Misplaced Lens Cap
will byers stan first human second
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
taylor price
official daine visual archive
ojovivo
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hello vonnie
Keni
Peter Solarz
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titsay
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Not today Justin
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roma★
Noah Kahan
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Claire Keane
Janaina Medeiros
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@runnabean-blog
the cradle of her hands, her smile, her certainty.
the way i love you turns into i love you the most as you get older. the way it turns into no one will love you more than me. the way the smile goes hard.
how you still love it, how you love it harder. how it all gets a bit more desperate. year after year.
timemechanic.
georgie loves food. as a traveler, there were plenty of opportunities to expand her taste buds, and she pretty much loved anything that was put in front of her.
much like people. without missing a beat, she offers a smile to the girl in front of her, not at all weirded out by the random question.
“Sure!”
she puts her sandwich down and leans over the table.
“You want to sit with me?”
without a word bean swings out of her seat (with loose arms carrying her sandwich and bottle, and the sulky, indolent shoulders she didn’t leave behind in adolescence) and drops into the seat across from the woman with a soft bup.
“Thanks.”
not unhappily, bean attempts a brief, sandwich- muffled explanation,
“There is nothing like a quiet lunchtime to realise ‘ow much you miss --- people.”
agoodleaf.
she’s gotta look, for a second. that’s how many she’s got, from the chain on one arm to the pea- cock that the blonde’s pointing at – which is, if you asked her, fairly self-explanatory, but who doesn’t love a good tattoo story ?
“Oh, this ? This one’s for the peacock that bit an ex-boyfriend o’ mine in the ass.”
all right. not true. necessarily. maybe. who really knows, or cares ?
bean snorts.
“Did the ex-boyfriend leave you after you immortalised his pain with a tattoo?”
@timemechanic
she’s desperate for company in the way you can only be when you’re in a country that’s not your own, sitting in a diner that’s empty but not as empty as your flat, scared your voice won’t work because you haven’t had a business call in three days and that’s the only reason you talk here.
she twists in her seat to the booth behind her --- sudden, indulgent --- to face a stranger.
“can we talk.”
@agoodleaf
apropos of nothing, with that sleepy and sulky suddenness she wears so well, bean almost (but not quite) touches the hem of the woman’s short sleeve.
“what does your tattoo mean?”
STARTER CALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
illwriteatragedy.
@runnabean
“Why are you making that face at me.”
“i was trying to let you know that someone was --- uhm, the word? --- checking you out? but now you ‘ave ruined subtlety for the both of us.”
Anna Karina in Vivre sa vie (1962), directed by Jean-Luc Godard
roseydoux:
Léa Seydoux by Shelby Duncan
dancetothewar:
Please forget me. You were right dear, I am cold and self-involved. And though I’ll miss you, recent lover, I am weak and therefore fold.
mimicic.
“Do not do it and you feel red shame dripping on you like tomatoes.”
Chicken dance punishments are over rated. (This comes from a bitter place. It can not chicken dance. Ideomotor apraxia: brain stuff does not send things out right.) Okay. Appeasement:
“Optionally, you can chicken dance to get the bad feels away.”
with her natural, heavy air of solemnity (full-mouthed and sulky: her childish seriousness syrup-eyed) she stands up. her chair scrapes back. her chicken dance is a swooshing mixture of the wide armpit-to-elbow seam of her coat flapping and her plimsoles squeaking against the dirty linoleum floor.
she doesn’t smile. her gap tooth stays professionally and ceremonially hidden.
“ ‘appy?”
sapphirescales.
raven catches the look – she’s a suspicious girl. good, then; she doesn’t realize how much she’s giving away. raven keeps her steps neat, slightly rushing, like any other passenger who has just left, she walks like she has somewhere to be.
she turns a corner.
she shifts again.
she waits.
as soon as the woman has passed her by, close and uninterested, bean takes a wet seat at the bus stop. her cheeks, nose, ears --- they’re as pink as her mouth. her breath is as sharp in her chest as the small, concentrated furrow of her frown. she’s the spitting image of the cold, neat winter.
she indulges a single, bouncing shiver, case back between her ankles.
mimicic.
“They live in dirty dirt piles. I am thinking no. Maybe it is a claim game. Like pee and dog collars and rings and reserved seats and tongue lickings.”
An idea. It looks at them with a grin, crow’s feet digging into its eye sockets like talons.
“I dare to you a thing. To claim the banana from the ants in any of the ways.”
It only gives dares it itself can deliver on. Promise! Three and it’s true: promise promise!
her lip curls like she has corn between the gap in her front teeth --- it frowns, upwards at the middle, like she has a slice of sharp lemon on the roof of her mouth.
her chin rises to the challenge.
“what is the forfeit?”
sapphirescales.
interesting. part of her wonders if the girl’s actually aware that someone is on her tail —- but she doubts it.
she’s already used three different faces to follow her; no one can account for that.
mystique waits half a minute, feeling the gears starting to grind the train to a stop, and snaps her book shut. barely a thought is given before she changes.
she gets to her feet.
time to go.
she steps down off the train onto the empty platform of the barren middle-town train station.
pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat, her plimsoles slap against the rain-wet steps leading down to the coach station. she’s neat: arm still, feet fast, eyes down. the only thing out of place is the ponytail that bounces behind her.
look to the right. to check if a car is coming before she crosses the road. the tarmac is iridescent. she catches a woman’s eye by accident. blinks. looks away.
she’ll wait for her to pass her, lingering under the TO WASHINGTON DC sign, before she’ll sit down.
brokentrees.
❛ how’s that ominous? business is ominous? you think business is ominous? ❜
“when someone says ‘business’ un-elaborately --- i think yes.”
she smiles, gap-tooth a strange kind of taunting.
“ominous is the word.”
From girl to woman to who I am now, from love to anger to this cold marrow, from fire to shelter to fire.
Anne Carson, from The Glass Essay
a stranger 2 miles away: *sighs*
bean: the @ is free
