I remember my father atop a splintered picnic bench. Tattered overalls, stained in sweat and dirt, and his skin, an apple red from the oppressive sun. I sat, splashing about in a play pool, wearing my favorite swimsuit – it was violet, the neckline trimmed with flowing ruffles. “We nearly have two pennies to rub together, Helen,” he had said to my mother. My father was a laborer, picking up odd jobs here and there, yet there hadn’t been an odd job there for the picking in a while. “It’ll be fine Charlie, we’ll get by,” my mother assured. But she, too, had become weary; her hopeful spirit, heavy in the thick air. My mother was a baker, by hobby not trade. She was talented and resourceful; I’m not sure which came first: the cupboards we often better used for hiding spots than for storage, but somehow there was always the right amount of something for her to do her thing. It was what kept her smiling, moving forward. Even then, I could sense the purpose she felt with each knead of dough. Folks would pop by, knocking about on the back door, “Hey there, your mama got anymore of those tasty Helen’s helpings?” She’d sell them for what she could. People seemed to like them. And what she didn’t sell, we ate before they spoiled. My mother wasn’t a waster. I watched my father that summer day, as he sat, staring, unresponsive to my playful quips. He’d break his fixation only to wipe the sweat from his brow – just before it’d reach his eyes – like a toy, wound at random, moving mechanically, slowly returning to its original pose. I remember thinking he looked broken. There was even a moment where it seemed he was about to cry; I had never seen a grown man cry. But then he stood, staring blankly on, before letting out a heavy sigh, kicking up the dirt drive as he exited. My mother quickly followed after. And I sat there for some time, cautiously so. I hadn’t even lifted my hands above the water’s surface, fearful to make a disturbance, each fingertip slowly turning pruney. As the afternoon turned ripe, my mother came to retrieve me. I tagged along beside her, as she delivered packages of tarts and biscuits in the ease of the dusk breeze. To stay entertained, I gave myself a task, one that required my eyes to survey the ground. “Sadie, watch where you’re going sweetie, you’re sure to run into something if you don’t start paying attention,” my mother had warned. But I didn’t, and by the time my mother had finished her task, I had finished mine. The wind picked up that evening: a distant rain shower’s fair warning. Father moved slowly about the house, bringing the windows to a close. I had slipped quietly down the staircase, breaking away from my obedient, nightly routine.He looked up as the floor creaked, “Hey kiddo, you should be in bed.” I walked straight up to my father’s sturdy base, outstretching my arm, like flora slowly reaching toward the sun. My clenched hand, holding two pennies, made its way to the inside of his tough palm. I remember rubbing them between my thumb and pointer finger after finding them that afternoon: my child’s mind, pure and literal, at work. I could see in the perplexity of my father’s face, his mind pulling the pieces together. And then he wiped his eyes with the back of one hand, the two pennies nearly drowning in the other. My mother had stood, motionless, trying to shield her presence within the frame of the doorway. I turned and exited, thinking nothing more than how happy by father must be to have his two pennies to rub together again, swinging my arms, proudly and carefree, returning to bed, a child, untarnished.
In 1965, this amazing short sword was pulled from a scabbard in a coffin which was underwater in a tomb in
for most of its 2,500 year life. Whether by craftsmanship, metallurgical quality or the circumstances of preservation, this sword is still in phenomenal condition, and at time of discovery was untarnished and still sharp!
I don’t know why but I like the idea of Junkrat having crush’s on people, but not thinking he’s good enough to be with them. Like Lucio is handsome, fit, with beautiful skin that’s smooth and untarnished and hair that’s just perfect and well kept and hes fashionable, can read/write, musical sensation at 26, and lead a rebellion against a corrupt an evil company.
And Junkrat just gets into these Headspace’s where he knows everyone’s standards are so much higher then in the outback. He can compare himself to others now and he doesn’t like what he sees cause their all so beautiful and hes trash. And anyone could find someone better then him, anyone would be better then him.
Headcanon that Lanfear "dabbled her fingers" in one of Semirhage's plans during the War of Power, then "flitted to safety" while Semirhage was captured, and that's why they hate each other.
Lanfear dresses like moonlight, in unstained white and
untarnished silver, illuminating the night she claims to have embraced. Seeking
always to cast shadows, but never to become one, she only walks the paths of
darkness because they allow her to shine in a way the daylight never would.
Always, she was the pale moon beside Ilyena’s blazing sun. It
is as though, by claiming dominion over the night, she thinks she can make them
all forget that the moon’s light is only borrowed, reflected from the sun whose
place it seeks to supplant but can only ever borrow.
It almost amuses Semirhage to see how afraid the others are
of even suggesting she has crafted her image in opposition to Lanfear’s, when
it was Lanfear who first crafted an image to oppose another. Lanfear may call
herself the daughter of the night while garbing herself in stolen light, but
Semirhage does not need her name to reflect her choice. The night is hers. True
night, moonless night.
She does not need moonlight to find her way through the
darkness; pain only shines more brightly in the absence of stars, and guides
her more clearly.
She could have escaped unnoticed, leaving nothing but blood
seeping forgotten into the black of night and the black fabric of her gown. She
could have escaped unnoticed, but for Lanfear. Lanfear, who insisted on coming
but does not bother to see the plan through to completion, flitting away before
red can stain the pure white that draws attention like a beacon. By the time
the guards reach her, she has vanished into the world of dreams, leaving
Semirhage to answer for the bodies.
Alone in a cuendillar
cell, Semirhage smiles coldly. She has spent the last several days setting new
plans in motion, and imagining ways to make Lanfear’s worst nightmares seem
like little more than softly moonlit dreams. This prison cannot hold her for
long; the bars do not even cast a visible shadow over her, so dark is her
clothing and so dim the moonlight through the narrow window. Lanfear may think herself triumphant, but the
waxing moon must always wane again, and Semirhage can be patient. All she needs
is a new moon, and then she will ignite the sky with her own fires.
Semirhage doesn’t illuminate. She burns.
Even she could not have imagined three thousand years of
dreamless sleep, an endless black abyss darker than any night she has ever
known. But perhaps it was worth the cost.
She smirks inwardly as she looks at Cyndane, dressed not in
silver but in the colours – the livery
– of another. The others may be uncertain, but after so long studying pain, Semirhage
has mastered the art of reading even the slightest expressions, and she knows
the eyes looking out of that beautiful prison. She has her suspicions as well
about the necklace Moridin wears, and the shiver that ripples down Cyndane’s form
as he reaches an apparently absentminded hand to his throat.
It seems Lanfear has finally found herself in a prison from
which she cannot escape.
The day had come, a day Lilo eagerly awaited for days. Since he decided he wanted Cassie, just Cassie, and just like that the universe provided the oppurtunity for him to let her know. And she said yes. God was good, the sun was shining, the universe wanted them together and she said yes. Nothing could dampen his day.
Except for the fact that the reason he was able to get back to the beach so quickly and get everything ready for their blessed-universe-date because he used his brother Red’s truck. Becuase Red wasn’t around to use it, which was also the reason why he snuck around the B&B so carefully so he didn’t have to look in and see M.B. lost expression that reminded him so much of his mom on her bad days. Becuase he didn’t want to think about any of that, he wanted on good untarnished thing at the end of what had been a difficult week. Lilo had to trust this happened for a reason, having his love life come together and his home life fall apart. Cassie was there for him.
Then suddenly Cassie was actually there, and Lilo lit up waving her over to the steps of the B&B’s patio. “Oye! Lobocita over here!” He adjusted the insulated tote slung over his shoulder and used the railing to balance himself as he stood up.
“Ha ha! Who would have known that they allowed trash in here? I guess that explains the stench.” As she fanned herself, Aphrodite’s emerald eyes locked onto Lucifer, playful yet still obviously irritated. She’d been told that this event was reserved for a select few and being a goddess herself, she expected this evening to be impeccable. With the presence of this man, it only soured her mood. Their story began a long time ago, a few thousands of years actually and yet, Aphrodite still felt that untarnishable disdain when it came to him.
It’s not to say that she didn’t have her faults. Vain and pompous, the spoiled princess of the Parthenon gazed haughtily upon the fallen seraphim, lips barely parting to allow a sigh to escape plush tiers. “Why are you here, exactly? I thought you, more than anyone, would have pressing matters to tend to before coming to a gathering. I could have gone a few more hundreds of years before seeing your face again, oh dark lord.”
Her green heels clicked on the ground as she walked past him and to the counter. Aphrodite picked a cup of champagne and brought it to her lips, still staring at him. Well, there were enough people here for her to spend her evening without having to spend more time than necessary with him. Brushing her hair back delicately, she scanned the crowd before gazing back at him. “I wonder who even organized this and why they put you on the guest list.” There were many gods and goddesses present, but none she could link back to him easily.
Parents who try to find excuses to why their abuse isn’t abuse are shitlords.
Parents who say you shouldn’t call out their abuse by bringing up “well we pay everything” malarky are super shitlords.
Also they bring up anything they bought for you recently, them or their parents pay for your tuition, the only untarnished memories prior to abuse is proof that you weren’t ever abused(???), they deny the existence of verbal abuse, or they use the classic “you live under my roof” excuse. In which case they have descended into omega shitlords.
What is the role of an educator? Is it to provide the tools needed to succeed?Is it to inspire? … Having recently graduated, I have been thinking back and reflecting on who and what has influenced me. In many ways I have been fortunate: I have had the opportunity to pursue higher education, I have been exposed to and I have worked with amazing artists, and I have made connections I will cherish for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, all that is good is difficult to hold untarnished in my memory.
This last month there has been a conversion (well a few, but this one in particular) that occurred during my undergrad that has continued to stand out.
The head of the theatre department (who doubled as my advisor at the time) told me I would never be considered as a leading man in the year’s biggest production if I didn’t loose weight. A lot of weight. Over 60 pounds in four to five months.
He provided “encouragement” because he knew
I would be happy once I had an athletic body.
But I damaged my body and I damaged the way I began to think of myself.
You said I wouldn’t be considered as a leading man.
I had been a lead multiple times before, but that’s not what you said.
You said I would not be considered to be a leading man.
A leading man is is a love interest.
A leading man loves.
A leading man is loved.
I would not be considered to be a leading man.
Because I carry too much.
I am not a love interest.
I do not love.
I am not loved.
I was not worthy of love, or at least, my body and all it’s stretch marks and love handles didn’t deserve to be seen on stage as things to be loved.
The conversation affected more than my confidence on stage.
My boyfriend said, “I love you” and I asked him, “Why?”
What’s there to love?
My man boobs?
My muffin top?
The way I cross my arms in an attempt to make myself look smaller
To feel smaller.
I wonder “If I was smaller.”
If I was smaller, would I find love many times over?
If I was smaller, would I find comfort in my clothes?
If I was smaller, would I have the confidence to expose my skin?
Does “excess” sun-blessed skin make me less of a warrior?
Are my weapons of compassion and passion any less sharp then yours?
Because instead of a knife I gladly hold a spoon.
Your knife may cut away at my body,
but my spoon nourishes it.
Now the wounds you inflected have begun to heal,
but they’re healing after having festered into rot
Rot full of amplified and internalized insecurities.
My skin, my weight, my presence
My gentleness, My kindness, and My vulnerability
Your manipulation, Your entitled power, Your “manliness”
I will scar
the results of your words etched onto my skin
As I heal.
My thighs will rub
My laughter will resonate
My embrace will comfort
He won’t return to them, not anymore. His former teammates became something sacred; untarnished, and untouchable by hands like his. Maintaining the pact was only a slow descent into breaking their sanctity — the taint wouldn’t reach them like this ( he would be fine this way. at least he had sorey. ) “ Don’t put your nose where it doesn’t belong. “