#pips writing

[sleepygooberpilled]

I DID IT!!! I WROTE A THING!! (again)

Dratchrod hurt/comfort fic mwahahah. I wanted more of them, so I became the change I wanted to see

[pips-squeak]

Rain Clouds

The sun is meant for happiness

In every old tale

Every myth and hope

And rain for sadness

For defeat

For sorrow.

But I have slowly discovered

Come to find

That rain

Though meant for sorrow

For defeat

For sadness

Is also meant for me.

For I am all of those things

In one myth

One tale of a person

I am rainy skies

And dark clouds

And for every sunshine

There is a person that is more meant for the rain

Seeking comfort in cold breezes

And warm sweaters

More meant for walking in puddles

In dreary fields full of memories.

(taglist below)

@indecisiveaesthetic @cupsmp @violexides @dog55teeth @cavern-of-shenanigans @spookykestrel

[pips-squeak]

The Lively Tree

One day, like any other day, a young girl played outside. It was recess. She was young.

She knew the two girls she was walking up to. She thought they were her friends in her young, childish love. But they were not nice. Not kind. She was standing in front of them, wearing her colorful clothes and her youthful face. She thought they were her friends.

She reached out her hand to wave hello, and the two girls shared glances, shared secrets, shared laughs.

And as the two girls looked at her, they giggled, the gloating sound spearing through the child’s innocence. Their laughs continued like darts, racing toward the child, as they ran away from her dropped hand. The girl is left alone in a flower filled field.

Sound surrounded her. The balls that are thrown back and forth between the other children, the laughter filled glee, the yelling and screaming as kids chased after one another. But the girl was quiet.

She remained where the girls left her standing, skirt moving as the wind pleased. She could hear a strange ringing in the back of her eyes, the sting of refusal and the heart tug of rejection. And when recess ended, and all of the other kids had gone inside, the little girl remained. In the same spot she was left. No one noticed she had been left behind.

Her mother used to say that we should not reject those who are different than us, that we should accept everyone with open arms, no matter who they are. But apparently not everyone was taught that same lesson, their hearts filling with hatred as they slowly grew older.

The little girl stood there, feet digging into the ground where she remained, and the world around her ceased in a kind of condolence. The small breeze stopped. The sun stopped rotating, and the little girl's arms seemed to spread, wider and wider and her feet extended past the rich soil that came from an early rain.

The child’s skin became darker, rougher, and she grew taller, taller than the school building she dreaded, back turned away from the laughter she faced everyday and the pitying stares that her teachers left at her feet.

And the next day, when the children came out to the playground for recess, they saw a tree standing tall and prideful, as if it had been there for hundreds of years. Flowers bloomed among the perfect leaves, and in the trunk of the tree that faced toward the forest that surrounded the small school, was a girl's face, molded and shaped among the dark wood.

That tree would remain there for many years to come, always in bloom, the leaves somehow remaining despite rough winds and harsh storms that flooded the school.

The tree remained a mystery as to why it had formed, and all anyone ever knew was that a girl's mother would come visit the tree often, sitting under its reaching branches. She would read aloud to it, like she was reading a bedtime story.

In the years to come where the tree remained, it became a safe haven to the quiet children that came after, a peaceful hideaway from mean kids’ eyes. There was no bullying under that tree. No gloating laughter.

And when the school was finally torn down, serving as a place for students to learn, to suffer, to love, the tree still remained. It outlived its oppressor.

(taglist below)

@indecisiveaesthetic @cupsmp @violexides @dog55teeth @cavern-of-shenanigans @spookykestrel

[pips-squeak]

Where I am from is of no importance.

I am from a boring street that’s in a normal neighborhood in an average state.

I am from a sea themed nursery that my dad painted himself

I am from a middle class family.

And

My childhood was not a fascinating one.

I am from stability, and heart and tolerance. I’m sorry.

So there’s not much I can say about places on a map, but

What I am from is my mom’s movie posters hung up in the living room

and

The soapy smell of helping wash my dad’s car

and

Lathering my stuffed bear in lotion so he wouldn’t have dry skin.

Rooms, though,

The rooms I am from have melancholy built into its stone

I am from the chair beside the bed in hospitals

From beside the bed in a nursing home

From the metal seats and soft tears of funerals.

I am from the wooden benches of churches and the kneeled pose of prayers that were never answered

So I have nothing to say about streets, or neighborhoods or states but.

Rooms are where my memories are, and Rooms keep my life’s story in their walls.

(taglist below)

@indecisiveaesthetic @idkjustgowithitok @cupsmp @moonlitartist @violexides @dog55teeth @cavern-of-shenanigans

[pips-squeak]

a ctommy poem

———————————-

A Boy Made of Flowers

A boy made of flowers

And fearless ambitions

He stood up to the greatest

And saluted to them, too.

Uniforms of stitched threads

Made by wavering hands

Left in a chest somewhere to collect dust.

These were not his idols he remembered.

The boy was made of dreams

And he believed,

And believed,

And believed in those he loved.

Even after they were gone

By death or abandonment;

He believed.

He wished for everything to go

To where his brother was a leader to him

To where his mentors actually gave a fuck about him

To where his father figure didn’t trample over him.

The boy was made of hope.

Even through death he survived.

The boy was an enemy to many,

But very little did he waver

The boy was broken now,

But not dead

And he would live to see another day if it killed him.

(taglist below)

@indecisiveaesthetic @idkjustgowithitok @cupsmp @moonlitartist @violexides @dog55teeth

[pips-squeak]

A Tiny Coffin

There is something so devastating about a tiny coffin. About the small body that no longer breathes, blocks and dolls covering themselves up with dust in their untouched rooms.

A short funeral.

On an unlit night, when the moon turns a blindeye, a stocky man with tools at his waist hunts through graves for gold. At each one before he steals he reads the cold forgotten stone of those that are not remembered by blood.

Tonight, he stands before a smaller grave than the rest. His head is bowed and his eyes shine not from greed.

He leaves the courtyard. Goes to an open field where dew brushed petals look up at him, a man who knows of this brand of sorrow. He picks them, blues and pinks and whites.

When he’s returned to the tiny grave, he lays the flowers down on the soft bed of a little girl and weeps. A child that should cry at a scraped knee is silent, and an adult who should be firm and calloused cries.

What should be protected was lost, so if anything they must be remembered.

The little girl looks down at the man, and a small, sad smile brushes her lips.

It starts to rain, as even the sky cannot hold back its tears.

(taglist below)

@indecisiveaesthetic @idkjustgowithitok @cupsmp @moonlitartist @violexides @dog55teeth @cavern-of-shenanigans

[pips-squeak]

Death to the Dictator

There was a harsh wind that day. It struck against my cheek as I watched the protest from afar. But the loud voices still managed to intercept the weather, and the chanting rose to the height of their anger. I was freezing.

If my hijab hadn’t been secured properly it might’ve flown off. There was a small part of me that wished it had. I felt like a coward standing here, watching from the shadows, but I knew it would kill my mâmân if I got hurt. If I was taken.

So I just watched. Some of the women in the center of the protest had their hair free, and it twirled around them as they danced. I don’t think I had ever seen people look so happy; a kind of defiant air surrounding them.

They were risking everything. Even the dancing could have them killed, but nonetheless they had taken their hijabs off, chanting, “Zan, zendegi, azadi.” Women, life, freedom.

Technically, I wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place. I was meant to be in bed, sleeping, waiting for my mâmân to wake me up for breakfast. Instead, I was here, having left her a note that said if I didn’t come back, she knew what to do. Before it was too late.

My original plan was to be in the middle of the protest, dancing and chanting with my hijab off. I wanted to be like Mahsa Amini, I wanted to be a hero. But I chickened out. I’m not a brave enough person to go against the regime, and my mâmân does not deserve to lose another person in our family. Baba wasn’t afraid. He was ready to look death head on and sneer, because nothing was more important to him than freedom. And, poor baba, paid for it.

To my surprise, there were many different kinds of people at the protest. There were lots of men, probably fathers, brothers, and even some older protestors mingled around. The air seemed to buzz from how loud the chanting was getting, and I imagined the ground shaking, cracking from the weight of the sadness and anger that coursed through every person present.

Before that day, in that protest, I had never seen the morality police in action before. Mâmân, at this point, barely let me go outside, and when they took my father they had done it in the middle of the night. Just like their executions. Like cowards.

I learned that day that they move faster than your eyes can follow. A few vans pulled up to a curb, and only a couple of the protesters thought to back away. Multiple men in green and women in black chadors climbed out, holding batons, and began hitting any bodies that were close to them, slapping, beating.

I ran. I was afraid. Before I turned my back I saw the women with their hair down being shoved into the vans. It was loud. Screams of fear and outrage mingled with cries of pain, and some young men even tried to hold onto the young girls who had hair exposed.

And then the vans pulled away. Like nothing had happened. Like lives hadn’t just ended. I prayed that they would be released at the police station, with only a lecture, a picture taken and a ‘fixed’ hijab.

It felt like my stomach was filled with rocks, mainly because I knew that wasn’t the case. More than likely, they would be sent to prison where they would be tortured. If they were lucky, they would, eventually, be freed. If they were lucky, they would find a good lawyer who would help get their name out on social media. Have the world care enough that they would make noise.

The Islamic Regime does not like to be noticed, or perceived. If you’re lucky, you get sponsored before you’re hanged, and you get to see your family again.

But luck is rare nowadays. Even with the whole world watching, sometimes luck is not enough. And then you’re transferred to Evin Prison, and then transferred into solitary confinement.

And if you don’t have a sponsor, and not enough eyes landed on you or your case, then you’re dead.

There is no trial. And if there is, it’s faulty. There are never any innocents in the Islamic

Regime. Only crimes against God. Only young women fighting for freedom.

(taglist below)

@indecisiveaesthetic @cupsmp @violexides @dog55teeth @cavern-of-shenanigans

[pips-squeak]

The Lights In The Church

There are holes in my head.

Places where memories have been carved out

And jagged edges where I’ve taken the cleaver to my own brain.

A holy cross is one;

Among the trinkets that are left at my feet

Of my past.

It used to sit in my head.

And it wasn’t festering upon anything but

I knew it was there.

It bothered me.

Never sitting still in its place

It kept pushing.

And with the silver branding me

And the weight of the metal stifling

It was a needy thing,

God’s wish.

And eventually I expected it to pay its dues.

But it didn’t.

It did the equivalent of laughing at me

And I think my head was a little too happy in

Expelling the belief.

So the lights went out in the church,

And the strings that attached me to it were

Cut.

(taglist under cut)

@indecisiveaesthetic @idkjustgowithitok @cupsmp @moonlitartist @violexides @dog55teeth @cavern-of-shenanigans