#paper flowers zine

[ragdollnetic]

I had the absolute privilege of being a part of the @paperflowerszine!

The flower I chose to feature the wisteria, a flower that represents resilience, devotion, and affection.

[paperflowerszine]

After getting everything ready, it is finally time to ship out the finished bundles! We can't wait for all of you to receive your goods! Thank you for all of your support!

🌷 Carrd 🌷 Twitter 🌷 Instagram 🌷

Every reblog is greatly appreciated! @zineapps @zinefeed @zineforall @zinefans @zine-scene  @zinecenter @fandomzines  @zinesubmissions  @anizines @faneventshub @anizines

[papierexperimente]

An inside view in our sketchbooks ✨✨… PART 2  / Ein Einblick in unsere Skizzenbücher ✨✨… TEIL 2

[crossbackpoke-check]

Sat politely ankles crossed hands folded please say you have more thoughts about the DC deweys. Lazarus pit cold-eyed stare pristine and bloodthirsty anyway I would love to hear any further thoughts if you have the time + energy + motivation

how i imagine you waiting for me to re-read the resurrection of ra’s al-ghul and hush vol. 1+2:

ALRIGHT. in no particular order, thoughts about the dc deweys

connor fits very well into the mold of a talia al-ghul for me; chip on his shoulder, femme fatale, deadly and precise. he’s not the loudest but he’s got a dry wit that’ll cut you!

“why is connor an al-ghul at all and not batman” well first of all he’s already got the water connection, i’m gonna go dip him into the lake a couple hours north of the pas to make him incredibly long-lived, rejuvenated and beautiful

second of all i want him to be a questionable villain/antihero because he looks evil in those pictures but like beautiful evil. you see him at a multi-million dollar soirée and he’s bored of being there wearing his “heritage” beads and jewels he originally had from a thousand years ago. he and his assassins are only here to murder the head of state who’s planning to lay a pipeline through ancestral grounds

rip brandon duhaime i simply cannot imagine you as any kind of batman. lacks the gravitas, too much of a yapper, loves his wife too much. i curse thee to be green arrow if you’re in this narrative at all

assuming connor stays with toronto, would LOVE to think about toronto as one of the sites of the lazarus pit for many reasons

(a brief aside here to say that for me personally this is interesting if connor goes to winnipeg because i think they suit him better, he’s a manitoba boy, but re: the chip on his shoulder, he’s NOT a manitoba boy. he’s from the pas and very proud of it)

a) the amount of ‘toronto is the center of the universe’ hockey creation myths i can play with & birth/rebirth/reincarnation. if you WANT to feel unhinged trying to blend hockey and comics is an ice rink not just a pool of water?

b) mr. cathal kelly i love your works!!! toronto eats its young!!! thinking about this very literally in the sense of the resurrection arc where players come to toronto and are sacrificed, give up their body, their skill, in service of the demon’s head, and lose themselves.

c) we see echos of the same narratives and styles over and over again—if i can hop over to the flyers for a second, there is of course the curse of the *8s (18 richards, 28 claude, 48 danny b, 68 nolan, 88 lindros) but ALSO the danny brière -> tk -> morgan frost celly chain. every generation a resurrection, emerging clean and new from the pit

can you just briefly hold my hand and imagine wayne gretzky as an evil ra’s al-ghul wanting to possess a new body. gretzky i’m sorry to malign you and i know you never played in toronto but you are the best player in my head to fit the idea, i’m open to other suggestions

coming BACK to green arrow dewey (i did not re-watch arrow or re-read those comics sorry) connor could also be black canary, who takes a brief dip into the lazarus pit (toronto) before getting married to oliver. i do like that narrative but because we were talking about pristine and cold-blooded i figured connor dewar head of the league of assassins was more what you were after

now that i’ve gotten through world building… choose your own adventure narratives?

hockey-ish au: connor chosen as a host for the Next One. i think the lineage of the great one -> next one -> next next one -> next one up of gretzky -> crosby -> mcdavid -> bedard is taken, BUT i can imagine that the league of old boys all have the same intentions. connor gets sent to toronto unknowingly being prepped to get body-snatched by ???? and brandon duhaime of course accidentally stumbles on the plot and they have to fight to stop it

connor assassinating people :) snapshot of the head of the league of assassins delegating which major world events they’re going to change today. would love his shark face from the gifset to have blood spattered across it, ideally.

version 1 as head of the league of assassins: brandon is one of his assassins, big strong bodyguard type. devoted to him, would lay down his life, perfectly designed for connor (lady shiva/cassandra cain-ish). connor orders for something to be done and brandon does it there for him then gently wipes the blood off his face and apologizes for being careless and getting him messy.

version 2 as head of the league of assassins: an actual plot where connor aims to assassinate SOMEONE but brandon gets in the way. they meet at odds as their respective roles (hero, leader of a crime syndicate) but are magnetically drawn together as their alter egos. eventually brandon puts together the pieces of the Big Evil and manages to (legally!-ish as much as vigilante-ism can be legal) take it down and the ending panels show a tentative friendship and recognition of potential shared goals

also, jaromir jágr is immortal. don’t know if this is relevant OR related but he is. personal hot spring lazarus pit?

um. thanks for coming to my 1.5k ted talk (including tags). what a way to moritz seider lore drop that i DID grow up a comic book nerd, lmao. thank you so much for enabling me <3 i'll be here all week thinking about which teams would get what rings in a blackest night au

[myciesmushies]

in case you can't touch grass

I bought construction paper and this was too pink to not draw flowers on

[haythamawad1]

🚨🚨🚨⬇️🛑I am Haitham Awad, a young Palestinian man from Gaza, distributing food and aid to children and emerging families. Have their children been called from suffering?Are you putting your children in this hunger? One day, the hungry eyes of the children were waiting for the meal, and the directions they watched silently 😢.

Some children were crying from suffering, and some could not alleviate their weakness 😞. A woman approached me carrying a weak child, and burning a broken phone: "Can you give us an order?" My heart was breaking when he saw them starving, so I said: "We will not leave you, but there is no freedom to fill all your stomachs except with the support of the world and support as much as possible 💔". Then Haitham made an appeal

to the world: "Children in Gaza do not know childhood, and groans have lost hope. Every little help can change their lives. Do not make their pain in the hospital worse, and every bite is a new hope." 🙏

I ask you to draw hope on the faces of children and their faces, let us all unite to restore part of this hope to their hearts 💖. I will film as much as possible to tell the story of the suffering of children and elderly women to reach a livelihood 💔🥺🥹.

@postanagramgenerator @feluka @punkeropercyjackson @toesucker @anneemay-blog @redbuddi @egirl-vrissy-backup @chanafehs @nabulsi @flower-tea-fairies @palestinegenocide @timogsilangan @appsappsapps @dlxxv-vetted-donations @killy @turtletoria-art @turtletoria @valtsv @annabelle--cane @anneemay @tamamita @taffybunnie @prinnay @prisonhannibal @pcktknife @4ft10tvlandfangirl @heritageposts @pcktknife @ot3 @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @aria @paper-mario-wiki @paper-mario-zine @jeziornixx @komsomolka @appsappsapps @victoriawhimsey @punkitt-is-here @vampiricvenus @ankle-beez @autisticmudkip @batmananimated @catnapdreams @tumblintuck @mushroomjar @magnusandalec @90-ghost @sayruq @sar-soor @balaozinho

[bugsoda]

solarpunk club/community group?? fun. im planning on starting one at my school so i thought i would share some ideas :] Club Activities

learning to mend

make patches

zine creation

graffiti stencils (careful.)

stamps! flower pressing! book binding! paper making! screenprinting! really just a ton of craft shit

repurposing household items

LEARNING! (importance of community, native vs invasive plants, walkable and green cities, sustainable fashion, capitalism/rapid consumerism, grass lawns, book talk, solar energy, current climate efforts, local small businesses, public transportation, sustainable living…)

Potential Events

no-buy market

student/local artists craft fair

collab with library

host nature walks

walk around our city to see areas of improvement

community garden/fridge/cabinet project

solar energy speaker / local environmental groups

if any of yall have other ideas i would love to hear them!!

[denialcity]

it's a beautiful day for some  

✨ 🌸HASHIIZU PROPAGANDA 🌸✨

remember the good olde days with those little print-at-home staple-bind zines? if you wanna experience the nostalgia in these trying times may I interest you in the hashiizu flower minizine I extorted from my amazingly talented friends: @beemosketches @silverutahraptor @craneace @writhingbeneathyou @good-grievance @maphel-n-doodles @codedredalert

This very cool and cute little minizine could be yours for the very affordable price of FREE / printing it at home.

🌺 get the digital version

🌺 get the A6 print version + 🌺 the sticker sheet

(Print instructions for zine: use A4 paper, recommended 90 gsm for laser/120 gsm for inkjet. Actual size, narrow margin, flip on long edge. After printing, cut pages in half and assemble. Staple the spine. Trim the edges.) (Print sticker sheet on sticker paper, actual size (1/4 of A4). Insert sticker sheet insert/ cut the stickers.)

We had a great time with this and hope you do too.

✨💮🌷 enjoy! send pictures! let us know how you liked it :) 🌷💮✨

[manchesternh]

Mosaic Art Collective is a name I'd heard before I stumbled upon a call for the "Illusions" show, a show focused on blacklight-sensitive and psychedelic art which opened February 8th 2025 in the Hanover Street artspace. I've never been to one of their events but Mosaic shares the space with "See Saw Gallery," a spot where I participated in a group show last year, so I knew what to expect when stepping off the elevator. Still, my expectations were exceeded. Shows I've seen so far in Manchester haven't reached, in my opinion, the potential we hold for an active and imaginative art scene--usually the works featured are small, grouped together without much apparent concern for their interplay, and made of materials available to middle schoolers. As grateful as I am for shows that allow for that kind of work, my hopes were that "Illusions" would exceed those limits, that something would take my breath away. Overall I was not disappointed.

Coming down the hall and stepping into the dark, blue-violet rectangular rooms, you might get caught on the first few pieces in the entryway. These are geometric, sometimes abstract, and have low blacklight reactivity, though they are visible enough. Though I am drawn to abstract work, I am a postmodernist at heart, which is why I found "What if I Made a Self Portrait in Minecraft?" very funny. It is a piece that demonstrates the sort of rote mechanical grind of pixel art, painting squares, and playing Minecraft, all at once, and a portrait to boot. Is this how we chose to see ourselves? In our component colors, our most simplified pieces?

What draws the eye, after one crosses through the hall, is Marisa Egerstrom's "Flores: interstellar mycellium." This is a (roughly) six foot tall sculpture of a sort of luminescent alien flower. The petals are tessellated glass, giving them a sort of scaly look. The stem and stamen house a series of light-up bulbs which slowly blink at different rates, some changing color. It's the kind of piece I would absolutely put in my house, a collaboration of beauty and danger and whimsy which demands that we ask: what if a house plant was going clubbing?

At this point I must admit that my usual method of noting the names and titles of artworks--that is, taking a photo with my phone--was ineffective due to the lighting state of the space. I didn't notice until afterward. This is unfortunate, because I can't name the artist of the piece which is still bouncing hardest around my mind--a sort of stop sign with a styrofoam emerging from it. The face is split in two, with a duct tape mouth and a pensive expression. It makes me think of a person in two minds, and also someone being silenced. I suspect the zine hanging on the wall to the right of the piece explains it a little more, but I was too shy to pull a little paper booklet off the wall and examine it--and the light wasn't ideal for it. Still, I found myself in the position that the best art puts me in, where I am contemplating a message and meaning rather than simply admiring imagery.

Another piece that invites deeper introspection is "Mabel," a statue of a horse painted with checkered print. It's larger than a cat and surrounded by framed 4x6 photos of itself, and various other figures, in different settings, expressing the tendency of Mabel to travel. The statue marks the room's left far corner, and begins a segment of the room dedicated mostly to images of animals and creatures. For instance, "Don't Separate The Party or We're Getting the Band Back Together" is a tiny little pen drawing of creatures--an alien, a deer, a cat, and a skull--in the woods. Their eyes all luminance with a dab of neon paint, a striking effect. The frame is wood, echoing the forest setting of the image. I was impressed with the consideration given to presentation and the vaguely referential title--is this an adventuring party, like in a game? Am I an enemy combatant, to be on the receiving end of such a stare?

Amidst the creatures and woodland artifacts is a stand out piece, Marcia Wood Mertinooke's "Dream of Creme," a temptation for fans of miniatures that depicts the Cremeland drive in signage. Neon thread is used to create the neon sign effect, and it absolutely glows in the blacklight as intended. This might be an opportune time to mention that some pieces, like this one, really utilized the lighting well, while others failed to employ it or were failed by it. Fluorescent paintings or yarn pieces glowed impressively, but other works sunk into the shadows or paled in natural light from the window. I don't think this was a failure on the gallery's part as it's a small space and only so much direct black light can go around. One effect, however, was that I overlooked a few pieces until I set my phone camera on them, and then they came alive on the bright screen where before they'd been unimpressive.

Lofi music is playing at just the right volume in the space on the night of the opening. There's a crowd a half hour after doors, at least twenty people clustering around the small room or in the smaller adjacent nooks. It's a nice turnout but doesn't impede the art-gawking, unless you're impatient or can't follow the flow of traffic. Additionally I didn't feel overwhelmed by the number of works or their density. There was enough there to keep my interest and make it feel worth coming out but not too much.

Mosaic is in their third year of doing shows on Hanover street, according to Liz, the curator of "Illusions." Their next big show is centered on the concept of motion and kinetics. Illusions is on display until February 26th at 66 Hanover #201, Manchester NH, during calling hours.

[ahmedaldani-30]

A ceasefire agreement has been reached, and there is joy among us and the Palestinian people. The joy is indescribable for us and throughout the Gaza Strip. It seems like a literary miracle. ✨🕊️🎉

@postanagramgenerator @feluka @punkeropercyjackson @toesucker @anneemay-blog @redbuddi @eligibilitylil @chanafehs @nabulsi @flower-tea-fairies @palestinegenocide @timogsilangan @appsappsapps @dlxpurpose-blog @killyourhistory @turtletoria-art @turtletoria @valtsv @annabelle--cane @anneemay-blog @tamamita @taffybunnie @prinnay @prisonhannibal @pckseicns @4ft10tvlandfangirl @heritageposts @pckseicns @ot3 @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @aria-akz @paper-mario-wiki @paper-mario-zine @jeziornixx @komsomolka @appsandstacks-blog @victoriawhale @punkitt-is-here @vampiricvenus @ankle-beez @autisticmudkip @batmananimated @catnapdreams @tumblintuck @mushroomjar @magnusandalec @90-ghost @sayruq @sar-soor @balaozinho

[paperflowerszine]

🧡The time is almost over!💚

Not only the cold is coming our way! Our after sales are going to close in 3 days on the 21st of October! Hurry up and get your copy before it is too late!

https://paperflowerszine.bigcartel.com 🌻

Every reblog is greatly appreciated! @zineapps @zinefeed @zineforall @zinefans @zine-scene  @zinecenter @fandomzines  @zinesubmissions  @anizines @faneventshub @anizines

[funds4gaza]

Vetted campaign for a family in Gaza - £52,999 raised of £65K target - No donations in 17 days

Mohammed's younger brother made the video bellow showing the conditions they are currently living in. Mohammed is a friend of mine that is suffering a lot with being separated from his family, their campaign has been stagant most times, pls share and donate to help them.

Tagging for reach pls RB!!

@butchniqabi @northgazaupdates2 @thatsonehellofabird

@killjoycatlady @spelllingandthemysteryschool @brutaliakhoa

@killy @capacity2 @velvetys @dirhwangdaseul

@prisonhannibal @beserkerjewel @wellwaterhysteria @cuntylouis @sergle @brokenbackmountain @anyonghalimaw @zigcarnivorous @aleciosun @fluoresensitivearchived @khizuo @schoolhater @timogsilangan @appsa @buttercuparry @sayruq @ @ @sar-soor @akajustmerry @annoyingloudmicrowavecultist @feluka-blog-blog @tortiefrancis @feluka @flower-tea-fairies @tsaricides @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @visenyasdragon @belleandsaintsebastian @ear-motif @kordeliiius @postanagramgenerator @feluka @punkeropercyjackson @toesucker @anneemay-blog @redbuddi @egirl-vrissy @chanafehs @nabulsi @flower-tea-fairies @palestinegenocide @timogsilangan @appsa @dlxxv-vetted-donations @killy @turtletoria-art @turtletoria @valtsv @annabelle--cane @anneemay @tamamita @tiffanieanderson @primaryykiddo @prisonhannibal @4ft10tvlandfangirl @heritageposts @pcktknife @ot3 @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @anarchapella @paper-mario-wiki @paper-mario-zine @jezior0 @komsomolka @appsa @victoriawhimsey @punkitt-is-here

[papierexperimente]

An inside view in our sketchbooks - PART 1 ✨✨… / Ein Einblick in unsere Skizzenbücher - TEIL 1 ✨✨…

[deminetly]

୨THINGS TO ADD INTO PENPAL LETTERS୧

……………………………………………………………

pressed flowers/leaves

tea bags

origami

handmade jewelry or keychains 

a map

bookmarks

charms

trinkets

cute napkins

a “get to know me” list

buttons

temporary tattoos 

fridge magnets

diy pins

a recipe 

receipts 

a single playing card 

perfume tester cards 

zines

flashcards of words in your native language 

riddles

fabric swatches

sudoku

crosswords

interesting articles from newspapers 

(handmade) comics

colouring pages 

poetry/quotes

a QR code to a playlist you made for them

postcards

a drawing of them 

a task for them to complete (like going for a walk or cleaning their room)

writing prompts

journaling prompts

bandaids

candy

paper clips

a pen

gum

[mamamittens]

Every Fold a Wish

This is my piece from the Marco Zine, not related to Spooktober, I promise! For the rest of the fics--and even artwork!--just click the link provided above!

Also, I swear I didn't mean for it to be so sad--the original plan was goofy shenanigans and maybe ending with Marco trying to throttle Thatch when he cracks a joke about his little paper cranes but then...

well, this happened!

Oh, and here's a link to the fic specific artwork for it by @luna-orix, it's a wonderful take on the Big Scene in lovely color and style!

Word Count: 2,757

Under much pressure, Marco would have to confess this all started a very long time ago.

Back when he was still a deckhand sorting through musty maps littered with ink blots that barely passed as navigation tools. Their contents were downright illegible at best, but did well enough as teaching tools for what not to do. Over time, as they were passed from hand to unsteady hand, the parchment became worn. Rips becoming tears and holes until the only thing keeping them in one piece was hopes and dreams.

What to do with such a well loved piece of parchment?

Tossing them seemed almost an insult. And making them into paper again, while an interesting task, was usually not worth the effort. The ink bleeding and dying the usable parts darker and darker. Until it was good for little else but tissues. Marco had done it a few times just for something to do between tasks. The paper drying in the press able to be left for hours if needed. And he did hold a fondness for the old parchment made new again. But it was still not terribly useful. The ink needed to be even darker, or chalk but it smeared something terrible at the slightest touch.

In all fairness, he didn’t start with the worst off pieces.

A kind, older nurse with weathered hands and a gentle smile showing him the way. Every crisp fold building up to a new, enchanting shape. Even money could be manipulated. A cute way to leave a tip, if he was so wanting. And something to do with his hands.

And he kept doing it too. Starting with his clumsy, childish fingers. Baby fat clinging to his digits as he used his bitten nails to scrape the edges clean. Until they started to even out, habit and hard work turning them into slender, calloused tools of his trade. A little treat for himself as he learned the medical trade. It was good, to know that his hands could create even if he could not heal the hurts in others. A small comfort for himself after his patients fell asleep holding his hand, yearning to not be alone with their sickness.

He got some flak for it over the years. Always teasing remarks about how cute he was being. Little flowers and fortune tellers a popular demand when a particularly mischievous brother or sister was bedbound. And Marco would sigh. Teasingly remarking on their ungrateful attitudes even as he was plied with gifts of decorative paper for his little hobby.

They decorated his office shelves. Tucked in corners and atop the spines of medical texts. Peeking behind picture frames or marching along the windowsill of Oyaji’s room. A cavalcade of shapes in a rainbow of colors and prints. Every so often one would be found covered in layers of dust somewhere forgotten and returned to him with a wide grin. Laughter echoing down the halls as Marco racked his brain to remember when he made it.

Officially, he had no favorite paper craft. No beloved origami he had mastered over the years. Just as he had no favorite sibling.

But, if his family had the wherewithal to gather every one of his little treasures from over the years and fill up a room or four with them, there would certainly be an obvious contender.

Starting with the very first one he made with a crooked wing, crumpled lightly from the very hand that had taught him so long ago.

“I saved this one for last, boyo. Hope is… so dangerous to have on the high seas. Without it, you’ll never truly live. But too much and you’ll be too drunk to survive. And this little fella? This is what he’s all about, in a way. They say a thousand paper cranes, each folded with love and care, can grant you a single wish.” She whispered to him softly, guiding his hands over the worn map of some distant island lost to time. “Make as many as you want, it’s important to remember what it means to live—to wish. But never forget the work that goes into them. Wishing—wanting—that’s not even half the journey. Admitting you want something bad enough to dream is but the first step. After that, you still need to fold the paper. And fold it over and over again until it’s fit to fly. And then? And then, little Marco, you need to do it again. Until you have a flock a thousand strong. It can’t be done in a single day. Most won’t have the patience to do it in a lifetime. But one little crane at a time…”

She never finished that sentence.

She sighed, leaning against the pillows of her bed as Marco finished his first little bird in the palm of her hand. His own cradling the bird between their palms and she squeezed gently. Bending the worn paper a little in the cramped space.

Then she let go.

And Marco hadn’t stopped making them since.

Even as he gained his devil fruit. Grew from a boy to a man. They were his little indulgence, the fuzzy memory of a weathered hand clasped in his, paper crinkling between them never far from his mind. It hurt in a good way. A way that his fruit never gave him. A sense of release. A long sigh after a hard day. Sea breeze wrapping around his bare ankles in the hot sun. Endless blue before him with heavy storm clouds littering the horizon behind him.

His office door slammed open.

A boisterous voice practically singing out as Thatch sauntered into his office with a hot meal. It was late. Later than Marco realized. The bubbly, cool fire running thick in his veins. He’d been pushing it as of late, Marco acknowledged reluctantly.

“I come, O’ Great One! With the gift of food~!” Thatch sang, squinting into the dim candlelight of Marco’s office. Free hand hovering ominously over the light switch.

“Do it and I’ll kick you into the sea.” Marco warned. His fruit offering little reprieve from eye strain at this point. Bigger fish to fry, he supposed.

Thatch pouted, nudging the paperwork on his desk aside. Rather than setting down the food, Thatch instead placed his ass there. Wafting about the food Marco still couldn’t quite identify temptingly.

“C’mon, Coco! You’ve been in here for hours! It’s time to eat up and get some rest!” Thatch huffed.

“Stop calling me that.” Marco was ignored, as usual. The nickname a little rare but typically whipped out when Thatch thought he was being an idiot about himself.

“What could possibly be more important than enjoying some good food and even better shut eye? C’mon, I’ll even give you breakfast in bed! Doesn’t that sound scrum-didily-upmtious? This handsome man personally serving you up a hot plate of food in the morning?”

Marco imagined—not Thatch ‘handsomely’ serving anything—but sputtering as seawater ruined his hair. The woeful cries for mercy as he drowned, just a little while, he swears Namur. He deserves it!

Familiar with Thatch’s everything by this point, Marco doubted many would argue that Thatch didn’t deserve just a little waterboarding.

As a treat.

“Sounds like my sleep paralysis demon talking.” Marco drawled, fixing Thatch with a dry stare.

Thatch arched back as though struck, his dramatics nearly sending the food and himself to the floor.

“My own brother! After all the hard work I put into this? Every ounce of love I put into it?” Thatch emphasized, finally lowering the plate enough for Marco to see it was flayed sea king, glazed with honeyed pineapple and served with stuffed potatoes, a hot roll, and a slice of upside-down pineapple cake. A cup of what could be anything from tea to booze to wash it down with.

It looked fucking good. But just for being obnoxious, Marco rolled his eyes.

“Gross.”

That earned him a sharp gasp and playful tears as Thatch attempted to clamber into his lap for apology cuddles. Pressing obnoxious kisses to his face like Thatch was trying to console him from some terrible tragedy that had occurred.

“G-Get the hell off of me, you ass!” Marco sputtered, reeling back as Thatch smashed Marco’s face into his chest with petulant cries of forlorn love.

“—Oh, my poor, stalwart brother! You’ve worked so hard and can’t even accept crumbs of affection! It doesn’t make you any less of a man to cuddle!” Thatch reassured him as any protest was muffled into his shirt. “I promise I won’t think any l-LE—ES--! SHIT! ACK! M-MARCO—NO!”

Marco dug his fingers into Thatch’s unprotected sides, trapping his idiot brother in place for the deserved payback.

“Marco, yes!”

Thatch wriggled fiercely, yelping with every poke and prod as they laughed, eventually knocking back the chair and ending it with Marco wheezing under Thatch’s weight.

Finally, Marco shoved Thatch off into the floor, face aching from the smile they both shared.

“Ugh! Fine! I’ll eat and go to bed, you prick!” Marco huffed, Thatch still giggling beside him.

“Great! I’ll be sure to deliver breakfast to you, as promised~!” Thatch tittered cheekily, dodging the swipe of Marco’s hand.

“The fuck you will!” his fingertips grazing the fabric of Thatch’s sleeves. Still warm with laughter and affection.

Thatch was cold now.

Somehow colder than Marco’s veins as he desperately lifted up the other man into his arms. So much heavier than before, faint breaths wheezing with blood on his lips. Cool blue fire danced over his pale face, sinking in deep with a desperation Marco hadn’t felt in a long time. Hands slick with blood, skin blossoming with feathers and scales. Teetering between bird and man so violently his words were more akin to bird cries.

There were hands pulling him away. Trying to tug his trembling body from curling over Thatch’s cooling corpse. Hot, burning hands ripping him away.

A large hand, firm and steady. A rock in the ocean that beached him with such violence.

A deep, rumbling voice.

“We’ve got it from here, my son. We’ll save him, my boy. Come back to me. Come back to us. We love you.” Those words followed him into the dark. The world shaking as his lungs rattled with sobs.

“We love you…”

There was a beeping.

That was all Marco could think about.

All he could handle.

His hands were wrong. Almost incandescent. The bones vague shadows flickering in gossamer blue light. Gold licking his fingertips as he stroked… something. Lips stiff. Twisting with difficulty out of the pointed beak they were trying to form. Every ragged breath licking across his tongue with a heady weight to it.

There was something in his hands, Marco knew.

It was… thick. A little tepid. Some give until stiff scaffolding within protested. Thin threads slipping beneath a strange, upper layer. A steady, weak thrum beneath his touch.

His eyes burned. He wanted to rip into it, whatever it was. Until it was hot and thrashing and alive—

But a keen slipped from his lips as a rhythmic beeping finally registered properly.

He was at someone’s bedside.

Again.

He was a little deckhand tending to a dying nurse.

No.

He was a man at a bedside.

A friend?

A brother?

He loved them fiercely. Whoever they were.

Marco wanted whoever it was to wake up already. Tease him for losing control like this. Obnoxiously cry about the display of affection that was cutting into Marco’s chest. Turning his lungs to ribbons. Hooking into the arteries of his heart until every thump made him ache for release.

There was a blanket over his shoulders, Marco realized.

How long had he been here? He shifted in the chair and heard paper crinkle.

Fresh, patterned sheets. Traditional ocean waves with little fish peeking here and there. Tiny boats fighting even, arching waves. All in soft blues that transitioned to richer hues, imbuing the artwork with depth and emotion.

It was instinct to reach for the paper. But the weight of a whole person stopped him. Marco looked.

Both his hands were grasping a limp wrist with a faint pulse.

Letting go felt like ripping away his flesh. Piece by piece.

Fold it over and over again.

Marco’s hands were steady despite everything. And it felt like betrayal.

He shouldn’t be able to do anything right now.

Not even breathe.

But his heart kept going. Lungs expanding with the scent of cold antiseptic.

The paper was smooth. Flawless despite the neglect he’d shown it for… however long he’d been sitting at…

Here.

Without it, you’ll never truly live.

She meant this, didn’t she? His family?

Even without a smooth surface, Marco’s hands knew the way. Folding and pinching the edges clean.

No, Marco remembered.

She meant dreams. She meant hope.

Marco knew, deep down, that eventually there would always be a goodbye at the end of their stories. Said or avoided like the plague.

But he expected it…

Marco never wanted to expect it.

He’d rather drown than look forward at a time he’d say goodbye with any one of his precious family members.

The little crane perched between his fingers. Perfect after years of practice.

Marco choked up as he placed it in Thatch’s hand. Gently curling those limp fingers around it’s delicate shape. Calloused hands cradling the bird in a loose cage.

Marco retreated. Shuffling into his dark room. No one stopped him, their gazed burning his hunched shoulders.

In the bottom desk drawer, so rarely opened it almost got stuck, was a single item.

A lopsided paper crane with a bent wing. Stained with faded ink and weathered with age.

Like he was scooping up a live bird, Marco lifted it to his chest. Careful even as he collapsed to the floor.

He cried. Wept like he’d been cut in two with sea stone. Tears gushing out instead of blood. His fire, confused at the agony he was experiencing, danced in the air. Casting dizzying shadows across the space battered with open sobs.

Marco couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t fill his lungs enough between his cries that ached down to his bones and the fire filling his lips with faux heat.

Everything hurt.

Nothing could heal.

He was a little boy again in his father’s arms. Weeping and certain he was dying from grief. Every wail a benediction. A plea against the inevitable. What was already past.

A wish burning in his veins even as shame filled him.

Death was natural. A long sigh at the end of a hard day.

But Marco wanted to hold his breath until he burst. Stop in the middle of a hurricane just to keep feeling the rain.

Parchment protested in his grasp and Marco shot up like he’d been burned.

Opening his palms to find the paper crane bent even further. Flickers of light cast across the ragged edges of ink—no?

Burns.

The bird was smoldering. Fueled by the open air of his shaking hands, it burst into golden fire. Marco wailed, shaken and confused as it lit up. Flying into the air with a trail of burning embers. Dancing in an unseen wind until, before Marco’s blurry eyes, it was gone. As though it was Thatch’s vivre card.

Time stopped. Stuttering as his heel stamped into the ground.

His shoulder nearly slamming into someone.

A door bashing into a wall.

That damn beeping so like Thatch. Annoying and reassuring in its consistent presence.

Nurses crowded Thatch’s bed, arguing over each other as familiar hair rose over them. Wide eyes looking around, face flush with warmth again.

He smiled, that crooked, familiar smile that tugged Marco’s lips into a similar shape.

“Hey, Coco, look! I got a little hospital buddy!” Thatch crowed, voice a soft rasp as he gently held up a small, blue paper crane. Gold catching the light as fire flickered over it’s wingspan. Every cresting wave lined with unnatural color that had not been there before. It seemed as alive as Thatch.

Thatch let out a creaking rush of air as Marco hugged him. Body awkwardly half in his lap as he buried his face into Thatch’s neck. Careful and weak, Thatch curled his arms around Marco’s chest. He smelled of antiseptic, sea salt, and spice.

The storm was behind them now, but there was still time for rain. One breath after another.

Little paper cranes littered across a pirate ship.

Every fold a wish.

Every step hope.

[acornrising]

Does make me think about like. These guys are back on the planet now! There have probably been several advances in inkcrafts, bookbinding, paper pressing, every part of the bookmaking and printing process since they got yeeted into space.

I'm so excited for the new guys to come down and go absolutely ballistic tasting all these new kinds of books. I hope someone opens a bookstore except really it's a cafe for Aether.

Have you tried the leather-bound dictionary written on hemp pages with blackberry ink? What about the gently aged papyrus? You simply must try the hand-crafted rough-pulp zine with flowers pressed into the pages. It's artisinal.

Imagine Aether foodies getting obsessed with some papermill in the middle of Fucking Nowhere because something about their process is just. Muah. We simply must complement the chef (The chef is a 200 year old snapper who has been running this paper mill for years on a modest but sustainable margin and isn't sure what to make of these space bugs asking if he does free samples.).