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ginger-bread-official · 3 years

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She Was There for a Reason

A fanfic of the battle of Hogwarts from Tonks’ perspective.

She was dodging curses, jinxes and falling stone while navigating the castle. It was pure choas; students, teachers Order members all fighting against the death eaters, giants, and... was that a acromantula? Tonks fended off a pair of death eaters form some students who clearly didn’t have much dueling experience.

“Thanks.” one of them panted when she stunned and bound their attackers. she nodded and asked,

“What in Merlin’s name are you kids doing here?” they all ducked at the sound of a near by explosion. “You all need to get out of here now!” She scolded them and cringed at how quickly she’d adopted a motherly tone.

“No we’re of age and McGonagall told us we could fight.” She sighed, not in the frame of mind to argue.

“Fine, but stick together and find some high ground.” A jet of purple light collided with the stone wall behind them, sending shards of stone flying all over. She shielded the three teens out of instinct, and fired at the closest death eater who was dueling Kingsley Shackelbolt.

“Thank you!” the only girl of the three said.

“Get going!” she yelled over her shoulder throwing another jinx to assist her fellow auror. They turned to do as she instructed, but she remembered the reason she came. “Wait.” They looked back to her, “Have you seen Remus Lupin?” she asked desperately.

“Professor Lupin?” The tall boy asked.

“Yes.” another jet of light narrowly missed the group.

“He was leading a group onto the grounds, but got caught up fighting Dolohov near the courtyard.” he responded. The ground shook and she ushered them away with thanks to Dean for the information.

Kingsley was loosing ground against Yaxley near by as the students headed for better position. Tonks hurtled over the rubble she was taking cover under to aid him.

“Tonks!?” was all he could yell out in the heat of battle.

“Need help old man?” she hollered back shooting a barrage of jinxes at Yaxley. The death eater stuttered backwards for a moment giving Kingsley the time to right himself. The pair danced in the duel as their mentor had taught them. For a man who trusted no one Mad eye sure knew how to build a perfect team. Crabbe and Goyle appeared to help Yaxley against the duo. Kingsley in these settings tended to take on the role of defense while Tonks charged forward on attack, but in the face of three death eaters he stepped in front of the new mother; the woman he loved like a sister, and wildly blitzed the men. Tonks held the defense, shielding any jinxes and watched as her friend dealt a decisive blow, and cut down all three death eaters.

“What the Hell are you doing here?” He yelled turning to her.

“Saving your sorry arse!” She responded defiantly

“I was doing fine, and what about Teddy?!”

“He’s with me mum.” A great rumble shook the castle causing them to grab each other for stability.

“You’re in danger.” He looked wildly around for cover, “We need to get you out of here. Why did you come?” He asked franticly.

“I came for the same reason I joined the order, the same reason I became an auror.” She looked up at him, “I have to help, I need to help.” He understood. They all had the calling in them, you can’t ignore the the cries of those in need.

“Fine.” he sighed. “But keep on high ground.” She rolled her eyes. He was treating her like she was a trainee again.

“Have you seen Remus?”

“He was down in the courtyard last I saw.” They began to run in that direction, “Took Dolohov off my hands leaving me just with Yaxley.” The pair split up at the great staircase, Tonks promising to look for Lupin from above and stay out of harms way. She was helping some students on the upper levels overlooking the courtyard, fending off any enemies that approached, while looking for her husband. It was all a haze and everything was exploding all around them. She was holding strong against some incoming dementors, and had a few students helping her when she saw something that twisted her insides painfully.

Bellatrix Lestrange was playing with her food.

Her aunt, the one that resembled he kind loving mother, was torturing Neville Longbottom at the base of the great staircase. His screams curdled her blood and pierced her heart. She was taunting him.

“Ickle Longbottom screams just like his mommy did.” She was sick, demented. Tonks remembered the vile threats she made on Teddy’s life. That woman had caused enough pain. Her wolf patronus pushed back the last of the Dementors and rushed off towards Bellatrix with Tonks close behind. She thought of Teddy holding his beautiful face in her minds eye as she charged her aunt. Neville was Alice’s Teddy. “As fun as this is. Bloodtraitor, I’ll have to cut it short.” Neville was panting from the most recent bout of torture, sweat drenching his clothes and shimmering on his young face. The tip of her wand began to glow green, “Avad-”

“Bellatrix!” Tonks screamed. The older woman paused and turned to see her niece standing at the top of the staircase.

“You.” Her attention was completely on Tonks now, hatred and fury now emanating from the oldest Black sister.

“Neville,” Tonks looked to the young man, “Go help your friends I’ll handle her.” Neville began to protest, “Run! Now!” She shouted as she shot a jinx at her aunt. Bellatrix easily dodged it, but at least her attention was off of the boy now. Neville hurried to the aid of Ginny who was fighting Greyback nearby. The death eater and the auror trades a few curses with Tonks keeping the high ground and landing a some good hits on the older woman. Her aunt’s actions were wild and desperate.

“After I kill you, I’m going to kill your mutt of a husband and then your precious pup.” She spat out before sending another few killing curses at Nymphadora.

“If you keep talking like that Remus and I are going to take you off the Christmas card list.” she smirked taunting the woman. A few more curses wizzed passed her as the pair took their duel to the second level of the castle. Tonks was losing ground, but to be fair even the great Minerva McGonagall struggled against Bellatrix.

It was heated to say the least. Tonks felt satisfaction for her small hits and limited victories, but then immediately felt exhaustion from dodging, and shielding from the countless attacks. She had to win she needed to protect Teddy Bellatrix was the looming cloud over everything they did. They hid their marriage because of her, hid the pregnancy because of her. It needed to end. Tonks became more frantic, attacking with the smallest openings, resorting to dark curses and risky maneuvers. She was turning the tide, she could feel it she could land one last hit.... But she was too slow. Bellatrix blasted her back in one of her exposed blitz. She hit the wall hard knocking the wind from her and dropping her crumpled on the ground. Her aunt’s laugh was manic as she charged forward sending stunning, cutting and bruising jinxes at Tonks. She fended off one barely, but was hit by the others. She rushed in close to her niece, grabbing her spiked pink hair with one hand and pressing her wand into her throat with the other.

“I wish I had more time to enjoy this.” She hissed into Nymphadora’s bloodied and bruised face. “Like when I killed your mudblood father.” a pain ripped through Nymphadora. “I took time with his punishment. Days and days I spent breaking him.” She licked her lips at the memory. “But I suppose I’ll have that again with your husband and baby.” Tonks felt the hatred build in her to a breaking point. Her sweet father had died at the hands of this monster. Remus would suffer, Teddy..... no. She thought of everything Bellatrix had done. All the nights her mother spend crying over her sister. Neville’s parents, her father, every vile and heinous thing that boiled Tonks’ blood, and with the last of her strength she raised her wand and blurted out.

“Avada Kedavra.” A green jet shot out and sent Bellatrix flying backwards to the opposing wall. A mixture of horror and relief washed through her at what she just did. Her hatred and fear had taken control she was desperate to do anything to save her family. Her feelings hadn’t settled when the heap that was her aunt moved. She got to her feet with difficulty as her aunt rose seemingly from the dead. The Death Eater’s face was bloodied and her motions seemed pained, but yet she lived.

“That was a good first try.” She turned fully to Tonks with clear pain in her face. “But it’s more than just hate dear.” Tonks raised her wand while still leaning on the wall for support, “Its the joy of killing. Let me show you.” Tonks felt a single tear run down her face. Not for her, but for Teddy. it was his face she held in her mind as she heard her aunt give her demonstration.

I hate when people shit on Tonks for going to the battle. She is a good soul who couldn’t stand by when people needed her. I wanted to give a concrete reason why she needed to be there, why her sacrifice meant so much more than her leaving Teddy orphaned. She was a hero and people shit on her because of it. this is the only time you see me admit she died. But I believe she had to be there to save Neville. She would have been the only person short Harry that could have diverted Bellatrix’s attention. She sacrificed herself and Neville was able to aid Harry and the rest is history.

Also as badass as Molly Weasley is, the first time we see her Duel is against Bellatrix, and I think it would make more sense if Bellatrix was weakened when she died at Molly’s hand.

#nymphadora tonks #tonks #andromeda tonks #tonks and lupin #bellatrix lestrange #Remus Lupin #Kingsley and Tonks are definitely Holt and Jake #kingsley #kingsley shacklebolt #battle of hogwarts #teddy remus lupin #teddy lupin #Harry Potter #this is the only I'll admit they died

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entropydemons · 4 years

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Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs by Anne Sexton

No matter what life you lead

the virgin is a lovely number: cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper, arms and legs made of Limoges, lips like Vin Du Rhône, rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut. Open to say, Good Day Mama, and shut for the thrust of the unicorn. She is unsoiled. She is as white as a bonefish.

Once there was a lovely virgin called Snow White. Say she was thirteen. Her stepmother, a beauty in her own right, though eaten, of course, by age, would hear of no beauty surpassing her own. Beauty is a simple passion, but, oh my friends, in the end you will dance the fire dance in iron shoes. The stepmother had a mirror to which she referred-- something like the weather forecast-- a mirror that proclaimed the one beauty of the land. She would ask, Looking glass upon the wall, who is fairest of us all? And the mirror would reply, You are the fairest of us all. Pride pumped in her like poison.

Suddenly one day the mirror replied, Queen, you are full fair, 'tis true, but Snow White is fairer than you. Until that moment Snow White had been no more important than a dust mouse under the bed. But now the queen saw brown spots on her hand and four whiskers over her lip so she condemned Snow White to be hacked to death. Bring me her heart, she said to the hunter, and I will salt it and eat it. The hunter, however, let his prisoner go and brought a boar's heart back to the castle. The queen chewed it up like a cube steak. Now I am fairest, she said, lapping her slim white fingers.

Snow White walked in the wildwood for weeks and weeks. At each turn there were twenty doorways and at each stood a hungry wolf, his tongue lolling out like a worm. The birds called out lewdly, talking like pink parrots, and the snakes hung down in loops, each a noose for her sweet white neck. On the seventh week she came to the seventh mountain and there she found the dwarf house. It was as droll as a honeymoon cottage and completely equipped with seven beds, seven chairs, seven forks and seven chamber pots. Snow White ate seven chicken livers and lay down, at last, to sleep.

The dwarfs, those little hot dogs, walked three times around Snow White, the sleeping virgin. They were wise and wattled like small czars. Yes. It's agood omen, they said, and will bring us luck. They stood on tiptoes to watch Snow White wake up. She told them about the mirror and the killer-queen and they asked her to stay and keep house. Beware of your stepmother, they said. Soon she will know you are here. While we are away in the mines during the day, you must not open the door.

Looking glass upon the wall . . . The mirror told and so the queen dressed herself in rags and went out like a peddler to trap Snow White. She went across seven mountains. She came to the dwarf house and Snow White opened the door and bought a bit of lacing. The queen fastened it tightly around her bodice, as tight as an Ace bandage, so tight that Snow White swooned. She lay on the floor, a plucked daisy. When the dwarfs came home they undid the lace and she revived miraculously. She was as full of life as soda pop. Beware of your stepmother, they said. She will try once more.

Looking glass upon the wall. . . Once more the mirror told and once more the queen dressed in rags and once more Snow White opened the door. This time she bought a poison comb, a curved eight-inch scorpion, and put it in her hair and swooned again. The dwarfs returned and took out the comb and she revived miraculously. She opened her eyes as wide as Orphan Annie. Beware, beware, they said, but the mirror told, the queen came, Snow White, the dumb bunny, opened the door and she bit into a poison apple and fell down for the final time. When the dwarfs returned they undid her bodice, they looked for a comb, but it did no good. Though they washed her with wine and rubbed her with butter it was to no avail. She lay as still as a gold piece.

And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet. First your toes will smoke and then your heels will turn black and you will fry upward like a frog, she was told. And so she danced until she was dead, a subterranean figure, her tongue flicking in and out like a gas jet. Meanwhile Snow White held court, rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut and sometimes referring to her mirror as women do

#anne sexton #snow white #fairytales #subverted fairytales #lit quotes #my posts

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imperialstark · 4 years

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My OCs: TYatD

@anarchscry you asked for this very long post so you’ve made your bed, now lay in it. (jk jk i love you)

Osanna Gaza, 17 (on the verge of 18), She, Her, Hers. Osanna is the eldest child of Ivon Gaza (who is a fucking BITCH) and Adelina Gaza (who has never done anything wrong in her life ever). Osanna is the princess of Astoria (one of the kingdoms I created) but she’s not the heir to the throne since Astoria doesn’t practice equal primogeniture. She’s not bitter at all. Really. She has long golden blonde hair, dark blue eyes, tall, lithe stature and fair skin that tans easily (yes that’s relevant to the plot). Osanna is prone to bouts of jealousy and pettiness, especially when she doesn’t get her way. She’s headstrong and as stubborn as an ox, much to her father’s chagrin. It’s a struggle for him to get his daughter to do anything he wants. She isn’t all bad though. Osanna would do anything for her family, especially for her youngest brother, Eden, and isn’t one to balk at confrontation. Osanna is smart, resourceful, and ambitious. All she wants is to be recognized for her mind, which is her greatest strength, and she spends the majority of my book trying to get that recognition. She’s also bi as fuck 🌈🌈 I’m putting the rest under a read more bc holy fuck this got long

Lani Neda, 17 (on the verge of 18), She, Her, Hers. Lani was orphaned at a very young age. Her parents were found mauled to death in her family home after they refused to let her leave home to attend the school meant for spellcasters secreted away in the mountains of Maras (another kingdom I created). Coincidentally, the caster who came to visit was also the one to pull her from the orphanage and take her to Magai (the school/city for casters) anyway. Totally not related at all. Lani was basically a child soldier, trained in magic, combat, and espionage, and only concerned with protecting the royal family of Maras, especially princess Mai, who’s her closest friend. Lani had short, dark, curling hair, brown skin, and eyes so brown that they appear black. She’s short but well-muscled from her training (and reliable palace meals). Not every orphan is as lucky. Even when she's not aware of it, Lani carries herself like a soldier; back straight, firm stance and arms at her sides ready to salute or unsheathe her weapon at a moment's notice. Lani is quick on her feet, abrasive, and not the easiest person to get to know. All her life she's had her weaknesses exploited and vowed to never show weakness again. She's intuitive and relies more on instinct rather than logic. She's loyal to a fault and can be absolutely ruthless in battle, holding nothing back. Lani is brave and willing to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. She's serious and seldom jokes around with others. She hates when people don't apply themselves or give up prematurely. She always gives it her all and expects everyone else to do the same. She values hard work, tenacity, and strength. She’s also gay as fuck (for Mai and later Osanna) 🌈🌈.

Aidan Aterra, 18, He, Him, His. Aidan, like Lani, is also an orphan, except he never knew his parents. His caretaker at the orphanage, Dame Mara Finch, or Dead-Eyes as the children called her behind her back for her pale grey eyes, said that he had been left out on the porch of the Foxbrook orphanage in the middle of one the worst blizzards Iskald (another kingdom) had ever seen. His lips had been bluer than death, his skin cold to the touch. She told him that she had contemplated leaving him outside and letting nature continue to run its course but as soon as she had turned around to close the door, the most ghastly wail had burst forth from his lips. He grew up in the orphanage constantly being reminded of her kindness and her generosity, even when he went to bed without supper, or was forced to sleep in the manor’s old dungeons when he misbehaved. When Aidan was ten, he had decided enough was enough and that he was going to run away from the orphanage, making it as far as to the marketplace of their town. Aidan tried to pickpocket a mercenary and ended up following him home instead. The mercenary, and his mercenary company, the Fox Claws, took him in and Aidan was raised in their life of killing, thieving, and the occasional case of vigilante justice. Normally, Aidan is a fun-loving and spontaneous boy who isn’t one to shy away from a party or conversation (only with people he’s let in). He’s also observant, a trait that has saved his life more times than he can count. However, in extreme situations of distress, such as his childhood at the orphanage and his life after Asher’s disappearance, Aidan withdraws on himself. He’s more prone to risky behavior and uncaring about his wellbeing. He feels a growing numbness inside of his chest and wonders why he should even bother doing anything at all. He also experiences intense regret and self-loathing. He’ll never tell anyone though. Lord knows Dead-Eyes didn’t like criers. All Aidan’s life, he's been met with derision and prejudice due to him being an orphan and likely a bastard. His personality is a result of that. He's sarcastic. Evasive. Shuttered. He puts on a devil-may-care facade to keep others out. Although he can be selfless and kind around children, Aidan is usually self-concerned. He rarely thinks about the consequences of his actions. Some view him as brave for all of the dangerous situations he welcomes with open hands. Others think he's just plain stupid and has a death wish. Aidan always likes to jape that it's a little bit of both. Aidan has black hair that touches the tips of his ears, and strange eyes for an Iskali, who all typically have blue or gray eyes. Aidan's eyes are hazel. Not quite brown. Not quite green. That paired with the olive cast to his skin tone makes him an outsider among the Iskali. After the disappearance and suspected death of his best friend and partner in crime, for which he is the main suspect, all Aidan wants to die is fuck off from the main continent and drink his way into an early grave so he can be with his best friend, Asher, again. He’s also pan as fuck 🌈🌈

Kali Sylva, 16, She, Her, Hers. Kali is the daughter of Alwin Sylva and Tiatha Meimri, and the crown princess of Dererra (another kingdom. you get the idea). Kali is also the sole heir to the throne, due to her being the only child of Alwin and Tiatha. Her very existence is a bit controversial, at least in Dererra. Dererrans are extremely traditional (read: pretentious, prejudiced fucks) and expected for Alwin to marry a Dererran noblewoman. Instead, he married Tiatha, a Khosagho (another kingdom) native. Princess Kali Sylva is a walking contradiction. Quiet, yet opinionated. Shy, yet brave. Sweet, yet fierce. Kali has little confidence in herself and often thinks the worst of others—mainly because they assume the worst of her. Half-breed, they call her. Part Dererran, part Khosaghi. Kali is straightforward and doesn’t much care for silver-tongued folk. She likes to keep to herself and more often than not, prefers the company of animals over humans. She struggles with being from two different worlds and doesn’t feel as if she belongs anywhere. Around friends, Kali can let loose and be herself, and even be playful. With strangers, Kali is reserved and keeps to herself in fear of being reprimanded. Kali is prone to reading into something too much and jumping to conclusions. The only time she feels at peace with herself is when she’s in woodlands of her home with her bow in her hands. Part of her feels as if she doesn’t deserve the throne due to the years of scorn and derision she’s been faced with from other Dererrans. Kali has jet black hair, done in one of the traditional Khosaghi styles, with it being in long, uniform braids. She has smooth dark brown skin, and her father’s bright green eyes. Kali has broad shoulders and strong arms from years of firing a bow and elegant, high cheekbones.

Cyd Pollock, 15 going on 16, He, Him, His. Cyd is the son of Myra, an innkeeper, and Cyrus Pollock, privateer turned full-blown pirate. For nine years of his life, Cyd never knew his father. It was just him, his mother, and their roadside inn, The Dirty Wolf, and that was all they needed. Everything was fine until a wave of influenza swept through western Masae and his mother, Myra, had fallen ill. Two weeks later, she passed away. Cyd was only nine. His father showed up a week later, stricken by grief, he took in his only son and raised him in the company of pirates, thieves, and murderers. Ever since then, Cyd has had to watch his back. He never knew what his father was like before the death of his mother. He’s only ever known a hard man who was impossible to please. The slightest toe out of line, and Cyd was subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. He learned to keep his mouth shut, don’t ask questions about his father’s “business” and to keep to himself. Cyd keeps to himself. As long as he asks no questions, as long as he doesn’t mouth off, he’s safe. Sometimes in particularly emotional moments he loses control and has a slip of the tongue; a witty comment here, a sarcastic barb there, and he takes the consequences every time. Cyd is very insecure and can’t help but care what people think about him, especially his father and his pirate crew. He hates how much he craves their approval but relishes the rare moments where he’s bestowed with praise. He’s smart though. Smarter than people give him credit. All the years he’s sat in silence, he’s picked up a few tricks from those around him. When he puts his mind to it, he can complete any task with accuracy and fervor. Cyd has wavy sandy hair that falls into his dark brown eyes. Cyd has fair skin and his body is speckled with freckles from spending hours upon hours out in the sun. He has rough, calloused hands from years of pulling and tying sailing ropes and hauling heavy cargo. He has many scars, most along his hands and wrist, although there is one particular scar below his bottom lip from where he had gotten a fish hook stuck in his face as a child. Cyd is relatively short, standing at about 5’9. He hasn’t yet hit his growth spurt. The last vestiges of youth are starting to fade though. The baby fat in his face is starting to melt away and revealing the shadow of a strong jaw.

#tyatd #my ocs #holy FUCK this is long

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himynameisdominique · 5 years

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Merlin’s Childhood

A boy with jet black hair that seems to have completely ignored the entire concept of gravity sprints through a deserted forest, filled to the brim with all sorts of wildlife. He stumbled through twigs and bushes; desperate to reach his destination as fast as his small legs could take him.

His crystal-blue eyes with dashes of green rippling through them like streaks of lightning dart back and forth, scanning his surroundings for anyone or anyTHING that could cause him harm. Not that it would be easy for them, this thirteen year old boy probably held more power within him than thirty men.

At last he breaks through the entrance to the green woodland as he slows his pace. He breaths in the salty sea air that’s surrounding him on the tall cliff face on which he’s standing. Merlin shuts his eyes and listens as the waves draw in and out of the golden shore. Gusts of wind hit his face, stinging his pale pink cheeks.

He’d always come here whenever he needed to be alone or to clear his head. Here he was safe; he could be himself. Merlin slowly lays down on the emerald grass, sinking into the soft cushion of soil as he opens his eyes and looks at the bright blue sky above him. Tranquility.

“You alright down there?”

He opens his eyes to see a pair of hazel irisis staring back. A boy, about his age is standing over him; disturbing the seemingly perfect landscape.

“What do you mean? Of course I’m alright”

He sits up, his good mood ruined by this blonde interruption.

“I haven’t seen you here before, this is my space” the boy says in a fairly arrogant tone. He cocks his eyebrow at Merlin as if challenging him to retort.

“Since when?” Merlin hated himself for rising to the bate but he couldn’t stand it when people thought they were entitled to his things. He knew the boy was much taller than him and he’d never win in a physical fight. Unless...

“Since now” the boy drew a sword and stepped towards Merlin.

‘Come one, you can do this’ Merlin thought to himself.

He closed his eyes and let the power deep through him, the pure, warm feeling running through his veins and into his hands. Merlin flicked his wrist and the boy’s sword flew right out of his hand.

“Woah” the boy gasped as he went to retrieve the weapon “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen”

Merlin smiled and laughed as he watched this mysterious stranger marvel over him.

“It’s not that difficult really” he said, shrugging.

“Can you show me?”

Merlin studied the boy’s face closely; from his dirty blonde hair, to his shining hazel eyes, pale skin and calloused hands.

“I can try” he decided, extending a hand “I’m Merlin by the way”

“Nice to meet you Merlin, my name’s Ciarán”

Years went by. Merlin and Ciarán spent months trying to figure out how one of them had an innate power for magic whilst the other one didn’t. Uther’s war on magic raged throughout Camelot, torturing, killing. Creating widows, widowers and orphans as it swept through the kingdom like an infection of hate. People got gradually more and more fearful of magic as anyone thought to posses the gift were immediately executed.

Merlin had been taught from a young age to keep his power hidden for fear of being persecuted for it. He pushed it inwards, only daring to use magic in front of his mother at home.

But every day he continued to see Ciarán by the cliffs where they had met all those years ago. They were older now, they were young men; so different from the two young boys who had met one windy spring day.

“What’s wrong?”

Merlin had sensed there was something different about his friend from the moment he’d set eyes on him. His usual lively walk had been replaced with a slow trudge and his bright eyes had wrinkles of sadness etched around them.

“It’s Joan”

Ciarán managed to stumble out two words before bursting into tears. Merlin wrapped his arms around his shaking friend as he listened to the story about his fiancée and how she and her family had been convicted of magic and all killed on the spot.

“It’s not fair Merlin, it’s not fair” he repeated over and over again, soaking the thin fabric of Merlin’s shirt with the products of his grief.

Merlin turned towards the fire they were sitting across from. His eyes glowed as he changed the fire into different shapes to amuse his grieving friend. First a dragon, then a butterfly, a Phoenix and a wolf.

“STOP IN THE NAME OF CAMELOT”

Merlin’s heart pounded like a drum. A knight of Camelot. He had seen the fire.

“Ciarán, we’ve got to run”

Merlin dragged his friend through the forest, the knight close on their heels. They tripped over stray twigs and small animals as they struggled to outrun the soldier. Ciarán stumbled and fell over a log. Merlin turned at the cry of his friend. He was lying on his side with his leg twisted at a completely wrong angle.

“It’s broken” Ciarán spluttered “you’ve got to go on”

Merlin knelt beside his old friend and held him.

“I’m not leaving you” he whispered, his eyes filling with tears.

“Merlin listen to me” The blond man held onto his collar “they only know there was one person, you can go”

“I...I can’t” Merlin tried to lift his friend back up but he knew it was no use. They’d never get back to Ealdor in time.

“Please Merlin, I...I can be with her”

Merlin looked back and Ciáran, tears now pouring down his face.

“I’m so sorry, I’ll never forget you”

“Psh you’d better not, now GO”

Merlin ran and ran even when he heard a sword being drawn and a scream. He kept running until he reached his home. He fell into his mother’s arms and wept.

*two years later*

“I can take you down with one blow”

“I could take you down with less than that”

Merlin stood before the prince of Camelot himself and looked him right in the eyes. He wasn’t scared of him.

Merlin knew that as much as he HATED Arthur at the moment, as much as he found in arrogant and annoying and frankly a bit of a part, he could never hurt him. Not when those bright eyes and golden mess of hair looked so familiar. Not when this new disaster of a prince reminded him so much of the friend who had given his life so that Merlin could live.

#merlin #headcanon

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fairytalesstudent-blog · 6 years

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Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs Anne Sexton, 1928 - 1974 No matter what life you lead the virgin is a lovely number: cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper, arms and legs made of Limoges, lips like Vin Du Rhône, rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut. Open to say, Good Day Mama, and shut for the thrust of the unicorn. She is unsoiled. She is as white as a bonefish. Once there was a lovely virgin called Snow White. Say she was thirteen. Her stepmother, a beauty in her own right, though eaten, of course, by age, would hear of no beauty surpassing her own. Beauty is a simple passion, but, oh my friends, in the end you will dance the fire dance in iron shoes. The stepmother had a mirror to which she referred-- something like the weather forecast-- a mirror that proclaimed the one beauty of the land. She would ask, Looking glass upon the wall, who is fairest of us all? And the mirror would reply, You are the fairest of us all. Pride pumped in her like poison. Suddenly one day the mirror replied, Queen, you are full fair, ‘tis true, but Snow White is fairer than you. Until that moment Snow White had been no more important than a dust mouse under the bed. But now the queen saw brown spots on her hand and four whiskers over her lip so she condemned Snow White to be hacked to death. Bring me her heart, she said to the hunter, and I will salt it and eat it. The hunter, however, let his prisoner go and brought a boar’s heart back to the castle. The queen chewed it up like a cube steak. Now I am fairest, she said, lapping her slim white fingers. Snow White walked in the wildwood for weeks and weeks. At each turn there were twenty doorways and at each stood a hungry wolf, his tongue lolling out like a worm. The birds called out lewdly, talking like pink parrots, and the snakes hung down in loops, each a noose for her sweet white neck. On the seventh week she came to the seventh mountain and there she found the dwarf house. It was as droll as a honeymoon cottage and completely equipped with seven beds, seven chairs, seven forks and seven chamber pots. Snow White ate seven chicken livers and lay down, at last, to sleep. The dwarfs, those little hot dogs, walked three times around Snow White, the sleeping virgin. They were wise and wattled like small czars. Yes. It’s a good omen, they said, and will bring us luck. They stood on tiptoes to watch Snow White wake up. She told them about the mirror and the killer-queen and they asked her to stay and keep house. Beware of your stepmother, they said. Soon she will know you are here. While we are away in the mines during the day, you must not open the door. Looking glass upon the wall . . . The mirror told and so the queen dressed herself in rags and went out like a peddler to trap Snow White. She went across seven mountains. She came to the dwarf house and Snow White opened the door and bought a bit of lacing. The queen fastened it tightly around her bodice, as tight as an Ace bandage, so tight that Snow White swooned. She lay on the floor, a plucked daisy. When the dwarfs came home they undid the lace and she revived miraculously. She was as full of life as soda pop. Beware of your stepmother, they said. She will try once more. Looking glass upon the wall. . . Once more the mirror told and once more the queen dressed in rags and once more Snow White opened the door. This time she bought a poison comb, a curved eight-inch scorpion, and put it in her hair and swooned again. The dwarfs returned and took out the comb and she revived miraculously. She opened her eyes as wide as Orphan Annie. Beware, beware, they said, but the mirror told, the queen came, Snow White, the dumb bunny, opened the door and she bit into a poison apple and fell down for the final time. When the dwarfs returned they undid her bodice, they looked for a comb, but it did no good. Though they washed her with wine and rubbed her with butter it was to no avail. She lay as still as a gold piece. The seven dwarfs could not bring themselves to bury her in the black ground so they made a glass coffin and set it upon the seventh mountain so that all who passed by could peek in upon her beauty. A prince came one June day and would not budge. He stayed so long his hair turned green and still he would not leave. The dwarfs took pity upon him and gave him the glass Snow White-- its doll’s eyes shut forever-- to keep in his far-off castle. As the prince’s men carried the coffin they stumbled and dropped it and the chunk of apple flew out of her throat and she woke up miraculously. And thus Snow White became the prince’s bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet. First your toes will smoke and then your heels will turn black and you will fry upward like a frog, she was told. And so she danced until she was dead, a subterranean figure, her tongue flicking in and out like a gas jet. Meanwhile Snow White held court, rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut and sometimes referring to her mirror as women do.

Ann Sexton

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seaanimalonland · 7 years

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Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs | Anne Sexton

No matter what life you lead the virgin is a lovely number: cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper, arms and legs made of Limoges, lips like Vin Du Rhône, rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut. Open to say, Good Day Mama, and shut for the thrust of the unicorn. She is unsoiled. She is as white as a bonefish. Once there was a lovely virgin called Snow White. Say she was thirteen. Her stepmother, a beauty in her own right, though eaten, of course, by age, would hear of no beauty surpassing her own. Beauty is a simple passion, but, oh my friends, in the end you will dance the fire dance in iron shoes. The stepmother had a mirror to which she referred– something like the weather forecast– a mirror that proclaimed the one beauty of the land. She would ask, Looking glass upon the wall, who is fairest of us all? And the mirror would reply, You are the fairest of us all. Pride pumped in her like poison. Suddenly one day the mirror replied, Queen, you are full fair, ‘tis true, but Snow White is fairer than you. Until that moment Snow White had been no more important than a dust mouse under the bed. But now the queen saw brown spots on her hand and four whiskers over her lip so she condemned Snow White to be hacked to death. Bring me her heart, she said to the hunter, and I will salt it and eat it. The hunter, however, let his prisoner go and brought a boar’s heart back to the castle. The queen chewed it up like a cube steak. Now I am fairest, she said, lapping her slim white fingers.

The dwarfs, those little hot dogs, walked three times around Snow White, the sleeping virgin. They were wise and wattled like small czars. Yes. It’s a good omen, they said, and will bring us luck. They stood on tiptoes to watch Snow White wake up. She told them about the mirror and the killer-queen and they asked her to stay and keep house. Beware of your stepmother, they said. Soon she will know you are here. While we are away in the mines during the day, you must not open the door.

Looking glass upon the wall… The mirror told and so the queen dressed herself in rags and went out like a peddler to trap Snow White. She went across seven mountains. She came to the dwarf house and Snow White opened the door and bought a bit of lacing. The queen fastened it tightly around her bodice, as tight as an Ace bandage, so tight that Snow White swooned. She lay on the floor, a plucked daisy. When the dwarfs came home they undid the lace and she revived miraculously. She was as full of life as soda pop. Beware of your stepmother, they said. She will try once more. Looking glass upon the wall… Once more the mirror told and once more the queen dressed in rags and once more Snow White opened the door. This time she bought a poison comb, a curved eight-inch scorpion, and put it in her hair and swooned again. The dwarfs returned and took out the comb and she revived miraculously. She opened her eyes as wide as Orphan Annie. Beware, beware, they said, but the mirror told, the queen came, Snow White, the dumb bunny, opened the door and she bit into a poison apple and fell down for the final time. When the dwarfs returned they undid her bodice, they looked for a comb, but it did no good. Though they washed her with wine and rubbed her with butter it was to no avail. She lay as still as a gold piece.

The seven dwarfs could not bring themselves to bury her in the black ground so they made a glass coffin and set it upon the seventh mountain so that all who passed by could peek in upon her beauty. A prince came one June day and would not budge. He stayed so long his hair turned green and still he would not leave. The dwarfs took pity upon him and gave him the glass Snow White– its doll’s eyes shut forever– to keep in his far-off castle. As the prince’s men carried the coffin they stumbled and dropped it and the chunk of apple flew out of her throat and she woke up miraculously. And thus Snow White became the prince’s bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet. First your toes will smoke and then your heels will turn black and you will fry upward like a frog, she was told. And so she danced until she was dead, a subterranean figure, her tongue flicking in and out like a gas jet. Meanwhile Snow White held court, rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut and sometimes referring to her mirror as women do.

via apoemaday

#poetry #Anne Sexton

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worldbestlawyers · 7 years

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New Post has been published on World Best Lawyers

New Post has been published on http://www.worldbestlawyers.com/pegasus-a-memoir-about-dream-image-work/

Pegasus - A Memoir About Dream Image Work

I first encountered Robert Bosnak’s dream work technique at the C. G. Jung Institute in Boston and was later invited into a private dream group that met around a woodstove in the upstairs of his barn in the suburbs of Boston. This group deeply explored the unconscious lives of the group members. Huddled in a small circle under blankets, we only knew one another by sharing our dreams. Here I learned more about archetypal symbolism. Universal symbols can contribute to a dream’s meaning, not always by translation but by seeing the dream on the mythic level. Joseph Campbell once said in an interview, myths are society’s dreams.

Throughout all of known history, archetypes are repeated, albeit in different forms. Archetypes are dynamic forces, identified for instance, as The Divine Child, The Wise Old Man or Woman, The Devouring Feminine, The Hero, The Underworld, Trickster, Shadow, among others.

When we can look at our lives mythically we are able to accept the more difficult passages as the continuum of inevitable change. The Dark Night of the Soul is equivalent to the Nigredo in alchemy, descent into the depths, and whether it is one of sorrow or trauma, this stage is a universal one for the hero or heroine of many a myth. When we see our particular pain as a rite of passage rather than a termination, we then have the courage to confront the situation with the dragon or witch (or job loss or lawyer), understanding and feeling which part of ourselves is resisting growth.

In Bosnak’s private group we learned to apply more pressure to the vessel by questioning the dreamer; we went into the discomfort of difficult images, watching psyche autonomously at work. One discovery was to see how the dream expanded under this “heat” and in the two hour sessions we spoke of personal stories as well. All the members were able to enter the twilight consciousness under the pressure of intensive questioning.

Sometimes there were silences when everyone had fallen into the image as if it were a black hole. Sometimes active imagination would cause new images to appear. Returning to earlier scenes after feeling emotional release, we found they had changed and often enough, the monster was quelled. Most of the detours a dreamer took turned out to be relevant, resonating in a new manner. This exploration each week felt like a sacred ceremony. Even when we’d sat for long duration with a grotesque image, a mass murderer, a river of maggots, an explosive planecrash, sexual molestation, bloody wars-there was a deep sense of mystical participation in a ritual and the group bonded tightly.

Sometimes synchronistic phenomena accompanied the work and we were eerily spooked. Once an airplane dream summoned low-flying jets overhead. A dream of insects produced a large horsefly in the room. Or noises would occur at significant moments- the hum of the furnace kicking on, a neighborhood siren or barking dog, a fit of coughing, a trio of sneezes occurring at precise moments when the pressure cooker contained related imagery.

There was the contagion of laughter and tears too, usually at the unimaginable pain that the human psyche represses. Dreams exaggerate but the range of orphans, rag dolls, deformed babies, tree stumps, vile reptiles, severed limbs, earthquakes and floods was not infrequently disconcerting, especially to the dreamer. Occasionally the group dreamt in synch, animal dreams, diving dreams- eroticism. I recall once when we journeyed into space and hung there like the floating fetus in the film “2001.” In the luxury of time spent on a single dream, every nuance was followed.

Often we left these meetings dazed, smiling abashedly at one another when we finally opened our eyes. There was also a cautious respect for distance and the absolute understanding the work was confidential. I felt privileged to be a part of this dream cult and stayed with this group for four years and next to my son, it became the most important thing in my life. We led each other through questions about atmosphere, time of day, colors, sounds and sensate images. One dream I experienced there demonstrates the transformative aspects of the work. Here is the dream:

I’m on a beach, the beach I walk daily near home. It ‘s evening and I’ve just left a party where there were a lot of macho men annoying as well as rejecting me. I come down to the beach in a sullen mood when a huge German shepherd comes out from a rock and begins barking at me as if he is preparing to attack. I am terrified. I grab a stick and thrust it between his teeth, beginning to wrestle with him for the stick. I think if I engage him in play, he might see me as a friend. I throw the stick for him to fetch and as he chases it, I lean back against a rock. It seems I can relax, for I have befriended the wolf. As I lean back, the rock begins to move and I realize I am pulled upward on the back of a horse, side-saddle. The horse is white and has wings; it spreads them and lifts me up with it as it ascends into the sky. I am awed and amazed as I awaken.

The group spent a long time getting me to feel the instincts of the dog. The value of “archetypal amplification” here is shown when we realize the dog is often a psychopomp guiding us through the underworld. Think of Anubis, the Egyptian god with the dog’s head. I was still in the lower realms with my negative masculine complex, wrestling with my demons so-to-speak, and yet all the freedom, the sky the horse flies into, to me was significant. Some of the group actually laughed at the bizarre fairy-tale ending to this dream-riding a Pegasus off into the stars!

When I amplified the archetypal meaning of Pegasus. I was surprised to learn that the winged horse was born from the blood that flowed at the beheading of the Medusa. If Medusa is the hag, the dark side of the feminine, the devouring bitch, she gives birth, nevertheless, to the beautiful Pegasus who represents-unbeknownst to me, my favorite art form, poetry!

Later I came across the essay “Horses With Wings” by the poet, Denise Levertov. Pegasus’s father is Poseidon, the god of the sea-“… undifferentiated energy… a source of life but also of terror” (Levertov 125).

Levertov also informs us that “… Medusa’s legends place her as a manifestation of the Earth Mother’s terrible and devouring aspects…” (126). Furthermore “The word Gorgon relates to gargle, gurgle, and gargoyle: Medusa is called “a shriek personified’ ” (127). Pegasus was born of the neck of the Medusa, an intermediary place between mental and physical capacities. In fact “… it was not until the moment that Medusa’s blood, spurting from her neck, touched earth that he became manifest” (129). Levertov associates the Medusa’s face with “… snakes and claws, wings and scales… gorgonic features” which “correspond to the quaking magma of emotion” (133).

Emotion is often the catalyst for the poet’s creation. Levertov speaks of Pegasus as intuitive, as a metaphor for the poem rather than the poet” (134). I saw that my dream demonstrated how the material of the underworld could be transformed into something expressive. “To say that the poem, as well as the poet, is animal means that it has its own flesh and blood and is not a rarefied and insubstantial thing” (134).

Pegasus, then is poetry, born of a “fusion of opposites.” The image emerges at the greatest point of tension. “Pegasus strikes his hoof on a stone and releases a fountain… the fountain of poetic inspiration henceforth sacred to the Muses” (129). He flies upward, like my imagination always reaching higher.

Levertov’s essay amplified my dream. The symbol of the Pegasus in its archetypal meaning was not something I consciously knew. Although I had studied mythology and knew of Pegasus in several myths, I didn’t know his significance and had not related to him as a symbol for this peculiar little hobby I had of writing poems. In alchemy the gold is transformed from the work that is done on the lead, the “Nigredo,” the dark night of the soul. I was not yet riding Pegasus in my life but I was mining the soul and facing the music, or dirge if-you-will, of my own darkness. That we can turn our demons into diamonds was not a new idea for me, yet I had not seen it happen in concrete terms like these images presented.

My dream showed how the unconscious is not time-bound. It would be a few years before I would publish a book that transformed loss into something outside of me with its own authority. Apparently, I was wrestling with the dog.

The dream group became my religion, where I felt touched by spiritual energy. It was where I witnessed conjunctions resonating like a hall of mirrors, where I received communion both with the material and with the group members. Over those years everything in my life deepened. I saw that dreams came from my daily world and their hooks into my feeling world grafted my nocturnal images.

Through the active imaginative work we make stories of our memories in ways that can’t be proven true. Memory itself is imaginative in its selection, unique to each individual. As I told a dream and the stories that ran beneath it, only my imagination could effect psychological changes. We do indeed create our reality and that reality is relative. From this I learned how wrong we are in judging one another. I saw how dreamwork could open a person to the possibility of altering a worldview. We can choose to end our victim hood by re-experiencing the feelings of the past and revision them in such a way as to make us capable of joy where sorrow had been.

References: Levertov, Denise. “Horses With Wings.” What Is A Poet? Ed. Hank Lazer. Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press, 1987. 124-134.

#Custody Lawyer

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keyofjetwolf · 2 years

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Pause there!

I have a Pidgey!

We’ve got about nine minutes left in the episode, all of which I’ll try to get through before the day is out. We’ll be back for a little more later today at minimum, though.

I’m loving today, I HOPE YOU GUYS ARE TOO

#jet wolf watches orphan black #orphan black ep 10 #life with jet wolf #the aunt teddy chronicles

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keyofjetwolf · 2 years

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It’s the “Sent from my Mobile Phone” signature that really makes this.

#jet wolf watches orphan black #orphan black ep 10 #oo can you open the notes from friday's meeting i'm interested

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keyofjetwolf · 2 years

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AHH THIS IS SO GOOD FUCK ME I’M SCREAMING

We have Sarah and Helena, clones but also twins, separated at birth, each going on to very different lives. Sarah’s had it rough, but from what we know of her, the preponderance of blame for that lies with herself. She starts shit, but then runs away and never finishes it, so problems keep building and mounting. Sarah considers herself the victim in all her bullshit, and that’s all despite having a family who are still there for her and love her DESPITE said bullshit.

Then we have Helena who, as far as we know, has FUCK ALL. She’s had it drummed into her head her entire life that she’s an instrument for correcting the unholy abomination that is literally herself. When she questions too much, or fails to exactingly fall in line, she’s beaten and locked in a cage about the size of a large dog kennel. She’s been trained to kill HERSELF, and has with chilling efficiency.

And yet, AND YET, they both have such fascinatingly different connections to Amelia, who they’ve both known existed for about a day, give or take. She was implanted with them both, carried them to term, then ran off with them and gave them away rather than turn them over to the scientists. I’m not intending to dismiss any of those steps, all of which took dedication and no small amount of bravery, but to these Earbuds, emotionally, she’s little more than a vehicle, an Uber to take them from one place to another before driving off forever. It wasn’t Amelia who put Helena in a cage, but it also wasn’t Amelia who hugged Sarah after a nightmare.

So it’s fascinating to see Sarah so broken up over Amelia’s death, how furious she is as she flings in Helena’s face that this was something she’d been dreaming of forever. Like Amelia was going to provide some pivotal missing link for Sarah, this magical flex tape to slap on the gushing hole in the water tank of her life. LIKE SARAH’S NOT THE ROOT OF EVERY LAST ONE OF SARAH’S (non-clone-based) FUCKING PROBLEMS Which is, of course, the point. Sarah’s looking for answers when she hasn’t even figured out the right question.

Then there’s Helena, who has never known a moment of safety, comfort, love, or connection her entire life. Here she has her birth mother in front of her, and she feels absolutely nothing but contempt. I said earlier she was searching Amelia’s face for an answer, but I think now what she was searching for her own feelings. “How did scientists put babies inside you?” she asks, because it’s that level of personal involvement for both of them. Amelia isn’t Helena’s mother, she’s an egg carton. She’s not the hero of the piece in Helena’s eyes, but the villain, condemning an innocent girl to a horrific life of inescapable abuse, and ripping her from her twin sister, the only actual true family she has in the entire world.

Which itself stands in stark contrast to Sarah, who not only shares DNA with Helena but shared A WOMB, yet she denies any bonds or sisterhood with her, while also repeatedly claiming Felix as her brother, in word and deed both, without a moment’s hesitation. Sarah’s already made her case for family being a thing you create over what your blood test says, and yet, here we are, everybody caught up in their personal shit, no matter how contradictory it is.

#jet wolf watches orphan black #orphan black ep 10 #prime is this perfect intersection of together and disaster #i'll miss getting to talk about how fucking bonkers she makes me

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keyofjetwolf · 2 years

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For Love Of A Felt Angel

You know, I’ve been good and pissed at Holligay more than once in our years. While it’s true that I’ve never suspected her of spying on me for a shady corporation of dubious genetic interest, and it’s also true that I never had revenge sex with her wife in a Volvo, still, I feel that even at my angriest, if I saw her being strangled to death by a garbage disposal, I’d, you know. HELP HER.

There’s an alternative, though. The path of NOT helping, where your best friend slowly dies while you stand there and watch, definitively choosing not to reach out and flick the power switch a couple feet away that would save her. This is the path chosen by Alison, our high-strung Earbud Suburbia, and I am FASCINATED.

I didn’t see it coming. I would have lost every cent I theoretically placed on that bet. Coercion, yes. Some meaningless confession extracted under torture and duress, sure. But Suburbia clearly didn’t want any of that, didn’t even TRY for it. The moment her hand hesitated over the switch, everything was set. There was no way out for Aynsley, but Suburbia had plenty and chose to ignore every single one of them. This was a choice began in the heated passion of the moment, but with ample opportunity to course correct before things went too far. Even when we’d passed that point, the episode makes sure that we know Suburbia still very much has her wits about her, going back to the door, wiping the knob of her fingerprints, and closing the garage door behind her.

There’s no wiggle room in this: Alison may not have actively murdered Aynsley, but she is 1000% culpable for her death.

All of which, as I said, fascinates the shit out of me. This same outcome as the result of an interrogation gone awry, absolutely could see happening. But why this LIKE this? I don’t know that I’ve hit on a precise answer I’m completely satisfied with, but let’s noodle a bit, shall we?

Actually, before we noodle on that, a moment to noodle on this: ALISON WATCHED HER BEST FRIEND DIE IN A SLOW AND HORRIFIC MANNER AND WAS FINE WITH IT. She was more offended at Aynsley insulting her handmade felt angel.

(Sidebar: if the felt angel was indeed the tipping point, I’m laughing for a week.)

Their relationship was over, sure, and messily so, but STILL. That takes something I’m not sure I possess, to slam the bulkheads down like that on feelings you felt not so long ago. I suspect we’re nowhere near the limits of where Suburbia can go, and my experience with the show so far tells me the lack of those limits won’t come without consequences. That my Patreon is having to end and we won’t be able to watch this unfold together is one of my greatest regrets. BUT ANYWAY.

So we know Aynsley’s death wasn’t accidental (functionally), and that it wasn’t the purchase price for information or some other security. I’ve come around to the idea that it wasn’t for Suburbia at all. A strong contender when I first started thinking on it was that she needed to KNOW Aynsley wasn’t still out there, watching her. There’s no way this is going to bring her more peace, though, it’s just another thing to be super fucking paranoid about, besides the fact that the baddies can just put a new watcher there in Aynsley’s place. Which they could, of course, do anyway, no matter what they claim is happening and what their contracts and agreements supposedly bind them to. I’m not super familiar with contract law in general – even less so in Canada – but my gut says it’ll be a little difficult to bring the shadowy organization that’s cloned you to court.

There’s really no way Suburbia can stop the bad guys, at least not at this point in the story, but getting them out of her life is also the only thing she really wants. They have all the power here, all the control, and the best she can get from them is their PROMISE and signature on a worthless piece of paper. That’s what’s eating away at her. Going from there, then, I’ve narrowed down what I think is the most likely reasoning (however subconscious) behind Suburbia’s actions, or at least the ones that for the moment make the most sense to me.

Aynsley is a message. I can’t stop you, but CAN stop HER.

And the twisted brilliance of this is that as a message, it works independent of if Aynsley was ACTUALLY Alison’s watcher or not. Suburbia thought Aynsley was, and EVEN IF they were once best friends, she still let Aynsley die before her eyes. It’s absolutely fucked up, and how do you reason with Absolutely Fucked Up?

So send someone else if you want. Leave the one you already have, go ahead. But Suburbia’s not fucking playing, and when that’s the scale by which you’re measuring, it’s tough to think of a way to be more clear and succinct.

Cosmic, you can entice. Prime, you can threaten. Suburbia? THE FUCK DO YOU DO WITH SUBURBIA. Bitch strangled someone to death with a scarf in a garbage disposal, I have absolutely no idea where you go from there.