Scurrilous Owl 🦉
Rather insufferable, a bit of a dullard and prone to monologuing. Love a good cup of tea, though.
Scurrilous Owl 🦉
Rather insufferable, a bit of a dullard and prone to monologuing. Love a good cup of tea, though.
Rather insufferable, a bit of a dullard and prone to monologuing. Love a good cup of tea, though.
Rather insufferable, a bit of a dullard and prone to monologuing. Love a good cup of tea, though.
Alligal thought at first it to be the clouds rolling over the sun. His jaunt along the anfractuous pathway cutting through the fields remained still a quiet one. He craned his head upward toward the blotted light and squinted. He saw nothing, and the blot steadily absconded from the sun, obscuring it no further.
It was then that the unearthly roar of a creature punctured the natural world and its ambience. Alligal's eyes widened in a fresh panic, his gaze returning to the sky to scour its endlessness in search of the source. The sky blotted out once more and shielding its light were the outstretched, leathery wings of an elder dragon. It wrenched open its colossal maw and bellowed low enough to scatter the wildlife, displacing pebbles with its mighty thrum.
Alligal watched the beast descend further. In the core of its serpentine gaze, it saw him, and made a corkscrew for Alligal's meagre body. Alligal managed to avoid the initial flyover, the brutal shove of wind caught in the dragon's wings flung his body to the arid ground. Alligal scrambled back onto his feet and reached behind his back for his bow, fumbling quickly for an arrow to wield. With practised fingers he drew the bow back and aimed up, sucking in his breath and fixating on the tremendous creature's bulky, black body.
"All I wanted was a lazy Sunday," He muttered, setting his aim true. "...But now I have to kill you."
His fingers released the arrow, and as it punctured the beast's exposed underbelly, the dragon snarled in ignited rage.
A battle had begun.
"I must have OCD". Because you like the way Your pens look when they're lined By their colour and height.
But you don't know the half Or even a quarter Of the insomnia Keeping you trapped in Wondering if you'll die Because you didn't look Enough times at the door.
OCD is violence. The fear of who I am That I might be evil Because my mind tells me That if I pass a girl I might want to kill her.
So I have to count things To make the thoughts leave For a glimmer of peace At the expense of my Broken and picked at skin. Yet another symptom That the world does not know.
"I must have OCD". Because you're neat and clean. But you don't have those thoughts The ones that keep you up The ones that make you cry. You never wash your hands Until the skin peels off And you never break down Because you are convinced You are a cursed monster.
I wish I had the thing That people like to think Is what OCD is. That kind of quirky trait. Instead of the one that Makes me want to kill
Myself.
The common misconception about mafias and gangs, Zachary thought, was that they were little more than a cluster of coordinated thugs with no intelligence. Hence the settling for violence.
Zachary did not particularly feel the same. A don, a head, a leader. Sharply dressed and charismatic, he thought more of himself as a traditional leader. One that not only leads, but establishes that much needed rapport. One did not get far making more enemies than allies.
Not to say, of course, that Zachary possessed no enemies at all. Occasionally down in the gutless dredges of dark alleys and seedy, derelict apartments, new gangs arose. Gangs with aspirations. Zachary's name among the criminals of the city rung both infamous and frightening. But some wanted a portion of that lucrative reputation for themselves. Zachary did not take kindly to competition. In order to make a business lucrative after all, rivalry has no right surviving.
The dead of night brought forth the thugs like rats. Clambering for territory and vandalising anything to release the mounting frustration and dissatisfaction for life. Among the groups harboured a gang leader named Iago. His own reputation steadily rising, enough to pique Zachary's interest, and his attention.
Others attempted to warn Iago. Stave off climbing too high. Others were less subtle, outright lamenting Iago's early death should he continue to breach that dangerously tempting realm of the elite and criminal.
His head connected with the metal swell of a bat. Iago's body hit the wall beside him, vision doubling with a wave of cloudiness. Above him loomed a silhouette, cold fingers wrenched up Iago's sagging head, the stranger's face inched closer. Zachary tutted, admiring his violent handiwork.
"They told me you were a fiery sort, I didn't expect it to be so easy," Zachary mocked. Iago blurted out a grunt of pain upon being struck again in the ribs. Zachary slung the bat nonchalantly over his shoulder. "But like all miserable wildfires, I'm going to have to snuff you out."
Nobody saw Iago again. Not a body, or a blot in conversation. Nobody wanted to ask for fear of invoking newfound interest from a certain man. They ignored the old bloodstains on the apartment brick, and ignored that a name almost on everyone's lips was now more a fragment forcibly forgotten.
Zachary thought the stereotype about those in mafias and gangs was untrue. One could be intelligent, poised and well established. But he had to admit the one portion that perhaps did in some instances ring true.
Violence is a necessity.
"So yes, they do have a song about you. Isn't that strange?"
It seemed the least of Heathcliff's problems. His tight scowl tightened further, the warbling Kate Bush flouting about the YouTube video's confines. I smiled, awkwardly, stifling the rising urge to wail along dramatically. But the song did not perturb Heathcliff nearly as much as the sight of a video playing on a laptop. His fingers pressed brutishly upon the E key, hesitant in the way a caveman might be to touch an open flame.
The world was not as Heathcliff knew it. Torn from the era of his book, the sound of passing cars terrified him, the groan of distant construction pricked his ears. A metaphorical cat exposed to the reality of modern living.
But at that moment, Kate Bush proved too much. With a grunt of displeasure, Heathcliff slammed the lid of the laptop down with a chaotic thud. I winced.
"Why has it all changed?!" He bellowed. Not wanting to spark more agitation, I slid my phone behind me. I had just paid for it and I was not about to lose it to a temperamental book character.
"Things just...got better?" My flimsy excuse proved how little I knew to answer the question. Heathcliff sneered, dissatisfied.
"Oh, have they?" He retorted with snide contempt for my feeble answer. But he had a point. In an odd way I didn't know if all aspects of modernity had indeed improved. Perhaps because I'd be quite keen to ride in a horse and carriage, touting a top hat and monocle. I scoured my thoughts for answers, and lit up when I found one hiding in the creases of my brain.
"Yes!" I proudly declared, and gestured to the shut laptop. "With this, I can speak with absolutely anyone, from any country and at any time I want! I can listen to all the music that exists, look at photographs that won't fade away, watch moving pictures that move like memories! Isn't that better than having none of that at all?"
Heathcliff appeared to consider it for a brief moment.
"Then why go and speak to anyone at all? If you can do it from the comfort of indoors?"
Yet another good point that I struggled to answer with as much confidence. Defeated, I sagged, and pointed toward the kitchen.
"We can keep food cold now. And cooking is easier."
A pitiful cry from my charismatic attempt to sway Heathcliff's opinion. But at the very least, I could show him the joy of a good tub of ice cream and a round of Netflix.
A pungent odour permeated the air. A sickly, rotten stench befell the fields, as if engulfed by death. Plumes of shining, arcane smoke billowed high in bulging bubbles rising high into the air.
A small spell gone most terribly wrong. Wynn, clutching her umbrella firmly in her cold fingers, winced at the enormous terror that began to cloak the forest in the distance. Its turgid rippling bloomed and crackled, a lavender thunderstorm threatening chaos wherever it touched upon. Wynn's brow furrowed with concern. She felt powerless to stop it, to prevent it from looming ever closer.
"By the fifteen heavens," Wynn muttered, cursing under her breath. With a wave of her hand, she attempted to dispel the horrible mass. A gleaming lilac smothered her fingertips, and for a hopeful moment the tempest slowed, before erupting with a loud and cacophonous thrum. Wynn recoiled in fright, clinging to the stem of her umbrella in a feeble attempt to defend herself.
She noticed its cloud-tail shifting. Walking urged by the winds, the billowing and insentient beast barrelled toward the dreamy village nestled by the forest's edge.
"Oh..." Wynn murmured. "...Fuck."
There are hopeless tears of grief and sorrow And yet the dawn will come tomorrow. The skies are dim, the world is hollow And yet the dawn will always follow.
The hopelessness, with carving knives Recoils in pain when dawn arrives Its festering in mortal lives Will all but die while dawn survives.
The blackened sky will light once more From endless field to calming shore Cry now in darkness, cry 'til you're sore The dawn is coming, just like before.
It had been three days since Ninian set away from Earlsbridge. Lucis, in tow at Ninian's side, casted his gaze over his shoulder at the retreating silhouette of 'The Blind Bee' tavern, and with it Goraidh's looming, waving figure gradually slipping out of view.
The road ahead offered little. A single post with dropping arrows and faded lettering passed the pair by, leaving nothing but the barren, anfractuous trail. The cart clinked and bobbed behind them both. Lucis fiddled with the frays in his ragged tunic, lifting his gaze to Ninian upon having an arm drape about his little shoulders.
"How are you feeling, Lucis?" Ninian asked, tone wrought with paternal concern for the young boy. Lucis could not summon enough of a motivation to give an answer, puffing out a sigh through his nose. Ninian's sad smile prompted him to affectionately tussle Lucis's short hair. Ninian wondered if it was the right thing to do, to take Lucis with him. The life of a merchant suited a child far less than one growing in a village. Yet ultimately it had been Lucis who chose to go. Deprived of a home through the trauma of brutal siege, to deprive Lucis further seemed too barbaric a notion to consider.
"...Goraidh," Lucis murmured, much to Ninian's surprise. "He said you were 'finally becoming a father'. You didn't want children?"
Ninian's face scrunched with thought. He tilted his head either side, summoning forth the best explanation to give to a child who had not long lost his own parents.
"Not..." Ninian trailed off. With a long drawl of the morning air, he sighed heavily, bringing Lucis into his side with a cuddle. "I never thought it the right time. Being a merchant meant I'd not be around my children much. Seemed unfair to my wife."
Lucis appeared to understand. A pregnant pause followed the end of Ninian's dialogue. Ninian bit his lower lip, chewing thoughtfully on the soft flesh.
"Fate had a different plan in mind, I reckon," Ninian smiled. Lucis glanced up at him, gaze caught by the sun and bringing the hues of his eyes a spring warmth. Ninian patted Lucis's side, feeling the soft curl of Lucis's fingers into the sleeve of Ninian's tunic. Ninian turned his attention to the road, and chuckled. "Let me teach you a song. As long as you promise me not to sing it in front of Goraidh when we meet him again."
Lucis breathed the slightest laugh, nodding his head.
"I promise."
I downloaded an astrology app mostly as a joke. My friend is into all of that sort of hocus pocus, she convinced me it was worth having despite how skeptical I am. Still, I wanted to make her happy, so I had the app collecting virtual dust while I went about my day.
I didn't really think about it until it sent me a notification. It told me I had a horoscope waiting to be read, which I thought was weird considering I didn't remember putting any of my information in for it to know. Maybe it was one of those that gathered information from the phone data. I figured I would take a screenshot and send to my friend whatever vague description it could conjure up for me. When I read it, though, it felt kind of weirdly relatable. Told me I'd been having a hard time lately, which is true, but obviously I'm not the only one who is. Told me I should stop trying to impress the people at my job, they would never be happy. Generic, but not terrible advice.
I deleted it after that. Too much storage. But it wouldn't go. It sent me a notification, told me that something 'ill would befall me'. True enough, I did have a bit of bad luck. Left my wallet on the train. But I'm a forgetful person, I can't chalk it up to the app.
I let it stay on my phone. I couldn't delete it after all, so I simply left it alone. Still, every day without fail at the turn of seven in the morning, my horoscope would be waiting for me. I didn't know how, but it started to use the names of people I knew. People at work, my friends, my family. Told me my mum was feeling lonely, and to expect a call. Three came and there it was. It started small like that, little predictions. Then came the found money, an opening in a new job I wanted. The app seemed to know everything. Sounds stupid, but I swear it's the truth. Each horoscope started to become my life's outline to the letter.
It told me something bad was going to happen. I spent the whole day at work on edge - but I couldn't let it distract me. It was just a horoscope after all.
But I hit a woman with my car on the way home. It was dark and raining and sudden. My phone lit up, my horoscope waited for me while I stood in the rain and looked at this mangled woman. But the horoscope said I wouldn't call for help, and that I would hide her instead. And that's what I did.
I got back in my car after and drove off. When I got home, another horoscope waited for me. I didn't want to read it, wet and shaken up as I was. But I did.
It told me that I would do it again.
Titanic is a word in the film industry that rivals its real life counterpart in terms of its colossal recognition around the world. With a stunning mastery of cinematography, strong dialogue and an emotional storyline, it is of little wonder how it manages to capture audiences even today.
There is little to dislike about this film. I adore the magnificent visuals, the compositions of the soundtrack and the faithfulness to the true tragedy of the real Titanic. The director injects so much life and wonder into the characters that I cannot help but to fall in love with their undaunted strength and togetherness. Coupled with such sincere and wonderful storytelling, I am never strained for attention, often glued to the screen no matter how many times I've seen it before.
Overall, I would wholeheartedly recommend this film to any and all who enjoy good storytelling and strong, emotional character development. A superb piece of cinematic history, and one that has well earned a place in my heart.
Wandering in a forest underneath the pale beams of moonlight. Leonide thought he might be sleepwalking, lead-heavy legs dragged him through the brambles, sluggish and sagging with unfamiliar weight.
The hum of crickets in monotonous orchestra blurred into one jarring vibration ringing in Leonide's ears. He could walk no further, too blinded by the penumbra to see more than a few steps in front of him. He let out a murmur, a breathless whisper that formed no true word, the sound stuck in the pit of his throat. A pale young man slid out of hiding from behind the thick and gnarled shadow of an evergreen, poised with a disarming and menacing grin.
"Are you lost, perhaps?" Asked the other, flicking his tongue across his teeth, shining with spit in the pale blue light. Leonide gave him no answer, prompting a disheartened and playful tut from the young man. The stranger's gaze swept over Leonide. "Should you be out, so late, and alone as you are? I wonder if you know the stories."
Leonide offered no rebuttal, vacant eyes half lidded and distant with tired apathy. He felt his lips part to speak but little more than air filtered out from his chest. Perhaps he was sleeping after all. The young man's brows furrowed with newfound agitation.
"You will not speak, lost one. Then begone, you are not welcome further."
"Am I dreaming?"
Leonide's voice punctured the conversation meekly, hoarse with disuse and wavering with nervous concern. The young man's lips pursed with impatient cynicism.
"You are in the waking world."
"But am I awake?" Leonide asked. "Do you know?"
"Only the awake can be in the waking world," Came the disgruntled reply. "Now go! Off with you, for wasting my time. You do not decide now to speak that I've shooed you off."
The waking world, Leonide thought, seemed a strange and unkind place to thrive. Yet he stood among the waking world a spectre, suspended in the realm of dreams and consciousness. He waited, the brittle tension between the two among the moonlight remained firmly in place.
"How does one leave this forest?" Leonide asked.
"I wouldn't know," The young man returned, tone pointed. "The same way you came in, I imagine."
Leonide's brow furrowed, just. "You've never left."
There came no answer, despite the question not being poised as one. The young man's state tapered off with forced disinterest. Neither spoke again, and the silence stretched into oblivion.
Leonide, bound to nothing, and the young man, bound to the forest. Both bore shackles neither could see nor understand. Leonide pitied the man for that.