Soulmates had always been the talk of the nation: first the popular press had sprinkled it in stories here and there. Then it grew to cover stories, made its way to the people, always the whisper on the other’s breath.
But when it got picked up by politicians, it swirled and grew until it became something almost unrecognizable. The idea of instant gratification and entitlement formed on their tongues after Kam Kimmelton had a record-breaking 36-hour engagement. And, ironically enough, Dick Thamp, the businessman-turned-politician that had had more wives than good ideas, was the first one to let the suggestion fall from his mouth: to protect the sanctity of marriage and love and “all that was good”, he had said, it should be illegal to be with anyone other than your soulmate. No marrying anyone else, no dating anyone else, no kissing anyone else.
And with those words, he molded opinions until it fell into law, millions of dollars put forth, all other endeavors long forgotten. All in the name of protecting the children.
When Zayn was eight years old, he’d first heard the term. He was playing by himself, whacking a bouncy ball against the pavement as hard as he could and watching the rubber fly into the sky.
Who do you love? Who do you love?
Your soulmate is a dove
The rhyme rang out a couple of times from behind him, the sicky sweet sing-song voice coming from one of the cruel nine-year-olds’ mouths, smirking as he held out the last word.
Not a profound rhyme by any means but second grader Zayn remembered it well, remembered the pout that had quivered on his lips, thankfully out of sight from the other boy. He may not have known what the words meant, but he understood the taunting tone behind the words—knew that whatever the rhyme meant wasn’t a compliment.
On the car ride home, he stumbled on the word, even after his mind had played the rhyme on repeat all day. “Mum, what is a…” His tongue slid around the unfamiliar syllables. “Soulmate?”
But I’m trying hard to know what
is meant when we claim O silent night—
a night like this, when blown out is all
the blaze of the sky but not heat, not
dampness either, not even that star, alone,
like a crack in the firmament (in the levees)
and what floods in, because only it can,
is a light to make light of until we can't—
then a breeze passes, with its humanlike
moan, since it’s human I can know it, I hear it,
as I do the magnolia-shudder, the bird
-scatter, as I do the river: can’t you hear it
singing far off—?
Then not as far—?
Awhile ago, I posted a photo (left photo) of a Bayside clock that I was making. A lot of people were interested in it so now that I’ve finished (right photo), I’ve decided to give it away!
•Please don’t delete the text. It won’t show up on your blog.
•You don’t have to be following me but it would be nice if you’d check out my blog!
•I’ll ship it anywhere.
•If the winner doesn’t respond within 48 hours, I’ll be picking a new one.
•Likes and reblogs both count. You can reblog as much as you’d like.
I haven’t picked a date to end it on yet but I’ll keep everyone updated!
This is a fact: they’re embroidered by slum children and other unfortunates who possess small, clever hands in a factory behind Wall Sina. It’s one of the most coveted trades in society, despite the treacherous looms and cotton-thick air, for the lure of a steady paycheck cannot be overstated.
Wingtips splay skyward; one blue, one white. (Another fact: the aniline necessary for indigo dye is synthesized from dryer’s knotweed, a plant cultivated with great care in the southern reaches of Walled Territory). Hange notches her glasses up the bridge of her nose and cranes closer, though a few inches won’t make a difference; from this distance, she can barely make out Levi’s drawn features, the gently familiar furrow between his fine brows, dark circles like bruises smudged beneath those eyes. But there is a strange magnetism, regardless; an unconnected need to be as close as possible, as one is drawn to light or heat.
“Pay attention this time,” Levi tells his squad. Fact: they’d been paying attention last time, and the times before that. Levi’s style of teaching does not complement his prodigious ability well; she theorizes it’s due to the fact that he never had to struggle against lack of aptitude, or with a body made solely for walking and running. He just knew, innately, what to do with his weight, his legs, the proper application of posture and form.
He draws his blades. The edge of his cloak ripples, wingtips shuddering; a bird testing itself before the plunge. When he finally does leap from the platform, it’s with such savage immediacy that both Hange and Levi Squad flinch in their places. Even waiting for it, even knowing full well what Levi can do, it still rattles your nerves.
This is a fact: Levi is made for motion. Silver flashes bright with black, each pivot as visceral and deadly as the dance of an adder. It is too fast to see the motion of his cable, or which broadside targets he chooses to grapple; he’s gone before it registers. He moves so quickly that the winged patch on his back blurs, until she almost believes that those wings are real, responsible for his deadly haste.
He moves too quickly to analyze, to know what he’s thinking, how he sees the field. She’s always wondered at how the world is through Levi’s eyes. Is it a stark place? Grim and devoid of color? Not always, though; not when they are alone, not when his touch shivers slow and steady over her bare skin – this battle-bound man rendered real by his own uncertainty, how badly he wants coupled with how little he knows of soft things. He is Levi, deadly as the two swords in his hands, and Levi, slow in love. She knows him best when he is in flight, either form.
He lands perfectly and sheathes his blades in a single, efficient motion. “Do you see now?” he asks his squad. They nod their heads in the manner of concussion victims, because what else can you do in the face of such mastery?
But when that sharp, dark gaze flashes over to her, she doesn’t nod. She grins hugely, waving with just enough enthusiasm to embarrass him. And this is a fact: he doesn’t snarl or sulk or grimace at her attention. For just a moment, in the open daylight of the training enclosure, he looks pleased to have discovered her watching.
“OK, so who do we have in here?” Emma asked, peeking her head into the exam room.
Catching sight of the little boy on the cushioned table, a book open in his lap, she made an exaggerated frown. Opening the door further, she made a show of consulting the chart in her hand. “I think there must be some mistake.”
“Excuse me?” the boy’s mother asked, standing up straighter where she’d been leaning against the counter, watching her son. At her tone, the boy looked up, too, eyes darting curiously between both women.
“Well, I was supposed to come see a little boy named Henry, but you, sir, look far too wise to be him,” she sighed, even as she shut the door.
“I’m Henry,” he bared a tiny-toothed grin, and set his book down beside him very carefully. Emma smiled at him and glanced over at the mother, practically vibrating with nerves as she leaned against the counter again.
Emma set her chart down on the edge of the bed, and stood in front of Henry, mindful of both his gently kicking legs and his mother’s line of sight - Emma’d dealt with her fair share of mama bears and she knew better than to block the view.
“Are you sure? You look much older than six years old,” she slipped the stethoscope from her neck and held it gently in her palm to warm it up. “Can I see an ID?” Henry giggled again, and Emma looked over her shoulder. “What do you say, mom, can you vouch for him?”
Hilary idk if you accept outlaw queen prompts, but is just that i think your writing is so good and i'd love to read your take on their first kiss :)
It was them.
It was them.
Everyone else in Storybrooke had flooded the streets in disbelieving joy when the savior had come driving back into town, still in that trashy little yellow Bug she apparently had such a sentimental attachment to, with her son in the backseat and the smirking pirate riding shotgun, memories restored and ready to rumble. Regina had been happy, truly. They needed the help against the Wicked Witch, and even if nothing else, Emma Swan had always been good for a fight. And, of course, she’d brought Henry. Henry a year older, Henry full of a life that Regina knew nothing about, Henry who she had, after once archly claiming that any mother who loved him could never do such a thing, given up to give his best chance. Her son, and a stranger. Hugging Emma, hugging his grandparents, hugging that idiot Neal, even happy to see Hook (Regina failed to understand that as well). Everyone.
And she was too frightened to go out and see him.
Regina leaned against the wall of the hospital corridor, watching the reunion through the window. The last thing they needed right now was her. Later, she told herself. Later. She didn’t regret what she’d done, giving them both the false happy memories, but it wasn’t something she was sure if she could ever repair. Even when I’m trying to save, all I do is destroy.
She rubbed an angry hand across her eyes, trying to keep herself together. This was foolish, she told herself. Nothing was stopping her. Even the Charmings wouldn’t be able to mount much of a protest if she marched out right now and announced that she wanted time with her son. But she wasn’t in the least sure if Henry felt the same, and she felt too fragile now to risk it. Better to wait for him to approach her, this boy turning so swiftly into a young man (it twisted like her mother’s fist, wrapped around her heart). Not pressure him if otherwise, if –
I was one of the keyframe artists for The Tall Tales of Urchinpilot. Basically, I drew and timed the important poses, which were then passed on to the inbetweening animators to fill in the gaps.
I animated quite a bit of Urchin herself, but did almost all of Beautiful, her pet “dog”. I really enjoyed animating beautiful because it was such a shuddering mess of a bird. If Urchin goes to series I definitely want to do some more Beautiful.