#and these are just highlights.

[ollie-monster]

In Gaza, a child is not really a child. Our eight-year-old son, Yazzan, has been talking about fetching his toys from the ruins of our house. He should be learning how to draw, how to play soccer, how to take a family photo. Instead, he is learning how to hide when bombs fall.

I don’t want to hug anyone, because I don’t want to believe that I am leaving them. I kiss my parents and shake hands with my siblings, as though I am only going on a short trip. What I am feeling is not guilt but a sense of unfairness. Why can I leave and they cannot? We are lucky that Mostafa was born in the U.S. Does it make them less human, less worthy of protection, that their children were not? I think about how, when we go, I may not be able to call them, or even find out whether they are alive or dead. Every step we take will take us away from them.

We are about to pass the checkpoint when a soldier starts to call out, seemingly at random. “The young man with the blue plastic bag and the yellow jacket, put everything down and come here.” ... They’re not going to pull me out of the line, I think. I am holding Mostafa and flashing his American passport. Then the soldier says, “The young man with the black backpack who is carrying a red-haired boy. Put the boy down and come my way.” He is talking to me.

The soldiers blindfold me and attach a numbered bracelet to one wrist. I wonder how Israelis would feel if they were known by a number. Then someone grabs the back of my neck and shoves me forward, as though we are sheep on our way to be slaughtered. I keep asking for someone to talk to, but no one responds. The earth is muddy and cold and strewn with rubble. I am pushed onto my knees, and then made to stand, and then ordered to kneel again. Soldiers keep asking in Arabic, “What’s your name? What’s your I.D. number?”

One by one, we are forced into a truck. Someone who is not moving lands on my lap. I fear that a soldier has thrown a corpse onto me, as a form of torture, but I am scared to speak. I whisper, “Are you alive?” “Yes, man,” the person says, and I sigh with relief. When the truck stops, we hear what sound like gunshots. I no longer feel my body. The soldiers give off a smell that reminds me of coffins. I find myself wishing that a heart attack would kill me.

Another man, maybe talking to himself, says quietly, “I need to be with my daughter and pregnant wife. Please.” My eyes fill with tears. I imagine Maram and our kids on the other side of the checkpoint. They don’t have blankets or even enough clothes. I can hear female soldiers, chatting and laughing. Suddenly, someone kicks me in the stomach. I fly back and hit the ground, breathless. I cry out in Arabic for my mother. I am forced back onto my knees. There is no time to feel scared. A boot kicks me in the nose and mouth. I feel that I am almost finished, but the nightmare is not over.

When we exit the truck and my name is called, I am temporarily given my I.D. card. I feel a prick of hope. Maybe they are going to release us. Inside a building, my blindfold is pulled off. A soldier is aiming an M-16 at my head. Another soldier, behind a computer, asks questions and takes a photo of me. Another numbered badge is fastened to my left arm. Then I see the doctor, who asks whether I suffer from chronic diseases or feel sick. He does not seem interested in my pain. Back at the detention center, blindfolded again, we kneel painfully for hours. I try to sleep. A man moans nearby; another is hopeful that he will get to go back to the doctor. Late in the evening, a soldier calls my name. The shawish leads me to the gate, and a jeep comes to take me away.

When I wake, a soldier says something in English that I cannot believe. “We are sorry about the mistake. You are going home.” “Are you serious?” Silence. “I will go back to Gaza and be with my family?” “Why wouldn’t I be serious?” Another voice chimes in: “Isn’t this the writer?” Back at the detention center, as I fall asleep, I think about the words “We are sorry about the mistake.” I wonder how many mistakes the Israeli Army has made, and whether they will say sorry to anyone else.

On Tuesday, about two days after I left the school, the man with the megaphone teaches us how to say good morning in Hebrew. “Boker Tov, Captain,” we say in unison. Some new detainees have arrived in an enclosure nearby, and the soldiers overseeing them seem to be having fun. They sing part of an Arabic children’s song, “Oh, my sheep!,” and order the detainees to say “Baa” in response.

After an hour, some soldiers approach. One has my I.D., and another drops a pair of slippers for me and tells me to walk. Then one of them says, “Release!” I am so overjoyed that I thank him. I think about my wife and children. I hope that my parents and siblings are alive. I spend about two hours at the place where I was interrogated, with the Hebrew music. I am given some food and water, but the soldiers never find my family’s passports. I climb into a jeep, surrounded by soldiers. After two hours, I can see around my blindfold that we are getting close to Gaza.

The soldiers get out, smoke, and return fully armed, wearing their vests and helmets. I am thinking about the man I recognized in line, and what he said about human shields. I am starting to wish that I could go back to the detention center when they give me my I.D. card. Standing against a wall, I tell the closest soldier that I am scared. “Do not feel scared. You will leave soon.” My handcuffs are cut, and the blindfold is removed. I see the place where I had to take my clothes off. When I see new detainees waiting there, sadness overwhelms me.

I take off my slippers and start to run. Passersby are staring, but I don’t care. Suddenly, I spot an old friend, Mahdi, who once was the goalkeeper on my soccer team. “Mahdi! I’m lost—help me.” “Mosab!” We hug each other. “Your wife and kids are at the school next to the college,” he says. “Just turn left and walk for about two hundred metres.” I cry as I run. Just when I start to worry that I have lost my way, I hear Yaffa’s voice. “Daddy!” She is the first piece of my puzzle. She seems healthy, and is eating an orange. When I ask where the rest of the family is, she takes my hand and pulls me as if I were a child.

I learn from Maram how lucky I was. She used my phone to inform friends around the world, who demanded my safe release. I think about the hundreds or thousands of Palestinians, many of them likely more talented than me, who were taken from the checkpoint. Their friends could not help them.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The math just adds up!

[corviiids]

my top bit of advice going into the new year: compliment people. especially strangers. literally everyone you interact with if you can. when you buy coffee in the morning compliment the barista's tattoos. when you're chatting with a coworker tell them that by the way you like their outfit. always find something they've chosen to do on purpose. nail polish, jewellery, tattoos, hair colour/style, statement accessory, outfit, etc are all good bets. things people hope will be noticed. things that aren't too personal so it doesn't make them uncomfortable (eg probably not their physical features). i've gotten into the habit of scanning everyone i talk to for something about them that i think is cool so i can tell them. it's a great habit because it makes me notice people and realise just how many neat little details there are in people's presentation of themselves that might pass me by if i wasn't paying attention. and it brings out so much joy. you'd be surprised how much it disarms people to receive an unexpected compliment from someone they don't know. it is the most sincere smile you will see all day long. it feels nice to make people happy but it also means you win the social interaction. establish dominance by complimenting a stranger's earrings and disappearing into the fog

[leafwhirlwind]

I feel, personally, like not enough people focus on the fact that in this iconic big tiddy moment

Falin is. Splattering someone’s brain on the pavement like a fine ragù.

Splat.

[bruciemilf]

Normal regular people should slowly plant themselves into the Wayne clan.

There’s this busboy that works with uncle TJ. Dick learns his name is Mikey when he stops by the restaurant. He hasn’t been since Bruce took him when he was 10.

the Bat has no idea the prodigal son returned to the nest. So Mikey’s suddenly babysitting a strange vigilante with the horsepower of 4 drunk girls in an Uber.

“It’s just so fucking frustrating because I WANT to be here but he doesn’t TELL me he wants me here! I want him to want me! I want him to say ‘hey, by the way, you’re my son, you’re always welcome here, I know you get lonely!’ But he doesn’t! He doesn’t! I miss Jason. This sandwich is so good. Thanks cousin.”

Mikey, who’s been working there for about a week, stares at the 300 dollar tip for a straight 30 minutes, wondering who Jason is.

From then on, the flock multiplies.

POV you’re cousin Mikey and Red Hood just walks in while you’re closing, covered in blood, and Spoiler’s leg is broken but she really wants a meatball sub, Signal asks why they upped the prices on the pizza, Orphan stares and nods her head and oh my god that’s an 8 year old with a sword:

[humming-fly]

The 2D vs 3D contrast of the sonic and shadow generation hubworlds cracks me up the more I think about it

Bonus:

[adobe-outdesign]

a new Pokemon TCG set just dropped and I swear they gave us the funniest possible Iron Hands illustration. are you guys ready for this

[entrailseer]

AUGHHHHH FINALLY THE POMNI APPRECIATIVE ARC!!!!

(also gooseworx.... have you been reading my headcanon posts... because)

[klaasje]

de devblog - worldbuilding

"Martinaise however is a coastal area. Here our “atmospheric target render” (another expression from the boys in worldbuilding) is encapsulated in the sentence: “I’ll wake up in a new life, shift shape and shoe shine. Damn it all to do now, down by the seaside…” Imagine old pre-revolution military pride dilapidating aside modern misery, while “On The Waterfront” style harbour work goes on in the background. The coast is marked by old Havanaesque architecture now in disrepair, large swathes of which have been demolished to make room for the ever expanding Greater Metropolitan Port of Revachol, which under coalition governance has grown into the world’s largest industrial harbour. Martinaise is where the revolution was ultimately lost. It is on these coasts that coalition forces landed to quell the uprising and it has the mortar scars to prove it. War damage is still apparent on most houses and locals have used the sturdier bits of ruin to support new, decidedly less baroque buildings. The era of Philipppe III The Squanderer (heir of Philip II The Misuser and Catherine The Lavish) is over, even if his ludicrous mounted likeness in bronze somehow survived. You see, among many, many other things, Philippe III also got prodigal with military regalia. It was “one repulsive laugh after the other” with Phillippe. Then the Turn-Of-The-Century Revolution came and wiped it all away. Today the equestrian monument is mostly seen by dockworkers and truck drivers." (x)

[qiinamii]

3.4 lantern rite log

[context for the 3rd one]

[aceissomunster]

discowing + jaybin ! press for quality

txtless + ref under the cut

ignore my horrible art please i drew this on ibis paint x with my finger and the soft felt tip pen brush. and my crappy penmanship.

[vintrage]

fire cannot kill a dragon BITCH

[clownowo]

Sisters :]

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Heh...Literally nothing personal, kid.

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[vvildside]

oh I think if chilchuck lived in the modern universe he's definitely a fashionista like the way he dresses himself is so neat

and please thaT UNDERCUT HAIR WITH BLACK TURTLE NECK???? that's the sluttiest thing a man can do

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

forever obsessed with dynamics between vampires, specifically that of a maker and fledgling, as a way to explore abuse. the creation of a vampire itself can so easily be a literalization of the lasting impacts of trauma and also much more simply the ways a perpetrator might shape their victim’s very identity. the extremes of isolation in the way that the new vampire, in most narratives, must cut all ties to their mortal life, or else go through an elaborate charade to maintain the facade of humanity, while forever still being removed from it. and the sheer dependence and vulnerability of being in an entirely new state of being, wholly uncertain of what it entails, and relying on another person to define… everything.