Hunger - Blog Posts
What cruel made it so the feeling of hunger and feeling of shitting the same thing
Why must it be that I, a pity-less mortal, must suffer for the sins that a forfather from long ago did
Which god was the one that gave us this curse, was it Zeus, I bet it’s Zeus that fucker
“but he’s not dead, still isn’t. kenjirou was meant to die five years ago and he’s meant to die now, but for some fucking reason he’s still alive, forced to watch as literally everyone else is taken from his world.”
https://archiveofourown.org/works/34353031
so whumptober huh
Marama, my love, this looks wonderful. I love you.
Yippee I can post the art I made for the incredible mermaid Himiko design from @miowess (thanks for it again!!), it was soooo fun to draw I loved it sm 🥺🥺🥺
I’m so hungry. Why am I so hungry? I tried looking it up, but I don’t have anything pointing towards diabetes or thyroid issues, I know I’m not pregnant, and I doubt I have hypoglycaemia either. I genuinely don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m just so hungry.
I’m so hungry.
Shadow
Masterpost
“(either we eat God or he eats us)”
— Caroline Walker Bynum, “Women Mystics in the Thirteenth Century,” from Jesus as Mother: Studies in the Spirituality of the High Middle Ages (via abandonarium)
Caroline Bynum, excerpt from Fragmentation and Redemption: Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion
The millions of civilians in need of humanitarian aid in Syria are bracing themselves for dwindling international help this year, after the World Food Programme (WFP) has ended its mandate for the country as of 2024. The Syrian government last week extended its approval for cross-border United Nations humanitarian aid to be delivered through a crossing with Turkey for another six months. The mechanism is an attempt by Syrian President Bashar al-Assad government to enhance his legitimacy in the eyes of the international community since Russia, a main backer of Assad, blocked UN Security Council resolution to use the Bab al-Hawa crossing in July, forcing international partners to work with Damascus.
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Sex is definitely healthier and more enjoyable
Sex is a lot like candy. You want a lot of it. And in different flavours and variations. And when you’re finished, you soon start craving it again.
I seek you out.... You are all I hunger for tonight.
Coldness -> Hunger Headcanon (and it includes reference to Rafal's infamous plate-smashing habit):
Disclaimer: There's only a little evidence for this being true, and I might be projecting, so I could be far off. It just made sense in my head and I've been thinking about it lately.
There could be other, more human reasons for Rafal’s coldness aside from magic, a formerly Evil soul, or He’s Just Like That.
This thought was inspired by the characterization of BBC’s Sherlock, and myself to a much lesser extent. (I tend to crank Rafal's traits up to extremes because he's an even worse all-or-nothing person than I am.)
Also, apparently, according to Google, I seemingly have zero “normal” hunger cues? I wasn't aware that being cold was “abnormal” until now. Does anyone relate to this or is it just me? I know it cannot reasonably be just me.
Moving on, the canon evidence is:
The "skinny snowman" line from Rise, if the implication of thermal (not figurative) coldness follows "snowman."
That one time when he sat watching torture for a few days without moving at all.
So, the headcanon is that Rafal forgets to eat. Or thinks he’s too absorbed in stuff going on to eat or that eating is beneath him. Any explanation will do. And, his hands (or body) become cold as a result, as the only physical signal of hunger, extremities first.
The second headcanon that incidentally came out of this is that Rafal would make a incredibly talented Gamemaker for the Hunger Games, haha—not good.
⸻
[In the silver tower:]
Rhian: Rafal! EAT something. That is an order.
Rafal: [petulantly] No! I haven’t finished these Trial plans! I can't decide if death trap #263 should go in the Cyan Caves or Pine Glen. The caves would trap them—so only one exit, which could be blocked for best results in eliminating the greatest number of competitors at once. But, the pines are disorientingly-spaced at extremely regular intervals this year—meaning, they'll get lost sooner without distinct landmarks or will feel unsettled and dizzy by the uncanny repetition of the maze since it'll be man-made...
Rhian: Well, actually, about that—
Rafal: [derisively] Don't need your input, Sir-'Only-Kill-In-Self-Defense.' I'm not reconsidering at this late stage. If this is about your famous health-aging-and-mortality lecture, that doesn’t work on me anymore. We’re immortal. It doesn’t matter and never will. Now, stop wasting time on right silly things.
Rhian: I know you think digestion of a large meal will slow you down, but at least eat something small or regular-sized. Please. Aren't you hungry? It's been three days.
Rafal: No. I don't feel a thing. I haven't felt a thing in... I've lost count. Stop bothering me and go away. I have to finish this first.
Rhian: Have you looked in the mirror lately?
Rafal: No. Why would I need to? I always look excellent, I'll have you know.
Rhian: [sighs] You’re cold. Have you noticed? For all your keen powers of observation, you're tremendously bad at paying attention to your physical self. I bet you're tired, too, and in denial about it.
Rafal: I'm not tired and I’m always cold. I shouldn't even have to dignify those sorts of questions with a response. Your point?
Rhian: [points at Rafal.] You're being a child. And you're irritable.
Rafal: Well, I wouldn't say I'm a proper delight either. Learn to moderate your expectations like the rest of them. Now, say something worth my time or leave.
Rhian: We don't have to go through this every time. Look. Your fingers and lips have turned blue.
Rafal: So?
Rhian: All right. I’m leaving this plate, with this food on it, next to you. You haven't forgotten what food is, have you? And I'm not talking about that inedible slop your students eat.
Rafal: [rolls his eyes] Don't need it. [Has stopped paying attention—] Utensils... too finicky... plate takes up surface area on desk. No room for paper. Then I won't be able to concentrate on this. Deadlines.
Rhian: It's a sandwich. You'd know if you bothered to look up for even one second. Problem solved. The plate can go on the floor. No wastes of space. Nothing encroaching on your papers. You can use one hand to eat it and the other hand to finish writing down your plans. And light a lamp. You'll strain your eyes. [He sets the plate on the desk.]
Rafal: Bah—whatever. The dark suits me. [He tries to sweep the plate off the table like usual—]
Rhian: [snatches it out of his reach and sets it down safely on the floor.] When I come back, I want it gone. Not via sorcery. Not via loophole exploitation. But eaten. You will eat it and not throw it out the window at the birds. You will not stuff it under the carpet or in the rubbish. It will go into your stomach and that's final.
Rafal: [not listening] Yes, yes. Sustenance. Yatter-yatter about this and that and tosh. Got it.
Rhian: Look, I know you don’t need to eat, but you ought to. I also expect the same of this glass of water, [he sets it on the desk] and if they’re still here when I return, I will sabotage your all-important project and tell my Evers your Trial strategy, so they win. I'll even tell the pots and pans to cook something with actual nutrients in it for your students, which you seem to have forgotten about. Did you know they've been cutting classes? They don't work like you, you know, and you can't deprive mortals.
Rafal: [scoffs] You wouldn’t. You’re too Good to do it. And I'll tell Humburg to handle my Nevers, thank you very much.
Rhian: Ever heard of the greater Good? You’re looking right at it. Now eat.
Rafal: [groans and picks up the sandwich.]
Rhian: [smugly] Good.
Rafal: [mutters something about: what's the point of endurance and asceticism if they're never put to use? What's the point of training if it's never practiced? What's the point of immortality if you can't make use of your superiority over mortals with their trivial bodily needs—he peeks at what's between the bread.] Ah. Cucumber. You're forgiven.
Rhian: The things I have to live with— [He leaves and slams the door.]
Drive: Hunger I thought I saw you say some posts ago to not say her name. Are you afraid of you know who to not say her name out loud?
Okay! Lore time with Tipsy!! ✨
First of all, I'd like to make it clear that the Valley of Echoes, my AU, is mostly based on dreams / nightmares of mine (shouldn't be a surprise, they all live in a place called “Dreamtide” after all hsgshsh)
Third, this AU isn't all about roses and friendship – There are many topics that can be sensitive to some people. Violence and gore are quite common; And it continues with mental illnesses, domestic abuse, mentions of depression, etc. etc...
This creature here is based on a dream I had about FNaF! In the earliest version of the story, there were originally three guardians to look after the children of Solveil: Alpha, Beta, and Charlie (This one rabbit up here is Charlie, yes). My brain was becoming a mush trying to think of a new design for those three, and then... BAM!! I already like to reference other works in my stories, so why not? If you see something familiar in the future and think "Hey, I think I've seen this somewhere before-” Well, maybe you're not wrong! This time, I based the design of this monstrosity on one of my favorite artworks – The Drawkill series.
So, here’s a glimpse of the Chimera Initiative! A project created by Solveil and Twilight to hunt for shards of the Elements of Harmony and the like. Again, if you are sensitive, I suggest not paying too much attention to the smaller details – There's a lot of dark stuff behind this tale!
There is still SO much I still want to show here! The girls' mother, some Dreamtide specific events, the new Cutie Mark Crusaders-- whoah! I've never felt so inspired!! 💪🦈✨
You going to introduce us to whoever that is, Mei?
“I dunno what the big deal about my mother is. If she had that too, maybe she could help! Right?...”
Ameisha, are you, by chance, related to Peppermint Twist in any way? You have very similar coat and mane colors.
“No offense to the kid, of course-”
“You're no fun.”
First of all, thanks for asking this! Made me search through the depths of my gallery to find her reference, haha-
But anyways, time to yap about my universe a bit!!
Mei's entire family deals with something called Echo Syndrome. “But what's that?” You may ask- it's not a very difficult thing to understand! Think of it as a want / desire that is not actually desired by someone; Here, unwanted desires are like echoes, that reverberate until they form something new. Hence the name. ✨
So, Meet... “Hunger”! Mei's undesired echo. This is all hereditary, so maybe it helps to imagine where, or rather, who, the girls actually came from!
I was birthed from the torn stomach of night,
drenched not in milk,
but in the black bile of forgotten prayers.
The world spat me out
as a creature too ruined to be loved,
a wound with legs,
a scream with teeth.
Hope;
was a bone thrown to a starving dog.
I gnawed it until my mouth filled with splinters,
bled until my tongue knew only the taste
of broken promises.
I grew eating hunger,
drinking the venom of people's hate,
wearing the bruises of their disgust
like a second, rotting skin.
The colour of my flesh...
an open invitation to cruelty,
a crime I could never peel from my bones.
And when I crawled through the sewage of my years,
a thing barely breathing,
I thought love would be the knife to cut me free.
Instead,
it was another dagger...
this one twisted slowly into my throat
while I watched her eyes,
soft and shining,
for someone else.
Tell me, God,
what is more merciful:
to be born blind to love,
or to be shown its light
only to have it ripped from your hands
by fingers colder than the grave?
If there is a God of agony,
He carved His name into my ribs with rusted nails,
He strung my tendons into a lyre
so He could pluck songs of suffering
from my every step.
At night, I lie rotting,
a feast for the worms of memory,
as my dreams decompose around me,
the stench of what might have been,
thick enough to choke a corpse.
I feel decay threading through my blood,
I hear my hope
crackling like dry leaves under the boots
of things that never loved me.
My soul,
no, not even a soul,
a shattered lantern,
spilling its last flicker into a pit
where even maggots refuse to crawl.
And still,
some putrid, twitching part of me
reaches out,
fingers broken and blackened,
begging the silent stars
for something,
anything,
that does not end
in rot.
-Cyrus K.
We scroll past
starving children
to buy shoes we don’t need
and call it life.
Babies are born
with lungs full of poison,
their bodies warped
by toxins we dumped for profit.
Mothers wrap sons
in flags
like it softens
the sound of a coffin closing.
We skin the earth
for gold and oil
and hang it on our necks
while forests burn
and oceans bleed.
We worship Gods
but not Their creation.
Pray louder
than we love.
Animals scream in silence.
Children rot in camps.
Water is sold.
Air is dying.
Truth is filtered.
Kindness forgotten.
We kill over dirt
though we are made of stars.
We hoard
while others die thirsty.
This is not a world,
it is a graveyard
we are still digging
with our eyes wide open.
-Cyrus K.
Service Station
You’re beautiful, sister, eat more fruit, said the attendant every time my mother pulled into the 76 off Ashby Avenue. We never knew why. She didn’t ask and he didn’t explain. My brother and I would look at each other sideways in the back seat, eyebrows raised— though lord knows we’d lived in Berkeley long enough. He smiled when he said it, then wiped the windows and pumped the gas. I liked the little ritual. Always the same order of events. Same lack of discussion. Could he sense something? Attune to an absence of vitamin C? Or was it just a kind of flirting— a way of tossing her an apple, a peach? It’s true my mother had a hidden ailment of which she seldom spoke, and true she never thought herself a beauty, since in those days you had to choose between smart and beautiful, and beauty was not the obvious choice for a skinny bookish girl, especially in Barbados. No wonder she became devout, forsaking nearly everything but God and science. And later she suffered at the hands of my father, whom she loved, and who’d somehow lost control of his right fist and his conscience. Whose sister was she, then? Sister of the Early Rise, the Five-O’Clock Commute, the Centrifuge? Sister of Burnt Dreams? But didn’t her savior speak in parables? Isn’t that the language of the holy? Why wouldn’t he come to her like this, with a kind face and dark, grease-smeared arms, to lean over the windshield of her silver Ford sedan, and bring tidings of her unclaimed loveliness, as he filled the car with fuel, and told her— as a brother—to go ahead, partake of the garden, and eat of it.
Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.
Trouble
He’d wanted the persimmons and asked her for them, but when she gave him the brown paper bag, brimming over, he was taken aback. Did he really need that many ? Still, he brought them home to his wife, and soon there were persimmons ripening on the kitchen counters, lining the windowsills. Each day, growing more and more succulent until the air was thick and sweet with their scent. At breakfast, he’d break one open with his spoon—the skin supple and ready to give—stir it into his hot cereal. Indescribable, the taste. And a texture he might have described as sea creature meets manna from heaven. When he ate one, he thought of her. And when he saw her, he thought of the persimmons. When her arm brushed, just barely, against his, did he imagine they both felt the same quickening? In myth, fruit is usually the beginning of disaster. And the way they made themselves so obvious— an almost audible orange against the white walls— made him wish he’d never asked her for them, didn’t have to smell them sugaring the air with ruin, as he sat there, face lowered to the bowl, spooning the soft pulp into his mouth.
Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.
Mosquitoes
Thin buzz of hunger, constant hum. At night I drape a net around my bed just to keep them away. They like the flesh above my ankles best, and then the sweetness of my face. The Buddhists say we mustn’t want to kill another living thing. How often have I taken one, crushed it in my palm?
A saint said the lion is in love with the gazelle it hunts. I love salmon, so I sauté their bodies with garlic and butter, slip the moist flesh in my mouth. And haven’t I bitten my beloved until a pink stain colored the skin?
A tiny drop of blood is all they crave. Is that so much to ask? And they are so devoted, groupies at the backstage door, a band of Hare Krishnas, wailing in the street, cherubim, playing their small harps without cease, as they are said to do in heaven.
Only this is not heaven. I dream of a night without blemish, of love without the sting.
But here they are, a mini mariachi, hovering outside the net, singing their same old, high-pitched serenade— volver, volver , they cry, the song about the one that got away.
Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.
¤ The god of Fear and Hunger has appeared before you......
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
Speedpaint:https://youtu.be/YQLIuVtK6go
