𝙖𝙡𝙡　 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚

. . .　　TURN　　BACK　　THE　　TIME

[bludsport]

you know something? maybe once a week, i wake up paralyzed reliving that night. but . . . before the sun went down . . . i think that was the best day of my life. was it like that for you? no doubt about it. last time i seen my brother. last time i seen the sun. and just for a few hours, we were free.

#BLUDSPORT. private multimuse affiliated  with forksw. a  study  on  mourning  girlhood, the devil within,   biting the hand  that  feeds, home as the first grave, what rage you feel as you choke on your sorrow, the slaughtered lamb, and DOOMED FATE ⎯⎯ you were dead from the beginning. every story ends with your slaughter. committed to legend by rosie.

CROOKEDNECKTHOMASIN. she/her. shifter, redmaw. a likeness to tia wood. introduction, pinterest. TAWPISINMATTHEUS. he/him. ordinary. a likeness to asivak koostachin. introduction, pinterest.

[bludsport]

i am the shape you made me. filth teaches filth.

MATTHEUSMIKISIWTAWPISIN. cis gendered man, he/him. twenty seven. ordinary human. a likeness to asivak koostachin.

i’m  here,    i  said,    and  it  felt  shockingly  comforting,    those  words.    i’m  here . . .    i  don’t  usually  feel  that  i  am.    i feel . . .   like  a  warm  gust  of  wind  could  exhale  my  way  and  i’d  be  disappeared  forever,    not  even  a  sliver  of  fingernail  LEFT BEHIND.    on  some  days,    i  find  this  thought  calming;  on  others  it  chills  me.

CHAPTER I. this house is sick and so are we.

asivak  koostachin.    cis  man.    he/him.    n/a.    ✦    in  the  dying  light  of  forks,    there’s  always  someone  new  moving  beneath  the  clouds.    this  time,    it’s  mattheus  tawpisin,    the  twenty  seven  year  old  local.    they  say  they’ve  been  here  for  all  their  life,    BUT THE STORY SHIFTS  depending  on  who  you  ask.    either  way,    they’ve  been  seen  haunting  salmonberry  bridge,    after  their  shift  as  a  line  cook  at  the  carver  cafe.    they’re  part  of  the  ordinary,    and  most  people  say  they’re  like  bloodied  smiles  and  violet  ringed  eyes  that  punctuate  a  well-deserved  punch  to  the  face  —  ‘no  way,  i  wasn’t  flirting  with  your  girl.  i  was  just  trying  to  show  her  this  sick  tech  deck  trick  haha  wait  why  are  you  raising  your  fist-’,    the  limbo  between  night  and  dawn  where  the  sky  is  something  almost  holy  and  the  damning  realization  as  tar-thick  loneliness  makes  a  home  in  your  bones,    haunting  the  suburbs  with  the  kind  of  SHOUTING  that  only  comes  from  getting  shitfaced  in  somebody’s  carpeted  basement  and  listening  to  their  dad’s  disgusting  collection  of  80s  rock  (‘go  to  sleep  dickhead!’  heard  softly  in  the  distance  as  you  lay  face  down  on  the  damp  pavement),    a  mangled  house  arrest  ankle  bracelet  decorated  with  the  latest  babygirlcore  charms  and  screwdriver  initial  carvings,    an  ode  to  lovers  past.    as  for  where  they  stand  on  the  town’s  quiet  war?  they  feel  blissfully  unaware,    too  busy  jumping  into  the  ocean  dick-first  to  see  anything  in  front  of  them.    at  the  end  of  the  day,    you’ll  catch  them  humming  tommy’s  party  by  peach  pit,    but  they’ll  just  tell  you:  houses  and  bodies,    they  all  rot  the  same.

CHAPTER II. your eyes reflect me in a terrible way.

full name: mattheus mikisiw tawpisin. nicknames: matty, matt, vibe terrorizer. birthdate: october 28, twenty seven. hometown: a small reserve in the canadian plains. species: human. gender: cis man, he/him. sexuality: heterosexual. occupation: line cook at the carver cafe. languages spoken: english. eyes: deep brown, like the earth after a storm. build: five feet eleven inches, toned muscles. distinguishing features: a shit eating grin, delivered after the most rancid, vibe killing remark. positive: idiosyncratic, jocular. negative: temerarious, fickle. mbti: enfp-a. alignment: chaotic neutral. temperament: choleric. primary vice: wrath. primary virtue: humility.

[bludsport]

i'm terrified of change. i'm terrified of staying this way forever . . .

THOMASINROSECROOKEDNECK. cis gendered woman, she/her. twenty five. shifter, redmaw faction. a likeness to tia wood.

sometimes i think . . . illness sits inside every woman waiting for the right moment to bloom. i have known so many sick women all my life. women with chronic pain. women with conditions. men, sure, they have bone snaps, they have BACKACHES, they have a surgery or two. women get consumed.

CHAPTER I. everything i've ever let go of has claw marks.

tia wood. cis woman. she/her. n/a. ✦ in the dying light of forks, there’s always someone new moving beneath the clouds. this  time,  it’s  thomasin  crookedneck,  the  twenty  five  year  old  local.   they  say  they’ve  been  here  for  all  their  life,  but  the  story  shifts  depending  on  who  you  ask.  either  way,  they’ve  been  seen  haunting  the  bellwood  lookout  after  their  shift  housekeeping  at  the  rainveil  motel.  they’re  part  of  the  redmaw  faction,  and  most  people  say  they’re  like  NIGHTMARES  from  a  past  life  that  awaken  your  body  in  a  violent  and  sudden  heave  /  names  said  like  a  hushed  prayer  to  comfort  a  mind  all  turbulent  thoughts  and  bloody  memories,  wood  where  it  rots  in  the  hollow  carcass  of  a  home  long  since  abandoned,  staring  at  the  different  eyes  that  look  back  to  you  from  a  broken  mirror  (all  begging  to  move,  to  say  something  unknown  to  you  ―  their  screams  build  and  mount  but  never  come),  the  loneliness  of  a  cruel  winter  night  and  how  hollow  the  body  feels  as  december  claws  itself  inside  the  carcass  of  a  life  mourned,  a  life  forgotten.  as  for  where  they  stand  on  the  town’s  quiet  war?  they  feel  TIRED, OR SOMETHING LIKE IT  ―  like  an  aching  reticence  has  displaced  where  the  rage  and  the  bedlam  once  made  a  home.  at  the  end  of  the  day,  you’ll  catch  them  humming  good  game  by  dominic  fike,  but  they’ll  just  tell  you:  home  is  the  first  grave.

CHAPTER II. is that your ghost or are you really there?

full name: thomasin mary crookedneck. nicknames: tommy, affectionately by her father though will ignore any other names given to her by anyone else. birthdate: november 12, twenty five. hometown: forks, washington. species: human. gender: cis woman, she/her. sexuality: bisexual. occupation: housekeeping at the rainveil motel. languages spoken: english and cree (y dialect). eyes: a striking brown like a bruise or rotting fruit. build: five feet seven inches though appears shorter from slouched posture, slim with soft curves and light muscles. distinguishing features: scars burned into young flesh. positive: assiduous, sapient. negative: somnolent, amoral. mbti: intj-a. alignment: chaotic neutral. temperament: choleric. primary vice: wrath. primary virtue: diligence.

[roadmotel]

Fatimah Asghar, How’d Your Parents Die Again?

[dvkev-alentino]

‘Our age has need of violence,’ he writes. And he is violence.

Anais Nin, Henry and June

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

“Sometimes the silence frightened me. Sometimes the silence blessed me. It would come get me. Late at night. Open like a window, hungry for my life.”

My Wicked Wicked Ways; ‘Preface’ by Sandra Cisneros

[malnedott]

hands in various paintings by luca giordano 🥀

[gaycommunist]

i’ve got all this rage in me and i don’t know where to put it

@rbhvleo // paul miller “utopia” // “the book of promothea” hélène cixous tr. betsy wing // gillian flynn “dark places” // ginger snaps // @heavensghost // @vawium // @traumathoughts // lucille clifton “leukemia as white rabbits” // ahamkara lustre print @artofmaquenda // audre lorde

[hourglassofblacktears-deactivat]

Jan van Eyck.

[mundo-futuro]

[seaoflove]

from journey to the interior by margaret atwood

[vaporwavesimulator]

i am fine thank you for asking! though recently there has been a darkness growing within me

[bassiter]

Visit Original Link

Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saens except you can hear it inexplicably playing - by a whole orchestra no less - while lost in the forest at night. You have a gut feeling that you shouldn’t, but following the music seems like your best bet at no longer being lost. Nevermind that you keep hearing footsteps around you that aren’t yours - there’s no one there, no matter how many times you check. 

[nemfrog]

Ay, in the very temple of delight/ Veil’d melancholy has her sovran shrine. Poems by John Keats. 1898. Illustrator, Robert Anning Bell. 

Internet Archive

[luthienne]

Mahmoud Darwish, from Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut, 1982 (tr. Ibrahim Muhawi)

[lilpieceofmyworld]

[screechingnightchild]