BakuDeku SFW:Turned To Stone

BakuDeku SFW: “Turned to Stone”

The garden was always quiet. Too quiet really. It used to be loud and full of such life. The garden is as green as ever, make no mistake of that, but the birds and deer that used to visit have forgotten their way, and the butterflies and bees that brought fresh pollen to keep blooms bright have forgotten the pots and ponds, and the fireflies and crickets have forgotten to keep nights magical. Quite frankly, it seemed that everyone and everything had simply forgotten the garden. Forgotten him.

His feet pad softly across the grass, the lush blades caressing his soft skin, thanking him for remembering them. The morning air was crisp and cool, the ocean kissing the mainland and sending it a front of salty breezes. How he missed the sand between his feet when he would take him there. The playful licking of the gentle waves across his ankles. The endless expanse of ocean stretching to the horizon to flirt with the sky. It felt like a lifetime ago. Perhaps it was…

He wanders aimlessly through the garden, following the weaving paths of cracked and crumbling cement. The shin high walls that lined the paths were being encroached upon by the soft, dewy moss that crept higher and higher on their sheer faces, relentless in their attempt to overtake the man-made material with their natural façade. Little warrior plants, they were. Like the Spartans, abandoning creativity and intellect for mindless conquest. The fools. It was no wonder they fell. He smiles at the thought. Humans and their propensity for war… it was tragic, but it was so familiar to him. The rough, bellowing voice that yelled obscenities and declared himself the victor remained so clear in his ears, even after years of their absence. He brushed scarred fingers across the rim of fire blown clay pots, designs carved crudely into their faces with the tips of arrows. Illustrations depicted battles and wars, beasts and battles so grad he could only imagine their reality.

The wind blows by, making the reeds creak and clatter together in a ballad to break the silence he had become so accustomed to. He was very lonely, if he were honest with himself. No one dared enter the Gorgon's garden… Not since the loss of the village hero. A fiery young man with no fear… He charged into the garden, shield and sword in hand, no armor to speak of, confidently asserting that he, this boy, was the land's greatest hero, and that he would put a stop to the monster's reign of the garden that once fed their village. A silly child. He was wholly unprepared to charge up to a mere child like himself. The men were afraid of a young boy with a messy green mop of hair that snakes protruded from, idly busying themselves with their interactions with the boy they called their host. He was so small and frail, draped in plain white garments that fit far too loosely. A gorgon youth, lost and on his own. His wide emerald eyes were kind and frightened. Statues of the men who tended to the garden were strewn across the property.

The child cried out for a mother that he had strayed from, and the warrior stared. The child shrieked at him to avert his gaze and leave him be. A monster so young… They did exist. Like a snake without fangs, he was so pitiful as the boy approached. The shield was raised between them as the brat thrust a hand out at the fallen crybaby. "Get up! Why are you here?"

Gentle fingers took the outstretched hand, mumbling a teary-eyed gratitude. "I got lost… I didn't mean to hurt them… I was hungry…" Sniffled broke up his thoughts as he voiced them.

"Well you can't stay here!"

"Why not?" Why not indeed. What was the harm? Gorgons were great with nature, and the child was lost and owed them a debt for taking their farmers. Perhaps he ought to replace their labor with his own.

"Because you're a monster!"

"A monster?"

"Yeah!"

"What's a monster?"

Oh gods… How silly the whole thing had been. A child warrior marching out after a monster alone, only to meet a lost child who knew no better and meant no harm. How the pair became friends, neither were sure of themselves, but a kinship blossomed, and the gorgon child was tasked with the care of the garden, providing the village with the food he grew. He stayed in the garden, and he only had one visitor, the boy with messy golden hair like the lions of the colosseum and eyes red as the blood that he spilled in battle as he grew older, tougher. He would be at home in Sparta, but he was here, the hero of the little rundown village with a "gorgon problem." The boy was brave, and he only got bolder as years passed. The child had a friend, and the warrior had someone he could pick on without the adults scolding him.

So he came, a cloth tied tight around his head, covering his eyes, learning the lay of the garden like the back of his hand with the child's help. As he got more familiar with the paths and lay, he no longer needed those small, work worn hands to hold his as they walked, but he never spoke up about that fact. In fact, as they grew older, their touches increased in frequency and intimacy. This boy could kill him with a look, but the danger didn't deter him in the slightest. He laughed like honey and his fingertips brushed so gently across his skin that it awakened fire within the warrior.

Now, the garden was empty, and no visitors came, not even the wildlife. He passes the statues of the gardeners every day and his heart bleeds for the families he hurt. Children never saw their fathers again because of him, but he could not bring himself to dwell on it for too long. He had been a child, startled and unfamiliar with the power he possessed. They meant no real emotion in his heart.

Warriors lined the courtyard, stone bodies poised to fight, forever unable to. It had been such a terrible day, and he knew that their statues meant more families without fathers. Again, he could not dwell nor did their stir emotion in his chest.

No, the only statue in this garden that stirred despair and heartbreak sat on the wall overlooking the fields, feet dangling over the ledge several feet above the fields below. A surprised look adorned his perfect face, one that the child had never seen in flesh until the moment it no longer was. The yelling of warriors approaching had made him lift the blindfold… and their gazes met incidentally… Now the only friend the Gorgon had known was just another statue, cracked and beginning to strain to remain whole after years of weather. Tears welled and fell freely when the boy visited the warrior child that he had loved so dearly. He would hug the stone and wish it would warm into flesh… He would patch and fill cracks in the stone to try and keep him whole a while longer… He couldn't bear it if he ended up truly alone again.

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IVE BEEN WAITING ALL YEAR TO POST THIS YOU DONT EVEN KNOW

Our system is broken.  It is cruel.  It is dehumanizing, degrading, and it’s vile nature is so, so unnecessary.

We need universal healthcare today in America.  We needed it 40 years ago.  It’s cheaper, it’s simpler, it’s more efficient, it’s more effective and it is so, so, so much less cruel than what we have.

Additional sources/references:

Universal Healthcare Cost in America would be cheaper by trillions of dollars

The US has worse life expectancies than socialized healthcare countries

We have worse generalized healthcare results

We have the most expensive care

Our system is so cruel and unique that doctors from other countries literally can’t believe what happens here

I can’t tell you where or how to activate to help solve this.  There are politicians, groups, and activists pushing for this in so many ways.  I can tell you when, though.

Now.

DabiHawks SFW: “Soft”

Soft. He hadn't expected them to be soft. Something so deadly, so strong should not be so soft. He'd seen them lift huge chunks of building debris and slice clean through barriers that blocked his path. It was impossible these were the same feathers that wielded such lethal force at his psychic will. These must be different feathers. He tended to store feathers in odd places, surely the dangerous ones were tucked away in some secret hiding place, like a gun stuffed into a holster. Then again, would a hero steeped in the criminal world be so naïve as to sleep unarmed in enemy territory? Probably not.

Not that any of that mattered, anyway. It didn't matter that the feathers glided smoothly beneath his fingers, the hairs of each catching between the grooves of his fingerprints. The pliant edges gave at the softest brush of his knuckles. Soft. They were so soft.

He knew that these soft feathers were not those of a vulnerable sparrow lost in the city but rather the weapons of flight enabling a voracious bird of prey to reign supreme in the wild. A hawk. Maybe that dumb name wasn't so dumb. No, it was still dumb. But being dumb didn't make it any less fitting.

His hair haloed around his head into the ratty pillow and onto the scarred chest it was leaned against. Wild, untamed locks of gold that weren't nearly as soft as they looked. Scarred fingers run through that messy mop and brush some order into the chaos. Eyes venture down the face to where eyes, marked with avian traits sit shut in peaceful rest. He had laughed at those marks, assuming them to be makeup when they met, but no. That was just another thing about this dumb bird he was wrong about. They were deep set pigment in his skin, natural. The motherfucker still wore eyeliner though, don't let him lie to you.

His fingers found their way back to those bright red wings, stroking and toying, running the pads of his fingers through the plush layers of down. They gave under his seeking touch. They encompassed his fingers, warm to the touch. The soft bristles of the edges kissed at knuckles and asked them to stay a while. Who was he to say no?

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DAY 15

GIVE IT UP FOR DAY 15