#alulars

[eviji]

@alulars

"My father enjoys you."

[alulars]

AND I AM THE FIRE, AND I AM THE FOREST, AND I AM A WITNESS WATCHING IT.

A trio of independent original characters narratively entangled.

#VITALPHENOMENA. mackenzie knight — BY LYE #CORSEY. elfgar mason — BY HARLOTTO #ALULARS. mr. johnson — BY JORDY

[alulars]

CLENCHED IS A HAND WORD. HIS HAND IS CLENCHED.

#𝙰𝙻𝚄𝙻𝙰𝚁𝚂. independent original characters within the narrative of @soothfog. two angels. written by jordy. themes: determinism, the body as a machine and a cage, existential physiological angst, recognition and rejection and repulsion of the self, duty in conflict to will, reason and burgeoning feeling, life as an ordained procedure.

[petitsdieu]

🐜🌷🌿🪲

🦪... @alulars

At first I thought this was a board of half-applies.

A true enigmatic outcome. So many bingoes cleared (4-5?) and yet, the few that don't apply matter so much to her. Jon might fall in with all the women that fall in love with Hara, too. Heartbreaking ... ish. But that doesn't mean what they can have won't be special. Despite being brought up with Catholicism, she generally "puts her faith" elsewhere (I'm sure you've seen nibbles of this on dash/in replies for you on various blogs?). So his nature does intrigue her and more importantly me. Also, give her flowers esp wanting to murder one of hers.

[guttersniper]

@alulars as johnson said: [ answer ] johnson answering a question meant for mutt .

action prompts.

mutt's head turns—slow. he gives johnson a long, measured look, thoughts difficult if not impossible to ascertain. for a good while, it does not seem as though he's liable to respond at all. when the shutdown does come, his voice is low, rough, and yet calm at the same time. measured and distancing. aloof and yet still accusatory.

"do i know you?" a little like yes, i can talk.

his eyes narrow, hardening around the margin between iris and pupil.

[lastsplashh]

@alulars, cont.

bartleby steps into the touch, blank-faced, the best he can do to hide his desperation. thousands of years of wanting and he still hasn't gotten used to the feeling. wanting so bad that he'd end all life on earth to satisfy his childlike desire to go home. his stomach is in knots, and it's pathetic that emotion should come with physical consequence. a reminder that while he looks at johnson and thinks "us," he is being regarded as a "them." one of many ants let loose on the picnic scraps of earth.

for all his self-aggrandizing and rampant egotism, bartleby likes to be apart of an us. without loki, he'd surely have found a way to off himself long before electricity was ever a glint in some stupid homo sapien's eye. if he had to exist for himself, there would be no point in existence at all. in that way, his love will always be selfish, a biting need with a tirade of conditions. so, it must be that he was made wrong from the start, and that She always knew he wouldn't cut it as a holy being. the farmer's two-headed calf, blessed and cursed in the same second of birth. so much for free will, and he was just beginning to get accustomed to the foolish idea.

"try me," an invitation to violence. to feel the divine, even in the form of destruction? well, beggars can't be choosers- and the longer he's been stuck in this body, the more he's attracted to the idea of it being ripped apart.

"i'd like to see inside." there has to be something.

[vitalphenomena]

@alulars

"We've already got plenty've," She makes a show of inspecting Johnson's offerings, "Flour." Surely he knows that. He probably watches Mackenzie check out at Trader Joes. "And if we didn't, it's the sorta thing I'd borrow from the lady next door. So why are you really here?"

[petitsdieu]

Manmade objects are annoying obstacles: a game of pick-up sticks angels always lose. This greenhouse is an exception. A tiny Eden. — @alulars

She does not have a pride that calls for direct rejection. With a flick of the wrist, she considers the harms of overwatering. She'll gladly be wrong if it is true. The excess water goes to her toes before Cordyline gets another skinny drop. The way her mouth has half to say and her eyes are half-lidded mostly these days suggest she's not in happy condition. She acknowledges it with a hum.

She pushes a finger in until she can't anymore. And finds the feeling mostly dry. ⸺ ❛ She needs more. ❜

There's a 'thank you' there in the corner of her mouth. And than it's vanilla to the tongue as she licks off glossy balm in the process. The stream slips a ballerina's glide — to-toes to the dirt. She minds not to focus in one spot and rings a halfcircle around the base, whatever she can reach from where she stands.