Beltane Fire Dance - Loreena McKennitt
I am absolutely in love with this, even though it’s not Beltane yet )O(
From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.
you are now one day closer to eating your next plate of nachos
This is the most hopeful thing I’ve ever read.
what if I die tomorrow and never eat any nachos
then tomorrow is nacho lucky day
he’s always a bloody risk.
She is twenty-one years old when the mailman hands her the envelope. Her name is written in tilted, looping letters pressed hard into the thick paper, her full name, the name she hasn’t gone by in ten years. No one calls her Alexandria anymore, but when she slides the letter out and rubs her fingers over the cut-out diamond shapes, she remembers. And she knows.
As she is packing, she comes across the small box she used to carry around endlessly like a comforting teddy bear and opens it for the first time in years. The hinges creak with age, cheap wood rough under her fingertips, and there—yes, still there: the pictures of her family outside of a home she barely remembers anymore. The first quarter she found in America. The bronze spoon and the tiny elephant. All of the things she used to love so much that she couldn’t bear to let go of them: they are all still here. The face on the quarter has faded, the spoon rusted, her note to Nurse Evelyn wrinkled, pictures handled so much that the ink and colours along the fold lines have faded entirely—but still here.
She closes the box and places it reverently in her suitcase.
When he opens his eyes, two weeks after mailing the letter with shaking, wheelchair-calloused hands, she is standing in the doorway to his hospital room, long hair covered with a bright blue shawl. He stares for a moment, stunned by his own anxiety (does she understand? how much does she remember? does she even know she saved my life?), and then she smiles and she has all of her teeth. All of her strength. The little girl with a broken arm and a strange accent, the child who drew him pictures and wanted to stay sick forever—she’s here, smiling, and she has all of her teeth and two unbroken arms. They stare at each other from across the room, the sun setting against her face, and that is a miracle in and of itself, Roy thinks.
He watches her enter the room, stares as she picks up a chair, a grin spreading across his tired face as she brings it over and sits down, setting her suitcase aside.
“Tell me a story,” she says.
And he does.
lappeldu-vide replied to your post: I want to write a Hounds snippet where Sherlock is…Oh that IS pretentious as all hell. But I would read the fuck out of it and probably love it because who doesn’t love e.e. cummings?
221tea replied to your post: I want to write a Hounds snippet where Sherlock is…THAT’S NOT PRETENTIOUS okay maybe a little but THAT’S NOT THE POINT, THE POINT IS THAT YES, IT WOULD BE GLORIOUS. DO IT. PLEEEAAAASE! Seriously, if anyone could pull it off, you could.
Haha, thank you, I guess! At least I can count on Chelsea to shut me down if something is shitty.
To be fair, I haven’t read everything you’ve written, but I just can’t see you writing Sherlock badly. Everything you’ve published for Texts and the Sigerson Letters has been pretty bang on the mark. Your writing is fantastic and don’t let that self-esteem get you down on yourself.