[ID: Two pages from Trigun. In the first, Rem cries as she passionately exclaims to Vash, "Don't throw it all away! Don't let it go! Don't say you'd rather die!" Young Vash seems shocked as she exclaims that she wants to see the world together, because it's made up of more than worthless people. Rem's face is scrunched up and flushed, tears beading at her eyes as she cries.
In the second, Marlin fondly tells Vash that Meryl and Milly worry when he leaves them and that he needs to learn to let people help him out, because they want to do so. Vash seems surprised, then begins to cry. He looks similar to Rem, with flushed cheeks and tears at the corners of his eyes, as he cries, "... Don't... Just... Don't tell me something like that now!" End ID]
Like mother, like son.... [starts bawling so hard I choke to death]
[ID: Another flashback page with Rem and Vash. Vash smiles with contentment and says, "But... if you hadn't stopped me then... I never would have know that when you cry, Rem... you look like you're laughing." Rem is still teary, but she smiles happily. End ID]
Bonus :')
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I wrote this as part of my dissertation and I wanted to share it because it was the only thing in it I was genuinely proud of, and it doesn't deserve to rot away in a document forever. It's inspired by a performance called APPARITION, APPARITION by Florence Peake and Eve Stainton.
676 words. Contains allusions to climate change, environmental disasters, apocalypse
Elegy for the ghosts of a green Earth
The two of them sat in a green corner of the world, where you could forget for a moment that a slow apocalypse had begun. Even the most intimate touches seemed casual, and the childish act of drawing on each other seemed like an intimacy beyond any other. They bit their lip in concentration, as if the spirals they drew across her stomach were a masterpiece unlike any other. An echo of ancient battle paint, with as much care, but no finesse, no design. Shieldmaidens fighting for the earth.
They said the future is a smoking ruin, a wreck of our own making. What’s the point of carrying on? we had little left to lose. They mourned it as if it was a tragic accident not a murder they continued to commit. Our world was dying and it seemed nobody with the power to stop it cared at all. All those girls ��� those children – who were measuring their words and their tones instead of screaming do you want to leave us with nothing?! shouldn’t have had to bear the weight of such agony. It is not for children to be forced to change the future.
People left marks on each other, not always the marks intended, as footprints left in the sand, as scars were left on the landscape. Every broken twig spoke of your presence. The colourful lines on their bodies marked interactions, and each one was different, made them different but the same. When they were together the marks drawn onto their bodies lined up, and they were a single being.
How much did it take to be so raw, to bear so much to the world and not crumple and fall and hide away the soft, vulnerable core? There is such strength in the softness, such softness in the strength. They reached for each other’s hands just so their fingers could brush, fleeting contact. Their joy was mortal in the face of all that would fall. They were there for her, and she was there for them. They were a unit, even when apart it was Them-and-Her, She-and-They. The distance was nothing, bridged by focus and intangible connection. The familiarity seemed as though it should have been private, but they had chosen to share it with the world. They were unashamed of their affection. Such honesty was startling, easy confidence in themselves, in each other. They made it seem the simplest thing to declare themselves and all between them to the world. A world that demanded and reviled honesty, and world that wanted the truth but couldn’t handle it. They made themselves a statement, a protest, explored desolation through each other’s bodies.
What could be given when there was nothing left to give? What could be taken when there was nothing left to take? How can you give back what was taken, take back what was given? It was not possible to start anew. History can be rewritten but it would not change the truth. Just as it repeats just a little to the left, in a slightly different key, the same mistakes were made again. As the world burned, melted, collapsed, exploded the truth was the press of her thigh against theirs. Their hand in her hair. Is this a defeat? all we have left to hold onto is each other. There was stillness and nothing moved but everything continued, holding its breath to witness it. They (She-and-They, Them-and-Her) held everything in holding each other. Nothing is forever, smudged the lines and curves drawn on their bodies, nothing is forever.
Bury them together, let them grow entwined, no matter what parts them. Bury them together and let them heal the earth. For they were the ghosts of the Earth, of everyone that cared. They were the desolate future, they were the flooded burnt frozen ruins, they were the life that takes hold once everything is gone.
Burn us off the face of the earth and from the ashes grow again.
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