Spring in China

Discoholic 🪩
Today's Document

shark vs the universe
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Origami Around
will byers stan first human second
Misplaced Lens Cap
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

Andulka
Noah Kahan
occasionally subtle
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
KIROKAZE
tumblr dot com
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

Janaina Medeiros
Cosimo Galluzzi
Game of Thrones Daily
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

seen from China
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seen from Italy
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seen from Malaysia
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seen from Singapore
seen from Singapore

seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Indonesia
seen from Portugal
seen from Iraq

seen from United States

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seen from United States
@mythopoeticworlds
Spring in China
Meeting in a centuries-old graveyard to read poetry about death
Rewrite a classic fairy tale by telling it backwards. The end is now the beginning.
Once upon a time there was a princess who loved so deeply that her heart was worn constantly on her sleeve. She fell in love with a prince, and the next year, her father allowed them to be wed- he remembered his own wife every day, and wished his daughter to be as happy as he had been.
The day of the wedding came, and the girl walked down the aisle in a dress of gentle silver. The Prince took her hand and smiled, and leant in to kiss her.
For luck, he would later say. A kiss for luck, a smile for joy, a laugh for a happy ending. It was a saying his own family had had for years, but it was a saying that failed him.
For the second his lips touched hers, she fell to the floor with a sigh.
Not dead they healers told the prince. not dead but sleeping, not dead but unable to wake.
The prince- so ashamed, so in fear of his life and hers- stole her away from the castle that night, away from her father and her people, so they would never have to watch her waste away.
He hid her in a forest, in a casket of diamond and ice, and he waited. Waited, for he did not even know where to start. He did not even know if the hope for her waking had a point.
He was there for two days when they found him. Seven short folk, small men with beards and axes in their hands, and harsh smiles on their faces.
We can help you they said to him, the six cackling behind the speaker. But, prince, it will come at a price.
I would pay anything. He vowed. Only later, realising he should have asked what it would be.
The Seven disappeared and left him on his own. Alone, other than the silent not-dead princess at his side.
When they returned there was an eighth with them- an old frail woman with a basket in her hands.
We will wake her she said, pulling out an apple and throwing it in their air but you will never look at her, talk to her again, and she will work in the mines with my dwarves here.
He wanted to say no. But knowing she was alive, even out of reach, was better than sleep and near death.
so yes he said. Help her.
The old woman smiled and picked out a knife, cutting the apple into small parts. One, she handed to the prince, the other, she took over to the casket, and opening it, she placed it on the princess’ lips.
A gasp, a flash of her eyes opening, and the prince knew nothing more.
***
The princess woke in a place she did not know, surrounded by people she did not know. An old woman and short men- and her prince, asleep on the ground.
He is not dead the old woman said only sleeping. But around you, he will never wake. He saved you but cursed you both- and now your life is tied to my mines.
The princess tried to fight, to leave.
But the old woman had magic and she did not, and the dwarves were all she knew for many years. Sometimes as friends, sometimes as enemies, often arguing but always allies, they worked side by sides in the underground mines, looking for fairydust and rubies, magic and gold.
They taught her the songs of work and the songs of marches, and soon she forgot that she had even been a princess.
One evening she was walking back to their home alone, when she heard a noise to her left. She looked, expecting a rabbit, a bird, but out stepped a man with a bow in his hands.
You shouldn’t be out in the woods alone he said to her.
This is my home.
Trees are no home for anyone. She wondered if she should tell him of the many people hidden in the forest, each with no where else to go come with me.
Why?
Because I have a place you can go.
She should have said no- but what was there for her in the trees and the mine? So she took his hand and he led her out into the bright daylight, through winding roads intil they arrived at a castle she did not know.
where are we? she asked.
The Huntsman smiled my home, and the home of my queen.
He led her in through the doors, up to a room where a woman was sat on a throne. The woman stood as she saw the princess, staring at her in wide eyed shock.
You look just like her the queen whispered.
Once, the Huntsman said quietly, seeing the question in the princess’ eyes my queen had a child. A daughter who should have been your age. But she was stolen away by the man my queen loved.
You-
I’m not her the princess said- but she had never known her mother. Only her father and an empty throne at his side.
No. the queen said, her tone one of disbelief. But I am in need of an heir, and you in need of care. Stay here a while, and let us see.
w o a h
Me at 9:30pm, realising I still have plenty of time to read and sleep:
Me at 3:00am, still reading:
Novel rings by Theo Fennell
Detroit Free Press, Michigan, May 27, 1940
Such Sights as Youthful Poets Dream
illustrated by Walter Crane (1869)
The Nymphs - Albert Malet
French, 1905 - 1986
Oil on canvas, 33 x 41 cm. 13 x 16.1 in.
I’ve never ONCE seen one of these and not being just like…absolutely riddled with tension, so. Keep passing them around, I guess!
Same tho
me, begging, tears in my eyes: please. please just tell me what the book is about. the plot. please
a book annotation on the cover, unfazed: A Subversive Masterpiece. A Deep And Touching Story. The New York Times Bestseller. Go Fuck Yourself
Feeling Pink, Mazovia Różowo mi, Mazowsze
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new lands but in seeing with new eyes.” ~Marcel Proust
At the foot of the Petit Saleve, 1893, Ferdinand Hodler
Medium: oil,canvas
The Water Spirit (detail)
Carl Schweninger the Elder
I think… the most brilliant thing about being a writer is that if you don’t like the way the world is, you can create your own.
Maegan Cook (via wordsnstuff)