A Charm For You: A Lover's Token, A Handkerchief, Stained With Blood. It Will Turn Aside A Blow To The

I want you to remember:

The fascists hate you too and they just will pretend otherwise until after they've killed the rest of us, before they turn on you.

Underworld Dreams

i feel the need to clarify that this isn’t fiction writing, that these are about real dreams and real events that happened to me, and i was just thinking of them and thought - i should write these down 

i don’t remember my dreams, generally, and i don’t tend to put much stock in the meanings of dreams, generally

but sometimes i have dreams that are stickysharp, that are very vivid, and that feel very real to me for the first few seconds after i wake up, and then i’m always filled with an embarrassing amount of relief that no matter what’s going on in my life currently, those problems aren’t my problems

my friends call them my underworld dreams

~

the first one i had was one i was very young, less than six years old, and i don’t remember much from my actual life from that age with clarity that i remember this dream. i was alone on the street, searching for someone, but everything was empty. i wasn’t scared. then i come across two dogs, fancy poodles, but they’re not right. they see me and immediately begin arguing. “what’s she doing here? she’s not supposed to be here.” “get rid of her” “she’s here now, she might as well stay” “she’s not supposed to be here!” and i try and interrupt, but then they’re looking at me, looming, so much bigger than me when they hadn’t been before, until they’re all teeth, and i’m running. all i hear is barking, and i’m not nor have i ever been afraid of dogs, but i run and my chest hurts but no matter where i look i’m alone. the dogs aren’t there, aren’t chasing me, but i don’t know where to go. i look around and i realize that everything’s in black and white. that the only things that hadn’t been a shade of grey had been the those two dogs. life isn’t shades of grey, i remember suddenly, and i bend over to pick up one of the grey bricks lining the sidewalk. i hold it in both hands and break it in half and liquid cement pools from the broken brick onto the ground. “oh,” i say, with relief, “it’s not real. this is a dream. i can leave now.”

then i wake up. 

~

my mother dies a week before my tenth birthday and i have a dream that i do not forget. i am in the front yard, looking down at the highway from the large sloping hill of our home, leaning against a birch tree. 

there’s a car slowly rolling down our long driveway. once, when i was younger, i was left to play in the front seat of the car as it was parked on top of the long driveway. it was an old car. i moved something i shouldn’t have and the car started rolling and i screamed and screamed, knowing something bad had happened but not how to stop it, and then my mother’s boyfriend, who i hated, ran and jumped into the rolling car and slammed on the breaks. 

i am not in this car. it is getting faster, no one to slam on the breaks, and then my mother is standing next to me. “i’m in there,” she says. “you could save me.” 

i understand that this isn’t real. that my mother is dead and so she can’t be standing next to me. everything else seems so real and normal, but my mother is here like she hasn’t been for weeks, and that  means this is a dream. i look at the car rolling down the hill and remember her casket getting lowered into the ground and i say, “no. you’re already dead. you have to stay dead, that’s how this works.” 

she’s disappointed, but not angry, she stands next to me, silent, as we watch the car roll into the highway, watch it crumple, watch it roll into a ditch. when i turn to look at her, she’s gone. 

then i wake up.

i’m not relieved. i feel guilty for not saving her, even in a dream, even when she was already dead. 

i do not dream of my mother again.

~

my grandmother raised me after my mother died. my grandmother dies when i’m twelve and i do not dream of her when it happens. 

i will, years later, but not then. 

~

i’m in high school and i have another dream. i am in something between victorian england and modern day. everything is gray. i live in a small apartment. 

children keep appearing at my door. i let them in, i feed them, i cloth them. i go to food banks and schools, searching for who these children belong to, but no one claims them, so i keep them. it’s so hard to keep them, but i can’t leave them. 

some of the children get sick. i do my best, but some of them die. 

i put the bodies in the closet and lock the door. i tell the other, living children not to go near the closet. 

i go searching. dead children don’t belong in closets. i go to the hospital, but they say they will not take random dead children. i go to the police and they laugh at me, saying no one will take them, that i’ll have to get rid of them on my own. 

i am angry and desperate but there is a part of me that is not surprised. 

i go home. i will have to keep the dead children in the closet. the living children ask questions, reach for the closet, and i stand in front of it, standing between my dead children in the closet and the living children in front of me, knowing that they can’t open it, that i have to keep it closed, because if i open it then my living children will walk into the closet with my dead children and they will not come out.

then i wake up. 

i do not have any dead children in my closet. the relief is sharp, but not sweet.

~

i have a loft bed in college because the tiny room i’m sharing in this small apartment is not big enough for us to fit two bed side by side. 

i dream that i wake up in this bed, in a place that’s not my own. there are children there, that i know but do not recognize. they cry out when they see me and yell for me to climb down. i do and they grasp my hands, pulling me outside. 

my grandmother is there. other people that i do not recognize but that i know are there. the children are my cousins. these people are my family. we are outside and it is beautiful and bright. the grass is green and soft. 

i sit and talk with my grandmother as the children play. the children run off somewhere else. 

“i’m so glad you’re staying,” someone who i thinks might be an aunt says, patting my hand. 

the first curl of unease is easy to mistake for confusion. “no, i can’t stay, i’m just visiting.” 

“visiting?” she says, pitying. “there’s no visiting. the dead have to stay dead. you know that.” 

i am cold. the grass is still soft. it’s still beautiful. i do not want to stay. 

my grandmother is sad, not pitying, when she says, “it’s too late. they’re burning the bed.” 

i am running. i do not stop to say goodbye. 

the house is burning. the children are tugging at the long legs of my loft bed, trying to to pull it to the ground, and all around me are flames. i run through them, ignoring the cries of my cousins as i climb into the loft bed, laying down and burying my face into my pillow that smells of smoke and heat just as the legs crash and i’m tumbling to the ground.

then i wake up. 

my pillow does not smell of smoke. 

~

it’s finals week and i dream that i’m in a cave. there are bars on the entrance, even though it just leads to even more cave, and guards and a warm yellow light coming from somewhere. 

i am with people i do not know. they are not concerned about leaving. i am. i get the gate open, the guards aren’t around. “come on,” i say to everyone. “let’s go. we have to go.” 

“it’s just a waste of time,” one of them tells me. “we can’t leave. where would we go?” 

i don’t understand. 

someone else puts a water bottle and a several packets of saltine crackers into my hands. “you’ll need this,” he says, not unkindly. “don’t lose them. it’s important.” 

i can’t force anyone to come with me. the guards will be back soon. they should be here now. leaving seems too easy, suddenly, but it’s not like i’m going to stay, so i go. 

the caves are confusing. it takes a long time to find my way out, and i drink most of the water and eat the saltine crackers. when i step out of the labyrinth of caves it’s too bright, brighter than it’s ever been. 

i walk for a long time. i come across a field that is a mix of golden corn and golden wheat growing side by side in a confusing, impractical mixture. 

i see a man, dark skin and greying beard, in grey overalls and a grimy henley that maybe didn’t used to be grey but is now. he has a scythe in his hands, leaning back and swinging it through the mix of corn and wheat. 

the wheat falls to the side and the scythe passes through the corn, leaving it unharmed. 

“can you help me?” i ask. “i need to go home.” 

the man startles, looking at me. “you shouldn’t be here.” 

“i know,” i say, “can you help me? i can’t figure out how to get home.” 

he stares at me for a long moment, then nods, digging a small hole in the ground with the toe of his boot. “here. you kept them, didn’t you?” 

he doesn’t specify, but i know what he means. i take out the mostly empty water bottle and the torn plastic packets of the saltine crackers. i shouldn’t have eaten them. but it was the only way to get out the cave. 

the man sighs, as if i’m tiresome, and takes them from my hands. he empties the saltine crumbs into the dirt, then pours the last of the water on top. he directs me to stand on top of the hole, and i do, and he kicks the dirt in around my feet. “they didn’t have to help you. you’re lucky they gave those to you.” 

i am. i would not have gotten out of the cave without them. i would not be going home without them. 

the man takes a step backwards, leans back, and swings the scythe through me. 

then i wake up. 

my bed is soft and warm. i wonder if i was the corn or the wheat. 

~

my cousin has been two years younger then me our whole lives and she is two years younger than me when she dies. it is strange to think that for the rest of my life my cousin will not age and i will. i live on the other side of the country to her. the last time i was home, i had a bus to catch and she was busy talking to her boyfriend, so instead of waiting to hug her goodbye, i left and said, “i’ll hug you extra hard next time,” and the pain is too familiar to be sharp. 

i dream we are in a beach house like we visited once as children, but we are adults. i am delighted to be here, with my family, warm and content and safe. my cousin is there and we’re floating in the pool and i look at her and my easy contentment falters. something is wrong. i put my arms under her shoulders and knees, like i’m supporting a child who’s just learning how to float, and she looks very still and peaceful until she cracks open an eye to grin at me. “oh no,” i say say, looking at her, remembering, “you’re dead.” disappointment flashes over her face. i wasn’t supposed to say anything. i wasn’t supposed to remember. 

then i wake up. 

i dream we at a garden we’ve never been to. it is bright and easy and the moment i see her, i know that she is dead, but she does not. i don’t tell her, i let her drag me to look at roses bloom, and try to feel for coldness in her skin, but it’s warm. i make myself smile and she doesn’t make me let go of her hand and it’s so very warm here. for the first time i want to stay, but it’s not even a choice. she looks down at our clasped hands and when she looks up, her lips are tinged blue. “oh no,” she says, and i’m reaching for her, to pull her in to hug her extra hard, but i’m not quick enough, “i’m dead.” 

then i wake up. 

can you forget you’re dead? i wonder. can you forget you’re alive? 

~

the last stickysharp dream i had was over a year ago, and it was this: 

i am at the beach with all my friends. i love them so much. it’s hot and and the sand burns my feet so we are sitting on the shoreline, damp and hot and laughing. 

there is a bright flash of light. it’s a bomb going off. i don’t know how i know, but i do, and i run. 

you can’t outrun a bomb, but i try, my first instinct to flee and the hot sand is burning my feet. it takes me too long to realize that no one else is running, that they’re all standing perfectly still, watching their death coming for them. 

my friends are still at the shoreline. the first shockwave is coming. i don’t have enough time to run back to them, even though i want to. 

i die alone 

then i wake up. 

~

i do not remember my dreams, generally, and i don’t put much meaning into dreams, generally 

generally 

POST PLUS IS COMING, WHETHER YOU WANT IT OR NOT!

Despite the fancy survey, changes to the UI and TOS reveal we’re getting the service in the future whether we want it or not. Obviously, Post+ is a terrible idea that is trying to bank revenue on user content. Unlike patreon or onlyfans, tumblr’s primary focus is on FAN content. The legality of this is NOT in the users favor and as the new tumblr TOS states, said users will be entirely liable for whatever legal matters arise.

SO WHAT ARE WE DOING?

Besides filling out the survey, it’s time to show tumblr we mean business and show our displeasure by hitting them where it hurts.

Ad revenue.

We’re proposing a 24 hour log off as phase one of this protest.

WHEN IS THE PROTEST?

AUGUST 6th, 2021        12 am Eastern Time (US)          5 am Greenwich Mean Time          6 am Central European Time          8 am Moscow Standard Time          1 pm Australian Western Time          2 pm Japan Standard Time          3:30 pm Australian Central Time          4 pm Australian Eastern Time

AUGUST 5th, 2021

11 pm Central Time (US)          10 pm Mountain Time (US)            9 pm Pacific Time (US)

THE END TIME IS 24 HOURS FROM START TIME!!!

So no posting, no queues, no likes, and no reblogs!

WHAT IF I CAN’T/WHAT ELSE CAN I DO?

Like this post and share it AS MANY TIMES AS POSSIBLE. Use the hashtags #tumblrlogoff2021 or #postplusprotest on ANY and ALL social media.

WILL THIS WORK?

Maybe, maybe not. It’s an attempt at doing SOMETHING.

BECAUSE I’M A TIRED IDIOT, USE THIS TO DOUBLE CHECK YOUR TIME ZONE!!!!

timeanddate.com

Event Time Announcer - Log off protest 2021

Event Time Announcer shows time for Log off protest 2021 in locations all over the world. In New York it happens on Friday, August 6, 2021 a

resurrection as the sidewalk you walk your dog down - judas h.

MASTERPOST

  BTS x Reader longfic | idolverse au, uber driver!Reader, translator!Reader | Fluff, flirting, super slow burn, angst and hurt/comfort, mature themes and eventual smut 

Status: ongoing

Rating: Teen (for now - will have eventual smut, which will change the rating)

Summary: Your normal life with a normal, yet inconsistent job gets drastically changed when your dreams come true. Sounds boring right? What happens when all of this occurs, but you’re still doing something you love AND getting a large sum for it? Now there’s something to think about, and it’s definitely not what you’re thinking.

Word Count: approximately 92k (so far) 

<< masterlist 

🚗 STORY SURVEY RESULTS 🚗 (31/7/2020)

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵   

Chapter 1 

Chapter 2 

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5 

Chapter 6

Chapter 7 

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25 - SPECIAL

Chapter 26

ongoing …

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Drabbles

Coming Soon

          Copyright © 2020 by salade. All rights reserved. No part of this collection may be reproduced, distributed, or translated in any form or by any means. Legal action will be taken if necessary.

Another de-aged Danny au, but he's with Dan & Ellie & Jazz as well.

Jason has like just arrived back to Gotham, caused chaos in the underbelly due to well, 8 heads in a duffle bag, and is just starting his takeover of Crime Alley. It's going good, great even! And then he busts some sort of gang or smuggling ring run by people in white suits and there's... holy shit why do these four toddlers have Lazarus eyes?!

Is that a lab?! And Lazarus waters?! Jason might be a bit mad but he's not an asshole, he's not going to just leave these kids here to the streets. He can't just take them to the Batclan either, and as much as he begrudgingly trusts Talia, he sure as fuck doesn't trust Ras. Who knows what he'd do to four... what are they, pit-kids?

Now he's juggling his whole revenge-thing, running a criminal empire, taking over Gotham's underbelly, and being a single dad. At least the goonion seems to be down for helping, seeing as he's making Crime Alley safer...? .... Fuck he needs some proper sleep

Taehyun: On a scale from ‘damn Daniel’ to ‘Fre sha vaca do’, how are you feeling?

Kai: In between ‘it’s an avocado, thanks’ and ‘how did you defeat Captain America’ but as a solid answer I would say ‘I don’t need a degree to be a clothing hanger’ how about you Beomgyu hyung?

Beomgyu: Probaly road work ahead.

Yeonjun: I speak many languages and this is none of them.

Pro Tip: The Way You End a Sentence Matters

Here is a quick and dirty writing tip that will strengthen your writing.

In English, the word at the end of a sentence carries more weight or emphasis than the rest of the sentence. You can use that to your advantage in modifying tone.

Consider:

In the end, what you said didn't matter.

It didn't matter what you said in the end.

In the end, it didn't matter what you said.

Do you pick up the subtle differences in meaning between these three sentences?

The first one feels a little angry, doesn't it? And the third one feels a little softer? There's a gulf of meaning between "what you said didn't matter" (it's not important!) and "it didn't matter what you said" (the end result would've never changed).

Let's try it again:

When her mother died, she couldn't even cry.

She couldn't even cry when her mother died.

That first example seems to kind of side with her, right? Whereas the second example seems to hold a little bit of judgment or accusation? The first phrase kind of seems to suggest that she was so sad she couldn't cry, whereas the second kind of seems to suggest that she's not sad and that's the problem.

The effect is super subtle and very hard to put into words, but you'll feel it when you're reading something. Changing up the order of your sentences to shift the focus can have a huge effect on tone even when the exact same words are used.

In linguistics, this is referred to as "end focus," and it's a nightmare for ESL students because it's so subtle and hard to explain. But a lot goes into it, and it's a tool worth keeping in your pocket if you're a creative writer or someone otherwise trying to create a specific effect with your words :)

influencers don’t get it. sure you can stage beautiful pictures of your beautiful self in your beautiful house in expensive workout gear without ever going to the gym. take a mirror selfie that isn’t actually a mirror selfie. it’s you holding your phone with another camera on a timer. get your 500k instalikes. sell tea that makes us shit. vitamin supplements we piss out. you will never have the impact of a girl blogger with 10 likes on a post about the strawberries she got on sale at the grocery store today. i love when social media is a diary. i love you mundane expression. i love you pictures of pets i love you casual selfies i love you weird lighting. i love you diary entries. i love you alive girl

ocean vuong / sandra cisneros / haruki murakami