we were left with was truth
the wrinkles framing our tired eyes
from laughs long gone
and a passion that used to be
can any love last forever?

7. we decided to part ways
to rekindle the burning embers deep in our soul
when roads diverge you can not turn back
you walked your path and i walked mine
as we promised ourselves it was for the best.

8. but still when i think of you i feel a pull in my chest
towards a place that i know cannot be found
to the ashen walls of an ancient bedroom:

remember that you are dust
and to dust you shall return.

9. in the end we were nothing:
no mortal can be infinite
and the only way to know love is to lose it.

remember that you are dust
and to dust you shall return.

remember that you are dust
and to dust you shall return.

—  a.c. | cats have nine lives; lovers do too

uranus · god of the sky 

Uranus, who represented the sky, was one of the original deities of Greek mythology. He was the son of Gaia, the earth, who also became his wife. Together they had many children, including the Titans and the Cyclopes. Uranus, however, detested his children. As soon as they were born, he forced them into Tartarus, a dark place deep beneath the surface of the earth. Gaia asked her children to stop Uranus, but only her son Cronus came to her aid. Cronus cut off his father’s genitals and threw them into the sea. According to myth, Aphrodite was born from the foam where they landed.

Oh captain, oh captain
do you hear the alarms ringing?
do you hear the people screaming?
do you hear the storm raging,
     the winds howling,
     the demons clawing at your door?

Oh captain, oh captain, 
can you feel the waves beating hungry against the hull?
can you feel the gravity tilt beneath your feet?
can you feel the Sea rising up like the dark of night?

Oh captain, oh captain,
the Sea is calling for you
the Sea is singing for you
the Sea is reaching for you
the Sea is grasping for you–

Oh captain, oh captain,
your ship is sinking, captain.
the Sea is claiming your ship as Hers.
the Sea is claiming you, too.
are you listening, captain?
can you hear Her?

Oh captain, oh captain,
do the waves knocking at your door
     remind you of the lullabies your mother used to sing?
do the winds screaming past
     remind you of old lovers’ fingers caressing your hair?
does the water swallowing you up
     remind you of being six years old and tucked in at night?

—  oh captain, oh captain, does it feel like coming home? ( j.p. )
Cryptid ABCs: Zaratan

Zaratan is the name given to a giant sea turtle with a shell that looks like sloped land. The creature submerges itself at nightfall, dragging down everything around it. The Zaratan is also sometimes depicted as a giant whale or octopus.

Most reports of the creature came from sailors who saw mysterious moving islands. Some were not so lucky as to only pass it by. Some ships would mistake it a land and drop anchor, only to be dragged beneath the waves at nightfall as the turtle submerged again.

When the Zaratan hunts, it opens it’s mouth to release a sweet odor. Fish are attracted to the smell and swim in, and the beast snaps it’s jaws shut behind them. Zaratan is basically a giant snapping turtle.

The main explanation put forth for these sightings is a prehistoric turtle. Several turtle species used to be absolutely massive and much bigger than humans. It’s possible that water distortion made them look even bigger. Still, the idea that it was the size of a small island doesn’t quite make sense, and can most likely being chalked up to simply being a sailor’s tale. If it is a whale rather than a turtle, perhaps a whale that lingered too long at the top of the ocean is to blame, and it had some algae or moss growing on its back. Sailors could have mistaken it for a small island, and then been dragged down when the whale left.

(…) As news of Lou’s death spread, a rippling sensation mounted, then burst, filling the atmosphere with hyperkinetic energy. Scores of messages found their way to me. A call from Sam Shepard, driving a truck through Kentucky. A modest Japanese photographer sending a text from Tokyo—“I am crying.”

As I mourned by the sea, two images came to mind, watermarking the paper- colored sky. The first was the face of his wife, Laurie. She was his mirror; in her eyes you can see his kindness, sincerity, and empathy. The second was the “great big clipper ship” that he longed to board, from the lyrics of his masterpiece, “Heroin.” I envisioned it waiting for him beneath the constellation formed by the souls of the poets he so wished to join. Before I slept, I searched for the significance of the date—October 27th—and found it to be the birthday of both Dylan Thomas and Sylvia Plath. Lou had chosen the perfect day to set sail—the day of poets, on Sunday morning, the world behind him

polaroid by Brigrid Berlin, text by Patti Smith published in The New York Times Nov 11 2013

Rumours

Character: Irene (Red Velvet)
Word count: 711
Summary: You can’t always believe in rumours … ft. Seulgi  | #fluff #high school!au


Originally posted by yummymushroom

Rumours.

The only thing that spreads faster in school than STD’s.

The rumour currently on everyone’s lips was a dating scandal. Apparently, two girls were dating. And if that wasn’t shocking enough, there was a betrayal too. The two had a friend, and that friend was in love with one of them.

Gasp. Shock. Horror.

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A Court of War Starlight: Part 53

(Read: Part I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII | XIV | XV | XVI | XVII | XVIII | XIX | XX | XXI | XXII | XXIII | XXIV | XXV | Nessian I | XXVI | XXVII | XXVIII | Elucien I | XXIX | XXX | XXXI | XXXII | XXXIII | XXXIV | XXXV | Elucien II | XXXVI | XXXVII | XXXVIII | Nessian II | XXXIX | XL | Feyrhys I | XLI | Elucien III | XLII | XLIII | Elucien IV | Nessian III | XLIV | XLV | XLVI | Elucien V | Azriel I | XLVII | XLVIII | XLIX | L | Elucien VI | Moriel I | LI | LII | LIII | LIV | LV | LVI | LVII | LVIII | LIX | LX | LXI | Nessian IV | LXII | LXIII | LXIV | LXV | LXVI | LXVII | LXIII | LXIX | LXX | LXXI | LXXII | LXXIII | LXXIV | LXXV | Epilogue )

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

A great wave came and carried us to shore, but not without tossing us roughly beneath the surface so that my heels went up over my head and my shoulders knocked against the sea floor. Salt filled my tongue, my nose, my eyes, and when I rolled onto the sandy beach, grains of sand clung to me, coating me with coarse granules. I choked and sputtered, expelling the water from my nose, mouth, and ears as I pulled myself up further onto the beach.

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6

Chang’e - Chinese Faerie of the Moon

Not always born in the crucible of creation, sometimes Gods ascend by tragic happenstance. Such is the tale of Chang’e, Goddess of the Moon.

Among the immortals that lived in the Heavens, Chang’e was the most elegant dancer, like a dove on windswept currents. She drew the affection of the hero archer, Hou Yi, and the two were soon married. Everything was perfect.

Yet, beneath the Heavens, all was not well. Ten suns, the ten children of the Jade Emperor, rose to scorch the earth and boil the seas. Brave Hou Yi, bow in hand, shot nine from the sky, sparing only one. Though the world was saved, the Jade Emperor was furious his children were killed. In punishment, Hou Yi and Chang’e were made mortal.

Chang’e grew melancholy and danced no more. To restore their status in the Heavens, Hou Yi found the Elixir of Immortality, but thieves came to steal it while he was hunting. Chang’e struggled to hide the Elixir, but, in the end, was forced to drink it. Too much for one person, the Elixir gave her immortality, but it also swept her into the sky.

Since then, Chang’e has lived on the moon, forbidden to see her husband, a Jade Rabbit her only companion. Yet, the Earth is once again in peril, and Chang’e finds herself upon the mortal surface. Perhaps, this is a second chance. If only she can save the world without angering the Jade Emperor, she can at last reunite with her husband.

Click here for more lore.

When my mother first told me
that the land
that her own mother
and her mother’s mother before her
came from
was once far beneath the sea
I thought my ancestors
must have been mermaids
who loved the land 
enough to stay
so when men pushed the tides back
when they fought the ocean
for space
the first kings must have been surprised
to find people already living
in such a place
when my grandmother
(and her husband)
left the land beneath the sea
they shed tradition
like seal skin
taught my mother
(and her brother)
only the language of newer lands
said that in the new world
it’s better to learn to walk
as though a man
don’t dream of ocean breezes
and tales of nether lands
words from forgotten fairytales
fade like writing in the sand
but when I sleep
I see rippling seas 
and know I lie beneath them
there’s no longer fear
of unsteady feet
or shuddering lungs
it’s calm
and dark
under a filtered sun
so the question to which
I don’t really want to answer
is which do you think
is wiser and braver
loving something so much
that for which
you’d stand up and fight
or loving something else much more
that for which
you’d grab them and run
because you see
my ancestors were mermaids
who were loved by
the most terrible
terrible
(men)
—  From The Land Beneath Seas by Lady J

[ prompt from @sirenja-and-the-stag​ - hope you like it! ]

When Will wakes, the cabin is empty.

Everything is still and dark, the only noise to be heard is the syncopated clack-clack as the train rattles over the tracks.

He swings down from the top bunk, feet landing softly on the slats beneath. He crouches, squints against the shadows.

The bed is neatly made. Hannibal is not there.

For a second, Will wonders if he ever was. The second bleeds out and onward into a minute as Will retraces every moment since their fall and subsequent drag from the sea. Did Hannibal survive at all? Or has he been listening to a ghost as he’s flitted from safe house to safe house, boarding boats and trains with invisible ease until he came to this one, hurtling through the night towards Vienna.

A ghost couldn’t have sewn his wounds shut.

But Abigail couldn’t have brought him flowers.

And yet.

He slides open the cabin door with such force that it makes a loud crack and rebounds a little.

He sticks his head out, looking wildly from left to right down the empty corridor. He stops, closes his eyes, breathes, and with nothing to rely on save gut instinct he heads left.

He is not surprised that his gut leads him to Hannibal again.

Hannibal is at the far end of the train, scarved and bundled in greatcoat and gloves as the world falls away from them in reverse.

Will joins him, silent, watches the skeletal outlines of passing trees.

“Was the bottom bunk so bad?” he asks after a while.

Hannibal shakes his head.

“That was not the source of my discomfort.”

Will thinks back to their argument, strangely their first. Hannibal had certainly never raised his voice to him before, had certainly never forced up a wall of petulance when things hadn’t gone his way.

“We have been sharing a bed for months, Will, this is absurd!”

“A wide bed,” Will had corrected, “with space. And no touching.”

That had been untrue. Many an evening he had woken with Hannibal partially blanketing him, had never complained.

“This is all… childish,” Hannibal had sputtered, at a rare loss for eloquence.

“Maybe it is. But I still get top bunk.”

And then he had flung Hannibal’s suitcase on his (separate) bed and Hannibal had refused to say another word.

“So what was the problem,” Will asks gently, not touching, but close enough to do so, “if not the bunks?”

“I have grown used to protecting you,” Hannibal admits.

Will’s brow creases in gentle puzzlement. “You haven’t had to protect me once since we-” leapt to our deaths? committed erotic murder? became unconsummated murder husbands? Will still can’t quite find the words for what they are now.

“I haven’t been in any danger,” he finishes, and Hannibal quirks his mouth just a touch.

“No,” he says ruefully, “but that has not stopped me from worrying every moment that you might be.”

Worrying. Hannibal Lecter doesn’t… worry. Will says so himself and Hannibal just shakes his head.

“I do now. Every time I look at you I see something so remarkably precious that my heart seizes at the thought of its loss. It is… uncomfortable.”

Will just stares, desperately trying to force away the matching need that rips at his insides.

“It is irrational,” Hannibal continues, “to think that sleeping beside you will somehow allow me to better protect you.”

He tightens his coat around him, blinks around the cold whipping over his face.

“But that is love,” he says, “he paid me a visit and refuses to leave, despite staying long past his welcome.”

It’s the first time Hannibal has openly admitted anything close to love, and it pulls a sound from Will that is half shock and half relief. He wants to respond with something, almost anything so long as it’s not his violent reciprocation. Neither of them are ready for that.

Instead, he says nothing. The train rattles on. Hannibal exhales shakily.

“You cracked something open in me, Will. On the edge of the bluff.” He turns and looks at him, face soft and unguarded. “I don’t know how to close it up.”

His eyes are lined with tears and Will is swallowed up by an awful urge to embrace him. He remains frozen, hand twitching over the guard rail.

“I thought,” Will begins softly, but he lets the words trail away. Too crass and unfiltered a notion to match such a confession.

“You thought what?” Hannibal replies, plucking the thoughts from Will’s mind as easily as ripe berries, “you thought I wished to fuck you?”

The expletive is more surprising than the implication, and Will chokes a little on the crisp air, watches as the wisps of his exhalation disrupt into staccato peels of grey.

“No, that’s not,” he coughs again, more to cover the fact that he has no worldly idea how to finish that thought without lying.

“Of course it is,” Hannibal says calmly, “and of course I do.”

One warm hand, softened by leather, rests over Will’s bare one.

“I do, however, possess a modicum of self-control when it comes to you.”

Will laughs. Honest-to-goodness belly laughs, loud and raucous into the night.

“No you fucking don’t!” He grins madly, chest heaving. He doesn’t think he’s ever laughed this much in his life.

Hannibal smiles with his teeth, which is as good as a laugh in return. His hand does not move.

“You are perhaps unaware of what I have restrained myself from in the past.”

Will snorts.

“Was this before or after you tried to cut my head open?”

“If you recall I refrained from doing so.”

“Only because we were interrupted by Verger’s coterie of assclowns. That’s a get-out-of-jail-free card you won by chance. You didn’t earn it.”

He flips his hand underneath Hannibal’s so that their palms touch, laces their fingers together and rubs a thumb over his knuckles.

“Fucking me, you will earn.”

Hannibal’s eyes light with enough flame to warm them both. Will shivers.

The unasked question of how strings from Hannibal’s closed lips and Will tugs Hannibal closer, turning them so his back is pressed to Hannibal’s chest and he is fit snug between him and the rail. He pulls one of Hannibal’s arms over his shoulder, then the other, wrapping the man around him like a heavy scarf.

“By keeping me warm,” he answers, “you can start there.”

Hannibal’s mouth is pressed to his neck but he does not kiss. The warmth of his lips sears like a brand, but he stays still, does not ask.

“Yes,” Will replies again, “you can do that too.”

One soft and lingering kiss is stamped into his skin, threaded with passion but oddly chaste. When Will finishes sighing, Hannibal removes his mouth, tucks his chin over Will’s shoulder and breathes in the clean scent of his hair.

The train rattles on.

9

The Last Goodbye   by Billy Boyd

I saw the light fade from the sky

On the wind I heard a sigh

As the snowflakes cover my fallen brothers

I will say this last goodbye

Night is now falling

So ends this day

The road is now calling

And I must away

Over hill and under tree

Through lands where never light is shone

By silver streams that run down to the sea

Under cloud beneath the stars

Over snow one winter’s morn

I turn at last to paths that lead home

And though where the road then takes me

I cannot tell

We came all this way

But now comes the day

To bid you farewell

Many places I have been

Many sorrows I have seen

But I don’t regret

Nor will I forget

All who took that road with me

Night is now falling

So ends this day

The road is now calling

And I must away

Over hill and under tree

Through lands where never light is shone

By silver streams that run down to the sea

To these memmories I will hold

With your blessing I will go

To turn at last to paths that lead home

And though where the road then takes me

I cannot tell

We came all this way

But now comes the day

To bid you farewell

I bid you all a very fond farewell

Released February 6, 1947: BLIND SPOT, starring Chester Morris, Constance Dowling, and Steven Geray.  Directed by Robert Gordon (Black Eagle, It Came from Beneath the Sea, The Rawhide Trail).  Chester Morris is a penniless writer who refuses to compromise his integrity and write books with mass appeal.  He drowns himself in alcohol to numb the humiliation of begging his publisher (William Forrest) for some much needed cash.  There is no love lost between Morris and Forrest, and when Morris drunkenly barges into Forrest’s office, he interrupts a meeting between Forrest and Steven Geray, a popular mystery writer who is considerably more successful than Morris.  Forrest refuses to give Morris any money and chides him for not writing popular material like Geray.  Morris responds by demonstrating how trivial it is to write for the masses, and instantly comes up with an idea for a mystery in which a man is found stabbed to death in a room that is locked from the inside.  After this contentious meeting with Forrest, Morris continues to inundate himself in alcohol at a nearby bar.  He is subsequently joined by Forrest’s attractive secretary (Constance Dowling), and eventually shares his murder mystery idea with her.  Later that evening, Forrest is found stabbed to death in his office with the doors locked from the inside, just as Morris described in his story idea.  Although he didn’t commit the murder, Morris is the obvious suspect, and is hauled in by the police and interrogated.  The rest of the movie plays out like a classic whodunit, with Morris eluding the police while trying to determine who committed the crime.  Stylistically, the movie feels very much like a classic radio mystery show.  Morris’ frequent voiceovers propel the story in a similar manner to radio narrative, where much of the action needed to be spelled out for listeners in the absence of visuals, and indeed, the story itself has much in common with mysteries broadcast on shows like Suspense or I Love a Mystery.  The cast turns in an admirable, if largely generic, performance.  The chemistry between Morris and Dowling never manages to rise above a moderate simmer, while Geray’s heavy Eastern European accent often makes it difficult to understand some of his more intricate dialog.  The film’s biggest payoff is the ultimate revelation of how the locked-door murder was committed.  Blind Spot is a serviceable low-budget whodunit, in which the story, and not the cast, is its greatest strength.  We give Blind Spot 2.5 out of 5 fedoras.