#oil painting classes near me

[oilartwork]

Learn oil painting easily - Full Tutorial for Beginners (Part 3)

Hi Friends, This video is part 3. For those who are watching the channel for the first time, if they have not watched part1& part 2, the continuity will be lost. It took me 5 hours to complete the oil painting. I have uploaded it as 4 videos. Please subscribe and like and share.

[punxsutawneyfilth]

Son of a bitch everything costs money

[atelierschoolofart]

Creative Arts Workshop

Explore the enriching world of creativity at Atelier School of Art's Creative Arts Workshop. Immerse yourself in a diverse range of artistic disciplines, guided by expert instructors. Unleash your artistic potential today.

[urhoneycombwitch]

oh my god…… art teacher!eddie who works with 3rd graders. and he’s every bit as kooky as he was in high school but now all that energy has someplace to go- zipping after a classroom of young kids all day, joyfully instilling fine art skills such as melting down wax to make zombie-crayons into the young minds of Hawkins.

Mr. Eddie (though he’d prefer to drop the Mr altogether, since he’s still young enough to remember the annoyance of formalities) is known as the safe space teacher- anytime someone wanted to eat lunch in his classroom they were more than welcome. He might even tell you a cool story about his old D&D group.

one day there’s this new student in class, a real quiet kid that doesn’t come out of his shell easily- Eddie quickly finds out this kid has a natural talent for painting. he’s barely 8 and has an incredible sense of light and dark, depth perception, all that fancy crap Eddie learned words for in art school.

the kid- Jake- stays after class Tuesday to help clean palettes. Eddie tries to sound nonchalant, elbow deep in soap suds as he asks, “So where’d you learn to paint like that?”

Jake, on a step stool at the closest sink, turns off his tap and shrugs. “My mom’s a painter. She used to paint a lot when she was pregnant with me. I think I’m blessed.”

Eddie chuckles heartily. “That’s one way to put it, kid.”

On the first teacher-parent night of the school year, Eddie in smart slacks and his black-rimmed glasses stands up in front of the classroom to introduce himself to all the parents.

His eyes fall to Jake, near the back row of desks, and tracks up from the manicured hand on Jake’s shoulder to- you.

Eddie’s instantly transported back to his second year of art college, falling in love with the painter girl across the hall. He still has that portrait you did of him with oil pastels, the size of a postcard. It’s the only time he’s ever liked a recreation of himself, photographs included.

You still had the same soft smile, the same eyes that lit up in recognition at the same time as he did.

Mr. Munson stumbles through the rest of his speech, and releases everyone to explore the room much sooner than he planned.

With a nervousness that he hasn’t felt in years, Eddie (after confirming you’re a single mom now) asks you to dinner. You accept, with a smile that makes his heart thrum, and a few moments later he’s one spectacular phone number richer.

[ghostbeam]

Tomura shigaraki x reader, tomura is an art student, takes place in the same universe as my charcoal artist!dabi stuff, tomura is like very insecure in some of this, if the writing feels pretentious and flowery and unnecessary that’s because it is<3

His hair is getting long.

Running your fingers through the ends, you notice how it’s nearing his shoulders now. His head is in your lap, staring up at you as you lean against the mountain of pillows on your bed, clad in a pair of underwear and the tee shirt he arrived in. His jeans are stained with paint, hanging low on his hips, unbuttoned and quickly thrown on so he wasn’t naked and vulnerable in your lap. You thumb at the scar by the corner of his mouth and he kisses it, then your palm, then your wrist. Tomura takes your hand in between three careful fingers and places it over his heart.

Love is not how they told you it would be.

The two of you were assigned to the same group in painting iii, formed so that the students could give one another critiques independently. Only, you couldn’t find a single thing to critique in his work.

Tomura worked with oils—or Tomura lived and breathed and died for them. He painted people, always caught in a moment, in the middle of talking, or yelling, or drinking, or sleeping. His attention to detail was unlike anything you’d ever seen before, colors you’d never realized could appear in skin tones, shine on limbs and cheeks that made his subjects both more alive and human than any real person. His work felt sort of dirty, sweaty, perpetually damp. But it was beautiful. You couldn’t say a thing about it.

He’d confronted you about it one afternoon, stuffing handouts from the professor into his bag, which looked to be filled with more loose paper and no text books.

“Do you hate it that much?” It was the first time he’d ever talked to you, actually talked to you and not just about your work during a critique. “You never have anything to say.”

It stuns you for a moment, his anger and annoyance, how he’s decided to aim it at you instead of the group of people clamoring for issues with his painting all class period.

“I’m supposed to point out flaws, tell you where you could have done better, explain how I wasn’t moved,” you explain, staring down at your shoes, “but I can’t do that. There’s not—I don’t see how I could possibly tell you how you could do better.”

“That’s bullshit.” He mutters, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t just say what I want to hear. I won’t like you any more for it.”

He leaves you standing alone in the classroom. Like you? He thought it was about being liked? You’re in such awe of him that you can’t speak, and he thinks you’re just trying not to hurt his feelings.

During the next class, when he stands before your group for critique, you don’t say a word. And he keeps looking at you like he’s waiting for it, like you’ll be angry enough at him for last week that you’ll rip his painting apart. But your silent, once again. Nothing’s changed.

He’s the first one out of the class once you’re dismissed. He walks fast, and you’re out of breath by the time you catch up with him, resting a hand on his shoulder that he flinches away from. Your breath comes out in quick puffs that you can see, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as you fix him with a glare.

“You’re wrong.” You say once he’s turned around. “I don’t care if you like me or not after critique. It’s not about sparing your feelings. I’ve never seen anything like what you do. And I watch you in class, and you paint like something is clawing it’s way out of you, like you need to do it or you’ll die.”

“You’re honest with everyone else but me.” He argues, unable to accept your words. You have real things to say to your peers. You don’t hold back with them. You make them better. Why couldn’t you do that for him?

“You are not everyone else.” You watch his eyes widen at your words, and if you had any shame, maybe you wouldn’t have said something so bold. “You’re leagues above all of us. Everyone knows it, and that’s why they’re harsh on you.”

Where you say nothing, your group rips into him, picking at each and every detail until there’s nothing left. He takes it all in stride, accepting their words like it’s absolute truth, and returning to his canvas with sunken shoulders and furrowed brows, concentrated on how he could be better. It’s exactly what they want.

He opens his mouth the say something, but stops, feeling a drop of something fall on his cheek. He looks up at the dark clouds above the two of you, and it begins to rain. He curses, taking a hold of your hand and leading you underneath the front of the design building.

“They’re harsh because I deserve it.” He points out, still holding your hand. You could say a million things right now, tell him in detail how moved you are by every piece he makes, but his hand is still in yours, and you don’t trust yourself not to trip over your words because of it. You can only shake your head.

“Why can’t you accept that you’re brilliant?” You question, exasperated. It makes him laugh, his smile being something you’ve never seen before. It makes you think of all the people who have seen this smile before, the stretch of his lips, the creases by his eyes. Had they felt this lucky?

“I think you’re crazy.” He tells you, knocking his knuckles against your head.

“Do you wanna go out?” You ask before you’re able to stop yourself. He leans away from you, surprised.

“What?” You can’t find the words to speak, to tell him you’re sorry, that it was uncalled for, that you’re a total creep. His face is red, you notice. He speaks a moment later, “yes.”

Rising from your lap, he leans over you, kissing your lips with as much tenderness as he had your palm. Your lips are his favorite thing to paint, second only to your thighs which he grips tightly as he wraps your legs around his waist.

When he’d met you, all full of hope and belief in him of all people, he’d thought of you as such a faraway thing. Unattainable. If you couldn’t talk about his work, there was no way you’d ever talk to him. But he was wrong, something he rarely ever is, your faith in him changing how he viewed his own art forever.

He paints you. He paints you a lot. He even paints the two of you together, though your faces are never in those ones, just bodies tangled together on one canvas. He’d call you his muse if you didn’t hate it. And besides, he knows you’re so much more.

If there had been something inside of him clawing it’s way out, you had noticed it, freed it, kept it safe with you so it wasn’t so agonizing to carry on his own.

No, it’s not how they told him it would be at all.

[nerdieforpedro]

Fare Well

For @wannab-urs Hozier Song Drabble Challenge

Dieter Bravo x plus size female reader (Sweet Pea)

This fic is for those 18+ MDNI

Word Count: about 1.8k (Yeah so…I went past Drabble 👀)

Summary: Dieter has been working so hard. He still has an issue that might be because of his mind. What can he do about it? Do anything else.

Warnings: unhealthy coping, sexual dysfunction, sex work, teasing, pet names, sexual activity (actual and implied I think? I should know. 🙃)

Notes: I listened to this song 5 times in a row because I didn’t really listen to Hozier (now I do). The color this fic is purple or violet, whichever you wanna say it. 💜 I bolded lyrics I was able to put in the fic. 🤗 Thanks to Gin for giving me two Dieter fics to write back to back. ☺️ That little trash panda is always so giving.

Main Masterlist / Dieter Bravo Masterlist / Writing Challenge

Tapping his foot on his hardwood floors, Dieter Bravo is in an all too familiar place. He’s been purposely busy. Keeping occupied except for when he’s completely exhausted has kept him out of trouble, even in the tabloids. People are saying he’s changed for the better. He knows he’s keeping clean, keeping in the straight and narrow.

Bravo has run into a snag on his progress.

The last few paintings had done well in gallery showing, even selling for double than asking price, his last movie was well reviewed. These are both very good things, wonderful. He’s happy, proud even. Bravo is having plenty of sex, mountains of it. In his head. Reality has played out much differently. All this work he’s doing, he hasn’t been able to chase a different high. One he’s used to replace the drugs. It wasn’t that he couldn’t find people to have sex with. He’s been more careful about it, not something he’s been concerned about prior to his new leaf. In doing so, acts he’d normally attempt weight more heavily on his mind and keep little Dee from swelling when needed. Bravo knows the rumor that might be going around but it’s not true! Since his mind is clearer, he actually thinks about who he’s having sex with more and little D isn’t always on board. You know, one of those words his therapist mentioned – cognitive dissonance except it’s happening with his partner in pleasure little D. Big D when he’s feeling in the mood.

He knows he could just go to one of those discreate clubs, seek his needs out there, but he always assumed he wouldn’t need one. The Oscar Winner keeps looking for different projects, in his studio trying out new paints, trying to learn the saxophone (it was a bad idea, but sounded great at three in the morning when he called his assistant and told him what to buy), he then went to a spin class and damn near passed out after fifteen minutes and tried a cooking class but was kicked out for causing an oil fire.

Nothing was working so he called and asked to stop by, check the place out. The owner of course said that was fine – he’s Dieter Bravo, they’d love to have him. Dieter told the owner,

“I’ll take any high. Any glazin’ of the eyes. Any solitary pleasure that masks my sorrow. No drugs though, I’m not willing to backslide over it.”

The owner said they understood and had the perfect person for him.

So now Dieter waits in this room. It’s an array of different purples well violets since this is a more classy place. He wanted to undress to his boxers but was told by the front desk to leave them on. He did remove his shoes, socks and jacket, but otherwise he’s dressed. Simple black slacks and a white button-down shirt that had bellowing sleeves with a deep v-cut exposing his chest down to his sternum. He felt like dressing up a bit but still kept it simple, most of the clientele were in suits and dresses that Dieter saw. Soft guitar music played in the background, he closed his eyes as he waited curious who they might have matched him with based on what he asked for.

Dieter heard the clicking of heels first. Then smelled a deep woodsy fragrance, it approached slowly, matching the pace of the heels. They stopped in front of him and he caught hints of citrus and a flower. Using his aquiline nose to sniff closer to the source, feeling body heat radiating from whoever was in front of him. “It’s faint but you smell like a sweet pea.” He released a deep breath he’d been building from taking in and trying to identify the different components of their scent.

“Welcome Mr. Bravo. I hope my fragrance invokes pleasant memories. I’m told you want to rid yourself of sorrow. Correct?” The voice embraced him as soft fingers coiled around his neck, thumbs pressing into his chin.

“Yes, please. I need to forget, just for a bit. Then I might be able to get my body to function properly. Everything is fine, great even.” He kept his eyes closed and he felt them. Lips on his forehead, warm and plush. They lingered, “Can I touch you, please?” No answer was given as hands left his neck and were placed on each side of a torso. His palms roamed slowly tracing the lace that wrapped the body he had in his hands.

The lips left his forehead and he was tempted to reach for them, but kept his eyes closed, he would wait, trying to keep his breathing even. “Is this alright Mr. Bravo or do you want someone who might-“Dieter wildly shook his head.

“Don’t you go anywhere Sweet Pea. Stay right here with me. Just like this. Maybe more. Can I look at you?” He pulled the body toward him, sniffing more. “Call me Dieter. Mr. Bravo is the one having issues with his little D.” He made himself chuckle knowing what a stupid joke it was. Fingertips graced his cheek and tipped his chin upward.

“Look at me Dieter. How do you want me to drown your sorrows tonight? I usually go by Violet due to the room, but I like Sweet Pea when you say it. It makes me sound cute.” The giggle from this celestial being has Dieter wondering if she’ll still giggle if he’s buried between her legs. He wouldn’t need to come up for air, just search for what would be his reward: her moans and his tongue squeezed by her pelvic muscles. His palms ran around to her back, feeling the different rolls of her body.

“I want to see if I’m going to go into a coma from drowning in your nectar Sweet Pea. Can I be your first casualty? If I was going to go, I’d want to be surrounded by thick thighs and a woman’s cries I offer her.” Slipping her left heel off, Sweet Pea places her leg on the bed beside Dieter’s right leg. His hand slowly makes its way across the curve of her wide ass to her thigh, his large fingers dipping into the small holes of the fishnets, tugging on them. “Let me show you gorgeous.”

Smiling, Sweet Pea gives his lips a quick peck before bending to reach between his legs, “Seems just the thought is enough Dieter. Why come to me? I’m sure you’ve got many offers, especially if you’re asking like that.” She lowers her leg and stands back up, turning her back to him but looking over her shoulder to meet his eyes. The glint in them makes her lick her lips, she could ask him to do it, just to see if he will. Given how desperate he is, he might. He won’t say it, but his body betrays him, he said that ‘little D’ was having trouble but that didn’t seem to be the case at all from what she felt. Maybe it’s the scents, the atmosphere and that what happens here will remain here until he comes back. She crosses the room and drops her black thong, stepping out of it and her other heel, sitting on a violet velvet loveseat with her legs open wide. “This is what you want right Dieter?” Her elbows are on her knees with one hand beckoning him. “Come to me, but undress and crawl.”

Bravo doesn’t want control right now, nor does he want to think. He just wants to act, to perform. In this moment, he isn’t thinking about how lonely he is or how his career could crumble on some whim of culture or random video. There’s only this purple room he can melt into as he removes his clothes, making himself bare to Sweet Pea. Dieter’s actually hard, dripping onto her carpet as he lowers himself onto the floor on all fours. His knees are burning as he makes his way across the padded carpet. It’s worth his goal though, into her tender folds. “You like to see a man work, huh Sweet Pea? That’s more than fine.” Halfway there, his bobbing swollen cock made a mess of the carpet and his belly. Upon reaching her, he placed his hands on her knees and looked up to her, balancing himself on his knees so little D was at full attention. He wanted to show her what she’d been able to bring out of him so far. Something changed though, he was smiling but Violet recognized it. She used her fingers to rub circles into his biceps and shoulders before tracing the pronounced vein on his neck.

“You adorable man. This isn’t what you want. At least not now. You can’t seem to decide between the two Dieter.” Fingers run through his hair, and he knows she’s right but couldn’t she had said so after he’d had his fill, hear her cries?

“You’re not wrong, but I still need this. Need you.” He dipped his head to nibble on her thigh and she hummed but pushed his head back. In standing, she also helped him to his feet and brought him back to the bed, removing her lace corset and climbed on the bed.

“From behind, I’m not going to have your tears dripping where I can watch while you fuck me.” Now Sweet Pea was on all fours and Dieter’s sorrow returned. It was inescapable, but he wanted to see her face. He could block it off, just for a short while he tried to get the sunshine.

“No, I need to see how your face changes as you take me.” Crawling across the bed behind her, he pulled her back flush to his chest and turned her chin over her shoulder, capturing her lips. Slipping his tongue in, the warmth felt good. He hadn’t had it in months, he didn’t know why now, in this place with her, but he’d accept it. All of it. “Pleasure to mask my sorrow is why I’m here, Sweet Pea. Have me bask in the sun.”

Their kiss broke as Sweet Pea turned to put her arms around his shoulders, kissing his forehead once again as Dieter laid back on the bed, she fell forward as he took her hair out of the high ponytail it had been in. Her hair fell around her face, her wet folds grazed his shaft and he moaned. “I’ll be your dawn until the light shines on you Dieter.”

Coming unbound, feeling elated and devastated when he had to leave, Dieter had been able to bury his sorrow in pleasure for a time. Another appointment was made for later in the week. To quote Bravo, “I’ll deny me none while I’m allowed because I wouldn’t fare well.”

Bad ideas that Dieter could use: @katw474 @readingiskeepingmegoing @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @megamindsecretlair @pamasaur @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @sp00kymulderr @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @titlee78 @tinytinymenace @magpiepillsjunior @soft-girl-musings @morallyinept @rhoorl @survivingandenduring @missladym1981 @yorksgirl @heareball @laurfilijames @maggiemayhemnj

[invisibleraven]

is there anything i can do to help?

sweet tarts

Carrie was not having a good day.

She had slept in, leaving her less time to get ready, so she didn't feel as put together as she would like, but she also had a test first thing that morning and couldn't afford to be late. Then her car gave her trouble, meaning she had to park near the back of the lot, and run to class.

From then on it was just little things, like having to eat the school lunch because she had forgotten hers at home, banging her elbow on one of the sets in drama class, and of course it was a freshly painted one. By the end of the day all she wanted to do was bury herself in her blankets and escape from the world.

But of course, when she got to her car, it wouldn't start.

No matter how many times she turned the key or stepped on the pedals-nothing. She screamed, thrashing about as she vented her frustration.

Then-a knock on her window, and she turned to see the very concerned face of Reggie Peters. She knew him by association of course, his band and hers often performed at the same venues, and he had always been very sweet, but they never spent a lot of time together.

"Hi," she said, rolling down her window. "Sorry you had to see that."

"Hey, we've all been there," Reggie replied. "Car giving you trouble?"

"Yeah, it's been acting up lately, and I guess it decided to give up the ghost," Carrie sighed, blowing a strand of hair out of her face.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Reggie asked.

"No, I can call Triple A, and my dad can come get me," Carrie replied, getting out of the car. Only of course, her phone was dead. "This fucking day, I swear."

"Here," Reggie said, offering his own phone. "You call, I'm going to look under the hood to see if I can figure it out."

"You really don't have to-" Carrie started to say, but then her mouth dried up as Reggie stripped off his ever present flannel, tying it around his waist. Who knew he had arms like that? Carrie certainly didn't and had to shake herself from staring to even lift the phone.

"They'll be here in lik twenty minutes," Carrie said after ending he call.

"Your oil pan is drier than Arizona in the summer," Reggie replied. "No wonder she wouldn't start."

"I...I don't really know much about cars," Carrie admitted. "My dad has a guy for that."

"Well your dad's guy neglected yours," Reggie stated. "It's not hard to fix, but still-he should have been checking your oil regularly."

"I'll make sure to tell him so," Carrie replied.

"Plus your alternator is close to shot-you're essentially driving a death trap," Reggie said.

"Maybe you should be my car guy," Carrie said.

"Oh no," he demurred. "I know my way around thanks to shop class and working on tractors on my grandparents farm, but I'm no mechanic."

"You seem like one to me-far better than the boob my dad hired."

Reggie grinned, highlight a smudge of grease on his face, and Carrie had the strongest urge to wipe it off-or maybe leave it there, because it looked damn good on him.

Soon enough the tow truck was there, and the driver asked if she needed a lift to the garage.

"Nah, I'll get her home," Reggie said, and Carrie smiled at the offer-she really wasn't looking forward to getting in the dirty tow truck, and given her phone was dead she couldn't exactly call an Uber.

Reggie led her to his truck-a beat up looking red beast, but it was clean, and more importantly, worked so Carrie didn't really care. Plus he had a charge cord so her phone could slowly come back to life as he headed towards Malibu.

"Where do you live anyway?" Carrie asked. "Hopefully I'm not too far out of the way."

"Used to live in Silver Lake," Reggie hummed. "But it was a bad situation, so now I'm shacking up with the Molinas in Los Feliz."

"Oh." That...complicated matters. Carrie and Julie had been friends once upon a time, but had a falling out a few years back and hadn't spoken since. She always regretted it, but couldn't find it in herself to be the bigger person and apologize.

"Yeah, Julie's a good friend. Plus her dad lets us use his garage for band practice."

Oh yeah, the lead singer of Reggie's band was Julie's boyfriend-that made sense. Carrie just hummed, letting the LA scenery pass her by.

Reggie pulled up in front of her gate, whistling at her house. "Damn, you live here?"

Carrie shrugged. Yes, it was an impressive house, but it was also empty, lonely, and not really a home. Not like the one it sounded like Reggie had with the Molinas. "Thanks for the ride."

"Anytime," Reggie said with a smile. "And when you get your death trap back, if you want me to look at it, just gimme a call."

"Cuz your my car guy now?"

"I'm your guy for whatever you need," he said sincerely.

Carrie couldn't help but blush at that, biting back a smile as she waved goodbye, squealing a little as she shut the door behind her.

"Hey Carrie," her dad greeted her-a rarity for sure, but there he was, sipping a tea at the kitchen counter. "Good day?"

Carrie beamed, going over to make herself a cup as well. "The best."

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Honoré Sharrer, Workers and Paintings, 1943. Oil on board. Click/tap to enlarge.

Sharrer worked downtown, near Manhattan’s Union Square, but shared with her Harlem peers a desire to celebrate “ordinary people.” “It is these distinguished-undistinguished players,” she said, “that moved and interested me.” Sharrer depicts American families presenting and reacting to well-known paintings, including Grant Wood’s iconic American Gothic (1930) and Pablo Picasso’s Girl before a Mirror (1932). In different ways, most of the artists she chose to represent here—including the French realist Jean-François Millet and the Mexican muralist Diego Rivera—were known for their sympathetic portrayals of working people. … Many decades later, the poet John Ashbery praised her paintings, describing their meticulous style as "a collaboration between Norman Rockwell and the brothers van Eyck." (MoMA)

The insight and modernity of “Workers and Paintings”—not to mention the meta nature—are startling. Throughout Western history, visual art has often been the domain of the educated or moneyed elite. Even when artists like Gustave Courbet broke new ground by depicting working-class people, the art itself still wasn’t meant for them. With her imagination and a careful brush, Ms. Sharrer casts aside thousands of years of tradition and poses a question: what if great art were more accessible to ordinary people? What if we could not only look at it in passing, but spend time or even live with it? With the painting hanging at MoMA, the challenge expands: what if museums weren’t intimidating and costly but more welcoming and inclusive? (Jillian Steinhauer in the NY Times)

Photo: NY Times

[onecentwriter]

wings in modern society…

rich businesspeople who have specially tailored suits that perfectly fit around their equally stunning wings. middle class workers who get basic sized holes for their wings. siblings having hand-me-downs and complaining that “my older sister had smaller wings when she was my age!!” houseless people shirtless because the frayed holes on their shirts irritate their skin.

special wing oils and wing massages and wing accessories! gold paint for holidays and tiny jewelry imbedded into feathers. wing serum that makes your feathers sleeker and softer.

inheriting wing colors from family. you have your mother’s deep green and your father’s wingspan and you grandmother’s blue-tipped feathers. twins having identical wings. triplets.

special sports binders. playing basketball, floating. track and field but using wings to propel yourself. flying events. flying sports. the skies are infinite.

celebrity doubles making their career by happening to have the exact same wings. training to do flips and glides in movies and shows. wings add a whole layer to subtle acting, twitching, ruffling, leering.

molting once a month for everyone after you hit puberty. little kids with fluffy neutral-toned feathers. awaiting when their downy feathers will molt and reveal which color they have. kids being proud of brilliant blue and yellow feathers. parrot-winged and toucan-winged kids being mocked, ridiculed. now the popular kids are the ones with the coolest wings. zach from down the street lost all his friends after he grew crow wings. gore, bad omens, superstition. the outcasts of society have wings that mean bringers of death.

influencers painting their wings in the trendy new variety, quitting the job once their feathers fall out. celebrities having entire teams dedicated to making their wings perfect.

tearing out feathers as self harm. everybody knows. bent feathers, twisted feathers, it hurts more than anything. they take years to grow back.

old ladies with beautiful red wings, faded into grey near the ends. a baby is born with slicked-down feathers, it’s traditional to bathe the newborn in special water that fluffs up their feathers. oracles predicting the wing color. parents worrying about crow-winged.

feminine wings are smaller, masculine wings are bigger. trans people wishing for bigger wings or smaller wings or just average wings. special binding for people who can’t look at theirs.

underdeveloped wings from trauma and malnourishment and neglect. they can never fly, society shuns them for something that was already terrible. medical practices try to regrow the weaker tissue.

wings in modern society 😭

[valkyrayn]

// marius in florence //

thinking about marius back in his uni days. alone in a foreign country, rocking that mullet (and glasses cus boy just be pretending he has good eyesight). he probably had girls and guys alike following him around from a distance cus they had a crush on him. and every time he walked into the room, there’d be whispers of them fawning over him. and yet he’d sit by himself—and while his focus was on the lecturer in front, the rest of the class’ attention were on him

marius wasn’t oblivious

and he’d find love letters slipped in between his books more times than he could count. the admirers knew where he would be at certain hours of the day—having memorized his schedule.

at 9am to 11am, he’d be in his oil painting class. and at 11am to 1pm he’d be in the library—sitting in the same corner near the tall windows, engrossed in whatever book that he decides to pick up that day. and the admirers would find a table adjacent to him at a near distance just to watch him and admire his features as if he was a painting

// i’d write more but i can’t think of words anymore i just love him sm. and also i just wanted to write something for my art 🥹 pls scream about this with me. what dyou think marius was like back in his uni days?

[oilartwork]

Learn oil painting easily - Full Tutorial for Beginners (Part 2)

Hi Friends, This video is part 2. For those who are watching the channel for the first time, if they have watched part 1 but not part 2, the continuity will be lost. It took me 5 hours to complete the oil painting. I have uploaded it as 4 videos. Please subscribe and like and share.

[saturdaynightghostclub]

Highway Hypnosis

Chapter 3: Driftwood Craquelure

It’s common sense not to hike alone. And I wouldn’t, honest, if I felt like I had any other choice. But Joshy’s busy and Jasper’s weird and Len’s dead, which leaves me with me. I think I should probably make some girl friends, if there’s such a thing to be found in Evergreen. My whole life, I’ve been surrounded by girls pretty much exclusively, with the exception of my time up here; the town is infested with men, whose innate need to conquer sends them north and north and north until they can’t get any further up without leaving the country. They’re alright otherwise, I suppose, if only one can excuse those socialized facets of their existence which, under a very specific set of circumstances, can turn them into irredeemable monsters. I’m probably being unfair to them, the poor babies, but the fact is I think I would be much happier here if I had a couple of girls around to talk to.

There’s a trailhead off Main Street that leads to the river. Forever and a day ago, someone built a bridge over the water, and then that bridge collapsed. The eventual solution appears to be the massive piece of driftwood upon which I’m currently precariously balanced. We’re an hour from the coast, which means someone must have driven to the beach and somehow retrieved this log to use as a bridge. I wonder why whoever it was didn’t just use a felled tree or something; it seems like it would have saved them an awful lot of trouble. I’ll admit though, the driftwood is striking. It’s marled and bleached, looking more sculptural than natural. What little bark remains on its sides is cracked and peeling; I remember learning in some blowoff class or another that the cracks in an oil painting are called the craquelure. This thing is a work of art.

When in doubt, three points of contact. This was Len’s evergreen advice in precarious outdoor situations. Three points, girl! Two feet and a hand!

This is a way I can honor him, I think. I’ll follow the advice I never did when he was alive, and maybe I’ll come out without so many cuts and bruises. Deep breath. I unbuckle the chest strap on my backpack, remembering another Len-ism: If you’re going to fall in the water, make sure you can wiggle out of your backpack, just in case. I crouch, trying to center myself and hoping I look more like a surfer in motion than a creepy forest gremlin. Three points, girl. I lower my right hand, thinking as I do that this probably wasn’t what Len meant, but there’s no going back now. Feeling slightly silly in spite of the fact that I’m probably the only human being on this trail at the moment, I wind up with something of a spider-crawl to the end of the log–is this what you wanted, you old freak?--and swing my legs over the edge to hop off onto the ground. I might as well just walk through the river on my way back.

I’m something like four miles into the trail when I get the half-disappointing signal to head home. When your water’s half gone, you’re half done. I hope Len can see me from wherever he is, finally following his lead the way I was always meant to. It’s a good thing, in the end; my body’s not used to the up and down of these trails, and I can feel my muscles protesting with each foot of incline. My head is pounding, probably from a combination of heat and dehydration, and my hands are swollen and near-useless, blood pooling into my fingertips from where I swung them at my sides. Hold onto your little backpack straps and that won’t happen. The man had a solution for everything. He was never a professional, to my knowledge; he just wasn’t afraid. If he knew to land with your whole foot when jumping from rock to rock, it’s because he jumped onto his toes one too many times and it landed him on his ass. If he wasn’t afraid, there’s a chance he was reckless too. I don’t want to think what that might have meant for him in the end.

I take the downhill slope quickly–If you lean back and lead with your hips you’ll go faster–and conquer the driftwood at my own pace. It’s hot, hotter than I can ever remember in Evergreen, although maybe it’s the eight-mile trek talking, and when I emerge from beneath the dense cover of the trees it’s like walking into the beam of a floodlight. My skin is flushed and hot, my legs marred up to my thighs with tiny scrapes from thistle and god knows what else, and for some reason I’m thrilled about it. It’s always hard to remember the misery you’ve experienced once you’re in the clear; it’s some kind of protective mechanism, maybe, to keep us sane in the face of difficulty. Nice of our brains to do that for us–then again, the next injury always hurts twice as bad. I’m in the clear, though. I’m starting over. For the day, for my life. I should probably get some electrolytes in me.

The general store is blessedly air conditioned. I make a beeline for the refrigerators along the back wall, opening one up without seeing what’s inside, just to bask in its chill.

“You’re letting all the cold air out,” Jasper’s voice sounds from behind a book. I look over my shoulder to see him, as ever, with his legs crossed on the counter.

“Let me have this,” I reply, testing the waters. It’s been a week and a half. I think we’re warming up to each other, but I can’t be certain.

Jasper shrugs, lowering the book. “Whatever.”

I can feel his eyes on me as I make my selection–screw electrolytes, I’m going for caffeine–and when I bring my drink to the register he looks mildly inconvenienced as he’s forced to swing his legs off the counter and do his job. They’re long legs; I’ve noticed before, but really, it’s almost impressive that he manages to have such control over his limbs when he’s working with the proportions of a benevolent spider. Those long legs means he’s got a few good inches on me, and if I look up at him through my eyelashes every so often, then what?

Jasper clears his throat. “You, uh. You decided to change things up today,” he says, sliding the can (which proclaims itself to be full of tea, but which we all know to contain pure rocket fuel). I raise an eyebrow, and he clarifies: “You usually go for mint. Today you got the peach.”

“Huh,” I say, wondering how on Earth he managed to pick that up, “you’re right. I’m surprised you remembered.”

Jasper shrugs, averting his gaze for a moment. “People fall into patterns,” he says. Fair enough, I suppose. I reach across the counter to take the can, and before I can fully comprehend what’s happening Jasper’s got his hand wrapped around my wrist. My gaze shoots upward, ready to either wrench myself free of his grasp or tell him exactly where he can shove his patterns, but whatever fire had ignited itself in my chest is doused by the delicate arrangement of his features. “I’m sorry,” he says, letting go of me, “I don’t know why I–shit, I’m sorry,”

He looks pained, stunned–like he couldn’t have anticipated his action any more than I could have. I’m seized once again by the desire, impractical and mortifying, to be close to him. If I took his hand, would it be alright? Would it communicate what I wanted to say–the “it’s okay” without the “do it again”?

“Let’s start over,” I say, as softly as I can without slipping into meekness. Jasper nods, exhaling.

“Would it be alright if I stopped by the house later? I have…I have something of Len’s I’d like to return. A book,” he says, shrinking back from himself in real time.

He’s practically a stranger. I haven’t known him in eleven years, and if Joshy’s to be believed at least five of those years were fraught with tension. I should set a boundary before I find myself alone with him, starting something out of vague nostalgia that I can’t finish. And so, when I tell him “Sure, come over whenever,” it’s the ten-year-old troublemaker I’m inviting into my home and not the lanky shell of regret standing across the counter from me.

[placesyoucallhome]

Drunk wasps, wild turkeys and pokemon cakes. You live an interesting life.

mmm, bear with me here-

I've taken art classes since I was a kid, like traditional art training since the age of like, five. Mostly from the same guy, he was also my AP art teacher in highschool. But for a lot of that time my art was very... bland, flat. I was taught to draw what I saw, in a very literal sense, he wouldn't even allow us to take a picture of our subject matter to work on outside of class hours (mind you, there were no cell phone cameras then we were working off digital cameras mostly but that's beside the point). So, much of my art was also literal, leaves were greens, brick was red, water was blue. My art wasn't great, and I couldn't quite figure out why.

I also took art classes in college, whole different teacher, he admitted my technical skill was there, but I wasn't pushing things at all, and I really still didn't 'get' it. I eventually got to an oil painting class, and again my technical skill was there, but it fell flat.

Until one assignment. He set up a still life, basic, I couldn't tell you how many damn still lifes I've done, but this one was only in greys. Every single item was a flat shade of grey, and our assignment was 'paint in color'. It took me a bit, to see it, and I won't say that I got it immediately right then, but it started to click. Literally, those vases and boxes were grey, and that wasn't the point, the point was choosing to see the colors in that. There's the golds of the sun through dirty skylights, the copper bouncing up from the cheap flooring, the blue shining from the jacket of the kid falling asleep in the front row. Once you think to look for it, you can see the bouncelights and colors, there's a rainbow in even a white wall, I would know, I painted one.

My point is, life is bland, painfully so, or worse, its stressful, painful. One can see things literally, in dull shades, that tree in the yard invites bugs, living near the metroparks means local forest wildlife, a lot of my 'art' nowadays is done in buttercream, and everything is... boring.

Or, you can find the color in the little things, like the ridiculousness of the fact that apparently local herds of deer like to get drunk off fermenting ornamental pears in our front yard, or the comedy of trying to find a way to explain what the hell Mewtwo is to a coworker that's never played pokemon.

I write and present things the way I do because, I choose to see the colors in mundane things. It doesn't make living less painful, but it can make it easier to bear.

[shatteredvioletnuzlocke]

Chapter 6: Day in Life of a Uva Student (Patch)

After class had dismissed, lunch in the Uva cafeteria had commenced. Students lined up with plastic trays, with Patch having the most eager appetite. I wish I hadn’t skipped breakfast, they groaned in their head. Thinking back to the time at the Torrez’s, Patch wouldn’t mind a protein-powdered pancake.  

On the white tiled wall, a menu was posted: 

Today’s Lunch 

Patatas Bravas with Basil and Smoliv oil  

Tomato Berry Bread with Serrano Ham and Pesto (Gluten-free Options available)

Beet salad with Skiddo Cheese

Tempted by the many choices, Patch settled for a Patatas Bravas with some beet salad on the side. Then came the challenging part; where to sit. The young student was no stranger to the seating arrangement system. Back at their old high school, you needed to be in a clique just to reserve your table. Otherwise, you’d have to cry in the bathroom like everyone else.

Scanning the room for anyone they recognized, Patch spotted a familiar stocky man with blond hair. Oh, it’s that Arven guy! Avren sat at a table in the far back all by himself. Oh… does he not have any friends? they thought concerned. They reminded themselves of the day they were given Kapheria. I hope he's not still mad about that. Wanting to barry the hatchet, they approached the near-empty table.

“Hey, Arven!” Patch greeted with a smile, “Mind if I sit?” 

The blond-haired student seemed startled by Patch as if it were the first time someone said hello to him.

“Oh it’s you,” he groaned.

Patch’s smile began to slip, “Uh yeah… me. I’m, Patch.” 

Arven gestured them to sit but his scowl remained. Patch noticed an assortment of loose-leaf papers scribbled with words. The young man had his nose caught in a book, indicating they were interrupting his study session. 

It doesn’t look like he’s still mad at me. If he were he wouldn’t let me sit. Maybe we can be friends? Maybe I can give him Kapheria?

“Soooo…” Patch began with a question “Whatcha reading about? Is it for a big assignment?

“Nothing like that…” he replied without looking up, “Just some light reading.”

This only made Patch curious to what his book was about. They didn’t want to pry into his mind, but the way he was so invested in every page reminded them of how they read Swords of Justice. 

“So classes are you taking?” They requested, shoving a potato slice in their mouth. The saltyness of the potato pleased them.

He turned to jot some notes, “I’m in the humanities track this year.”

“Oh cool,” Patch swallowed their food, “That means you guys learn about hospitality, right? My dad knows all about that.”

“It’s not about hospitality…” he sighed, “It’s more than that. It’s teaching us to free the world from brutality and prevent others from getting hurt. Unlike most of the students who engage their Pokemon in senseless fighting. And for what? A sport?”

“Oh I get what you mean,” Patch shoved the rest of their potatoes in their gaping mouth, “I don’t think I wanna battle either!”

Arven didn’t respond at all, perhaps the potatoes clouded their words. Washing everything down with a glass of cool, fresh water, Patch realized that the conversation wasn’t going anywhere. They might as well get straight to the point. 

“Anyway…” Patch shrugged, “When we met, your dad kinda gave me custody of his dragon.”

“I remember,” he buried his head deeper into his book.

“So I was wondering if I could give her back to you?”

It was then their eyes met, although his expression didn’t change. Alright, we’re getting somewhere! 

Patch went on, “I was very flattered, but I feel like I don’t know a lot about Kapheria to take care of her. And you kind of-”

“You didn’t damage her more did you?” he immediately interrogated them.

“No, I didn’t!” they pleaded, “You just seemed like you wanted to look after her.” 

Patch went into their bag and pulled Kapheria’s newly painted Pokeball which Arven immediately swiped out of their hands. 

“Is this Kapheria’s Pokeball?” he raised his voice upon examining the painted lightning bolts, “WHAT DID YOU DO TO IT?!”

Oh gosh, what did I do? Patch worried, “It’s okay I only painted it! The Pokeball still works!”

“What are you a child?” Arven began to yell, “You don’t just deface something that doesn’t belong to you!” 

He dunked his napkin into his water glass and began scrubbing away at the paint. Arven was right, how could Patch do something so careless? They stood ashamed, only imagining the anger Arven was boiling for them. They glanced around the room to find that some students began gawking at the scene of it all: One student was pissed off out of his mind and another was about to cry under the pressure. 

Arven shoved the Pokeball back into Patch’s clammy hands. Most of the paint chipped off but there were still large traces of violet. 

“I expect you to remove the rest of it before you return it to my father,” he muttered under his breath. 

With that Arven gathered his notes and pressed them down into the pages of his large book. He stormed off, without even taking Kapheria with him. Patch didn’t understand, Arven seemed eager to look after the metallic beast. Was he respecting his father’s request? Did he lose interest? Was he just too busy with his studies?

Before Patch could answer any of their question a similar voice rang from outside of their head, “Hey Newbie, this seat taken?” 

“Nemona!” Patch wiped their eyes to see their former hostess, “go right ahead.”

Nemona adorned a violet tracksuit, the perfect attire for a battling coach. 

“You doing okay?” Nemona asked concernely, “Why was that Arven kid yelling at you?”

Patch hid Kapheria’s Pokeball deep within their bag, “Oh I don’t know… I think he’s still mad at me about the whole Kapheria thing.”

“Yeesh really?” Nemona stirred her drink, “If you ask me that guy has daddy issues.”

“Nemona!” they couldn’t help but smile.

Perhaps it helped to have a teacher who was close to Patch’s age. It didn’t make them look like a total friendless loser. 

“Anyway, I was hoping to run into you,” Nemona reached into her bag, “I have something for you!” 

Nemona dropped a worn-down decoy doll onto the table, which shook the plates for a second. It was poorly stitched together with sloppy seams. The green fabric was faded and even stained in some places.

“Even if you're not going to battle other trainers, your Pokemon are going to need some enrichment,” Nemona explained, “So you can have my old decoy doll.”

“Oh…” Patch gulped, “thank you.” 

They lifted the doll of the table with their meek body strength. What’s in these things? They placed it next to their bag. 

“That’s not all,” the champion grinned. She slid a violet box onto the table with a silver Uva emblem.

The looked so ornate that Patch assumed that there could be jewelry inside. Instead, when they opened it there was a Pokeball that was black like obsidian. It was aligned with a silver ring and encrusted with a black jewel. They had seen this before this was a Tera Orb!

“This is for me?!” Patch’s eyes widened.

“Of course it is!” she nodded, “I told Clavell about what happened that day with Kapheria, and how you helped her. We give these out to outstanding students and he was so impressed with your act of kindness we’re giving you one now.” 

“Oh come on,” Patch blushed, “Kapheria saved me more.”

Patch removed the Tera Orb from its velvety case, admiring the sleek texture. Touching it, it felt like the finest glass. They saw their reflection against the surface. Seeing their unruly brown hair and poorly knotted necktie, they wondered how someone so unremarkable could deserve something so powerful. 

“Don’t worry,” Nemona reassured them, “It’ll come in handy for later.” 

One thing was for certain, Patch wasn’t painting over this Pokeball.

…

Later that night Patch drew in their dorm while their team slumbered. Now that they had unpacked, their room felt more lived in. Their desk was chock-full of pencils, paint, and extra sketchbooks. Posters of elegant horse Pokemon were displayed on the wall. The shelves were stacked with the first volume of The Swords of Justice series. A navy and white carpet was set down on the floor. On top of it was an old Pokemon bed their mother gave them where the team was nestled together. 

Tamarind lay on his belly snoring away, his breaths carrying a relaxed purr. Kombucha curled up to the corner snorting pleasant dreams. The decoy doll acted as a giant pillow for the tiny Arturo who cuddled it. As they all slept, Patch tried to capture the moment in their sketchbook. They etched against the paper, their loose sketchy lines forming simple shapes. Then making way for the details, with only the bedside lamp and Tamarind’s flickering tuft acting as a light source. Patch was fortunate that their team was so easy to draw with their roundish bodies, they made perfect modeling subjects. 

Using their phone Patch took a picture of their team, so they could reference it for later. Admiring the way their Pokemon were serenely dozing, they forwarded the picture to their mother. They read their phone’s clock 8:46pm, It’s probably tomorrow in Unova right now. Mom will probably respond at midnight. I haven’t shown her my team yet. I hope she likes them as much as I do. Patch’s mom was a trainer as well, but she only caught Pokemon that were clean and well-mannered. They could only imagine the disapproval-coded comments they would receive after their mother saw they caught a smelly Lechonk.

Their phone began to ring before they could prepare themselves for the motherly nagging. Their screen showed a profile picture of a familiar round face with carmine hair and glasses. Sage? What could she want at this hour? Sage Winchell was Patch’s best friend in Unova, he lived far from Nacrene but their shared interests kept them close. 

“Woink…” Kombucha moaned, awakened by the ringtone.

He must be bored off another caffeine rush, Patch thought. Curious to find the real answer, Patch accepted the call keeping the volume low. The screen went blurry for a minute before it displayed their best friend in a darkened room. But it didn’t look like Sage’s bedroom, was he kidnapped?

“Sage? You okay?” Patch asked.

“Patch!” Sage’s animated voice tunneled through the speaker, "GUESS WHAT?!"

He must be on some pretty intense coffee.

"I'M IN PALDEA TOO!" she revealed with a squee.

“Shut up?!” Patch’s eyes widened, “You’re playing me?! You can’t be? When? How?”

“I remember how I said I wanted to go to trainer school?” Sage mentioned, “Well I took a shot in the dark and sent in a few applications, and I got enrolled to Naranja Academy!”

Sage in Paldea? Patch paced around the room with concentrated excitement. They scanned the room to see if it looked any different. Testing themselves to see if they had fallen asleep in a lucid dream. Yet, everything in their dorm room remained normal. 

"How come you didn't tell me before?" Patch asked.

Sage twirled his hands around, "Well I didn't think I was actually going to get in, I was waitlisted until a few weeks ago," he admitted.

“Oh wow," Patch's eyes glimmered with delight. The young trainer had to leave a lot behind when they departed for Paldea. But now that Sage was around it was like they had a little piece of Unova.

"So how's Uva?" Sage wondered, "Make any friends with any rich kids?"

Patch shrugged, "Well sort of... but not everyone here is rich..."

“Nonsense! You must be learning how to speak Kalish while they feed you caviar,” Sage teased.

“Quiet, peasant,” Patch leaned to his sense of humor, “So what are you learning at your school?” 

“Battling, what else?” Sage answered.

Battling, the word echoed in Patch’s mind, Sage… is battling? The two were similar in many ways, but Sage always stood out as the risk-taker.

“Yeah…” he signed, “It's all they teach here. But I’m learning all the ins and outs of becoming a good trainer. Oh, and that’s not the only thing!” 

Sage reached out of frame an pulled a fluffy Sprigatito with deep red eyes that flashed in the light. 

“This is Dahlia,” Sage cooed in a cutesy tone, “The school gave her to me, isn’t she perfect?”

“Aw so cute,” Patch closed their eyes to appear pleasant while they placed their hand over their healing scratch. “Wanna see mine?”

“Of course I do,” he said as Patch flipped the camera to face their Pokemon.

“Yooooo!” Sage beamed, his voice growing out of the speaker, “I like your Fuecoco!”

“Woink… woink,” Kombucha awoke in a huff. 

“Aw, I woke the sleepy man!” the young man on the phone joked. 

The Lechonk rather peeved at the commotion tugged at his trainers' socks. He wiggled it around as to say to “knock it off”.

“Sorry Kombucha,” Patch apologized, “I’ll be done in a second.”   

“So since we’re both in Paldea, do you want to meet up soon?” Sage proposed, “We’re both pretty close to Cortondo. Why don’t we meet there sometime?”

 In their mind they brushed upon the Paldean map, That’s… west of here. Not too far.  “Let’s do it!” 

“Okay!” Sage winked, “I have a class tomorrow, so I better get some shut-eye! See ya!”  

“Bye,” Patch ended the video chat.

As they lead the cranky pig back into bed, Patch begins to wonder. Sage is willing to battle, but Arven says it’s just a sport. He is older than me she must know what he’s doing.  

The very next morning classes were cancelled without a moment’s notice. The entire school was summoned for an assembly on the field. The field was on the school deck, big enough to hold various sports events. The Paldean sun rose slowly, causing the cool shadows to linger over the crowd of students. 

Patch followed the crowd, just as curious as everyone else to see what this assembly would entail. What’s all this about? Is someone in trouble? Maybe this is one of those, “Welcome to a new school year” type of assembly? Because of the inclusion of their beanie, they stood out among the other students who wore the same uniform. The students where all of different ages, ranging from kindergarteners to middle aged adults. Since Uva was a trainer school anyone could apply, it was an only a matter of getting accepted. Patch assumed the older students had to wait years for their acceptance letter. Unlike the kindergarteners who made it in without realizing their luck. Patch was also lucky to get accepted while they were still a young adult.

Foldable chairs where set out on the synthetic grass, though it was clear there weren’t enough for everyone. That was fine, Patch didn’t mind standing or sitting on the plastic ground. On the track a platform was set with a podium branished with the Uva sigil. No doubt it was meant for Director Clavell or someone just as important. 

Among the sea of people, Patch worried apon seeing the blond hair of Arven. Oh Arceus, they rolled their eyes as they thought. They quickly noted how the young man didn’t converse or even associate with the other students. Much how like he sat alone at lunch the other day. Was Arven that introverted or was everyone put off by his egregious temper? Patch would never find the answer. 

They sat as far away from Arven as they could to avoid another confrontation and opened a clean page in their sketchbook. Patch tried to draw Tamarind from memory. Using their pencil they made a roundish egg shape for the body then added smaller circles for his arms legs and jaw. No that’s not right! Patch thought unsatisfied upon seeing their lack luster jaw, It isn’t that round is it? They rubbed their eraser against the paper until the circle was no more. Patch redrew the jaw with a flatter shape which made it much more suitable for their meticulous mind.

From their artistic concentration, Patch heard the students whisper. 

“There’s Professor Thuban!”

“Is it true he's part of the elite four?” 

“Crap, I haven’t done his homework yet!”

The aforementioned Professor Thuban fashioned an argyle sweater under a sap green blazer with a cape draping from his shoulders. Patch found that it was suitable for a supposed elite four-member. He strolled up to the stage, behind a man with a fashionable suit and shaven hair. Behind that man was a brawn man with muscular arms like that of a Gurdur. He had jet black hair an wore an apron around his waist. I wonder what he teaches ? Then came an elderly woman with a dark complexion with gray blocky hair. Her homely attire of a dress and sweater gave Patch the impression that she was kind grandmotherly type of person.

The student body settled their voices as they saw Director Clavell and champion Nemona enter the stage. The man with snowy white hair adjusted his glasses and reached for the microphone. 

“Excellent,” his voice reached through the crowd, “It seems like everyone is in attendance.”

What could be so important you needed the whole school to show up? 

“Well then it’s time I explained your independent assignment,” Clavell announced.

Independent study assignment?! Patch feared, Would that interfere with my art classes?

“For those of you who are new to Uva, we are allowing you to pursue a hands-on learning experience to explore Paldea!” the Director explained, “As you study to be trainers, you find that you’ll need to navigate and adapt to nature. This assignment will help you prepare for just that. So long as you return to the academy every once in a while to attend your classes, you may travel to wherever you please!”      

Patch reveled at such an opportunity, I can go out and explore Paldea. All on my own?! 

“This year’s theme will be… A treasure hunt,” Clavell revealed, “I ask each of you to set out and travel the world in search of your own treasure!”

My treasure, Patch wondered, what would that be? They thought of the things most valuable to them: art, books, pokemon. 

“Of course, your Pokémon partners will be there to help you. You will journey together...learn new things together...share each other's thoughts and feelings...and find something you might always treasure!” Clavell rejoiced in his speech.

That’s true. Patch realized, traveling makes for a better bonding experience. Plus, I wouldn’t mind catching another Pokemon, so long as they aren’t smelly. 

The student body began to celebrate their new-found assignment. 

“We can go anywhere?”

“I wanna go to Levinca!”

“If I go on this assignment, I may never wanna come back.”

“Maybe this will get me out of homework?”

“I look forward to welcoming you all back after your independent study,” The Director exulted, “when you return to us as fine young Trainers! Let the Treasure Hunt begin! Onward!"

The whole school roared with applause, they’re voices cheering for Clavell and his grand idea. The screeching volume of it all almost irritated Patch, but they too were thrilled with excitement. 

…

Patch lugged through the shopping street of Mezagoza, the weight of their bag being heavier than ever. It was chalked to the brim with clothes, sketchbooks, potions, and empty Pokeballs. All they needed left was food for their trip. The scent of freshly baked bread led them to the storefront of Deli Cioso. Sandwiches would make for a great meal for the road. They’re cheap, effortless, and tasty.

“Alola,” the store clerk greeted from behind the desk, “What can I get for ya?” 

They quickly planned their order, I’m going to need meat for Tamarind. Vegetables for Kombucha. But do Shroodles eat? Would Arturo eat meat? I bet Kapheria would eat anything. The other option would be to buy a bag of Pokemon kibble, but it was also the more costly one. 

“Could I have three smoked fillets, five eggs, five red bell peppers, a bottle of vinegar, and some bread rolls?” Patch asked.

The woman took a moment to ring them up, “Alright, that’ll be 2,890 P.”

  Arceus dammit! Patch pulled out their wallet and gave the lady half of what was inside. They wondered if it was too late to change their mind. But the woman had a full plastic bag already for them.

“Have a good day!” the store clerk smiled.

They took their bag shamefully and heaved their way to the west gate. Do I need all this food for Cortondo? I’ll only be there for a day or two. Then again I might as well eat this to save money. Under the beaming glare of the Paldean sun, Patch began to melt with sweat. They were already so exhausted by the weight of their baggage that they were tempted to get their Pokemon out to lighten their load. But they were all too small and they knew better than to have Kapheria carry things for them. 

They plopped their backpack down on the ground, placed their sandwich bag on the nearest bench, and sat down. Catching their breath, they took a moment to glance and the passing cumulus clouds. They wished for rain to pour down on them.

Suddenly their backpack began to shake, as if something alive was inside. Strange… Then the flap unzipped to release the blue beam of a Pokeball. In a flash Kapheria stood right in front of them, much to their surprise.

“Agrias!” Kapheria roared while stretching.

People who were passing by couldn’t help but stare at the metallic dragon, wondering what kind of Pokemon she was.  

Patch’s eyes widened, “Did you come out of your Pokeball all on your own?”

Kapheria nudged at the sandwich bag, trying to gnaw through the plastic.

“Kapheria, no!” Patch swiped the bag away, “We need to save these for later!” 

“Arg?” the dragon tilted her head.

“We’re traveling to Cortondo to meet up with my friend, Sage,” Patch explained knowing that the Pokemon wouldn’t fully understand, “You’ll have plenty of time to eat when we're on the road!”

Even though they focused their treasure hunt on catching Pokemon, they didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity to see their best friend. Cortondo wasn’t very far from Mezagoza, but the amount of walking would do a number on Patch’s feet. Of course, they could call a flying taxi but it would be a waste of money for such a short ride.

“You can have a sandwich as soon as we get to the West Province,” Patch promised.

Kapheria’s tail wagged eagerly but she began to curl it underneath her hind legs. Her silvery throat unfolded and began to glow like it did at the beach.

“Kapheria?” Patch witnessed the strange occurrence, Is she transforming again? Does this mean she’s better?

Static crackled from her head. Her throat and tail had that same yellow, purple radiance, although this time they formed into rings resembling wheels. The strange wheels kept her tethered to the ground instead of her hovering in midair. The change of appearance wasn’t too drastic but it made Patch wonder what else Kapheria could do. 

“Agrias,” she purred to the bewildered trainer.

“Umm…” Patch stammered, “Okay…”

While they were at a loss for words more townsfolk and tourists took notice of Kapheria. Some even being so rude as to snap photos of the dragon without Patch’s permission. Kapheria just stood their seemly waiting for the human.

“Do you want me to give me a ride or something?” they shot out a question.

“Argg!” Kapheria nodded back. 

Okay, she can understand me better than I thought. And now she wants me to… ride her?!  The last time Patch rode a Pokemon they were nine and it ended horribly. But Kapheria was much different and more friendly than a Boffalaunt. So maybe it could be better? 

Feeling a little pressured, Patch strapped their backpack and clenched their bag full of food tightly in their hands. On their tippy toes, they swung their leg over Kapheria’s violet back and sat on her. Her body felt warm like heated engine which didn’t keep Patch from sweating more. They grabbed the two horns on her shoulders like handlebars but before they could even think Kapheria thrusted without a moments notice!

“Kaph-er-aaahhh!” Patch wailed being thrown into high speed. 

Kapheria dashed through the street like lightning striking against the ground. The buildings seemed to flash past them in a blur. The bolting dragon caught many trainers and Pokemon off guard.

“Hey!” a gruff voice complained, “Ya nearly ran me over!”

“Sorry Sorry Sorry!” Patch frantically apologized, “Kapheria, slow down!” 

Suddenly Kapheria halted, her wheels making black skid marks in the lustrous mosaic pavement. No the ground! We ruined it! 

“Kapheria!” they raised their voice sternly, “You can make a run for it all willy-nilly without giving me a warning! You could hurt yourself!”

“Arrrr…” The dragon purred remorsefully.

“It’s alright,” Patch reassured her, “Let's take it slow, okay? Do you think you can head over to the left?”

“Arg!” She responded beginning to turn her wheels.

She rolled at a brisk pace, treading smoothly against the ground. It was certainly much better than riding a Boufalant. Patch began to enjoy it but they were sure to stay aware of Kapheria’s crack. As far as they could tell she wasn’t in as much pain as she had been before. 

Finally, the two came to Mezagoza’s western gate and the path to Cortondo awaited them. A man stood near the two wooden doors, thankfully he didn’t resemble a member of Team Star. 

“Morning, amigo!” the guard tipped his hat, “You heading out to the province?”

Patch wasn’t ready to respond, they braced themselves. This is it. I’m on my own. Just me. No Nemona. This time I need to be an adult and look out for myself. They felt braver for the journey ahead. Maybe this time they could save themselves.

“Amigo?” the guard repeated.

“Yep,” Patch gave a delayed answer, “on my way to Cortondo!” 

“As per Paldean law, you must respect the environment and catch one Pokemon,” the guard informed them, “Do you understand?”

“Of course!” Patch said thrilled with the possibilities, Let’s hope whatever I catch is cute. 

The guard walked over to a metal panel on the cobblestone wall and pulled a switch. Slowly the wooden doors creaked open, revealing an entire grassy prairie that went on forever. Once the entrance was wide enough, Kapheria strode out toward the open plains. 

 The air was calm and had a pleasant, nectary aroma. The gentle wind caused waves of olive-green grass to dance serenely. The harmonious buzzing of Combees seemed to cancel out the rupturing sounds of the doors closing behind them. This seems like the perfect place to handle myself, they thought without seeing a Bouffalant in sight. 

“Stop here, please,” they told the dragon. 

Kapheria gently planted her feet on the dusty soil and couched down to help the human get off. From Patch’s height, the prairie became more vast and endless. They pulled out their phone and checked their map. Their phone displayed a dot representing them, on a green background. They shrunk the map back with their fingers until a dot labeled Cortondo came into view. From where they were standing they had a long way to go. But with Kapheria’s help, they might just be able to lessen the travel time to less than a day. They were also prepared to sleep under the stars if the metallic dragon got tired.

“Let’s find a spot to set up camp,” Patch told her, “I owe you a huge sandwich!”

<-Chapter 5- Chapter 7->

[gildedphoenixx]

if you create, you're an artist

we're starting to write our teaching philosophies in my art education class rn so excuse me while i go on a little bit of a ramble

I am a firm believer in the fact that anyone can be an artist. If you find joy and purpose in what you make, congrats! You're an artist. I don't care if it's a huge realism painting that could rival the Mona Lisa, a crochet blanket project you made as a gift, a lopsided bowl you made in ceramics, or even a throwaway doodle on a napkin at a restaurant. If you made it, and you found joy in it, it's art in my eyes and you're an artist.

I've had family members try and argue with me that art is some magical talent people are born with and they'd never be able to obtain the level of skill that I'm at. I say "not with that attitude." I believe that with the right tools and access to learning, anyone can learn to create. You can learn to draw, to paint, to knit, or crochet. You can learn ceramics and sculpting. You can learn. It takes a lot of practice and time to become a "master" at it, but that's how any skill works. I didn't pop out of the womb holding a paint brush and pallete and immediately be able to produce fully rendered semi-realistic paintings like I can now. Hell, I couldn't even do that a few years ago! It took most of my life messing around and practicing to get anywhere near as good as I am now. And guess what? I'm still learning and practicing. But we all start somewhere. It's the passion to create and the tools made available to us that allow us to thrive and grow as artists.

Sure, to some extent I know that some people are able to see color in different ways or have a better imagination. But if you don't, that doesn't mean you can't do art. Literally everyone sees the world differently. Some people are more go-with-the-flow thinkers, while some are more analytical. Some people jump right into an art project with no plan, others plan things out down to every single brush stroke. Maybe that means you don't do art as a career, but that doesn't mean you're not an artist. You can be both a lawyer and an artist, a doctor and an artist, a mathematician and an artist, a cashier and an artist. You can be anything and an artist.

Another thing about art is how many options there are. Painting, ceramics, print making, jewelry making, sculpture, photography, digital art, knitting. The list goes on and within those categories, there's more categories! For example, painting can be broken down into so many different types of paint: oil, acrylic, watercolor, gauche, and probably more. But my point is, if one medium doesn't work for you, there's a ton more options to pick from. That's the beauty of art. Let's say you're really struggling with painting realism. Proportions and colors just are lining up the way you want. You can't get the right angle and nothing looks right. Well, before you throw everything down in frustration and quit all art forever... might I suggest photography? Using a camera would allow you to still play with angles and color (or even black and white) while keeping those proportions just the way you want. You could explore different lens types or mess around with film. It's a whole new medium to explore. Or if you want to give painting another shot, there's a way to take photos and make an exact copy of said photo using grid lines on to a canvas to keep those same proportions. And color mixing can be thought of like a science in a way.

Anyways, do you see what I'm getting at?

There's many different ways to approach the teaching of art to make it accessible and fun. So even if you think you can't do it, a good teacher will help you find a way that makes sense.

Art is so versatile and there's literally no wrong answers or any wrong way to do it. It's all subjective. It's all open ended. It's meant to be fun and a way for people to express themselves, connect to others, and communicate without even speaking a word. There's an infinite amount of ways to play with mediums in art. You can start whenever and however you want. With enough time and practice you can make what you want. And if you're hesitant to start on the grounds of thinking you're not an artist I'm here to tell you that you're wrong.

Anyone can be an artist.

[buzzards-sticky-fingers]

had to write a short story for a class and decided to make it vaguely about Buzzard

Twenty-seven came this time. The dog bounds from one metal husk to another, connecting dots in their lifeless constellation. I pick at my fingers as I follow the dog because it’s still too hot to pick at these corpses. Just a little while longer. The roaring fires will burn themselves out in their empty tanks.

They often arrive already dead. From what, I don’t know. Even dead machines can be used.

Silica grit and stardust waft in my wake as I trudge around the largest mech, kicking up the desert with every step. It's three times my size, titanium struts bared beneath the shredded ailerons, dripping ruby flame. Between the meteoric entry and the sandpaper landing, the paint is well and truly stripped, but I see some scarlet embossing in a cranny near the stern. That's where I'll go first, when I can stand the heat and the glass underfoot is solid enough to step on.

The dog barks, and I round a broken bow to see him gnawing on the next corpse. Small, not even burning, I know I can crack it open right now. There's a cable leaking pink caught between the dog's gnashing teeth, and I trip over myself to follow it upwards. The innards spill over sheared metal edges and I quest between them. Wires, tubing, gears as large as my eye—consolation prizes, perhaps.

A wheeze makes me pause. “H-h-he-hel-help—he-hel-help—” The poor thing’s vocoder is rattling in its setting just trying to spit out one word.

“Shh, hello,” I murmur. “I thought you were dead!”

With a twist I unlatch a crumpled section of the outer shell and find the loose connection of its voice box. A good thump elicits a squeal of agonized feedback, but now it can speak.

“Please,” it says, voice crowded with static. “Please. Help.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll do what I can.” I pinch fuel lines, wipe away oil, and pick debris out of its chassis, alien metal contaminated with plain earth.

“It hurts.”

“I can see that!” I glance at the dog, now tugging on the leaking cable. Its sensors probably can’t feel that anymore.

There’s something sparking inside and I have to scrape away panels of circuitry to get at it. An unseated coupling spits electric arcs at my hand. If there’s still enough power to cause that, then…

“You will help me?”

“Yes, yes,” I soothe, flicking the coupling apart. The rattle-groan of unsteady metal covers the sound of something snapping while I dig deeper. Its face is lying there, caved into its chest cavity, blind optics wide—a better consolation prize.

“You will help?” Its withered antennae twitch. Its optics roll in pain.

“Yes—”

My fingers tiptoe across hallowed ground. The power core, still warm, hanging by a single plug.

“Yes, I’m helping.” I pop the plug out with a practiced motion. The now-corpse doesn’t twitch when I hoist the core up, satisfied.

This is the sort of prize I was hoping for.