seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from France
seen from Sweden
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from China
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from Argentina
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Netherlands
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from United States
I'm not too sure where I'm going to post it yet but I have this original short story (novella) that I'm figuring out and I am fighting for my life for it to be straight. Minimum there is no romance or subtext. It's a commentary on humanity in an apocalyptic scenario and I came into this with absolutely heterosexual intentions and YET I read over something and I think to myself
"....that is gay, but okay."
All I hear are-
Yeah, I could just take the visual of an artist painting something horrific....
Orrrrrr
I could also give you the visual of that artist collapsing into their equipment, leaving their collapsed form bathed in their medium and shining warm golden light, not only the artist but the art the so adore
Paint spilling and sticking into their hair, charcoal steaked across their clothes, splinters of wood in their clothes and skin, bits of canvas scattered across their floor, drying marker streaks on their hands, broken oil pastels pressing into their cheek
They are, at once, part of the very thing they revere, and too the god that creates it
I want a tele-drama au with the entities and the avatars, going on at the same time as tma, or before.
Just imagine, certain entities denying their avatars all the way, while Others are so attached that they view their avatars like their kids.
-The vast, always excited to see what Simon painted them.
-The Lonely in denial about it having a avatar, not wanting to doom them.
-The spiral welcoming all, but often just viewing its avatars as food for later, hating being attached to a solid form.
-The Stranger, always eager to find an avatar.
Watching some entities get pissed when their avatars get hurt, while others don't care. Or some entities getting on well with other avatars, but not their own.
El tango De Roxanne
Character A is dressed in red, dancing with Character B, a character in high social social standing, but known for being unsavory. Character A never opens their eyes as they dance with B, moving with an elegant precision.
Character C watches, desperate to reach for A, not understanding why A would ever dance with B, given B's unsavory reputation. C's heart aches with unnoticed love for A.
As the camera pans, we see more details of the dance between A and B, B having to work to keep A close, the flashes of silver on A actually being weapons as they try to get away. A is tied to B due to A's standing as someone dangerous, maybe a mercenary or having had a history like that with B. B is keeping A on a short leash, making sure they can't get away again, and A stays to protect C, even if they are still very eager to get out.
"Isn't it wonderful?" They ask this, and the question hangs in the air. Is it heavy? Is it suffocating? I don't know anymore. I'm scared, i think. Or maybe I should be? I don't know. Therein lies the problem, doesn't it?
I don't know any more.
How could I? How could I know, when everything seems so fine? Can no one else see it? Can they not? How do they go about, doing their things, when it's right there.
No, there. I try to will a passerby to turn, to look, to see, but they don't. They never do.
"What is this?" My voice is weak, my body trembling. Its been weeks now, weeks with no sleep, haunted by this....thing.
"I want you to see." They told me.
I don't remember if I agreed. I think I must have. With how they've taken care of me, you would have thought I was something they deemed precious, worth nurturing through this process. I think they must have asked, and I must have agreed, but I do not know anymore. That feels like eons ago now, and right now, my milk is slowly dripping off the concrete, the bag containing it having been dropped, easing slowly into the sewers.
"I...." Tears stream down my face.
They reach out, gently wiping my tears away. My tears fall to the rhythm of the milk, crawling and still too fast and dripping and disgusting, like everything else.
"Now that's not true." They reply to my thoughts, voice soft and soothing, melodic, pulling me back down the waves. My lids lower, hanging heavily over a face that I can no longer confidently say is my own.
"How about you let me handle the groceries, and you take a nap, hmm?"
I don't recall agreeing, but I do know that milk is in my fridge now, looking like it never burst open at all. I briefly wonder if gravity feels cheated.
When the milk starts to flow across the tile of my kitchen, I get my answer.
They were Icarus.
All melted wax dripping across their back. The taste of salty ocean water still lingering, the smell still soaked into them. They were crisped feathers and burning skin, reaching for the very sun that melted them. They burned bright from the inside out, scorched beyond recognition, drowning and yet already drowned. They were gasping, dead and yet still breathing, soaked as they pulled their self onto the beach, grasping wildly at the grains, burning it into smooth blades of glass.
And as their tears pooled and poured down their face, as they screamed and beat the very thing they created, they were the storm that took theirself away.
They were so brilliantly alive and so gillteringly dead.
They were warmth and burning.
They were the sent of salt and they were the very typhoon that ripped the world apart.
They were Icarus, falling, fallen, flying, having not yet launched, having never made those wings.
They were too much, so many things, and yet just them, and even still, nothing at all.
He draws a breath.
Where is he? A wave of dizziness nearly knocks him off his feet, the sudden light blinding him. He doubles over, a groan tumbling from his lips, his mind desperately grasping for purchase.
When the sensation finally fades he feels himself shiver. He's standing in a cold winter field, lines of frost coating the blades of grass, causing them to crunch under his feet.
He whirls around, finding someone standing calmly beside him. They have their hood pulled up, his coat and their hair flowing and swirling out in the chilled breeze.
“What are we doing here?” His voice is low, making him wince as he feels it hitting his ribs.
They don't respond, only looking up towards the cool gray sky. He doesn't need to wait long to understand, a large meteor crashes in front of them, spraying snow several kilometers into the air. He feels fear rise in his chest, but he can't move, forced to be just as still as the figure at his side.
They move forward through the crashing meteors, calm despite the debris around the pair dwarfing them both in size.
He blinks and he's at a cathedral, that person a little behind him. They're waiting, he realizes, and he opens the heavy door to see inside. It is small and dusty, empty, full of people, long abandoned, filled with life and art, swinging rosaries and glittering candles, and there are no decorations at all, a hollow building left alone to the threat of the harsh elements.
Something in his mind pulls him forward, planting him on his knees at a pew, pushing him to look as if he is praying. He must blend in, on his knees on hard wood, surrounded by others, he must blend in.
He hears the door creak but his eyes are shut, he can't look. A gloved hand brushes against pews, protecting a metal arm that traces the old wood. No heads raise, no person stops their mutterings.
The rosaries drip, dried flower petals fluttering down, crunching under their silent steps.
He finally sees the long train, a dress bleeding into the rouge of the carpet, that figure from before stepping to the priest. Still the preacher does not react, not even when they reach out their gloved hands into an almost loving embrace.
They whisper something and he now watches, hands all loosely clasped, eyes wide, as the priest trembles, tears brimming in their eyes.
The figure reaches out again, properly embracing the crying priest, soft soothing hums filling the chilly air.
He watches as they lower the priest to the ground, now knocked out, going towards a large stained glass window. The train curls and bends around the aged podium, light slowly shining through the windows all around.
The figure pauses, gloves hands wrapping around theirself, gently brushing their arms. They seem to sigh, before they turn their head, eyes white and misty as they look right at him, their hand drifting to the glittering glass.
Something unfolds on their back, furling out, wrapped in glowing white light and the scattered colors of the glass-
The ground erupts, their body unfolding, until it all stands tall above him. The building is gone- no. It's still there. In the folds of their dress-like body, scattered glass that shines brilliant colors, and the people wrapped in, caught in mid prayer, now fast asleep. It looms above him, creaking with a sound like snapping bones and groaning trees. He can only watch as they clutch at their chest, hunching over in pain as branches burst through, littering their fine hair, ripping through the soft flesh of their shoulder blades, bending and curling as a gap opens in their chest, mimicking ribs to protect the glittering star that shimmers in the soft fleshy gap. It's weeping now, water pouring down its face like waterfalls, dissolving to mist as each teardrop approaches the ground. Its soot sculpted clawed hands loosen and it peers down on him, misty white eyes glowing like spotlights on its face.
The ground shifts and he stumbles, fear shooting through him as he realizes that this too is part of its dress, part of its body. It breathes, and the earth sighs, it moves and avalanches launch into action, a cacophony of silent prayers, of desperate wishes, of loud sobs, of joy granted, of hard work, of denouncing, of gratitude, all too loud yet all too silent, and yet he can hear them.
He can feel them.
The eyes, the tall figures that maybe reach half their height, one eye each as spotlights land on him. They loom, creaking slightly in the breeze. But they seem….warm. Sad, almost grieving, but warm, eyes trained on him.
They say something without their voice, something his heart understands. He is doubled over, he stands tall, he takes their hand, and he screams at them in rage.
He falls to the ground, and they fall with him. They sit, small again like him, and they cup his cheeks.
They are scared.
Just like him.
He can feel their fear, their sorrow, their warmth, their rage, their happiness, their love.
They are both so viscerally human.
