M.C. Frank's Blog, page 53
May 16, 2022
mcfrankauthor:
Did you ever stop to think, Christmas isn’...
Did you ever stop to think, Christmas isn’t for everyone. Mental illness doesn’t take a break just because it’s the holidays, and nor does poverty, suffering, injustice, evil and lots of other things. Not everyone is priviledged. Not everyone has fun, presents and time off. This diary entry is dedicated to people who have to keep fighting for their own lives or the lives of others, holidays or no holidays.
After all, what is the Christmas story about than a poor boy born in a stable to die on a cross? And in between, to live for others: fighting the world, righting the wrongs, loving the unloved. This is what I want my own story to be about, too. (And I don’t just mean the story I’m writing. I mean the story I’m living.)
But first,
R O B I N H O O D W I P by M.C. Frank a e s t h e t i cRobin looked at the glittering torches far ahead. The castle loomed before him, banners flying, lute music wafting in the evening air.
He crouched in the shadows, fingering the sharp edge of his arrow. For a second he allowed himself to think of what was happening inside the walls; after all, Tuck must be in by now, along with the “women”. Were they being served platters of pungent fruit and roasted meat? Were they watching the tricks of a garrishly-dressed jouster and listening to the music for the dancers? He knew everything that would be going on in the Sheriff’s Great Hall on this important day of celebration and revels.
He’d once been a nobleman, too, he’d once been served by kitchen maids and clothed in silks and colors.
A cold drop landed on his cheek; it had started to rain. He glanced behind him and motioned to Alis and John to follow him as they padded from tree to tree, until they were close enough to the walls of the castle.
“Robin,” John’s voice boomed in the gathering darkness. He always tried to whisper, but alas, never succeeded. For such a large man, even making his voice small seemed impossible. That, or he was like a five year-old, who is unable of grasping the concept of “be quiet.”
“Hush,” Robin mumbled. “What is it now?”
“Well, nothing,” John said, his blonde braids catching a ray of the torch fire. They were so close, the light of the flames was illuminating the darkness; they were right outside the castle walls. “Except thisQ when are you going to do it, already?” Robin realized with a pang of surprise that John was angry. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re practically in the castle, all right? At this pace you’ll have us at Sir Roderick’s table as if we were his damned invited guests.”
Robin didn’t reply, he just hung his head. It was true, they had moved closer than he needed. He could have done what he came to do from a hundred yards away, even farther.
“Now, stop moving and do what you have to do so we can leave!” John said, and then his voice dropped -so he could whisper, after all. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, Rob, so stop it. Stop it, you hear me?”
“You deserve to be in there, John,” Robin whispered back, unable to stop himself. He could hear his own voice hoarse and hated himself for sounding so broken. For being so broken. “Alis and Will and little Ru… Even you and Tuck, you all deserve to be in there and celebrate like princes, instead of hiding and trying to keep our heads attached to our necks. You deserve to be in there.”
“Well, we’re not,” John said roundly. “We’re outlaws, which to be honest, is far healthier in this political climate. I’d rather be wet, empty-bellied and sleepless than deign to eat the stolen food that graces the Sheriff’s table, while children die and starve under his watch. I’d rather be a beggar than a prince, if the Prince is plotting to take the rightful King’s throne. Do you understand?”
Robin nodded.
“I don’t think you do. I bet you keep thinking that it’s your fault that we’re not up there, celebrating. You always were a fool, you know,” John added tenderly.
And that was it. Robin snapped out of his trance. He turned around and punched John in the arm, and then drew back his bowstring, looking straight and true towards his aim.
Christmas is not for you, he told himself, just as a reminder. Celebrations and feasts, food and riches aren’t for you. For you is not to make merry and keep your belly filled. For you is to fight; for you is to live.
He took his eyes off his aim for a split second and glanced back towards John, who looked on at his readied arrow unimpressed, pretending to rub the spot where Robin had punched him, as if it hurt terribly. Robin turned back his attention to his target.
For you is to be loved by outlaws.
For you is to be an outlaw.
For now.
Robin let go. For you is to hope.
-from the Robin Hood WIP, ©2017 M.C. FrankP.S. I need to be picking the title soon, right? As much as I’d love to eventually call the book “Robin Hood WIP” in the end, I don’t think that will work ;)
Merry Christmas and all my love to all you lovely people and especially the warriors of mental health. Just the fact that you’re still here and still fighting is the best gift for all of us. x
M.C.
Read all the Robin Hood WIP diaries
freelance-philosopher:
“I feel that from the very beginni...
“I feel that from the very beginning life played a terrible conjurer’s trick on me. I lost faith in it. It seems to me that every moment now it is playing tricks on me. So that when I hear love I am not sure it is love, and when I hear gaiety I am not sure it is gaiety, and when I have eaten and loved and I am all warm from wine, I am not sure if it is either love or food or wine, but a strange trick being played on me, an illusion, slippery and baffling and malicious, and a magician hangs behind me watching the ecstasy I feel at the things which happen so that I know deep down it is all fluid and escaping and may vanish at any moment. Don’t forget to write me a letter and tell me I was here, and I saw you, and loved you, and ate with you. It is all so evanescent and I love it so much, I love it as you love the change in the days.”— Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 2: 1934-1939
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101 dalmatians {scenery}
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aaryastark:
europe during the performances:
europe during the voting:
europe during the performances:
europe during the voting:
May 13, 2022
geminiscene:behind the scenes of suspiria (2018) dir. luc...
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author-a-holmes:
letswritestories101:
blackkatmagic:
la...
a diagram of the professional, intricate process of how i write
@blackkatmagic
I HAVE NEVER RELATED TO A POST MORE.
man, I’m exposed
So true that it hurts, actually…
“Darius.” It came out choking from his chapped lips, and his head jerked as he tried to look up into her face.
“What now?”
“‘S my name. Darius. Thank you.”
Of all the humans drowning around her, she had to be stuck with the one who bothered to mind his manners as he was dying. She bit back a laugh. “Well, good to know. Stay alive, Darius.”
“Death feels so warm,” he whispered, those brown eyes hooded as they looked into hers. “Didn’t know there were mermaids in heaven. Ice mermaids…So beautiful. Jewels for eyes, pearls for hair.”
Behind them, the great ship that had the words “Titanic” painted on its bow was cracking as it tilted into the freezing waters of the ocean.
Lorelei gave a frustrated sigh and tightened her hold on him.
May 12, 2022
trevsawriter:
i think abt this all the time tbh
i think abt this all the time tbh
metamorphesque:
— I stopped going to therapy, Clementine ...
— I stopped going to therapy, Clementine von Radics
[text ID: I think I like my brain best / in a bar fight with my heart. / I think I like myself a little broken. / I’m ok if that makes me less loved. / I like poetry better than therapy anyway.]
