Strickenized: A Writing Blog

Heavy sarcasm with a touch of irreverence.

[jb-blunk]

in this terrifying world you continuously have the power to offer someone else a little relief . why would you withhold that. do you remember what a little relief feels like? it feels like a lot

[soporificsedatives-deactivated2]

Susan Sontag, I, etcetera: Stories  

[shalehairballs]

#bigmood

[nikadd]

LOVE character regression. love when characters get hurt and revert to their old ways as a way to deflect, cope, and recuperate. love when they get scared to make a difficult decision. love when it takes time and effort. it's going to be worth so much more when they get better.

[ouroborosmotifs]

somewhere a girl is sitting in her room listening to nine inch nails and drinking tea and reading a book just as god intended

[magic-multicolored-miracle]

I really relate to Geralt of Rivia, because I too believe that the first step to solving any problem is a softly monotone but passionately felt “fuck.”

[loveletter2you]

ending a story in other languages

kurdish: “my story went to other homes, god bless the mothers and fathers of its listeners” (Çîroka min çû diyaran, rehmet li dê û bavê guhdaran.)

greek: “and they lived well, and we lived better” (και ζήσανε αυτοί καλά και εμείς καλύτερα)

afrikaans: “whistle whistle, the story is done” (fluit fluit, die storie is uit)

goemai: “my tale has finished, (it) has returned to go (and) come home.” (tamtis noe lat / dok ba muaan yi wa)

amharic: “return my story and feed me bread” (ተረቴን መልሱ አፌን በዳቦ አብሱ::)

bengali: “my story ends and the spinach is eaten by the goat” (aamaar kothati furolo; Notey gaachhti murolo) *means something is irreversibly ended because goats eats herbs from the root

norwegian: “snip snap snout, the tale is finished” (snipp snapp snute, så er eventyret ute”

polish: “and i was there [at the wedding] too, and drank mead and wine.” (a ja tam byłem, miód i wino piłem.)

georgian: “disaster there, feast here… bran there, flour here…” (ჭირი – იქა, ლხინი – აქა, ქატო – იქა, ფქვილი – აქა)

hungarian: “this is the end, run away with it” (itt a vége, fuss el véle)

turkish: “lastly, three apples fell from the sky; one for our story’s heroes, one for the person who told their tale, and one for those who listened and promise to share. And with that, they all achieved their hearts’ desires. Let us now step up and settle into their thrones.” (Gökten üç elma düşmüş; biri onların, biri anlatanın, diğeri de dinleyenlerin başına. Onlar ermiş muradına, biz çıkalım kerevetine.)

[shalehairballs]

ion stuff

You're her.

"I'm her."

Her lips curve like a scimitar. Like the n bowing to the erotic aperture of the o. My mouth opens. I flounder for words.

I'm here to give her bad news. I'm here to tell her I'm sorry. I think of the police officers scouring the isolated, forested ballast for chunks of meat. I think: any meat will do. In the rain, rot thick in their nostrils, the black trash bag clutched by sweaty hands. I ask myself how they stood with such straight spines in the doorway. How they kept their voices clear when they said, I'm sorry ma'am, your daughter is dead. I'm sorry sir, your daughter just came apart.

"That good, huh?"

Her smile is wider. I follow the tip of her head, the curve of her neck, my question ends on the little bone in her shoulder, the little bone whose name I don't know, arched a little higher in quiet pride.

Sorry.

I've got a lot on my mind.

I didn't mean to stare.

She laughs. A clangorous sound. It's unsuited to the Quarry. I think of Chiusite and her heels. I think of Lauri pouring concrete against dead earth.

She approaches. Her hips sway when she walks. She stands at familiar distance. "Do you need me to distract you, General?"

No, I answer. The word cuts her. She straightens. I think: I'm sorry ma'am --

Do you remember Vulcite?

She rolls her blacked lips together. "I'd never forget him. No one's ever been as nice to me as he was."

He passed. Operation went sour.

She pales. I notice her skin tone. She isn't white, but I don't know what she is. Maybe mediterranean. Maybe hispanic. I give up guessing by the time she puts the oh in oh my god. Her hand covers her chest like her heart is watching. My mouth tastes sour. A frown keeps my face together.

Her eyes turn glass with unspoken sentences. Language fails her. I make a desperate try.

I need to know --

But my voice can't fill the space between us. She reaches for me. I haven't introduced myself. I think of the officers as her hands meet at the middle of my back. I ask myself: did they introduce themselves before or after the mother started crying? As her face distorts, I ask myself: was it Chiusite who answered?

Memories mix together. Rain and mud. Tears. Unspoken sentences. My face feels hot. I remind myself to exhale. My throat opens again.

"How's his family?"

I don't know.

I feel her shoulders shake. She hasn't let go. My knuckles look bone white against her tanned shoulders. I step back. She closes off. We speak our nothings for a while. Get our names straight. Tuck our feelings into our sleeves. She won't write around him. Won't give him up to the blank space around our words.

"Please. I need to know everything."

I nod. I tell her. I haven't learned to lie about something like this.

Her face falls. She cries. I notice how dark and jittery the Quarry looks. Frozen in an agonal stage, in a never ending day. I open my mouth. I'm sorry ma'am --

I found him. Dug his grave. Buried him. But it's not enough. I need to know what would make him whole. What he would've wanted more than anything else.

She nods. Snot made a wet trail down her upper lip. Her arms are crossed. I think: crossed arms means she doesn't trust me. I think: she doesn't trust the boy who led her boy to the Pit.

"I have to think about it." Her sniffles punctuate her sentences. "But I'll help you.

I thank her. Step back --

"In the meantime, can you help me?"

The question catches me. My chewed insides say I owe her.

She dries her tears on her sleeve. I watch the black stains grow fat and limp her ruffled cuff. "I've been a Captain for a while. A long while. But, I don't know what my specialization is. How can I find out?"

I wet my lips. They move before I can think about the answer.

Most agents find out subtly. Something in their differences -- they're stronger, faster, their weapon's changed, but Metallia's sewn something new into them. Could be a memory you've never had before, or some sprouted feathers, or… I knew someone who found out because he started to smell vomit on his little sister's breath. Smelled it past the Colgate and the mouthwash.

She nods. The change of topic brings her a little closer to herself.

"I know you must be busy, but will you help me find out what it is?"

I nod.

She smiles like a break in the clouds. "Thanks."

I nod again. As I walk away, I ask myself if the family thanked the officers for their trash bags full of daughter. I ask myself if she has a Reagan that will hug her through her rage and tragedy.

I don't know.

I don't know.

[kendallroy-deactivated20210425]

idk who needs to hear this but when your english teacher asks you to explain why an author chose to use a specific metaphor or literary device, it’s not because you won’t be able to function in real-world society without the essential knowledge of gatsby’s green light or whatever, it’s because that process develops your abilities to parse a text for meaning and fill in gaps in information by yourself, and if you’re wondering what happens when you DON’T develop an adult level of reading comprehension, look no further than the dizzying array of examples right here on tumblr dot com

[kendallroy-deactivated20210425]

this post went from 600 to 2400 notes in the time it took me to write 3 emails. i’m already terrified for what’s going to happen in there

[kendallroy-deactivated20210425]

k but also, as an addendum, the reason we study literary analysis is because everything an author writes has meaning, whether it was intentional or not, and their biases and agendas are often reflected in their choice of language and literary devices and so forth! and that ties directly into being able to identify, for example, the racist and antisemitic dogwhistles often employed by the right wing, or the subconscious word choices that can unintentionally illustrate someone’s bias or blind spot. LANGUAGE HAS WEIGHT AND MEANING! the way we communicate is a reflection of our inner selves, and that’s true regardless of whether it’s a short story or a novel or a blog post or a tweet. instead of taking a piece of writing at face value and stopping there, assuming that there is no deeper meaning or thought behind the words on the page, ask yourself these two questions instead:

1. what is the author trying to say? 2. what does the author maybe not realize they’re saying?

because the most interesting reading of any piece of literature, imho, usually occupies the space in between those questions.

[macrolit]

He suffered. His own life seemed so solitary, a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years.

“The Sojourner,” Carson McCullers (via macrolit)

[pottedfairies]

we should treat love as something to be built rather than found

[pottedfairies]

when we treat love as something sacred and rare, we miss opportunities to critically engage with it or even explore different types of love. when we treat love as sacred and something to be found, we are implying that the relationship and construction of love is perfect from its inception. that prevents open dialogue and transfer of ideas and definitions of what relationships are and what is desired from them

when we treat love as something to be built, we allow for the opportunity to love anyone we meet and the threat of finding The One fades. when we treat love as something to be built, we allow for nuance in any and all our relationships and for those relationships to hold more weight on our lives. when we treat love as something to be built, it becomes a communal act, rather than something we do alone

[bakwaaas]

does anyone else feel extremely mediocre and talentless it’s like you’re okay at some stuff but not good enough to ever truly succeed or make it into a career, not naturally gifted at anything nor motivated enough, and will never be recognised or special or exceptional in any way to anyone

[polyamorouspunk]

Reblog this if you’re polyamorous, searching for a cryptid, trying to communicate with demons, willing to throw a Molotov cocktail at a police car, really want more tattoos/piercings, or just really love nonbinary people.

No one will ever know which one 👀

[skysuggestion]

not doing great?

clean your room

open curtains/windows

take a shower

put on clean clothes

get out of your room a bit

stretch

drink a glass of water

get the hard/important stuff out of the way while you have energy

set some (any!) goals

remember that it is okay to have bad days

[weirdnaturalscience]

WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME ABOUT THESE GUYS AND THEIR BOOTS WITH THE FUR

This is the white-booted racket-tail, a hummingbird found in the Andes in Venezuela, Colombia and Ecuador.

(all pictures are from wikipedia)

[adulthoodisokay]

exCUSE ME

[shalehairballs]

for someone else

[shalehairballs]

i keep reading all these articles about how to tell if you’re not wanted, or toxic friendships, or signs that you need to end a friendship. and i keep seeing myself as the problem. i’m the reason nobody dms me, nobody invites me to groups, nobody wants to hang out. i’m an awful, toxic, shitbag person and i deserve my boundless misery. i deserve my being othered.

but how do i solve the problem if i’m the problem? i don’t know. i feel really hopeless. i can’t find an answer that people will respect. 

i’m not wanted here. i don’t have anything good to contribute. i don’t belong. the thoughts go on forever, always with a rebuttal to anything i come up with. i can’t talk to anyone. most of the time there’s no one to talk to and it’s my fault.

[chickenfarmersan]

[knightwayne]

countdown to halloween | The Thing (1982)

Yeah, fuck you, too!