the eye mote

How to Summon a Familiar

● Preform this spell on or just before a full moon! ●

Preparation:

  1. Bathe in a warm sea salt bath
  2. Cleanse your magickal space
  3. Dress a pink or white candle with your favorite oil/oils
  4. Burn cleansing incense like patchouli or dragons blood, or simply light the corner of a dried sage leaf and “smudge” your space

When your body is squeaky clean and your space is lovingly cleared and has been made ready for your magickal work, simply light your oil dressed candle, reciting words to this effect, or better yet, make up your own incantation. This would be a wonderful spell to cast out-of-doors if possible. At your door would be an ideal place to prepare for this one, privacy permitting of course.

Familiar Summing Incantation:

“I ask the Great Mother to send me a special friend

Bringing love that knows no beginning, and no end

Claw and tail, and loving eyes

Warm and gentle, wildly wise

Let me know and let me see

One with eyes for only me

So mote it ever be!”

Amy Wright has big, round eyes and an ageless face. She was almost thirty when she acted in John Huston’s 1979 adaptation of Flannery O’Connor’s novel Wise Blood, but is wholly convincing as the preacher’s teenage daughter Sabbath Lily, who seduces the protagonist, Hazel Motes. Her eyes are what do it: liquid and slightly uneven, they turn downward as they widen, transforming her expression from childlike stubbornness into an almost too-pliable topography of peaks and valleys, rising colors and shifting lines. And Wise Blood is all about eyes: the angled, electric-blue eyes of Hazel (Brad Dourif), the would-be irreligionist who can’t escape faith; the scandalously seeing eyes of the supposedly blind evangelist Asa Hawks (Harry Dean Stanton), whom Hazel pursues, determined to unmask his falseness; and the gawking, desiring eyes of his daughter Sabbath Lily, which become the displaced focus of Hazel’s ecclesiastical obsession.

Wild Child: Shonni Enelow on Amy Wright’s lusty, unbridled performance in John Huston’s Wise Blood 

Rain

Summary: Angela always works too late. Genji makes sure she gets some sleep.

Word count: 1027

AO3

Even when she was in the midst of a full-one revolution, the paperwork still managed to catch up with her. Stacks upon stacks of requisitions, test results, medical files and plain old bills cluttered her usually immaculate desk. 

Angela was used to going without sleep, though. Her professors had once remarked it was as important a talent for any doctor or physician as having steady hands and neat handwriting. But she was getting a little older, and pulling an all-nighter wasn’t as easy as it had been years before; a coffee-assist was usually not enough to keep her awake until everything was done. The ambience of the safehouse they were staying in only added to her problems.

The soft whirring of the ventillation fans; the pitter-patter of gentle rain outside; the quiet hum of her computer all combined to form a perfect lullaby. In the pool of light cast by her desk lamp, Angela found her eyes struggling to stay open. She kept having to re-read the same sentence. In amongst the soothing sounds, his footsteps made very little impression on the peaceful atmosphere that surrounded her office.

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front seat quickie

‘Well,’ says Dean, ‘should we roll?’

You glance over the front seat and let your feet slip clunkily down from the dash. Driving all night and through this morning, and now an hour’s nap; not much, not enough to feel rested but enough to push through the last couple of hours to the bunker. 

‘Yeah, I’m good,’ you say, but you’re not really thinking about it, you’re looking at the sweat on Dean’s neck (he’s almost matte when he sweats) and the damp making dark patches blossom around the neckline of his grey tshirt. He flexes his shoulders, rolls the stiffness of sleep from his neck. His eyebrows are furrowed, thinking, lips hanging open a little. He looks good enough to eat and you’re a day or two from your period, so horny you’re actually aching from it, a low steady discomfort twisting between your legs. 

‘Dean,’ you say, before you can second-guess it, ‘do you wanna - uh. Do you wanna? Quick?’

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Here’s my issue with “it can be used as a tool for abuse, so it shouldn’t exist”:

Social justice is fucking ripe with the potential for abuse. 

Like, I cannot count how many times popular sj bloggers have ended up being revealed as abusers. Social justice is built on guilt, it’s built on prioritizing some people over others, and it has the lovely tendency to ignore actual people’s experiences that don’t fit the narrative. 

People have to write articles to other sjers about how anyone can abuse anyone. That’s a novel idea in social justice ideology, that marginalized people can abuse people with privilege. That interpersonal relationships are not defined entirely by privilege/oppression dynamics. 

So the people who are attacking ships and shippers left and right on the basis of “your ships are tools for abusers”: when are they gonna apply that same standard to their own ideology? When do we get to “oh, well, social justice isn’t bad on it’s own, but it’s got so much potential to be used by abusers, nobody should be allowed to do it anymore”?

lyccris  asked:

Examine!: Humanity sprite

Soft, body-heat warm and so deeply black in color it seems to absorb any light it touches. It almost appears to have a face, two tiny white eyes in the mote of darkness. Whatever were the gods so afraid of?

Anesthetic

For the Drabble Games. As prompted by whitnialis

Thorin x Reader : “I almost lost you.” and “Don’t you ever do that again!”

Warnings: Injury. 

Word count: 597



Carelessness does not go without consequence. Though, you could hardly call it carelessness if it is caring to drive you forward in the first place. Perhaps, then, it is caring that bears the heaviest burden.

You remember spotting Azog, the intention to dispatch him running through your veins already when you noticed exactly with whom he was locked in battle. A fierce desire to protect Thorin then raged in your chest, spurring you on as you launched yourself between them, swinging your sword through the air at the heinous fiend. You only managed a few superficial wounds before you took Azog’s blade to your shoulder.

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3. To Become: Claws

Frustrating. There was no other word for it. He’d hover in front of her. He’d wave his arms wildly. He’d set the room on fire. Nothing fazed her.

It wasn’t Mabel’s fault.

It was Dipper’s fault. For being stuck on an entirely different plane of existence.

Following her was virtually pointless. Watching over her did no good. It didn’t fix the despair and loneliness that seemed permanently etched on her face. It didn’t do any good to read her aura with his third eye and see the motes of pruce swirl about her long, now shaggy, brown hair. It didn’t make him feel right. He had found Mabel, but raw human emotions wrecked him.

They were overpowering.

Eating made him feel better. The occasional minor demon he encountered. The rare summoner looking for Cipher that he dealt with. There was no keeping track of them anymore. Now it seemed the sparks and fire flowed endlessly. He didn’t have trouble with wearing thin anymore. His appetite grew to match his meals.

Now the question remained: how could he get Mabel’s attention?

Dipper mulled over the question as he prowled through the mindscape, somewhere in the northern tundra of Canada. The world was frozen over. His presence elicited steam along his path.

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Dust

i’m nothing
if not one to seek out the sun
but what sin must stain a man
that he can no longer close his eyes

the motes dance in her beams and fill my lungs

we have three inches in the gauge
and i’m still not clean
three inches
and the dust whirls in spite
don’t let this rain get you down baby girl
it’ll make for easy diggin’ when i’m gone


4-12-16

The Eye-Mote

Blameless as daylight I stood looking
At a field of horses, necks bent, manes blown,
Tails streaming against the green
Backdrop of sycamores. Sun was striking
White chapel pinnacles over the roofs,
Holding the horses, the clouds, the leaves

Steadily rooted though they were all flowing
Away to the left like reeds in a sea
When the splinter flew in and stuck my eye,
Needling it dark. Then I was seeing
A melding of shapes in a hot rain:
Horses warped on the altering green,

Outlandish as double-humped camels or unicorns,
Grazing at the margins of a bad monochrome,
Beasts of oasis, a better time.
Abrading my lid, the small grain burns:
Red cinder around which I myself,
Horses, planets and spires revolve.

Neither tears nor the easing flush
Of eyebaths can unseat the speck:
It sticks, and it has stuck a week.
I wear the present itch for flesh,
Blind to what will be and what was.
I dream that I am Oedipus.

What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
Fixed me in this parenthesis;
Horses fluent in the wind,
A place, a time gone out of mind.

– Sylvia Plath

anonymous asked:

I know this sounds stupid but I check everyday to see if you have a new part to the reunion story!!! One word: hope.

(Hi anon! Unfortunately the reunion story is on hold. I’m not sure for how long or if I’ll get back to it. But here’s a fill of your prompt all the same!)

Carol sat on the side of the bed, her legs hanging off the edge, her toes inches above the floor. Her body ached where the wounds had recently closed, and she was somewhere between serenity and unease at the noises of the Kingdom’s daily life outside the window. Her wounds weren’t restricting her here anymore. The people here weren’t restricting her. They seemed more or less ambivalent toward her; she was welcome to stay, but they wouldn’t stop her from leaving either.

She traced her thumb across the bullet scar over her thigh, wincing at the tender, pink new skin around the area. The sunlight dripped across the window sill and onto the quiet morning scene of the room. She was leaving today. Going back to Alexandria…Her reasons for wanting to leave it all behind hadn’t changed…but everything else had. The Saviors…Negan…what had happened that night out on the road…Carol shifted her eyes from the dust motes floating in the air over to Daryl.

His back was to her, bent over and tying his shoe laces. There was a fresh, pink scar on the back of his shoulder where the bullet had blown out. The way he carried his arm told her it still bothered him, but the wound was closed, and that was healed enough in his mind.

They hadn’t spoken much over the past few weeks. She got the feeling that he didn’t know what to say, but everything he felt was clear on his face. He was overwhelmed. He was upset with what had happened, with her; he was angry and scared. And under all of that, constant as sunrise, was an unwavering and unconditional loyalty to her. It reverberated through every look, every expression, every movement of him.

She didn’t know how to live with that.

“Was thinkin’…” His voice broke into her thoughts softly.

Carol kept her eyes silently on him as he turned around to face her. His gaze was down on the shirt in his hands as he unfolded it. She let the quiet continue on his terms, only placing her hands on the edge of the bed her at her sides, readying herself for whatever he was going to say.

He fidgeted with the shirt before taking a breath and shrugging one arm through the sleeve. He more gingerly got his mending arm through the other sleeve, but he didn’t move to button it up just yet.

“We get back…” he said, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers. “Things are gonna be different…They’re gonna have to change.”

Carol swallowed and exhaled, crossing her ankles. “We don’t know if Negan is aware of Alexandria’s connection to the Hilltop or the Kingdom.”

He nodded briefly. “Yeah…S’not what I’m talkin’ about though.”

She straightened. “Tell me.”

He scratched at his chin, started to fold his arms, grimaced, and let his arms fall to his sides again. He lifted one hand to rub at his shoulder, his thumb pressing at the sore spots.

“You—“ He cut himself off, shifting from one foot to another. “I don’t—this…”

Deciding the distance was too much, he closed the gap between them, paused, and put his hand on the footboard of the bed. She watched him carefully.

“You. You are…good.” He patted the footboard for emphasis, having trouble meeting her eyes, so he addressed her shoulder. “If you think—If you think otherwise…That you’re…damned or damaged or just…S’bullshit. If you think YOU’re damned, then I’m—“

He pursed his lips hard and looked toward the window. Carol winced and reached out, touching his hand.

“Daryl—“

“No.” He dropped his head for a brief moment, before he was looking directly at her. “The world is…it’s just shit. It’s all shit, and it’s filled with shit people. The few good ones that are worth anything are just—I cain’t just keep losin’ ‘em. I can’t do it. And to just lose ‘em is bad enough…To watch ‘em go down fighting or—“ His gaze went distant for a moment, but he quickly snapped back. “But to lose them of their choice…To know that they chose to walk away…”

Carol squeezed his hand. “I didn’t want to, Daryl.”

“Then why did you?” His voice lost its composure.

He stepped around the bed, standing directly in front of her. “What would leaving accomplish? There was a time you’d chew my ass for tryin’ to leave. I just—“ He visibly struggled to regain control. “I want to understand. I know I didn’t—I wasn’t there, and—Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Her jaw locked, and she stared at him. Where was she supposed to start to explain? God, how long ago would explaining anything to him be as easy as breathing? To barely need any words to communicate what either was feeling? Why did he feel so far away? When did that happen? Her vision blurred, and she furiously blinked the moisture away.

“Carol—“ Daryl took a step closer.

Carol blindly reached out and got a handful of his shirt, tugging him closer. He followed her coaxing until he was practically standing between her knees. She dropped her forehead against his chest, taking a shaky breath.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

She felt his bewilderment, but he was quick to put his arms around her.

“M’right here,” he murmured. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He snorted. “Well, rephrase. I ain’t goin’ nowhere if you ain’t.”

It was a beautiful and infuriating over-simplification of the circumstances. Damn, if she didn’t love him for it. He felt warm and solid. He felt like home. The concept brought a hotter burn to her eyes, and she let it wash over her. She turned her cheek into his chest and wrapped her arms around the narrow of his back.

“That means we’re both going back to Alexandria,” she said softly.

He rubbed her back briefly, and then she felt him kiss the top of her head. She swallowed and lifted her head, looking up at him.

“Tell me something real…something that hasn’t changed,” she pleaded.

He gazed down at her with a fondness that made her chest ache. He slowly cupped her face with both hands and bent down, kissing her lips slowly. She kept her eyes open even as his closed into the kiss. He tasted exactly how she thought he would, but the kiss was warmer than she’d imagined, softer. She could feel the stiff spot on his lower lip where it was still healing. She could feel him breathing into her.

He followed the deep kiss with a shorter one, like he didn’t know how to stop. She leaned forward with him as he withdrew, reluctant for it to end. She involuntarily licked her lips and looked up at him. He looked back at her. The corner of his mouth quirked up, and he set his temple against her forehead.

“That’s all I got,” he spoke tenderly. “Hope that’s enough.”

It was everything.