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“It is not the same” she said seriously. One thing was to lie and another to be jealous of his little sister. Some women would’ve let this go, after all their duty was to raise their children and be the emotional support of their families, but Freya wasn’t like that. She had told Markus when she met him, she was not going to be belittled nor be an accessory. Oh no, she expected to be treated as an equal and with respect. Sleeping around with other women was not respect. When he let go of her, she refrained from rubbing her wrist, just because she was too proud to do so.
“So our son is lying and so is the rest of the crew” she commented skeptically as she moved to place another log to the fire that was dying. “Why would they invent such thing then? What did you do to piss them off?” She wondered.
A small smirk spreaded across her features. “Mortal wound? You are loosing your touch, Markus” she commented nonchalantly as she began to undo her braids, her long blonde hair cascading in perfect waves as she did.
“My breathing angers the general populace,” Markus was a popular man with his supporters, a monster with his adversaries–and he was a man with many adversaries. One didn’t stomp through blood and broken bone without a few negative consequences; it was easier to snap a neck or to slice through rib cages than to gain sizable grace and poise, “Your head is spun loose, this night.”
He couldn’t help but be offended at her implication. His power wasn’t a trait he liked to be questioned. Not from his men, his children, even from Freya, with her golden locks and rosy lips. How could it be fair, he thought, to be blessed with beauty, with an inside so coarse and violent?
Well, he supposed, she wasn’t thatcoarse. “Don’t tease,” he warned, wiping his hands on his trousers, “I’m sleeping with the dogs, tonight. It’s so like a woman to slit your throat in your sleep. No honor in that.”
Her eyes narrowed with anger at his comeback. He cheated on her and now he had the nerve to make it even worse, to sass her. It was that girl from the market, she knew, it had to be her, who else would it be? She was always batting her eyelashes at him and she had been the first one to volunteer for this trip.
Freya was hurt and angry, with both this woman and Markus, but mostly at Markus. Who could really blame her for doing what she pleased? She was a free woman after all, but him? He was a different story.
She was not afraid of him, of his size, of how intimidating he looked. He was a large man, yes, but she had known him her entire life. He might be threatening to everyone ese, but not to her. Freya looked up at him defiantly, her eyes matching his burning anger. A quiet hiss went past her lips when he grabbed her by her wrist, but she didn’t flinch, she was not going to give him the satisfaction.
“Who knows?” She replied. “Everyone is talking about it, even our son mentioned you disappeared every now and then so why should I think you didn’t?” She said slowly. “And in case you were wondering, I had a long day too, Markus…”
“Our son also suggested that we throw his sister into the river. Should we heed thatwisdom, as well?” Markus released her wrist, taking a few steps back and plopping back into his seat. The subject of Freya’s anger, admittedly, was not something he was overly concerned about, despite the aggression that flushed her cheeks. He teetered on the edge of morally grey–however, the assertion that he had slept with another woman in his absence was false.
Disregarding his tossed aside food, he tried to get back into his dinner, tearing off a slab of meat, fresh from a hunt. He chewed, silence echoing off the walls, off him, off Freya.
He swallowed, and groaned, exasperated, “I have seen no other woman. Whatever you heard of my comings and goings are the whispers between old crones that have nothing better to do than bend over and bear children,” He grunted, “I’ll gut whoever filled your ears with lies, if only to avenge the mortal wound against my face.”
The only silence came from the fire in their small cottage. Their children were asleep, they had been playing all day. Her son and his father returned from a long journey. They traveled with other villagers and of course the rumours didn’t take long to reach Freya’s ears. She looked at him, the man who had owned her heart since the very first moment, who sweep her off her feet when she was just a teenager, the man who claimed to love her just how she was: passionate, temperamental and a true fighter.
“So it’s true then…” she said quietly as she noticed his eyes on her. “When you were supposed to be taking care of our son you were whoring around with some foreign woman?” She asked dangerously calm and before she knew it, she slapped him hard. The sound of her hand smacking his cheek echoed across the living room, revealing how much he had hurt her. “Why did you do it? Am I not good enough for you?” She demanded, her tone quiet but full of anger.
Markus wasn’t so unwise as to not respond when Freya posed a question. No fear was too great for him to conquer–no arrow too sharp, no fall too tumultuous–but the sting of his lovers assault against his cheek left a blistering outrage that dug it’s fingers into his gut, twisting and mangling what patience he had left for her.
His teeth clenched tightly in his jaw, muscles working to keep him firmly in place, “Who is to say the woman was foreign?”
Damn his tongue–too often the fire in his belly got hold of it before his wits did. This wasn’t the time for spiteful humor. Tossing aside his meal, letting it scatter against the floor, he stood, with great reluctance, to his feet, chair squeaking with the release of his weight. Markus was a large man, it was often he destroyed anything that came across his path, even when he didn’t mean it. He came toe-to-toe with the braided blonde, eyes glinting hotly in the firelight, “You assume my imaginary whoring would take precedence over my blood and bone?”
He clenched her wrist in his own fist, before she took the ample opportunity to strike him again, “Answer wisely. I’ve had a long day.”
I WAS EXPECTING IT TO BE A REMAKE OF SOME SORT HOLY FUCK
WHO THE FUCK KEEPS BRINGING THIS BACK
reblog this because it shows up every blue moon
I FOUND IT ✊
I WAS SO SCARED IT WOULDNT BE THE ORIGINAL
Who first posted this?
I THOUGHT THIS WAS GOING TO END WITH A MEME OR SOME SHIT NO IT’S THE REAL ONE OH MY GOD
Wishing I’ll do well on my finals ✨
The first post on tumblr
Nice
[Image Description: “do you love the colour of the sky?” tumblr post, showing a a series of images meant to be read as one (or in rapid succession), showcasing the various colors and tones the sky gets throughout the day, ranging from a clear blue sky, orange sunsets, to a nightsky full of stars, etc. The ending text reads: which one? /End Description]
IN A WORLD WHERE BEAUTY AND ATTRACTIVENESS HAVE BECOME SO COMMONPLACE AND MUNDANE THE EXCEPTIONAL UGLINESS HAS BECOME DIVINE
I SAW AN ADVERTISEMENT FOR A CAR THAT LOOKS LIKE EVERY OTHER CAR AND THEY COMPARED IT TO A UNUSUAL UGLY LITTLE VEHICLE AND ITS STRANGENESS WAS FAR MORE CAPTIVATING THAN THE SLEEK BORING CAR THE AD WAS ACTUALLY FOR
[image ID: Text reading, “Beauty is, in some way, boring. Even if its concept changes through the ages… a beautiful object must always follow certain rules. A beautiful nose shouldn’t be longer than that or shorter than that, on the contrary, an ugly nose can be as long as the one of Pinocchio, or as big as the trunk of an elephant, or like the beak of an eagle, and so ugliness is unpredictable, and offers an infinite range of possibility. Beauty is finite, ugliness is infinite like God.”
The phrases, “a beautiful object must always follow certain rules.” and “Beauty is finite, ugliness is infinite like God.” are underlined in red
/end ID]
[Plain text: In a world where beauty and attractiveness have become so commonplace and mundane the exceptional ugliness has become divine.
I saw an advertisement for a car that looks like every other car and they compared it to a unusual ugly little vehicle and its strangeness was far more captivating than the sleek boring car the ad was actually for].
the laundry is quiet and empty—just another family-owned business on the brink of bankruptcy. the floor tiles are cracked and worn yellow with age, the paint is peeling, and the door sticks when it rains. when sejun was younger, he’d thought of the laundry as bright, cheerful, ebullient—sunshinefelt like a suitable name. these days, being in here sucks the energy out of him. the photo prints of sunflowers and summer fields his grandparents hung around the place all those years ago to spruce up the place just come across as subtly mocking.
slumped behind the counter, sejun fidgets with his phone. he’d give anything to pop outside for a smoke, but his grandparents are extremelyinsistent about never smoking anywhere near the laundry, and especially when he’s supposed to be working. not that anyone would notice if he was back in fifteen minutes, or twenty, or even thirty, but he doesn’t have it in him to disobey the few commands his grandparents have given him.
in an ideal world, he would’ve become an idol, hit it big, bought a comfortable house for his grandparents, and sold this place by now. in an ideal world, he wouldn’t be stuck here for four more hours, waiting on customers who won’t come. in an ideal world, he’d—
well. no use dwelling on it. lacing his fingers behind his head, he sighs. the world isn’t ideal. it’s not even fairmost of the time. thinking about it too much or expecting things to go the way you want them to will just piss you off. sejun’s had enough experience with the feeling to not recommend it to anyone. it’s not worth it to become bitter so young.
(ha, he wants to say. ha-fucking-ha. too young, and yet here he is.)
straightening up, his eyes fall on the loose stack of pamphlets and menus strewn over the counter. gathering them into neat piles separated by subject matter, sejun’s eyes fall on on a familiar name. jung jjajang. he fills in the rest of it automatically. the jjajangmyeon you’ll want to befriend! abandoning the other menus in the recycling bin, he makes sure jung jjajang’s menus are the only ones visible.
another one of those instances where the world isn’t fair, he thinks idly. the restaurant’s phone number glares up at him, chanting call me! call me! call me! honestly, he could go for a bowl of jjajangmyeon right about now—jung jjajang’s food never fails to lift his mood, and the number is already in his phone, but he hesitates before hitting dial. suha’s ghost hovers over his shoulder, saying, didn’t you say you weren’t going to make the same mistakes again?
same, selfish mistakes.
(he remembers dialing jung jjajang’s number and saying, send me your cutest delivery boy, with a cheeky grin, brimming with excitement at the thought of luring his best friend over to the company.
i’m the only delivery boy, suha’d replied, laughing. but sure—i’ll squeeze you in as my last delivery.)
subin isn’t suha, and it’s nowhere near the end of the day, and it’s just one fucking bowl of jjajangmyeon—nowhere near the end of the world. but his finger is still frozen over the dial button, and one bowl of jjajangmyeon isn’t worth a life at the end of the day.
god, but the taste of it reminds him so much of suha.
sejun hits dial without processing and places his order. his usual request rests at the tip of his tongue, but without suha to answer back on the other end, it dies in his mouth. instead, he asks, “this isn’t the last delivery or anything, is it?” nope! comes the reply. it doesn’t help unravel the knot in his chest much, but he feels a little less anxious as he hangs up and waits for subin to arrive.
maybe she should’ve just gone to pick up the food himself. no one’s going to come to the laundry, and sejun will be counting the seconds till subin arrives anyway, but going to jung jjajang is one terrifying situation he doesn’t want to dive right into. subin is different, subin is comfortable and kind, subin makes him feel—less guilty or responsible. but subin’s parents… sejun’s not sure he can face them even now. doesn’t know how. his shamelessness doesn’t extend that far, and he doesn’t have enough apologies.
so he waits, nails picking at the splinters in the counter, for the familiar silhouette to come to a stop in front of the doors—and when it does, for a moment he thinks, oh, oh, you’re here, you’re back—
but reality hits a moment later as the door opens. the deliveryperson who pops inside is not suha, will never be suha again. sejun arranges his features into a pleased smile nonetheless, because even though he’s not suha, he’s glad to see subin whole and unharmed. he’s always just glad to see subin.
“you’re late!” he says cheerfully. “i almost fell asleep waiting for you, subinnie.” a beat, and then adds nonchalantly, “everything okay on your way over here?”
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“Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.” ~ W. S. Merwin, “Separation” [’84A - Atsuko Tanaka]
• The themes that preoccupied Mr. Merwin most keenly were those that haunt nearly every poet: the earth, the sea and their myriad creatures; the cycle of the seasons; myth and spirituality (he was a practicing Buddhist); personal history and memory; and, above all, life and its damnable evanescence. More: https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/15/obituaries/w-s-merwin-dead-poet-laureate.html
• Atsuko Tanaka was a Japanese avant-garde artist best known for her Neo-Dada Electric Dress (1956), a garment made from hundreds of lightbulbs painted in primary colors. This iconic work, which she wore to exhibitions, functions as a conflation of Japanese traditional clothing with modern urbanization, bringing an unexpected and challenging interpretation to both. “I wanted to shatter stable beauty with my work,” Tanaka once said. More: http://www.artnet.com/artists/atsuko-tanaka/
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