love, he says, is not real.
he’s said it again: with his nails digging in my collarbone,
those flighty night-howls always drowning
but it’s still shaky: i think he’s like a faulty
clockwork that won’t admit it’s
malformed / breath trembling when he
says it yet his greedy fingers want more to
grasp upon. define pressure point for me,
& I’ll tell you what’s his.
love is not real, he says when all lights are
out, hips moving carelessly.
( when i say I love you, he never laughs,
his lips tremble & he whispers, don’t do
this to me )
your out-of-state friends laugh when you tell them you live in misery. you laugh too. you have to laugh. it’s a joke. only a joke. you wish you could make them stay away. they laugh it off.
“you haven’t been to the city museum?” you ask a friend. “you have to have been to the city museum!” have you been to the city museum? you can’t remember. maybe you went there on a class trip. you must have been. everyone has been to the city museum. everyone. you suddenly remember that your friend is still waiting for you inside the whale.
the tv screen goes white. oh no. oh no. black text begins to scroll across the screen. you feel sick. “accept jesus into your heart”, the man says. his voice is familiar. you’ve heard it so many times. who is he? who is he? he runs the church not far from here. but who is he? you’ve seen his face, but you can’t picture it. the black text is running on a loop now, you’re sure of it. “accept jesus. accept god. jesus loves you. jesus loves you. we love you.”
everyone has a ghost story. but everyone swears that ghosts don’t exist. which is it? missouri is a ghost story. all our houses are haunted. by the dead, and by those on their way.
you just want chick-fil-a. everyone wants chick-fil-a. but it’s sunday. wasn’t it sunday yesterday? you swear it was. but isn’t tomorrow sunday? chick-fil-a is closed on sundays. it’s always closed.
you’ve passed 9 churches now. or was it 10? you can’t remember. you don’t want to. everyone is at church. dead eyes stare at you from the windows.
the past week has been nothing but thunderstorms. thunderstorms and tornados. it’s okay. no one you knew was in the path of the tornado. no one ever knows anyone in the path of the tornado. and you love thunderstorms. you love them. you say this through a tight-lipped smile.
you will never leave this place. you want to. but no one ever leaves. do they?
there are coyotes everywhere. you know this. that’s what they say. those strange howls at night. the missing pets. it’s the coyotes. it has to be.
you receive a letter. its address reads “st. louis”. no, that can’t be right. you don’t live in st. louis. you look closer. your zip code is there. but you don’t live in st. louis. you’ve never lived in st. louis. you feel afraid.
there are hawks. on every fence post, on every telephone pole, every road sign. they mean nothing, you tell yourself. they’re only hawks.
you love going to st. louis bread company. it confuses your out-of-state friends. “do you mean panera?” they ask. no. you don’t. you mean st. louis bread company. they’re different. they have to be.
a tornado is coming. you could be in its path. no one would know you. you go to the store. it’s fully stocked- except for bread, milk, and eggs. there is no more bread. there are no more eggs. there is no more milk. why? why is that all we take? what do we subconsciously know is in those three foods that will save us?
“what high school did you go to?” that’s the question they always ask. why? you try to remember. you can’t. did you go to high school with them? yes. yes, you must have. didn’t you? you can’t even remember being a teenager.
billboards seem to be everywhere. you don’t even recognize what they’re selling anymore. they blend together.
you’ve only been to the arch once. so has everyone you know. you go there once, and then never again. you don’t remember how you got to the top. you hate elevators. you always have.
you look up at the shadow in the sky. your stomach drops. that’s not a shadow. it’s a massive cloud of black birds. they seem to be swarming directly above you. you can’t stop staring. every part of you goes numb. you think you hear someone screaming. is it you?
Ok I might not make sense while saying this but after what happened at Manchester, I just want us to pick up a symbol of rebellion. Like sing “One Last Time” or ANY song in rememberance of Florida, Paris, Christina and Manchester before the sets at any concert. Not just the ones that take place immediately after. Not just now. Let us sing before every concert as a sign of rebellion. As a sign that we won’t let a happy place be snuffed out by darkness. As a symbol for the strength of little girls and boys attending their first concert. As a sign of the resistance of our queer brothers and sisters, and their perseverance. Let it echo with the howls of those who lost their loved ones in a place meant to be a source of their happiness..let it haunt those who dare to hurt the innocent. Let it be a reminder to those who strive to break humanity..that humanity will march forward..FOREVER. Idk..just something to show that we won’t cower in fear. That we won’t stop living our lives. This might not have been the most thought out post but now I’m just desperate. Desperate for something. Anything.
Also please keep Thailand and Marawi in your prayers. And if possible please look for ways to help them.
Ronan didn’t intend for it to happen and yet here they where: a surly, sleep-deprived teen and a sentient, sartorial mouse. Oh, and a tiny, fully functional motorcycle.
Ronan did what he always did when confounded by his dreams: he showed up on Adam’s doorstep. It was three in the morning. Adam Parrish had finally fallen asleep. He was groggy and rumpled when he opened the door.
“Ronan,” he sighed before stepping back and letting Ronan in.
Ronan was vibrating with excess energy, his eyes wide and practically sparkling. “Parrish,” he breathed, “you will not believe this.”
Adam collapsed on his bed. He was prepared to believe anything if it meant he could go back to sleep.
“Yes?” he asked and yawned widely.
Ronan carefully reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a mouse. A mouse who was dressed almost identically to Ronan: miniscule jeans, black muscle tee, and a leather jacket.
Adam blinked twice and rubbed his eyes.
“What… I mean, who is this?” He was wide awake now. Ronan’s weirdness had reached a new level.
“Are you kidding me?” Ronan laughed incredulously. “This is Ralph! You know… The Mouse and the Motorcycle?”
Adam shook his head. The mouse, Ralph, stared at him with blatant disapproval.
Ronan was shocked. Didn’t everyone read this book as a child? Sure, Niall and Aurora weren’t your average parents but they still kept with the classic children’s books. But Adam didn’t have that, did he? Ronan swallowed around the lump in his throat. Ralph jumped off his hand and started exploring Adam’s apartment. Adam watched him with avid curiosity.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” Ronan said. “You can read the book to Opal. Lord knows she loves bedtime stories. We’ll work our way through the canon. It’ll, uh, be great.”
“Oh?” Adam asked. “Does this mean you’ll also read her some books?”
Ronan thought about it. Ralph had made it up onto Adam’s desk and was reading his history essay.
“Sure,” Ronan agreed. “But only The Dark is Rising. And A Wrinkle in Time.”
“I haven’t read those,” Adam admitted. Ronan howled and mimed being wounded. Adam playfully tackled him and it devolved into a tickle war.
They were interrupted by a surprisingly low, “Dudes.” Both of them jerked upright, nearly knocking their heads together as they scanned the room for the speaker.
“Down here,” said the voice. They peered over the edge of the bed and there was Ralph, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Fuck, man, I forgot you were here,” Ronan apologized.
Ralph shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
Adam stared at Ralph, then Ronan, before doubling over in laughter. “I *can’t* believe you dreamed yourself a… a mouse doppleganger!”
Ronan and Ralph both vehemently denied this but Adam knew the truth and he couldn’t help but be charmed by imagining kid Ronan daydreaming about an adventurous mouse and his badass bike.
You never grow out of some dreams.
[Ralph comes to live at the Barns and teaches the other mice how to ride the motorcycle. They all want one. Ronan spends a week dreaming up different models. The first all-mice motorcycle gang is formed.
Adam and Ronan start reading classic children’s books to Opal. She loves it. Her favorite story is The Graveyard Book. She says Bod reminds her of someone.]
SO I read through the #khwerewolfau by @craziiwolf and couldn’t contain myself
Yay you can kill me now (if I hadn’t already)
Kageyama Tobio opened his eyes with a start. He had fallen asleep, hand loosely gripping his crossbow. Taking a deep breath, Kageyama recounted his dream. It was fading away, but he remembered one thing. An orange blur of fur, clinging to his coat. And crying. He had been crying.
With a sigh, he shoved the dream - no, memory, away. It was no use regretting. And yet… He couldn’t help it. He wished he hadn’t walked away, left him there. But he was probably safer. He was a hunter, who hunted werewolves. Kageyama would only hurt him. And that was the last thing he wanted.
A few minutes later, he found himself walking a familiar path. The trail. He breathed in, memories flooding his head. Finding Hinata Shouyou, for some reason he hadn’t known, trying to keep him safe. Running down this path together, both howling. Those days were long gone now, years past. And how he missed those days.
Hinata Shouyou found himself running along a familiar path. He had grown used to having only one leg. After that idiot had left, he had wandered the forest mindlessly. Until the hunters found him. He could still hear the yelling, the panting breaths, the sound of weapons. He could still see the bright red blood, the arrow, glinting eyes pinpointed on him. He could still feel their warm breath only a few tail-lengths behind him, the fiery pain erupting in his leg. Two other werewolves had saved him, named Nishinoya - well, Noya, and Asahi. The last thing he had thought of before he had lost consciousness was black hair and dark blue eyes. He had stayed with Noya and Asahi, at least until leg was better - as in, until he got used to having only one working leg. The other, which had been shot, had hit a nerve and been paralyzed, and had been amputated at my request. After all, it was better to cut it off and get used to running with one leg than having it in the way.
Hinata reached a hill, and almost got caught in the flood of memories. But he shook them away, and raced down the hill, eyes closed against the wind, wishing to disappear. His foot caught a root, and he tumbled down to bump into something. They both fell over, and he flipped himself back up, and stared into the shocked eyes of Kageyama with surprise.
Something warm hurtled into me from behind, and Kageyama was knocked over onto his knees. He whirled around, and everything seemed to freeze. Hinata was here. Next to him. Then panic seemed to take over.
Kageyama scrambled away and stood up shakily. Hinata’s shock also seemed to dissipate.
“What are you…” His words trailed away as he stared down at the werewolf’s legs. Where was his leg? When had this happened? Why?
“You!” Hinata snarled, and Kageyama flinched. “Why did you leave? You left me alone! Then the hunters came, and…” Hinata took a shuddering breath. “This is all your fault!” He howled, and Kageyama was speechless. Of course it was. It was all his fault, and they both knew it. He had thought it was for the best, that it would keep Hinata safe, but…
Hinata’s hackles rose, and the fur along his back and his tail rose dangerously. With a growl, Hinata hurled himself a Kageyama, and Kageyama closed his eyes. He deserved this; it was all his fault, it-
Something warm and soft wrapped around him. When he opened his eyes, he found that the werewolf had wrapped his arms around him, and had started sobbing into his shoulder.
“I missed you…” Hinata hiccuped, tears streaming down his face endlessly. And Kageyama returned the hug.