Help required ! I have notes on many of my posts, but I can’t see those who are liking/reposting, all I can see is how many notes there are! Stupid Tumblr error is obviously stupid, I’d love a solution… anyone have one?

(Source: laviedesautres, via sallyintheskywithdiamonds)

Wolf!

There’s a trick you can play with a blade of grass – not so much a trick, more a simple thing to pass the time. By holding a particularly thick blade of grass between two thumbs tightly, and blowing on the green in just the right place, you can emit from the vibrating grass a high-pitched noise that can serve to be extremely good at time-passing. Most children find this out at some point during their childhoods, either from watching elders or simply from experimenting. It’s a little fun with a little piece of grass. That’s all. 

Once, a boy used this high-pitched noise as he stalked the perimeter of his flock of sheep, shrieking and screaming through the vibrating green. The sound kept the sheep frantic and moving – when he tooted they darted from one spot to another, colliding with each other and sending tufts of matted wool into the pale air. They feared the noise as it was never consistent – a blade of grass can hit too many notes, too many for a sheep to learn from. The sheep were not clever, the boy knew, and being a bit slow himself he felt a need to exert some kind of superiority over the creatures. He did this by scaring them, by occasionally kicking them, and by throwing small rocks and stones at their thin legs. They would scamper away so quickly then often tripped and fell. An upside-down sheep would always be a hilarious sight for the boy, for an upside-down sheep can’t right itself properly without a good amount of struggling and straining and complaining. When a sheep tumbled to the eaten grass the shepherd boy would laugh and laugh, his youthful cackles blending with the pained baas of the woolly choir.  

Being slightly dim, it was understandable that the boy had to entertain himself with cheap tricks. Many shepherds in the fields around put their time on the grasses to good use, he was constantly told, but the boy did not know how to craft a shepherd shed or build a temporary fence for his perimeter. He could probably learn woodcraft and, with a stone and a good piece of bark, could join his cloaked peers in making fine little wood statues to get a few coins with in the markets. But the boy did not have the patience for woodworking. He did not really have the patience for anything – especially, when it came down to it, shepherding. 

The week in which it all began was an icy one. The sheep would slip upon mossed rocks and their shepherd would curse as the entire flock turned chaotic in moments. A few sheep were crippled, and once a sheep went down the boy was supposed to pull them onto his cart to bring home with him. It would be easier to end their suffering and leave them upon the grasses… but then the wolves would be drawn to the white corpse, and, after ravaging it, would follow the flock’s trail. Even the boy knew that to abandon even his oldest ewe would be foolish, and yet he wished he could, for by noon he was pulling a cart loaded with three injured sheep and his callused hands were splintered and burning. 

“Why do I bother?” His question caused the old ewe at the top of the cart to eye him lazily, her speckled face indifferent. “Mangy evils, you all. Stupid and fat and smelling worse than the hole. Should pile you all on top of this cart and drop it down the cliff…” The boy smiled to himself at the thought, and continued onwards, wincing with every step as blisters threatened to break.

When the shepherd sat for bread, huddled in a heavy cloak made from the flocks of his grandfathers, he ate with an eye on the sheep. Unfortunately it was his bad eye the boy kept on the sheep – the one the old dog had clawed at in his tenth summer, with the black veins and limping lid. In the longest days, when even the sheep didn’t deserve his scorn, the shepherd fancied that when he shut his eyes the bad one could see things no-one else could. Fantastical things would appear before him, red-headed sirens amongst ravenous dragons and mythical creatures. These were figures only told about in the crossed books, and even in those they were the devil’s inventions. But the shepherd liked to pretend to himself that he saw them in his bad eye, for it passed the time almost as good as ear and nose picking could. 

The boy’s eyes were closed once the bread was gone, because in the cold he was forced to huddle, and once huddled his need for sleep took over. His left eye was oblivious, but his right eye was seeing again. Before him he imagined his flock at night – regular as they were, dishevelled in the cold and miserable as usual, pushing together in an effort to keep warm. Most shepherds would mix with the flock and sit between them to share that warmth, but the boy found the idea daft and repulsive. 

As he dreamt, a shadow arose over the hilltop in the corner of his flawed eye. It swayed upon hind legs and stood at a ferocious size above his flock; where his sheep were pale, the beast was dark, and his shadow as he towered fell on the creatures and broke the contras. The sheep were almost impossible to see in the night. When the beast turned, slow and antagonizing, it was to face the shepherd. The boy expected to see the white gleam of an eye reflecting the moonlight, but there was nothing to see in its black face but the dark. Then it began to move, sweeping through the boy’s bickering flock with a horrible and haunting rhythm, prowling in a manner that was instantly familiar. The sudden shock of knowing what the shadow truly was caused the young shepherd to jump, out of and even within his dream, and as he did so he could not help but scream out the creature’s name. ‘Wolf!’

“WOLF!” He awoke – and with his cry did the sheep, bursting into life beneath the setting sun’s white flare and colliding with each other in confusion. The shepherd imitated them, leaping to his feet with the image of the werewolf still fresh in his mind. 

“Wolf! Help me! WOLF!” The hills echoed his words and as they were repeated he sank back to the cold grass, shaking, shivering. “Wolf…” His hands hit the earth and the ice that clung to it soothed his blistered fingers, and at the same time grounded the child. He dug his fingernails in frozen mud and forced his gaze upwards, allowing himself to acknowledge that his nightmare had been in control. He saw, in both his good eye and his bad, the truth – a safe flock, frantic but unharmed. But he had shouted wolf. He had shouted, and before he saw them he knew they were there; the villagers in their numbers, brandishing torches and sharpened sticks, ready for wars. 

“Son? Where is it?! Where’s the devil beast?” Grizzled, a figure approached. With the light behind him he was initially as dark as the shepherd’s nightmare. When he shifted his weight he was recognisable, but the boy was not relieved to see him.

“Father… there’s no wolf…”

“What? We heard you cry wolf – are you telling us there’s no wolf?!” Behind the tall man the other villagers were checking the flock for wounds and distress. Hanging his head, the shepherd replied in a whisper.

“There’s no wolf… I -  I guess I lied? I’m sorry.” 

“Is this amusing to you?! This is the village’s flock, and you abuse your responsibility to entertain yourself?” The father’s voice remained low, but the anger rushed through his tone while the blood rushed to his shamed son’s face. “Get back to work. Watch the sheep for the night. Do your duty, and do it right.” 

-unfinished, await edit! (:  

Icarus

Getting out was being reborn. Not everyone takes a chance when it is offered to them. Not everyone sees opportunity and grasps it between heavy talons. We’re often almost programmed just to think about getting out, but not to truly grasp the offer. We dream, and we see blue skies, and the ruined bars that entrap us disappear in our vision. Sometimes we take tentative steps towards the escape - but it’s not enough to step, especially when everything targeting you represents a dooming, disastrous end. Who thinks about leaping? Who thinks about flying?

Jim

Three men sat and surveyed the wood-panelled room, the room Jim Crawn had just entered. Two of the men were positioned either side of the white-wigged old one in the middle; the one whose wig seemed the cleanest, whose lapels looked to be the most parallel. All sat on the polished high bench, dominating, yet saying nothing. Jim couldn’t quite tell precisely why they were there. One seemed to be far too busy imitating the stance of a man deep in thought, and the other far too busy stroking the jagged peaks of his yellowed tobacco-teeth with one curious finger. Was he counting them? Was he really counting his teeth? It was enough to make Jim angry, but he kept that inside. He was not allowed emotion - not here.

A quick and rather random reading of Bali-Snake. 
My first time recording myself and trying not to be a girl. I like doing this, however, so if you like listening then let me know and I’ll do another for a different poem. ^^  

He begins with the big button – as always. Before it was pressed it was always silent and lifeless, and it sat in sullen anticipation of the push. He was just the same. Nothing was life unless the button had been pushed. He functioned, he tolerated, and he moved on, but he didn’t exult, and he could never truly enjoy until his finger closed in on that well-worn circle of black plastic. Everything was just a wait. But when that moment did come, the lights in his eyes would come on. White brightness would crash around him, slamming shadows into disappearance and causing eyes to squint in order to adjust, while heartbeats quickened in excitement. The noise that would then fill the small room would be almost cacophonous, blasting bolts of sound that were on the edge of hurting with their force. Everything would be an attack of his senses and yet would meet little in the way of defence, for this was a welcome enemy, and he always met it with open eyes and a ready grin.

After primary flashes of corporate necessity, which he had long ago learnt to escape with a practised stab of his thumb in the right place, he would always take a second to drink in the beauty of it all before the true beginning. This was the edge – the brink, the last moment of pause before the life would envelope him. He loved this lull, this limbo stage in which he could sense what was to come. He would take literal drinks and feed any hungers, making sure no irritating stop to feed human desires would be necessary for the next few hours. His eyes would slowly begin to narrow in concentration as his mind prepared for the coming obstacles and trials. He would think hard about the last time he did this, surveying the new intelligence collected that could be of use as his fingers excitedly dance over the buttons in his hands.

These buttons are different, yet just as important, as the first. He always holds them as sacred before him. Nothing is quite as familiar to him as these buttons. His touch would glide over them when it needed to without hesitation or doubt. Once, in the highs of his seventeenth year, a girl had placed her lips on his and allowed his hand to travel beneath her bra. His hand was cold and she had jumped in shock beneath it. When his shaking fingertips reached the rise of her breast, it didn’t have to awkwardly search for the nipple as he had feared, because her nipples were hard. He had rubbed for a while - as he thought he was supposed to - and she seemed to like that well enough. But that got boring too quickly, and so he pinched. She didn’t like that too much.

He likes to think that the buttons beneath his fingers are that nice girl’s nipples, and so he always takes care caressing them gently before entering his private world. It doesn’t matter that one is flesh and blood and the other plastic and power, because to him the latter has just as much life and love in it as the former. If anything, he prefers the nipple-buttons to the real thing; when he pinches these ones, they don’t run away. The almost sensual act of controlling the contraption between his fingertips always has the power to make him feel at home.

So he begins with the button. He begins with a smile, a pair of narrowed eyes, and the thrumming buzz inside of him that touches everything and at the same time fills his mind with blind anticipation. He loves this, loves it more than anything. Why should he do anything else when he can do this, when he can -

It’s not working.

His finger slams into the black plastic circle a second time. He doesn’t worry unnecessarily just yet – sometimes there’s a lag. Sometimes his sister takes the plugs out to annoy him.

There is no lag. The plugs aren’t out. They’re in, everything’s in, everything should be working – but it’s not. Now he worries. Now he picks up his shining console and surveys it with wide, frantic eyes. Now his breathing gets heavier and his smile fades.
It can’t be broken… and yet there’s no familiar thrum beneath the plastic, no gentle warm wind coming from the fans. There’s a silence instead, and it’s heavy and oppressive, filling the room with an awkward pain that hurts more than blasting bolts of sound ever could. The black box between his palms is dead.

(Source: rumour, via requiemoblivion)

Letter to my father. Not sure if I will send it.

-

The pulse quickens, uncertain and too wild,

Unrestrained and, for the moment, lost.

Similar, his eyes – wildly they narrow,

Only to stand stark and open, focused.