𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞-𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐫,

A DEPENDENT WRITING BLOG AFFILIATED WITH LAWLESSFM, REGARDING STORIES ON GIRLHOOD AS GODHOOD, VIOLENCE AS A TEACHER, WAR AS THE SHEPHERD, + A WOMAN AS MANY WOMEN,

[gravefed]

#GRAVEFED ⋆           FEATURING.      ARANYA    N :     aesthetics,   bio,    pinterest,     threads.      FINN     F :     aesthetics,   bio,   pinterest,    threads.   NIKO     O :     aesthetics,   bio,   pinterest,    threads.       SELENA     S :     aesthetics,   bio,   pinterest,    threads.     ZEKAI    G :   aesthetics,   bio,   pinterest,   threads.       ⋆   hunt me slow,    i want to feel it  ⋆       

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@dogbleed , CIA  HEADQUARTERS   BUILDING,    LOBBY,      EARLY EVENING.

Each day a funeral for a piece of his body.     Here lies his heart,     his head,     his lungs,    his palms.    There are things that cannot neutralize the blood or the coal.     The days go on.      Dreary and gray   ⸻   as if the world had died beneath the ground during the frost months of Alaska.      As if the clouds dream of rain and the rain dreams of buzzing neon signs.    An interesting observation:         Amara Camus has teeth like a crocodile.       He has seen them in action,   ripping up the tendons and bones.    She knows how to chew her way into a warm throat.    Not that it matters.   Finn still can’t trust people in the building   ⸻   too many vermain posing as peacocks and so on.     There is no law around here but the law of thirds:    three lies to keep to the front of the card - deck.     “Camus!”      A half - shout across the lobby,   some glances are thrown their way and he ignores them as he always does.    Polished dress shoes make their way towards the operations officer,     sly grin along his lips.    This metaphor might excite her   ⸻    that bone - saw of a sniper.     The file he’s read a few times,   if he cared to admit.     “Have I got a fucking bone to pick with you.”

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@bitteur , THE ABERNATHY,     LATE AFTERNOON.

How was he born?     From the top of the mountains,    pulled from sand and stone,    laid out underneath the oak trees to soak up the rest of the dusk.      The young son of his namesake,    pushed into the form of some dry - scaled serpent.       Azriel must also know what it means to be a desert - preacher.    How the sun feels when it burns the mouth.    How the grave - dirt feels when it’s away from the heat.      Cold and assuaging.      Rattlesnake - admirer speaks languidly now out of a gesture of humane appreciation  ⸻    if not for the sullen amusement he tended to cradle.      “Well,  shit.    Ain’t it different seeing you around civilization and not against the ropes.”    Voice roughened,    yet lilts slightly at the end in mild affection.      The masterpiece of a survivor is to enjoy violence   ⸻   the wolfish desire in devouring his own heart.     The other must recognize this.    Broken bones and all.    Boots shuffle towards the bar counter where Azriel sits,     Zekai offers a curt nod and a grunt of a half - chuckle in greeting.     “I’ll get the next round.    What are we drinking,   sevgili?”

[facinaoris]

Grit: A Poetry Collection, Silas Denver Melvin

[gravefed]

⋆    NIKO    ORTEGA,      EDIT,      003.

[gravefed]

@rjmenez , THE OLIVE BRANCH MARTINI BAR,     MID - AFTERNOON.

The coyote knows how to appear as rabbit-like as possible,    desperate to fit into a pack if only until the morning arrives once more.     Solitude had been his antiseptic.      Loneliness has been his wound - stitch.       Why disrupt a pattern?       Raised with the highway and the creeping tension of anger.      Rage with the forest,     rage with the bloodline,     rage within himself.     Zekai is nothing if not sufficient in the translation of inherited anger.      The other man carries an unforgiving approach to confidence   ⸻    shameless and profound.    Much like his father.      The wound itches suddenly,    or aches.     He’s lost track of the sensations of old scabs.      “This wouldn’t have been my first choice.”      The comment is light,   shallow   ⸻    he doesn’t really intend to judge,     it simply fills the void between them like a swimming pool in a too large yard.       The martini bar is elegant and traditionally kept,    it pulls a certain crowd.    Once when he was part of something wealthy and falsified,    he would have fit in.     Now,  however,    he only feels nauseaous.    Too seen here,   too noticed.    He takes a seat across from Ricardo in the booth,   the cushions leather and smelling like pinewood.      “What shit have you gotten yourself into this time,    eh?”

[descorts]

down is the only place that they can head towards — into the depths of moral humanitarianism, at its core; we are better because we are human is a fallacy at best and a lie best told to sleeping babes. niko is a pure thing, bereft of these concerns in lieu of greater ones. he shares the fate as all those that came before, at risk of dying in sweet slumber and merciful quietude. he'd rather the long, wailing cry. he'd rather wrench a tongue from his own open, silent-screaming mouth. each throbbing muscle leads him to stand before her; each death knell-step; each second a smile grows wider and hands reach out to form around that beautiful face when they cross the gap in two-step. "oh —," he clicks his tongue, kisses her forehead; a rhythm, too, on its own — "nothing. none too busy for you, ma cherie." these hands do not dare sully the siren for long, and one gestures to the rest of the hall, silent bare for the echoes of that lovely dramatic soprano understudy; the other rests silent in his pocket — innocent. pious. he leads her to the near-empty, far-overpriced dining hall with the rest of him, instead. "just a hamlet production, then a daring adaptation of gilgamesh, which i look forward to judging." is that tremor his or hers? — ah, sweet excitement! — those lovely strands of hair! he could reach out and pluck them from the light, were he so daring. "i should have come to see you immediately but — mes rossignols — they need a little love from their caretaker as well, no?"

[gravefed]

She must remind herself to have less teeth and more voice,    to be less stone and more earth.      Except,    of course,   this will take her a long time to learn.    Soak the scars in vinegar,    dry them out underneath the august sun  ⸻    feed them avoidance and gentle hymns.     Niko knows how to appear less primitive,    less likely to bite into a throat and leave only the final few beats of a pulse.      It’s part of evolving as a species.    Deception means survival.     Laurent held little regard for old wounds,    even less regard for those who tended to wear them like barbed wire.    Why not let the past strengthen a spine?    They are both silent creatures   ⸻   observant to those around them and feverish with reputation.    She watches him carefully,    a faint form of approval on her expression.    An audience with subtle reverence as he shows affection,    allows herself to be led towards the dining hall.    He had been away,   after all.     This presence was necessary in order to be reminded of what she transforms for.    “A caretaker knows where he is most needed.     And when he needs to play judgment.”     A light laugh,    almost echoes throughout the air if it was held out for longer    ⸻   but she was never one for a performance.     She’s the one who works the trapdoors and illusions.     How to be in one place and nowhere all at once.      Chin angled towards the walls,   eyes flashing with mild appreciation.     So intricate and organized,    much like Laurent’s mind.    Still,   a maze is a maze.    There is always time to peel back those layers and she’s always holding a scalpel in her hand for her consigliere.     An eccentric companion,   a ghoul refusing to stay in the grave.    Aren’t they all?     A half - demand,   but it has the sweetness of an admirer.     “We will have dinner,   then.     Preferably soon.    Business first,   and then I want to hear all about your journey across Europe.” 

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@lovelornbones , THE MAW,     MID - MORNING. 

History is a circle     ⸻    and repetition breeds contempt.     Niko had remained an unpredictable shadow of a prophetess,    and yet she remained the predictable benefactor of all childhood lessons.      Loyal to those who prove their devotion.     She realized during her return to the city that she had too much of her soul scattered about the fields outside of it.     It worries her down to the bone.     She wants to ask the sky if this has anything to do with the father - less and the abyss of restlessness that’s left in her,     but she remains quiet.     Chews on the words,     devours the silence.   “Stoneage Industries never used to bother with violent crowds like this.”      She begins,    the hypocrite to the sinner,     damnation flowing from her mouth like a sermon.     He seems to stick out in this company  ⸻    filled with something less likely to break a bone,    more likely to break a heart.     It is inside all of them,   however:     the hot - blood of a warrior.     Down to the marrow,     down to the bone-hearth.     An offering,   perhaps,    a glass of scotch in her hand outstretched towards him.    The drinks here are just as expensive as the devil’s cost.     They all have a vice.      A tease,   but the voice remains firm    ⸻    she watches him carefully,    like a snake to a bird’s egg.   Uncracked,   for now.     “Be careful,    Eden.   Some have darker pasts here than even replicants can imagine.” 

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@ofhurricanes , THE TORN TRADITIONS GALLERY,    EARLY MORNING.

Suffering that the muscles remember and that the mind remembers,   but no longer possessing them each minute.    She would be able to walk among a field of lavender now.     She could speak into a rustling forest now.      Where it was once winter,    there seems to be visions of springtime’s arrival.    Late,   but utterly welcome.     Aranya finds him quite easily in the back corner of the current art displays,    features of bright reds and golds.     Photographs that seem frozen in time with emotions deciphered just as meticulously as one would study a maze.      She can almost imagine the sounds of cicadas and tall grass waving with a summer breeze when she sees him.    Serenity that offers a reprieve.       “I think it was also raining the last time we met around these paintings.”      Murmured out as she comes to stand to the side of Yamato,    a hum of an absentminded reminiscence.     It was never about the rain.     The rain never mattered around him   ⸻   what could compare to his nature,  after all?      A slender hand rests around his upper arm and she leans against him slightly,   the artwork forgotten about.     “What are you deciding here all alone,   hm?”

[gravefed]

@avecaisar , CITY HALL LOBBY,      MID - DAY. 

Russia had offered shelter from the wind and the snows of spring,       and while some fled from the north when the cold arrived,    Aranya had always found comfort in it.       There is something thrilling about feeling how the nerves numb and the toes stiffen   ⸻    a jolt of awareness that reminded her that she was,    in fact,    a living creature and not something of shadows and translucency.      Like any rodent she is attracted to the warmth of the hearth and home,      but she had always felt like just that:    a rat clawing inside the walls for extra meat scraps.     Her existence was ultimately acknowledged,   but denied at the same time.      A constant wheel of death and rebirth.      Even now,   the woman in the lobby is a mist.    Grave - dweller,    dirt - swallower.      The weeping willow of a story.     Heeled boots crawl to a stop at a familiar face waiting for one of the three elevators to land on the ground floor.   “Lavinia.”       The ghost coos,     mouth twisting into a half-open smile.     She looks as if she’s pondering an old memory   ⸻   but this is a rehearsed act.    Years of becoming what others want,    what others look for.     For now,   she is doe - like.     Lavinia had done what others could not:   found that wound of a history and ripped apart the scab.    It is Aranya’s story and Margosha’s story that is open - season for any hunter to study.    A suffering made hollow by a media circus.      A rasped out continuation,    hardly awake during this particular reality.    This is an innocent question to some,    but it’s only a reminder that she knows habits like the lines on her palm.    They never change despite the season.    “No afternoon wine today?” 

[gravefed]

@stcnehearts , HEIAN-KYŌ,    A PRIVATE BOOTH,     MID - EVENING.

Had she told the moon about the daytime,   it wouldn’t be believed.    She’s used to that:    not being believed.    All those years spent alongside a tyrant   ⸻   how slippery morals became when spent underneath the blade of a knife.     Still,   she enjoyed the nighttime ritual of the moon - silk.    How the milky blue light seemed to cover the snow and neon like a mass of forgiveness,   at least for that evening.    At least until she awoke the next morning with the ax of reality swinging at her neck once more.    She was eaten and she ate    ⸻   glutton for some reprieve.    No matter the cost.     On this side of the winter she is more herself.    Or the shards of selves have become clearer.    Less murky.      These inner thoughts contrast heavily to the pink and white kiku bouquet that lays in the middle of the booth’s table,    the velvet jewelry box housing an emerald bracelet sits beside it.       Emiko arrives,   led by the host from the front of the restaurant.    Aranya stands to greet her,    palm facing upwards as she reaches out for the other’s hand.     “I’m glad I could pull you away for the evening  [ … ]    I hope you brought your appetite,    hm?”     Warmth on the cheeks,    smile aching at her gums and teeth.    For a moment she forgets she was made for death.       Head tilts slightly towards the tabletop,    brows lifting with a youthful delight.     “I have something to ask of you.”

[gildcdglory]

Yujin grew up in the walls of Solar Mechanics. The sight of damaged cars and the smell of gasoline reminded her of home, but it also reminded her of all she lost. Images of her father occasionally flashed through her mind as she watched over the store, and she could do nothing but remind herself that everything she did was for him--- taking on his legacy, searching for his killer, it was all done to avenge the man who raised her.

She wondered if her father had a similar impact on FINN FOX. She didn't know if the man knew him personally or if he was just a longstanding customer at their shop, but either way, she found herself curious. Would he judge her if he knew what she did once the shop lights turned off? Or would he help her in her crusade for justice? It was a question that lingered on her mind, but like the other times, she kept it tucked behind clenched teeth.

Instead, her attention shifted to his vehicle. Her head canted as she took a look at the issue, mind not processing his first question until she finished diagnosing the problem, ❝You have a faulty ignition coil. It needs to be replaced, but it shouldn't take too long.❞ She finally pulled her eyes away from the car and onto the man before her, quietly taking in his position. ❝I'm hanging in there.❞ She replied, before shifting the question away from herself. Her lip quirked upwards as she commented, ❝However, you look tired. Late nights at work?❞

[gravefed]

Genetic solecism,    perhaps.    He,      who was born too quickly   ⸻  neck not yet formed to carry the duty of a brother.      He,   who was born regardless of the prophecies,    despite the moon above the house.    How blue the light was,    how milk - covered the ground seemed to look.     Remember,   his father had once told him:      the rabbits only look like rabbits before the daylight dies.      Remember,     the brother told him:      there are no empty rivers,   there is always something beneath the surface.      Finn thinks that Yujin believes in that kind of remembrance    ⸻     how loved ones chatter to us even beyond the grave.     Fingers now busy themselves and swipe on the screen on the counter,    a pamphlet of shining parts and grease - less joints.     He replies automatically,   an involuntary mixture of gruff exhaustion and light awe.    “You’re magic   [ … ]    I keep telling those asses at the agency to come straight to you with any issues in their transports.”      Eyes glance up and meet hers,    smile crooked and unnatural.       It’s meant to be polite,   his usual expression when speaking with someone outside of his cooped up office.    Instead,   he laughs.    A breathy chuckle,    no anguish to fill in the cracks   ⸻   simply caught off - guard by her comment.      “Shit.    That noticeable?     I swear my skincare routine has been working overtime.    Nothing helps those bags under my eyes,   right?”     A half - shrug,   left shoulder lifting and falling in a span of two seconds.     Next,   a genuine suggestion.    Spurned out of a slight feeling of responsibility to see how Chiwon’s daughter fares alone in this city of devils.    Perhaps only to keep his own morals,   but there was a lingering curiosity within his motivations.    “You know   [ … ]    I hear a nice cup of coffee with some good company helps.”

[gravefed]

@haereticus , CIA  HEADQUARTERS   BUILDING,    LOBBY 001.

Throughout the years he’s been accustomed to becoming many men.    Slivers of men.    Shed their skin like wool coats    ⸻     taught himself to become a new hunter every couple of moons.     Obeyed the tide,     listened to the wind,     prayed to the sun.      There are several ways one can become invisible.       He bends the spine until it snaps into something more malleable,    he lives in shadows    ⸻     he avoids mirrors and other reflective surfaces.      Things are,     if he must admit,    not precisely going smoothly.       There are enemies everywhere and perhaps there’s a more cynical part of him that is aware that humanity seems on the precipice of extinction.     Not that he’ll admit it.       Besides,     he knows how quickly the grave comes for those who grow soft - skinned.    And Finn’s blood has empathy by the shovel - full.        “You’re looking more comfortable,   kid.”      Lilting tone,    voice low and dirt - rough   ⸻    a form of amusement that curdles at the thought of showing affection even during the rainfall months.      He had been awaiting her approach at the elevators,    marble tiles polished and shining with pride.    His shoes,   also,    are polished.   He deems himself important,   even when his hands are empty and his leads are growing cold.     A paper cup full of black coffee is offered out to the younger officer,     a nod of greeting is curt and professional.     “You always clocking in at the crack of fucking dawn?    Lend me some of that energy,    Prue.”    

[petaltexturedskies]

Sylvia Plath, in a diary entry dated 15 June 1951 featured in The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[maurawrites]

Martin Sensmeier, photographed by Rick Bhatia

[wiltedthorn]

Ivory towers are simply stages with meticulous design, and Eden finds himself lost in the thought of how easily the production behind actors and sirens could tumble and cry out underneath it. He thinks of his own prophets that wear name tags instead of crowns or halos. Does coroplast and wood made to break hurt when it falls? There's no room for hopelessness at Stoneage, and false ambitions are forced to reality even if you have to focus on building each step. Destruction, if it lies there, isn't privy to Eden.

It takes a moment for him to be drawn out of daunting daydreams and back to the man next to him. Is he protective of humanity, or mourning where they've ended up? He's too curious for his own good for the latter, to dwell on the damage and adversity. His whole life has become devoted to prosperity but he remembers tragedy. Six feet is hardly enough now.

"And what would happen if they did fall?" His musings are borne from illicit thoughts to the promises he sells for Stoneage. He can hear the other hold back, something coated before its deliverance or a few words stuck in the back of their throat. The stress on lack of appreciation, dismissal of anyone beyond laws of man. Maybe Eden had one too many glasses of champagne, liquid forlorn. He points his chin to the stage. "I hardly think it would be anything like that— far from beautiful, no fog machine and bright lights to clear some smoke that clouds your judgement. I'm almost certain one falls, another takes their place. You cut off one head, another two grow back."

[gravefed]

Protectiveness over one’s past isn’t unheard of   ⸻    however he often wears it with a subtle air of indifference.    Besides,    he’s been hurt in the past by that blade of debt - owed rebuttal.      The pain that isn’t only owned by him,    but by the ghosts he carries.    Finn tended to take the bullets and the bruises,     to swallow down the trauma as if it were seawater mixed in with arsenic.       Moments of impulsiveness,     moments of godliness.     These were always followed with insomnia and some sliver of paranoia,    the concoction of the amoral.     “You sound like someone without much hope.     That’s how humanity dies,   my friend.”     A gruff response,   no kindness in soft rebuttals here.    He speaks without looking at the other man,    determined to finish this conversation with the air of avoidance.    There is a firm placement of obnoxious longevity and sheep - like reverence from those who worship these fine arts in the times of a modernized apocalypse.      Of course,   there were incidents in the recent years of him interrogating or hounding those in power of these artificial war - games.    He is nothing if not loyal to his own honour.     But aren’t they all like that?     Here in the city of smog and deceit the devotion is snake - bound and slippery   ⸻   like eels in a bucket.         Palm resting gently on his left breast as if in a mockery of a promise,    brows lift in slight amusement.     “I’m offended you’d think of me as being so judgemental.    This isn’t a folktale or a ghost story   [ … ]    even replicants can be killed nowadays.”        He glances to the side,   only for a beat of a moment,    before dragging his attention back to the brightened stage.     “The thing about nature is that it always comes back around.    It always gets the last say,   even when some believe it’s not even in the fucking room.”     A hand outstretched with a crooked angle,    a lazy introduction    ⸻    not quite one for formal meetings or coffees with sugar.     Bitterness drove him.    Bitterness made him successful.    “Finn Fox.” 

[gravefed]

@pcril , THE OLIVE BRANCH MARTINI BAR.

Before the war,     there was death and violence.     After the war,     there is still death and violence.       A red stain that hangs upon their walls as if it were a prideful tapestry.       The Hanging Man is nothing but cursed,      a tragic violent-line that requires far too much sacrifice and far too little dignity.      For many months,    he had tried to disconnect from the others.     Separate himself from the tyranny that owns these muddy streets,     cut the umbilical ties of the corrupt    ⸻    a failed result of humanity.     Zekai sees how much he has lost since the war,     and what he’s gained:      sunken eyes,    darkening dreams,    a voice that doesn’t sound like his own.      Jie speaks to a ghost here.    He knows he is not really alive,   only a dying thing.    Feral and bone-bred,      a soldier in every sense of the word.      “Ain’t the world a bitch?    It just keeps on turning.”      The greeting is laced in sardonic undertones,    but nothing more stable than what is anticipated.     A reminder that crawls from the back of his throat,     response roughened by the lack of sleep   ⸻     he means this only as a warning,     knows how the streets here are bordered with knives and wolves.        The background music of the bar is shrouded in static.    The familiar sight of the other’s scars seems to remind him that it is in fact a real interaction taking place.    An apparently difficult thing to realize since he’s returned from the trenches,   so to speak.      A blink at his approach,    digests the form slowly    —    like a well-fed dog.       “Look   [ … ]    I just need to know where your head’s at.     If you need any help with shit,    eh?”