ten years ago!

anonymous asked:

can you do 18 please? love your work xx

18. If you insist. 

Victor spun in slow circles on the ice, steel of his skates tearing lines through it. He should be focusing, but Victor found his mind constantly wandering to the weekend before. To the party. To Yuuri and his wide, dark eyes that haunted Victor’s sleep ever since that night.

Victor had been more than foolish; he’d apparently stepped right through the veil of insanity to say such a thing to Yuuri then. What had he been thinking? Victor had just been struck, so lost in the memory of when they had met first that he had lost all sense. Friedrich said himself that Yuuri’s beauty inspired transgression, but Victor was sure confessions of affection to his betrothed were outside the Tsarevich’s allowance.

After that night, Victor half-expected his door to be beaten down by the police. For him to be dragged through town, name with him, as Yuuri was bound to tell his betrothed of Victor’s audacity. But nothing had come, Friedrich bidding Victor fond goodbye from the party when Victor excused himself early after spending the rest of the evening watching Yuuri’s back retreat from him.

It seemed Yuuri was of a mind to simply dismiss Victor altogether as punishment and Victor was not entirely sure if that was better. He had tried to rid himself of the ache in his heart that burst on seeing Yuuri, the ghost of an emotion that skimmed the faded edges of grief for something Victor was never entitled to have to begin with. Not even the ice was any comfort.

‘Victor!’ Chris cried, sounding panicked and his voice echoing off the high ceiling of the rink. Victor turned to a stop, regarding his friend and pianist from the ice show with confusion. ‘Get off the ice, right now!’

‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ Victor asked, skating up to the small gate off the ice. Chris looked wild behind his round spectacles, mouth hopping between a dazed grin and grimace, running a hand through his sandy hair.

‘The Tsarevich’s consort is here to see you,’ Chris said, sounding half-mad with it. Victor froze in where he was brushing ice from his steel, a swallowing swoop in his stomach. When Victor asked Chris to explain, Chris only shrugged; ‘He wouldn’t say why he’s here. Only that he wished to speak with you.’

‘Did he bring a guard?’ Victor asked, wondering if perhaps having Yuuri ignore him and not ending up in prison was really so unfortunate a situation, heartbreak or not. Chris frowned.

‘No, he’s escorted himself. Why? Does he need a guard?’ Chris asked, but Victor was already off the ice, walking as straight he could in his skates towards the foyer. 

Yuuri was there, dressed in the Vienna fashion this time. He was in a long coat of dark wool, large hood like a bell from where it was raised over Yuuri’s head. Had he not announced himself, Victor was sure Yuuri could’ve passed through the rink entirely unseen, with only the fine fabric of his coat giving away his status.

Yuuri turned, hands in front of him in perfect posture. The gloves he wore were fine leather, showing off his slim fingers and Victor found himself staring before he could stop himself, reminded of the large ones he’d gifted almost ten years ago. Suddenly feeling under-dressed in his loose shirt and plain trousers, Victor bent low in a bow.

‘Your grace,’ Victor said, wondering if he should wait until he was addressed before straightening up.

When Yuuri said nothing, Victor took a chance and looked up. Yuuri was regarding Victor from beneath his hood, a pair of modern spectacles sat on his nose. They were fetching, a blue veneer across their fine frames. Victor licked his lips, daring to speak.

‘Please forgive me for speaking out of turn,’ Victor said, watching Yuuri’s face indulgently. ‘I don’t know why you’re here, but I must tell you I am pleased to see you again.’

Yuuri visibly tensed at that, his hands balling into delicate fists. He regarded Victor carefully, like Yuuri were poised to take flight any moment. Victor felt like there was suddenly a string pulled taut between them, like a vector. Victor mentally berated himself for managing to offend so quickly. That had to be a new record.

‘I got your letter,’ Yuuri said brusquely, standing tall like he were to shake the tension off his shoulders. Victor was caught off guard by the lack of manners, but something like relief pooled. ‘You needn’t have apologised.’

Victor blinked, surprised. He had sent the letter the morning after the party, convinced to try and make up for what he had said. Victor had kept it deliberately oblique, so as not to incriminate himself or worse, insinuate towards Yuuri. Victor never expected a reply, he had just felt that he could not rest easy unless Yuuri knew that he was sorry. And now that letter had brought Yuuri all the way down from the visitor’s palace to Victor’s humble rink.

‘Forgive me, but that was not impression I got,’ Victor said, feeling daring though he knew it was improper. Yuuri frowned, mouth opening to retort. ‘After my indiscretion on the balcony, you gave me no chance to apologise and avoided me the whole evening like I were the plague.’

‘I was not in the mood to be teased,’ Yuuri said coldly and Victor looked away, ashamed. ‘I think that can be allowed given the extent you went to in trying to mock me.’

‘That was not my intention,’ Victor said firmly.

‘Pray tell me then, what was your intention?’ Yuuri asked, eyes fixed on Victor from behind his spectacles. ‘What else did you expect of such a joke?’

‘It was not a joke,’ Victor said, rising up to meet Yuuri eye to eye. Taking advantage of his height over Yuuri’s small build.

For a moment, Victor thought Yuuri might retreat from where he was standing, back down into demurity. But Yuuri only narrowed his eyes, pulling his gloves off in a manner of argument and looking resolute. Victor took advantage, as he clearly had Yuuri’s interest.

‘Not entirely, anyway. I only meant to tell you that I have thought of our meeting in Saint Petersburg often, perhaps even to the point of lovesickness as a young man. I did not mean to imply anything adverse. I just wished to humour you if I could, you were so despondent.’

‘Then you admit it was a tease,’ Yuuri said coolly and Victor flushed, rubbing the back of his neck.

‘Of a sorts,’ Victor sighed, ashamed. He looked up to Yuuri, taking in the way Yuuri gripped his fine gloves so tight, Yuuri’s knuckles were pale. Victor must’ve caused great offence. ‘But I promise you, it was a jest at my own expense and not an attempt to discomfort you.’

‘So you are not in love with me?’ Yuuri asked, tone almost sarcastic if his manners would allow it. It gave Victor the impression he might be close to being forgiven.

‘No more than the rest of Russia, I’m sure,’ Victor said, heart leaping when Yuuri’s cheeks coloured. Victor tried to appear cool in response, but he’d never been able to manage such a thing when his heart was so treacherously light in his chest.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Yuuri said, bowing low like he had that evening at the ball. ‘Thank you for your apology, Mister Nikiforov. I’ll let you return to your practice.’

Yuuri went to leave and Victor panicked suddenly, not wanting Yuuri to go without the promise of seeing him again. He could not bear to lose him twice.

‘Allow me to make up for the transgression,’ Victor pleaded, desperation so clear in his voice it must’ve been what caused Yuuri to stop so suddenly.

Yuuri turned, looking at Victor with undisguised suspicion. When he spoke, his voice was carefully level; ‘How would you have me do that?’

‘Did you ever learn how to skate?’ Victor asked, pleased when Yuuri shook his head. Victor opened an arm behind himself, towards the rink entrance. ‘Then grant me the opportunity to teach you. If only once.’

Yuuri was remarkably well mannered, hiding his surprise well. But his cheeks coloured, eyes wide on Victor’s face that most endearingly gave him away.

‘You would teach me?’ Yuuri asked, eyes flirting down to take in the steel of Victor’s skates. ‘You would really do that?’

‘Without doubt.’

‘I don’t want you to feel obligated,’ Yuuri said, looking wary again. ‘I meant what I said that you are forgiven. You owe the crown nothing.’

‘I do not care so much for the Japanese court and even less for the Russian one, Your Grace,’ Victor said sincerely. ‘ I would not offer unless it was my own desire to do so.’

Victor walked up towards Yuuri, closing the space between them. Victor couldn’t help himself. There was a gravity around Yuuri that pulled at Victor, something more than just beauty lurking in his eyes. A spark of interest that had been there since childhood, Victor thought.

When Yuuri had still said nothing, Victor then offered a hand out for Yuuri to shake. A gentlemen’s agreement, if Yuuri would accept. Yuuri hesitated for a moment, eyes fixed on Victor’s outstretched hand. Then, slowly, Yuuri reached out and took it. His hand was warm and it had Victor’s skin tingling.

Yuuri looked away from Victor’s face, voice low and endearing in Victor’s ear; ‘I must tell you something, Mister Nikiforov.’

‘You have my full attention,’ Victor said honestly, instantly regretful when Yuuri pulled his hand away.

‘I’ve followed your career for years,’ Yuuri said quietly, eyes still downcast. ‘You were so impressive and I was- I am, so in awe of your talent. I saw your show Aria in Geneva, almost two years ago to the day now.’

‘You were in Geneva?’ Victor asked, surprised. Yuuri looked up, spectacles catching the light like coins. ‘I never saw you. You should’ve sent me a letter, I would’ve made sure we met.’

‘I was afraid you would not remember me,’ Yuuri said, twisting his gloves. ‘I did not want to impose myself upon you or have you feel any kind of obligation, just because of my association.’

‘Yuuri,’ Victor said gently, reaching out to touch Yuuri’s elbow. Yuuri started, blushing brightly from Victor’s use of his name no doubt. Victor had never been one for manners. ‘I would have been so happy to see you then. I’m only sorry that we’ve lost time together.’

Yuuri licked his lips and Victor’s heart stumbled over itself to try and commit the action to memory.

‘Please,’ Victor said earnestly, barely containing himself from reaching out again. ‘Let me not just make up for my words, but also up for the time we’ve lost these years.’

Yuuri’s eyes roamed over Victor’s face- perhaps wary of further teasing. But Victor had never meant anything as truly as he meant this offer.

Yuuri smiled, a shy thing that settled something warm in Victor’s stomach.

‘If you insist.’

Previous. - Next.

I’ve been contemplating for several days something, and I’ve been trying to distill it into meaning, and put nice little bullet points on how this relates to things that have been bugging me about some common Discourses I’ve been seeing, but at the end, I only really have a story. So here, have a story.

About ten years ago, sometime in the eventful 2006-2007 George W. Bush-ruled hellscape of my identity development, I was just starting to figure out how I felt about my conservative upbringing (not great) and whether I was some brand of queer (probably, but too scared to think about what brand for too long). I was working as a server at a popular Italian-inspired sit-down restaurant that was the closest thing my tiny South Carolinian town had to “fancy” at the time but isn’t really fancy at all.

The host brought a party of four men to one of my tables. It was hard to tell their ages, but my guess is they were teenagers or in their early 20s in the 1980s. Mid-40s, at the time. It was standard to ask if anyone at the table was celebrating anything, so I did. They said they were business partners celebrating a great business deal and would like a bottle of wine.

It was a fairly busy night so I didn’t have a LOT of time to spend at their table, but they were nice guys. They were polite and friendly to me, they didn’t hit on me (as most men were prone to do – sometimes even in front of their girlfriends, a story I’ll tell later if anyone wants me to), and they were racking up a hell of a tab that was going to make my managers happy, so I checked on them as often as I could.

Toward the end of their second bottle of wine, as they were finishing their entrees, I stopped at the table and asked if they wanted any more drinks or dessert or coffee. They were well and truly tipsy by now, giggling, leaning back in their chairs – but so, so careful not to touch each other when anyone was near the table.

They’re all on the fence about dessert, so being a good server, I offered to bring out the dessert menu so they could glance it over and make a decision, “Since you’re celebrating.”

“She’s right!” one of the men said, far too emphatically for a conversation on dessert. “It’s your anniversary! You should get dessert!”

It was like a movie. The whole table went absolutely silent. The clank of silverware at the next table sounded supernaturally loud. Dean Martin warbled “That’s Amore” in some distorted alternate universe where the rest of the restaurant went on acting like this one tipsy man hadn’t just shattered their carefully crafted cover story and blurted out in the middle of a tiny, South Carolina town, surrounded by conservatives and rednecks, that they were gay men celebrating a relationship milestone. 

And I didn’t know what I was yet, but I knew I wasn’t an asshole, and I knew these men were family, and I felt their panic like a monster breathing down all our necks. It’s impossible to emphasize how palpably terrified they were, and how justified their terror was, and how much I wanted them to be happy.

So I did the only thing I knew to do. I said, “Congratulations! How many years?”

The man who’d spoken up burst into tears. His partner stood up and wrapped me in the tightest, warmest hug I’ve ever had – and I’ve never liked being touched by strangers, but this was different, and I hugged him back.

“Thank you,” he whispered, halfway to crying himself. “Thank you so much.”

When he finally let go of me and sat back down, they finally got around to telling me they were, in fact, two couples on a double date, and both celebrating anniversaries. Fifteen years for one of them, I think, and a few years off for the other. It’s hard to remember. It was a jumble of tears and laughter and trembling relief for all of us. They got more relaxed. They started holding hands – under the table, out of sight of anyone but me, but happy.

They did get dessert, and I spent more time at their table, letting them tell me stories about how they met and how they started dating and their lives together, and feeling this odd sense of belonging, like I’d just discovered a missing branch of my family.

When they finally left, all four of them took turns standing up and hugging me, and all four of them reached into their wallets to tip me. I tried to wave them off but they insisted, and the first man who’d hugged me handed me forty dollars and said, “Please. You are an angel. Please take this.”

After they left I hid in the bathroom and cried because I couldn’t process all my thoughts and feelings.

Fast forward to three days ago, when my own partner and I showed up to a dinner reservation at a fancy-casual restaurant to celebrate our fifth anniversary. The whole time I was getting ready to leave, there was a worry in the back of my mind. The internet web form had asked if the reservation was celebrating anything in particular, and I’d selected “Anniversary.” I stood in the bathroom blow-drying my hair, wondering what I would do if we showed up, two women, and the host or the server took one look at us and the “Anniversary” designation on our reservation and refused to serve us. It’s not as ubiquitous anymore, but we’re still in the south, and these things still happen. Eight years of progressive leadership is over, and we’ve got another conservative despot in office who’s emboldening assholes everywhere.

It was on my mind the whole fifteen minutes it took to drive there. I didn’t mention it to my partner because I didn’t want to cast a shadow over the occasion. More than that, I didn’t want to jinx us, superstitious bastard that I am.

We walked into the restaurant. I told the hostess we had a reservation, gave her my last name.

She looked at her screen, then looked back at us. She smiled, broadly and genuinely, and said, “Happy anniversary! Your table is right this way.”

Our server greeted us, said, “I heard you were celebrating!”

“It’s our anniversary,” Kellie said, and our server gasped, beaming.

“That’s great! Congratulations! How many years?”

And I finally breathed a sigh of relief, and I thought about those men at that restaurant ten years ago. I hope they’re still safe and happy, and I hope we all get the satisfaction of helping the world keep blooming into something that’s not so unrelentingly terrible all the time.

8

In March 27th of 2007, Cassandra Clare’s City of Bones was published for the first time by Margaret K. McElderry Books

“We’re called Shadowhunters. At least, that’s what we call ourselves. The Downworlders have less complimentary names for us.”
“Downworlders?”
“The Night Children. Warlocks. The fey. The magical folk of this dimension.”
Clary shook her head. “Don’t stop there. I suppose there are also, what, vampires and werewolves and zombies?”
“Of course there are,” Jace informed her. “Although you mostly find zombies farther south, where the voudun priests are.”
“What about mummies? Do they only hang around Egypt?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. No one believes in mummies.”
- Cassandra Clare, City of Bones

Thank you, @cassandraclare, for creating such a wonderful story and unique characters that have changed so many lives (including my own)
(Feel free to add your own message if you’d like ♡ ) 

anonymous asked:

hey, it's your Samwell bake sales anon! can we get a nhl fundraiser follow-up? I mean, if you're so inspired.

original bake sale fic

“… well, I have to say, Mark, we always say that hockey can be a violent sport but this game is downright– good lord that check was brutal!”

“Yes, Zimmermann is looking to the ref for a call on that one. He’s not going to get it, but some heated words are being exchanged.”

“You know, I think Jack might actually get into a fight this game. He usually avoids it but–”

“It doesn’t really make any sense. The Aces and the Falcs are rivals, to be sure, after facing off in four Stanley Cup finals, but they usually keep it clean. There’s a lot of respect on both sides.”

“Not this game. I thought Zimms and Parse had buried the hatchet after some tense years early on playing against each other but this is vicious.”

“And Tater has just gone after Troy Swoops again. Or no, wait, Troy has gone after Tater. They’ve already fought once but a trip to the bin does not seem to have cooled them down at all.”

“This really isn’t making any sense. Lately, social media would have us believe that these two teams are quite close. Both have been at the forefront of LGBTQ issues and are huge donors to ‘You Can Play’ and– well, now Thirdy is shoving Ethan Vanderbu– Yup, it’s another fight.”

“Thirdy and Vander this time. For the folks just tuning in, this is the third fight between Falcs and Aces this game.”

“And it’s still the first period.”

“And it’s November.”

“No reason at all for this type of animosity.”

“Oh, no, it looks like this is turning into a bit of a brawl. Lots of things being said here. In fact– let’s cut down and see if any of our mics are picking up some of what’s going on. Diana, down to you.”

“Yes, William, so from what I understand, I think the root cause of these issues is something to do with… a fundraiser?”

“There was that NFL/You can Play fundraiser just last night. Both teams were in attendance. You’re saying that’s where the problem started?”

“I think so, Mark. During the first fight between Tater and Lux, I heard something about blueberries? And here, listen in on this:”

Goddamn, Parse, you’ve got to let this go.”

“I BID $15,000 DOLLARS, ZIMMERMANN! DON’T TELL ME TO LET THIS GO!”

“You didn’t have to pay it! It was a blind auction. You didn’t have to pay anything!”

“I DIDN’T GET ANY PIE, YOU ASSHOLE. I WOULD HAVE GLADLY PAID MORE! HOW COULD YOU HAVE POSSIBLY KNOWN TO BID OVER 20 THOUSAND DOLLARS??”

“Well, obviously, that’s how much the pie is worth, Kenny. I just bid a fair price!”

“YOU LIVE WITH HIM! YOU! FUCKING! LIVE! WITH! HIM!”

“Ah, well, let’s cut away from that shall we. Clearly, this fundraiser left some sore feelings on both sides of the teams. I– oh, yes this a brawl now. Tater and Swoops are back at it.”

“And Snowy has left his goal and– it’s a goalie fight.”

YOU KNOW I LIKE THE BLACKBERRY JAM MORE THAN YOU! I DESERVED–”

“Could you move away from the rink a bit, Diana, your mic is picking up–”

“Well, Mark, it looks like the ref is giving penalties to– everyone.”

“Yes. Everyone is going to the bin. Literally everyone on the ice.”

“It’s going to be a hell of a time fitting in there.”

“Well… this is a bit ridiculous. Entirely unprofessional really, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I actually managed to snag a peach pie at yesterday’s fundraiser and let me just say it was literally the best thing I’ve ever put in my–”

“THAT WAS YOU!?!?”

*fight breaks out in announcer’s booth*

There’s something I need to point out with this whole “art style stealing” issue. 

And that’s yes, maybe alot of young artists “copy” other art styles. But we all do it. I’ll pay anyone who can show me their art from when they were first starting out and have it not look like some anime’s art style, or their favorite cartoon. It’s how we learn. Over time the pictures you draw develop from looking like Invader Zim to your own unique look, and that’s how it’s always been.

For example, here’s a drawing by @spibbles, someone whose dealt with this alot.

and here is a drawing I made just now, my attempt to draw this same picture exactly, their style and all.

even when I am blatantly trying to recreate the exact same picture, you can tell they were done by two different artists. You can’t copy an art style exactly. Can you be influenced? Yes. Is that wrong? No.

And I promise you if this was ten years ago, my drawing would look like this, just like hundreds of yours would.

Cause everyone starts out using someone else’s art style.

If they aren’t tracing or stealing the artist’s creations themselves, leave them alone.

I wish someone would’ve just sat me down, five years ago, ten years ago even, and told me how much growing up would feel like digging my soul out of my body by teaspoons and burying it.
—  from an unfinished story #810
“Let the hate go.” he said. “Let it all—go. The burdens that you’ve been keeping inside your heart. The darkness that surrounds it. Please do not keep that baggage with you forever. I know, it’s the hardest thing to do, but how will you be able to know if it’s worth it, if you wouldn’t even want to give it a try? This time, listen to your heart carefully. Close your eyes and let it flow. Let the feelings run through. Darling please remember, that we aren’t living in the past. You aren’t in the same position as you were ten years ago. This is the present. This is what you should be thinking of .” he held her hand tightly and said, “I am not him. And he was not me. And just because I am asking you to forgive him, that doesn’t mean that I am also asking you to forget everything he did. I am just asking you not to let him ruin everything we have right now. Because I love you. And I can never afford to lose you. Please darling, not you”.
—  ma.c.a // Past and Differences
4

I’ve been wanting to draw, but haven’t been able to draw any of the other R!kids (or robots lel), so i decided to do this R!human Mondatta??? Insofar as there’d be a reverse!Mondatta at all haha

He and Zenyatta have a weirdly strong family resemblance (despite not being biological brothers). He’s very down to earth while retaining the same natural charisma as Zenyatta, but if Zenyatta’s charm is like refined sugar then Mondatta’s is like just-cut sugar cane.

Then pair are almost never in each other’s vicinity, but when they are, Zenyatta starts to feel distinctly forged beside his brother’s authenticity (though they used to be more complementary when they were younger). Mondatta still cares a lot about his little bro and is a perennial worry wart when it comes to him. Tends to flip between this and incessant teasing whenever they come in contact (or the doubly irritating tease-worry combo).

Aries: I envy you. I envy your courage, your stupidity and your childishness. Maybe you’re asking “Why?” Well, wouldn’t it be beautiful if we were all children at heart, like you? Like seeing things so horrible yet still making corny jokes? Like telling your feelings, like running until your feet hurt? Like purity, like innocence mixed with knowledge? You have experienced the world, you have experienced life. And yet, you still stand here. Brave and tall. As if to say “I am not afraid of life. I am not afraid to live.”

Taurus: I will always associate you with flowers and colours. With lilies and roses and blood oranges. I will always associate you with fruit and red-green-yellow. We will speak in colours, talk in words others won’t understand. With red-pink sand and blue-green eyes. An encouraging nod, a hug with clasping hands. Words left unspoken simply ‘cause they were never meant to be said, they were meant to be. They were meant to be. Plucking petals like a grade schooler playing games about love. Holding a magnifying glass over your head, and I could not find a flaw. I just saw you. I saw you.

Gemini: While you drink in the melodies of everyone’s laughter the ghosts find a new home inside your body. A facade of performance, masking out your true emotions. While the hallways turn vacant and your ghosts shut the doors. The voices leave the room empty, the emptiness in your chest weighing like a brick worth thousands of diamonds. I cannot put a price on your heart, I don’t know its colours. I don’t know its voice. Or the three albums you have on repeat over the summer, or the songs you dance to at night. Simply because you are you, unique, mysterious and beautiful.

Cancer: You are a puzzle and I am not your missing peace, I don’t own it. But you do. You make up your own being. Maybe you left it in your back pocket, next to the shattered dreams or under the pillars you build when you were eight years old. The ones you made to put your broken home on, searching for stability in broken mirrors. I will linger in my map of you and I swear that even when I get back it leads back to you. It always leads back to you. To that little house with orange paint on the walls from ten years ago. With the nicotine sticking to a once white ceiling and some kind of animals running around. The dusty photographs will still stand on the desk. You will still sit on that one spot, with teary eyes and crossed legs. And you will still be beautiful.

Leo: I could never describe your beauty. Your beauty cannot be multiplied, it can only be remembered, treasured, envied, appreciated or regretted. And by remembered I mean that when you feel like you are just another extra in someone’s life that they will mention you to their parents during dinner. They will talk about your shining personality and sparkling eyes. By treasured I am talking about that “the one” experience which you deserve. A treasure filled with all things unique and irreplaceable. One that’s filled with happiness. By envied I am talking about the eyes you do not see, or do not wish to see. Or don’t notice. You stand out in a crowd, especially when you don’t think you are. By appreciated I am talking about the ones who see your true you, your tangled hair and cracked lips. The ones who still stay even through the bad times. By regretted I am talking about the people who did not see your beauty until you blossomed. I understand why you find cocoons beautiful now, and how you like caterpillars just as much as butterflies.

Virgo: Snow litters on untouched skin. Sun rains through the cracks of the darkness even where you hide. I could hear you talking every day. Forever. With delicate fingers and blushed cheeks. Your hair untamed and your fingers bruised to the bone. Delicately logical. The edges of the leafs of oak trees remind me of your way of thinking. The overhang reminds me of your mind. Which casts shadows over the villagers in the houses you build where colourless souls reside. You are so often in debate with your own head, at war with your own body. Never at peace, always restless. Always asking, “but why?” I don’t know. You like it, don’t you? Parading around in your own world? Sweet little soul in a world full of pain.

Libra: The bell of the church echoed through your head a little longer than it should’ve. It never was nice. We never played nice. We talked until our lips were dry and I stayed home when you were out cold. But memories don’t matter anymore do they darling? In this orchestra of harmonious noises where you are the leader of everything nothing can hurt you. I don’t know, I don’t know. And goddamnit I know you will try to push everything on yourself again. You always do. That’s just how you work. Why don’t you warm your hands on your own body for once? You don’t need another person to feel like you’re loved, you only need one. One whole, full, true person.

Scorpio: Everything seems darker these days. Charcoal coloured clouds are a daily thing. And your arms are always covered up along with your legs. Even in the summer the nights don’t seem as enchanting. Not when small bruises shaped like the bumps of your knuckles litter on your thighs. Self destructive lullabies, “I just need a friend, for once in my life.” A desire for someone to stay ripped from your lips. So I stayed by your side wondering, if you wanted me to stay or needed me to stay. Of course I could say you remind me of scarlet blood and bathroom tiles. But you also remind of the river I used to play in when I was nine. You also remind me of the necklace I got when my grandmother passed away. You remind me of memories, the good, the bad, the in-between. You remind me of life. Please keep on living.

Sagittarius: The reason that I didn’t cry when you left was because crying means letting go, or so you said. And I don’t want to let you go. I want you to be a part of me, forever. But I can’t do that, you would rot in the hell hole that is my mind. I can’t put you through more cruelty. I hate how I am the reason you cry on bad nights, do you still wonder if I miss you? I do. I do. I do. Regret was stronger than appreciation. But you’re so fucking strong. Your eyes still shine even when you’re sad. You think no one likes you yet you know that’s not true. You’re the reason I am alive. You let me experience pain, beauty, emotion. You let me live. You’re so much more than enough, sometimes I can’t even handle who you are. You are dazzling. But you could never control your heart, it always wandered over the streets of other people’s bodies.

Capricorn: When the sun sets over mountains and the houses made of glass shatter I will still see your name in the sky in neon lights. The little bugs in our home always wanted to be friends with you. They always sat on the tip of your nose with gentle smiles. I never envied you, I wish I treasured you. You are so simplistic and nice. Nice. Too underrated for your own good, no? Aren’t we all. Your hands will still be remembered by those you touched. You always leave some kind of mark that they don’t want to wash off. You have that affect on people. You make them drown their thoughts and hold their breath when you walk into a room. You are an old soul, but you know that. Why? You just do. Because you’re you. And nothing can change that or the late nights, the slowness or the fastness in your walk doesn’t matter for the right people. They will walk for you until they have blathers on their toes. If they don’t you know what to do.

Aquarius: Swirls of icy wind are always your accomplice. You’re cold, and beautiful; like snow. The wires always stick to your senses, they get stuck in between your backbone. They twist around your spine and plug into the back of your brain. You let other people control you like you’re a mindless puppet. I think the wires got the best of you. Whenever you speak your mind it says something beautiful and unique. You are original, not ordinary. I am sorry they teach you that being unique is bad and that you have to fit into this ‘ordinary’ world as an ‘ordinary’ person. Nothing is ordinary about you, not even your name. Your name says who you are as a person, if someone asks me to define you I will simply say your name, the definition of your personality is your name. Because your name is unique and so is your personality. Don’t let other people control you.

Pisces: The imaginary butterflies with the raven black wings told me about you. They tell me that your head is in a universe they have never seen, with all things beautiful and all things bad. They see you crying with your knees tugged up sometimes, hands in your hair as you hide beneath sheets of darkness. You write poetry with the blood in the sink and make galaxies with the stars you find inside other people their eyes. A gentle smile always embraces your lips, “So happy, yet so sad” they say. A mask is something you believe is beautiful, but I believe you are beautiful. The real you. Not the you who cautiously walks over this realm of sadness. Your moonlit hair is so silky, your sunlit eyes are so sad. Chin up little soldier.

—  Letters to the zodiac signs
10

favorite movies: Sky High (2005)

“Compared to homecoming, the rest of the year was pretty boring. Gwen and her gang got what they deserved - now nobody wants to save the citizen. Relax, I’m just kidding! But they are getting to spend a lot of quality time together. Oh yeah, and Ron Wilson, bus driver, fell into a vat of toxic waste. He now works for the mayor defending the city from giant robots. So in the end, my girlfriend became my arch enemy, my arch enemy became my best friend and my best friend became my girlfriend. But hey, that’s high school.”

I want white men to know that fascists will kill them.

I want ‘apolitical’ white men to know that fascists, once they have complete control of the state, will kill them. This may not seem obvious as fascists usually aren’t talking about killing you and that isn’t among their main intentions. But they will kill you. 

Maybe fascists will kill you because you were disobedient. A fascist regime requires strict unquestioning obedience to an illogical ever changing doctrine that frequently bites its own tail. Maybe you’ll tweet favourably about one prominent fascist and a week later he’ll fall out of favor with fascist leadership and they will kill you. Maybe they will kill you over a thing you put on your facebook ten years ago. Maybe your death will be entirely random. Because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fascist states control their population through terror and random death is part of that terror. 

Maybe you’ll be lucky. Maybe you will be completely obedient, consequent in backing the right person as power changes and not a target of random state violence. In that case fascism will still kill you. 

You see, fascism loves nothing more than war. Fascism views war as an act that makes men ‘noble’. Fascism wants nothing more than to send it’s young white men off to to fight its dreamed of ‘Total War’. No really, total war is one of the ideals of fascism. And when the young white men run out, fascism will send the older men and the children and eventually it’s entire population. And since fascism values war above all else and hardly values human life, it will not hesitate to spill your blood needlessly. In 1939 there were in Germany roughly 34 million German white men who did not belong to any targetted minority group. In 1945 roughly 5 million of these were German white men dead. Do those sound like good odds to you?

Fascism, once in power, will kill you. Now that you know this, you can prevent it by making sure fascists do not get state control and by pushing back what power they already have. Targetted minorities have been pointing out the dangers of fascism for a long time. It’s time you started listening to them. They’re fighting for your lives too.