I could bury you,
just like I did with those before you.
You get better at it with age;
letting go.
Just like you taught me.
- visibility19
posted 3 weeks ago, edited 3 weeks ago
freshly harvested. uploaded under my no take backsies policy
More From family_staralternate_emailbrutusSee Morearrow_outward
Princess ApartmentKhrushchevka royalty, apartment-bred The stump in the courtyard houses a fairy There’s a hollowed out brick with a spider scary Shadowed by a hollow box, of princess apartment Concrete Rumanov, will you rot in the forest or in a Cementery? a house elf left a print in the cement, now the path has the hole of a coin sized hoof Leave a leaf under your pillow, four more if you’re behind on payment, Gnomes tend to be forgiving debtors Spriggans shouldn’t be landlords They burst the bubble in ‘08 Blamed it on that NFT monkeygifSimilar ArtworksSee Morearrow_outward
EndlesslyThe stars are falling from the sky and I do not know why; are they escaping the blackest void that has spread across the heavens or are they tired of shedding tears to the world below that is now full of misery? The sight of their departure is beautiful nonetheless and when I shift my gaze away from the heavens and look back at you, I can see how the starlight is reflected from your glazed eyes, your body motionless as you wait for the sign that makes our bodies move like puppets controlled by strings. It seems like tonight you do not remember our earliest memories; I can see it from the way you are looking at me. No matter how many times I experience it, it always feels like a stab to the heart. I do not know if it is better this way, I am being torn apart anyway. Either we both retain our memories and are forced to face each other in the battlefield or one of us does not remember the other and thus only sees an enemy that has to be defeated while the other one is suffering from an unbearable heartache no one should ever have to endure. It never gets easier. But this is how our lives are, this is how it has been for a thousand years. Everything around us is dead and still, we remain. The soil under our feet has been lifeless for centuries, completely dry and cracked and nothing can grow from it. There are a few dead trees standing, like dry corpses, their branches like the fingers of the deceased as they desperately reach for the uncaring sky, begging for something, a rain or a sunshine, that would rejuvenate their withered carcasses. But the heavens ignore their silent cries. The trees here are the last ones remaining of a beautiful landscape before the war destroyed and butchered it all. Now they are nothing more but mementos of the days when everything was well. Winds play with their branches, twisting them, clinging onto them like mischievous spirits, not letting their dried-up corpses rest in peace. Tonight, however, the winds are in a different kind of mood. They are blowing across the vast field of nothingness in an ominous way and I can hear them whispering. They want blood, they want misery. I do not know what kind of sadistic glee they will gain from what is about to transpire here, but they will get what they wished for. With the vile winds came legions of soldiers of the past, groups of people I have seen for the past thousand years, but whom I cannot remember anymore. In my eyes, their bodies are translucent and their facial features have been smudged like ink stains. I simply do not recognize who they are anymore. Perhaps that is how they perceive me, maybe I am like a ghost to them, too. We are all supposed to be dead and gone now, and yet, here we are. Legions of ghostly soldiers have gathered behind your back and without looking, I know that I have comrades behind my back as well. We are all standing here, silent and motionless, waiting for the sign. Soon it comes: a blast of an ancient horn rushes throughout the battlefield, reaching every corner. The battle will begin and troops of soldiers who have spent a thousand years fighting the same war over and over again are engaging in a conflict once more, and some of them have forgotten why they even are here and what they are fighting for. But I know that losing your memories completely will not give you salvation. A luxury like a free will is something we do not have. Countless times I have raised my weapon against you and it just keeps getting harder – except on those days when I do not remember you. I do not want to do this anymore! But no matter how much I have begged or demanded this to end, it never does. My body is moving on its own, swinging my weapon, causing pain to you and every time my blade cuts your flesh, it feels like I just got cut, too. I never wanted to be part of this war and neither did you. The ancient mad lords forced us into this; they called it a holy war that would purify the land. But which side was the wicked and which was the righteous? There was no answer to that to begin with, the lords just wanted an excuse to steal the lands from the other one. This never was a holy war; it was a cursed one. We are still here, in the middle of a senseless battle, and where are the lords now? Have they died or just abandoned us, forcing us to repeat the war endlessly, unable to break out of this cycle? Just like our memories, the battlefield itself is flickering. It is unstable, a lot like our minds, and is unable to stay in its current state. Like ripples in time, flashes of various shapes of the field are echoing from the past, not sure which form to take. We can see past battles through the flickering and we are dancing macabrely together with the ghosts of our former selves. We will keep fighting even when our bodies start to break down. When do we stop? I do not know. Maybe when all of it is too much for a mortal mind to take and we get consumed by madness. Maybe when the land tries to reset itself and as a byproduct, so do we. Or maybe when whoever is pulling the strings gets tired. It definitely is not death that grants us a moment of rest and soothes our restless and rotten souls. Ah, how I see death as a friend… However, I have come to the conclusion that the world will die before we do.trophyBlue Note / Solace LetterTo Neveah Sweetheart “I haven’t seen the sun in over two decades— Has it been twenty years, or has it been longer? Or shorter? For me, time is nothing anymore. Every second, every minute, every hour— they all blend in. One second I could find myself staring at the blood stain i’ve created by banging my head against the wall, and the very next second I would be curled up in the corner trying to recollect my memories before all of this happened. Before being forgotten in the highest floor in this purgatory, before being left to starve, before being beaten, chained, and thrown into this fucking cell— I could’ve changed the world with my inventions. Children around the world would’ve grown up to be exactly like me and change the lives of the newer generations for the better. What I did was for the greater good, someone was bound to do it eventually! I was bringing magic into people’s lives, even if we had to sacrifice just a few… Hundred… Liv— A few hundred thousand lives. But I stand by what I did, the overpopulation problem was ALREADY getting worse! I was simply leading humanity into a better future, shaping it into my personal perfect view of world peace. It would’ve been better that way, wouldn’t it? I thought everyone would love my ideas, I thought that nothing would get in my way, but you had to ruin my chances at fixing this miserable world. How do you feel, Neveah? Do you feel proud for locking me up? Do you feel proud for outright starving me almost to the point of DEATH?? Do you still think that you’re in the right here?? Let me tell you something. You can’t just keep someone locked up for dozens of years and not expect them to lose their mind, ESPECIALLY when the reason why you locked them up in the first place WAS because they were ‘insane.’ Do you know what that does to a person, Neveah? It distorts their mind. It makes them even crueler than they were before, being locked away for this long without anyone to talk to doesn’t magically make someone more sympathetic than when they first got in, oh, no no no. It turns them into a ruthless fucking murderer, that’s what. You think after being locked away for soo loonggg a person can maintain their dignity? Their empathy? The only thing that’ll grow is their thirst for revenge, once they get out of their cell they’re going right for your neck. That’s why you never let anyone out, isn’t it? Everyone here would’ve been better off if they were never sent here in the first place, but once they’re in that wretched straitjacket, it’s game over. Why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep thousands of people locked away from everyone they loved or cared about? Nobody here’s going to magically get better.. You know the definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing over, and over, and over again and expecting something to change! It’s ironic, isn’t it? That’s the same thing you’re doing to the people you consider insane. You keep locking more people up and you just expect at least one of us to walk out of here a better person. That’s not how it works, Neveah. We deserve to live freely with nobody else in control of our own rights, especially you.” -Axel SolaceCheetahsWhen I was young I loved cheetahsI thought it was funThat when they runThey do it the fastest it’s ever been done When I was young I would dream andI thought it was funImagine if I wonI’d never feel lost I’d be someone But in the light of the sunI don’t know, know, know, know,know, know, knowI just never feel like I’m oneI don’t know, know, know, know, know, know, know I feel like I haven’t begun When I was young I loved cheetahsI thought it was funThat when they runThey do it the fastest it’s ever been done When I was young I would dream andI thought it was funImagine if I wonI’d never feel lost I’d be someone But in the light of the sunI don’t know, know, know, know,know, know, knowI just never feel like I’m oneI don’t know, know, know, know, know, know, know I feel like I’ve been outruntrophyCoal Hearted: Chapter 1Drystan O’Connell couldn’t believe his eyes. Once a young lad from Kilkenny, Ireland, he stood on the deck of a steamship, leaning over the railing to watch as the city of London grew larger as they approached. The continuous whirring of the wheels on the ship's sides made him feel at ease, helping him forget about the sea sickness. The cold metal frame of the ship felt as comfortable as any bed, though he would still like to be on dry land.He leaned back up, taking in a deep breath. His nostrils flared and burned. He recoiled, covering his face with his hand. The intense smog of London’s industry could be felt even this far out. Despite the reaction, Drystan was still excited, jumping slightly in place as they got closer. He checked beside his feet to see if his suitcase was still there. He breathed a sigh of relief, even if he didn't have much anyway to steal. He patted his coat pocket, feeling his mother’s crucifix still there too. The ship finally enters the Thames River, though it is difficult to see the water under the heavy traffic of ships and tugboats, hauling their cargo out to the merchant ships or bringing in the goods of their overseas colonies. A passenger ship like his stood out, even if it was a smaller makeshift boat so they could traverse the river. The noises of industry made the other passengers feel queasy, but to Drystan, it was music, like a calming rhythm to ease him into his new home. Finally, the ship arrives at one of the dockyards, where Drystan can see all the busy workers moving cargo around. He excitedly picked up his luggage and made his way to some sailors dropping the gangplank, which fell with a heavy thud, kicking up some dust. This is somehow dirtier than the woods back home, Drystan thought to himself. Taking a deep breath, attempting to calm himself, but instead causing him to cough, He starts walking down the gangplank, his ears taking in all the sounds of the city, the first city he’s ever been in. He was amazed by all the large buildings, the sun struggling to peek through the clouds and smoke, and the number of people around him. Yet everything seemed to blur as one particular dock worker caught his eye. The man stood tall and proud, with curly hair, which had a mix of white and brown moving in swirls, poofed out on top and grew to just above his shoulders in the back. He was helping move some of the cargo around, wiping the sweat off his head. His skin was tan, yet when he turned, Drystan noted that half his face seemed to be of a whiter pigmentation, with circular shapes dotting it. Drystan could see his eyes, gold like the sun, and it caused his cheeks to get warmer than the steam from the ship brushing against his face. His heart thumped like the engines, beating faster and faster the more he stared. He didn't understand why this man captivated him, and soon he found himself quickly meeting the ground. He had misstepped and started rolling down the gangplank. He didn't stop until he hit one of the crates, with him on his back and legs leaning against the side of it, staring up at the blanket sky. His warm and reddish face was replaced with fear and embarrassment, almost hiding the freckles and large scar across his nose. He rolls to the side, pulling himself up and looking around, seeing some stare and others continue working. He brushed off his clothes, which were already being held together with patches in some areas of his pants, and picked up his luggage. He pulled down his flat cap to cover his face and started quickly pacing towards the street.He suddenly felt the back of his collar being yanked, the front of his neck feeling sudden pressure as he stumbled backward, only for a large hand to stop him. A few choice curses were hurled from the passing passenger carriage that had rushed past where he was about to step. As he gasps for air, a large police officer in his dark blue uniform, bushy mustache, and breath smelling of gin walks around to meet Drystans eyes. “Hey! Watch where you stepping lad, you almost copped more than a mouse!” He barked, followed by a loud guffaw. “O-Oh, S-sorry off-officer!” Drystan stuttered, trying to make himself look smaller.The copper gives him a stare. “Ah, a paddy eh? Used to just waltzing like the biggest bricky in Dublin no doubt.” “Actually, I’m from-” “I dinnae asked. Just watch your step when crossing London streets.” with a hard pat on the back, he sends Drystan on his way. However, before continuing on, he asks the policeman for directions.. He pulled out the leaflet from his pocket, uncrumpling it and pointed to it. The copper steadied his eyes to read: “WANTED: Eager assistant for Robotics Repair and Engineering, please inquire at-”He started guffawing, unable to control himself for almost a full minute before finally calming himself, holding his stomach and wiping his eyes. The joke seemed to escape Drystan before the officer continued; “Ah yes, I know this area well. I make frequent trips in the area. It’s just south of the Thames in Lambeth. Nothing but trouble there, so you’ll fit right in, aye paddy?” he elbows Drystan’s arm, with only a nervous chuckle being returned. He thanks him for the assistance, and continues walking, feeling the officer's gaze still envelop him. He looked at the pamphlet again, with a frequent gaze ahead of him. A bit of ease returned to him after rereading it. The opportunity to work on the new automatons was a dream ever since they crossed the channel from Europe, though he had seen that only in England was their use common. He pocketed the leaflet away, now focused on avoiding any more collisions in the packed London streets. As he had no money, or at least enough for travel and food, he ended up walking almost the entire city, crossing over the river he had just traveled. The hustle of the streets had quieted down, with modern buildings being replaced with an older neighborhood, some with almost medieval-looking architecture. The neighborhoods were small, the air cleaner, and the streets smaller. In London proper, he had seen automatons around every street corner, assisting the more well-off folks in carrying their shopping bags, tending to children, or working manual labor and construction. Trams buzzed by on the streets carrying large groups of people. Here, The people relied on carriages still, even though those were few and far between. The mechanical industry of the city was rare here, almost reminding him of home.Finally rounding a corner, he spotted the street of apartments, their brick and painted wooden frames standing out from the more traditionally built houses he had passed. There was a nearby railway that was built over the houses and streets, the chugging of a passing train shaking the houses and area around him, yet seemingly filled Drystan only with joy. To live by such machinery this far from the city was a welcome sight. And in a smaller neighborhood, he wouldn't have to interact with too many people either. Mounting up his courage, he took a deep breath and walked up to the apartment in the ad. It didn’t look like much, a thin-looking brick house, about three stories high. The front door had two white columns in front with an arch over it, with a bay window beside it, and another on top of that, with a normal window for the top floor. A small white fence and gate blocked off the path leading up to it. Walking up the steps, he was about to knock on the door when once again his face was met with only pain. The door had swung open suddenly, smacking Drystan square in the face, causing him to stumble sideways from the door as an angry, short man marched out, placing a bowler hat on his balding head and dragging a suitcase. He was mumbling to himself something to the effect of; “No good, lousy, insane maniac! Last time I work for Germans!” Drystan tries to regain his balance, watching the man kick open the front fence door and march down the street. Wonder what that was all about, he wondered. As he reached for his dropped luggage, a large CLANG spooked him off from his position, followed by more sounds. Mechanical parts were falling beside him, and he glared up to see a man holding a box out his window. He had combed-back brown hair and striking purple eyes. An angry snarl painted his face as he started screaming after the man. “ICH WOLLTE EH NICHT MIT SO EINER ARSCHGEIGE ZUSAMMENARBEITEN, NIMM DEINE SCHEISSARBEIT UND HAU AB!!” He yelled, in a language Drystan couldn’t understand, except that it was clearly unhappy. Suddenly the man snapped his attention to Drystan, who was trying to hide behind one of the columns in front of the door. He felt a cold shiver down his spine before his fear was replaced with curiosity as the man suddenly fixed his stature from the window and smiled as if he were apologetic for the mess. “Oh, sorry, my now former associate and I have decided to part ways and you have found me at a bad time!” he explained, chuckling at the situation. His smile felt reassuring to Drystan, but off somehow. He leaned onto his crossed arms on the window sill and poked his head out to get a better look at Drystan. He looked at the broken pieces of what turned out to be an automaton, which captured Drystan’s interest more than the man's. Drystan smiled, looking back up.“Y-you’re that Roboticist in the p-p-pamphlet?” He smiles back “Why yes! Ah, apologies, I haven't introduced myself!” He ran back inside, followed by a cascade of sounds falling over the apartment before the door swung open again, with Drystan stepping back beforehand this time. He sees the tired man, still wearing his engineer’s apron covered in soot and tools around his waist. He holds out his gloved hand.“Brandt Köhler, a pleasure to meet you!” Drystan Grips his hand, not minding all the grime getting on his. “Drystan O’Connell, I’m here about the job?”