#now y'all do it

[davycoquette]

I did my own character writing exercises, as prompted a lil' by @sableglass. 😇

Meet Budreaux, a man pulled from my ass. Full disclosure, my noodling on him began yesterday - but there's no time limit on this. I did write it in a few minutes, just now. (Anticipate many typos etc.) I highly recommend y'all try it! It gets you thinking!

Paint a picture of a character by describing their bedroom while they’re not in it.

The blinds are shut and the curtains drawn, but the AC unit underneath the window tosses them open from time to time, and through a gap where the plastic slats sit cattywampus the sign out front eclipses a slice of cloudless sky.

always on the sunnyside motel cable tv • refrigerated air • no vacancy

The curtains on their rusted white slider are a shade of muddy brown — even the rosy floral print is so dark and colorless the pattern itself is nigh unrecognizable. A custom cabinet lodges the miniature refrigerator, and atop that sits the black television with a Zenith logo thunderstruck in the dead center of the plastic housing.

We’ve got a full size bed, white sheets crumpling out of the muddy brown, paisley comforter like a busted chou pastry. The pillows are double-stacked against the wall, the impression of a man in repose gazing forward into the void of the television screen.

From the windowsill, the frenetic buzz of a fly gone-belly up, still pirouetting in its death throes for the third hour straight. Outside, the traffic whooshing by steadily one or two semis at a time. An intermittent metallic crashing from the fabricators on the other side of the interstate. A lonesome crow cawing from the poolside iron fence. And the toilet, which never stops running, runs. The spigot drip-drop-drips into the stained porcelain tub steady as a ticking clock hand.

On the vinyl sink counter a tube of fluoride is rolled to the nozzle. The lid hides behind the toilet, secreted by a camouflage of hair and dust. Deodorant, aftershave. A gas-station razor. The toothbrush with its bird’s-nest shaped bristles lies at the bottom of the liner-less bin amid a few wadded tissues. It, too, is littered with bathroom-floor debris.

In the shower, a paper-thin slice of soap and a two-in-one men’s shampoo. A damp washcloth and a towel entangled with last night’s boxers-and-t-shirt.

On the bedside table, a third of a bottle of Old Crow Reserve next to the off-white landline. A linty black comb, an ashtray full of pocket change and an empty tube of Chapstick. Under that, eight dollars.

Shuffle a playlist on your music player of choice. For whichever song plays, describe what you “see” with your imagination.

Disclaimer: (I am forced to resort to a work friendly lofi playlist.) Song: Amazonia by Jiani

Budreaux’s coal-dark eyes gaze into the foggy bathroom mirror, as dark and indolent as ever under their heavy lids. They’re smallish on his face, tilted ever-so-slightly down at the outer corners. He cannot know how many people have looked into his eyes and thought it the most vapid, uncomprehending stare they’d ever seen. Barring that, disinterested. It’s his eyes that most often inspire a lighter or gum packet to be lobbed at him over the convenience store counter.

All he understands is that he attracts ire. He figures it’s convenience. Being angry with a convenience store worker is convenient.

He smooths his hand down the front of his beige t-shirt, then takes his trucker hat from its place hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Emblazoned across the front is the Wanket’s truckstop logo — a shape vaguely resembling the grill of a tractor trailer with the unfortunate franchise name scrawled overtop. He presses it down onto his bland brown haircut, then licks his thumb and smooths his white-speckled sideburns.

He gives himself a last look in the mirror. A hard sniffle twitches the mustache under his nostrils.

“Okey,” he says to his reflection, gives it a nod and a lil’ thumbs-up, and turns to go.

Describe a character by turning out their pockets.

“Wait. Turn out your pockets.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me, bitch. Turn ‘em out. Hurry.”

Budreaux’s eyes follow the black hole in the pistol’s barrel like he’s being tested at the optometrist’s.

“You’re serious?” he asks, and his bushy eyebrows climb toward the bill of his Wanket’s hat.

“I’m dead fuckin’ serious, man; empty your fuckin’ pockets. Now.”

“‘Kay,” Budreaux allows, “but I’m gonna haveta put my hands down.”

The young man in the ski-mask looks over his shoulder through the sticker-spattered gas station window, then back at Budreaux. He waves his pistol. He says, “Man—”

But Budreaux is in compliance. He diiiigs into his right pocket, scooping its contents into his palm. His fingers nip the fabric corner and he turns it inside out, capturing almost everything. A quarter clatters and spins on the vinyl floor, but the rest goes on the counter: thirty-one cents in change, a tube of Carmex, a BIC-lighter —

“Your watch.”

Budreaux furrows his big eyebrows and looks at his watch. “You’re serious?”

A gunshot makes him try to suck his head into his collarbones. Plaster rains down from the ceiling, plopping off his hat-bill.

“Your watch, motherfucker!”

He can hear that even over the deafening mosquitoe-drone in his freshly damaged ears. He wrestles off the watch and drops it onto the counter, then goes for his left pocket.

“Wallet,” the robber demands.

He reaches for his ass instead, wary of the wild look in the young man’s eyes. He supposes the kid knows he could be hiding a handgun back there, wedged into the back of his pants like a gritty badass — or maybe the kid already logged that he was all-grit, no badass when he first strolled through the door. He’d had his back to the store; he’d been stocking cigarettes.

He drops a nylon Dale Earnhardt wallet onto the counter and the kid swipes it and the watch.

“Get down.”

“Sure, alright.”

Budreaux is conscious of the papery sound his joints make as he sinks toward the floor. His kneecaps twinge when they clack against the floor.

“All the way down, y’hear me? All the fuck the way down.”

The kid lemur-hops toward the door as Budreaux arranges himself face down, sweeping plaster aside before he rests his bristly cheek against the faux-terrazzo. After a moment, he hears the bell on the door jingle, and a fading voice shouting, “Go, go!”

His chest swells, deflates. Dust-bunnies and loose plaster roll away from his face, underneath the counter. He is still there on the floor twenty minutes later when the bell chimes again. He recognizes Rob Whitaker’s voice when the old veteran beckons, “Hello? Anybody home?”

He says that every morning, around this time, whether Budreaux is stocking cigarettes or, apparently, lying face down behind the counter.

An abandoned and unlocked phone (or wallet, if you wanna go back a coupla decades) has been discovered in a ratty little diner bathroom. What’s in there? What does it tell us about its owner?

Disclaimer: Going with the wallet, because the prompts have inspired a theme, here. 🤓

Denny whips the mask off his head and tosses it into the back seat over his shoulder. His grease stiffened hair, the muddy shade of motel curtains, stands in all directions as he rifles through a paper bag full of loose cash.

“Well?” Piper asks from his left. She’s chewing the shit out of hour-old gum, sweat or lipgloss catching light on her cupid’s bow.

He makes an exasperated sound and chucks the bag into the backseat, rips apart the Velcro closure on the wallet.

“Nicholas Bud…” He trails off, curls his upper lip.

Piper hones in on his skewed front teeth — they always seem so prominent when he makes that face — then looks back to the road. She taps her sunglasses down over her eyes.

“The owner?”

“I dunno. Probably.” Dennis eyeballs Budreaux’s driver’s license, then pulls it out and fingers the slot it came from. “Fuckin’ waste of time. Fifty bucks in here.”

It’s a hundred and eighty three dollars, but he means to conceal the bulk of that from Piper.

A scrap of paper folded over into a stiff rectangle catches his eye, and Dennis pulls it out from one of the credit card slots.

“Some phone numbers.”

Piper glances into the rear-view mirror, then takes a sharp turn.

“What else?”

“Jack shit. Waste of time.”

[unforth]

Gentle reminder that very little fandom labor is automated, because I think people forget that a lot.

That blog with a tagging system you love? A person curates those tags by hand.

That rec blog with a great organization scheme and pretty graphics? Someone designed and implemented that organization scheme and made those graphics.

That network that posts a cool variety of stuff? People track down all that variety and queue it by hand, and other people made all the individual pieces.

That post with umpteen links to helpful resources, and information about them? Someone gathered those links, researched the sources, wrote up the information about them.

That graphic about fandom statistics? Someone compiled those statistics, analyzed them, organized them, figured out a useful way to convey the information to others, and made the post.

That event that you think looks neat? Someone wrote the rules, created the blogs and Discords, designed the graphics, did their best to promo the event so it'd succeed.

None of this was done automatically. None of it just appears whole out of the internet ether.

I think everyone realizes that fic writing and fanart creation are work, and at least some folks have got it through their heads that gif creation and graphics and moodboards take effort, and meta is usually respected for the effort that goes into it, at least as far as I've seen, but I feel like a lot of people don't really get how much labor goes into curation, too.

If people are creating resources, curating content, organizing the creations of others, gathering information, and doing other fandom activities that aren't necessarily the direct action of creation, they're doing a lot of fandom labor, and it's often largely unrecognized.

Celebrate fan work!

To folks doing this kind of labor: I see you, and I thank you. You are the backbones of our fandoms and I love you.

[bumblebeebats]

As much as i love Dungeon Meshi, i do think that given Ryoko Kui's attention to realistic worldbuilding there ought to be a companion series called Dishes Meshi where they spend 2hrs washing and drying and packing away. Alll the goddamnfuck dishes they just made

[aphel1on]

AuDHD is so funny sometimes like what do you mean my hyperfixations/special interests will last for years on end or possibly forever but they will cycle out every month or two with absolutely no transitional period or warning. like i will think about the same topic every day obsessively for 46 days in a row and on the 47th day with no visible cause adhd brain goes "ok! bored of that now" and autism brain goes "dw i got something queued up for ya" and i blast into full blown obsession on some other topic whose mental file folders haven't opened in 9 months. brain's out here treating hyperfixations like a crop rotation. once the dopamine runs out it cycles in another one but once something's in the rotation it never ever leaves. last summer we brought in one from when i was 11. it's so funny to me but frustrating too bc like. i cannot stress enough my inability to predict or control this. or how completely abrupt and random it can be

[damianito]

Chuuya will not remember. Dazai will.

[hvnnigrvhm]

which could mean nothing

[bookshelfdreams]

yk when you see someone share a finished handmade item that they clearly spent a lot of time and money on and it's just. The absolute tackiest thing you have seen in your life. And then you ask yourself why someone would waste all those resources on such an eyesore.

(no, of course you can't relate to that because you're a much nicer person than me)

In any case.

BEHOLD!

A wool coat!

The top fabric is handwoven and handspun, the whole thing is sewn by hand, too.

Leftovers. Barely anything, all things considered, which is very satisfying.

This thing took me well over 3 years to make, on and off. And now I'm done.

Thank you for your attention.

[vtkuu]

absolutely love how early on in the Oregon Parks promo campaign everyone was under the tweets being like "alex what is this" "alex we know it's you" "what are you plotting alex" and now everyone is screaming and crying in the replies for Park Ranger Gus Burnside and asking if he's okay

he got the fandom invested in his twitter roleplay character in the span of ~a week. i'm afraid there's nobody doing it like him— anyone who thinks they can pull off a Gravity Falls revival hoax/troll/etc should quit while they're ahead, truly

[hualianschild]

[xinyuehui]

Qin Che ⸺ Sylus Reveal ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

[mariegolddoesthings]

Hey. Hey you.

I know it's hard to speak up about Palestine.

You may be scared, afraid to get backlash.

You may be a minor and have parents that are overprotective of you or worse, are neutral about the whole thing or is supportive of one side.

But you don't need to speak up about Palestine on your own post. You can always reblog a post with the click of a button. Reblog posts just like this one.

I know it's hard to do much and I know you're sometimes feeling like you aren't doing enough. But you can take it with little steps at a time.

Don't stop talking about Palestine. Your voices need to be heard.

[14dayswithyou]

a few months ago you talked about playing mouthwashing and I was curious if you had any head-cannons for the characters if they got sent to that universe

pls tell ren he's adorable and he owes me 19 dollars

⌞♥⌝ They would be friends I think :3

[yangjeongin]

HYUNJIN | 『GIANT』 Music Video

[transformersbrainrot]

OMG YALL D WAS CRYING DURING THE FINALE OF TFO!!!!

what the FUCK Josh?? Why would you do this to me???

[hiding-under-the-willow]

anyways. What

[inhumanliquid]

People from this country are so cool