Gonna be annoying and slide a request in during the last hour! It's all dealer's choice really, but god do I relate to the Pembrokes… And if you need any clarification on who @msbeanfl is then feel free to DM me :D
5. A firm kiss, plus an extra lipstick mark hehe
And with that, that's all the kiss asks done! Only took *checks notes* 3 weeks xD I'll put these all together in one or two posts soon, along with some bonus bits :D
Experiment No. 410B: The Avian Dialectic (Part 1?)
Introduction – Author: Ms Bean
What originated as a simple study of Avian anatomies, oneiric and otherwise, rapidly spiralled out of control as it became abundantly apparent that even the perfect Parabolan concept of a ‘bird’ was categorically lacking¹; although perhaps my foolish assumption that the collective unconscious would manifest such a creature had been the root of that project’s failure from the beginning². Nevertheless, I digress.
It is no secret to us here in the Neath that colonialism, cultural appropriation, and ethnocentrism have all had a hand to play in fields such as Ornithology during this everlasting century of ours³, and as such I seek not to discredit those who have contributed before me but to overwrite their work entirely. In this re-evaluated study I shall attempt to redefine our systems of categorisation through a series of dialectics, each a case-by-case discussion with the very so-called 'birds' in question, until a clear pattern emerges by which we may judge the ontological probability of birdhood⁴.
Footnotes – Author: Lettice the Mercy
¹ See Experiment No. 410, should any uncensored copies still exist.
² Wrong. Project failed because nothing blew up. Boring science is bad science.
³ Based, but citation needed I guess.
⁴ Or at least until she gets bored. And what in Hell does this even mean? Diogenes would have a field day with you.
My partner doesn't use Tumblr but caught wind of kisspocalypse and wanted to give it a go! They rolled #15 and decided to just go all in on the sauciness :D
You await the morning after
on a sun that never set,
and you'd rather be shackled with grief
than riddled with regret.
But regret is a call to action;
grief: a self-satisfying pyre.
You mistook your chains for worship,
and you couldn't see the forest for the fire.
I hear a noise louder than silence, if you can believe such a thing. Over the empty din a scream splits the night. It almost isn't heard. People pretend they didn't hear. It shreds through my curtains, blazing black and cold, the shape of pain puncturing my ear canals. "There are no foxes in London" I remind myself. "It must have been a fox" I am content in lying. Peace of mind... Peace of mind...... fuck.
I tear on my coat - the bloodstained one, to make a statement - and thunder out into the street. Ideas of people stumble by, half-formed, half-baked, ill-planned. Feverishly I search for the source of that sound, but as my throat runs dry and my voice grows hoarse, I awaken. Screaming.
In almost all aspects of appearance, the word of choice for Ms Bean would be “austere”. Standing tall, straight, and broad, above average height for either/any sex, sharp angles adorn her countenance - from pointy chin to tightly-wound bun, pursed lips painted black, and a light scar crossing the piercing eye of a perceptive woman - punctuated by hollow cheeks: a trademark of hungry artists.
But as strands of hair break rank, they frame her face in shadow. And those eyes, as round as figs, have a kind light lost within that betray this fiction of austerity. In truth, she is a hedonist through and through; many have witnessed her piercing eyes become softer glances, and the mask of temperance being thrown to the ground amidst other discarded garments…
Like many, Ms Bean was once fresh and penniless in the Neath, although recent ventures and windfall have made her healthy and spry; her body is lean in musculature, though covered in scars, both owing themselves to a new hobby in boxing. As for her academic pursuits, she has found talent as a Non-Speculative Author, which she is willing to fight people in defence of it being somehow different to non-fiction. Constantly adventuring for inspiration or recording the larger-than-life histories of fellow Londoners, her publications always stretch the boundaries of fact and fiction.
She has a reputation for both philanthropy (such as Ms Bean's Home for Dispossessed Unfortunates) and ruthlessness (found in the punishingly truthful pages of The Troubling Times). Driven by the idea that the world must be forced to change, she feverishly studies the Correspondence for some breakthrough in epistemology. Ms Bean will change hearts and minds; either with a spectrum of persuasive techniques, or by rewriting reality itself.
Hush now, no scribble nor scratch, not a single sound. Betrayal by stylograph would be an ironic ending, although it would come all too soon. I hide amidst crates, stolen away by a dirigible. This story would not end in New Newgate, no. This story is only just beginning.
It has been some time, dear journal. Allow me to bring you up to speed.
Alighting from the dirigible, subterranean London became my new home. My identity shattered, memories still fading, I sought comfortable street corners at every avenue. Fortunately enough I still have my wit – and as such began work for a rather distractible investigator on Moloch Street. Nevertheless I felt aimless without sense of self, and found myself wandering into Spite on one odd eve.
Spite makes orphans of us all. All too frequently people push away that which they do not understand; this depressing truth extends even into our interactions with other people. And we do this all without ever asking the question: is it that you cannot understand, or that you simply refuse to?
My mind whirls with such questions. And when my psyche begins to buckle under the stress of such equations, I seek out the place of refuge I had discovered on that fateful night.
If you ever find yourself walking the streets of Spite, you might be beholden to an inexplicable sight: a solitary bench perched on high - positioned all so precariously, between the turrets of the tallest spire. Unreachable, insurmountable, unobtainable.
It was barely my second week in London, but I took what little my new name possessed and invested in rope and pitons. Without funds for a harness I still committed to the climb, establishing a foothold, inch by cautious inch, until finally I claimed my prize. And for a while, that bench became my home.
My perennial palace of serenity sat high above the busy streets, and although the climb retained some difficulty it was still worth the stillness of mind that ascent afforded. However, as with all things in this fallen city, oddities began blooming like dandelions.
Mysterious packages, echoing giggles, and an uncanny sense of being watched. At first, they bided their time from a distance. To my surprise, their unidentified parcels contained the occasional aid; and all the more surprising to my false sense of security, I otherwise received cruel pranks. I must have been a good sport, for after a while my mysterious benefactors finally revealed themselves.
My bench is no longer quiet. It is now home to a rowdy gaggle of urchins, who still are beholden to their own whims whether they bring gifts or grief. I tried showing them some of my work, and despite lacking in literacy they cherished my gift of words. In return, I was given a name.
Artichoke, Boots, Slipper, Truncheon. I know not the naming conventions of these guttersnipes, but they named me Bean. I was brought to tears by their kindness, and even more so when they tried to pass it off as an exchange of convenience: my namesake predecessor was a close friend of theirs who passed from this world all too soon, and they were determined not to let it go to waste.
And similarly determined am I - Ms Bean - to ensure that this newfound life of mine isn't simply tossed away. Despite its missing letters and borrowed nouns, I shall make this identity my own.
My memories fade. My old life is all but vanished now. New memories blossom in the wake of this strange new reality. And finally, I feel more myself than ever before.
I write on anything I can find for fear of sinking deeper into my amnestic stupor. Gone are the days where I may greet with genial innocence a stranger upon the sunlit streets, “Hello!” they’d say, to which I’d reply “Greetings, I am…”
I’m losing myself. I’m fading fast. I am…
Very soon I may lack the faculties to even declare “I am”. I fear that in time I may even forget my very existence. Let us try again.
“Hello!” they’d say, to which I’d reply “Greetings, my name is…”
My name is missing. To think that something so benign as a name would render me powerless. A fool I have been, a hypocrite, to so easily disregard the very principles of my craft; words are power and a name is a word like any other, no, greater still, a name is the word of power by which your life commences and someday it shall be all that is left of you. The final words etched in stone six feet above my sodden grave shall be…
Gone. Forgotten. Nothing left but scraps - am I to be the buzzard? E. N. R. E. For reference, dear journal, this is all that remains of me. Four stinking letters. Four letters written on scraps of cloth. I am left to pick apart the corpse of my identity, to assemble something feasible.
Rene? Too French. I most certainly do not feel French. I shall arrange them randomly. Reen. I could have chosen Eren, or Nere, or any jumbled anagram, but for some reason Reen feels almost complete. I lack pieces of the puzzle, and the jigsaw box of my mind contains only dust. At least I am not nobody anymore. Although I cannot claim to be myself.
“Hello!” you’d say. If a journal could speak.
Greetings, I am Reen. As of this very moment I am slowly losing my mind and memory behind the bars of what I assume is New Newgate prison. I am supposed to be here, but cannot for the life of me remember why. And for the record, dear journal, I am absolutely delighted to have met you.
The poet's hand is writing your demise.
With crimson ink, the outcome she predicts.
She never strikes, encircling her prize.
A coiled cobra, venom on her lips.
Another hand she hides behind her back;
it stalks in shadow, always undisclosed.
You call the bluff, towards her you attack,
foolish enough to leave your gut exposed.
The poet’s hand had written you would miss.
You stumble past her, patience trumping might.
Around it comes, the hidden brawler’s fist!
A tigress - viscous - fearless - glowing bright.
The Department of Menace Eradication’s Bounty Board is a jumble of jobs, and none of them are as safe and easy as they claim to be. You tediously scan the available contracts, hazarding guesses at their devious twists:
“WANTED: SMALL RAT”, most likely measured by some abstract comparison;
“STANDARD SORROW-SPIDERS CONTRACT” would be easy enough if Sorrow-Spiders possessed any degree of normality;
“BOUNTY: JACK OF KNIVES”, not a chance.
Something catches your eye, subtle amidst the screaming capitalisations, as though placed quite deliberately where only an observant eye might spot it. By that reasoning you’re definitely the first to have seen it here, and you ensure that you are the last as you rip it from the corkboard.
You hold a newspaper clipping entitled “Troubling Times Call For Discerning Inquirers”, and the details are as follows:
Have a knack for finding the truth, or does the truth often find you? In these Troubling Times we must employ all manner of skills to ensure we print nothing but the most intricate, outrageous, bloody, and verifiable of facts. At our offices on Doubt Street we ascertain the depth and breadth of talent that applicants have to offer, whether you might belong among our eloquent wordsmiths or be better suited to life on the beat as a no-nonsense reporter (with further roles covering everything in-between). To audition: either visit our headquarters or drop in on proprietress Bean unannounced at any hour.
P.S. Cravens of delicate disposition need not apply - danger is all but predetermined.
If nobody counts the hours, will the clock have purpose? Deafening ticks, rhythmic thumping, lights of an endless cycle. But it will end. When the clock stops, so will everything. Bitter instrument of cartilage loving indiscriminately, you are not a timepiece; allow me one moment of benightedness or allow me sleep.
I stand in empty moonlit streets betwixt shapeless stalls shilling oddities from the recesses of a long-forgotten mind. Everything I’d ever want. They sell everything you’ll ever need. My pockets are empty, but they won't trade in coin. Shoppers move in and out of time, taking it all away.
The forest beckons, the way unclear, but something whispers of a hidden path. Perhaps, the blighted toucan suggests, the journey is not what will kill you. Loneliness shall. I say goodbye to loneliness, but he seems unimpressed.
Softly, I awaken. I find this to be more unpleasant than waking with a start, as for a brief moment I must ponder whether I am alive or dead. My timepiece confirms my suspicions. I begin counting the hours.
“An Ode to Magnitude”, written by Ms Bean and recovered from the offices of Mr Pages
CELESTIAL ENORMITIES COLLIDE. how quiet is the night? it does not want YOU, YET IT NEEDS YOU; SHADOWS WON’T ABIDE by candlelight, but with it is made whole.
Explanations available @fathomlesslyqueer, where advice is very much welcome!
Worry not for the loquaciousness of your words, but for the content therein; and where this should fail you, perhaps consider another alphabet altogether.
A warm letter wrapped in a fire blanket arrives in a stone box, carried by a slightly-singed postman. “Careful, it’s still hot.” The letter is a dazzling array of sigils and runes, shifting and shining brilliantly. Fireproof paper only does so much to preserve such an incendiary script, especially when applying caution enough to not burn the back of your retinas. As the edges of the paper curl into ash, mingling amidst the spreading sunspots burning from the middle, you contemplate what you have learnt: not much, and most certainly not nothing. The last sigil before the page disappears is one you recognise, meaning: “The Revelation That Uncertainty is Itself an Answer”. It eats itself. Violently. And becomes little more than a scar in time. It was some sort of story, of judgements and love, death and betrayal, the ending becomes the beginning and so it goes. Confusing, ridiculous, enrapturing. From a writing perspective, and from the little you could read, no more than a 5/10.
