( 𝐟𝐢𝐠 𝐢. ) — white lily,

HOLES AND GRAVES AND FOLK TAXONOMY,

[graveflwers]

ASSORTED MULTI.    written by makwa: 2spirit indigenous, they / them, 27.  m̲d̲n̲i̲.̲ sporadic activity & slow reply.    MUSES.    MEMES. also @eterknows.

ON SEMI-HIATUS UNTIL MID-AUGUST.

RULES & INFO.

i'd like to emphasize that i'm fr easy-going, and i intend to run my blog in kind. i'm a yapper; i yap. i'll engage with your posts. i'll get stuck in the "for you" tab and accidentally like things from days ago. i'm here to write and make friends with the people i'm writing with. that's the energy here at graveflwers dot tumblr dot com.

i'm a deeply unserious person with a deeply unserious muselist, but i take my writing and characterizations seriously. do you see what i'm saying here.

permanently low activity and medium-to-slow reply. i'll keep a thread going across revamps, new blogs, etc, no matter how much time has passed. seriously. i have multiple threads that span 2+ years ok. we're in it together for the long-haul<3

my meme replies = (optional) starters. duplicate friendly. i don’t use icons but you should do whatever you want to do. a little godmodding is cool to keep the plot progressing. i generally prefer plotting and establishing dynamics over winging it—but i'm flexible. i rarely do one-liners. etc etc.

no drama. seriously, sb on sight. i handle any conflicts or misunderstandings privately and not on dash—and i'd prefer that you do the same. i blacklist callout tags and have no interest in petty interpersonal conflict. if someone’s the perpetrator of some genuinely rancid shit and i happen to not realize it, feel free to let me know directly. generally, tho, trust that i have a moral compass and critical thinking skills, and that i can come to conclusions myself.

dms are always open for constructive, good-faith conversation. anon is off forever and until the end of time.

DNI: the usual suspects (minors, -phobes, zionists, and those actively writing incest or SA). don't be a shitass.

hi i’m makwa, 27, ojibwe / jew. degree in criminology. living abroad bc i thought moving out of canada would fix me (it did not), so catch me in GMT+1 / CEST. i come and go from tumblr like a stray cat. ik these rules seem brash, but i promise i’m 99% good vibes (1% is reserved for going off the rails). discord is available on request<3

[graveflwers]

the worst part about the masters of the universe movie is that nicky g specifically as he-man—not adam—has dodge bullets’ exact hairstyle

[graveflwers]

(: on my way to see the movie that hollywood made just for me (masters of the universe)

[graveflwers]

my apologies travis knight. i was unfamiliar with your game

[graveflwers]

(: on my way to see the movie that hollywood made just for me (masters of the universe)

[graveflwers]

you can say what you want about muamar, but “steal cars from people and then sell them back to other people” is the infinite money glitch of all time in a city that is full of 1) cars, and 2) ppl willing to steal them for a quick buck

[vitalphenomena]

YEAH, THAT'S DAMN RIGHT. Rian has the audacity to look smug about what's just transpired. She likes winning; she's as egotistical and prideful as anyone from their world. High-achievers, prodigies, burn-outs-to-be. There's more to it than that, though. Klaus in particular has her wanting to get the last word in, even if they're arguing about intangible, inconsequential matters.

It occurs to her that none of this is real. Well—almost none of it. Klaus isn't real. This apartment isn't real. The Ativan is real. Max Theyer's magic potion is real. The duplex she's moving to closer to Coeus—that's real, too.

Real and yet not reassuring in the slightest.

Rian stares at Klaus, who has made himself entirely too comfortable—oh, wait. Doesn't matter. Nothing to care about. It isn't real.

Muttering, mumbling: "Asking me what a test tube rack does means nothing. Doesn't make me mad. It makes me sad you got degrees from somewhere in the first place, and that's all."

Rian finds a clean enough graduated cylinder.

"Stop touching those."

She puts on gloves and goggles. None for Klaus.

[graveflwers]

rian wasn't winning; he was letting her win. one night, maybe soon, she'd find that bottle of ativan and be extremely grateful for his presence in her life—and for his slew of psychiatric prescriptions.

' what? you’re what? very glad i got so many degrees? my english, it’s not so good. '

klaus sat back in his chair, raised his palms the way he’d seen in cop shows and westerns: keep your hands where i can see ‘em! what came next he didn't know. he usually fell asleep before the third act of anything. presumably she'd either shoot him point blank or let him watch her little experiment.

she shouldn't get so worked up, anyway. he was being really very good. for his efforts, for his restraint, he expected a reward. rian was always holding out on him. he thought he deserved some recognition.

' if you don't tell me what you're doing, i'm going to start narrating. ' and that was a threat!

[bykoi]

"where you gonna go, in the middle of nowhere?" — @graveflwers, as delta wayside.

the show's over by now, but heaven stays captivated beneath the awning. the scaly shine of glitter winks at her, spinning sparkles against the venue light and drawing her attention downward. it's enough for her to stay crouched down— knees to her chest, eyes flickering from the toe of his boot to his face. the platforms give him the height of a giant with the (imagined) grace of a mermaid, stuck in a fishbowl lens with only the bar's drinks to swim in.

the cigarette between her fingers filters everything in grey. it sticks to the gloss of her eyes, lashes blinking in rapid succession to clear it away. if she'd been more sober, she might've wondered where her john of the night went — if he'd gone to the bathroom and fell down the drain, if he'd found some enchantress in the back room and fled to greener pastures — but the heavy-handed pour of a previous bartender leaves her pink-cheeked and heady, blowing ringlets of smoke out as ash flutters to the concrete beside her.

her attention snaps back to the conversation, foreign for only half a second. (somewhere in the past ten minutes, she'd mentioned finding a bus. somewhere in the past five minutes, she'd forgotten that buses exist.) her head tilts upward, delta's form resembling a skyscraper building, lighting up the night. heaven glances back to the cigarette in her hand, clamped between her thumb and pointer finger, and then extends herself back up to full height.

"somewhere." it sounds like half a sentence, but her fingers twitch from the cold— and the cigarette drops to the ground before she can finish the thought. (the rest of her words run amuck, sprinting wildly toward any possibility of extending the night a minute longer.) "could go on your bus. we could trade." bodies, transportation, spit. whatever he has in mind. the conversation pivots. "i like adventures."

[graveflwers]

there was a breeze in the air. it was supposed to blow the sun out of the sky and make way for the moon, but it hadn't quite succeeded yet. delta swayed on his feet; the folds of his costume shimmered oddly in the evening light.

' oh, ' he said neutrally, his head lolled to one side. in his peripheral, he could see the stage crew loading set pieces onto the bus. they could see him, too: standing around, not helping, allocating his time to the (ig)noble pursuit of picking up strays. ' that’s not mine. i just ride around in it sometimes. '

adventure meant nothing to delta—either as a word or as a concept—because he didn't believe in it. there was no risk involved in anything he did. no excitement. nothing unusual. this was because he lived in a perpetual state of risk, excitement, and unusualness. unlike other people, he didn't go on adventures; he was really just living his life.

' dunno where it’s going. ' he shrugged. the middle of nowhere, probably. it always was—right before it passed through anywhere and arrived in somewhere.

delta sank into a crouch at the same time as heaven straightened up and toward her namesake. the conversation pivoted: ' i like cigarettes. '

there went that breeze again; also, his vision was a little blurry. there was facepaint in his eyes and valium in his bloodstream. he had to blink profusely just to get a good look at her. he thought she might be beautiful. most tragic women were. ' got another one? i’ll get ya on the bus. '

[charlesleclerrc]

MANUEL MASALVA as Ramón Arellano Félix in NARCOS: MEXICO (2018 –)

[graveflwers]

happy pride month to no one on the muselist except firefox. not because he’s the only queer character i write. but because he’d hate to hear it

[graveflwers]

ALL BLACK FIT, CALL ME DANNY PHANTOM!

ino but in my style (gege akutami dni) xx

[graveflwers]

ACTIVITY NOTICE: i'll be sparse until the middle of august. lots of things going on in makwa world, fortunately and unfortunately. i'm working on completing my C1/C2 german language certificate (boo) so that i can potentially start studying again in october (yay). this means that i'm going to be spending the majority of my free time practicing german grammar</3. also, my place of employment is closing at the end of june (boo), and i start a new job at the beginning of july (yay?? maybe. we'll see).

trust, i'll be posting replies whenever i can—i just can't promise that that'll be Often. if you're in the mood for some shorter-form, not-that-serious (aka not-my-best-writing) discord threads, hit my line. mwah

PS. if you tag me in something during this time, pleaaase feel free to link me directly (via ims or disc). in the words of aerosmith: i don't wanna miss a thing

[graveflwers]

pokémon NOT known for its plot tbh. but the concept of saturn facing no repercussions whatsoever after years of ecoterrorism is hilarious. post game he’s like “ohhh i get it now. extremism is BAD” and everybody just accepts this

[pixistic]

the smoldering embers plagued monroe with flashbacks of dad burning incense at church and over her hospital bedside when she lost the baby. all it did was make her cough. the same tickle was in the back of her throat as she watched charlie absorbed by the sad state of the fire. she couldn’t discern if he cared too much or not at all. either way, she felt out of the loop. he and lis seemed to have an entire conversation without actually talking to each other. naomi, monroe knew, would slot in nicely beside them when she came back from wherever she’d disappeared.

when lis bounded into the thicket toward the cabins, the woods seemed to get smaller. in any other movie, this scene would be romantic. them with low light and music to set the mood. any other boy, she’d invite him for a dip in the lake. with night approaching, it wasn’t getting any cooler. the heat was encroaching on her like a second body pressing her down. suddenly her spandex shorts and t-shirt felt like too much clothes.

charlie seemed so thoroughly oblivious or indifferent to her presence that monroe was almost certain she could strip naked and it wouldn’t stir a reaction. she didn’t know how to handle that revelation. fuck him. dismiss him. she snapped at him like it had been building up after days of zero communication. well, that got his attention. he was staring at her now.

for a moment, there was only the stutter of her heart and the uproar of cicadas. then, charlie’s voice — resolute, detached. there was a musky scent pervading the air. the coals or charlie’s cologne. she’d have to move closer to figure out for sure.

slowly, she cut around the wood stack, unintentionally blocking his access to the axe. “did i do something to offend you or are you always this pleasant?”

[graveflwers]

no, she hadn’t done something. she hadn’t done anything at all. that was the problem: none of them had done anything—charlie included—and now the fire was dying.

' i’m not offended, ' he said flatly. nor was he pleasant. maybe she’d meant to say un-pleasant? he’d been called that a lot—which didn’t offend him, either.

charlie leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. in the light, in the near absence of it, she reminded him of naomi. but why, he wondered, when they looked nothing alike? he tracked monroe’s movements around the woodpile. not her trajectory, but the way she did it, the way she blinked only when she thought that somebody was watching.

which he was—watching, unblinking: dead-eyed and yet acutely cognizant, as strange paintings were.

and that was when he found it, the similarity: she, like naomi, reminded him of a doll, or a girl pretending to be a doll, or a girl pretending to be a doll pretending to be a girl. she stepped in front of the axe and aligned her seams with the edge of the blade.

' are you offended? ' curiosity could compel him to ask questions, but it could not compel inflection into his voice. far more importantly: ' —are you going to get more wood? '

[graveflwers]

' fire’s almost out. ' said charlie. it was an observation, a disenfranchised news report. tonight’s forecast: full moon, cloudy skies, and impending darkness. somewhere to their left, the radio—a real one—wasn’t playing the news at all. it was playing music, garbled lyrics and muted synth. occasionally the signal broke and static poured through the speaker.

' i, ' began lis, getting up. she stretched her arms, cracked something in her back, rolled out one ankle at a time. she looked like she was warming up for something: a sprint, maybe. or a marathon. depended on monroe, really, and how far she could run. how much she wanted to survive. ' need pants. the mosquitoes are killing me. '

' the fire, ' mumbled charlie, half-heartedly, ' needs wood. '

' be right back—if i don’t get murdered by a giant mosquito or an evil, masked killer! ' hahaha. lis thought this was funny; charlie thought it was annoying.

he frowned at the ground. ' if the fire doesn’t get another log, it’s going to go out. '

lis shrugged, pulling her hair back and over her shoulders. but charlie was right: the fire was eating itself out of existence, shedding itself to the bone. smoke was already veiling monroe in a funeral shroud. ' i’ll see if i can find naomi, ' she added, then made her way down the path—and right past the stack of wood.

the radio cut out again, tshhhhhhhhhhh. a loon let out its wistful, mournful cry. maybe it missed the music, as charlie did.

' … i thought … she was going to … ' charlie let the thought die, sputter out with the last few flames. he didn’t watch lis disappear into the night. he didn’t look monroe in the face. he didn’t look anywhere at all, because the axe was in his peripheral, propped against the pile of logs, and he thought that if he looked at it, it would give him away.

he started up again: ' the fire— '

@pixistic, ' —do something about it or shut up already. '

charlie went very, very still. he was looking at her now. it was the first time he’d done so all night, perhaps the only time he’d done so since they’d met.

he thought she had the biggest eyes he’d ever seen.

' no. ' he said finally, quietly, after far too long. the fire was nothing but coals, and the coals were quickly fading to nothing but ash. soon—in one minute or in two—the darkness would set in.

and maybe she was safe or maybe she wasn’t, and maybe he’d kill her or maybe he wouldn’t. no matter how the story ended, the fire, the night, the light could not protect her. but maybe it could keep her warm.

if she kept it burning, that is.

[graveflwers]

chris lee and delta wayside were standing between a pair of fuck-off big pickup trucks—two in a rusty, dusty sea of many. the entire parking lot was full of them. their fault for going to a redneck bar, really. they could have avoided this whole thing by hanging out at walmart, real sophisticated like. it would have been closed by now, quarter-to-twelve. not a pickup in sight.

chris lee and delta wayside were standing over a broken-off side mirror, staring down at their own cracked reflections. objects may be closer than they appear. delta’s fault for trying to skate, really. and maybe chris’ fault for letting him. a straight beeline between parked cars (in the dark, after a drink or three): how hard could it be?

not very—if you didn’t care about property damage.

@cuntryjunkie, ' i mean, it’s not such a big deal. '

' no yeah—yeah no. for sure. ' he nodded, looking at the mirror with a speculatively canted head. (deal) is in the eye of the beholder. he kicked the mirror under the body of the truck. it went skidding across the pavement and disappeared, which delta thought might buy them some time.

' … should go back in there, ' he said after a while, gesturing across the lot to where music and mayhem were being held back by a vibrating door and some flimsy, greasy windows.

he could see the headline now: COWBOY AND INDIAN BEATEN TO DEATH OUTSIDE OF LOCAL BAR. no thanks. it was better, he figured—he gambled—to hide in plain sight. who’d be stupid enough to stick around? went the logic. whoever did this is long gone, if he knows what’s good for him.

delta rubbed at the spot on his rib cage where he’d taken (out) the mirror. ' you know. before buddy comes out. '

[graveflwers]

' the colour of the cap depends on the alcohol content. no, yeah, yeah. the percentage. the stronger the vodka, the whiter the lid. that’s why the bottom shelf, uh, cheap stuff’s got a black lid. anything under thirty-five. '

delta was making this up, but he was doing it in a way that seemed both reasonably plausible and unreasonably dishonest. which it was: unreasonable. and not for any tactical benefit. what he was waving around was a flask, not a bottle, smuggled into camp in his waistband. and the top of it was silver, not black or white or even something in between. it reflected the hazy glow of the campfire, the sunset above. when held up to the ear, it echoed with the sounds of the lake, the gentle lapping of waves, the croaking of toads in discussion.

the flask, scholars agreed, was the degenerate man’s seashell.

' just shut up and drink, ' interjected @pixistic, which either meant that she didn’t believe him or that she didn’t care. or just that she was thirsty.

because delta was thirsty, and because he didn’t really care whether hanna cared, whether she believed him or not, he did as he was told. he threw back his head, took a gratuitous shot of ( it wasn’t even vodka ), and sat down, wobbling, on a tree trunk bench. there were three of them arranged around the campfire, the tops of them worn flat from years worth of asses and termites.

he blinked, hard. possibly he had meant to wink. he held the flask out toward hanna, smiling serenely. ' you know that’s why rubbing alcohol’s in a white bottle? yah. ‘cause the percentage is so high. '

[graveflwers]

tommy hates delta. and i mean completely and unequivocally. tommy sees delta as a cultural sellout—a culture traitor, if you will—for commercializing his indigineity as an aesthetic. which is what he's doing, to be clear. he's caricaturizing himself for the benefit and entertainment of mid-riff's (primarily white) audience. he's making fun of a culture he didn't even grow up in, and he's never once used his fame to speak up for native rights. he's exploiting and discarding as he sees fit.

but delta being white-washed by a system that took him away from his community and placed him in the care of settler adopters isn't his fault. delta doesn't respect his indigeneity because, growing up (in a small, racially homogenous rural town), nobody else did either. he wasn't taught to love his own people. he was taught to hate that part of himself—so, by extension, he projects that internalized hatred outward. "what makes the red man red" fr. he was taught to associate his native identity exclusively with stereotypes—most of them negative.

tommy is very "power to the people" while, ironically, struggling to accept "the people" (natives) who can't or don't respect their roots because of colonial practices. and if he could get over his simmering, righteous indignation for one second, he would see that natives like delta—the disconnected, non-traditional, deeply and mentally colonized ones—are exactly the natives he should be helping. being a hero doesn't always mean saving cats from trees or stopping robberies or whatever. sometimes being a hero is helping the shittiest guy you know find his way back to the ancestors. sometimes being a hero is helping someone find their way back home.

but then again. the first words out of delta's mouth upon meeting tommy would be "i've been out-feathered". so maybe tommy's right idk