#descents

[sweetest-in-hell]

I think that Descendants was culturally significant and critical to my development at 10 years old

[blood-eel]

Okay. Hoping this frequency is normal. Hello hello hello! Anyone getting this?

- @aubrey-of-enceladus

(Seems like anon asks are turned off, just letting you know. Ask settings really do just need to be easier to take care of.)

"Hello?" the voice on the other end sounds weary, cracking a little with what might be exhaustion or dehydration or both. "We— yes, I'm receiving. Who is this?"

[roguecanoe]

heh heh

[listing-to-port]

Descents

The first descent, in which a way is found; flights from a hostile surface; into tombs that hold a known horror; through the tumblers of a vast puzzle-lock; explorations; descents made by aeroplane; those that do not finish at the ground but continue ghostwise into the earth; the descent of water into the flooding labyrinth; the descent of the phoenix through the meteor shower; those that wend between layers of sanity and memory; descents by submarine lowered from the good ship Good Taste; those made by archaeologists into the past; sinkings; through circles of an afterlife; down the throat of the beast; into a feeling along the path that leads through it; down into the uncanny valley; the descent of the seed from the tree; beneath the waterfall; the last descent, from which a return is not made.

[gsosa4realty]

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#Repost @knickertease with @get_repost ・・・ "Into the fuckin' abyss" · · · · I'm putting more work into finding tall descents, even though I've done some at 4-5 stories, one extra level can make a huge difference mentally. I suppose it has a lot to do with the fact that you're stuck in an exposed position for just a little bit longer with each level. At certain heights, even more simple movements become a challenge, it was fun to break through this one and I'm looking forward to pushing the height in these movements. · · · · 👖- @teamfarang 👟- @adidas @extremeofficial --- #parkour #freerunning #prkr #buildering #movementculture #descents

[descents-forum]

Hello World:

/DESCENTS/ forum is:

*creative *artsy *social

*gothy *queer *leftist

*friendly *free *18+

Come join us!

🌐 https://descents.jcink.net

🌐 https://descents.jcink.net

🌐 https://descents.jcink.net

[rafflesia-rotblossom]

Descents - Our Lady of Charity

We have been trapped in here for four days, in absolute darkness for two. At least that is our best estimate. We are lucky to have a decent stockpile of food, at least another week worth if we ration well, and a constant source of running (though certainly not clean) water. We do have some small amount of lamp oil remaining, which we agreed to preserve for any future emergency. We can hear nothing beyond the cave-in, and have no reason to believe that anyone is trying to dig us out.

I have been on the other side of this before; I have seen wives, children, parents, and brothers wailing in the village, begging for aid. On the occasions that they are able to amass a small force of sympathisers to dig their loved ones out, most disband before they break through. Even when they do make through, it is never in time. The harsh reality of our position here is that in order to organise a rescue - which may not even be possible, as those trapped in the mines may have died in the collapse itself - would require the cessation of almost all work in the rest of the mines for days. Such a cost is simply not an option. Even if we wanted it, it would not be permitted.

“It wasn’t long before that, that in the forest outside the village, the boy and I-” I can hear his clothes shuffle, I presume gesturing towards Rodrigo, a young slave boy that he had taken in some years ago. He treated him like something between a son and a servant. “-we found a shrine. Hidden behind dense brush, we cut-” I hear him make another useless gesture in the darkness. “-the branches away. The shrine was a simple thing, stone piled upon stone to form a small pedestal, and on it were the remnants of some burned out wax and a small wood figure of a woman. We-”

Rodrigo coughs violently for what may have been a minute - or three. We say nothing. Moreno does not continue his story.

I do not know how long it has been. I am on the mountain over the village. The sun is overwhelming. I take off my shirt and tie it around my waist and continue my ascent, sweat dripping.

I am shaken, in darkness again. “Moreno is gone.” It is Rodrigo, his voice is hoarse.

We decide to follow the stream as it trickles down further into the darkness, we pack our things in silence and set off slowly. We walk in the water, making occasional sounds to let the other know we are still nearby.

On the surface Moreno sits by the ocean, he is cooled by the breeze. On the water, a small distance away, floats a plank of wood. On it stands a small figure of a woman in a sheer yellow dress. She is bone dry.

The boy whistles an unfamiliar tune as we descend; it is cast forward and downward, and in small fragments it is returned to us. From Rodrigo the sound is harsh and shrill, from the cave it is a momentous song. We continue towards it. I imagine that somewhere down there, wherever Rodrigo’s song ends up, all the bum notes and broken whistles and all the words which we do not speak to one another are amassing. Drawn down by gravity, collecting into some grand and beautiful pool.

At the top of my mountain is the sun. I have not had water in the weeks that I’ve been climbing, and still sweat pours from me — a river forming in my trail. I know that I am nearing the sun, and I pray that she will welcome me.

Behind me I hear Rodrigo begin to fall. The small, sharp, wet stones on which he walks slip out from beneath him and he tumbles. Listening for him, I turn and leap towards the sound. I miss him. And I hear him continue to fall as more and more stones break loose to join him. I grab the lamp from my pack and light it, shining it down the passage. He is gone. I resolve simply to continue my descent, and as I go, I whistle a tune.

Atop the mountain, on a cairn of sand I find him again. He is asleep, I tell myself. In his grasp is a small figure of a woman. I close his eyes and set him adrift on the still blue water there. It glows. His form is a shadow on its surface. In my hand is the sun, and I turn away, making my way back up, out from the depths and back to the surface. As I begin the climb, I hear the song of a bird. I am weightless.

~~~

Of all of my writing from this brief period I think this one holds up the best. It's a little clumsier and a bit abstract, but I like the way things move and come together in it. Of the three descents I wrote back then, this was the one that got the flattest response, however it's the one I'm most compelled to return to and feel myself turning away from the least.