#actually very simple

[leroiestmortvivelareine]

The results for the 'How could Riko have been salvaged' poll exceed expectations guys

So... to summarise... the best possible options for reforming our problem child are: (1) kindest man who ever lived and (2) heir to the eastern USA branch of the Yakuza. I love you all so much.

I honestly believed most people would say Riko was beyond all hope (I mean he never showed the remotest shred of human decency? ever?). Otherwise, no surprises with the winner. In Wymack we trust. I can't be sorry Riko's dead but I can't be sorry Wymack came to his funeral either. It's the closest that boy ever got.

But the Ichirou one!! We need fics, and we need them now! How would work, do you think? Riko realising that the grass isn't in fact greener on Ichirou's side of the fence? Or that the world is so much larger than Tetsuiji's little wasp factory? Or is it simply knowing that someone's in Riko's corner? Do they plot together about taking over from these horrible elders (as if an Ichirou warped by Kengo would ever share power), giving Riko yet another vain dream to chase? It shouldn't work, none of these things should work, and yet... I really want to explore a world where Ichirou was more like Aaron, and wanted his brother.

Despite my belief in the healing powers of prog metal, I would have picked the one where Tetsuji is sentimental enough about Kayleigh to establish a more equitable dynamic between Kevin and Riko. But I guess the general view is that nothing Tetsuji touches would ever lead to something good. (Fair.)

I bet Riko would blame Kevin being a temptress for driving him mad. No question which one Neil would pick. Jean would probably pick that too... although he'd take savage enjoyment in seeing the Raven!Neil one play out (feel sorry for Riko just thinking about it).

I didn't try changing who was alive/dead, but I was wondering if anyone would vote for Riko's mother surviving. Poor lady. I guess she had so little power she couldn't affect much... except she wanted both her children, that's something, isn't it? By aftg standards, that's everything.

Damn you Nora for making me cry over this monstrosity (again)

[poetrysupportgroup]

He came back from halfway around the world like that, tongue tied around him like a scarf. Everything set before him set to bursting. The fear that what he’d seen— what had been inside him—that one clear note—now would slip away. He’d go back to an electric life, stupid with administration. How does one re-enter a calendar? He was still in love with the yellow dirt seen at the hour of the museum’s closing, two weeks before the Palio. With the sound he almost certainly heard his blood make as he ate the last bite of liver toast and finished off his wine, at night, in a tower beside a total field. Or the remarkable look a girl had given the bushes at 3 a.m. on a hill above the Aegean before she let him pull her pool-soaked dress up above her thighs. He was still in love with all the cataclysms in his flesh. Even though none of that was real anymore. And it was his human duty to go onward, forget it all, get caught back up in the cloud of the thing. The next morning he woke up, fully home, ignorant as ever, just perhaps a light along the edge of responsibility, the tasks that called him by a name. As if their stress and weight existed only didn’t. A brief glimpse, and then that part of what’s just in the mind scampering back into undergrowth. (They called it capriola, which was perfect.) And then—drawing himself out of bed and lacing up his shoes. Getting out and running among buildings, the stacked reds and blues of Brooklyn. Gaping at the faces of his neighbors, or the way a leaf hangs, or a swatch of pavement wet between parked cars. Huffing widely at it, and running a little slower. Gathering it all up into his mouth.

Poem of the day: December 9, 2016 Actually Very Simple // Jay Deshpande

[whisperthatruns]

He came back from halfway around the world like that, tongue tied around him like a scarf. Everything set before him set to bursting. The fear that what he’d seen— what had been inside him—that one clear note—now would slip away. He’d go back to an electric life, stupid with administration. How does one re-enter a calendar? He was still in love with the yellow dirt seen at the hour of the museum’s closing, two weeks before the Palio. With the sound he almost certainly heard his blood make as he ate the last bite of liver toast and finished off his wine, at night, in a tower beside a total field. Or the remarkable look a girl had given the bushes at 3 a.m. on a hill above the Aegean before she let him pull her pool-soaked dress up above her thighs. He was still in love with all the cataclysms in his flesh. Even though none of that was real anymore. And it was his human duty to go onward, forget it all, get caught back up in the cloud of the thing. The next morning he woke up, fully home, ignorant as ever, just perhaps a light along the edge of responsibility, the tasks that called him by a name. As if their stress and weight existed only didn’t. A brief glimpse, and then that part of what’s just in the mind scampering back into undergrowth. (They called it capriola, which was perfect.) And then—drawing himself out of bed and lacing up his shoes. Getting out and running among buildings, the stacked reds and blues of Brooklyn. Gaping at the faces of his neighbors, or the way a leaf hangs, or a swatch of pavement wet between parked cars. Huffing widely at it, and running a little slower. Gathering it all up into his mouth.

Jay Deshpande, “Actually Very Simple”

[slateblueearthbelow]

He came back from halfway around the world like that, tongue tied around him like a scarf. Everything set before him set to bursting. The fear that what he’d seen— what had been inside him—that one clear note—now would slip away. He’d go back to an electric life, stupid with administration. How does one re-enter a calendar? He was still in love with the yellow dirt seen at the hour of the museum’s closing, two weeks before the Palio. With the sound he almost certainly heard his blood make as he ate the last bite of liver toast and finished off his wine, at night, in a tower beside a total field. Or the remarkable look a girl had given the bushes at 3 a.m. on a hill above the Aegean before she let him pull her pool-soaked dress up above her thighs. He was still in love with all the cataclysms in his flesh. Even though none of that was real anymore. And it was his human duty to go onward, forget it all, get caught back up in the cloud of the thing. The next morning he woke up, fully home, ignorant as ever, just perhaps a light along the edge of responsibility, the tasks that called him by a name. As if their stress and weight existed only didn’t. A brief glimpse, and then that part of what’s just in the mind scampering back into undergrowth. (They called it capriola, which was perfect.) And then—drawing himself out of bed and lacing up his shoes. Getting out and running among buildings, the stacked reds and blues of Brooklyn. Gaping at the faces of his neighbors, or the way a leaf hangs, or a swatch of pavement wet between parked cars. Huffing widely at it, and running a little slower. Gathering it all up into his mouth. [Actually Very Simple | Jay Deshpande]