The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011)
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@reichandwrong-blog
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011)
maddogerich.
The unexpected smack of the tangerine into his shoulder unbalances him, and saving himself with his cane, he turns to see the culprit, ready to yell something inappropriate for the ears of women and children. When he sees Jakob, he instead hobbles over to where the fruit has rolled and bends, creakily, to retrieve it.
Making unwavering eye contact with his brother across the street, he begins to peel it.
jakob weaves in between cars to jog up to erich. he dips quickly when he reaches him, like a child bobbing for apples, and bites an orange segment from between erich’s fingers. stuffed-cheeked and close, he says, “you’re a disgusting old man.”
metuere:
@reichandwrong
They met in a coffee shop, or something warm and cozy like one, when she was practically an infant. It’s only fitting they should reunite in one: Spirit taking up an entire table with photographs and newspaper clippings that, at a glance, hold no particular commonalities; Jakob, potentially oblivious, slumped after a hard day doing, you know–whatever old men do for a living. Knit. Yell at game shows.
She calls to him without looking up quite yet. It might scare her or make her throw up the three pieces of chocolate cake she’s already inhaled. “It’s not one of your puzzles, but. I think I can maybe let you help.”
it doesn’t take him long to lose the crossed-armed, syrup-mouth sulk when she reappears. her face, briefly, sharply, is like a knife between the ribs. something he has already mourned. she reappears, as he should have expected she would, and his irritation is only a show, his frown is a short-lived disguise for the worrying depth of his relief.
he cradles his tea to his chest, warming his heart, and squints at the clippings. “help with what?”
maddogerich !
he sees erich across the street and, in lieu of a greeting, throws his tangerine at him really hard.
Wow he got game
Blaise Cendrars
@reichandwrong
Bingley had rushed here quite confidently. But all this waiting has stewed in him. Turned his belly nauseous.
The familiar tick of the wheels on Jakob’s old bicycle (like the cluck of his tongue against a wall of teeth) echoes around the corner. Away, when not here–in bed or eating breakfast with Caroline–Bingley finds himself dreaming together the shape of Jakob’s mouth based on every word it has made at him, like a greedy fruit bat with its all-sound world: big, eased and easy, rough or soft or rougher, open.
The old bicycle clucks closer.
Bingley’s learned to love the old. Love Jakob’s refrigerator that wheezes water from its metal back. Love the wobbly door hinges to the bathroom. Love the sand-dollar-thin bar of soap for soap (and not a bottle). Love the window that never closes. Love the floorboards that sing like a hundred cricket legs. Love the windowpanes with holes the size of doves, from when burglars came (but the thought of doves is sweeter isn’t it? that something that delicate would want in). Bingley wants in.
There’s an unconditional acceptance the less fortunate have for their old belongings. No matter how poorly a mattress is a mattress or a toothbrush is a toothbrush or a towel is a towel, they love it. Because they have to. Because it’s the only one they’ll have. Bingley is not the only person Jakob has. So what use is he?
Jakob stops in front of Bingley, still perched on his bicycle, outside the complex’s staircase.
Bingley blinks fast, faster than his hummingbird heartbeat. He wrings at the web of skin between his thumb and index finger nervously with his other hand. He feels light headed and heavy hearted and the contrast leaves him exceptionally dizzy. Bingley grasps both of the bicycle’s handlebars for support.
There is no hello. There is no greeting. There is only a blushing boy, a smile as curved as cupid’s bow, and a half memorized speech.
“I know– I know you must, or might, or, well, maybe–because I don’t presume to know what you feel, of course, but–I know you perhaps may be wondering how it is I feel about, ah, you and the– tailor shop. I did not say anything to you about– it then, or after, or any of the many following days (which I am very sorry for, that was most selfish and cold of me) because I didn’t know what to say, you see. I was… I was cowardly and confused. But I’m not now. Jakob…”
Bingley pulls the handlebars forward until the front wheel is halfway between his legs and Jakob’s mouth bumps into his own. The kiss is soft and quick and much too modest, but so is Bingley. He forgets what else he was going to say.
I wake up with your elbow under my neck. Come here. Tell me what that eruption on the sun is.
Marilyn Hacker, from Selected Poems 1965-1990; “Before The War”
Old City’s Snow-Covered Rooftops, Nördlingen, Germany.
appreciation post for broccoli, thanks for bein so tasty u tiny trees
#abuelitas telling stories
& —- @reichandwrong !
NOT ALL HER premonitions are as earth-shattering as the ones she usually shares with her sisters; sometimes, it’s just as easy to save an innocent from a terrible fate by doing the little things. “hey, i’m really sorry to bother you. i’m a little lost —- d’you know where this place is?” she flips to the back of the envelope in her hand, nail tapping at the address in block letters.
freebie is tied to his chest, shivering in the new york october, in a wide scarf like a baby. jakob is about to throw his leg over his wobbly bike before he stutters and turns to the voice. he blinks from behind his cold red nose and knit hat.
“Uh,” half blind without his glasses it’s a struggle to read it. “Ah! Ja. It’s like ---”
he seems to be trying to work out the translation of directions in his head, the twists and turns of it.
he gives up.
“I’ll walk you there.”
ruinaa.
jakob knows nothing and maybe raven will know something but that’ll be a secret between them, too. she’ll keep the shirt reserved for pajamas or to be hidden under sweaters and the denim jacket she favors and erik will never be the wiser.
she shakes her head at the mention of a cut, hair slipping out of jakob’s grip with the force of it. she remembers the last one too well and she’s not keen on reliving months of crooked bangs and one side longer than the other. she’s only just growing it back out.
“no, that’s okay.”
it is getting long, likely too long, more of a mess than anything else but – she’d like to keep it that way, at least.
her eyes follow the movement of his hand, and she goes a little cross-eyed before his finger disappears into her hair again.
“i’m trying to grow it out. there’s this girl at school with hair all the way down to her waist. i want mine to be like that.”
plaiting is automatic. like braiding bread and yawning into laundry. it’s therapeutic. his fingers work like spiders weaving a neat, tight web.
“You’ll have split ends down to your elbows.”
“What’s her name?”
he might know her from an old birthday party or a spat of drama from years ago.
as he finishes the first plait one side of jo’s hair still tumbles out in waves, curling and thick and wild compared to the braid that he twists into a neat little dutch bun.
moneyisfor.
“isn’t the first time.”
there’s something languid in the manner don stretches across jakob’s bed, reaching towards the ceiling as he unclasps a golden watch from his wrist. he tosses it towards a bedside stand, uncaring as he hears it connect with the wood and bounce to fall with a muted thunk against the floor below. it’s not his favorite watch - spending a night with the dust won’t hurt it (he’d been meaning to buy a new one, either way - ). maybe he’ll leave it here with jakob.
“ - what time is it?”
“that sounds sadder than you think it sounds.”
jakob yawns and slides further down the wall. without glasses he has to squint at the bedside clock, vision blurred through camel’s eyelashes.
“ --- uh, four hours. four. quarter past four.”
he slips down even further so it’s easy to fall onto his shoulder and then wriggle on the floorboard until he’s flat on his back.
“throw me down a pillow.”
ruinaa.
her hands curl around the shirt immediately, hold it a little tighter against her stomach and chest as if she’s afraid erik will come in and see her with it. she unfolds it and folds it again and, discreetly, tucks it beneath two of the shirts in her pile so that it can’t be easily seen.
“– it’s erik’s.”
or, rather, it was.
she picks at her thumbnail and tries to hide her wince when the band wrapped haphazardly in her hair tugs sharply at a thick tangle.
“but if he asks, i don’t know where it is.”
he’s rough while trying not to be, brushing through her tangles with thick fingers, tugging in the universal brail of mothers. a peaceful routine interrupted occasionally by the wince of a knot being pulled.
“I know nothing,” he repeats.
he tugs the ends of her hair for length and draws a line on the middle of her back, an invisible mark of achievement.
“It’s getting long. I’ll need to cut it soon.”
he touches the pad of his finger to her button nose and drags it up over the middle of her forehead’s teenage skin, past her baby hair, so he can split her parting down the middle.
( @reichandwrong !! )
a little sheepish – because he looks busy, and there’s laundry folded on the table and she’s sure he doesn’t want to be interrupted in the middle of it – she slinks around the corner and rocks back once, quickly, on the balls of her feet.
“– —- can you braid my hair?”
the pile of laundry is a shambles of colours, of sizes --- raven’s, erik’s, jo’s sorted into different piles that fall into each other like drunks.
he pulls out one of the mismatched chairs for her. pats it with a happy, heavy hand.
the teeshirt in his other hand, sloppily folded, is stretched and faded and well-worn. it used to be his until erik stole it years ago, until --- he’s almost certain --- erik experienced a similar theft himself.
“I don’t want to be involved in the ownership war going on so put this in whosever pile you want.”
he puts the shirt in her lap and starts to untangle her bun.
“I see nothing, I know nothing.”
since you use max riemelt for young jakob u should consider looking at max lloyd jones bc its like a mini max riemelt
omg they’re the same person wtf!??! omfg