For my sweetheart, my darling, my love, my everything: Happy birthday. I tried to write you a fairytale. I hope you enjoy it even a fraction as much as I love all the things you write, and from the bottom of my heart, I love you.

—-

Once upon a time —

(The best stories start with once upon a time. Sometimes it’s implied, but read close and you will see it, luring you in, saying it’s okay, let go, join me. Even the true tales draw you in with once upon a time. Perhaps it’s a better statement for the true tales than the false ones, but is any tale ever entirely false?)

Once upon a time there was a storyteller.

Like all the most interesting people, ve was complicated, much more than one thing: Ve was a home, lived-in and well-loved, stairs well-worn and doors that you have to open right to keep from creaking; ve was a cat and a fae one and a creature of the forest and a muse, and ve was a million other things as well, but for the purposes of this story, we will say that ve was a storyteller and leave it at that.

(Storytellers come in many shapes and fashions, and they tell their stories in many ways, but you will know them all the same ways: They tell stories even when they aren’t meaning to, drifting into them as easy as breathing, and not letting stories out would kill them, slowly but surely. It may not stop their heart from beating, but it would kill them all the same.)

And there are so many stories that can be told about the kinds of people that are a million things at once. There are the stories of the things ve has done and seen and heard. There are the stories of the stories ve has told and the effects they have on the people who hear them, because a story can change your life or change your mind or change your mood or change your day, and all of them are important, because a great storyteller — and ve was a great storyteller, born with stories carved in their bones and ver tongue shaped to strange words, like all the best storytellers are — can make you believe in impossible things at least as long as a story lasts, if not longer. There are the stories of the things ve was, to verself, to others, to the world. But this is not the story I’ve come to tell you.

(There’s one story here that I’d like to tell you, though, hidden in the folds and weaved through with the first, and it goes like this: Once upon a time, someone fell in love with the storyteller, fell hard and fast and deep enough to drown, and the miracle, because love is always a miracle, is that they were loved in return. And they lived happily ever after, happy to be each other’s even if they weren’t happy with the rest of the world; and they lived creatively ever after, and silly ever after, and supportive ever after, and together ever after.)

No, the story I’ve come to tell you is simple.

Once upon a time, there was a storyteller. Ve was a beautiful person, amazing and wonderful, who brought light to all those lucky enough to be in ver life. Ve told amazing stories, and made amazing bonds, and grew, and changed, and enjoyed, and fought, and survived, and was.

And ve lived happily ever after.

She sits in the water for hours, sometimes for days, until somebody comes looking for her and bodily drags her back home. She sits there and submerges herself until she can’t take it any longer, until her lungs burn and then a little bit longer, until she’s choking and crying and gasping when she breaks surface. She lets her mouth open under the water, lets it come rushing into her throat, and she leaves her eyes open when she goes under, and when she bleeds, she submerges the wound in the ocean and hopes a little of the water gets in her blood. She sleeps where the waves can hit her, waking up to move when it’s been too long without the warmth of water rushing over her and the cool of it pulling away again. She lets the sun soak into her skin through the water, always a little bit sunburned somewhere. She lets the water batter her and pull her and push her and move it as it wills. Sometimes she dreams of turning to sea foam, like the mermaid who wished for a soul, who wanted more than anything to give up what she wants most of all. She doesn’t want to be a mermaid, doesn’t want to be a fish or a nymph or an oyster or a dolphin. She wants to be the water, she wants to be the ocean itself. She wants to dissolve and become part of waves, to help the current pull people in, to mix with the water until there’s no longer a distinction between what’s her and what’s it. Sometimes she prays to sea gods, and keeps her eyes out for witches and mermaids and nymphs, anything that might have the power to make her part of the sea. They haven’t shown themselves yet, and she’s been disappointed so many times, but that’s all right. When she’s disappointed she cries, and at least when she cries, she can be sure a little part of her is being welcomed into the water where it belongs. View high resolution

She sits in the water for hours, sometimes for days, until somebody comes looking for her and bodily drags her back home. She sits there and submerges herself until she can’t take it any longer, until her lungs burn and then a little bit longer, until she’s choking and crying and gasping when she breaks surface. She lets her mouth open under the water, lets it come rushing into her throat, and she leaves her eyes open when she goes under, and when she bleeds, she submerges the wound in the ocean and hopes a little of the water gets in her blood.

She sleeps where the waves can hit her, waking up to move when it’s been too long without the warmth of water rushing over her and the cool of it pulling away again. She lets the sun soak into her skin through the water, always a little bit sunburned somewhere. She lets the water batter her and pull her and push her and move it as it wills.

Sometimes she dreams of turning to sea foam, like the mermaid who wished for a soul, who wanted more than anything to give up what she wants most of all.

She doesn’t want to be a mermaid, doesn’t want to be a fish or a nymph or an oyster or a dolphin. She wants to be the water, she wants to be the ocean itself. She wants to dissolve and become part of waves, to help the current pull people in, to mix with the water until there’s no longer a distinction between what’s her and what’s it.

Sometimes she prays to sea gods, and keeps her eyes out for witches and mermaids and nymphs, anything that might have the power to make her part of the sea.

They haven’t shown themselves yet, and she’s been disappointed so many times, but that’s all right. When she’s disappointed she cries, and at least when she cries, she can be sure a little part of her is being welcomed into the water where it belongs.

(Source: nonhumanquotes)

(Reblogged from nonhumanquotes)
He tells them in very serious tones that the pumpkin is haunted, that he can’t control it, that it’s a terror and a monster and possessed and that something terrible is in control of it. He tells them it moves when they aren’t paying attention, he tells them it will do terrible things when their back is turned. And when they head back down the path, he glances towards the pumpkin, and when one or two glance nervously back over their shoulders, as they always do, it’s always different. Some of the groups he can still hear screeching down the block. Some argue about it the whole way home. Some laugh and tell themselves their eyes must be playing tricks on him. And him? Well, he just grins, and settles back to wait for the next visitors. God, he loves Halloween.

He tells them in very serious tones that the pumpkin is haunted, that he can’t control it, that it’s a terror and a monster and possessed and that something terrible is in control of it. He tells them it moves when they aren’t paying attention, he tells them it will do terrible things when their back is turned.

And when they head back down the path, he glances towards the pumpkin, and when one or two glance nervously back over their shoulders, as they always do, it’s always different.

Some of the groups he can still hear screeching down the block. Some argue about it the whole way home. Some laugh and tell themselves their eyes must be playing tricks on him.

And him? Well, he just grins, and settles back to wait for the next visitors.

God, he loves Halloween.

(Reblogged from aghostofwinter)

Coming Out Day.

So, it’s Coming Out Day again. I think everything I am I am fairly open about, but let me run down the list in case anyone’s not aware of them.

My name is Morgan Tam. It isn’t my legal name, but it is my chosen one.

I am polyamorous, asexual, and panromantic. I have been with my wonderful partner for a couple of years now, and we are engaged for nearly a year now, though it’s a rather long-term engagement that will probably last for a while longer. (We can’t legally marry in Florida, anyway.) I am kink-curious and probably submissive, but have not gotten the chance to explore my curiosity yet. I am gender-fluid leaning toward gender-neutral a good 80% of the time, and physically female.

And I am a second-generation Wiccan rediscovering my religion who would really just prefer to call myself a Witch rather than a religious label. I am a big sister by blood (who is technically a big half-sister but doesn’t care to make the distinction) and a little sister by love. I am not the only person in my head, but I don’t feel comfortable calling myself multiple. I am a water baby. I am a Cancer and a Moon baby. I am a believer in many things. I am a theater person, someone who gets a high off the atmosphere of it. I am someone dealing with depression and anxiety. I am a reluctant student. I am a writer. I am a person who enjoys asking what if. I am a singer and an actress, even if I am out of practice on both. I am a roleplayer. I am a hopeful future traveler. I am a lover of logic puzzles and word games. I am a future English major who finds some of the more repetitive kinds of math strangely comforting. I am a fangirl. I am a reader. I am so, so many more things than I can think of to list here, but there’s a start for you.

And I am still figuring a lot of things out. I am a searcher. I am waiting to figure out what, or who, I belong to.

In the spirit of the day, if you have anything you’d like to know about me, ask, no matter how basic, personal, or silly it might be. If I don’t feel comfortable answering publicly I will email you or drop it in your submit/ask, but I will at least try to answer anything I’m asked. My submit and ask boxes are both enabled.

She finds the note in a back of a library book, she finds it just when she needs it most. She’s been alone for years. Her family didn’t understand her, her friends are gone, and nobody’s looked at her romantically for a long time. She feels unloved and unworthy and lonely and wrong. She’s not meant to be alone, but she never realized that until she was, and then it was too late. The only people she can go back to are the ones that can’t accept her for who she is. But the note. She finds it in the back of her favorite book, the one she’s saving up to buy a new copy of because her old one fell apart after over a decade of frequent reading. She finds it because she can’t go for more than a few weeks without saying hello to her old friends, the ones who’ve been with her longer than she can remember, the ones who taught her how to grow up. She finds it because she doesn’t want the book to be over, so she keeps turning pages after the story ends. And there it is, tucked snugly between the last two pages, tightly enough that it can’t fall out. For a while she just looks at it, she thinks about it, she wonders who left it there, and then she starts to smile. She heads towards the exit with the card tucked in her pocket, but she hesitates near the door. She wonders what she would have done if someone else had taken it before she found it. She wonders who else might need to hear this. So she takes it to the copier, and she makes herself a copy, and then she tucks it back between the last two pages of the book that she’d set back on the shelf. And she leaves with no less of a spring in her step and a smile on her face, her hand on the copy in her pocket the whole way home. View high resolution

She finds the note in a back of a library book, she finds it just when she needs it most.

She’s been alone for years. Her family didn’t understand her, her friends are gone, and nobody’s looked at her romantically for a long time. She feels unloved and unworthy and lonely and wrong. She’s not meant to be alone, but she never realized that until she was, and then it was too late. The only people she can go back to are the ones that can’t accept her for who she is.

But the note.

She finds it in the back of her favorite book, the one she’s saving up to buy a new copy of because her old one fell apart after over a decade of frequent reading. She finds it because she can’t go for more than a few weeks without saying hello to her old friends, the ones who’ve been with her longer than she can remember, the ones who taught her how to grow up.

She finds it because she doesn’t want the book to be over, so she keeps turning pages after the story ends.

And there it is, tucked snugly between the last two pages, tightly enough that it can’t fall out.

For a while she just looks at it, she thinks about it, she wonders who left it there, and then she starts to smile.

She heads towards the exit with the card tucked in her pocket, but she hesitates near the door. She wonders what she would have done if someone else had taken it before she found it. She wonders who else might need to hear this.

So she takes it to the copier, and she makes herself a copy, and then she tucks it back between the last two pages of the book that she’d set back on the shelf.

And she leaves with no less of a spring in her step and a smile on her face, her hand on the copy in her pocket the whole way home.

(Reblogged from iloveyoursoul)
thingstocallpretty: (by brianoldham) She likes color, she likes bright things and lovely things. She likes beautiful things above her or below her because so few people really think to look up or down without a reason and they feel like they’re all her own, her and the few special people who study all around them. And sometimes she points them out, because everybody deserves beautiful things and she doesn’t always want to keep the lovely things to herself. Sometimes she likes to share, to watch other people look in amazement and joy and wonder. Sometimes sharing the feeling makes it more vibrant, more consuming, makes it stay longer. Today has been cold and rainy and the sky is still beautiful, but so many people look unhappy, and she wants to change it. So when the rain stops, she leaves her umbrella up and she concentrates on the umbrella, she concentrates on beauty and color and amazing things. She trails them behind her as she walks, balloons floating into the sky, and she watches people’s faces as they come out of her umbrella. She doesn’t need to turn around to see the beauty in this, she can see it in other people”s eyes, widening in wonder and laughing at the brightness, and she smiles as bright as anyone watching.

thingstocallpretty:

(by brianoldham)

She likes color, she likes bright things and lovely things. She likes beautiful things above her or below her because so few people really think to look up or down without a reason and they feel like they’re all her own, her and the few special people who study all around them. And sometimes she points them out, because everybody deserves beautiful things and she doesn’t always want to keep the lovely things to herself. Sometimes she likes to share, to watch other people look in amazement and joy and wonder. Sometimes sharing the feeling makes it more vibrant, more consuming, makes it stay longer.

Today has been cold and rainy and the sky is still beautiful, but so many people look unhappy, and she wants to change it.

So when the rain stops, she leaves her umbrella up and she concentrates on the umbrella, she concentrates on beauty and color and amazing things.

She trails them behind her as she walks, balloons floating into the sky, and she watches people’s faces as they come out of her umbrella.

She doesn’t need to turn around to see the beauty in this, she can see it in other people”s eyes, widening in wonder and laughing at the brightness, and she smiles as bright as anyone watching.

(Reblogged from thingstocallpretty)
On the longest day of the year, the day she is strongest and the call of the day is loudest, Lucy cannot help but leave her sister’s side. She apologizes a hundred times, hanging in the window and darting back inside to see if Melaine needs anything, but her sister laughs and shakes her head. And when Lucy cannot stop herself from running inside to make sure she’s alright, Melaine opens a drawer and pulls out a crown of flowers. She stands, every movement slow and careful, and puts the crown on her sister’s head. Lucy knows this is her sister’s blessing, and when she walks back outside, this time she stays. She dances in the sun’s rays, lies in the grass and watches the clouds, climbs a tree to be nearer to the sky, says hello to the faeries as they fly pass. She soaks in the sun and the day, and when the sunset begins, she settles in the grass to watch her day fade away. And when the moon comes up and her sister appears at the window, still slow and careful but much better for the night beginning, Lucy laughs from the sheer joy of the day.

On the longest day of the year, the day she is strongest and the call of the day is loudest, Lucy cannot help but leave her sister’s side. She apologizes a hundred times, hanging in the window and darting back inside to see if Melaine needs anything, but her sister laughs and shakes her head. And when Lucy cannot stop herself from running inside to make sure she’s alright, Melaine opens a drawer and pulls out a crown of flowers. She stands, every movement slow and careful, and puts the crown on her sister’s head.

Lucy knows this is her sister’s blessing, and when she walks back outside, this time she stays.

She dances in the sun’s rays, lies in the grass and watches the clouds, climbs a tree to be nearer to the sky, says hello to the faeries as they fly pass. She soaks in the sun and the day, and when the sunset begins, she settles in the grass to watch her day fade away.

And when the moon comes up and her sister appears at the window, still slow and careful but much better for the night beginning, Lucy laughs from the sheer joy of the day.

(Reblogged from aghostofwinter)
If you meet her, they say, be careful. If you meet her there’s something wrong. If you meet her you’re mad. They say she’s only visible to the mad ones. They say she wants to lure you further down the path of insanity. They’ll never know how wrong they are about her, because she doesn’t want to meet the ones that make up them, she doesn’t want to meet the ones who are normal. She only wants to know the mad ones, and the special ones, and the brilliant ones, and the strange ones. It’s not that no one else can see her, but no one else notices her. She doesn’t put herself out there for anyone she’s not interested in, and when she’s not trying to meet you, she’s not very noticable. When she does want to meet you, you’ll never forget her. One thing is true, that she is trying to lead them somewhere, though not in the ways they accuse her of. She just wants to help them find a place where they belong, a place where they’re happy. The strange and special ones who have no place in this world, the brilliant ones lost in their thoughts, the mad ones lost in their minds — she wants to lead them home, to help them find a home. She wants to be the light at the end of their tunnel, burning brightly as her father’s chariot in the sky. So don’t fear her, if she introduces herself to you, don’t shrink away. Tell her about yourself, tell her about your mind, revel in her interest in you. And be sure to follow her, wherever she takes you, because you’ll be happier there than you ever have been before.

If you meet her, they say, be careful. If you meet her there’s something wrong. If you meet her you’re mad. They say she’s only visible to the mad ones. They say she wants to lure you further down the path of insanity.

They’ll never know how wrong they are about her, because she doesn’t want to meet the ones that make up them, she doesn’t want to meet the ones who are normal.

She only wants to know the mad ones, and the special ones, and the brilliant ones, and the strange ones.

It’s not that no one else can see her, but no one else notices her. She doesn’t put herself out there for anyone she’s not interested in, and when she’s not trying to meet you, she’s not very noticable.

When she does want to meet you, you’ll never forget her.

One thing is true, that she is trying to lead them somewhere, though not in the ways they accuse her of. She just wants to help them find a place where they belong, a place where they’re happy. The strange and special ones who have no place in this world, the brilliant ones lost in their thoughts, the mad ones lost in their minds — she wants to lead them home, to help them find a home. She wants to be the light at the end of their tunnel, burning brightly as her father’s chariot in the sky.

So don’t fear her, if she introduces herself to you, don’t shrink away. Tell her about yourself, tell her about your mind, revel in her interest in you. And be sure to follow her, wherever she takes you, because you’ll be happier there than you ever have been before.

(Reblogged from iloveyoursoul)

So apparently, when I said I wasn’t going to be writing on a regular basis, I lied. *laughs*

I’m happy, though, it’s nice to be writing, it’s so nice to be getting words out almost every day. It’s something I’ve never been good at, and this seems to be helping, even if they are all short and kind of pointless. And I’ve been developing a world through these stories, one I really like that keeps coming back out. That’s nice too.

So yes, this is just a note to say apparently,  there are going to be stories here from now on. If I’m lucky.

And, because why not, this is an offer too, if anyone has questions about anything I’ve written so far, for you to ask them and I will do my best to answer whatever you’d like to know.

The children of the village tell stories about him and his house, say that it’s haunted, say that he’s a ghost. They say the trees in front of his home never have leaves, even in the middle of summer, that they’re dead trees all year round. There are kernels of truth in their stories, but he never tells them that. The trees are dead all year. He likes it that way, and the trees like to please him. They guard his home, and him when he’s in it; they give him a place to curl up, whether in their surprisingly strong branches or between their trunks; and they stay dead for him, because he understands the dead more than the living. And yes, sometimes there are ghosts in his house. He invites them in, gives them a place to rest and listens to their stories, helps them adjust. Sometimes he introduces them to the messenger when he comes to visit and helps them finish whatever business they had on Earth. Sometimes he guides them to a final resting place. He is not a ghost, though. That’s the only one with no basis in reality, and even that is somewhat closer to the truth than it could be. Because he’s not dead, he’s never been dead, but death runs in his blood, death is in his bones and his skin. Death is what he was made from and death is his heritage. For his father is the ruler of death, and he is, as all the demigods are, his father’s son. View high resolution

The children of the village tell stories about him and his house, say that it’s haunted, say that he’s a ghost. They say the trees in front of his home never have leaves, even in the middle of summer, that they’re dead trees all year round.

There are kernels of truth in their stories, but he never tells them that.

The trees are dead all year. He likes it that way, and the trees like to please him. They guard his home, and him when he’s in it; they give him a place to curl up, whether in their surprisingly strong branches or between their trunks; and they stay dead for him, because he understands the dead more than the living.

And yes, sometimes there are ghosts in his house. He invites them in, gives them a place to rest and listens to their stories, helps them adjust. Sometimes he introduces them to the messenger when he comes to visit and helps them finish whatever business they had on Earth. Sometimes he guides them to a final resting place.

He is not a ghost, though. That’s the only one with no basis in reality, and even that is somewhat closer to the truth than it could be.

Because he’s not dead, he’s never been dead, but death runs in his blood, death is in his bones and his skin. Death is what he was made from and death is his heritage.

For his father is the ruler of death, and he is, as all the demigods are, his father’s son.

(Reblogged from aghostofwinter)