The Bonehunters, Chapter Seven
Happy birthday to Anthony Ainley, Sylvester McCoy, and Sophie Aldred! (August 20, 1932, August 20,1943, and August 20, 1962)
“‘We first met him,’ Cotillion said slowly, ‘the night we ascended. The night we made passage into the realm of Shadow. He made my spine crawl right then, and it’s been crawling ever since.’
She glanced over at him. ‘You are so unsuited to be a god, Cotillion, did you know that?’
'Thank you for the vote of confidence.'”
When you are 13 years old,
the heat will be turned up too high
and the stars will not be in your favor.
You will hide behind a bookcase
with your family and everything left behind.
You will pour an ocean into a diary.
When they find you, you will be nothing
but a spark above a burning bush,
still, tell them
Despite everything, I really believe people are good at heart.
When you are 14,
a voice will call you to greatness.
When the doubters call you crazy, do not listen.
They don’t know the sound
of their own God’s whisper. Use your armor,
use your sword, use your two good hands.
Do not let their doubting
drown out the sound of your own heartbeat.
You are the Maid of Untamed Patriotism.
Born to lead armies into victory and unite a nation
like a broken heart.
When you are 15, you will be punished
for learning too proudly. A man
will climb onto your school bus and insist
your sisters name you enemy.
When you do not hide,
he will point his gun at your temple
and fire three times. Three years later,
in an ocean of words, with no apologies,
you will stand before the leaders of the world
and tell them your country is burning.
When you are 16 years old,
you will invent science fiction.
The story of a man named Frankenstein
and his creation. Soon after you will learn
that little girls with big ideas are more terrifying
than monsters, but don’t worry.
You will be remembered long after
they have put down their torches.
When you are 17 years old,
you will strike out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig
one right after the other.
Men will be afraid of the lightening
in your fingertips. A few days later
you will be fired from the major leagues
because “Girls are too delicate to play baseball”
You will turn 18 with a baby on your back
leading Lewis and Clark
across North America.
You will turn 18
and become queen of the Nile.
You will turn 18
and bring justice to journalism.
You are now 18, standing on the precipice,
trembling before your own greatness.
This is your call to leap.
There will always being those
who say you are too young and delicate
to make anything happen for yourself.
They don’t see the part of you that smolders.
Don’t let their doubting drown out the sound
of your own heartbeat.
You are the first drop of a hurricane.
Your bravery builds beyond you. You are needed
by all the little girls still living in secret,
writing oceans made of monsters and
throwing like lightening.
You don’t need to grow up to find greatness.
You are stronger than the world has ever believed you to be.
The world laid out before you to set on fire.
All you have to do
I really!!!! want!!!! queer spaces!!!! that aren’t nightclubs!!!!!!
#I WANT QUEER COFFEESHOPS #PLACES THAT ARE SAFE FOR PEOPLE WITH ANXIETY OR EPILEPSY #I WANT QUEER SPACES THAT ARE NICE AND CALM AND COMFORTING #*BANGS FISTS ON TABLE* GIVE-ME-QUEER-SPACES #GIVE-ME-QUEER-SPACES (via thorsies)
SAY IT LOUD.
the gay cafe
“‘Tehol, this is no time for jokes—’
'Bugg resents that!'
'Well, don't you? I would if I were you—'
'It seems you just were.'
'My apologies for making you speak out of turn, then.'
'Speaking on your behalf, master, I accept.'
'You are filled with relief—'
'Will you two stop it!' Brys shouted, throwing up his hands.”
"I sought a statement from current mayor Dana Cardinal who is, of course, a former intern and dear friend of mine. I found her at the end of a dark hallway, draped with rotting black cloth and thick with cobwebs, where she was sitting on the Mayoral Throne and contemplating her hands."
"Tehol rubbed at his eyes, only now realizing how tired he was. Thinking was proving a voracious feeder on his energies, leading him to admit that he’d been out of practice. Not just thinking, of course. The brain did other things, as well, even more exhausting. The revisiting of siblings, of long-estranged relationships, saw old, burnished armour donned once more, weapons reached for, old stances once believed abandoned proving to have simply been lying dormant. ‘Is this a festive holiday, Brys? Have I missed something? Had we cousins, uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces, we could gather to walk the familiar ruts. Round and round the empty chairs where our mother and father once sat. And we could make our language unspoken in a manner to mimic another truth—that the dead speak in silences and so never leave us in peace—’"